Chapter 1: 00 Preface
Summary:
Notes and Warnings about the following content and how it all began.
Chapter Text
Hiya! I'm the meat puppet that has been chosen to help Pyresong tell his story. I am no one. This entire profile is dedicated to him and his projects because if I don't begin doing something soon, he'll really drive me mad.
The following is not, I repeat NOT representative of the writing or style of the story. It is comments on my time working on this and general warnings. I promise, the story is far better written than my near-psychotic ramblings. But I feel it's only fair to give warning.
Tags on AO3 are a bit rough on this one. Characters include pretty much the entire cast of Diablo Immortal, centered around a central original character. Sadly, the best I can do are tags from Diablo II in here. But there are dozens of lovely characters from Immortal I hope to find in here one day.
With it being more than a decade since I last fiddled around with this site, I had forgotten just how very much I loathe the formatting. He's so desperate to tell his story, he doesn't care. But I'm the one spending literally hundreds of hours making this format at least tolerable. I'd sell my soul for paragraph indents! Because, of course, with all our wondrous technology today, there's absolutely no chance we could ever feasibly expect something as grand as actual, traditional book format out of this place.
Notes and Warnings
Jump Start:
If you make it as far as Chapter 3: Westmarch, you'll have passed the "introduction" and begun the part where Pyresong really begins to tell his story. So, if you've played Diablo Immortal, you can probably skip to there and then enjoy the rest. If you haven't played Diablo Immortal, don't read this. I don't say that just because of spoilers. It may suck you in and consume your soul for months or even years; as it did my own.
Rating: M
Yep, I gave this an M rating mostly for the sheer volume of violence. While there may be some graphic stuff, I find it overall pretty tame compared to the Diablo game series. Always better safe than sorry.
Profanity: Always.
Yes, that is your warning. There is mild to moderate profanity in these chapters. However, the bulk of the truly filthy, vile language is up to your imagination. Enjoy!
Sexual Content:
Yes, sex is mentioned fairly frequently. However, there are no explicit scenes within the following pages. I will happily let you use your imagination on that one. But, they do exist, much to my frustration. He literally made me write them for his own enjoyment. I'm telling you, he does it to torture me.
Pyresong Visuals:
If you want to know his appearance, check out the art for the white guy necromancer in Diablo Immortal. It's literally the default guy with reddish brown hair to his shoulders. There are images and even posters of him online. If allowed, I may post images here on ff net. The only real difference is that he has white hair. The rest, right down to that lovely voice, is all the same. Yes, I've learned to love that voice, despite loathing it initially. Damn you, Pyresong!
Other Characters:
If someone is mentioned in one of the games, you can find their images online or by playing the game. He didn't go out of his way to double-check details. Feel free to fill in the gaps with your imagination.
Monster Visuals:
Same as above. He decided not to waste a lot of time describing every detail of every monster in the game. If you want to see them, you can check out Diablo Immortal videos or articles online. They're freaking everywhere.
Lands:
Find a map of Sanctuary online and fill in the gaps with your imagination. There are some things that totally did not make sense to either Pyresong or myself. For example, if Wortham was attacked on Wednesday, why are there refugees pouring into Westmarch capitol less than a week later when Wortham is in a whole other country? For that matter, Pyresong wanted to make the story so engrossing no one ever bothered to look away and wonder at the irrelevant details, such as: How many days on horseback would it take to get from Dark Wood to Westmarch? Nope. Not doing the math, either.
To be fair, it's extremely hard to judge the actual size of the world or time differences from one continent to another. For all we know, it's five times the size of Earth. If you're the type of reader who needs to question those kinds of details, you probably should be reading Elder Scrolls instead of Diablo, anyway.
Timelines:
There's no real night/day aspect in Diablo Immortal as there is in other games. Pyresong was more than a little miffed by the unrealistic quality of that. (Yes, I'm laughing at the idea that a guy who doesn't actually exist is irritated with something for not being realistic. I really am going mad.) So he decided to put day/night breaks wherever he felt appropriate. Also, you will note that he "loses track of time" on several occasions. There is a reason for that, which is explained much later in the book. Up until then, it's another detail he hopes everyone can forgive.
We are well aware that there are some places within the game where phrases like "months at sea" may actually be appropriate. More often than not, he sees it more as "weeks at sea". So there's a lot of variable there. Also, there are dozens of timeline articles and whatnot online. Pyresong has his own timeline, and he is not budging.
Spells:
There is a huge array of spells in the Diablo series, even just for necromancers. Pyresong kept it to a handful of favorite spells from the one originating game to keep it from getting snarled up and completely confusing. He did his best to explain to this non-necromancer how the spells actually worked. Bear in mind, he has some rather unique skills that other Master Necromancers do not. Again, there is a reason for that. It is also explained later on. I hope they make sense to readers as well. That's the best I can offer.
Final Warning:
This is literally a work in progress. While the final chapters are mostly polished enough that I won't cringe while re-reading them, there may be some things that require later editing. At this point, he's pushing me to do anything other than leave this monstrosity on my computer and my cloud drives. So, here we are. The first chapters are going up this weekend. More will follow after I've had a chance to read over them yet again for obvious errors. Probably no more than a couple per week. We shall see. I commit to no set timeline since this is still a work in progress, and Pyresong has a really nasty habit of waking me up in the middle of the night, wanting to add something to a long-ago finalized chapter. There is a chance I may pull or repost something you've already read. If you're the type that gets annoyed by that sort of thing, feel free to wait until it is complete to enjoy it.
Also, events that occur some 15 to 60 years down the road are already being written. He's all over the place. So the ending of this first book may take longer than expected. Truthfully, he's already laid out the roadmap for the entire second and part of the third book. Yay! (curls up sobbing in a corner) And, thus far, they are nowhere near this long.
Update Note (3/19/25): I'm well aware Diablo Immortal as a game is still being written with new chapters and whatnot coming out in 2025. Pyresong does not care. As far as he is concerned, this first book ends shortly after the war at World's Crown. Then we move on to subsequent events that are not directly included or related in the other games. And, no, there's no such thing as a happy ending in reality, so don't expect one here. Besides, he's a sadist and a masochist. I knew from the beginning there would be no "happily ever after" for any of us; including myself.
I will let everyone know when it is finalized for good.
“Preface”
12/14/24 – 14:48 Eastern
Let me begin with this: In the forty-plus years I have been writing hundreds of stories and dozens of books, I have never had so little control over a character as I did Pyresong. I'm not exaggerating when I say he and the others got together and decided what would happen. (The bickering matches between himself and Karshun were downright hilarious. Acid tongue meets dry wit and LOL for real. Seriously, they fight like a married couple.) Honestly, yes, this is fanfiction, so a vast majority of the core story is already "written". But literally everything outside of those key events was well beyond my control.
That said, this was by far the biggest, most obsessive project I have ever had. My previous big project took somewhere in the ballpark of six months and was roughly 450k. My personal best was 175k in 30 days. And, yes, I work a full forty hours a week like everyone else.
The first draft from Wortham to just after the end of the Dreadlands was done in four weeks and totaled over 650k. Written from mid-June 2024 to mid-July 2024. Just like everyone else who was playing Diablo Immortal at the time, I knew nothing about the new chapters that would later come out between September and December of that year. Pyresong would not let me eat, sleep, or game without working on at least some of it at some point every day. Not once was I allowed to call out of work, either.
So, yes, I wrote flipping fanfiction, not for the first time in my life, either. And, in case you're wondering before you browse the following story: Yes, there is an absolutely ridiculous amount of stuff in between parts of the game story that have been written into this thing. For that matter, there's even a prologue that I totally nixed because he decided to add all that junk into the main line anyway. And then there are side pieces that will drive me completely mad that I have nowhere near finished. But I will not torture potential readers with those yet.
And this lovely little piece is literally just the beginning. There's another seventy or so years of other stuff to come. I have no idea where the actual game series is going, but Pyresong could not care less. This is his story to tell.
I have been a follower of the Diablo game series since 1998. I have never felt the need for any kind of fanfiction for it. It's a game. You play it. Then you get back to your own horror game, otherwise known as reality. I have never felt more than a passing interest in adding backstory to a character in a game. Hells, I've never even bothered daydreaming about a side story to the game. And then they put out a freaking MMO (a game type I loathe overall) that seems to have the best story of all of the games. It has a richer, more in-depth character style that goes through a progression that some may even consider traumatic. The fact that the free, crappy MMO has the best character development story of all five games actually makes me mad. I am a solo player. I don't play for the titles, rewards, squads, and blah blah blah.
I play for the story.
Now, here's the real stupidity of that statement: In the more than a quarter of a century since the first game, I have never read a single one of the dozens of books out there based on the Diablo series. Again, it's a game. You play it over and over and over again. Then you get back to reality. So, yeah, I'm a story player who is too lazy and cheap to bother reading the books.
And then my recycled character name of 25 years that I've used in literally dozens and dozens of games hears, "In the meantime, I'll try not to lose my mind." This right after learning his soul is corrupted. Yes, the entity in my head who would claim to be the Pyresong, heard that and came alive. He was desperate to tell his own story. And there was so very much more than what is in the game.
That being said, I now apologize to all readers passing through here. There is likely a ridiculous amount of stuff we got "wrong". Basically, if it wasn't mentioned or highlighted in the games, I don't know it. To give you an idea how clueless I am with the rest of the story, I'm still wondering where Tyrael is in Diablo IV. He's alive, right? No idea. I might have seen a video or two from the Diablo channel on Youtube at some point regarding some more details of the world and its characters. Research was not a thing here. Pyresong's way of looking at it is that he has a story to tell, and he will tell it the way he wants.
No one is obligated to read this book. If you don't like it, feel free to move along.
How it all began.
I had just run through playing Diablo I through IV (pre VOH) over the course of about three months, just enjoying a nostalgia trip. I was already an adult when the first one was released in the United States in 1998. Oh, how much we miss the days of dial-up! Just kidding. I have been a dedicated necromancer player since Diablo II added it. I love the entire idea, as well as being the heartless, borderline bad guy with his own mysterious and possibly twisted motives. I'll leave it at that.
In early June of 2024 I was, yet again, borderline pissed off with the idea that the crappy MMO had the most relatable characters and story in the whole game series. Still, it was 4 AM, and I needed to sleep for work.
Two hours later, I'm woken up by Pyresong sitting on the edge of the bed. Yep, the white guy with reddish straight hair? That one, but with white hair. He starts with:
"This is what we're going to do."
Then he begins giving me a whole list of crap outside the main story line in Diablo Immortal. And he says that is just laying the foundation for something many decades down the road.
I laughed and rolled over to go back to sleep.
Little did I know that he and his cohorts would own me for six agonizingly obsessive months. In all honesty, I didn't write this. My hands were just a tool they used. My wife can even vouch for that. I had no choice in any of this. No opinion or discussion would change their minds on any elements anywhere in the story. I was to shut up, sit down, and let them have free reign with my hands and keyboard. I literally had to buy a whole new laptop just because I needed to continue working on this 24/7 when I was away from my desktop in the basement entertainment room.
After many verbal arguments and some pretty horrific nightmares, I gave in. And after months of fleshing out, editing, cleaning up, and praying for the end of this nightmare, here I am. I will happily share the outcome with anyone with the time and patience to read all of this. When I'm done, I'm going to completely delete every Pyresong I've ever used on any game.
Never again.
Update: 2/28/25 – 15:05 Eastern
I almost can't believe I'm still here. I feel like I should have been hauled off and locked up months ago. These guys are literally driving me mad.
I have now seen the end of the actual game and the big, whoopty doo Diablo boss battle (thanks to some gamers online because I literally cannot beat the final Diablo fight in Diablo Immortal). I can't even believe how well Pyresong called it all. He predicted the corruption being a separate entity and the general outcome of Ewon Tull. Then his predictions of where it would end were almost perfectly spot on.
The evolution of this story and Pyresong's character has been a wild ride. I'm literally just watching. I still have absolutely no control over anything. Where I started off loathing the whole idea and was nowhere near invested enough to do any actual research for it, I'm now seriously considering buying the books and whatnot. However, I reserve that for after this project has concluded. Mainly because I have absolutely no intention of giving him or the rest of the gang an opening to make me go back and "fix" anything (Zatham is the worst nitpicker, second only to Karshun). I am beyond done.
This was never about accuracy. It was never about gaining readership. It was never about making money. It was all done to please literally one person: Pyresong. And, yes, he's more real to me now than any character I've ever known. I didn't create him. He created himself. And he has a sadistic way of distracting me at work with some revelations that leave me so stunned, I actually had to call out once. Yes, I took half a day off to let him have my hands for a few extra hours.
I don't know that the other books will ever amount to more than a collection of short stories (though the outlines are nearly finished and many scenes already written out). But this one is nearly completed. We're down to editing, cleaning up, and hashing out minute details that are just plain irritating. As of right now, it is over one million words (according to the word counter in Open Office Writer). I'm probably going to wind up deleting a bunch of crap just to keep is readable.
If you've read this much, I appreciate you taking the time. If you read on, this will be a long, long journey, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it.
Please bear in mind this creation was purely for Pyresong and his need to tell his own story in his own way and with his own words. I am in no way affiliated with the Diablo franchise or Blizzard. I take no credit for the game series, the plot lines in those games, the original characters, or anything else therein. I give all credit to the owners and originators of all that content. I take no credit for the lyrics used in some extremely rare parts (instances will be given due credit in the chapter containing it). I take no credit for the names used. I take no credit for the artwork.
In short, I take credit for nothing. The truth is, I was a meat puppet here.
That said, I am allowing comments, though I may never actually read them. What can I really say in reply other than thank you for reading and I hope you're not as traumatized by this as I was?
My only personal desire in posting this online is that someone out there will enjoy it as much as Pyresong enjoyed telling it. If even one person finds it entertaining for a while, it was worth the time and effort and the madness of many sleepless nights.
PS You really wanna make some serious characters mad, play "It's the End of the World" by REM and envision them all dancing like idiots. Yes, it was the only way to get them to shut up long enough to get a full night of sleep sometimes.
Chapter 2: 01 Wortham
Chapter Text
Wortham
Fog rolled in from all directions in the swampy area that led into the mouth of the river where Wortham's dock sat. The light of the lantern at the front end of the boat seemed to do nothing to dispel the creepiness of the dark mists. He stood in the boat carefully as the old fisherman behind him began speaking.
"This is it. The dock for Wortham. That whole village has gone to Hell, by the sounds of it. You sure I can't take you someplace else?" he asked, clearly nervous in this foreboding environment.
Keeping his eyes on the dock coming up beside them, Pyresong turned his head enough for the fisherman to see the slight grin, though not his eerie eyes, and said in a deep, though lighthearted, voice, "You could. But you won't." Then, turning his attention to the dock again, "Wortham is beyond the forest, I take it?" he asked more seriously.
"Aye," replied the fisherman, with no small amount of trepidation, "follow the road and be on your guard. Unfortunate things happen to travelers in that forest."
He lightly stepped off the little boat and onto the small dock. "Do not concern yourself over my fate. Death and I are...old friends."
The fisherman had nothing more to say to that. It was clear he was dealing with a Priest of Rathma. Being necromancers, they understood the relationship between life and death in a way most others couldn't begin to comprehend. Nodding to himself, the fisherman shuddered and used his oar to push off from the rickety little dock. He quickly turned the boat around to head for home and away from the creeping horrors he sensed in the fog around that dock.
Alone, Pyresong stood on the end of the dock while he summoned some skeletal helpers. Once ready, he hefted his shield in one hand and scythe in the other. He set his pace at a slow, silent stalk. Mist obscured the land beyond the rickety old dock. He could sense already something dark and dangerous ahead. Twelve years of wandering the world had only sharpened his senses for danger. And the magic of his new sight only enhanced these senses.
His feet had barely left the wood of the dock to land on soft, wet earth when his magically enhanced sight caught movement to his left. Just a few feet away, a man fell to his belly and reached out to him, pleading in silence for help. Even as he turned in that direction, a deeper shadow in the mist appeared behind the man on what used to be a small fishing warehouse. Its grotesquely shaped arms slammed down onto the man's back in a way that left no breath even for a scream. As the man died, Pyresong was already in motion with his scythe and skeletons. Ahead of his own swing, he sent a ball of green spirit fire to stun and burn the barely visible enemy. It was already too late for the man, as he well knew. But whatever it was that killed him would not survive beyond this last victim.
In a second, it was over. The dead man lay still, oozing blood from the hideous wounds he had suffered. And, on top of him, lay a half-rotten corpse.
The undead, he thought in surprise. What fate has befallen Wortham?
He had vague memories of having been in this area once or twice in his travels. It was a village buried in the forest in Khanduras, much like any other. Like most villages, they had not welcomed Priests of Rathma with open arms. Though they grudgingly understood their purpose and work. In some of these more rural places, necromancers were at least tolerated rather than immediately run out of town. Still, he could remember little of this place. In itself, he could recall no real significance with the name Wortham. Though, it was very close to the now infamous Tristram. Another bustling and prosperous village brought down by Darkness and the terrible things that lurked in the night.
Uncertain if what was happening here might somehow be related with that nearby territory, he let his senses roam around him. With renewed urgency, he turned his feet to the path through the forest he knew now would take him to what had been foreseen and dreamt about so many years ago. For twelve long years, he had known something was coming, though he had desperately hoped it wouldn't.
It had begun, just as Rathma had warned him so long ago. Reflexively, he glanced to the sky. The stars were gone. While a part of him knew this was just a result of the thick blanket of fog, he couldn't help a mental shudder at the recollection. He quickly shoved aside those memories. Whatever awaited him, there was no going back now. Helpless people under siege by untold horrors had put out word far and wide begging for assistance from anyone capable of helping. He could not ignore that need.
A few minutes later, he encountered yet more undead, feeding on the corpses of recently slain villagers. Grimly, he set himself and his skeletons to destroying each one. When the little battle was over, he stared sadly at the four villagers' bodies. Two adults and two very young children. A family destroyed. Once again, his compassion tugged at him. He had learned long ago that most Priests of Rathma lost a significant portion of their compassion and trust for the living. If nothing else, they were typically more comfortable with the silent dead than the hostile living. No one liked a necromancer, except sometimes other necromancers; often, not even them. He was something of an anomaly. Despite his teachings, he still cherished life in all its forms as part of The Balance. His particular talents very often lead him to helping the dead as often as the living. Lives cut short were always wrong, to him. This should not have happened.
More lives consumed by the Darkness, he thought sadly, staring down at the bodies. At least their souls had moved on instead of lingering here in torment.
His heart ached at the injustice of it and the fact that there was no time to see to their rites and interment. But it only further strengthened his resolve. He knew now he was needed here, desperately. A slight movement in the mist ahead of him had his feet moving before he'd even realized what he'd seen. A heartbeat later, he watched as a twisted human form in a red hood gripped a villager by the throat.
"Get away from those villagers!" he shouted as the warped man threw the man to the ground.
The red-clothed figure laughed mockingly. To Pyresong, he stank of demonic and hellish influences. Before he could get there, the robed figure sent out a rope of vile-feeling magical energy that made the villager scream. The poor man was twisted by magic into a wretched zombie. He sent his skeletal minions to take care of the zombie as he directly attacked the demon-tainted person that had created it. Though somewhat more powerful than the zombie, it was still a weak human and died with no more than a swipe of his scythe. When it was over, he stared around him at the multitude of other corpses.
Magic, he thought. Something is using magic to create these undead. They're not just rising from the grave. What could—
He didn't get to finish his thought as the mist lit up a little further down the path. His normal eyes would never have seen it. This was his magically enhanced sight, picking up the use of hellish magic nearby. As he ran silently ahead, making no more noise than a cat, he took the scene in in less than a heartbeat and acted. Three more of those people in red hoods were aiming that dark, sinister magic at some helpless villagers in the center of a summoning circle.
Too late again! he growled in his head as he engaged.
With swift, certain movements and mental directions to his skeletal warriors, he killed the now zombie villagers he'd been unable to save, along with those twisted people that made them. When it was over, he stared only for a moment at the horror of all the bodies piled around him. There were easily a score of victims right here in this little area. Unsure of what would happen next, he did what he knew was probably not the best idea in terms of concealment, but at least ensured none of them would rise again to attack him from behind. He used his innate ability to manipulate fire to set alight the piles of bodies. The flames burned high and bright in the misty darkness. Job done, he turned his feet toward Wortham once again.
Minutes later, he heard her voice. Though he couldn't yet make out the words, he could easily detect the filthy intonations behind them that indicated hellish magic. He crept forward carefully, wondering if it might be better at this point to get off the trail. But he knew he was up against magic. There was only so much that could be done to conceal oneself when magic was involved, anyway. Ahead, he sensed and saw the gentle red glow of that filthy feeling and demonic magic in a wider section of the road. Probably a place where travelers camped once upon a time. Now, it was desecrated with a seal carved into the hard-packed dirt, and every crevice of this unholy sigil was filled with blood. Appalled, but in no way deterred, he spotted another human twisted by demonic influence—likely a priestess—across the seal from his position.
She spotted him at the same time. Her red and black robes fluttered in an invisible wind, while her powerful magic staff glowed with unholy red light. She gave a hideous, dark laugh and motioned to the ground in the center of the bloody seal.
"An outsider...drawn where they do not belong," she drawled mockingly. "Yet, you are too late. Wortham is damned."
Before the necromancer could even form a reply, the seal bubbled with far more blood than had been used to make it. An entire pool of rippling blood rose up as he danced back another step to set his stance for whatever came out of it. He realized almost too late that it was a summoning circle. Her red magic only made the raging pool of blood larger. In moments, a massive demon with a mouth across its enormous belly rose up out of the blood pool. And then he saw another flash of red in the background when the twisted priestess disappeared in the darkness and mist.
He had no time to consider her escape. Now his full attention was on this Putrid Desecrator she had summoned. He was not unfamiliar with this type of demon, though he had not been entirely prepared for an encounter of this magnitude. He took a more few steps back while he sent his skeletal warriors after it in a frenzy of blows. At the same time, he summoned a skeletal mage to back him up. Then he began throwing balls of spirit fire at it as fast as he could make them, one after another, again and again. And, even for all that, he was forced to jump back and roll out of the way when the demon bore down on him. On the ground, he used his scythe to swipe the legs right off of the thing. Then he stood back and used a mental command to set his skeletons to finish off the wailing, helpless demon. Seconds later, it melted back into a pool of blood that left only the seal of blood behind on the ground.
Furious now, he took a moment to blast the ground with fire to scorch away the unholy symbol and its central eye sigil. He didn't stop until where was nothing left but a big blackened spot of ground where the summoning circle had once been. Slightly winded by these efforts, he took a moment to dismiss the mage and then turned his feet back toward Wortham. His sense of urgency had only been increased by this unexpected encounter and attack. He must get to Wortham. Now!
All his senses heightened, and his magical eyes straining through the fog, he jogged down the road. In the unnatural stillness of this area, he could hear raised voices and even screaming somewhere ahead. Amazingly, he encountered nothing else until he approached the small creek bridge that led directly into Wortham village. As the large village came into sight, so did several armed guards ready for battle. They hadn't even noticed him approaching. Their attention was fixed on something to Pyresong's left, deeper into the forest. Three of the guards disappeared at a run into the mist. The fourth one caught sight of him and stopped. He raised his sword toward Pyresong, ready for a fight right there on the bridge.
"After 'em, quickly!" he shouted to the other guards. "I'll secure the gate!"
Knowing that Priests of Rathma were seldom a welcome sight and that he was still fully armed and ready for combat, Pyresong flung his shield and scythe out to his sides in a gesture of non-combativeness that was recognized throughout Sanctuary. The guard relaxed only slightly, his sword still ready to strike.
"You there! What's your purpose, stranger?" he called, stepping backward onto the bridge to defend it.
Behind him in the village several people wailed and screamed. Pyresong just barely resisted the urge to shove the guard aside and get to the source of those screams.
"I received word that Wortham had been attacked. The mayor requisitioned aid. What can I do to help?"
Listening intently to the noises all around in the mists, he kept his arms out to his sides. The guard's shoulders relaxed only slightly as he exhaled a tense sigh of relief. Apparently, whatever threat did not appear to be within the village behind him at the moment.
"The mayor? Akarat bless that man's soul! Those cultists just attacked the town and dragged our people toward the caves in the west." He gestured to another path where the other guards had disappeared. "If you're here to aid us, then help my men kill those bastards and bring back anyone who lives. They're using the caves to the west. Go! Please, hurry!"
He needed no further urging or information. As he had suspected, demonic cultists were behind this. At a silent, flat run, he took off after the other guards. He'd had run-ins with cults before in his travels, but nothing on a scale big enough or powerful enough to take on an entire village, especially one the size of Wortham. Most cults in such areas were little more than rebellious dabblers wanting to be big, scary demon worshipers. This was too organized, and clearly a real demon was involved. The filthy, hellish magics he'd seen and felt confirmed it beyond doubt. These were no dabblers or wannabes.
"We'll guard the gates with our lives, I promise you!" he heard the guard telling the clearly panicked villagers behind him.
Almost immediately, he heard the sound of the other guards in the fog ahead of him, engaged in battle. Enchanted wolves the size of small horses and giant spiders bigger than the men were blocking the path. Assessing the situation at a run, he made a split-second decision.
"Run to the rocks!" he shouted at the guards as he unleashed his skeletons and a barrage of spirit fire at the wolves and spiders.
Thankfully, the guards, used to obeying orders, did so without hesitation. Moments later the men were clear of the immediate area while the skeletal warriors kept the creatures occupied for a few seconds. He used his power to explode the existing corpses to kill or maim the last twisted creatures that had survived the initial battle.
"Get back to Wortham and guard the gates! I'll find the villagers!" he shouted over his shoulder as he resumed his rather reckless run.
Just a little further along the same path, more giant spiders were holding back another small group of village guards. He growled slightly in disgust. There were few creatures in all of Sanctuary that disgusted him as much as giant spiders. One man in an orange uniform was already on the ground writhing in agony from the venom. Sadly, he had no antidote or antivenin to help the poor guard. He hoped there would be a well-supplied healer back in the village to help the men affected.
"Get back!" he shouted, again unleashing his power and skeletons on the spiders.
As the last of the spiders and wolves died, he spotted a guard on the ground holding a wound on one arm to stop the bleeding. He unhooked a couple of light healing potions from his belt and handed them to the wounded guards.
"The others are guarding the gates. Get to them, quickly! I'll find the villagers."
Not waiting for a reply, he continued following the swiftly narrowing path. While this thick forest appeared to be a well-traveled area, this looked like little more than a hunting trail. Still, he had little problem finding his way through the murk and mist. An eerie sensation of something filthy ahead practically drew him forward. A few minutes later, the mists parted, and he was faced with a massive rock wall and dead trees. The path curved away to follow the base of the rock wall. Thanks to his magical sight, he was well-equipped to see the opening that led downward into very faint candlelight. Slowing only slightly, he inspected the opening. Blood...trails of it leading down and in.
This must be the cavern the guard spoke of.
Not knowing what else he would face inside, he began to creep carefully inside. He dismissed his minions, knowing they would be both easily visible and noisier than he could possibly be on his own. He also knew that more often than not, any creature—especially the nastier human ones—felt safer in their lair and would not expect any kind of assault.
He was right. The spiders left to guard the entrance had likely been well fed recently. They took little notice of him as long as he walked along the opposite wall. Minutes crawled by as he moved from shadow to shadow. Somewhere in the cave's depths, he could hear raised voices shouting in fear. One man's horrified screaming and pleading for his life nearly spurred him into another reckless run. Another could clearly be heard praying loudly for the Light to protect and save him. But he knew from experience, he would help no one if he got caught in some kind of trap trying to get to those people. He struggled against his desperate need to save them. Forcing each step to be placed silently and carefully as he traversed the shadows.
Eventually, he came to the "inner sanctum" of this lair. Hellions and cultists sat around on both sides. There was no shadow in which he could hide in that section. Knowing he would make a lot of noise here, he mentally prepared himself for the fight to come. Summoning another skeletal mage to aid in the fight, he broke cover. He ran back and forth across the slightly wider space, using his skeletal mage to create confusion while he cut down men and hellions with his scythe blade. When he heard more people and creatures approaching from an adjoining tunnel, he waited just long enough for them to cluster into the wider area with all the fresh bodies. Then he detonated all of the corpses in a final blast that resounded through the cavern.
Struggling to keep his breathing quieter so he could hear, he listened intently for any more to come running. After a few heartbeats pause to listen, a woman's agonize screams turned him back to the direction he had been headed. He left a skeletal mage to guard his back, just in case. Just beyond this, he could see the end of the tunnels where several wooden structures had been erected and well lit with torches. Three villagers hung from crosses, ready for sacrifice. He was out of time.
He gave no more thought to whether everything was dead behind him. Jolted by the sight of these innocent people being tortured and sacrificed was more than he could ignore. When there was no cultist visible at a glance, he ran forward into the light and attempted to release the first man he found tied up. There were corpses littering the floor around the edges of the cavern, so very many of them. Three still-struggling men were bound to crosses along the walls just above the countless dead villagers. He raced over to the closest one on his right, hooking his scythe on his belt and pulling his hunting knife as he ran. The man's eyes were wide with fear as he struggled against the ropes in a panic.
"You, friend! Help us! Get us out of here before they—"
Before the man could even finish his plea, Pyresong felt the energy and power of more filthy magic gathering beside him. A vile expletive slipped through his lips at the unexpected surprise. He quickly slipped the knife back on his belt as he grabbed his scythe. He quickly spun and danced backward, away from that coalescing power.
"Ah, another sacrifice arrives..." came a male voice all around him.
As before, there was a flash of sinister red light, and a man in red robes appeared.
"Through your flesh, the Lord of Damnation shall have his prize!" the filthy-feeling priest shouted as the man became solid.
He knew he couldn't give this evil priest enough time to summon another demon, as the priestess had. Acting as much on instinct as experience, he sent his skeletons at the priest. This one was obviously not a novice to combat, either. He threw a fireball at the skeletons before the necromancer could react. Then dodged the return volley of spirit fire neatly, leaving his robes smoking slightly. Suddenly, Pyresong felt himself flung across the cavern while his skeletons were blasted apart. That stunning moment of impact with the floor cost him his concentration. Uninjured, he jumped up and dodged the expected follow-up attack reflexively while already summoning more skeletons to aid him. To his horror, instead of attacking, the cultist priest laughed and unleashed his power on three of the helpless prisoners bound to the crosses that had been erected. Above the mens' heads, unholy sigils flared brightly. The priest glowed with the stolen sacrificial energy.
Damn! he swore viciously in his mind, knowing he'd failed these three.
With only two skeletons, he had to make his move before this priest grew even more powerful from those sacrifices. For one heartbeat, he considered unleashing a corpse explosion to destroy everything in this cave, including the vile cultist. Then he snarled mentally against the idea. He wanted this one for himself. He needed to feel justice for these countless innocent villagers.
He sent the skeletons once again at the priest, including the mage. Then he aimed a barrage of spirit fire to blind the cultist. The priest turned one way to deal with the skeletons and another to dodge the barrage of spirit fire. But, for him, it was already too late. The skilled necromancer had used the spirit fire and skeletons only as a distraction. While the cultist was dazzled by the light and occupied by the attack, Pyresong had spun swiftly to the side and behind the mage. With his scythe, he pierced the red, flowing robes in the back and then pulled hard to shatter the bones that the blade was caught on. The blood splattering across his shield and armor gave him a dark sense of satisfaction. Screaming in agony, the cultist priest went down in a pool of blood where the mindless skeletons stabbed him a few more times until he went still.
Chest still heaving from the battle, he turned his attention to the carnage around him. There were bodies in the shadows all around him behind the wooden structures: men, women, and children. Scattered among them were several vivid orange guard uniforms. The three he had initially tried to help on the crosses were nothing more than desiccated corpses now. Heaving a sigh as much to calm his breathing as to exhale his frustration, he turned his attention toward what was left of the cultist priest. Maybe he had something on him that would give more information about what was going on in this place.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a slight movement from one of the corpses. It brought his attention back to the fact that the undead were everywhere in this place. Though he hadn't sensed any magic activated, he half expected all the bodies in here to begin rising. He raised his scythe, ready to strike writhing body in front of him. Then he froze as he realized this was no corpse. The man was covered in blood but bound and gagged and trying to scream something. He was wriggling his way out from under several other bodies.
He's alive!
Dropping to his knees, he gave his skeletons a mental command to guard the tunnel entrance behind him. Much as the other, this man was struggling against the ropes in a panicked frenzy, making it impossible for him to cut them with his knife without further injuring the man. Gripping the man's face painfully tight in one gloved hand, he let his magical eyes bore into the man's wide, terrified brown ones.
"Be still!" he hissed.
The big man all but collapsed limply. Seeing him comply, he nodded and then removed the gag first. As he cut the ropes, the man began babbling in a panicked, stuttering voice nearing hysteria.
"Gods, h-he...killed them! He killed them all!"
"You're all right, friend," Pyresong said soothingly. "Tell me, do you have the strength to make it out of here?"
While he cut away the last of the rope around the man's ankles, the large man started to massage some life back into his hands and feet. Pyresong handed him the last healing potion off his belt. The big man nodded uncertainly and accepted the potion. He quickly downed it, making a face at the horrid taste, and handed the empty bottle back.
"Y-yes, I think so. M-most of the b-b-blood isn't mine."
He helped him to his unsteady feet and scanned the room again in the hopes of finding at least one more alive. Nothing. At least there were no lingering spirits needing help moving on. He had more than half expected several with the sheer number of unexpected and possibly torturous deaths here. This cave would definitely need cleansing. But that would have to be a problem for later.
"Wait!" the man said excitedly. "One of the others had portal scrolls, but we couldn't reach them…"
The large man turned to rummage through the clothes of another victim nearby. Pyresong mentally applauded the man's practicality in the circumstances. Most wouldn't dare to loot the corpse of a friend or fellow in the community. He was just glad he didn't have to do it himself for once. Most people tended to frown on looting corpses, even if you were the one planning to use the corpse later. Using his magical sight, he scanned the other corpses once more with his necromantic senses. As always, there was some part of him desperately hoping for more survivors. Definitely no signs of life and no lingering spirits, either. How this one managed to survive was little short of a miracle. But he'd happily take it...for now. Silently, he vowed there would be retribution for every corpse he saw here.
"There! There it is!" the man finally shouted excitedly, earning an irritated glare from Pyresong.
He handed over a couple of the scrolls he had found. Then he quickly unrolled the one scroll he'd kept with badly shaking hands.
"Come, let's leave this miserable place forever!"
Assuming the man knew what he was doing, he nodded, and the man used the scroll to bring up a portal. Still on his guard for further attacks, he watched down the tunnel. When the portal opened, he shoved the other scrolls into his side satchel, not sure if they might come in handy. Besides, portal scrolls were obscenely expensive. At the very least, he might be able to sell them later. He gestured for the man to go through first. Covered in gore as he was, as well as being a Priest of Rathma, it would not be a good idea to come through first. Necromancers never got a warm welcome under the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best of circumstances. He waited an extra few seconds after the man had gone through while he hooked his shield on his back and his scythe on his belt. At the very least, he could present as no threat.
He stepped through the threshold of the portal to find himself standing in the middle of Wortham's waypoint in the village square. Behind him, the portal began to close rapidly. A handful of other villagers were already leading the poor man away to be cleaned up and tended. Spotting him standing there on the platform, a small group of half a dozen guards stepped in his direction threateningly. Obviously, they were wary of an open portal and now turned their full attention on him, weapons ready. Again, he put his unoccupied hands out to the sides, palms out to show he was no threat, and fixed his expression to his customary serene mask.
"He saved me!" the big man shouted, turning back toward them. "He saved me from those monsters! Don't you—"
One of the guards raised his hand to silence the burly man, and everyone lowered their weapons slightly.
"I've come to offer aid to Wortham," Pyresong again explained. "I'm combat experienced."
"You're a bloody necromancer!" a voice in the crowd shouted. "You're just like those cultists out there!"
"I am a Priest of Rathma. I am not a cultist," he replied calmly, almost tiredly. Yes, now that the initial battle was over, he felt the weariness creeping in.
Another guard now spoke up, "He's the one that saved us out there. If you turn him away, I'm leaving too!"
Several more voices, including many villagers, began arguing both for and against. Keeping his expression serene, Pyresong stood on the waypoint stones and waited. He was all too used to this kind of reception and even much worse. Either they would accept him and his aid or not, and nothing he said at this point would make a difference.
"That's enough!" shouted the lead guard. "He's proven himself. And we need all the help we can get." Stepping forward, though not sheathing his sword, the guard motioned toward the village center. "You're welcome here. And thank you."
Pyresong bowed, priest to soldier, out of formal courtesy. That seemed to make most of the gathered villagers relax. With that, the crowd dispersed...somewhat. Caught in the grip of a nightmare they couldn't escape, many of these people from outside the village whose homes had been destroyed or raided had nowhere else to really go. So they continued to mill about the village square. Slowly, not really meeting eyes with anyone, he nodded and stepped down from the little waypoint platform.
For a moment, he just took in the central part of the village, its few buildings, a church, and then the rickety old wooden planks that served as the village's gates to the south. It would take but one fireball to demolish a whole section of those makeshift gates. And the remains of the wall around the town were little more than stacks of rubble. This place was not really a defensible position. It seemed a narrow creek that wound around the east and south of the village served as the typical barrier between the heart of this village and its many miles of thick woodland. While he made plans for defense in his head, he caught bits and pieces of terrified whispers of conversation.
"Well, I heard a rumor that late at night, strange lights flicker in the church. What if some of the townspeople are secretly cultists?"
"Wortham's too dangerous, nowadays. I'm thinking of leaving this place. I have family in..."
"I doubt things are much better up there! The whole world's gone mad!"
He walked through the village, following stone-paved paths at random, checking the overall perimeter. He counted maybe a score of guards in uniform, most of whom didn't look like they knew which end of a sword to hold. He had no idea how long this attack had been going on, but it seemed very likely the first waves had decimated the well-trained and official guards. Many of the guards he saw now looked to be farmers or craftsmen, unaccustomed to combat. Very likely, they would be better off with bows. Even most farmers were halfway decent with a bow due to their hunting skills.
Here and there, children roamed, looking more excited than afraid by all the commotion. Some older kids tried to corral the younger ones, who could sense the fear in the air. The tension was palpable. It was nearing bedtime for everyone, yet no one had any intention of doing so. He didn't blame them. The nightmares outside the village's thin, crumbling walls didn't make for good rest.
Despite the guards patrolling every inch of the walled part of the village, there just wasn't enough to entirely stop another incursion from these cultists. He could only guess how many were out there. Though, he had easily seen enough in that one cave to know this was no small gathering. There was a greater purpose here, and they were too well-organized. While he walked, he dug into his backpack to retrieve some more healing potions to put on his belt. Likely, that attack had not been isolated. He could easily see many places where it could happen again. He made a mental note to warn their guard captain to post more sentries at specific locations. If he didn't have enough, it was time to start pulling from the villagers- anyone capable of holding a weapon. He shook his head mentally when he looked up. Several multi-storied buildings here near the walls, and not a single archer on any roof or in any window.
Clearly this village was entirely inexperienced with any kind of assault or defensive tactics. He would have to give their captain a quick lesson and hope he understood. He had no desire to coordinate the defenses himself. Aside from the many loathing looks thrown his way, there were likely few that would listen to an outsider, even if he wasn't a necromancer.
By chance, his feet took him back around from the little fishing docks that stuck out onto the creek. He frowned darkly. It was clearly way too vulnerable with no wall, no gate, and only a short hop across the water. He circled around and headed back toward the village square. Already, he was looking for a uniform that would indicate a leader here. There had to be someone here with at least enough experience to get people moving in the right direction.
Back at the center of the village, the man he had rescued from the cave came running over. The man had been cleaned up and had fresh clothes on. Pyresong was glad to see no oozing bandages or crippling injuries. Yes, he was only one of many in that cave, but at least it was a life saved.
The man reached out to shake his hand, saying, "You know, I didn't thank you properly, friend." He turned away and walked toward a nearby smithy, motioning for Pyresong to follow him. "I'm Korrin, Wortham's blacksmith. If you need to improve your armor or weapons or pretty much anything you need, please see me. No charge for you, ever."
He smiled slightly as they arrived at the smithy, and Korrin gestured to all his tools. "Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma. That is most generous. Thanks are not needed, but much appreciated," he replied, still feeling the hostile glares all around him.
Unexpectedly, a scream rang out on the other side of the square, startling everyone. Spinning around, he laid a hand on his scythe before catching sight of what was now standing on the waypoint platform. A hideously burned and charred human was shambling its way off the platform and into the square. His blackened skin and charred clothing crackled as he walked. The sickeningly sweet and all too familiar smell of burnt human hair and flesh permeated the thick, still air. The agonized groaning with each step was chillingly audible amid the sudden unnatural silence.
While others backed away in wide-eyed horror and mute fear, he stepped forward. Already, he could see this man was somehow actually still alive, not some shambling corpse. His heart twisted in empathy for the man's gruesome suffering. His gut twisted both with revulsion and anger when he saw an aura of familiar hellish magic. His initial instinct, born of compassion, had been to end the man's suffering quickly. But the sight of the filthy, vile magic around the poor man made him realize there was something else altogether going on here. Something was keeping the poor man alive for a purpose. As a necromancer, he was all-too familiar with using flesh as a weapon. When a few brave people moved forward as if to aid the stricken man, he reflexively stuck his arms out and motioned them back.
"Stay back!" he shouted as guards came running. "There's dark magic at work here!"
With horrified gasps, more people stepped even farther away. A few vomited and a couple even fled. He approached cautiously. The tortured man collapsed to his hands and knees with an anguished, wordless cry of pure suffering. Shaken and uncertain what was happening here, Pyresong struggled against the urge to end that suffering. Suddenly the body went rigid as it began to explode in blood and fire. The man screamed in unspeakable agony, earning echoing cries of terror from some of the onlookers. He started to lift his scythe to end this awful scene. Magical trap or not, he couldn't take this level of suffering. He prayed he would be able to end it quickly for the poor man.
Before he could even use his scythe, the ballooning bubble of blood and fire coming out of the man's chest exploded again in all directions. The already hysterical screaming all around them, took on a pained cry as some of the nearby onlookers were singed. Many more of them took off running in all directions. Already shielded with his own power, Pyresong stayed where he was only a couple of feet away from the edges of the flames. While others fled to the nearby buildings or took cover anywhere they could, he just shielded his eyes from the flames with his free arm and then watched in silent horror.
The image of a demon's head outlined in blood and fire now formed above the village center. He made sure to take in every detail of its visage. He marked it well, knowing this was likely only the beginning of so much more. Whatever had begun here was the thing he had been warned of so very long ago now. Even Rathma had seen it coming. Whatever else happened, he would find a way to stop this demon and its plans.
In a deep voice that instilled horror and fear in everyone around it, the demon began to speak to the dozen or so villagers frozen or cowering in fear all around them.
"My eye is upon you. Weep and despair! For the sin of your existence will be bled away."
Despite his revulsion and fury at the suffering of this poor victim, Pyresong watched with his serene, emotionless expression. The blood and fire rapidly evaporated, leaving the village center once more in the shadows of a brooding, misty night. Then, he turned his attention to the ravaged body that collapsed to the cobbles. Hooking his scythe back on his belt, he approached it. He went to one knee warily as he whispered prayers for the dead to rest in peace. He used his power and magical vision to sense what was left in the corpse. Those who had been too frozen in shock to run began to come out from their hiding places. Some even began to speak against his actions when his hand glowed a soft whitish green over the corpse. What they didn't know was that it was a passive spell to ensure the body was truly unoccupied. Nothing more. He knew all too well that those who suffered horrifically in their last minutes of life would often linger, becoming angry ghosts or even enraged phantoms. Whatever else this person had been, he did not deserve that level of suffering on top of everything else.
Nothing remains but char, he thought with relief.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to their disgusted and angry gazes and spoke with a serenity he certainly did not feel. His heart was already pounding with the unexpected surprise. But more so now that he began to understand the magnitude of what was happening here. This was no little demon having fun with an isolated village. The power behind that illusion and what he had seen from the cultists implied a demon lord.
"He is dead. His soul has passed on. It is safe to remove the remains," he explained calmly to the angry villagers.
Now it was up to them to discern who he had been and what burial rites they would use. He had more important things to deal with. Even before he could step away, hysterical screaming broke out from the nearby church at the north end of the village center. Again, he took his scythe off his belt, running toward the attack. The moment he stepped into the well-lit church, he realized it was no attack. It was just a crowd of hysterical villagers explaining what had happened to an elderly man near the front dais. The harried man was waving his hands and trying to calm everyone down, to no effect. The people were all a screaming jumble of words.
"It's a demon!"
"There's a demon in Wortham!"
"Help us!"
"Please, remain calm—"
"We have to get out of here!"
"Where's my boy?"
Though he caught snippets of these jumbled shouts, he was at least certain there was no attack going on in here, undead or otherwise. He hooked his scythe again with a mental sigh.
"Please, remain calm, everyone," the old man was trying to say, yet again.
From the doorway, he used his own voice to finally silence them. "Enough! Be silent! Now!"
That did it. He knew his deeper voice and its projectiveness could carry across a massive crowd. Over the years, he had taught himself to speak softly and often soothingly. But he knew when it was time to use the power of his voice, and this was one of them. This three dozen or so people had no chance of not hearing it in the enclosed space of the church. And, more to the point, they had no chance of not obeying it when they were startled to silence. The sudden silence rang like a gong. The elderly man's eyes sought out the source of the voice.
"That's better," Pyresong said, much more softly.
He walked down the central aisle as the crowd parted to let him through. When he approached the old man who seemed to be some kind of leader here, he kept his eyes averted, watching others out of the corner of his eye. It wouldn't be the first time seemingly hysterical villagers had run him out of a church. Most people found the magical seals that covered his once-blue irises unsettling at the very least, and outright terrifying in some cases. These people did not need more to fear, especially from him right now. He had already taken in what he needed to know of the elderly gentleman by this point.
The old man was wearing somewhat ragged, but high quality robes, a couple of satchels, and and he carried a clearly magical staff that glowed faintly in Pyresong's magical sight. This was clearly not the mayor. At first, he thought of him as a village elder or even the mayor. But no mayor would likely allow himself to look so...shabby. This man obviously had other priorities than looking the part of a leader for his people. Village elder, maybe? No, he was something else. Something very powerful, according to his magical vision. If anything, this old man might know enough of what was going on to help him get a grasp of what had happened here.
He approached the elderly man as he began his little calming speech to those gathered here in fear once again. Pyresong kept his eyes roaming back and forth around the room to gauge the reaction. Aside from hoping they would all calm down, a part of his mind was always suspicious in such settings. It was always possible that any one of the people here could be somehow involved with the cultists, perhaps plotting a way to get their fellows into the village. At first glance, he saw only naked fear in all of them.
"Remain calm, everyone. We are not bereft of hope, yet!" the old man said in the frightened silence.
By this point, Pyresong had stopped only a couple of feet away from the dais, directly in front of the old man. The man's face twisted from one of tired concern to one of warm greeting, much to Pyresong's surprise. Still watching the others around them, he bowed his head and shoulders in greeting to the man, priest to village elder since he was uncertain of the station of this one. Still, he wanted to show respect to ensure at least some cooperation.
"Ah! Hello, friend!" the old man said warmly in greeting, returning the bow with head and shoulders. "You've arrived at a difficult time. As you can plainly see, the townsfolk are ill at ease."
Knocked almost completely off guard by the man's sincerity and warmth, he again glanced around the room. He almost wanted to question his own sanity with some amusement. But, feeling the far less welcoming stares of the others present, he knew he hadn't lost his mind. A tickle of suspicion crept through his thoughts as he once again reminded himself: no one was ever happy to see a Priest of Rathma. Before the thoughts could take hold, the old man turned his attention and speech back to the others present in the crowded church.
"But we should be safe enough here for the moment!" the old man told all of them.
The old man's attempt to get some of them to leave failed. People always felt safer in a church, even when it was blatantly not true. Pyresong saw no reason to disillusion these poor, simple people and gave his full attention to the man before him. The old man, sighing heavily and still watching the crowd as they began to settle wherever there was space, shook his bald head. The old man showed clear signs of near exhaustion. Whatever was going on here had not just started today.
"My name is Deckard Cain. I'm a bit of a traveling scholar, one might say."
And a whole lot more, he thought to himself.
Still sensing the immense power behind Cain's simple facade, he just barely managed to resist the urge to cock a skeptical eyebrow at the old man. Though his dark suspicions were trying to tell him something, he could not find even a hint of hellish energies about the scholar that would link him to the cultists. His instincts were tugging him in a completely different direction, and he wasn't sure he liked it any better. Keeping his expression serene, he watched the old man move toward a young woman standing nearby.
"Lyra, here, mentioned you saved Korrin from the cultists before that sudden commotion in the square. Please, tell me everything!"
Before he could speak, Cain finally met his eyes directly and gasped in surprise. This was far from the first time Pyresong had met with such a reaction.
"Your eyes! Come closer."
"I was blinded once, and a witch healed my sight," he explained simply
He obliged the old man by widening his gaze. Almost anyone he encountered who did not outright loathe Priests of Rathma wanted a closer look. For him, it was just an irritation he would rather not deal with.
"Very ancient sigils," Cain mused. "Likely not seen for thousands of years."
At this, Pyresong blinked in surprise; unable to completely hide his reaction. For all those who had scrutinized the faintly glowing seals over his eyes, including a number of mages, no one had yet recognized the symbols of the seals. Clearly, this one did, further intriguing him and again tickling his darker, more suspicious instincts. A flicker of thought made him almost want to question the old man further. Shaking this off, he got back to the point.
"It seems dark forces have set their eyes upon Wortham. The cultists' leader mentioned a Lord of Damnation...said he was seeking some 'prize'. That face in the flames could only have been his."
Shaking off the distraction of Pyresong's eyes, Cain frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
"'Lord of Damnation...' Things are far worse than I imagined. The forces of Hell are seeking a shard of the Worldstone, an artifact with the power to create entire realities," Cain warned, still eyeing Pyresong closely, almost warily.
He could easily sense the old man gauging his reaction when those eyes met his head-on again. Were it not for the fact that his magical sight detected no magic at play, he would have suspected the man was probing him. Still, he was most certainly surprised, and yet not. He maintained his serene expression, giving nothing away as he began to understand the larger scope of what was happening in this large village. He also knew this was the event that those dreams had warned him about...or at least the beginning of it. The fact that it was so much worse than he thought it would be initially was not entirely unexpected. What was still unexpected was Cain's complete lack of loathing.
"I am Master Pyresong. You are familiar with the Priests of Rathma?" he couldn't help asking.
Cain's smile widened on his wrinkled face. "Very much so. One of my dearest friends is a necromancer. We..." he hesitated as if uncertain how much to divulge. "Traveled together for a time. Maybe one day I will tell you the whole story. For now, we have other matters to deal with."
Setting a grim expression, Cain continued, "I was there with my friend, a Priest of Rathma, when it all happened. Five years ago, the demon lord Baal nearly brought all of humanity under his thrall using the Worldstone. If this demon were to obtain even a shard of it, the results would be catastrophic. We cannot let that happen..."
Now he remembered where he had heard the name before. Much as had so many others, he had heard the stories. A Priest of Rathma had fought against a Prime Evil, Baal, and prevented the corruption of all of humanity but was unable to prevent the corruption of the Worldstone itself. Then, the Archangel Tyrael destroyed the corrupted Worldstone. Mount Arreat had exploded, and pieces of it and the Worldstone had been flung all over Sanctuary. Most of the Worldstone had simply evaporated or disappeared beyond this physical plane of existence. No one really knew where the bulk of it went. It was not entirely surprising that pieces had survived the destruction, though Tyrael had not. Knowing what little he did of the legendary Cain spoken about throughout the world, he did not doubt the man's intentions, at least. Relieved, he let go of his earlier suspicious thoughts regarding this unassuming traveling scholar.
"I'm here to help in any way I can," he assured the tired old man.
Before more could be said, a guard came running up the aisle.
"Priest! Cain! The cultists are attacking the western gate! We need help holding them back!"
"You stay here and keep the people calm," he told Cain reflexively. "I'll handle this."
Cain's snowy white eyebrows shot up in something akin to amusement. Pyresong once again unhooked his shield from his back. For a moment, he grinned mentally to himself. He realized what he'd just said and who he'd said it to and nearly laughed. If this really was the same Cain from the stories, this elderly scholar probably knew some incredibly powerful spells that could protect the village without his help. More to the point, the man had already survived in places no mortal has ever seen and lived to tell the tale. Except for one, of course: his former companion, the unnamed Priest of Rathma.
"Very well," Cain agreed, thankfully amused and not insulted.
Turning, Pyresong motioned the guard to get moving. Together, they ran full-tilt out of the church and back down the paths. People were still milling about in panic like a herd of sheep throughout the village.
"Get inside to safety!" he roared in his most powerful voice.
Then he tuned them out completely when he focused on the sounds of raging battle ahead. A handful of guards had already engaged a small mass of the undead and a single cultist controlling them. Still several feet away, he sent a blast of spirit fire ahead of him to create some confusion. When he got to the front line with his skeletons and began swinging his scythe with precision, he shouted to the other guards.
"All of you! Get back! Now!"
Once again, as with any soldier or guard anywhere in Sanctuary, they were used to taking—and obeying—orders. In only a couple of seconds, the area was clear of all but the foes that he and his skeletal warriors cut through in a near frenzy. He knew the cultist was the one that needed to be taken out. These zombies were just weapons and distractions. Sensing as much as seeing the area around him was clear of all but enemies, he extended his power outward in a wave and directed all the corpses already on the ground to explode in the direction of the cultist. As the wave of explosions began, he raised his shield to protect himself and the others behind him from the gory carnage as much as possible. Thankfully, most of the guards mimicked his movement just in time. When the chaos settled, all of the undead and the cultist controlling them were little more than recognizable parts scattered all over the ground. One of the guards stepped up to him with wide eyes.
"The attack came from the west. There must be another stronghold out there. Don't worry about the town. Go! Show those cultists no mercy!"
He nodded and headed out through the shattered remains of the gate, carefully stepping through the slippery remains of so many corpses. With some irritation, he noticed all the guards standing around staring with pale-faced shock. He hadn't even found the time to locate their leader and give him information on ways to better secure the place. He barked over his shoulder at them.
"Get a barricade in place! And archers on the roofs!"
He ran back out into the forest to the west. A few seconds later a short, wooden bridge spanned across another narrow creek. Following his magical vision as much as instinct in the dark, misty night, he headed down a path. Almost as soon as he crossed the creek, several large figures materialized out of the thick mists. He was once again engaged with twisted forms of the local wildlife. Direwolves, massive spiders, even deranged porcupines using their quills as projectiles. For a while, it was all he could do to keep them all from wounding him. As one skeleton fell, he summoned another. Acting on pure instinct, he followed the feeling of filthy energies that were lined with these magically twisted creatures. It was almost as good as a road sign leading him right to the source.
After nearly an hour, there came an unexpected lull in the near constant fight...and a silence that did not sit well. Given how thick and dark the forest around him was, it somehow felt all wrong for it to be so still all of a sudden. Taking advantage of the moment, he gazed around with his magical sight.
There you are, he thought darkly.
He caught sight of a cave entrance nearby guarded by a half a dozen cultists. He carefully reigned in his growing rage. The dark miasma of evil and almost unbelievably powerful magic oozed out of the cave. He knew that making a lot of noise to kill them would only bring others out of the cave. Very likely, this was their main base, and the other cave had just been a sacrificial chamber. There was too much raw power and hellish energies here compared to the other one.
Pulling back on his rage and desire to cut them all down where they stood, he formed a hasty, if somewhat reckless, plan. He ran up to the opening, smiled wickedly at the group, and then turned and ran back into the mists. He knew these cultists were used to dealing with terrified and unarmed villagers or even half-trained farmers in uniforms. It never occurred to them that someone without a guard uniform would dare to turn back and fight them.
It was over in seconds. Now it was time for stealth.
Just as before, the cave was lit with a number of torches and candles. He dismissed his skeletal helpers. It was easy to slip from one darkened area to another, making no more sound than a shadow. He had specially padded his articulating, flexible chest and back armor over the years with bits of leather and wool to ensure nothing scraped or clanked when he moved. His entirely incomplete set was a mismatched hodgepodge of castoffs and things he could afford to buy. So very many parts he did without completely, to focus entirely on the main areas that needed protection. Shins, thighs, hands, forearms, biceps, chest, and back were all covered. Items for knees, elbows, feet, and other areas inevitably either restricted his movements or scraped and clanked. And he had never appreciated helmets of any kind. He could not tolerate the lack of visual range for many. Others just felt heavy and awkward. For him, it was all about stealth or flexibility and reflexes. Even then, he had more scars than he could count from all his years of wandering Sanctuary.
As usual, no one was seriously watching for an assault on their own lair. He slipped past at least a score of these demon-tainted humans who wore red and proclaimed themselves cultists. Most of them had no more magic ability than any villager. But every one of them was armed and fanatically dangerous. All over the cave, on the walls, floors, and even ceiling, were carved the same seals of some kind of demonic eye; many were filled in or painted in blood.
The blood of so many innocent villagers, he thought to himself, stoking his rage.
Once again, needing to feel the justice he meted out here, he cut the cultists down by twos and threes as he made his way through the tunnels. He didn't even bother with spirit fire or summoned minions to create confusion. He wanted them to see him coming. And it wasn't some twisted sense of honorable combat mindset. It was pure desire to see the fear in their eyes as Death came for them.
Finally, there was an opening that led to a massive chamber that angled down a considerable way. Ahead of him, his magical eyes and arcane senses could detect the almost unbelievably powerful aura of a cult priestess standing before an unholy altar. It appeared to be some kind of small, crystalline structure. It was a vivid blood red and only maybe as long as his hunting knife. It was small enough around to easily fit in her smaller hands. This object she held before her was enhancing her own power to a degree he'd never seen before. It gave off a filthy feeling he struggled to block out as much as he could. The potent and violent energies radiating off that thing told him that this must be the shard Cain had spoken of. He could not imagine any other artifact possessing so much raw power.
A corrupted fragment that holds the power of Creation itself, he couldn't help thinking almost in awe of it.
The priestess appeared to be using it and the vile altar to communicate with the demon lord. His image in the flames hovered above her and the six other mages around the seal. Pyresong inched his way through the shadows to hide behind some unlit candles sitting on a boulder near the entrance. He listened and observed, hoping for an opening in which to strike.
"Lord Skarn, the shard is ours, and the rite is nearly finished!" the priestess called out.
He recognized that voice. It was the same woman he had encountered outside Wortham. This was the one that had so very easily summoned a Putrid Desecrator, no minor demon or imp. He knew he would have to act fast to prevent her from summoning another demon to help her this time. Worse, she was not alone. There were six other mages, if not priests, to contend with as well. This might actually be more than he could take on by himself. Already his mind was racing through plans and options.
He wasn't leaving without that shard.
"The way will open," she finished, with her hands raised in supplication to the altar.
A moment later, he was caught off guard when Skarn's voice came out of the fiery image. He hadn't even had a chance to settle on a plan of attack when his concentration was shattered. Beside him, he felt a red barrier go up. It stank of hellish energies. And it completely blocked his way back out of this cave. He almost laughed. He wasn't planning on running, anyway. The demon had just ensured no further reinforcements would interrupt his battle.
Not the brightest move, he thought, smiling wickedly.
"You are not alone, Eskara." Skarn's voice filled the cavern. "Slay the intruder in my name."
He had been unprepared for this. His intention had been a quiet ambush, if he was lucky. Too late for that. Reflexively, he summoned a couple of skeletal warriors and a mage as fast as he could. He leapt out of his concealment in the shadow, still smiling. At the same time, the other cultist mages released their ritual to focus on him. The vision of the demon lord evaporated, much as it had in Wortham.
He didn't waste any time on words as he ran across the open space to engage. Each of the mages had summoned a flesh fiend and was preparing fireballs to fling about. He muttered a vile obscenity. He couldn't possibly be lucky enough for them not to all be summoners. Meanwhile, the priestess was already beginning the summoning of a much more powerful demon. They all backed away from the enormous sigil on the floor to give her space to work. These acolytes and lesser demons were just a distraction.
Guarding himself as best he could, he directed his skeletal minions to attack pretty much anything that moved at this point. His target was the priestess. He ducked under the melees going on all around him, sending barrages of spirit fire in every direction. Eskara, focused on her summoning, paid no attention to the chaos around her at first. When she caught sight of the necromancer's shield coming right at her, she was forced to let go of the summoning and dodge. Squaring up with her, he did all he could to keep her attention and watch for an opening. Like so many other mages, overconfident in their power, she wore no armor. Still, that wasn't going to be much help if he couldn't get to her.
Behind him, there was a small explosion that knocked a couple of his skeletons right out of the fight. Using the corpses of lesser demons and cultists now littering the cavern, he set off a much bigger explosion that stunned all but Eskara. Still, it wasn't enough. He summoned a skeletal mage to appear behind her. In the blast, he had momentarily lost track of the battle around him, and his back was now exposed. Something heavy hit him squarely in the back, disrupting his own summoning and throwing him forward. Recognizing the squealing and claws trying to get at his flesh through the armor, he knew a flesh fiend had launched itself at him. To dislodge it, he turned the painful blow into a roll. On his knees, he regained enough concentration to continue re-summoning skeletal warriors. Now, he let them watch his back.
As Eskara raised her hand to fend off the skeletal mage that had appeared behind her, he finally found the opening he needed. He knew she would blast the skeleton away before it could strike, but that bought him just enough time. In the split second of her distraction, he was able to close the distance. Even as she turned back toward him, his now fully empowered and glowing scythe sliced the air with a scream before burying itself in her abdomen. With a vicious tug, he ripped her wide open. Then, he turned his attention back to finishing off the other mages and flesh fiends.
Unfortunately, whatever unholy power had been granted to the priestess was more than Pyresong had anticipated. On her knees with her guts spilling onto the unholy seal filled with blood on the floor, she gripped her staff in both hands and raised it above her head. The shard flared powerfully above her as if responding to her call. Sensing the gathering power around her, he quickly stepped away from the seal, summoning yet more skeletons to help. Despite gasping in obvious agony, she was not about to lose this fight. Eskara raised her brightly glowing staff and slammed it onto the now glowing seal.
"Hell comes for you!" she screamed, echoing around the cavern.
Her scream triggered a red lightning storm that nearly filled the cavern. Stepping further back, almost to the blocked exit, he raised his shield in the reflexive hope of not being hit by the lightning storm. A few of his skeletal warriors were blasted apart, returning to dust in puffs. He reflexively summoned more to replace them, unsure what he would be facing.
Then, he realized the lightning was the least of his growing concerns. The explosion that came as Eskara disappeared in a mist of blood and lightning left behind something far worse. She had used her damaged body and waning power as a sacrifice to summon something much larger and more powerful than anything Pyresong had ever yet faced. For one, racing heartbeat, he was frozen in shock and fear.
The lizard-like demon made of blood, flame, and blackened flesh roared as its bulk nearly filled the cavern. Its tail shattered stone columns at the far end as he swung around. Its scream of fury reverberated throughout the cave system. Flames erupted from its mouth in a wide spray that only just missed him as he ducked behind another column. When it swiped a massive claw at him, shattering the column above his head, he had some small spark of hope that the thing would just collapse the cavern on itself.
No such luck,he thought, swiftly ducking behind another column.
He quickly sized up up the monstrous beast. Having fought demons for years now, he knew certain weak spots existed on them all. He knew there was no chance of getting to the eyes himself. They were just too far off the ground, some ten feet above his head. And regardless how powerful his skeletons, none of them were intelligent or strong enough to withstand blows from this monster. Even his largest summoned minion wouldn't be more than a distraction to the damned thing.
When the tail swung around again, he took the hit to his shield and rolled across the room back to his feet. Mentally, he directed all of his skeletons to go after the legs in a mad frenzy, praying this thing wasn't intelligent. The skeletal mages he used to direct blasts of spirit fire toward the thing's bulging orange eyes. These distractions had the beast whipping around in a frenzy as if batting away attacking bees. It spewed raging flames from its mouth at every unseen target.
And all of that was just a distraction to buy him time to think of something—anything—that might actually harm this giant monster. Realizing his dodging and dancing around was getting him nowhere, he gave in fully to his combat instincts and let them do his thinking. He sent a large barrage of spirit fire at its eyes from his current location to blind it momentarily. Then he sprinted across the cavern to his left and did it again. He knew the skeletons wouldn't last more than a few heartbeats, so he used the distraction to sprint up under the creature. Though there was a high risk of being crushed by its bulk, it was the only real weakness he could get to. Like most demonic beasts, the hide was well protected with rock-like burnt flesh. The underbelly on this one, at least, appeared somewhat softer.
Dodging the frantically flailing claws and tail, he went from a sprint to a slide across the bloody floor. Putting every bit of power he could muster into the glowing blade of his scythe, he slit it along the belly as deep as the straight blade could reach, some two feet. The monster screamed in obvious agony, making the cavern walls tremble. At least that had done something.
He wasn't fast enough getting back to his feet to evade being caught underneath it. In an instant, he was drowning in the guts and blood of the beast as they poured out of the new five-foot-long opening. He could sense his skeletons had already been destroyed. He was alone, and there was no time to summon more. Instead, he held his breath and focused his energy on the handful of corpses still littering the cavern. Crushed under the weight of the demon as it writhed and squirmed in agony, he ignited all of them with a corpse explosion. He was so frantic and desperate, he hadn't even bothered to use his magic to shield himself. Perhaps it was the beast's own entrails that had protected him. Whatever it was, he had no time to think about it.
He was already feeling the telltale burning in his lungs as they screamed for more oxygen. He felt like he was literally drowning in demon blood and entrails. Unable to focus properly for another spell, he instinctively continued slashing with his glowing blade in every direction. Becoming more desperate by the second, he hoped to cut a way out of this mess and back into the open air.
As the mass of gore pressing down on him left him no way to breathe, he felt it coming. The burning in his lungs increased exponentially as his arms and legs began to tingle with weakness. The demon was still thrashing blindly above him as if trying to grind him into the floor. Somehow, he lost grip on his shield in the chaos. He could feel his hand weakening its grip on the scythe. With his eyes closed tightly, he knew the deeper darkness was closing in as flashes of light danced around behind his eyes. Still, he never stopped trying to slice his way out.
The beast, blind and in too much pain even to think, rolled over onto its back to escape the cutting agony underneath it. As it did, he was somehow ejected from the mass of entrails and sailed helplessly across the room. He hit the floor hard on his right shoulder and slid in the gore several feet before rolling to a stop. The impact had forced the air from his lungs in one gagging explosion. He was stunned and seeing stars when his head bounced off the floor. Too dazed and weak to move for a moment, he watched the demon thrashing around on its back for a few more seconds before it finally went still. When the beast finally stopped thrashing, an unholy red light and blood began to boil around it until it disappeared altogether.
He had a brief, random thought of his shield lost somewhere in the gory innards of the monster and nearly laughed. The almost laugh was interrupted by the thick, hot blood in his mouth. Gagging, he rolled to his hands and knees and began vomiting and coughing it all up. Thankfully, it wasn't much, but it was still disturbing enough to make him retch again. He shuddered at the idea of demon blood inside of him and gagged again. His scattered thoughts giving him mental images he didn't even want to consider. He struggled to shove them aside and focus on the air now stinging his lungs. Breathe. He just needed to breathe.
Some disjointed part of his scattered mind wondered at the blood on the floor inches from his face. Given the flood of adrenaline coursing madly through his system, he wondered how much of that blood might be his own. At the moment, he couldn't feel any injuries beyond the pounding of his head. There was no time to find out. Instead, he tried to get away from the blood. He staggered to his feet, barely able to stand. Only then did he realize he was covered in blood, making his stomach flip again. He staggered as he retched yet again, trying to purge himself of that filthy sensation of demon blood inside of him, like some kind of infection.
Then something penetrated his hazy, swirling thoughts and disgust. A few feet away, in the center of the main seal on the floor, floated a dark red crystal. It flashed and pulsed, giving him the bizarre sensation it was talking to him.
The shard! he thought, when his voice failed him as he coughed up yet more thick blood.
He summoned a skeleton warrior more out of habit and instinct than any conscious thought. Then he collapsed back to his knees, shaking violently. Finally, a voice somewhere below consciousness and in the levels of instinct screamed at him. He was injured, trapped in a cavern sealed by a major demon, and his goal was right in front of him.
Take a damn potion! the voice screamed in his mind.
He nearly laughed, realizing it was his old master's voice. He knew now he must be in shock. His trembling hands fumbled with his belt, amazed to find the bottles of healing potions unbroken. His hands were shaking too badly to uncork the damned thing. He finally pulled the cork out with his teeth. He downed the foul-tasting substance, forcing himself not to throw it back up instantly. Immediately, the warmth and tingle of healing spread through his body. When it concentrated into heat in some areas, he finally became aware of a multitude of other minor injuries. He shoved it all aside when he began to feel more steady. The rest of the injuries would have to wait. At least now he could stand.
Carefully, he approached the hovering shard. The raw power of vile corruption emanating from it was almost overwhelming in his weakened state. His insides writhed in denial of its evil when he realized it was pulling at him. It was speaking to the Darkness buried in his own soul. On a level below conscious thought, it whispered to him, wanting him to pick it up and use it for himself. He slammed his mental doors against it, reeling in disgust. As sickening as the thought was, he still had to take it. He had to get it away from here.
By Rathma... An endless sea of souls have perished because of this stone. It is a beacon to Life and Death, he thought with mingled loathing and horror.
With a mental growl of frustration at himself, he shoved it all aside. He gave no more thought to what it could do. His mind was already blurring, and he couldn't stop shaking. He had to just get it and himself out of here before he collapsed again. The effects of the healing potion wouldn't last more than a couple of minutes. And then it would all come crashing back on him again.
Focusing all of his well-trained shielding abilities into his gloved hands, he reached up slowly. There was a brief flash of something that felt like defiance from the shard before he engulfed as much as he could in his glowing hands to try to silence it. All it did was pull at him harder, trying to find some hold on him in his weakened state. He reinforced his mental doors on those feelings. He shoved it into a satchel at his side.
When he turned back toward the still-blocked cavern entrance, he caught sight of his shield nearby. Summoning another skeleton with his fast-waning reserves, he staggered over and retrieved it. Only now his bleary thoughts began to focus on how the hells he was going to get out of this place. On the other side of the red glow, he could see the masses of cultists gathering. They were raging to get at him.
"Cain will know what to do with it," he mumbled, not even realizing he was speaking until he heard his own faintly slurring voice.
A brief flicker of thought passed through his mind as he wondered why Skarn hadn't dropped the barrier yet. His shocked mind couldn't hold the thought. He was reeling, and the cave was starting to spin around him. The momentary strength and clarity of the healing potion was already fading. Somehow he had to get out of here before it ran out. His shock was only getting worse. He realized he was still shaking from head to toes, almost uncontrollably.
Something of his survival instincts finally kicked in, recalling the portal scrolls he'd stuffed in his satchel earlier that night. He had no idea where this one would take him, but he couldn't stay here. The light of the portal stung his eyes at first, making him flinch away from it. And then he felt a numbing sensation spreading from his head. His darkening vision wavered, and he staggered a couple of steps toward the glowing blue portal and collapsed right through it. The last thing he heard were screams, but he couldn't find the energy to get back up.
The darkness swallowed him.
***
The next thing Pyresong became aware of was voices. There were always voices when he let his guard down. Their whispers had been with him since earliest childhood. His training at the Necropolis had taught him how to close them out, and he did so now. But they were still there. It was so dark, and the voices were so far away. He struggled to hear them. Somewhere in the darkness, he felt a sense of urgency, followed by much pain. There was something important, something dangerous he had to deal with. He came back to his body in a way no one ever wants to return to consciousness.
Everything hurt.
Injuries he hadn't even remembered acquiring were tormenting him now, aching painfully. Forcing himself to calm, he clamped his teeth down on a groan. Now he could hear and understand the voices. They weren't the voices of the dead whispering through the ether. These were living voices, tinted with fear and stress.
"He's waking," one woman said calmly. "You might want to take a step back. We don't know—"
"It's all right," he said out of reflex as he opened his eyes.
Instantly, he regretted it when he was assaulted by the bright light of open windows nearby. He blinked a few times and eventually managed to get his eyes to focus. A couple of the people present stepped further back in fear from those glowing blue eyes with their magical seals.
"Where am I?" he asked, struggling against the pain to sit up.
Sensing there was no arguing with this one, the woman who appeared to be in charge motioned the others back away. His swiftly returning thoughts and memories flooded back into focus as well. He realized he was in someone's home, on a pallet on the floor. He rubbed his eyes to rid himself of the blurriness. Quickly, he spotted his armor, weapon, and other possessions piled in a corner nearby. He was clean, as was all his gear. Though still in considerable pain, he could feel there were no serious injuries or broken bones, at least. Seeing he was aware now of his surroundings, the elder woman answered.
"You're back in Wortham. Quite the spectacle you made with your arrival last night."
Nodding in relief, he began to struggle out of the makeshift bed. He again bit back a groan as more minor injuries made themselves known with his movements. Well aware he was clothed in little more than underwear, he shook off the discomfort rapidly. It's not like he had anything they hadn't seen before. Besides the multitude of scars that crisscrossed his body, he was as human as any of them. Stiff but steady, he walked over to his pile of gear and his backpack to retrieve some clothing.
"I must see Deckard Cain right away. Is he still in the church?"
"Yes, he's expecting you as soon as you are able."
"I'll be on my way to him in a moment," he told them as he dressed himself, covering his numerous aches and pains with gritted teeth. "How much do I owe you?"
The old woman sniffed. "Owe me? You saved the village at least twice that I know of. I should be asking you that question."
Though he had his back to her, he couldn't help a grin.
Practical and generous, this one, he thought to himself dryly.
As a necromancer, money had its uses, usually in finding places to sleep where he would be otherwise unwelcome. He was by no means wealthy but had acquired quite a sum after all his years looting the corpses of the people who had tried to rob or kill him. Dressed, he reached into his pouch and produced a handful of gold. He knew he had been quite the mess when he arrived. That was no small amount of cleaning. And clearly, he'd been seen by a decent healer. Rarely did a healer bother with more than the bare minimum to keep a necromancer alive. Still, he was grateful. At the time he had escaped the cavern, he wasn't entirely sure what condition he had been in or if he would even survive. It would be a few more days before he was fully recovered, but they had done well by village standards. Usually, he got little more than some stitches and bandages. This one had at least cared for his more serious injuries with active healing.
Silently, he set the money on the nearby table and quickly put on the rest of his gear. He was both relieved and disturbed to feel the satchel still radiated filthy corruption. At least the shard hadn't fallen into someone else's hands.
"My thanks," he said simply as he left the house.
The women watched in silence as he left. Outside, he oriented himself in the dim, unnaturally overcast day. It was perhaps mid to late afternoon. He'd been out for quite some time, likely healing sleep. He was on the east end of the village, near the fishing pier. People were still milling about like frightened sheep, but he paid them no mind. Several still glared balefully at them when they walked past. Others bore expressions of wide-eyed hero worship, not unlike some of the children. Keeping his expression to its default serenity, he simply nodded to those who made eye contact and continued toward the church. As expected, there he found Cain on the dais, but this time alone. The old man was pouring over some parchments and books laid out on the altar like a makeshift desk.
"Ah, there you are, my friend! I was just about to come check on you. How are you?" Cain asked with some concern.
"I will mend."
"Stoic as all the rest of you Priests of Rathma," Cain commented with a chuckle. Then he got serious, "Please, remember, we need you."
Again, he was taken aback by the man's concern and warmth. It was rare in his profession to meet anyone other than a fellow necromancer that in any way appreciated the existence of what most others called a "death mage". The vast majority of people, even other mages, viewed necromancers as those who feed on death, when that was so very far from the truth. For a moment, Pyresong was at a loss for words when he realized he actually liked this old man.
Becoming more animated, Cain continued, "What you've accomplished is miraculous, my friend! To face such foes and live to tell the tale...simply astounding!"
He shook his head with a soft laugh. "I almost didn't. How did you know?"
Cain waved a hand dismissively. "Just a bit of divination. I sensed the demon's summoning and had to look."
"Ah, I understand," he replied, vaguely familiar with many various types of magic. "More than anything, we were lucky. And lucky I arrived in time. The cultists were summoning demons. Their leader, Eskara, called out to this Lord of Damnation, a demon named Skarn. And he replied. This wasn't just some plot by a group of cultists trying to attract attention. They were directly coordinated by the demon lord," he finished grimly.
"Skarn...I have never heard his name before," Cain repeated in clear frustration. "And, as far as I know, there is no Demon Lord of Damnation. Most troubling."
"Indeed," he agreed darkly.
Distracted, his mind wandered back to thoughts of the shard and what it could do. It took him a moment to realize his thoughts wandering back to it was because it was trying to get his attention. Still sensing the vile energies and pulling, he recoiled mentally. Then he snarled back it. He could literally sense a part of himself listening. The shard was trying to convince him he needed that shard for...something. Despite being mostly recovered and nowhere near as weak as he had been, this thing still managed to get through. He reached into his satchel to retrieve the shard. His hand glowed brightly as he forced as much shielding as he could around it. He was still loathe to touch it even for all of that. Again, its tugging, almost demanding feelings battered at his mental shields.
"And there's the matter of what we do with the shard. This sort of power does not belong in mortal hands," he told Cain darkly.
He held the shard out toward Cain in his gloved palm. For a brief moment, there was flicker in the shard's radiating power. Again he viciously squashed the feeling that he should keep the damned thing for some reason. No, this object was far safer in the hands of a man who knew how to protect it, even from himself. He was surprised to feel just how much of a struggle it was not to be distracted by it. Sensing he had been preoccupied fighting it for a minute, he took a deep breath and refocused his mind against it.
He blinked and returned to the moment to find himself under the very close scrutiny of the elderly man's boring eyes. For a moment, he felt something akin to shame when he realized Cain had sensed the brief struggle. Still, neither said anything about it as Cain's glowing hand took the shard and placed it carefully into a magically shielded pouch. The old man's wary eyes never left Pyresong's while he did so. Sensing the old man's concern, he took a step back. The scholar's frown turned into a soft smile of approval under his beard at seeing his. He couldn't help feeling as if he'd just passed some test in the old man's eyes. He didn't care. He was just relieved beyond words that he couldn't feel that damned thing pulling at him anymore.
"On that, we agree," Cain told him. "You see, I did not come to Wortham by chance, my friend. A Horadric ritual allowed me to divine the location of several Worldstone shards." He paused for a moment, frowning as if recalling something unpleasant. "One was here in Wortham. The other lies somewhere in the nearby cemetery of Ashwold."
Heaving a tired sigh, Cain motioned to his packs and what little equipment he had nearby. "I came here hoping to obtain the shards and destroy them, if possible...before calamity descends upon us all...again."
Despite that last word being little more than a whisper, Pyresong's sensitive ears caught it as much as the exhaustion and near despair in the old man's voice. He was somewhat surprised to find himself reaching out to grip the old man's shoulder in comfort. He was not a heartless man, though many thought Priests of Rathma were. But this man's tired appearance and deep sorrow had moved him more than he expected.
"I will help as much as I can," Pyresong offered.
Cain met his eyes with a weak smile in return. But there was no more time for words when a portal opened in the middle of the pews only a few feet away. Acting on instinct, he reached for his scythe as he stepped between it and Cain. He raised his scythe warily just as a skeletal warrior came through with its own sword raised. Before he could strike, it dropped the ancient, rusty sword to the floor with a ringing clang. He froze with his scythe upraised when the skeleton displayed empty hands out to the sides as if mimicking a human's non-threatening stance.
"Be not alarmed, my old friend!" came a powerful and familiar voice from the skeleton. "For these frail bones come to you with an urgent request."
"Master Xul," Pyresong said in surprise when he recognized the voice. It had been many years since he had spoken with this particular Master Necromancer.
"These frail bones come to you with an urgent request," it repeated, as if expecting a response.
"Go on," Cain said, seeming just as surprised.
"My apprentice, Lethes, through foul means acquired a shard of the Worldstone. In her pursuit of power, she has brought ruin upon Ashwold. The dead rise from their graves, and the Balance teeters on the brink of disruption!"
Damn, Pyresong thought angrily. The last thing this place needs is a rogue necromancer on a rampage with that much power. These poor people...
Xul's voice continued to Cain, clearly not seeing or recognizing another presence, "Much like I, you cannot have forgotten the significance of that stone or the sacrifice it took to end its threat. So, I beg of you to lend your aid, however you can."
With that, the already weak summoning collapsed into a pile of bones before them. While he had never mastered such a spell for himself, Pyresong was aware that such weak summonings could sometimes be used as magical messengers. Just this once he wished they could do more. He had so many questions about what was going on over there. Instead, he turned his attention to Cain.
Cain briefly covered his grim expression as he placed a hand on his forehead to massage it slightly. Pyresong waited; he already knew the request was coming, and his mind was racing ahead. He had known for many years that something was coming. Something big enough for Rathma to have seen in his dreams. Something important enough that he had been sought out and told to leave his quiet monastery hideout to find it. He had left the monastery more than a decade ago. More than once, he wondered if the prophecy was just a load of bunk. Now, he began to realize that there was at least some truth to it. Whatever had begun here in Wortham was just the beginning. There were much larger forces at play here than a single shard.
"Darkness is spreading once again," Cain said wearily, "and it seems I must ask the impossible of you. Will you help me collect these corrupted shards and save our world from oblivion?"
He had already settled his thoughts and put aside the memories. A part of him had known even before he'd heard of the attack on Wortham that whatever he was walking into was much larger than a single event. Just as Rathma had said, the stars had gone out. That had been his sign. He almost considered telling Cain what he knew. But there was no time right now. Something had begun, and now he was firmly involved. It never even crossed his mind to say no or walk away. Prophecies or no, he knew this was why his life had taken this path so very early in his childhood. He nodded, meeting Cain's pleading eyes.
"At the moment, I've learned there is a rogue Priestess of Rathma terrorizing Ashwold. That is my first priority, as only we can deal with her and her abilities. That is my responsibility." He couldn't help a grim smile as he continued, "Beyond that... The infinite power of creation, held by a being who would claim dominion over damnation itself? I can think of no greater threat to the Balance. I will gladly help, but it begins with hunting down Lethes and the shard she possesses. I cannot leave Master Xul to that alone."
"From the depths of my heart, thank you, my friend!" said Cain warmly. "Before you leave, I have a few gifts for you. The first of which lies here on the altar. Take those maps. They are simple but contain the details of the immediate countryside around Wortham and Ashwold. It will surely aid you."
Reaching into another satchel, Cain pulled out a scroll. Pyresong took it curiously.
"Here, this portal scroll has been specially attuned. Once you have reclaimed the Worldstone shard from Lethes, you can use that scroll to open a portal to Westmarch. I have a workshop there. And this place is too unprotected for me to risk keeping this one here. I will get it back to my shop, where we will find a means to destroy the shards forever."
He took the items gratefully. "Very well, friend. I will meet you as soon as I am able."
When he turned to walk away, Cain gripped his arm gently to stop him. He forced Pyresong to meet his eyes once more. Then seemed to change his mind about whatever he was about to say. Pyresong couldn't help but feel that there was something more there. The old scholar seemed to want to add more. Though he couldn't begin to guess what it might be, he was definitely more than a little curious. If his suspicions were correct, there was more between Cain and Xul than met the eye. He had always wondered if the Priest of Rathma from the stories had been Master Xul. But it wasn't as if he had gone around questioning other priests about their whereabouts at the time. Cain just smiled and shook his head at himself.
"Be cautious on your journey to Ashwold, my friend," Cain said instead.
"Be safe, friend."
He was somewhat surprised to realize his return smile was genuine. There was something about this elderly scholar and his sincere warmth that seemed to easily penetrate the walls he had lived behind his entire life. Aside from the trust he knew was not misplaced when it came to the great Horadric scholar, the legendary Deckard Cain, there was something else. He couldn't even begin to identify it right now, though. Maybe one day he would have more time to speak with the old man and learn more.
For now, he turned his steps toward the next battle.
Chapter 3: 02 Ashwold
Chapter Text
Ashwold
Back out in the heavy air of an unnaturally overcast afternoon in Wortham's village center, Pyresong paused. For a moment, he let his senses roam. At present, there was no feel of urgency around here, just the underlying anticipation of what would come next from all of these people. Part of him wished to stay and continue his efforts to protect them despite the lingering animosity from some. But he knew his priority and responsibility to stop a rogue necromancer must come first; otherwise, many, many more would die. Even if she did not possess a Worldstone shard, she would be his first priority. She would only tip the Balance further, which felt to be teetering dangerously already in this area. When the Balance was disturbed, and the dead outnumbered the living, there were likely to be no survivors. Worse, despite still being an apprentice, she understood the fundamental issues that could affect and influence the Balance like no one else.
This Lethes knew how to do the most damage.
He quickly downed a light healing potion to push back the residual aches and pains that still throbbed in various places. Turning his attention toward his gear, he noted some wear and minor dents and weak points in the armor. He was relieved to note it was nothing he felt would pose an immediate risk. Besides, there really was just no time to address them. He would have to soon, before they became much worse. But it would suffice for now. He ran through a quick inventory in his backpack. He needed to replace some of his healing potions.
Though he had been in this general area before, possibly even in Wortham itself at some point, he had never been to Ashwold. Before rolling up the maps Cain had provided, he had taken a brief glance at the various roads leading out of Wortham in that general direction. He had a fair idea of where he was headed, and even to some extent the distance to get there. With one last glance at the sun well overhead, he was confident he could get there quickly enough on his own. Besides, with everyone here still picking up the pieces of their shattered lives, he doubted anyone would be willing to leave the illusory safety of the village to give him a cart ride even just over to Ashwold.
Setting his mind to the next task, he crossed through the center of the village. He likely had enough meager food and water supplies to last a few more days. It was the healing potions what would be the critical item to acquire. He just hoped anyone here would be willing to sell to him. While he was considering options, possibly even hiring a child to buy them for him, he eyed the various people milling about. Catching sight of him, Korrin dropped his mallet and waved him over with a smile.
"It's good to see you up and well, my friend," Korrin said, shaking his hand firmly...maybe a bit too firmly, Pyresong thought with a mental wince. "You gave us quite a scare on your return. I cleaned up your armor, myself, but there was no time for repairs."
"Perhaps I'll return this way some day. At the moment, I just need to buy some healing potions. I must get to Ashwold as soon as possible," he told the blacksmith, cutting him off before this could turn into more offers or gratitude.
"I understand. Return when you can, and I'll make good on my promise. Free for you. Natine is just over that way. She might still have a few potions to spare. Most were used up on the guards after the attacks."
He smiled briefly in thanks and followed Korrin's directions across the square to a building with two stories. The front door of the bottom floor stood open invitingly. The walls were lined with shelves of bottles and ingredients. It was a well-stocked apothecary, by the looks of it. After a few seconds of scowls and dark looks from the woman behind the counter, it seemed the woman was clearly willing to tolerate his presence, at least long enough to overcharge him for what he needed. He was just glad he wouldn't have to find someone else to help him make the purchase in a more roundabout way. He didn't really have the time or patience for such things. He carefully shoved the handful of bottles into his backpack and left quickly.
He turned about and headed for the northwest gate out of Wortham. He hefted his shield and scythe while he again prepared for battle. Very likely, there were still many of the twisted creatures roaming the forest for miles around. And, he suspected, those cultists were not done yet. He frowned darkly when he found only two guards at the gate. They looked remarkably alert but not in the least concerned. They jumped up to open the gate that was now cobbled together out of bits of broken wood as he approached.
"It's too quiet out there," one guard commented to him.
"Whatever you've done, we haven't had an attack since you left," the other guard told him. "Thank you for your aid, Priest."
He nodded in acknowledgment of the gratitude and reminded them to keep watch closely as they closed the makeshift gates behind him. He knew from the maps that Ashwold Cemetery was only a few hours' trek further to the west. Rarely did he ever employ the use of a mount, summoned or otherwise. A living mount could be as much a liability as an aid in certain circumstances. And, to be honest, he didn't trust any living creature not to kick or bite him anyway. Horses seemed to have a particular dislike of necromancers. And resurrecting an undead one was often more trouble than it was worth in the end. He would be better off summoning a bone golem if he ever needed more than his own two feet to get around.
Setting his pace at a swift jog he knew he could keep up for hours on end, he headed deeper into the western forest. The broad, well-traveled road soon angled to the north more than west. To his surprise, the guards were right. It was quiet. He met nothing along the way, and there were absolutely no people, not even cultists. Apparently, the loss of Eskara and the shard had weakened them enough that they had left...for now. He had no doubt another would rise to take her place, and they would be back. At least now they did not have the power of a Worldstone shard to help them. Maybe that would be enough to break the cult, though he very much doubted it even the moment he thought it.
In the meantime, the jog was almost pleasant. The scarred countryside still reeked of blood and filthy-feeling magics, but at least now he had time to think. What had he gotten himself into? This Deckard Cain mustbe the same Horadric scholar that was said to have assisted Aidan, Leoric's son. The same Aidan who then became the Dark Wanderer, carrying with him Diablo's soulstone and power. He must be the same Cain who also helped a fellow necromancer in their battle against the dark forces and the defeat of Baal at Mount Arreat. There was no doubt in his heart that he could trust the man. But where would all of this end? He had known for most of his life that something was coming, something was happening; though, he had very much hoped the destruction of the Worldstone itself by the Archangel Tyrael had entirely averted any threat from the Worldstone. All of this centered around the Worldstone in some way. That was the only thing he really knew for certain. In the five years since its destruction, he had waited and prayed it had all passed right by him. Obviously, it had been a foolish hope.
Where did this Skarn come from? Besides the obvious, of course. If the great, yet now forgotten order of the Horadrim didn't even know who this demon lord was, how could he have risen to such power? It would have made sense if one of the Lesser Evils had risen in the power vacuum that had been left when the Prime Evils were banished to Sanctuary and trapped for centuries in the soulstones. But now? Why now? The destruction of the soulstones and the Prime Evils themselves, now banished from Sanctuary back to Hell so very recently, made the whole situation seem...odd. Unless Skarn was using Sanctuary as his base of power instead of Hell. The banishment of the Primes had given him an unparalleled opportunity if that was the case. Maybe there was a lair somewhere here in this world that could be assaulted.
He mentally shook his head at himself. He was getting ahead of himself. For now, he had a rogue Priestess of Rathma to find and deal with. That would be challenge enough. Master Xul had said she was still an apprentice. He and Xul were both Masters. However, the fact that Xul had been unable to deal with her on his own and even had to ask Cain—an outsider—for help was concerning. Though he had not outright asked, he very strongly suspected Xul was Cain's former traveling companion and a great hero to all of Sanctuary. He had not had a direct encounter with Xul since he was just a boy. To be fair, he had not encountered more than a handful of other Priests of Rathma in the entire last decade and more. They almost always worked alone in the world, unless training another. And, of course, no one had ever named the priest that had stood up to Baal.
Worse, he understood the Worldstone's power, now, to some extent. He'd tasted it himself and even touched it. He still shuddered at the recollection and the dark whispers he had felt so keenly. Briefly, he wondered what kind of person Lethes had been. Was the shard to blame? He recalled very clearly how the shard he had handled so carefully had tugged at something dark in his own soul. Of course, having dealt with Darkness and evil in his travels these last twelve or so years, he knew the feeling. Always before he had easily defeated it within himself. He knew well there was a spark of Darkness in every soul. He had confronted his on more than one occasion and never found it particularly difficult to put away. His mind, heart, and soul always felt the need for justice and balance. He could not tolerate suffering in any form. And the idea of pursuing power had never appealed.
No, it was more than likely the shard had called to something inside her that was already powerful on its own. Whatever the case, perhaps there was a chance to save her soul, if not her body. Having not been in direct contact with the other Priests of Rathma for over a decade now, he was uncertain how things stood in the so-called upper ranks. Though there wasn't much of an official hierarchy, there were certain ranks and experiences that separated some. He had never had any interest in climbing the ladder of power beyond attaining Master; which was expected of most everyone with any real understanding of necromancy that could be a threat to Sanctuary. Hells, he hadn't even had a choice in whether or not he became a Priest of Rathma. That had been decided before he even knew he had those kinds of abilities.
Once a priest or priestess was declared trained enough not to be a threat to themselves or anyone else, most were left to go on about their work. Some spent a life of scholarly study. Some dedicated their time to training apprentices and finding more potential Priests of Rathma. Others roamed the world, helping those they could. Very rarely, some took the path he had ultimately accepted and essentially became pure combat necromancers. Whatever the choice, only infrequently were they called to order or given a task directly. Most of the time, it was understood by the time they were free to do as they wished; they understood their purpose and simply got on with it wherever they chose. Anyone else that didn't make it that far typically died before they could do any real harm to the Balance. For that matter, more died in their training or apprenticeship than survived to be let to roam freely.
The meager sunlight was beginning to fade quickly when he caught sight of the first tombstones. He was nearing Ashwold Cemetery now. The southeastern outskirts, at least. Ashwold was an interesting place. Though he had never been here before, he had heard enough from local villages in the surrounding territories. Initially, it was the home of Ashwold Manor. A village had grown up around it, as usually happened. When the people needed a place to lay their loved ones to rest, they initially went southwest of the manor. As other villages grew up in the surrounding countryside, word got out about the lovely cemetery. Suddenly, it was where everyone wanted to be interred. The early lords of the manor had declared a space to the immediate northwest of Ashwold Manor as the Lord's Rest. The area immediately to the southeast was made into grand gardens for everyone to enjoy. The bulk of the cemetery, along with the more common crypts and the ossuary, were southwest of the manor. Trails and even cobbled roads ran through and all around the headstones and crypts. The cemetery had grown to almost overrun the village until there were cottages scattered throughout that were entirely surrounded by family plots and crypts.
He knew he was approaching from the south. As expected, it was a matter of moments before he spotted a surprisingly well-maintained waypoint. Staring at the waypoint, he took a moment to rummage through his mental maps. All around him, along the same paved road, were dead, twisted trees and long-forgotten graves. Despite the lack of care in recent centuries, these headstones and graves were only somewhat overgrown.
Despite the ordinary appearance of this little section, something about it set him on edge. In the dusky light, nothing moved that he could see. Yet there was something very close ahead. Sensing rather than seeing the threat, he summoned four skeletal warriors and slowed down to a silent stalk while he slowed his breathing to listen more closely. Nothing stirred, but there was tension in the air. Not even the crows made a sound in this forlorn place. It was literally too quiet. Over the years, outside the safety of various monasteries and libraries he had taken refuge in, his instincts for danger had only grown more acute. And he always listened to them.
A slight mist had risen with the fall of night. It was nothing compared to the heavy fog of the previous night in Wortham. But it was just enough to obscure his view of the road ahead. When he turned his steps north toward the giant wrought iron gates somewhere in the distance, he could see a lit lantern on a signpost. This was rather surprising and inviting. It indicated there might still be people nearby caring for the graves. Then he realized part of what had triggered his sense of danger. The sign was hanging from a single anchor, as if it had recently been damaged. And the smell of rotting corpses was just barely detectable. There was no wind to tell what direction it was actually coming from. Though he couldn't see them yet, he knew the gates ahead opened into the original oldest part of the cemetery, commonly referred to as the Outskirts. Supposedly, those gates were just beyond this sign.
He walked slowly and silently, completely on his guard. The tingling sense of anticipation in the air was almost tangible. Giving in to his instincts, he sent his skeletons ahead of him down the road. The sense of anticipation only increased for several seconds as the clacking of his skeletons marching down the road was the only sound. In the eerie stillness, the four of them sounded like an entire army.
Then it happened. Just as he had been warned by his senses, the undead that had been recently freed from their otherwise forgotten graves, rose up from behind tombstones where they had likely been lying inert. Now that they were moving, he could clearly see the aura of familiar necromantic energies on each one of them. Yet it was slightly off, too, like a corrupted form of his own power.
He let his skeletal warriors engage them while he stood back and aimed some spirit fire to assist them. It was over in seconds. None of these had been mages or particularly empowered undead. It felt more as if they had been left behind just to guard the path, maybe as a deterrent. Whatever the reason, they were dealt with. He frowned slightly to himself as he set the bodies alight to ensure they would not come back again. He was still recovering from the previous day's battles. Though he could ignore the multitude of aches and pains all over his body, he could feel that he would need to conserve his energy for whatever lay beyond the gates. The last thing he needed was the undead to ambush him from behind.
Almost as he thought this, he heard a scream up ahead, just beyond the gates.
"Please, no! Don't hurt me!" a woman screamed, running for the gates.
He rushed through the mist and the open gates toward her. In the thin mist, he caught sight of her blue skirts flapping madly as she approached from his left. Only a few feet behind a dark-haired woman were dark shapes that chased her, dodging and even jumping over tombstones. Reflexively, he sent his skeletons ahead of him with a mental command. These were obviously no shambling undead chasing her. For a moment, he considered they might possibly demons. Catching sight of the skeletons, the woman stopped abruptly and screamed in terror. Ignoring this all too common reaction, he ran past her and pushed her behind him toward the gate. Already his hands glowed with prepared spirit fire. But, as his skeletons engaged the enemy, he was startled by the sound of grunts and cries of pain.
They're human! he thought to himself, releasing the power of the spirit fire instead of using it.
He almost called off the skeletons when he realized these ragged men were cursing and fighting back viciously. Confused for a moment, he wondered if he had missed something and that woman had been the real enemy. He had not initially sensed anything out of the ordinary, though. He hesitated, confused.
"Don't just stand there, you idiots!" one man called, "Kill them! Don't let her get away!"
That was enough for him. Now he was close enough that, even in the darkness, he could see the rag-tag gathering of men and women with packs and shovels as well as weapons. Again, he unleashed his skeletons and whirled through the small group of six with his scythe. Slicing and gliding away before any could even try to touch him, he was a whirling mass of death. As the last one fell silent, dead on the ground, he waited to see if any would rise up.
Grave robbing scum,he growled mentally, almost disappointed he didn't have an excuse to do more to them.
He inspected the bodies just enough to see there were no sigils or seals or other magical means they would use to suddenly come back to undead life and catch him by surprise. Seeing none, he turned to face the woman, somewhat surprised she had hung around. He had fully expected her to keep running for the gates. He kept his serene mask firmly in place as he faced her.
"Are you all right?" he asked, eyeing her for obvious injuries.
She struggled to control her ragged breathing. At first, she just nodded, staring at the bodies behind him in wide-eyed fear. Her pale face practically glowed in contrast to her darker clothing. But at least she didn't appear injured or in shock. She seemed to shake herself out of her fright and then turned her attention to him. She flinched visibly when she met his glowing eyes. Accustomed to such reactions to his appearance, he ignored it. Before he could speak further, she seemed to find her courage and actually stepped toward him, looking even more distressed.
"Thank Akarat for your help! My husband! He's still in danger! We're cemetery caretakers. Our home is just to the northwest, along that path. He's all alone with those bandits! Please, don't worry about me. Just help him!"
"Follow the path south and get to Wortham," he instructed her. "It's safer there now. I will send him after you as soon as I can."
"Thank you!" she cried, stifling her tears.
She held up her skirts and continued running toward the gates. Wary of more undead, he sent his skeletons a little ahead of him. He was surprised when all he found were some more grave robbers hiding behind tombstones whispering to themselves. Why so many? But he had no time to deal with those scum. As long as they stayed out of reach, they would live for the moment. Right now, he could hear the pleading voice of the one he sought. The man was begging for his life, surrounded by more grave robbers.
"Please! My wife and I are just simple folk. We don't have anything of value!"
Before the leader of this little pack of foolish humans could reply to the man's desperate pleas, a flat scythe blade came right through his back and out the front of his chest. A heartbeat later, Pyresong was again dancing among the living bodies, leaving corpses in his wake. The poor man that had been pleading did the smartest thing he could. Already on his knees, he curled up on the ground with his hands over his head. When the last of the bodies hit the ground around him, the shaken man finally looked up to see the terrible sight of a necromancer liberally splattered in fresh blood.
For several seconds, the only sound was of Pyresong's heavy breathing as he scanned for further threats in the darkness around them. Grave robbers were a disgusting part of humanity that Pyresong could not abide. Looting fresh corpses was one thing. Showing utter disrespect for the honored dead and their loved ones—as grave robbers typically did—just for some trinkets and jewelry, angered him.
"A thousand blessings upon you, sir," the man called out as he struggled to his feet. "Ashwold's always had the occasional grave robbers. Nothing like this, though. I owe you my life. Did you see a woman, my wife Samina, running toward the gates?"
The middle-aged man appeared to have taken a beating. His face was swelling rapidly and blood ran down his chin from his nose. Eyeing him and his steady stance, Pyresong was at least convinced the man hadn't suffered any more serious injuries. At the moment, he couldn't really spare a healing potion, anyway.
"Yes," he replied, once again serenely calm. "She's making for Wortham, now. It's safer there, for the moment."
"Thank Akarat!" the man exclaimed, sagging with relief. "My name is Ulric. What luck brings a Priest of Rathma to my door?"
Though the man appeared willing to pay him back in any way he could, he decided this man didn't need to be involved further. He needed to get out of here and catch up to his wife. Besides, he looked none to happy to have a necromancer in his cemetery.
"I have my reasons," he told Ulric vaguely. "It seems Ashwold has become overrun with the undead, as well. Do you know anything about that?"
Nodding emphatically, Ulric started, "Aye, the whole guard's been fighting them for days! No one knows why. My son joined up at the Crypt of the Honored Dead this morning." He paused as if saddened. "If you find him, I'm certain he can tell you more. His name is Bramden."
"Thank you," he replied, knowing it would never happen. "Now go. I've cleared the southeastern road to Wortham, but the undead are still rising. Be wary."
"I will," he said, hefting an old and rusty sword in one hand and a travel pack in the other.
He watched until the man was out of sight down the path through the mists. He could sense as much as hear the movement of several other grave robbers. Clearly, there were no undead in the immediate area. Grave robbers were cowards, only preying on the dead and weak. Part of him wished he had the time and energy to kill them all. But he knew better than to waste precious time on them...for now. There would come a reckoning. Maybe the guards could come out there later when things were a bit less desperate. Yet his mind could not let go of the fact that there were more grave robbers in this one area than he had ever seen in a single cemetery at once. They typically operated in small groups or individually, much as did bandits. Why so many? And why all of them gathered in Ashwold like this?
Before he could delve further into these thoughts to try to make sense of it all, his arcane senses picked up more necromancy not too far away. It was surprisingly powerful necromancy tainted with something filthy, yet also chillingly familiar.
Following the winding path, he began to hear more shambling corpses in the mist and darkness. For the most part, he was able to get around them. They were the mindless kind that would attack anything living. Most shambled slowly around and were easy to run away from. A sense of urgency began to tug at him as he made his way down the road. He knew the bridge that led to the Crypt of the Honored Dead was just ahead, thanks to his brief glimpse of Cain's maps before he left. Under the sound of slithering corpse worms and moaning undead, he could hear voices in that direction. The sense of vile power and necromantic energies he had detected was coming from that direction, as well. He quickly dismissed his skeletal summons to move more silently.
He muttered an obscenity as he was caught off guard by a corpse worm in the tall grass beside him. Having used his scythe to deal with a large corpse worm, he quickly reclaimed the energy to cease the glow. Feeling the energies much closer now, he ducked into the shadows of some nearby headstones. He crept through the shadows closer to the bridge, listening intently. The bridge and areas beyond were lit with lanterns. A woman's icy, arrogant voice came through the mist.
"Stop wasting my time, you peasant! I know her body was buried here. Where is Asylla's tomb?"
When the short wooden bridge came into sight for him, he could clearly see the luminous tendrils of magic. At her side hung a sickle-shaped scythe; no armor. She was likely not a combat necromancer. In some ways, that made her even more dangerous. There was a wide range of abilities among necromancers. Pure summoners were the most common. But it wasn't unheard of for one to occasionally show more magical abilities that leaned toward elemental and even some darker things. He watched closely, hoping to get some understanding of her abilities.
Her scythe hand was extended, wielding that corrupted power he could clearly see from this distance. The faintly familiar energies were clearly fueled by the shard. She definitely had it. A struggling guard was straining against the otherwise invisible rope of magic that strangled him. Despite the man's struggling and clear terror of the woman before him, he still rallied his strength. Though he saw only the guard's back, Pyresong could hear in the guard's voice that he knew death awaited him and his reply.
"The Queen's tomb was hidden," the guard told her defiantly when she released the pressure around his throat for him to answer her. "The dead deserve their rest."
When he finished, he went still, no longer struggling as he awaited the inevitable. For a moment, Lethes just stared at him as if he were some particularly disgusting specimen. Pyresong, creeping silently through the shadows toward the bridge, heard her icy reply.
"Wrong answer. The dead serve me. A fact you will learn soon enough."
Pyresong gritted his teeth angrily as he watched helplessly while Lethes calmly flung the poor guard off the bridge and onto the stones of the crypts below. The guard made not a single sound as he fell to his certain death. Silently, he said a prayer that he hoped would ease the man's passing. There was little more he could do.
But there was still another guard, kneeling in mind-numbing terror before Lethes on the bridge. He took careful note of her bleached hair and face. If she was, indeed, an apprentice still, she was one who had worked several years with her necromantic powers already. Concealed behind some crates at the end of the bridge, he was determined he would not fail this other guard. When she turned her attention to the other guard, he tensed to spring, hoping he could catch her by surprise.
"You: it's your turn, so I suggest you speak quickly," she told the guard as she lifted him into the air, strangling him. She brought him to within inches of her hard, cold expression. "Where is the tomb?"
"I don't know!" the young man screamed frantically. "None of us do! Only the queen's handmaiden knew its location, I swear!" He struggled in a blind panic. "Please!"
Already, Pyresong was in mid-leap toward the bridge when he was shoved aside violently, nearly going right off the edge. He just managed to catch himself on a rickety wooden post using his shield to steady himself. When he spun around to face whatever new threat had just nearly killed him, he realized he was not alone in confronting Lethes. The man who had shoved him aside and nearly killed him was none other than Master Xul. Stifling his irritation, he stepped forward to guard his back while Xul cried out to Lethes.
"Lethes, stop this! Your wanton disregard for life ends here!" he raged at her. "You will be brought to justice!"
As he spoke, she diverted her energy away from the struggling guard. The young guard fell to his knees, trapped on the bridge between the two necromancers. Pyresong noted the hard, cold edge of anger in Xul's voice. As with most apprenticeships, apprentice and master were often as close as parent and child. He, himself, had cherished memories of his time as an apprentice. Unlike most apprenticeships, though, he had been much, much younger. He still thought of his master, now laid to rest, and wondered how he could ever endure something like this. No, it would not be easy. But a Priestess of Rathma gone rogue was a responsibility and threat no one could afford to ignore, even her own master.
With her full attention on the two of them, Pyresong summoned his skeletal warriors and a mage in preparation for the battle. There was a wide variety of fighting tactics among necromancers. Even those who chose not to dedicate themselves to combative techniques often knew enough defensive spells and summonings to be a real problem. Each one had their preferred summonings and spells. He had no knowledge of this apprentice or what spells she would choose to employ. He decided to let Xul keep her distracted while he prepared.
Lethes laughed darkly. "Xul...how I tire of your jealous attempts to suppress my potential. No, now with the power of the Worldstone shard at my command, I will obtain truedominion over the dead."
Her voice took on an even harder edge as she glared hatefully from Xul to him and back again. Hoping to keep the bulk of his own abilities secret until absolutely necessary, Pyresong stopped at summoning skeletons. It was enough that she could see he didn't need corpses to do so. Possibly that gave away too much.
"Your entire lethargic order will be swept away and replaced by one with the ambition to reshape this corrupt world! You are a relic, old man! And if you will not join me, you are no longer needed."
Though both of them had been prepared for an attack, they didn't see her sudden escape coming. In a flash of filthy red light, Lethes backed off the bridge and disappeared while simultaneously summoning several skeletal warriors from the graves on the other side of that bridge. It was far more than any apprentice should be able to summon and control. For a few seconds, there was only battle. Though Pyresong was used to fighting alone, and Xul used very different tactics, they managed to work well enough together on that small bridge, dispatching the numerous skeletal warriors. When the last of them fell off the bridge with the hollow sound of shattering bones, the elder master rounded on him angrily.
Though he somewhat acquainted with Xul from his years in the monasteries and even Necropolis, they had never been close. He had never detected any animosity from his own master toward any of the other priests. Yet he had the distinct impression from those long ago memories that while he was greatly respected, there were those—his own master, included—that had a sort of chilly dislike to Master Xul. Of course, being as young as he was at the time, Pyresong had no real understanding of why that would be.
He wasn't really surprised when Xul didn't recognize him. He had been no more than a child the last time he had laid eyes on Xul. A stray thought flitted through his mind as he eyed the fellow priest. He realized he had never really been close to anyone, inside or outside the order. Even the few apprentices Pyresong had taken on were little more than brief acquaintances. He couldn't help wondering what kind of relationship Xul had with his apprentice. Would it be a liability? He shook it off as he had no time to contemplate these things. Likely, the stray thought was born of his growing weariness. His mind always did wander when he grew tired. He knew he could not even begin to understand what this older master was going through right now.
The guard was still on his knees, cowering in terror. Pyresong stepped back sightly as Xul rounded on him threateningly, clearly furious with his presence.
"Another Priest of Rathma? I assume the order is growing impatient, then?" he growled angrily. "Well, I assure you, I shall detain my former student. If you wish to be of help, perhaps you should start with that cowering guard."
He held out his hands at his sides in a gesture meant to show no threat and hopefully to calm the enraged master.
"I have not been sent by the order," he explained calmly. "I am helping Deckard Cain to hunt the Worldstone shards to ensure they do not fall into the wrong hands. I am Master Pyresong."
Instantly, Xul realized his anger had gotten the better of him. He took a deep breath and forced into place the serene mask they were all taught to use in every circumstance.
"My apologies. It has been a...difficult few weeks."
"Understandable," he replied, accepting the apology.
“You were Master Z's child apprentice?”
He nodded, ignoring the blatant skepticism in Xul's question. He was well aware that very few priests ever accepted a child as an apprentice. And almost none of them survived to adulthood. In his mind and his heart, he empathized with the suffering he knew his fellow priest was experiencing. No one wants to put down their own adopted sibling or even child as if they were a rabid dog. But there was no time to discuss this. If all went well, he would do what he could to ease this master's pain when this was over.
As requested, he turned his attention to the cowering guard, giving the older master another few seconds to calm himself. Grabbing the guard by a trembling arm, he hauled the young man to his feet.
Young, indeed, he thought, seeing the face beneath the helmet was barely old enough to shave. How desperate are things in Ashwold that they would accept a mere boy?
"Are you hurt?" he asked, shaking the boy slightly to get his attention.
Once the boy caught sight of his eyes, he nearly leapt backwards right over the rope and off the bridge. Pyresong, accustomed to this reaction more than he would like to admit, was ready for it and held the boy's arm tightly.
"We're here to help," Xul said gruffly.
The boy took a deep breath and nodded to Pyresong to indicate that he was calmer now. He released his grip on the boy's arm.
"Sorry, no, I'm not injured," he croaked, his throat clearly sore from Lethes' strangling. "Gods! What a day! I certainly didn't expect to get choked by some death mage when I left the stead this morning. And Captain Mayfair..." he trailed off as his eyes turned to the place where the captain had been thrown over the edge.
Gently, Pyresong took hold of the guard's shoulder and shook him slightly to redirect his attention. In a soothing, compassionate voice, he told the boy, "He will be properly interred when this is over."
At the same time, Xul growled angrily to correct the boy, "Necromancer. Not a death mage—"
Pyresong silenced him with a glare, then returned his attention to the boy who had flinched away from Xul as if expecting the man to lash out with more than just words.
"For now, we need to concern ourselves with the living," he continued, drawing the frightened boy's gaze back to him. "She isn't past killing for the information she seeks, as you have seen. You just gave her a target: Asylla's handmaiden. I need you to help me, or that girl is as good as dead."
Impossibly, the boy's eyes widened even further as this sank in. "Light's mercy! You're right! I... Wait, Captain Azmir at Guard's Watch! He knows the maid! If you head there right away, there may still be time!"
Still angry and disgusted with the whole situation, Xul shoved past them toward the other end of the bridge.
"You go. I'll go after Lethes," he growled.
Annoyed but ultimately understanding, Pyresong nodded in agreement to the other master.
"Come with me," he ordered the boy. "You know the way better than I."
Eagerly, the boy nodded and then frowned. He'd lost his sword somewhere and started looking for it. Pyresong waved this off and pushed the boy gently back in the direction he had come from.
"My name is Bramden. I just joined the guard. Not very good at it, I suppose."
Still jogging only a step behind the boy, he was startled enough to ask. "Is your father Ulric and your mother Samina?"
"Yes," the boy replied, slowing his steps. "How do you know them?"
"Move faster," he demanded when the boy slowed for a moment. "They were attacked by grave robbers. I got them out of Ashwold. They're headed for Wortham, where it's safer."
"Thank the...thank you, sir!"
And then there was no more breath for conversation while the two of them sped down the cemetery paths. In the light mist all around, he spotted many shadows moving all around them. Some he could tell were the shambling undead coming after them. Others, he was certain, were more grave robbers ducking hastily behind tombstones. And, occasionally, he could hear the hiss of more corpse worms trying to catch them. At this point, he didn't have time to stop for everything. He knew he had to get to the handmaiden before Lethes. He could only hope Xul would be able to slow her down. Any time something came up that blocked their path, he sent his skeletons and even a skeletal mage ahead of them to deal with it. Each time Bramden slowed down as if to engage, he pushed him onward. When they ran through what appeared to be an otherwise undisturbed piece of the cemetery with some disused and collapsing wooden structures, he caught sight of an orange cloak and silver helmet moving behind a short chunk of wall.
"Hold!" he called to Bramden.
Very winded and gasping for air, Bramden turned his attention to the side. Trying to catch his breath, he leaned on the crumbling bit of all. Pyresong was now making his way around the remains of a stone wall. Seeing him approaching, the guard stood and raised his sword threateningly.
"Back off! Stay away from me!" the guard shouted at him in terror.
Still gripping his shield and scythe, he extended his arms out to the side in a gesture of peace. His chest was heaving almost as much as Bramden's by this point.
"I'm no threat to you," he told the hysterical man.
The guard hesitated, his sword still ready. He could see this was no undead minion. Pyresong couldn't blame the man for his wariness, considering it was a Priest of Rathma behind all the destruction and death ripping this place apart. The man's eyes flickered between him and Bramden a couple of times. He waited patiently for the man to absorb this.
"Captain Azmir sent you, didn't he?" the man growled. "I've got nothing to discuss with him! Nothing! I'm not going back to that deathtrap he calls a guard post!"
"I have not been sent. We're on our way to Guard's Watch," he explained soothingly, hoping to calm the man. "The risen dead are everywhere. It's dangerous to be out here on your own."
"I'm not going back!" the man screamed hysterically, starting to swing his sword wildly again.
"Stop! You don't have to go back!" Pyresong said, nimbly dodging the clumsy swing. "Gather as many as you can and make your way to Wortham. It's safer there, now."
The man paused and blinked his dark eyes as if in confusion for a moment. "Safe?"
"Yes," he insisted. "You can go there for shelter. Take anyone you find with you."
Seeming dazed, and his mind bordering on shock, the man's gaze drifted off for a moment as he mumbled, "I told him. I'd rather die out here, fighting, than wait around to be slaughtered by the undead."
"You are no coward," he said soothingly. "Don't throw your life away. You can save others by guiding them to Wortham."
"I..." the guard shook himself as if coming out of a dream. "You can leave now. I'll be good on my own, stranger."
He knew there was no further argument to be had. He could only hope the man would do as he was asked. Nodding to a still panting Bramden, they again took off at a sprint down the road to Guard's Watch. Along the way, they encountered several more patches of grave robbers. It began to dawn on Pyresong that they were likely helping Lethes by digging up and freeing corpses for her to reanimate. No wonder there were so many! Furious that these scum would aid in such a thing, he was more than willing to kill as many as he could. Whenever they were close enough or looked like they might accost them, he scattered with some carefully aimed spirit fire. He hoped the agonizing burns would make them change their minds about their current career choices. He had no time or patience. He wasn't about to tell them to head for safety. A darker part of him hoped the undead would take care of them.
For the most part, the shambling undead couldn't catch up to them as they ran on. And the few that got in their way were easily cut down with a skeletal warrior or spirit fire. Only one got close enough to threaten them, and he cut it to pieces with his scythe as Bramden back-stepped quickly away. Unarmed, the young man was at least smart enough to stay out of the necromancer's way.
"Keep going!" he instructed Bramden. "Stop for nothing!"
When they crossed a rather well-maintained stone and wood bridge over a small creek, they came across another guard lying face down on the planks. Despite his orders to the boy, he let Bramden run on ahead while he stopped to check. Yes, the guard was clearly dead. Knowing there was nothing he could do for the woman, he sent out a silent prayer for her soul to be at peace. Then he ran on, easily catching up with the now exhausted Bramden. A few minutes later, the lighted lantern over a well came into sight through the mist. Just beyond that, the dark wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the part of the cemetery commonly referred to as the Ossuary appeared. He frowned darkly.
Those gates should be shut and guarded, he thought almost angrily.
But then he caught sight of why they were not. Between them and the nearby southwestern corner where Guard's Watch and the underground Ossuary entrance were situated were several more undead. The outer gates had already been overrun with zombies. Now, the inner gates were under direct threat. Cursing under his breath, he stopped Bramden by gripping his arm.
"I'll take care of them," he instructed. "Just make for Guard's Watch. Don't stop, and don't look back."
Unable to speak, he was so winded by this point, Bramden just nodded with grim determination. Even a boy of his age knew he was a liability in a fight right now. There was nothing he could do to help. With one more deep breath, he motioned that he was ready. Pyresong nodded and then turned toward the multitude of undead enemies. His hands flared with green light as he prepared his spells. With a mental command, he sent his skeletal warriors and mage into the mass of zombies. As they tore through the ranks, he sent blast after blast of spirit fire. Behind him, he heard Bramden making a final sprint toward the gates just beyond the shadowy mists. With the boy safely away, Pyresong had no need to hold back any longer. Even as the bodies fell by the dozen, more shambled closer to join the melee.
He stopped thinking altogether as he danced death and destruction in a circle around himself. His scythe glowed greenish white as it tore through their weak bodies. But there were far more than he could ever hope to deal with, even with his skeletal helpers. The ranks of the undead had closed in around him, several corpses deep in just a few seconds. He was surrounded, with no way out. His skeletons were crumbling almost faster than he could summon them. His whole body glowed faintly with the power of his magical shields when he unleashed one more spell to end this battle: corpse explosion.
With the sheer mass of dozens and dozens of fallen corpses, there was no hope for survival. Only he, shielded by his own powerful spell, could withstand the destruction. Where once had been an ever-growing army of the undead, there now was just a gore-filled crater spanning several feet in every direction. As the silence descended, he could hear other undead far away moving about. Mindless as they were, it was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to the warmth of living flesh. The outer gates to this area were a lost cause at this point.
Pushing aside his growing weariness, he sprinted the last little bit to what he considered the inner gates of this area that stood as a last defense for Guard's Watch itself. He just hoped for a moment of safety beyond. He was covered in dozens of shallow wounds from the undead raking their nails over every exposed part of him. When he neared, he was disappointed, though not entirely. Just outside the gates, a dozen guards, including Bramden, were battling more undead. At least they had not been entirely overrun; the gates were still defended.
"Get inside the gates!" he ordered.
In the confusion, some hesitated, only now noticing the new arrival.
"Now!" Pyresong roared as he jumped into the multiple melees going on.
As with before, he danced through the many undead. Once he was certain the guards were out of his way, he turned and ran toward the still-open gates. Behind him, he again unleashed his corpse explosion spell. Though he couldn't be certain he had destroyed them all, it was enough for now. Pausing a few feet from the gates, he turned back toward the darkness beyond. If there were any undead nearby, they were still now. Hopefully, that would be enough to give them all a moment's reprieve. He just needed to catch his breath and get a healing potion.
"That's him! He's the one I told you about! Don't close him out!" Bramden was screaming frantically as the guards struggled to pull on the gates.
Not entirely surprised, Pyresong fixed his expression to its default serene and turned to face them. They were tugging on two enormous wrought iron gates.
"I'm here to help," he stated, too out of breath for more.
"But you're a necromancer!" one guard dared to say. "Just like her!"
"No! He saved my life! And he saved yours!" Bramden protested.
"Silence!" roared a new voice. "Everyone inside now! Close those bloody gates!"
His chest still heaving, Pyresong nodded thanks to the Captain as the others followed his orders. Once they were inside and the gates sealed, they began putting a barricade in place. He quickly wiped off his scythe and hung it on his belt. At the moment, there was little more he could do for it or his shield, which he hung on his back as he struggled to slow his breathing. Only then did he begin to feel the throbbing, bleeding wounds he'd sustained. He shook his head at this annoyance. There was no time to really tend them. Instead, he opted to down one of his healing potions and hope none of them were too deep or infected. It would have to suffice. Then he turned his attention to the ragged group of people all crowded into this one defensible space. None of them were standing around staring in fear or confusion. Every man and woman in guard uniform was occupied. The civilians were all standing by with bandages, weapons, food, and other needed items. Only a handful of elderly people and some children sat huddled in one corner near a fire, doing nothing.
Crowded though it was, this little corner of the Ossuary was surrounded by deep stone walls that were more than ten feet high. The entrance to the underground ossuary was blocked with a heavy stone door, preventing any skeletons from getting at them. If they had any luck at all, there were no reanimated skeletons to worry about down there. They might even be able to use the ossuary as a fallback shelter. The only weakness he found, initially, was the decorative wrought iron gate. And the captain had seen to it that it was well barricaded. Silently, he was pleased at what he saw as a competent defender. Looking around, he caught several terrified gazes as the people backed away from him, uncertainly.
"Where is Captain Azmir?" he asked. "I must speak with him, urgently."
"Here," spoke up the same voice that had ordered the men inside.
The gruff and tired man eyed him up and down, giving away nothing of what he was thinking.
"So, you're the one who took care of the undead at our gates. Thank you for that. It's been a while since any visitor's been able to walk through them. Though, I can't imagine why. The residents are so...welcoming."
He couldn't help but chuckle at the man's dry words and dark humor. He took the captain's offered hand as they shook firmly, happy to dispense with the formality of bows.
"You're welcome."
"But I won't lie," Azmir continued, grimly. "We're in dire straits here. My men's weaponry won't survive another round like that one."
Releasing his grip on Pyresong's hand, Captain Azmir hunched over a bit in clear pain, struggling to cover it up. Only then did he realize the captain was gravely wounded. Azmir's left arm was pressing against his abdomen between breast plate and belt, where blood oozed freely. The pallor and sheen of sweat told him everything else he needed to know. The man was barely upright, likely near shock from either pain or blood loss. Even as Azmir leaned back casually against the wall to stop himself from falling over in front of his men and charges, the necromancer pulled out another more powerful healing potion.
"Take this," he told the captain.
Stubbornly refusing, the captain tried to wave off his concern. Having no patience for this foolishness, he leaned in more closely and whispered.
"They need you. Take it now!"
For one more second, Azmir glared angrily back. He silently admired the man's resolve and strength to meet his magical gaze without hesitation. He knew full well how unsettling and even terrifying the glowing seals over his irises could be to some. Finally, the Captain nodded acceptance and took the bottle. He tilted his head back to down the entire contents of the bottle as quickly as possible so as not to draw attention. Thankfully, Pyresong still had a firm grip on his shoulders when the man's legs gave out. Trying to make it look casual and intentional, he helped the captain slide down the wall until he was sitting, hoping no one noticed their leader was collapsing. He squatted beside him until the dizziness passed and the warmth of healing cleared Azmir's glazing eyes.
"Better?" he asked as the captain shook his head to fight the dizziness.
"Yes, thank you," Azmir replied, his voice as strong as ever. "We have a healer and an alchemist if you need to replace it."
"Understood," he replied, stowing away the empty bottle for later. "I need your help."
"Wait, I need you to get to Paulie, our blacksmith. He's just over there. We need the weapons he has finished. I can't have my men standing around unarmed. Then we can talk."
Despite being irritated by the delay, he fully understood. The captain was right. They needed to all be armed and ready for another attack. What they had done right outside these inner gates was just enough buy them some time. There were likely still hundreds more undead out there looking for a way to get at all the warm flesh huddled within these walls. And there were dozens of grave robbers out there digging up more to further increase the numbers. It was only a matter of time before another coordinated attack came for these poor people. Rising swiftly, he turned his attention to the crude, makeshift smithy nearby, where a man was working steadily beside several others.
"Excuse me," he called.
Briefly, the large, bearded man paused to look up at him before continuing his work. The dark shadows of exhaustion hung low below the man's eyes. Every wrinkle and fold of his face screamed of how utterly worn out he was. Nonetheless, he raised his voice over the sound of several ringing hammers shaping hot steel.
"Let me guess, Azmir sent you. He knows I can see him, yeah?"
As he said this, the blacksmith glanced toward the gate, catching sight of the captain seated calmly on the ground, trying his best to look uninjured. The smith's bushy brows furrowed deeply as his hammer hesitated for a moment.
To Pyresong, he whispered softly, "How bad is he?"
"I believe he will mend," was all he would tell him.
Though he tried to cover it, the blacksmith's sigh of relief was obvious. Clearly, there was a deeper relationship here than that of guard captain and blacksmith. Before he could analyze this further, the man continued in a gruff voice.
"Well, like I told him last time: I'm working as fast as I can, and that's fairly fast. This place waas made for decorations, not weapons. And I'm conscripting anyone able to wield a hammer, all right? You want to jump in and help, take up a hammer," he finished in a growl.
Keeping his expression serene, he just replied, "Give me whatever you have finished, and I'll move on."
Swinging the hammer a couple more times with some viciousness, Paulie took the length of glowing metal and shoved it back into the coals. He put his hands on his hips and heaved a deep sigh with his back to the necromancer.
"I'm sorry...the stress is eating everyone alive. If he weren't already injured, I'd kick his arse myself."
Reaching into the shadows beside the forge, there was a clattering of metal as he gathered up a leather-wrapped bundle of crude swords. He hefted it carefully, staring at the questionable blades sticking out of the leather wrapping.
Turning back toward Pyresong, he said, "Here, I've got about half of the lot done, just...take them to my brother. Hopefully, that will hold them for a while longer."
Now he understood, and it was no more than he had suspected. The man's eyes pleaded with him to understand. But the blacksmith could not bring himself to say more to a stranger. Clearly, the blacksmith didn't want to make any kind of scene. He respected the man's tired state and strung-out emotions, as well as his concern for a family member. He snickered mentally at his own tired thoughts. At least this once it wasn't animosity toward him being a necromancer. He quickly shoved it aside.
"I will let him know," he said meaningfully. "Don't give up hope. This battle is far from lost."
"Thank you," Paulie whispered, turning back toward the tasks at hand.
Dismissed, he hefted the large bundle and returned to Azmir. By this point, he was being tended by a young woman, a healer, who clucked at him in disapproval. Azmir rolled his eyes above her head while she prodded the wound.
"You should have let me—" she was saying under her breath when Azmir caught sight of him returning and cut her off.
"Enough nagging, Vera. We all do what we must."
He eased the heavy leather bundle to the ground beside the captain. Even as Azmir opened his mouth to speak with a smile, he cut him off. He had no time.
"Here's half the order. I know it's not enough, but he's working as hard as he can. He is...concerned."
For a moment, Azmir's eyes lingered in their gaze. Understanding the unspoken words, Azmir nodded with a sigh. Vera, sensing she was in the way of something going on over her head, muttered something about needing stitches and some more bandages. The moment she turned to leave, Azmir pulled his feet in attempting to stand up. Pyresong quickly gripped his arms to help steady him.
"My men are all tired," Azmir said. "But, still, we will make do."
Now able to stand and lean against the wall for support, Azmir resumed his pale but composed captain's face.
"I'm certain you didn't come all this way to deliver me a bundle of swords. Though it's more appreciated than flowers, at any rate. What brings you to Guard's Watch?"
Again, he appreciated the man's attempt at levity with so many prying ears all around them. But time was running out. He could feel it.
Leaning in toward the captain, he whispered, "The rogue necromancer you heard about, Lethes, is trying to find Queen Asylla's former handmaiden. The girl's life is in grave danger."
"Mil–The handmaiden!" Azmir whispered back in shock. "Gods, I didn't know! Her cottage isn't far. Just up the trail from here, beyond those graves," he pointed out. "I can get some men—"
"It's all right," Pyresong assured him. "I understand. Your men aren't equipped to handle a necromancer. And you need everyone here defending these people. Don't worry. I will find her."
Now sensing the urgency, Azmir pointed toward the barricade.
"Just to the left. You can climb right over. Go! Hurry!" In a louder voice, he called to his men at the barricade, "Help him over! He has to get out!"
To his surprise, one larger guard knelt down to offer his back as a step up. Others quickly closed in from the top to pull him up as he climbed over the rubble that formed the barricade. A couple of seconds later, he hit the ground on the other side, rolling to his feet. Once more, he set off on a flat run through the darkness in the direction Azmir had indicated. He summoned his skeletal warriors as he ran silently down the cobbled street. Ignoring the masses of undead in the mists and shadows all around him, he just hoped he wasn't too late.
Not three minutes later, he spotted the tiny cottage nestled in a corner of the intersection of two stout walls. All around the cottage were numerous undead milling about. None appeared to be directly attacking the small building, at least.
The undead have nearly overrun her home... That cannot be good, he thought.
Cursing silently, he sent in his skeletons and a barrage of spirit fire. Dancing through them with his glowing scythe, he cut down several before he managed to get to the door. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. He was able to force his way in and then slam it shut behind himself. He quickly latched and bolted it. He had expected to hear a scream or something from the startled woman. Instead, all he heard was the ongoing battle beyond the door while his skeletal warriors and mage continued to hold off the mindless undead. In the near absolute darkness of the cottage, his still-glowing scythe illuminated the bed. It was empty. He could smell blood, though he couldn't see it.
Could she have already fled? Perhaps taken shelter elsewhere? he hoped fervently.
Spying a candelabra on a table to his right, he sent a flicker of his fire power to light the candles. His heart sank. A clear trail of fresh blood led to the cellar door just beyond the table. Stilling his swirling emotions, he calmly opened the cellar door and made his way down the stairs. Spying the young woman's body in a pool of blood in the far corner, his heart sank once again.
Damn. I'm too late.
An instant later, he had no more time for regret when a powerful blast shattered the wooden door to the cottage. Spinning about to face this new threat, he let his hands and scythe glow threateningly with prepared spells in the darkness. At the top of the stairs, he was greeted by a similar glow.
Xul, he thought in relief, releasing the spells.
Taking in the scene, Xul released his spells as well.
"Ah, the familiar scent of death," he said bitterly. "I had almost caught up to her. Too late, again."
"Mm, the girl was killed before I arrived. Tortured by your apprentice, I assume?"
Xul's momentary glare could have killed. It spoke of all the anger, frustration, and bitterness he now held in check. For a moment, Pyresong regretted his harsh words. He knew he was taking out his frustrations on the wrong person. Had he not been occupied with helping fight off the undead at Guard's Watch... He shoved that aside with a mental sigh. He could no more have ignored their need than he could have Wortham's. His heart still ached for the other master, though there was no time for such emotions right now. The living still needed protecting. Xul, for his part, realized he, too, was taking it out on the wrong person, once again. Forcing himself to calm, the elder master heaved a deep, sad sigh.
"Yes, this does look like her handiwork. The body is still warm, too," he said, kneeling down beside the young woman. "I believe a reanimation is in order."
"No," Pyresong told him immediately.
Master to master, neither supposedly outranked the other in this situation. Though, technically, it was up to Xul how to deal with his wayward apprentice. But, in this, Pyresong wasn't going to bend. The young woman had clearly suffered enough physically, and very likely, her soul had been tormented as well. There was no way he was going to make the poor woman suffer, returning to her own broken and dead body just to answer questions. He didn't know what Xul might be capable of, but he knew for certain he, at least, had other options.
"We need—"
"I said no," he cut him off and reiterated firmly. "Let me."
Ignoring the borderline threatening glare from the elder master, he squatted down on the other side of the girl's mangled corpse. His hand glowing, he laid it gently on her exposed back and whispered.
"Rathma, guide my voice to the soul of the recently slain. Return to us, child; we have one final request for you."
Xul's eyes widened in obvious shock. He ignored the man. It wasn't the first time a fellow Priest of Rathma had been more than a little surprised by his abilities, or the blessings he carried mostly in secret. But he'd also had a lot longer to practice them than most necromancers his own age. Most Priests of Rathma his age hadn't even spent a decade on their own outside of apprenticeship; let alone earned the right to be called a Master Necromancer. At the moment, he didn't give a damn what Xul thought of his age and experience. He wasn't going to allow this poor girl to be further tormented by returning to her own corpse to speak with them. At least this way, her spirit was free and would not feel anything of what had been done to her body. His sense of compassion just could not justify making the girl suffer further through realizing she was reanimated undead, even for a moment.
"Come," he finally whispered, feeling her presence through the void between life and the land of the dead.
To Xul's amazement, the glowing outline of the girl's spirit coalesced above the body.
"You're a Blessed Master," Xul whispered in amazement.
Few necromancers ever achieved the rank of true Master. Most were eventually considered trained enough not to be a threat and then let loose to see to the Balance as they chose. Xul, a master of some twenty-odd years now, viewed this much younger master in a new light.
Maybe there is a chance… Xul considered hopefully.
His thought was cut off as the echoing screams of the tortured girl's soul cried out in the cellar.
"No! NO! Stop torturing me! I didn't do anything! I told you everything! Please! Let me die!"
"It's all right," Pyresong told her spirit soothingly. "No one will hurt you anymore. You're safe now. That woman...the one who hurt you, is gone. You can go to your rest soon, and you can be at peace forever after."
"Please, please..." the girl begged. "I just want to be let go!"
"You will, I promise," Pyresong assured her spirit. "I will gain justice for you. But we need to go after that woman. Where is Queen Asylla's tomb?"
"Oh gods! I told her! I didn't want to! I'm so sorry, but she...she made me!"
Again, he spoke softly to her, his own heart twisting painfully. "There's nothing to be sorry for. You did all that you could for your Queen. Go to your rest without this burden of guilt. We will ensure Asylla remains undisturbed in her own rest."
Still sobbing, the girl nodded miserably. "They buried her in the Old Garden. Hid her tomb underneath so no one would ever disturb her. I-I failed! I failed Asylla! I failed my queen!" she wailed piteously.
"No!" he told her more emphatically. "No one could withstand Lethes' evil and torture. You served your queen well in life and in death. Let go of these emotions. You're free now. Free of pain and suffering. Free of the guilt. Go to your rest. Your friend, Asylla, waits for you on the other side."
His hands glowed once more with an almost bluish light as he reached toward the sobbing maiden. He opened the invisible door for her, praying she would use it to return to the land of the dead and not linger as a restless spirit.
"Rathma's blessings are with you. Be at peace, child."
He gently touched her ghostly arm, willing her to feel the peace beyond. Her tormented expression transformed into one of joyous wonder. She reached out toward something only she could see. And then she faded, along with the glow of Pyresong's hand.
"Rathma's blessings, indeed," Xul finally, eyeing him with renewed understanding. "You're a Blessed Master by Rathma himself."
There was one relatively unspoken rank slightly above a Master. There were few that Rathma himself had spoken with and given his blessings to over the millennia. Those additional secrets within their order were reserved for those few alone.
"Yes," he replied with a shrug. "We must get to the Garden."
"I am a Blessed Master as well, but Lethes knows how I operate. She will forever be one step ahead of me. You she cannot predict," Xul told him.
Then he turned his gaze back down to the body on the floor. His face wrinkled in sorrow and no small amount of regret.
"Poor girl...I know you gave her release, and she no longer needs the rites. But I will see to it that she is properly interred and will not be disturbed. I will follow when I'm done. For now, get to that tomb. Do not let Lethes near the Queen's body."
Unable to ignore the old man's suffering, Pyresong offered the only comfort he could.
"We will bring Lethes to justice. This is not your fault."
"Just...go," Xul said miserably and with finality.
Xul turned his full attention to the girl's cooling corpse. Pyresong nodded sadly and then climbed the stairs out of the cellar. The misty darkness beyond the shattered doorway was eerily quiet as he stepped out into the night. Summoning more skeletons, he reviewed his mental map of Ashwold Cemetery and turned his steps to the west. Pushing aside the tiredness he felt right down to his soul at this point, he jogged silently through the night. Wary of any further attacks, he extended his magical senses.
The few zombies he could not avoid were easily dispatched in frustration. His sense of urgency only increased with each delay. By the time he reached the old garden and the tomb entrance, he was nearly frantic. Forcing himself to calm, he inspected the sliding stone doorway carefully. If Lethes had been here ahead of him, there might be traps. Backing away, he mentally ordered a skeletal warrior to pull the hidden lever. It opened with the teeth-aching sound of stone scraping.
Well, I've already announced my presence, he thought as he gave up on caution and practically ran down the stairs.
When he descended the stairs, he encountered several giant spiders. Whether they had been a product of the overall magical warping of Ashwold recently or set deliberately as tomb guards, he could not tell. But their hideously grotesque bodies shimmered in the candlelight. These he could not run past or ignore. Dividing his forces, he just hoped he wouldn't encounter anything worse—like a rogue priestess' more powerful summonings—as he cut his way through the spiders. The tunnel was short, and he soon came within sight of the main chamber. Whatever it had been before, it was now an overgrown ruin of moss-covered stones and twisted tree roots that gave the place a forlorn look. Were it not for the spiders all over the room, he would have spared a thought for the poor, dead Queen Asylla, left here to rot, likely forgotten by all except the one young woman. And now she, too, was dead, leaving no one to remember this place. He would have to let someone know of it when this was over. Making his way around the room, not yet approaching the main dais with the stone crypt, he cleared all the spiders he found.
Having seen no evidence of Lethes beyond perhaps the lighted candles—which could have been done by the handmaiden—he let his senses roam ahead of him. Not surprisingly, a dozen more spiders sensing his approach dropped from the ceiling.
Ugh, more of these disgusting spiders, he thought.
As before, he used his skeletal warriors and mage to clear them out. Nonetheless, a toxic lurker managed to spit its venom closely enough that, though it wasn't a direct hit, the splatter hit his greaves and touched the cloth on either side. Almost instantly, he could feel the venom seeping through. And not just his legs. He could feel a burning sensation on his back and other places. He was weakening fast. As he re-summoned skeletons to replace the ones that had fallen, he finally noticed the lid of the stone sarcophagus was dislodged. It was only off by a small amount, but it had definitely been disturbed.
"Damn," he swore softly under his breath.
Approaching the sarcophagus, he leaned carefully forward to inspect the darkness within, using the glowing blade of his scythe as a light. A heartbeat later, he was jumping backward, nearly falling off the edge of the dais, a vile profanity escaping his lips. A skeletal mage rose up out of the shadows in the sarcophagus. And this one wasn't under his control.
"The Queen's spirit will lead the way to the Black King, Leoric!" the mage shrieked, completely disorienting him for a moment. "Soon, my master, Lethes, will have his wretched soul. And the damned shall bow before their new monarch!"
Not a mindless skeletal mage. A vengeful spirit, he thought, far more wary as he recovered from the initial surprise.
Ducking, he sent a mental command at the others to attack. This, at least, managed to gain its attention long enough for him to fling a barrage of spirit fire at it. To his surprise, it shattered almost instantly. This only made him more wary before another thought crossed his mind. A voice rose up from the collapsing bones with evil laughter.
"Even if you reach the manor, her task will not be halted. The ritual is underway!"
It was just a distraction! he thought, silently berating himself.
It was the spider's venom that had slowed him down. He was feeling lethargic. His mind was foggy. On top of his near-constant battles and running through the night, he was now being assaulted by the slowing venom that would eventually kill him. Still mentally berating himself, he paused to dig into his backpack for an antidote potion. Then, he pulled another healing potion from his belt while running full-tilt for the stairs at the other end.
All of it was just a distraction, he thought. Lethes meant to keep us occupied. She's still one step ahead! It must be the mansion to the north.
He replaced the partial bottle of healing potion on his belt and shoved the remaining antidote into his side satchel. His mind began to clear. He realized all of this was to get to King Leoric. Asylla was just a means to an end. Likely, her body had somehow been connected to Leoric and the demonic power that had driven him mad. Running past all of the zombies and other things he could manage to avoid, he was nearly winded again when he approached the large stone bridge that led to the decrepit and forlorn Ashwold Manor.
Just ahead, on the bridge itself, he found Xul battling his way through undead guardians and knights. No shambling undead and skeletal warriors this time. These were armored and armed, a much more serious threat. Not stopping to explain, he joined Xul in his battle to clear the bridge. Xul himself didn't stop as he proceeded through the gates just ahead into the courtyard. Seeing the way clear for the moment, he paused to address Pyresong, never taking his eyes off the courtyard. Now, without the distraction of immediate enemies, he began to feel the gathering necromantic energies combined with something hellish.
"I assume you followed the surge of energy here as well? Lethes never did have the patience for subtlety."
"No," Pyresong admitted. "Asylla's tomb has been disturbed. She left a vengeful spirit. It says she's after King Leoric."
"The Mad King," Xul said grimly. "Come, we must find the source of this profane right. At its apex, we will find my wayward apprentice."
Turning his senses to his surroundings as Xul had, Pyresong lowered his magical shields just slightly. Just ahead and around a corner, there was a death ritual altar on a stone platform. It was guarded by a bone golem. Together, he and Xul used their various talents and powers to destroy it. Then, the enraged Xul used his scythe to cut down the sickening construct beyond.
"Necrotic barrier," he growled. "There's always three of these rituals. Go and put an end to the others."
Pyresong bristled somewhat at being talked down to like an apprentice, but he reminded himself that this was a master who had spent almost his entire life speaking with and guiding apprentices. It was just the way he was used to speaking to others. Biting back an acidic remark, he cocked an eyebrow at Xul. The elder necromancer shook himself as if remembering who he was talking to. A moment later, Xul quirked a grin in return that came off as fairly wicked.
"I'll go and keep Lethes occupied. And, for my sake, do try to be expedient."
He returned a smirk as he nodded and took off at a run toward the sense of gathering power ahead and to the right. He was surprised to find only a couple of death knights patrolling the path. It seemed Lethes may have spread herself a little thin with all her summonings and reanimations. Apparently, even she had limits.
As he approached the second altar, a decay golem unfolded itself before the ritual construct. He growled an obscenity; these were a type of summoning he would never use. The poisonous blight that spread all around decay golems in a cloud made it nearly impossible to get close to them without suffering the effects. Sending his minions ahead of him, he flung a barrage of spirit fire. The golem calmly slammed its massive fists down on the skeletons, reducing them to useless dust in a single powerful blow. Backing away repeatedly, muttering obscenities at Lethes, Pyresong mentally summoned more behind it to distract it once more, never ceasing his assault. While the golem was distracted, he summoned a mage to help him. His chest still heaving after so much running, he watched while the golem finally collapsed into an oozing mass of decaying flesh. Now it was between him and the altar. He didn't have time to go around. He sent the waning mage to topple it.
He could feel the oozing blight of the decay golem seeping into his lungs. Fighting off the dizziness, he downed the second half of his other healing potion. He had one left on his belt. More than once, his life had been saved by keeping careful track of the potions he had easily available. But there was no time to get more out of his backpack. Already, he could feel the power surges as Xul engaged Lethes somewhere nearby.
Not even stopping to catch his breath, he felt the last necrotic barrier not far away. Once again, he dashed madly toward his target, letting the skeletons distract the few undead knights that chased after him. As expected, when he approached the altar, he caught sight of a third golem...a blood golem. He growled more profanities at Lethes in his mind. Though less deadly in a way, these golems were far worse in other ways. They could steal life force and energy from literally anything they fought with or touched to renew itself indefinitely. And they fed that life and power to their summoner. The last thing he needed was to give Lethes that edge while Xul had her occupied. And being further powered by Lethes' command of the Worldstone shard, he knew this golem could be a long fight. He didn't have time for this! Already, his sense of urgency was screaming at him. Something more than just Xul and his apprentice fighting was already happening. He could feel the power flows coalescing somewhere nearby.
His only hope of ending this quickly was to do as much damage as he possibly could all at once. Instead of sending his skeletons ahead of him, he gathered all his power. In a concentrated move, he sent four frenzied skeletal warriors, a skeletal mage, and a barrage of spirit fire, and then chased after with his empowered scythe, throwing a blade of energy ahead of him. It was over in seconds. He had been lucky; Lethes must be straining to keep any of her summons intact at this point. This time, he just kicked over the pole of the ritual on the altar.
Now, somewhere behind him, near the entrance to the main building of Ashwold Manor, he felt the incredible combative forces as Xul was now fully engaged with Lethes. Praying he was not too late, he sped along the paths and around the wrought iron gates. He found Lethes blasting away at Xul with evil red power coming from what he knew must be the corrupted Worldstone shard directly. She must be weakening if she had to rely on it so heavily. Xul was crouched down behind a stone pedestal, shielding himself from her blasts. On the pedestal lay Asylla's rotting corpse.
"Damn you, Xul!" Lethes shrieked, piercingly. "Always so persistently afraid of my talent! Well, no more! I am beyond you now!"
With a final blast that knocked Xul off his feet and away from the cover of the pedestal, she ceased her immediate attack to begin another ritual. Still catching up in the hopes of shielding Xul before her next attack, Pyresong watched in horror as she instead began a circle summoning ritual around herself. Xul struggled to his unsteady feet just as he arrived. He had only a moment to realize that this summoning was well beyond even most masters. Lethes was encircled with a protective ring of blood magic made of her own blood. He had never witnessed this ritual before, but he knew of its power. She was summoning a simulacrum of herself that duplicated all her skill and power and enhancing that with the Worldstone shard.
Lethes continued her mad rant, "Soon Leoric's soul will be mine! And, with it, I will be the greatest necromancer alive. Rathma himself will fear my name! And you! Your suffering begins now!"
Clearly, you've never met Rathma, he thought with a mental laugh.
The simulacrum formed inches away from the still stunned Xul. He shoved aside the still unsteady master and led the way with a vicious swing of his empowered scythe. He must have caught it and Lethes by surprise. Seeing Pyresong engaged with the blood-red duplicate of Lethes, Xul shook himself back to his senses and began blasting his spirit fire toward the actual Lethes to distract her. As long as she was otherwise occupied, the simulacrum lost much of her skill. No matter what type of summoning a necromancer chose to use, it took at least some concentration to direct its movements and abilities. Pyresong took full advantage of this distraction while he and his skeletons scored numerous hits upon the unfeeling thing. Finally, it could take no more and dissolved back into an inert pool of blood. He turned to see Xul still blasting away at Lethes. But it was not enough. It had distracted her, certainly, but she was still occupied with the rest of the other ritual they did not initially see within the summoning circle.
No wonder the damned thing was so weak, he thought, realizing their mistake.
Unexpectedly, Lethes laughed maniacally. There was a bright flare of raw power in a bubble around her as Asylla's body rose slightly off the pedestal.
"It's done!" she screamed triumphantly. "The breach is open! You cannot stop it!"
Right near the doors of the old and decrepit manor house, a green portal opened, radiating powerful necromantic energies. He added his own shielding to Xul's as he approached the other master again. Coming alongside Xul once more behind the pedestal, he could feel the rage radiating off of the master.
"I don't intend to!" Xul shouted back. "You are my target, Lethes! My failure...to put down!"
Lethes cackled openly at this. "Oh, please! You can no more put me down this time than you could the last. You're a sentimental old fool!"
Xul snarled dangerously. Never taking his focus off of Lethes, he sent shot after shot at her magical barrier within the summoning circle.
"The rift is drawing strength from the Skeleton King's essence. You must go inside and break the tether that connects them," Xul told him.
"Physically enter the realm of the dead? Are you mad?"
"No, just desperate," he said almost too softly to hear. More loudly, he said, "The power of Diablo is still in Leoric's blackened soul. Put his spirit to rest, and the rift will go inert. Go! Now! I will keep her occupied."
Seeing the summoning circle and the shield coming down around Lethes, he knew she was preparing to make a run for the portal. There was no time to consider options. He flung one powerful blade of energy from his empowered scythe in her direction to make her hesitate. Mentally, he ran through a few of what he considered appropriate profanities for this insane situation as he ran blindly toward the unholy glowing portal. Behind him, he felt Xul follow up with something much more powerful to keep her away from the portal while he dived through it. He had only a moment to consider how completely insane this was before the power of the portal took him to another realm.
The energies of the portal were unlike any Pyresong had ever encountered before. The necromantic energies were beyond powerful, nearly stunning. But they were filled with filthy feelings of corruption and forced sacrifice, making him shudder and reinforce his magical shields. For a brief moment, he felt completely separated from his body, like it had become just a dead weight. And then it all snapped back together again, leaving him completely disoriented.
The shock of all the sensations of a physical body returning to him at once left him lying on the floor, reeling for a moment. Letting his hearing do the guarding for him, he struggled to calm his breathing. His ears detected nothing in the immediate area, but definitely...something nearby; he wasn't alone. Shaking from head to foot, he forced himself to get back to his feet. He'd been knocked so senseless that all of his skeletons had disappeared. Maybe they never even made it through the portal.
What if I can't...
Before he could finish the thought, a summoned skeletal warrior began to form. His relief came in the form of a soft, shaky laugh. He knew he was by no means helpless without his summoned minions, but that didn't mean he didn't feel vulnerable to a large degree when they weren't present. He even used them to guard his sleep.
Overcoming the momentary panic, he began shaking with a totally new sensation. A frigid cold was sinking right through his flesh and into his soul. When he was finally able to turn his eyes to his surroundings, he realized it was all wrong. Everything was wispy and shifting, even the floors and walls. It felt completely insubstantial and made his eyes ache trying to force focus. Overcoming the initial shock and disorientation, he realized why it was so hard to focus.
This place, this realm, was never meant for physical eyes.
Yes, it resembled a beautifully decorated and furnished manor. But it was only a mirror, a misty reflection of the physical location. All the edges were blurred and a faded dull blueish color from the exquisitely carved statues and gargoyles to the decorative inlaid stones in the floor. Everything was blurry and vaguely shifting.
And the cold...
It wasn't just physical; it was numbing his soul with something he couldn't comprehend. It was terrifying and comfortingly familiar. Yet he was so completely off-balance right now he couldn't even begin to put it all into words or make sense of any of it. The one thing he knew for certain was that he really was in the Unformed Land; some part of it, anyway. He closed his eyes on the shifting visions that made him downright dizzy after only a few seconds. Even just looking down at his feet was eye-wrenching. He was the only thing that appeared solid. And it all felt so wrong.
How can I even... he thought vaguely for a moment with his eyes still shut. Wait...
In the recent years since acquiring his magically restored vision, he had noticed that some things looked inexplicably different. It took a focused effort to see them for some things. For others, it was just an automatic aura around a person or an object. Magic was especially visible to him, even the normally invisible tendrils and lines, like what Lethes had used to strangle the guards on the bridge. Focus and will were the core of his training and existence as a Priest of Rathma. He always had a tiny portion of his mind and will focused on his summoned minions, even when he slept. He struggled to focus now on the purely magical spectrum in a way he'd never done before.
Hearing movement in the distance, he knew he was out of time. He had to get used to the visual surroundings, or give up and go back.
The portal's gone! he thought, panic rising again. I'm trapped!
He wrestled the momentary panic aside. He needed to focus right now. The blurred lines of his visual reality were making him sick. At least, he hoped that was all the gut-twisting nausea was. He had heard tales of others venturing into the land of the dead and sending souls there was sometimes half the job for a Priest of Rathma. But this was utterly new and terrifying territory for him. He'd never been here before, and he sure as hells had never met someone who had and returned to tell the tale in their own body.
The movement in the distance sounded like random shuffling. He was able to identify the sound: skeletons, several of them.
All right, try this... he thought, forcing his mind to focus once again.
This time, when he opened his eyes, he was able to focus beyond the physical. Whether it was a feature of his magical sight or simply willpower and mental focus, he wasn't sure. But he could do this. The lines of the wavering objects were steadier. There was enough clarity to function. And the nausea was fading...somewhat, along with his heart-pounding panic. He mildly berated himself for the loss of time. Though it had taken no more than a minute, he expected Lethes to come through the portal at any moment. It was then that he realized he was not actually trapped. The portal had literally been invisible to his physical eyes. With his new vision, it was clear and bright. Not even the slightest bit unstable. He knew he would have to remember this location. He would have to get back to the rift before it disappeared.
Turning to look beyond the dais on which he stood and into the misty room beyond, he could now make out the vague outlines of the skeletons he had heard. Warriors, mostly. Possibly a knight. And definitely, at least one mage glowed brightly in the distance.
Leoric's throne lies somewhere in this haunted realm. It's time to put his wretched soul back to rest, he thought firmly.
"Sever the connection," he murmured.
What would happen to the portal when he did? Would it even still be there for him to pass through again and escape this place?
He had no idea. But he also knew he had no choice. Xul could only keep Lethes occupied for so long, and he'd wasted far too much time already. At least a minute had ticked by in his disorientation and near panic. Gripping his scythe and keeping part of his mind now focused on his vision, he and his skeletons moved silently down the short flight of stairs.
The room beyond was a grand hall. Decorative columns and even benches lined the sides. He moved down the main aisle. Here and there were a handful of skeletons and a skeletal mage, as expected, but they were...not real. They were like ghostly reflections of his own skeletal minions, misty and insubstantial. Sending his minions to occupy the mage, he filled his scythe with his energy and swiped at one skeletal ghost.
It was not a ghost. It was as solid as his scythe and shattered on impact. A split second later, he found that the arrows the archer behind the columns fired were real enough to kill as well. The arrow impacted his shield hard enough for him to feel it. The ghostly skeletal mage barely got off a single shot before his minions took it out. As with any battle in the real world, he moved with his minions in a dance of death. Vaguely, he wondered if these ghostly creatures would just come right back. Then he shook off the thought. There was nothing to do but move forward and hope.
Once all of the immediate enemies were out of the way, he took a better look around with his magical vision. As he did so, something clicked and rattled against his boot that had him dancing back a few steps, thinking the skeletons were re-forming. When he realized it was actually the animated skeleton of a long-dead rat, he laughed and stomped on it.
Rats! How ridiculous!
His laughter had a slightly hysterical edge to it, and he realized the overall exhaustion and the unnerving quality of this place was getting to him. Forcing himself back to the serene calm he always presented to people he encountered, no matter what their state, he breathed again. Turning his attention to the far doors, he stepped up to them, wondering if it was locked or barred somehow. And what would he do about it if it was?
"An intrusion!" a deep, hollow voice rang out. "I will deal with this!"
Between himself and the doors, an enormous skeletal knight with a battle axe began to materialize. It was easily twice as tall as Pyresong and three times his width. This thing must have been a giant in life. Backpedaling, he sent his warriors to occupy its attention while he summoned a couple of skeletal mages to assist. All the while, he bombarded it with spirit fire. His warriors only lasted until the first sweeping swing of the axe. They shattered and scattered in fragments. The mages seemed to have more luck, but he knew he could only keep two of them going for now. The strain of having more would be too much. Briefly, he considered summoning a larger, sturdier golem.
Watching the wild and deadly swings of the giant axe as the knight chased after the mages, he came up with an idea. It was risky, for sure. But better than hammering away at this thing bit by bit with spirit fire and a golem. For a few seconds, he ceased his spirit fire barrage to put as much power as he could spare into his scythe. He waited for the knight to take another massive swing with his axe that almost turned it full circle. When it was trying to recover with a backswing, he leapt into the melee. His scythe was ablaze with power, and he never even had to touch the knight. The waves of slicing energy that came off his scythe cut through the ghostly armor and bone as if they were no more than parchment. Not liking just how easy that had been, he stood back, awaiting a final strike or other surprise while the form faded out of existence once more.
"Have we not suffered enough?" the deep, hollow voice asked, echoing and fading slowly.
For a moment, he couldn't move. No, these were not all evil entities. Tortured, yes. But he didn't know enough about Leoric and his kingdom to know that many of the men that had served him in life were cursed to serve him now in death. He was saddened by the knight's words. But all he could do now was offer up a prayer that they would be able to find peace once Leoric was dealt with.
Beyond the doors was another enormous chamber with columns, but this one was twisted. There was likely no place in Sanctuary that actually resembled this structure. One wall looked like an arched ceiling. The floor looked to have grand arched windows. It was completely warped to a point where it was difficult to tell wall from floor from ceiling; it was like they were shifting somehow when nothing actually moved. Halfway down the grand hall, a green glow came from beneath the windows in the floor. Again, he was forced to focus on his magical sight and ignore the normal vision as everything blurred and wavered. It took a few seconds to realize that whatever was beyond that sinister green glow was something intentionally twisted by magic, evil necromantic magic.
His somewhat steadier vision caught sight of some more skeletons across this massive hall. Impatiently, he summoned more mages and just went after all of them with spirit fire. This was taking far too much time. He fully expected Lethes to come after him any moment. He couldn't keep wasting time on these distractions. Xul could only keep her occupied for so long. As powerful as Xul was, his apprentice was fueled by a Worldstone shard. There was no way Xul could stand up to that for long.
The initial hall cleared, he crept cautiously toward the green glow. His magical sight told him it was windows. In the floor! The green light was flooding up from below. Walking right up to one of the decorative stone frames, he peered down into a bright, poisonous green mist that felt all wrong to him. Below, it looked like some kind of reflection of a great hall in a castle but ended in more of that green mist. There was no visible floor below. Cautiously, he tapped what he thought might be glass with his scythe. Not really relishing the idea of walking on glass, he considered he might try to find a way around on more solid ground.
Out of the mist, a black-robed skeletal form with glowing eyes shot up at him, making him leap backward away from the glass. A filthy expletive escaped his lips in his sudden surprise. The thud as it impacted the invisible material that felt and sounded nothing like glass froze him in his tracks. His heart raced, ready for an attack. The thing slammed its bony fists against the invisible barrier. Slowly, his startled mind settled, and he realized it was trapped. Moving carefully closer, it pounded on the invisible barrier raging at him. It laughed in a deep, almost demonic tone at seeing his fear.
Lich, he thought grimly.
For a few seconds, he tried to calm his racing heartbeat as he watched the thing pounding on the barrier and laughing insanely. Clearly, the lich was in the grip of madness, so many of their kind eventually succumbed to in their undead state. Beyond it were a few more skeletons and archers. He sent his own skeletal mages to deal with them. Yes, he was fairly certain the thing really was trapped. But there was no need to take unnecessary risks. He moved around the windows in the floor and onto more solid seeming bricks. Nodding to himself, he took the right path around the barrier in the floor, dismissing the lich as a threat but keeping a wary eye on it.
Approaching the giant doors at the far end of this hall, he heard another ghostly voice. There, he caught sight of another giant lich taking form. Its front was a raggedy mess of black robes and skeletal arms, while the back end of it somehow seemed part of the door. Once again, he sent his mages to harass the thing while he looked for a weakness. Instead, he found himself dodging enormous balls of spirit fire thrown by the lich. He cursed under his breath. Since it couldn't move, he couldn't maneuver behind it. His best option was a full-on assault. He empowered his scythe with as much as it would hold and then ran right into the melee, dodging the flailing skeletal arms. His skeletal mages continued to harass it while he managed to cut off its arms and then, eventually, its head. Finally, the thing dissolved into itself, leaving only the open doors behind. It still laughed insanely as it faded away.
The battle had taken its toll, though. His chest heaving, he struggled to slow his breathing. He was beyond exhausted now. There was nothing left but adrenaline. Every muscle ached, and he was covered in bruises and minor wounds. Nearly non-stop running and fighting had been a massive physical strain. No sleep and no food weren't helping. And his constant use of his magical and spiritual energies had drained him to a point of weakening him physically. In this twisted place, he had even lost all sense of time. The cold that seeped into his very soul made it feel like he'd been here for days already.
For the first time in a very long time, he was forced to question his options. He had one potion that might help. It was a stamina potion. Once, they had been common all over Sanctuary. Now, they were a rare and precious commodity. But he could see no other choice. He was too run down and still had to find Leoric somewhere in this awful place. Pulling out the small white vial from his backpack, he downed the bitter liquid that stung his tongue like nettles. Instantly, he began to feel renewed. The pain faded with the exhaustion. He knew it wouldn't last very long, but maybe long enough. He still had one healing potion.
It has to be enough, he told himself.
Shaking off his doubts, he walked through the door. Beyond the lich-guarded doors, there was a sort of foyer with a beautiful winding staircase at the far end going up. Something in the back of his mind said this was it. He must be closer to Leoric. He summoned all the skeletal warriors and mages he could safely handle and let his senses range forward. Again, he cursed under his breath. If his necromantic senses were functioning at all in this realm, there were numerous undead enemies ahead.
So be it, he thought grimly.
Conserving as much of his energy as he could, he made his way through the uncounted ranks of skeletons, skeletal rats, skeletal knights, skeletal archers, and even skeletal dogs! For a moment, he was amused by this thought.
Skeleton King, indeed.
He and his minions made their way up the stairs from one landing to the next. Finally, he found the throne room. There, seated on a massive throne, was Leoric. He could clearly see as well as sense the sheer force of the purely demonic energy that infused the undead king. Much as with the knight with the axe, Leoric was somehow made massive. Beyond a giant, even. This could only be the influence of the demonic energies and power coursing through the damned thing. He stood no taller than Leoric's hips!
Pyresong only had a moment to be intimidated. Leoric leapt from the throne, landing in the middle of the floor. Reacting on instinct, he rolled out of the way. The blast of the king's landing shattered the braziers all over the room. For a heartbeat, he couldn't see anything as disorientation took over. He gave in to it. As he had so many times over the years, he let his survival and combat instincts take control. They didn't necessarily need to see. They just needed to be unleashed. As he danced and swung his empowered scythe, he heard Leoric's voice echoing painfully loud throughout the chamber.
"The warmth of life has no place among the dead!"
Leoric's swinging mace was enormous. The head alone was as tall as Pyresong and weighed many times more.
"Bow before your rightful king!" Leoric demanded, crushing the necromancer's skeletal minions in a single, powerful swipe.
Once there were no more skeletons or mages to harass the king, Leoric turned his attention fully on him and the gnat-like spirit fire he was blasting. Still operating on pure instinct, he dodged and danced around the room away from Leoric. Enraging the king seemed the only option at the time. He summoned more and more skeletons until he could feel himself losing his ability to hold them. Again and again, he sent them after the king, only to be batted away like sticks. But it was working. The undead skeleton king was growing more infuriated by the second. Leoric was finally so terrifyingly angry that he screamed in frustration and did something he absolutely did not expect.
He had hoped the king would be too angry to focus, possibly make a mistake that would leave an opening. Of course, he couldn't possibly be that lucky. Instead, the Skeleton King summoned an even more massive skeletal steed. Now mounted, he was far out of reach of Pyresong's scythe. Even the blades of energy he could fling about would do almost nothing unless he were up close.
Damn, damn, damn, he thought silently, his building rage replacing any fear.
Still dancing around the room out of reach of Leoric and his steed, he could see no way out. His only hope was one all-out attack. A calm certainty began to creep over him. Swiftly, he poured all of his power into his scythe. Still dancing around the chamber, seeing nothing but Leoric, he began a spell that few necromancers ever mastered, or even considered using, for that matter. One reason was that it was a last resort. Another was that many didn't survive it. Everything went into this spell. Every spark of magic, every bit of spirit energy, even one's life energies all drained into one object. And that object had to be able to sustain it. He had had this straight-bladed scythe for many years now. It was as much a part of him as his own arm. And now he would test its endurance...and his own.
Sensing there was no more he could put into it without collapsing, Pyresong went perfectly still. This time, he waited for Leoric to come to him. As calm as a pond with still waters, he dropped his shield and took the handle of the scythe in both gloved hands. Laughing triumphantly, Leoric spurred his skeletal horse. As the steed bore down on him and Leoric swung his massive mace, Pyresong made his move. In a whirlwind of physical scythe and massive slicing energy waves that came off it, he ducked under the horse, unleashing all the carefully held power. His first twirling assault took off the horse's legs. The return stroke shattered the horse's head. The next turn sliced clean through Leoric's ribs, severing him from his lower half. Another full turn spin, and the energy blades cut through the king's skull, sending the giant golden crown flying across the room.
It was almost enough.
The problem was that all that swinging and unleashing of power left no room for defensive maneuvers. He saw the flailing arm with the mace coming right at him, and there was nothing he could do to stop or avoid it. Just as he finished his last spin, the massive mace slammed into him hard enough to send his body flying across the room. The sound of bone breaking was audible in his ears. For a moment, there was a sense of floating. Then, he felt his body slam roughly into a stone column. Explosions of pain in various parts of his body blinded and stunned him. He landed in a heap against the base of a column. Unable to breathe or even move, he heard the Skeleton King's final words as Leoric faded into nothing.
"I shall remember this trespass. How the living will suffer for your treachery..."
It was done.
His consciousness was fading along with the king's presence. He didn't have the will to fight it. He closed his eyes against the swirling, twisting images of this world of the dead. He would be joining them soon, he knew. Already, he couldn't feel anything of his physical body anymore. Having lost the energy and concentration to fight it, the numbing cold sank right through his flesh and mind. He felt it settling darkly on his soul, as had the calm that had taken him had only seconds before. He considered it a blessing that he could not feel his broken body. Now he just waited for the physical to fall away as the body ceased to function.
Suddenly, his whole body spasmed when he reflexively inhaled. He shuddered and coughed as the intake of breath was aborted by flaring pain in so many parts of his body.
Still alive, it would seem, he thought, not entirely unhappy, despite the pain.
He couldn't help laughing softly. Once again, he had "cheated death," as they say. Not without consequence, though. Despite his well-worn and well-maintained armor, he felt the fractures. At least some of his ribs were cracked on his left side where the blow had struck him fully. Looking down at himself, he could see the obvious buckling in the front plates. His hip ached but didn't feel broken. His shoulder...the flaring white hot agony across his chest informed him his left collar bone was definitely broken. Beneath the articulating breastplates, he couldn't quite tell if it was an open fracture or just internal. Either way, there was considerable damage. And he couldn't stay here. He had severed the connection, and now he had to get back to the portal.
Reaching carefully with his right hand and shoulder, he managed to get his last and most potent healing potion. This was the one he reserved for near-fatal injuries. It was both potent and very expensive. It could stop a man from bleeding out with a severed artery and force broken bones back into place. If it didn't work…
Knowing what came next, he just remained there, lying on the floor. Unfortunately, experience had taught him the healing energy would feel warm and comforting, but the movement of the bones back into their correct positions was going to hurt...a lot. It was by no means his first experience with broken bones and healing of any kind. Getting things back into the right place magically or physically hurt like hells. He just hoped he wouldn't lose consciousness. He'd drained himself too far already with that spell. Tingling darkness still crept around the edges of his vision, along with flashes of light behind his eyelids. He was barely clinging to consciousness, and he knew it. Carefully, he poured the entire large bottle down his throat, ensuring not a drop of the vile-tasting syrupy substance was spilled or wasted.
It took effect on him so fast that he didn't have a chance to set the bottle down. The flaring pain across the left side of his chest and shoulder made his whole body spasm and tense up. The delicate bottle shattered on the floor nearby. Where the world around him had started to go dark before, now it flashed white agony. Stars of spectacular colors burst behind his closed eyelids. His breathing stopped altogether as he clenched his teeth to hold back a scream. Mentally, he ran through a list of the vilest profanities he'd ever heard. As it was, a groan made its way through the back of his throat.
And, just as suddenly as it had begun, it faded and was replaced by warmth and growing vitality. He didn't have time to wait for the full effect. Carefully, he took a deep breath. There was some painful protest as things were still knitting, but it was tolerable for now. He'd severed Leoric's connection, he had to get back to the portal before it collapsed or ran out of energy or whatever the hells was going to happen. He rolled to his right and forced himself upright again.
Ignoring the painful twinges in his shoulder and chest, he gripped his scythe and then located his shield across the chamber. He knew he wouldn't be hefting that on his left arm any time soon. Instead, he hooked his scythe on its belt and the shield on his back. It would certainly be more use there than—
A sudden female scream of unbridled rage rang throughout the chamber. Expecting to be confronted by Lethes, he was amazed to see another portal opening instead. The scream had come from it.
"No! No, you bastard! I won't let you do this to me!" Lethes' voice echoed in the chamber.
Before he could think anything, Pyresong was suddenly being pulled violently toward the portal. On the smooth floor, and it being only a couple feet away, there was nothing to stop him. All he could do was hope it didn't send him somewhere worse. The darkness closed in around him again. He was ejected forcefully from the portal and landed painfully on the stony ground. At least it wasn't on his left side. Knowing Lethes was close, he ignored the jarring pain and disorientation and leapt back to his feet, scythe in hand.
He was back in the courtyard in front of Ashwold Manor's front doors. Lethes was nowhere to be seen. Behind him, the portal was slamming shut with violent bursts of energy. Then his eyes caught movement across the yard on the other side of the statue pedestal where he had left Lethes and Xul battling.
Xul! he recognized
He quickly realized Xul was down and struggling to regain an upright position. Summoning skeletons as he ran, he skid to a stop on his knees beside the barely conscious master. There was a momentary painful protest from his left side as he gripped the man by his shoulders, helping him to his knees. Freed of the immediate task of keeping his head from falling to the ground, Xul's left arm went to his abdomen. Near the bottom of his breastplate was an obvious hole from something, possibly a small bone spear. The hand came back covered in blood. Seeming dazed and surprised by his injuries—or maybe by the fact that he was somehow still alive—Xul spoke in a soft, dull voice. Pyresong could see he was bordering on shock, likely from the injuries he had sustained.
"Lethes got away." He finally met Pyresong's eyes with an expression of clear shame. "She was right...I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill her."
"Your wounds are deadly," he said, checking the back plate for signs of an exit wound and seeing none. "We must get you to—"
With a strength born of desperation, Xul gripped Pyresong through the collar of his breastplate and held him back at arm's length. Too surprised to react, he watched Xul's face transform to one of vengeful wrath.
"No! You..." he coughed blood for a moment. "She is still weakened. You did it. You broke her connection. You can still catch her if you're quick about it."
"Let me help you," Pyresong insisted.
"No," Xul said flatly, flinging him away so Pyresong landed on his rump. "You swore an oath to protect the Balance!"
Xul doubled over, coughing up more blood for a moment. When he again had enough breath, he glared angrily at his younger counterpart. Pyresong shifted back to his knees and supported Xul by the shoulders.
"Honor it and stop her!" his last words came out little more than a breathless whisper.
He knew as well as Xul knew. His wounds were fatal. And he would not see to them until he knew Lethes had been stopped. Frustrated, Pyresong shifted as if to get back to his feet. While he respected everyone's right to die on their own terms, he was not about to let this accomplished, world-renowned master die without seeing justice. He made it look like he was going in the direction Xul was now pointing. When Xul doubled over coughing again, he struck like a viper. He snatched a healing potion off the man's belt. Then he pushed Xul onto his back on the grass and shoved the bottle between the man's unresisting teeth. Reflexively, Xul swallowed. It was that or choke.
Satisfied, though not entirely sure it would keep the old man alive long enough, Pyresong did as he was expected. He grabbed his scythe off the ground and took off running. Thanks to his own injuries, he knew he wasn't going to be anywhere near his normal skill. Even just running made his left shoulder and chest flare with throbbing pain. He was going to be fighting necromancer against necromancer. With the power of the shard boosting her strength, there was no telling what she could do. Golems and reanimations of every variety, certainly. But what else? There was absolutely no way he could use his shield right now. His one devastating spell had been spent on Leoric. He didn't have enough left in him to do it again. And, even if he tried, it wouldn't be powerful enough.
Tuning his magical sight to the residue of what he'd come to think of as the shard's aura, he chased the phantom shape running ahead of him in the mist. Much of her power must have been spent in the fight with Xul. And her leeching off of King Leoric had been stopped. How much power was left of the Worldstone shard? He couldn't know. It didn't matter. This fight wouldn't come down to power. In his condition, it would be about skill. He only hoped that, as an apprentice, she had not learned the tricks he'd come to know over the years.
Unlike all other Priests of Rathma he had ever known, he did not need a corpse to summon a skeleton or a golem. He was able to draw from what already existed in the environment, including his own often-shed blood. Yet, he would still be sorely outnumbered in a summoner battle right now. He didn't have the strength for more than a few if he was lucky. But he had other, far less common skills, which he knew most other masters had never been able to utilize effectively. Because he was considered by some to be a prodigy of sorts, his master had pushed him relentlessly to learn anything he was capable of using, even some forbidden techniques. Those hidden skills would be what tipped the balance in his favor, not his waning strength.
He followed the foul-feeling residue. Yes, Lethes must have been weakened severely. Not a single golem, undead, or skeleton was seen along the path. She had been unable to re-summon them. He smiled grimly. It was just a bit more hope to tip the scales on his side. He finally caught up to her in the Lord's Rest. Standing in the center of what had once been a decorated courtyard that was now just rubble and loose stones, she began to create a blood-red, filthy-feeling summoning circle. Standing just beyond the reach of the circle, he faced her calmly. He forced his breathing to slow. He didn't bother with the serene mask this time. This traitor's days were ended. His tone was downright frigid as he approached.
"It is done, Lethes. And you will answer for this abuse of power."
Turning to face him, she sneered. "Sanctimonious to the end, just like the rest of your rotten brethren. You want to see power? Very well, allow me to demonstrate."
Her icy calm did nothing to banish his trepidation. But for now, all he could do was wait to see what her next move was. Golems were something she seemed to use a lot. Reanimation was clearly a skill she excelled at, at least with the shard. And there were dozens of other spells she could likely use. Bone spirits, bone spears, wraith form, bone walls, bone shields, and the list just went on. She'd even managed a simulacrum that had been almost as powerful as she was. As she crouched down and placed a hand on the ground before her, the circle glowed red. Which would it be? He couldn't make his move until he knew.
To his surprise, and no small amount of horror, she seemed to...power up? He could find no words to describe it. The sinister red aura that surrounded her increased exponentially. She laughed maniacally as she threw her first attack. It was a powerful ring of red spirit fire in all directions. It felt as vile as the shard that powered them. Dozens and dozens of them she sent out in every direction. Wave after wave she sent out. Had he summoned anything, they would have likely been destroyed in the first, powerful volley. For the first few seconds, all he could do was duck and dodge them as they flew about randomly. Then it dawned on him that she wasn't even paying attention or targeting him. This was her last stand, and she knew it. There was no escape except to kill him any way she could. No finesse, no skill, no restraint, no control, and no thought. She was just blindly lashing out using the power from the shard.
Temper tantrum, he thought to himself wryly.
She didn't even bother using the scythe at her side to fight or defend herself.
Too overconfident, too.
There was no pattern to the wild volleys of super-powered spirit fire. He already knew what he had to do. Again, he poured his life and energy into his scythe, hoping it would be enough. And, this time, it wasn't only in the blade. No, he empowered the whole thing. This was a skill he knew she did not have. And, much like the other he had used today, a last resort. No warrior threw away his weapon.
This time, that was the point. One shot.
Seeing his opening, he jumped as high as he could as he flung the scythe spinning at Lethes. With what was left of his mental and magical power, he directed it right at the vulnerable woman. She hadn't even bothered to wear armor. Just some decorative black and red robes. The confidence was her downfall. Lethes was so engrossed in her nova-like explosions of corrupted spirit fire that she never even saw it coming. The speed and power of his scythe ripped through her chest, cutting right through the bones and spine. She collapsed soundlessly, dead before she hit the ground.
He stood several feet away, still trying to catch his breath around the painful twinges in his chest and ribs. Now came the unpleasant part. He could feel it. The corrupted Worldstone shard was on her, somewhere. He had no problem looting corpses, but this vile thing oozing corruption made his skin crawl. And, yet, it pulled at him. Part of him wanted to touch it, to hold it.
To use it.
Shaking himself, he refocused his mental shield and shut it out. There was some kind of sentience there. It was an insidious feeling that crept in through the cracks. It whispered of desire to be used. Its power was immense...and so alluring. Even with his mental doors shut, the thing pulled at him. He reeled in disgust, denying it, but moving closer unconsciously anyway. Suddenly, the body dissolved, exposing the shard that had been within. It had been another simulacrum.
Damn! He swore silently. She did it again!
There was nothing for it. She had gotten away while he was distracted, and he had no idea where to start looking. And now the shard was before him and calling to him. Focusing all his anger as a shield against the thing, he reached for it with a glowing, gloved hand. He dug deep into his waning magical reserves, hoping it would be enough to protect him for the time being. How he was going to carry this thing was another problem he would have to deal with.
"So, Lethes escaped, then," Xul spoke behind him. "She never was the type to put her life on the line."
He just managed to resist showing how startled he was. He was more than a little surprised to see the elder master even on his feet after the condition he had been left in. And he certainly wasn't undead or a lich. Clearly, the man was still very weak, but at least he was functional at the moment. Pyresong briefly berated himself for letting himself be so distracted that he didn't even sense the other priest approaching. That shard was definitely a problem in the distraction department. What if it called to everything like a beacon?
"Yes," he replied. "Another simulacrum. Although, this one was far more convincing."
He wondered if the shard was why Xul had found him so easily. For a moment, he was certain Xul wanted the shard, much as Lethes had been drawn to it. Concealing all of these thoughts behind a serene mask of emotionlessness, he turned to face the elder master.
"I suppose having a chunk of the Worldstone in its possession helped," Xul commented, eyeing him closely.
His own expression never flickered. He had no intention of showing the elder master just how wary he now was. He was almost convinced the man was being manipulated by the shard, too, now.
"I'm glad to see it safely in your hands," Xul continued
Pyresong casually shifted one foot for a better stance. Xul held his empty hands up, palm outward.
"Yes, I know what that is. Although, it's quite a bit smaller than the last time I saw it."
Not buying the gesture of non-threat, Pyresong tensed, ready for anything.
Xul smirked. "You need not worry. I feel it, too. Just as it called to Lethes, it calls to us. I can see it in your eyes."
Still wary, Pyresong nodded. "It corrupted and wants to be used for evil purposes."
"I know." Reaching into his side satchel slowly, Xul pulled out a wooden box covered in powerful magical binding sigils. "I brought this in case I had a chance to use it. Take it. It was designed to contain artifacts of evil origin or intent."
Still not willing to let his guard down completely, he hesitated to reach out for the box. Xul shook his head, understanding.
"Don't let it get to you. Your mistrust is misplaced. It's manipulating you, even now."
Xul set the box on the ground, took several steps back, and put his hands out at his sides. Pyresong blinked as he realized the elder master was right. He scowled darkly at the vile thing in his hands. Shielded or not, the shard was still trying to work on him. Greed. Jealousy. Fear. Mistrust. Hate. Lust for power. They were all circling around his weakened and exhausted heart and soul, trying to find a way in.
"You're right, of course," he acceded.
Reaching down, he scooped up the box and unlocked it with a trickle of energy. He shoved the shard inside and locked it again.
"Better?" Xul asked as few seconds later.
He frowned and took a deep breath but nodded. "Yes. Thank you."
Xul shook his head. His face was becoming haggard and seeming so much older than even his seventy-something years. Seeing the younger necromancer had not succumbed to the shard made him lower his guard, more like sagging in relief.
"No, I should thank you. That little bit of defiance saved my life. It was enough for me to get more potions in me. I will be a while in healing, but my pursuit of Lethes must continue. She must answer for what she has done." Xul sighed heavily. "I thank you for your aid, my friend. I know you had other purposes here, but it is still appreciated. Blessings of Rathma upon your journey, wherever it may take you."
"And on you, as well," he responded sincerely, shaking hands.
As Xul turned to leave, he hesitated and turned back to Pyresong. "One last thing: When you return to Cain, it would be wise to have him examine that weapon you found. He may not look it, but that old scholar always had a knack for identifying hidden potential in things." He laughed, something of a wicked gleam in his eyes. "And in people."
Only then did Pyresong notice the scythe that lay at his feet. It had apparently belonged to Lethes. That alone made him want to destroy it or leave it behind. Yet, something about Xul's words and wickedly amused tone gave him a feeling there was a much deeper meaning there that his tired brain just could not bring to the fore at the moment. He glanced down at the scythe with a frown, considering. It did look like a very nice weapon, though far more sickle than the straight blade he was accustomed to using.
Xul laughed softly again. "Take it. If it's cursed or corrupted by Lethes or the shard, Cain will know how to destroy it."
He considered this and then nodded. He sensed nothing overtly malevolent about the scythe, and it was in very good condition. Very new, by the looks of it. It might come in handy. If nothing else, he might be able to sell it somewhere. He hung the second blade on an empty set of belt hooks on his left side, careful not to touch it with bare hands until he knew more about it. He watched in contemplative silence as Xul disappeared into the mists beyond.
Alone and exhausted, it took him a few seconds to form a coherent thought beyond just standing there. He had to get the shard to Cain as soon as possible. That was not in question. But he hadn't eaten or slept in...two days? Three? He didn't know anymore. And the mess that had been Ashwold was now in ruins. Part of him wanted to return to Guard's Watch and tell them. Maybe even find food and rest there. The events of the last few days chased themselves around his head dizzyingly for a few seconds.
All this suffering over a single shard... he thought sadly, finally latching on to one cohesive thought.
Then he shook it off. No, he knew what he had to do. Forcing all the rest to the back of his mind, he struggled to focus.
Hopefully, Elder Cain has found a way to destroy them once and for all. No, not Guard's Watch. Westmarch, he told himself forcefully.
He shoved the warded box into his side satchel and then dug around. Amidst the other odds and ends it had accumulated, he found the scroll Cain had given him. With his mind having found something to focus on, he began to realize the potions had definitely worn off. He was on his own now, so he had better hurry.
Now, let's see if this scroll of Westmarch he gave me actually works.
He laughed softly to himself, realizing he was literally talking to himself silently at this point. Yes, he was beyond tired. He mind always wandered when he was tired; and sometimes he even found he would talk to himself. He shook his head mentally. Yes, he was definitely overdue for food and rest. He unfurled the scroll and fed it some of his last reserves of magical energy. Well, a portal opened. Assuming that was a good sign, he stepped through it.
Chapter 4: 03 Westmarch
Chapter Text
Westmarch
On the other side of the portal, Pyresong was happy to see it had indeed taken him to Westmarch. It was a city that didn't particularly welcome Priests of Rathma. But, to be fair, very few did. He just hoped they would not give him too much trouble this time. He was too exhausted and hungry to care what kind of reception he had as long as they didn't bar him from entering. And, if they did, he'd just find another way in, at this point. His body was screaming at him to get some rest. His stomach felt like it was going to throttle his spine if he didn't eat soon. And he still ached terribly all over his body from the still-healing abuse it had endured over the last several days.
One way or another, he was going to get a meal, a bath, and some sleep.
He recognized this waypoint as the one at the far south entrance to the city. He recalled the name vaguely as being Wolf something. Maybe Wolf Gate. They could call it the gates to fairy land at the moment, and he couldn't care less.
A long, stone bridge crossed the deep salt water river gorge stretching far below. A drawbridge was lowered to span part of the expanse and could be easily drawn up to defend the city in rare times of need. A handful of people were lined up in front of a single city watch guard as if awaiting their turn to see him. He had some idea of what was going on and knew it wouldn't be long. So, he patiently lined up along with the others as more arrivals lined up behind him. Many eyed him with open disgust. He almost laughed when he recalled the sheer amount of gore he was likely covered in. It's a wonder the smell alone didn't send people running. Listening and trying to keep his focus, he caught the people ahead talking with the guard as he waved them through or stopped to question them. The couple just ahead of him was waved through, obviously they lived here and were recognized. Catching sight of the filthy, bedraggled necromancer, the dark-haired guard raised his hand at Pyresong's attempts to approach.
"Hold right here, stranger. We're speaking with all new arrivals seeking asylum. You don't look like one of these refugees from Khanduras. What brings you to Westmarch?" he asked with no small amount of suspicion as two more heavily armed and armored guards stepped toward them and away from their previous posts further down the bridge.
At least he asked, Pyresong thought to himself tiredly, accustomed to much worse greetings.
Keeping his expression serene, he replied calmly, "I'm supposed to meet someone in the city."
"And who summoned you?" the lieutenant drawled, thinking his question the height of wit.
His expression never flickered while the guards behind the lieutenant snickered at the pathetic joke. He knew he was a total mess right now. He'd been through a lot and had no time to clean himself up or even take a desperately needed bath and change his clothes. He sensed there was more to this challenge and still hoped to salvage the situation before they told him to get lost. He bit back an acidic retort but nodded, acknowledging the man's attempt at humor. Seeing he would get no more reaction out of the necromancer, Lieutenant Dunn sighed heavily.
"Another tight-lipped adventurer," he observed, just shy of an outright sneer in Pyresong's opinion. "You're not the first to step through these gates on 'business. ' Why are you here, and why should I let a Priest of Rathma into the city?"
Having no more patience and sensing his opportunity sliding away from him, he calmly replied, "Very well, I'm here to see Elder Cain. He...summoned me," he finished dryly.
This last comment made the lieutenant grin. Now, he felt his humor appreciated. Pyresong wondered at such simple minds but let the rest of the thought go. He was just way too tired. And his mouth had always gotten him into more trouble than any demon encounter ever would.
"All right," the lieutenant said after a moment's consideration and a visual scan of the necromancer's possessions. "Everything checks out. Move along, and keep the peace. Understood?"
He nodded once more, refraining from sharing a remark along the lines of his preference being eternal peace, usually in death. But he knew it was sarcasm that would only get him in trouble and very likely get him turned away. Not to mention, it was pure necromancer humor, and people just did not understand necromancers or their humor. His exhausted mind was turning darker by the minute.
Food. Bath. Sleep, he reminded himself. Keep focused on the prize for good behavior.
He sighed tiredly when he passed the two additional guards who had returned to their posts further down the bridge. It very nearly became a yawn. His head was pounding softly in time with his heart. The view up here of the harbor below was amazing, but he was in no condition to appreciate it at the moment. However, several locals and even couples were wandering around enjoying the view. He carefully made his way around everyone milling about and started considering his accommodations for the night.
Night?
He looked to the sky. Despite the steady, light rain, the sun was just visible beyond the clouds.
No, not night. It's not even midday yet, he thought to himself, almost confused.
Halfway across the bridge, a youth with a little boy in tow came running for him.
"Sir! Priest of Rathma, one moment!"
He paused, as much out of surprise as anything. The kid seemed...happy to see him—maybe even excited—as he dragged a much younger kid with him. With not a shred of fear or distaste, the dark-haired kid stopped right in front of him.
"Are you Master Pyresong?" he asked.
"You have the advantage of me," he replied, still surprised and more than a little curious.
"Sorry, my name is Piri. Been waiting for you to show. Charsi would have stayed, but, you know, she's got a business to run."
The much younger boy reached up to physically inspect the scythes hanging on his belt. Deftly, he stepped beyond the small child's reach so he wouldn't cut himself. A bit red in the face, Piri scooped the child into his arms.
"Don't touch," he scolded the boy. "Sorry about that."
Tired and now irritated, he frowned at the kids. "I'm sorry... Who is Charsi? How do you know me?" he asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
Impossibly, the kid flushed even redder with embarrassment. "Oh, forgive me! I was so excited to meet you. I got a little overzealous," he fumbled, moving the child to his left arm so he could offer his hand to the necromancer, a rare occurrence.
He accepted the handshake amicably as Piri continued to explain. After all, it wasn't every day a Priest of Rathma was greeted so enthusiastically. If anything, he was more accustomed to kids Piri's age either running away screaming or gazing at him with the same loathing most adults taught them.
"Let's say we all have a mutual friend...a certain scholar who arrived a few days ago."
Few days ago?
Maybe he had been in Ashwold longer than he thought. The place had been blanketed in endless night by the Darkness and corruption of the shard and Lethes' power.
"Our friend asked us to greet you when you arrived. Listen, Charsi's the one you want to speak with. She runs the forge and blacksmith shop in Rakkis Plaza. You can't miss it, and you can hear her hammer all the way across the square. She'll take you to his workshop."
The younger child was squirming to be let down again. Turning his attention back to the child, Piri finished with a hasty, "Welcome to Westmarch, and good luck!"
"Thank you," he replied as Piri pulled the curious little child away from the shiny weaponry he was carrying.
That was an unexpected but rather pleasant exchange. Still, he was tired. He was barely upright at this point. This Charsi would have to wait. Though he hadn't been in Westmarch city in some time, and he'd never stayed very long, a memory of an inn and tavern on the west side of the city came to mind. It was the rougher sort of place where sailors and pirates from the western docks often hung out. But it was the perfect place to stay for someone not wanting to be noticed. And, right now, a Priest of Rathma walking down the street in broad daylight in armor attracted a lot of attention. The fact that his armor was still covered in reeking gore wasn't likely to help. As he recalled, the tavern had a mixed clientele that included both locals and even pirates. It would do nicely, provided they even let him in the door at all.
Skirting the bustling and busy Rakkis Plaza to the west, he did, indeed, hear a smith's hammer hard at work across the square. Well, finding this Charsi shouldn't be a problem. But, it was still a problem for tomorrow. Making his way down the less crowded and much smaller road, he spotted a group of drunken pirates hanging around just outside the tavern's door. He knew his memory had served him well. The thuggish, filthy pirates milling about, talking, and even passing around bottles of liquor saw him coming. Hoping to avoid contact altogether, he never broke stride as he moved to maneuver through them. Most of them backed away quickly upon recognizing him for what he was. He let his cold, intimidating gaze fall on each one.
Then, the inevitable happened. Like anyone filled to the brim with liquid courage, someone just had to be stupid enough to challenge him. He was one to always avoid confrontations such as these whenever possible. Engaging in such things never benefited anyone, and he would have to spend every waking moment answering those challenges if he gave in. Eyeing the small crowd as he approached, he made a mental note of the skinny, grubby little man who wanted to block his path. Like any pack animals, there were always one or two larger ones that directed the rest of the pack. Find that one, and the problem was simple. Unfortunately, many who feared or hated necromancers also knew that the Priests of Rathma had a code that didn't allow for unnecessary violence or bloodshed and thought they could get away with a lot.
Priests of Rathma were nothing like the usual religious zealots that roamed city streets, as these men would soon find out. While the scarred little man waved his broken bottle threateningly at him, Pyresong paused calmly just out of reach. There were two possibilities. One larger one on the left and one on the right. Either could be his real target.
"I only wish to get food and rest. I request that you move aside, sir," he said politely.
The thug on the left called out. "He's got some nice hardware, boys."
There is the leader. Outed himself.
He couldn't have stopped the wicked smile that appeared had he wanted to. He let his unnatural, glowing, magical eyes take in the drunk before him. For one second, the man was unnerved enough to step back, and he had hoped that would be the end of it. But, no, the fool was entirely too drunk to realize just how much danger he was really in. Pyresong let a trickle of power flow into his hands until they glowed slightly green as he lifted them as if to defend himself.
"Ha ha," the thug on the left laughed. "Whatcha gonna do? Tickle him to death?"
This ringleader should have realized just how bad of an idea it was to toy with a necromancer. Either he was too drunk or too stupid to realize that no one laughed with him. Pyresong was utterly still, wearing his predatory smile of anticipation. The indecisive seconds stretched on.
Just when he thought he'd have to make the first move, the drunk with the broken bottle finally stumbled forward threateningly. Instead of dealing with the attacker, he unleashed his prepared spell that he rarely ever used: wraith form. For a few seconds, he was a ghost. No substance, nothing anyone could even get a hold of. But his spin brought him around behind the stupid thug that had been egging on the little guy. Resuming physical form, he drew his scythe as he kicked the big brute in the back so hard the thug sprawled on his belly. Not enough time to get his hands down, first, either. It was a full belly flop that knocked the wind out of him. By the time he was even aware of being on the ground, Pyresong had the blade of his scythe nestled neatly around his exposed throat. He looked up at the now-frozen group of drunks. With his left hand, he held a fistful of the thug's greasy hair, making sure everyone could very clearly see how tight the blade was against his throat.
"In defense of one's life, deadly force can be used. That is an obvious law anywhere in Sanctuary," he addressed the group as they stared at him in wide-eyed terror. "What you need to understand is that a Priest of Rathma won't simply kill you and let you die. We can resurrect your corpse with the spirit still trapped inside and enslave you for as long as we wish to see you suffer."
The gasps of horror all around him told him he'd made his point. The thug with the bottle staggered away. A couple of others started running toward the docks. Carefully, he withdrew the scythe and stepped back, placing it neatly back on his belt.
"That will conclude your cultural lesson for today, gentlemen."
Stepping right over the thug, he kept his wicked grin as he watched the others scramble to get out of the way. Just as he passed the last one, he smelled the distinct odor of fresh feces.
Well, they shouldn't be a problem anymore, he thought with satisfaction.
Though, he did wish it hadn't come to that in the first place. Still, drunken pirates were a lot easier to deal with than wealthy merchants and nobles. The wealthy were always far more problematic. They almost always had the money to steer the city watch wherever they wanted, including setting up a Priest of Rathma as a target to be arrested for "disturbing the peace". If not outright arrested, he was almost always escorted forcefully out of whatever city. Thankfully, he had learned some tricks and skills in recent years that he hoped not to have to use this time.
When he crossed the threshold of the door and into the main dining room, he spied the bartender actually cleaning behind the bar. At this little surprise, he paused and took notice of the overall dining room. It was much cleaner than he remembered. Many of the patrons appeared to be people who lived comfortably, though not wealthy. It explained a lot about why the drunks were outside instead of inside. Yes, the place had been much improved over the years, he was happy to see.
New owners? his tired mind wondered briefly. No matter.
He quickly shook off these stray thoughts as he fixed his serene mask firmly in place. Right now, his focus was the bartender who was actually cleaning something. The fact that he was actually cleaning something was a welcome surprise. With any luck, this place wouldn't be infested with lice or bedbugs. He could only pray.
"Excuse me, sir," he addressed, stepping up to the bar.
The bartender glanced up, did a double-take, and then went back to cleaning a shelf under the bar. He couldn't help being amused. Most who did the double-take glance didn't stop staring for some time. Either the man knew what he was, or he was completely disinterested.
"What do you need?" he asked, not unkindly.
Well, so far so good, he thought, hoping it wasn't an early indication of a refusal.
"I would like to inquire about a room for a couple of days," he explained.
Despite not knowing for certain how long he might be here, he hoped the man needed the money badly enough not to refuse him and by indicating a short stay. There was no mistaking his white face and hair, even in the plain clothes he would normally wear while inside a city. It marked him out as a necromancer more accurately than wearing a tattoo on his forehead. Nobody wanted a Priest of Rathma around for any length of time.
Bad for business, he thought with a snicker. He kept that thought to himself.
"Two gold per day for the room. Three meals a day, one gold. Bath, one gold," the man answered promptly, standing up to face him across the bar.
Decently priced, he commented to himself as he reached for his purse.
He was far more accustomed to being overcharged by obscene amounts everywhere he went. This felt entirely like normal pricing he would expect of common citizens. For one, suspicious heartbeat, he wondered if there was an ulterior motive. It wouldn't be the first time a tavern owner had welcomed him only to set him up for robbery later. He forcefully stifled those suspicious thoughts he knew were likely a product of his tired mind.
"And I suppose you charge extra for the skeletons?" he asked, attempting some levity.
"All summoning is forbidden on the property," the man replied with a grin, appreciating his sense of humor. "Can't have demons upsetting customers, now can we?"
He chuckled at that. He was relieved to know that he would not have to seek other accommodations in even shadier parts of town. More to the point, the man had in no way attempted to gouge his purse, as almost all other vendors inevitably did. At the moment, he was willing to pay any price for a bath and some food. Safety was always negotiable. Handing over the gold, he requested a couple bottles of wine, and more later. Public city water wells were the worst, and he hadn't dared fill his skins in that corrupted and putrid land within Ashwold.
"Bathing room is last door at the very end of the hall. Your room is second on the right once you leave the upstairs landing. Meals are available in the kitchen or an available table whenever you like."
"Thank you. It's most appreciated," he replied, taking his two bottles of weak wine and heading for the stairs.
As always, the loathing and fearful stares followed him as a tense silence descended upon the dining room at his passing through. He was just too tired to even really take note of it. If there was someone there who wished him harm, he could deal with them when he was cleaned, redressed, fed, and rested.
At this time of day, the bathing room and all its tubs were blessedly empty. He was in no mood to deal with anyone right now. In the nearby corner to his right waited a young boy and girl with robes and soap and other necessary items. He had no idea at this point just how many days he had actually spent in his clothes and armor since leaving Wortham. He would have to remember to ask Cain when he met him. Needless to say, he was the kind of filthy these kids almost never encountered. The little girl gave him a wide-eyed look and polite curtsy before scurrying away to sit outside in case a woman needed her help. While he placed his items in a corner and began to remove his armor, the still wide-eyed boy began to draw a privacy curtain around this section of the baths.
"Are you a Priest of Rathma?" the boy finally found the courage to ask.
"Yes," he replied simply
He began to peel off his sticky clothing. He didn't even want to think about what was on them besides sweat and blood. He was too tired to think about it. It would all have to be dealt with later when he could actually think again.
"Third tub on that side is the hottest. I just refilled it," the boy explained, moving toward that tub with soap and other things.
"Thank you," he accepted gratefully.
He watched the boy out of the corner of his eye. He began to relax slightly when he realized the kid wasn't about to run away in fear of him. Catching sight of the child's wide-eyed wonder at all the scars crisscrossing his body, he grinned. He could already envision the kid's mind racing away.
"Ask away, little one."
The boy fidgeted uncertainly for a few seconds while he lowered himself into a bath so hot it was almost painful. He sighed with contentment as the heat eased his aching muscles. The boy ran back, fetched a brush he'd forgotten, and came back in silence.
"You have questions?" he prompted again as he began to vigorously scrub away the multiple layers of filth and much of his own blood.
"Does it hurt?" the boy finally practically exploded with his one question, motioning to all the scars.
He couldn't help a soft laugh. Of all the things...
"More than I would like. An injury is the same to me as it is to anyone else."
For a while, the boy was silent, this time more contemplative than afraid. After all, the big scary necromancer hadn't just turned him into undead for asking something.
"Do you really help people..." he struggled for the words, "rest in peace, even if they died...wrong?"
He continued scrubbing for a second. Not an uncommon question from an adult, but a boy of maybe six?
"Who was it?" he finally asked.
"My brother. He...drowned. Only, my ma said he was killed by pirates. She says she can hear him when she goes down there."
"I see," he said neutrally. He was accustomed to the hysterics of a bereaved family member after a passing. "Do you go down there with her?"
"No, she won't let any of us near the rocks anymore. Too dangerous, she says."
He thought for a moment, "Where is this place?"
"It's just north of the western docks. We used to play out there all the time. But pirates have sort of moved in."
"Then your mother is absolutely right. Children shouldn't go near there. It's too dangerous. But I will look into it for you."
The boy beamed a grateful smile. "Thank you! Maybe Ma will listen to you."
He ducked his head beneath the water for a few seconds, scrubbing his hair and face vigorously. Oh, how good it felt to be warm and clean again! After he'd wiped away some of the water from his face and smoothed back his hair—a bit longer than he would like, at the moment—the boy came back with a razor. Pyresong waved him off for now and just lay back with his head resting on the edge of the metal tub. For a couple of minutes, he just let the warmth soak through him. Feeling himself dozing off, he suddenly wished the child would ask more questions. At least to keep him awake for a bit longer.
"Are you afraid to ask?" he finally said, not even bothering to open his eyes.
"Yes, sir."
He chuckled again. "Priests of Rathma do not go around cursing people for asking questions. Ask away."
"What is The Balance?"
Again, such an odd question from one so young. Not, "How do you summon zombies?" or "How do you curse someone?" But how to explain such a thing to a child? He thought for a few seconds, his mind sluggishly tired, before finding the words to answer. His eyes opened a little bit; he turned them to see the child out of the corners, not wanting to disturb his blessedly comfortable position.
"You realize that day follows night?" The boy nodded. "And there can be no night without a day?" He nodded. "The Balance is like the light and the darkness. There's always a balance in all things. Good and evil. Light and darkness. Heaven and Hell. Everything has a balance. And when the power of one shifts too far, the other can be lost. An imbalance has many side effects. But, essentially, an overbalance of dark or evil will destroy itself. And an overbalance of light or good will stagnate and decay. We help to maintain that balance in all things as we can. Mostly, to keep our world stable."
The boy's dark brown eyes wandered far away as he processed this. "Then necromancers can be good or bad, and that's okay?"
He grinned at the boy. A simple thought from a young mind. But he was not entirely off the mark.
"No, not quite. We are charged with keeping the Balance, balanced. More often than not, evil and darkness find their ways in to push the balance of Light to weakness. In most cases, we find ourselves fighting against the evil, not helping it. Though, there have been some cases where we were on what people considered 'the wrong side' of the scales. It is much too complex to easily explain or illustrate verbally."
With a yawn, he shook off his lethargy and stretched thoroughly. Yes, he felt so much better. He grinned at the boy as the child returned with a scratchy but dry robe.
"Want to join up? I know where there's a master not too far away."
Now, the child knew he was teasing, and took it in stride. "I might consider it. Just have to ask my ma first."
He chuckled one more time as he ruffled the kid's hair affectionately. Though he had no children of his own and absolutely no desire for them, he always felt a special place in his heart for them. They were never a bother to him, no matter how curious.
"Want to earn some gold?" he asked the boy.
The child's eyes widened. "Yeah!"
He dug a few coins out of his bag. "Fetch me a meal from the kitchen. I'm in the second room to the right of the stair landing."
"Got it, sir! I'll be right back."
"No hurry," he called as the boy flung open the door and ran out.
He smiled warmly to himself. Yes, he was feeling much more himself now. Sometimes, it was hard to shake off the wary, almost paranoid combat mindset after prolonged periods. And, for some Priests of Rathma, they chose to live in isolation away from all living people because they were more comfortable with the dead than the living. He mused on this as he dressed himself. That had been the path he'd chosen for himself before the late night visitor had come that long-ago night. It felt like a lifetime ago now. It really was another life. And one he'd struggled to leave behind. His first few encounters with living people on his own had not gone well at all. But, he had learned much and adapted. Though, he still didn't have anyone inside or outside the priesthood he considered a friend.
He laughed at himself mentally. Now he knew he was beyond even just tired. His mind always had a tendency to wander off on irrelevant tangents when he needed sleep. He sometimes ended up in some places he had no intention of ever exploring again. He shoved it all aside.
Food. Sleep. He reminded himself firmly, again feeling lucky he'd made it this far without a serious incident involving his untameable mouth.
Dressed in fresh clothing and yawning, he gathered up his filthy clothing and armor. It had waited this long. Another day and night wouldn't make a difference. Besides, he knew for a certainty it would need repairs this time; no quick cleaning and light maintenance this time. The breastplates had clearly buckled on one side.
Food and sleep. The only things he cared about right now. Moments after setting his damaged armor in the corner of his room, he heard a polite knock on the door frame since the door was still open. The little boy was carrying a tray so loaded down with food, Pyresong wondered how the kid managed to carry it. Quickly, he moved to take it off the boy's straining hands. He almost commented that it was way too much, but his belly chose that moment to speak for him. They both laughed over the silly noise.
"One more thing," he caught the boy before he left. "Keep your ears open. Let me know if you hear anyone talking about me or asking questions about me."
"Someone looking for you?" he asked excitedly.
"Nothing like what you're thinking," he said with a grin to allay the boy's suspicions. "People notice Priests of Rathma. We're not particularly welcome in most places. I'll only be here a couple of days. But if you overhear something that might be a...problem for me, let me know. If someone asks for me by name, I am Master Pyresong. And I can be reached at Elder Cain's workshop."
"Cain? That crazy old coot?"
He frowned slightly, and the boy flushed crimson from his neck to his ears.
"He is a bit unusual," he admitted. "But so am I. He's a scholar, nothing more."
"Sorry, sir."
He replied in a soothing tone. "Just bear in mind that it was rude, even if he wasn't here to witness it. And being rude is a simple man's way of thinking. Gentlemen and intelligent people are always polite. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," the boy mumbled, staring at his scuffed shoes.
"Enough of that. A simple lesson, and one easily remembered," he said, ruffling the boy's hair again. "I'm starving, and you've got work to do. Good day."
"Good day, sir!" he said, beaming happily once more as he ran energetically down the hall back to his post in the bathing room.
Before he even closed the door, he could already hear the boy whispering excitedly to the little girl all about the big, scary necromancer. He couldn't help another grin.
***
After he finished almost the entirety of the overloaded tray the boy had brought him—he still wondered how he'd managed to get it up the stairs—Pyresong put his gear in front of the door so that it would wake him if anyone tried to enter. Then slept soundly. For him, it was a deep and sound sleep. Even at his most exhausted, his ears monitored his surroundings. Footsteps in the hall. The voices downstairs in the dining room. Even the rattle of dice in a room down the hall from him. He was used to sleeping in the open more often than in a bed these days. And, whenever possible, he would keep a skeletal warrior summoned to stand guard over him while he slept. It only took a tiny bit of concentration. And that, honestly, kept him from sleeping too deeply to be aware as well.
It was a deep, dreamless sleep that only someone completely exhausted beyond all measure experiences. His mind and body desperately needed it. He slept through the afternoon and through most of the night. When he awoke feeling much refreshed, it was nearing sunrise. The rain had stopped, by the sounds of it. Probably too early for breakfast, too. This was one of those rare times he cherished, when it seemed the world was at peace. There was no one around for him to require his usual serene facade. There were no demands of his attention or time. He knew it was only an illusion, but it was one he was happy to embrace for a little while longer.
He took a meditative position in the middle of the clean floor, with his legs crossed comfortably and his feet tucked underneath his knees. He rested his hands on top of his knees and relaxed his shoulders. He wasn't entirely surprised to find some lingering tension in his body. One by one, he located and released them until he was completely relaxed. His mind was completely clear, and he let his thoughts wander where they would.
Meditation was taught in the many monasteries of various religions and orders, in a variety of styles, and for a number of reasons. There were too many types even to count them all. Thanks to his master's gentle encouragement, Pyresong used it both to focus himself and to allow himself to explore all the things he didn't and couldn't have time to deal with while engaged in his work. Random thoughts that were a distraction, emotional upheavals, whatever he didn't want to confront or deal with at the time. It all sort of fell into the category of meditation for him. He always started by completely clearing all thoughts, placing himself in an emotionless and thoughtless void. Then, he let whatever rose to the surface come to the fore to be explored, dissected, analyzed, experienced fully, or resolved. Fully relaxed and empty of thought and emotion, he relaxed his internal barriers, holding everything back.
At first, it was a pinpoint of color, a tiny spark and a whisper of something...dark. His own thoughts? He was, after all, still recovering from the encounter with the cultists and Lethes. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had evil thoughts of vengeance, wearing a facade of justice under a mask of Rathma's teachings.
All those poor villagers...
Out of nowhere, the face of Skarn, made of blood and fire, assaulted him. Though he was not aware of it, his whole body flinched. Yes, Skarn. He was behind the cultists that tormented Wortham. All those innocents, slain in the name of a demon with grandiose dreams, calling himself the Lord of Damnation. Again, flashes of the innocent bodies of men, women, and children flashed through his mind. He mourned for each of them. He examined each emotion, distant though they were right now. Every necromancer dealt with things in his or her own way. Many became numb to things like grief and no longer mourned anything. Many told themselves it was all just part of the Cycle and the Balance and ultimately didn't mean anything on an individual level.
Not Pyresong.
He had never been able to master that cold detachment in his life. He could force control while in the situation. He could override most things with carefully directed anger or even rage at times. He could put on a show of serenity that would make monks jealous. But those other things were always there, lurking in the shadows of his heart. Sooner or later, he had to deal with them. He always had to deal with them. This kind of meditation was how he accomplished that without going mad with grief or rage.
This thought led his mind back to Wortham. He wondered how they were getting on. Had the cultists returned? He felt something tugging to get his attention, but he couldn't bring it to the fore. Settling himself mentally and emotionally again, he started over. Something was poking around the edges of his consciousness. Some stray thought? Something he didn't want to remember? Something tied to Wortham and the cultists, certainly. But what?
He reached for it as it slipped away in the darkness again and again. It was a frustratingly elusive thing to grasp. He was just about to let it go and move on when the sensation tickled the edges of his mind again. Focusing on whatever it was, he mentally reached for it and grasped it as firmly as he could.
He instantly regretted it.
Startled, he gasped, and his body twitched violently as he flung the thing away from himself and slammed his mental doors. It was the shard! It had tried to find a way in, and he had nearly embraced it! Slightly shaken, but more angry at his interrupted meditations, he glared at the bag and the box within. He would be rid of it soon.
Then, he became aware of the time. The whole tavern was stirring, and it sounded like the dining room was full. How? Heaving a sigh, he chalked up his lack of awareness of time to the distraction. He'd likely been playing a mental game of cat and mouse with that damned shard for a couple of hours.
No matter, he thought, stretching. Time to get moving.
Carefully, he bundled his armor and clothing into a sheet he kept just for that purpose. Rarely did he have to carry them anywhere while this filthy. He almost always cleaned them as soon as he removed them. But, experience had taught him he either needed a second, larger backpack for these rare occasions or a sheet. Carrying them any other way would get him just as filthy all over again. Besides, he was in a city. He could take all of it plenty of places for cleaning and repair. Briefly, he considered having the bath boy, Jack, deal with it. He had been through a lot the last few...days? A week? More? But it definitely needed more than just a thorough cleaning. At the very least, his front and back plates were buckled in places on the left side.
Charsi... he mused. Why not?
In a bit of a hurry, he decided to have a seat at a table in the farthest corner for breakfast. It was a simple but hearty porridge he rather enjoyed. There had been moments the day before when he wondered if the appetite made the food taste better than it really was. If this porridge was any indication, the cook was good at their job and not just passing off barely edible items.
Pleasantly full, he again hefted his bundle and went out into the early morning sunshine. He breathed deeply and took in the sounds of life all around him. Wearing his usual clothes instead of his armor, it wasn't quite as easy to tell him apart in the crowd. Common black leather boots with obvious wear, black leather trousers, a dark green linen shirt, and a black leather vest helped him to blend in. The downside was the hair and skin. After working with necromancy for some years, it always went white. All except for Rathma. Many had tried to explain it over the years, and some had even taken to dying their hair. But he really didn't care about what others thought of his appearance. A simple robe and hood would suffice if he ever needed to disguise himself. Speaking of hair, he had meant to cut it again before he left the inn. He'd have to remember to do that later.
Just as he reached the western edge of Rakkis Plaza, he heard the ringing of a blacksmith's hammer and mallet going full tilt across the way. Taking in all the various sights, shops, people, and things crowding the plaza, he casually wove his way through the large plaza following the sound of what he assumed was Charsi's hammer. The plaza was not so crowded that he couldn't see her from halfway across. Standing near the monument in the center of the plaza, he paused to watch. The forge and shop were a large open-air affair with a few awnings pulled aside that could be put up to avoid the rain. It looked impressive and very busy. Stuff being worked on and stuff ready for pickup surrounded the area. From a distance, he appreciated several of the decorative items, like gates and weather vanes. The assortment of practical items like nails and barrel hoops littered one side, ready for sale. Behind the main anvil was a woman with her head down working on a hunk of metal glowing almost white with heat. Behind her and the anvil stood a very impressive display of weapons and armor. Well-made, sharp, and shiny. So many pieces and such intricate detail. His magical sight even picked up a trace of magic on several of them.
He paused several feet away and used his burden as an excuse just to stand back and watch for a few seconds. His eyes focused on the woman pounding some steel into shape. Her short reddish brown hair was hard to miss. The lean, clean lines of her muscles rippled as she worked with bare arms. Though Pyresong had never worked in a forge or smithy, he knew it could be hot work. Still, it seemed impractical to go around with bare arms and all those sparks flying.
After a minute, he knew if he stood there much longer, he would begin to draw attention. Hefting his makeshift sack over his shoulder again, he approached. Despite Piri's greeting the day before, he still wasn't certain what kind of reception he would get here or with her. But, if she would get him to Cain's workshop, he would watch his mouth and play nice for the locals.
Charsi, despite being engrossed at her work, nodded to him in acknowledgment of his presence, though her eyes never left the work in front of her. He waited several seconds for her to finish and placed the bar of steel back in the coals behind her. At least he didn't get the immediate impression she was ignoring him in the hopes he would just go away. She smiled broadly as she turned back to him. He was surprised to see her smiling, though her expression clearly told him she recognized him as a necromancer. She appeared more curious and welcoming than disgusted or afraid.
"What can I do for you, friend?" she asked cheerfully.
"Excuse me, but are you Charsi? A young man on the bridge implied you could help me find someone."
Charsi's expression of relief surprised him. "I was worried when you didn't show up yesterday. Piri came by the forge and said he'd met you. I didn't want to tell Cain you'd disappeared on us and worry him, too."
Understanding her concern, he couldn't help feeling a bit guilty. "My apologies. I was in no condition when I arrived. As you'll soon see."
"Oh?"
Sliding the bundle gently to the ground, he began to untie the knots. He was more than a little relieved to sense he could at least trust her with his gear. He didn't get the sense that she would turn him away or worse.
"I hope you have some apprentices that could use a little extra work and coin."
Moving around the anvil, Charsi stared wide-eyed at the pile of armor, the shield, the scythe. Catching the smell off of them and the clothing underneath, she backed up a step in obvious disgust. He just barely repressed a grin at her face.
"Whew! What have you been doing?" She turned to a man standing to their right. "Yverius, can you go fetch Tomas? I've got some work for him."
"Sure thing!" a young man called heading away across the plaza.
Charsi's curiosity almost overruled her disgust. Almost. He could tell she was itching to see what he actually had under all that gore and filth. The one thing he kept wrapped separately was the scythe he'd found when fighting Lethes' simulacrum. That he would take to Cain to inspect. Not wanting to draw too much attention to his obvious telltale gear, he wrapped them up and tied them in the sheet once more. The last thing he needed was a confrontation in this busy place.
"What happened?" Charsi asked, again.
"I don't know how much we can speak about out here. But undead, demons, cultists, twisted animals, and a few other things."
"Gotcha. Well, I'll take a look at it once it's been cleaned up. I can do repairs, upgrades, enhancements, pretty much anything you need."
"Most appreciated. How much do I owe you?"
She waved it off. "The way Cain tells it, you saved an entire village. You've more than earned it. Besides, I won't know for sure until I get a good look at it. Might as well do it all at once."
He had initially asked the question out of reflex. Any blacksmith willing to even speak with him typically threw out a number so high they expected him to just walk away. Often they were either irritated or surprised when he quickly gave in. But he only ever used their services when he was downright desperate, anyway. He hadn't expected this Charsi to be any different. And he wasn't pleased with her hinting at not accepting payment. Still, he understood now was not the time to discuss it. He disliked being in debt to anyone, and arguing would accomplish nothing. Besides, his long, nimble fingers had learned a few non-magical tricks for times like these.
"As for my disappearance, I can only apologize and beg your forgiveness. I needed a rest and a bath," he told her with a grin.
"So I see," she smirked. "You're here, though! Cain is going to be so happy you arrived. He's been very worried about you. I don't know what kind of reception you got trying to get in here with all the refugees pouring in from Khanduras, but I welcome you to Westmarch. Grand place, isn't it?"
He cocked a single eyebrow in amusement. "Yes, Westmarch...a city that has never been a true friend to the Priests of Rathma."
A bit of Charsi's enthusiasm bled away, and she flushed slightly. "Well..."
He hadn't meant to discomfit the poor woman. Though she looked only maybe a few years younger than him, her cheerful enthusiasm and energy made her seem much younger. Quickly, he changed the subject.
"I would like to reach Elder Cain as soon as possible," he prompted.
Charsi's smile returned full blast. "Of course!"
It seemed it didn't take much to keep her spirits up. She hefted the bundle in one arm and put it behind her anvil. She gave another apprentice working the bellows some instructions. She eyed her ongoing projects and shook her head. Clearly, she wanted to come with him but was in the middle of some things. She smiled again as she came back.
"Cain has a workshop over to the left of the Central Square. Go up the stairs to the fountain and take the first road to the left. It'll be the second door on the right between two other buildings."
"Thank you."
"Tell Cain as soon as I finish up here, I'll join you two. I might even give you a proper introduction to the city!"
He nodded noncommittally and turned his steps to follow Charsi's directions. Mentally, he shook his head. Such enthusiasm. And it would seem she really did feel love and pride for Westmarch. He almost wished he could say the same. It really was a grand city full of life and art and music and everything that makes civilization what it is. But it also had its darker side, as does any city. Thieves, thugs, murderers, and other human filth; some of the worst filth being the wealthy and nobility. And his first experience in the city several years ago had ended abruptly when a wealthy merchant refused him service and then reported him to the guards as intimidating and driving away potential customers. Two well-paid city watch guards escorted him out of the city. The man would never know how much money he had lost.
Pyresong was by no means wealthy, but he was very generous with what he had. Haggling was something he never bothered with. Even when he knew he was being outright cheated, he played ignorant and gave whatever price they asked. He had adopted this behavior in part because of that merchant. Besides, it was just money. Rarely was he ever paid for his work, but it was exceedingly common to find items of value or even coins on the bodies of bandits and other riffraff that had attacked him along the road. He'd even found a couple of caches hoarded by bandits and murderers over the years. Of course, any direct transaction was always cheaper than having to hunt down and use a black market dealer willing to accept money from a Priest of Rathma.
He took his time and walked at a comfortable stroll; he could literally keep up all day and night. He took in the art and architecture all around him. He felt well and whole again for the first time since arriving at Wortham, however long ago it was now. And, at least for the moment, he felt wonderfully anonymous as people bustled by on their own business, not even noticing him. Unfortunately, standing well over six feet tall, he tended to draw looks even while in plain clothing. The few that did take notice of his white face and hair, he pretended not to see. It was much easier to get someone of wealth or influence to disregard your presence when you appeared to disregard them. Most of the wealthy didn't want to be seen with a Priest of Rathma, even if it was to tell him to get out of their city. And, of course, the wealthy would do anything to avoid a public scandal, like the whispers of being seen talking to an obvious necromancer.
Still, he noted each one that stopped to stare and memorized their faces out of the corner of his eyes. For the most part, he saw only disgust. They were brief but clearly there. Disgust and fear were typically good indicators of someone passing by with more important things to deal with. The ones that stopped and stared, regardless of expression—or lack thereof—were the ones to keep an eye on. They were the ones that would wander off to alert the city watch. And, of course, he was currently in one of the wealthier sections of the city, so very close to the palace. Almost everyone he passed that wasn't an obvious servant in livery had the ear of someone higher up.
When he passed through the Central Square, he was slightly surprised to realize the vague, serene smile he always wore when trying to blend in was actually genuine. Despite the gravity of his mission, he was rather enjoying the day and the walk in the fresh air and sunshine. Here, the city's wealth in its every facade was in plain view. Over the centuries, this area had been built up with lovingly carved stone and carefully tended wood that practically glowed in the sunlight. The reflection of the sunlight off some of the white marble was almost blinding. He couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of this courtyard and its surrounding structures. The fountain in the center burbled and rippled with the soothing murmur of running water. Even the long-dead tree in the center of the fountain somehow added to the beauty of this place.
Why is it when traveling on foot all over the world, the only walks that are truly memorable are the miserable ones? he mused to himself, actively trying to remember pleasant walks in forests and meadows. Not that he could recall more than a handful.
Rounding the corner from Central Square onto this unnamed street, he had no problem identifying Cain's workshop door. Nothing special stood out on the door itself. But his magical eyes could easily make out the aura of powerful magic wards and even possibly some shielding. Out of curiosity, he tried that trick of concentration he'd taught himself while going after King Leoric in the Unformed Land. He was pleased to see that he could clearly make out invisible sigils and seals of warding and protection. He had no idea what any of them really were or how to read them, of course. But he knew demonic writing when he saw it. And this was not it. This could be a very useful skill indeed.
When he knocked on the door firmly, he felt the tingle of magic. Curiously, it clung to his hand for an extra moment before fading away. On the other side, he distinctly heard Cain's muffled voice calling for patience. He simply waited for the old man to make his way to the door.
"Master Pyresong!" Cain cried happily, flinging the door open wide. "Come in! Come in!"
His first glance of this workshop was one of coziness. Bachelor though the man was, obviously someone helped him. The place was clean and free of dust but cluttered almost beyond belief with books, scrolls, parchments, bottles of ink, and quills galore. Across the room from the door was a single window facing northwest with a table so loaded with parchments and books it was hard to see the wood beneath. Bookcases were on every wall. To his right, a cheerful fire blazed in the small hearth, despite the warm and sunny day. A painting of a woman, an infant, and a man stood above the mantel. In the center of the room was a large round rug. On top of that, some strange rectangular object covered in more invisible sigils and writing. It felt heavily shielded and warded. But otherwise appeared to be some kind of small pedestal. For what, he had no idea. Off to the right of the room was a door that was even more heavily shielded. Behind him, to his left, along the wall beside the door, was a bed.
"Welcome, friend," Cain greeted warmly, taking his hand as a friend rather than the more formal bows. "I'm glad to see you made it here safely."
Once again, Pyresong was taken a little off his guard by the man's sincerity and warmth. He relaxed just a bit as Cain squeezed his hand firmly once more. Then, the old scholar's expression turned a bit grim.
"We'd heard some...rumors out of Ashwold. Terrible news. Were you able to get the Worldstone shard?"
He was equally grim as he reached into his satchel and withdrew the warded box.
"Indeed. And with every step, I have felt its power tug at my soul," he confessed, not bothering to hide his disgust. "I'm glad to be rid of it."
Cain's bushy white eyebrows shot up at the sight of the little box. He took the box in his wrinkled hands delicately, inspecting it closely.
"Where did you get this?"
"Master Xul had it ready. He planned to use it when he took the Worldstone shard from Lethes."
Cain's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. Then he laughed, "Clever. I gave him this some years ago when he needed a way to contain a legendary gem of demonic origins."
He nodded. His curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to run with it in a vague way. Despite the multitude of questions he wanted to ask about Cain and whether or not Xul was the priest of now legendary status involving the Prime Evils a few years ago, he wasn't quite ready to interrogate the old man in his own home.
"He knew, though. He knew it was a Worldstone shard."
As if sensing Pyresong's curiosity, Cain grinned almost mischievously. "Yes, he had quite some experience with unholy relics and demonic artifacts. He would be able to sense it and figure out what it was powering Lethes' mad plans." Cain's face crumpled with sorrow. "His own apprentice..."
"Master Xul knows the shard isn't entirely to blame for this. Lethes went rogue even before the shard called to her. She forsook her oaths in her ambition for power. He will deal with her, and his own heartbreak, in his own way," he said gently.
Cain's expression was still etched in sadness. Clearly, Xul was more than just a professional acquaintance to the old scholar. Before Pyresong could think on it too deeply, though, the old man shook his head and refocused his concerned eyes on Pyresong.
"You said it tugged at your soul?"
He wasn't exactly ashamed, but it wasn't pleasant to think about. At least it seemed the old man wasn't judging him for it too harshly. More than likely, he had experienced other similar artifacts and understood their power.
"Yes, insidiously. Power, ambition, lust, greed. It tried so many different tactics, even while in that shielded box. Xul said he could feel it, too. Unshielded, it must be like a beacon to men and demons alike."
"It is. And I feared I would be followed or detected, even in this workshop. I have created a...safe of sorts. Inside that shielded pedestal. It seems no one else can sense them when they're in there."
Cain knelt down beside the pedestal base and did something with his glowing hands that Pyresong didn't catch, but a door opened in the side of it. Instantly, he felt it again. That tugging, but more urgently. It scraped across his mental barriers with icy, invisible claws. Startled, his breath caught, and he stepped back away from it reflexively, mentally denying it and reinforcing his barriers. Cain tucked the box and shard it inside the cavity before sealing it up again quickly. Having noticed Pyresong's reactive movements, he spun around in concern. His bushy eyebrows raised.
"Are you all right?" Cain asked, his bushy brows furrowed.
He took a deep breath, regaining his equilibrium quickly. He shook off all those unexpected and chilling sensations and nodded to reassure the old man.
"Yes, it was just...unexpected...and powerful."
"I suspect a sort of rudimentary sentience. It sensed you quite easily and took advantage of the moment. I think they know we're trying to destroy them."
He nodded grimly, relieved. For one heartbeat, he half expected Cain to tell him he was the weak target here. And it was true. He had no real experience with evil artifacts of any kind. And these shards were a whole new level of corrupted power in themselves. Still, he wasn't afraid to admit the assault had shaken him.
"Come! Have a seat by the fire," Cain said, waving toward a set of comfortable rocking chairs near the fireplace, one clearly used frequently. "I'll get some tea ready. I'm certain it was no easy task to acquire this shard. I want to hear every detail. The information I was able to get was fragmented, at best, and useless, at worst."
Obeying Cain's wishes, he seated himself in the obviously less-used rocking chair to the right of the fireplace and waited patiently while the elderly scholar puttered around with a kettle and cups. He stared into the soothing flames of the fire, various thoughts flitting through his head, most of which he didn't want to contemplate too deeply, ever. He let his eyes roam around, needing something to focus on besides what the shards had just thrown at him. Again, he looked at the painting above the mantel. The man in the painting was vaguely familiar, though he could not recall where from. With that regal bearing, it was likely some noble or family ancestor of Cain's.
Relaxing more than he had intended, he found himself surrounded by a comfortable silence. He was somewhat surprised. Usually, silences were awkward, or someone felt the need to fill them. He was certain the old man was ready to interrogate him thoroughly. Yet, the silence was still easy rather than anticipatory. After a few minutes, Cain presented him with a nice, stout cup of black tea from somewhere in the far east. It was delightfully strong.
"Very nice," he commented.
Cain smiled back from his rocking chair. "Better now?"
"Indeed," he agreed with a hint of a smile. "Thank you."
"I know the power of those shards. Insidious is an apt description," Cain said reassuringly. "Objects like that can take even an ordinary man's thoughts and twist them up until it gets what it wants or drives him mad. You did very well, my friend."
Cain's praise came as no surprise, but the feeling of pride at the praise did. He was almost startled to realize that what this old man thought of him actually mattered. He hadn't felt that kind of pride since the days of his apprenticeship, so very long ago. Before he could explore these thoughts and feelings further, Cain brought the subject back on point.
"Sadly, there is no simple answer on how to destroy objects this powerful. For now, we must just keep them out of sight. I will keep with my research for now."
He just nodded and sipped his tea. He had already expected there was more to this than a couple of shards and some spell to destroy them. That would just be far too easy. Not for the first time since arriving in Wortham, his mind wandered back to the journal in his backpack. He hadn't touched it in years at this point, hoping whatever had happened with Cain and the events leading up to the destruction of the Worldstone meant that events had passed him by completely. They sat in comfortable silence again for a few minutes, the crackling of the fire a pleasant harmony in the background. Cain finished his tea and set aside the cup.
"Will you tell me of the events in Ashwold?" the old scholar asked gently.
That's when it dawned on him that his new acquaintance was asking him to retell events that he knew must be at least on some level disturbing for him to recount. It had all happened because of a rogue Priestess of Rathma, one of his own, and that could be delicate enough. That kind of betrayal could be painful to bear. And then there was Master Xul's privacy and responsibility. How much was his story to tell? His hands fiddled with the cup momentarily in the now anticipatory silence. Cain's insight into the situation was unexpected but welcomed. He finally nodded slowly, coming to a decision.
"I will tell you what is my story to tell. Master Xul will have to fill in the gaps someday."
"Of course, I understand," Cain assured him.
He paused, staring intently at the now empty teacup in his hands.
"Betrayal by one's own is always...difficult. But to have such a betrayal compounded by the sheer destructive power of the shard was...unimaginable," he finally finished, his voice trailing away for a moment. He met Cain's eyes again with intensity. "Those...things are a horror to this world. With it, Lethes strained the Balance almost to the breaking point. The animated undead outnumbered the living. Living people with corrupted souls of their own worked alongside the undead. The few survivors at Guard's Watch..." He looked away again, letting his eyes rest on the dancing fire. "I don't know if they even survived."
Sensing something in those words, the old man reached across the short distance between the chairs to comfort him. Cain patted him on the arm and smiled.
"Captain Azmir sent word to me here in Westmarch with a portal scroll I left for them in Wortham. The enclave of survivors at Guard's Watch was holding out. Suddenly, all the undead just stopped attacking. Of course, there are always a few undead roaming around places like that after such a powerful occurrence. But now they're just shambling corpses. Nothing cohesive or coordinated."
"When was this?"
"Yesterday afternoon," Cain answered and then frowned. "When you didn't arrive yesterday, I was...concerned. The fact that you broke the power holding them was a good sign. But with the scroll I gave you, I expected you long before any official word out of Ashwold or Wortham."
Charsi hadn't been exaggerating. Cain had probably thought the worst, or even the shard's influence over him had taken hold. And Pyresong could see the lines of worry had faded somewhat on the old scholar's face. But there still remained the deep, dark shadows under his eyes. The poor man probably had had very little sleep of his own the last few days. This time, he really felt some guilt for worrying the old man. He had been terribly inconsiderate and selfish.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize."
Cain waved it off, "You're here now and unscathed by the looks of things." His statement had the inflection of a question.
"Recovering nicely," he admitted. "I don't know for certain how long it went on. I know it was evening when I arrived in Ashwold, but the place seemed...trapped in night. It felt like no more than a single, very long night to me. But from the time I left Wortham to when I arrived in Westmarch yesterday, I hadn't slept or eaten. And you don't even want to know what I smelled like," he explained with a quirk to his lips.
Cain chuckled. "I can imagine. But where were you yesterday?"
"The tavern by the western docks. I think they call it the Wolf City Tavern now."
"Oh no, no, my friend. Save your gold. I have a spare room upstairs where you are welcome to stay any time you're in Westmarch."
He was not averse to having a more private and secure place to stay. But, at the same time, he very much valued his privacy. He wasn't sure if Cain was just lonely or if it was just common courtesy in his world. In his experience, a Priest of Rathma had only been invited to stay in someone's home as a vigil while they passed, and most of the time, not even then. Even when working at the behest of villages, he most often found himself sleeping outside the village. They would allow him to bed in a barn on rainy or snowy nights if they were feeling generous.
"I've already had the room aired and readied," Cain told him, seeing him considering. "Besides, I'm sure there are items you'll be carrying back and forth that need a safe place to be kept, even if only temporarily. Who knows how long it will take for me to find an answer?"
Considering the tavern's doors didn't even have locks or bolts, it would be considerably safer, indeed. Reluctantly, he accepted with a nod.
"Very well. Charsi has my gear at the moment. All except for what I'm carrying. Speaking of which...I found this scythe after Lethes' simulacrum was destroyed. I assume it was hers at some point. Xul mentioned you could help identify it and any potentially dangerous properties."
He had nearly forgotten the scythe that Lethes' simulacrum had dropped. Just the mention of a simulacrum had Cain's eyebrows raised. Right now, the scythe was still wrapped safely in leather. He didn't particularly want to touch or handle it until he knew it was safe. When he sat down, he'd set it and his backpack beside the rocking chair.
"Ah, let me see it," Cain said eagerly with a smile.
He couldn't help but grin at seeing the old man's eagerness. He gently placed the leather bundle in the scholar's lap and watched while Cain opened it carefully.
"I used to be quite adept at revealing the properties of magical equipment. You haven't touched it?"
Pyresong shook his head.
"Very wise decision," Cain agreed.
The old man's hands glowed a soft, warm gold as he hovered them above the weapon in his lap. He closed his eyes, and his bushy eyebrows came together while he focused on his hands momentarily. He waited patiently while the old man's hands roamed back and forth across the scythe. Then he gripped it, by the blade. It seemed a little reckless to Pyresong, but he reminded himself that the man knew what we was doing. With a huge grin that wrinkled his face all up, Cain laughed once with a "Ha!" and handed the weapon back, setting aside the leather.
"That is a very powerful piece of weaponry with legendary properties. It is very old, despite its excellent condition. It can increase your skills considerably, as well as reduce the cost of using them. It also has sockets for powerful, legendary gems that you may come across to further enhance skills or damage. I'm not sure if that particular sickle shape is something you prefer to work with since the one you carry is a straight blade, but it is valuable nonetheless. It should fetch a good price in platinum from the market if nothing else."
"Platinum?" he echoed, quite impressed.
"Yes, platinum. If you don't have time to wait around the market to sell it, we can trust Charsi to see you don't get cheated."
"The design is certainly not what I'm accustomed to wielding, but such properties are not easily cast aside. I will consider it. Thank you."
Relieved he wasn't carrying a cursed weapon, he set it aside by the fireplace and resumed his seat in the rocking chair that seemed to grow more comfortable by the minute. He then proceeded to tell as much as he was willing to divulge to the old scholar about the events in Ashwold. Some necromantic secrets were not to be shared or explained outside the priesthood. Cain remained silent through the retelling, not pushing and not prying. The few questions he did have mostly revolved around his or Xul's well-being since he had already heard from his contacts about the status of the survivors. He was flat-out shocked to hear Pyresong had gone into the Unformed Land physically and come out again. A scholar such as him could at least understand the dire circumstances that had led to such an insane decision.
"Expelled is more like it," Pyresong commented with a grin about his leaving that strange world. "Not something I ever hope to do again in my lifetime, I assure you."
Cain struggled to stifle a chuckle and failed. He tried to turn it into a cough, and that failed too. Pyresong, not sure what to make of this, eyed the elderly scholar curiously. Finally, the old man seemed to regain his composure for a moment.
"I'm so sorry, Pyresong. It was just the irony of..." Cain laughed, "and you, a Priest of Rathma," he laughed some more, "and the actual realm of the dead. And..."
Cain wheezed with laughter that was infectious. Pyresong felt his lips twitching even before he fully understood. Twisting the broken explanation in his head, he finally caught on. Before long, they were both laughing almost uncontrollably and sharing necromancer jokes they'd heard over the years. Apparently, Master Xul had quite the collection he had shared with Cain over the years. It took a while before they began to settle again to chuckles and even, yes, giggles!
He couldn't remember ever having laughed so much, for so long, or so freely, with anyone. His duties always led him to interact with people in a wide range of emotions and emotional reactions, but never laughter. And, yes, his master had taught him how to be serene even when he didn't feel it. And how to keep a solemn appearance at all times when dealing with the living to avoid any kind of misunderstanding. But this? Yes, his ribs still ached, but he also felt good. Really good. It was like some kind of tension release had been opened. He finally began to understand why people considered laughter a form of healing. Despite the dire circumstances and the gravity of the whole situation, this was a memory he would cherish. Cain sighed contentedly, and Pyresong smirked one last time. Then, they had to get serious again.
"Well, while you were busy, so was I. And Tal Rasha's ritual has revealed a third shard to me."
Cain paused, eyeing Pyresong as if uncertain he was willing to go after another shard so soon. He motioned for the scholar to continue.
"You see, the ritual cannot simply find all the shards across the world. No, it reveals those that are being used in some form. It seems the magic of the Worldstone emanates even now from the Dark Wood: a place of great and ancient evil."
"So the shard is already in someone's hands, then?"
Cain sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, yes. You must expect that the Darkness is already moving against you. And I dare not leave the shards unprotected, even in their current location."
"It's all right. I understand. And, more to the point, I agree."
"You said Charsi has your armor for cleaning and repair. I know you will be impatient to leave, but you will need it with what you're up against. I can think of no one better to help improve your gear to ensure it holds against whatever you may face in the Dark Wood."
"Speaking of Charsi, she said she would meet us here. That was hours ago," he mentioned.
"Don't worry too much. She's not flighty, though very energetic. She has a tendency to work hard and lose track of time. If you wish to ask her about your armor or legendary gems for it and whatnot, you'll probably find her at her forge. When you're ready for supper, come back and bring Charsi with you. I have the room ready for you."
He knew this was a firm reminder not to waste his time and money on that tavern and to keep his promise to return. Whatever the old man's motives, Pyresong felt far less reserved about doing so at this point, though he could not quite understand why. He looked forward to spending more time with Cain. Possibly in research of his own, even. This one room was a trove of books, the likes of which he had not seen in many years. Until his armor was ready, there was nothing more he could do. Might as well at least enjoy it.
Cain seemed to drift off again for a moment, muttering to himself. He caught only pieces about "that girl" and "works too hard". He kept his peace, enjoying the quiet and, surprisingly, even the company. In the extended silence, he saw that Cain's eyes had begun to drift closed, and he was struggling. The poor man was clearly tired.
"I will go ahead and seek her out," he said, rising somewhat reluctantly from his comfortable position. He waved at Cain to remain in his own chair, "I will let myself out. Get some rest. We will return for supper as promised."
Cain chuckled under his breath, "Old men need their naps, eh?"
He just patted him on the shoulder and then crossed the room to the door. He quietly let himself out and ensured the latch was in place as he left.
Though Cain's workshop had been filled with the comforting smell of many old books and a warm fire, Pyresong was glad to be able to enjoy some fresh air and sunlight again, while it lasted. The dark and twisted skies above Wortham and Ashwold had all but blotted out the sun. Just as he reached the end of the street that opened into Central Square, he spotted Charsi, jogging up to him.
"There you are! You've done it already?" she asked cheerfully and enthusiastically as ever. "I would have thought destroying the Worldstone shards would take more time than that," she finished in a much softer tone so no one would overhear.
He quirked a grin. "You're not wrong there. And it appears I must find another in the Dark Wood as soon as possible. Cain also mentioned you might be able to help out."
Charsi's eyes grew wide, and her ever-present smile faded. "The Dark Wood? Whew. I grew up not far from there." She was thoughtful for a moment. "If you're heading to a place like that, you are going to need some better equipment."
He couldn't help cocking an amused eyebrow at her obviously unintended insult.
"Don't look at me like that! I'm a blacksmith with magical talents and special tools. I know what good, reinforced, and magically enhanced armor looks like. And your stuff is not bad, but it could use some improvement. Besides, I came to tell you, some of it had taken quite a beating. There was some pretty heavy damage."
"Considering I was in it when the damage occurred, I'm well aware," he said wryly. "Go on."
For a moment, Charsi looked hesitant to speak before seeming to regain her usual enthusiasm. "Look, you're a Priest of Rathma. While I don't know all your skills and powers, I do have a basic understanding of a battle mage's needs. I know. I know. You're not a mage, exactly, but the premise for any ability that originates from within is the same. I can easily keep with the style and even materials you prefer to enhance what you've already got. Basically, build on the foundation so you don't have to get used to something completely new. And it will take a lot less time."
"How long are we talking?"
"Two days," Charsi said firmly.
He nodded in agreement, knowing it was necessary. His equipment had taken some damage, and he did not relish the idea of going into further battles with uncertain gear. Given what he'd been through already, a few helpful enhancements would be welcome. The fact that he had an opportunity with someone willing to even do those enhancements for a necromancer was too good of an opportunity to pass up. For a couple of minutes, they discussed pricing and materials before Charsi suddenly lit up again excitedly.
"There's always a ton of stuff in the market. Prices are always fluctuating. Adventurers always seem to find some great stuff they don't need."
"Of course," he commented noncommittally.
Sensing he had no real interest in the idea of working the market, Charsi quickly moved on. "But if there's anyone who knows anything about gems and using them to enhance your gear or abilities, it'd be Vic. His shop is just to the west of my smithy. If you're ready to go, we can head there now."
Not waiting for a reply, she motioned for him to follow as they headed back toward Rakkis Plaza. He very nearly told her not to waste her time, but she was already moving well ahead of him with her usual enthusiasm. He just shook his head at her and followed. Once again, he was on his habitual lookout for everyone around them. There were a few stares at Charsi when a few recognized him as a necromancer. Clearly, Charsi was well-known in the city. Many people passed her with a smile and a nod or wave. He spared a thought for what this would do to Charsi's reputation. If she was as good as Cain said, she would have no shortage of business regardless of what whispers passed around the city about her involvement with a Priest of Rathma.
When they turned more toward the eastern side of the plaza, Charsi explained, "I just wanted to show you real quick what I was talking about with your stuff. Then we can head over to Vic's."
He just nodded in agreement, still hoping to head her off once they reached the forge. He had no intention of ever adding gems or jewels to his gear, ever. As they reached the decorated flight of stone stairs that led south out of Central Square, he caught sight of a small mob around one man almost directly ahead. They were just outside the deeper shadows of a narrow alley. Before he could say anything to his companion, Charsi had taken off running ahead of him.
"Hey!" she shouted at the men to get their attention. "Get away from him!"
Pyresong, caught off guard by her running into danger, managed to just keep up with her. They were standing at the mouth of an alley that looked to have a few more muggers on standby. An old man was curled up on the ground, clearly beaten. Five big men, all armed, were kicking the man and laughing.
"Leave him alone!" Charsi demanded, punching one of the thugs.
Surprised but accustomed to people interfering in a city this big, the leader told the others, "Kill these two before anyone else shows up!" as he began to drag the old man back into the shadows of the alley.
That was all Pyresong needed to hear. He was capable enough without a weapon after all his years of hardening his muscles. These guys were thieving amateurs, used to preying on the weak and defenseless. Without his armor, many thought him weak due to his thin, tall stature. They were always badly disillusioned quickly. Despite their wide array of weapons, it took only moments to shed enough of their blood to make them all run off. He was silently glad it hadn't come to killing. Bodies drew attention in a city, even bandit bodies. And it wouldn't be long before they would find a way to connect a Priest of Rathma with the killings, even if he hadn't been involved. Then, he would likely be unable to get back into the city for some time.
When he turned his attention to Charsi's battle, he was amused to see her neatly sidestep a couple of knives as she grabbed two men by the arms and slammed their heads together with enough force to stun both of them. Then she flung them like a couple of dolls back into the alley. Clearly, her years of work in the forge had given her a lot more strength than would be expected of most women. And it was equally clear she had some skill in melee combat. Seeing the last couple of thugs chasing after their friends, he knelt down to check on the victim.
"Vic! Vic!" she called as the old man opened bruised eyes.
"Charsi?" the old man whispered.
Seeing him covered in swiftly forming bruises and numerous bleeding cuts, he regretted having left his backpack and healing potions in the workshop. He helped Charsi get the old man back to his unsteady feet. The poor man looked horrible.
"Are you all right?" he asked the shaken old man. "Can you walk?"
The man shook his head to clear it. "Oooh...yes, I think I'm fine...thanks to the both of you," he told them.
Vic clung to Charsi's arm, trying to steady himself. He blinked for a moment, trying to focus on Pyresong. Having recognized him as a necromancer, he did the usual double-take but said nothing about it.
"I—I may need some help getting back to my shop, however," Vic admitted after a moment.
"We've got you," Charsi assured, putting a helpful arm around his back and one of his arms over her shoulder to support him. To the Pyresong, she said, "This is Vic, the jeweler I was just telling you about. "His shop is just over there," she nodded.
Feeling a bit less dazed, Vic took his arm back from Charsi and gazed intently at him. "Akarat bless the both of you. But I don't think it's a good idea for me to carry the gems right now. I was attacked in broad daylight! Would you do me a favor, friend of Charsi?"
"Master Pyresong, and yes, I'll be happy to help in any way I can."
He produced a rather large pouch from his belt just under his coat. "Please, take these to the workshop, right over there," he pointed unsteadily. "You can't miss the sign. Give them to my apprentice and let her know I'll be there soon."
At that moment, his wobbly legs seemed to give out. Charsi caught Vic and gently lowered him to the ground.
"I think I need a moment," he mumbled.
"No problem, Vic. He'll take care of it," Charsi assured, taking the pouch from his unresisting hands and handing it over her shoulder to Pyresong.
"Would you like me to fetch a healer?" he offered, still feeling rather out of place here.
"No, thank you. I just need a moment," Vic said again. "Broad daylight, I just can't believe..."
Feeling awkward about the whole strange situation, Pyresong tuned the rest out as he headed across the square and down another flight of decorated stone steps to the west side of Rakkis Plaza. It was a short walk, albeit a crowded one. It was now nearing late midday, and the plaza was bustling with business. The noise of all the shops and people moving about was a bit of a shock after the quiet morning stroll he'd had earlier. But, even for that, it was only a couple of minutes after reaching the main plaza that he spotted the jeweler's sign hanging proudly above a shop in the northwest corner of the plaza.
Still holding the bag of precious stones in his fist, he quickly made his way over to their door. It was wide open, and a couple of people were milling about looking at wares. Off to his left, near one of the polished wood counter tops, he spotted a younger male merchant talking with a woman who looked very much like she could handle herself in a fight. To the right end of the counter, a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair sat working intently with some gems at a worktable filled with tools. Caught off guard by the unexpected request, he'd forgotten to get her name from Vic before he left.
"Excuse me," he called to her. H
Hoping not to startle her by getting too close without alerting her, he kept a few feet back. He waited patiently as she finished her delicate task and then turned to face him.
Reflexively, she started to ask, "How can I help you today?" before she caught sight of the fact that she was speaking with a Priest of Rathma. To her credit, her friendly smile wavered only slightly and only for a moment.
Ignoring it, he asked, "Are you Vic's apprentice?"
"I am," she confirmed, frowning. "Is he all right? Usually, he's arrived by now."
He held out the bag of gems toward her. "He was attacked, but he's going to be fine. Charsi is helping to bring him here now. He asked me to guard these and bring them to you until he arrives."
"Oh!" she sighed in relief, taking the pouch. "He's safe! Thank the High Heavens! And the shipment, too! We would have been in a lot of trouble if that hadn't made it to the shop. You're a real lifesaver, sir. My name is Seril. I'll be happy to repay you if you're ever in need of some gem crafting work."
This news and his actions had served to put her a little more at ease. Though, as with most people, she was still, at the very least, uncomfortable in the presence of a necromancer. And the couple who had been talking to the other merchant were already making for the door. He had no idea whether it was because they had concluded their business or were just trying to get away from him. And, at the moment, he didn't really care.
"Thank you," he told her. "I'll just wait outside for them."
Seril did nothing to stop him as he headed for the door. Behind him, he heard the male muttering darkly about bad timing and losing money. As ever, he knew he was the man's target but ignored it and left peacefully. Just outside, he turned to his right and found a deep shadow to hide in out of the way. He watched while a few others came and went from the jeweler's shop. Already, he was concerned that someone was going to go to the watch guards about his presence in the city and have him removed. He hadn't intended to be so...visible as to cause trouble for anyone. He just needed a couple of days to get his stuff repaired and then head to Dark Wood. He had no intention of hanging around a city that very much didn't want him here.
Nearly half an hour later, Charsi and Vic appeared around the far corner from Rakkis Plaza. The old man at least seemed to be walking on his own, but leaning heavily on Charsi's supportive arm. Pyresong appeared from the shadows and joined them at the door. He held the door and then followed them in. In the shop just beyond the door, she heard Seril shouting a greeting. Vic raised a hand to settle her.
"I will tell you all in time. Right now, I have never been gladder to be home." He grunted painfully as Charsi lowered him into the chair Seril had just vacated. He heaved a sigh, "Thank you, Charsi. And you, my new friend," he reached out to shake Pyresong's hand.
"You're welcome."
"Charsi and I are well acquainted," Vic told him. "And you are welcome in my shop any time."
He was pleased and pleasantly surprised by this. There was a dark muttering from the merchant on the left end of the counter. As ever, he ignored this. Vic did not.
"I don't give a damn what you think," he told the man. "He saved my life and my shipment. If you don't like it, you can rent another space."
The younger man glared darkly at Pyresong briefly before backing down and turning to engross himself in other things. Mentally dismissed by Vic, the master jeweler turned back to him.
"You've met my apprentice, Seril?" he asked, gesturing to her.
He nodded. "We've met."
"Excellent! She is far more than just a mere apprentice. If you ever need to socket gems or craft more powerful varieties, come here, and she can help you out. For a fee, of course. We're not a charity. Ha ha."
He simply nodded again, knowing full well he would never need their services, yet he was appreciative of the gracious offer.
"And if there's something particularly challenging that she is unable to help with, she can always send me a message. I'm not always in the shop these days."
Rarely ever welcomed in anyone's shop, Pyresong was pleased, though very much doubted he would ever need it. He was well aware there were always people out to find new and inventive ways to enhance their gear or abilities, if for no other reason than bragging rights. He was more the type to use whatever worked and relied far more on his own skill and own power. Besides, he didn't like spending vast amounts of coin on things that would be flashy but were of no real practical use to him.
"Thank you," he replied neutrally.
At that moment, Charsi cleared her throat meaningfully. "Well, it's time we got going. Stay safe. Okay, Vic? And...maybe don't carry so many gems on you next time?"
Charsi immediately turned to their left when they exited the shop and headed for her smithy across the plaza. As they wove their way through the crowds, Charsi decided to explain a bit. Meanwhile, Pyresong was gauging every reaction from the people they had passed; now on high alert for an unwanted escort.
"Well, that got a little scary there for a moment. Glad you were with me. Still, Vic meant what he said. You're welcome there, and Seril will not turn away a customer after he's said something like that. You can expect quality work out of her. She really is a master jeweler, but she doesn't want to leave Vic. She's hoping he will pass the business on to her when he retires. Which will likely be soon, after what happened today."
"I see."
They reached her shop a couple minutes later, and Charsi paused to face him, her expression serious.
"I'm familiar with Priests of Rathma and how people generally feel about you. I know doing business can be complicated and difficult for you, even in a city this big. Perhaps more so, since word is already spreading of your presence. You may have just made things a little easier by helping Vic. He and Seril know just about every merchant in the city. But if you do run into any difficulty, come to me. I know just about everyone, too. I can get whatever you need. Don't waste your money on black market gouging."
"Most appreciated."
Her smile reappeared as she continued to rummage around her smithy. On a nearby rack, he spotted his scythe just as she pulled it down. She laid it on the table in front of him.
"We've got everything cleaned up, and I'll work on your armor tonight after the shop is closed, so there's no distractions. I want it to be the best! But there's a problem with your scythe."
"Oh?"
She pointed to the well-maintained and now polished blade. "You see this line here? It's really tiny, I know. And it's just one of several even smaller."
He frowned darkly, forming his own suspicions already. He was no blacksmith, but he sensed a problem. A weakness. He nodded that he could see it.
"It's cracking," she explained. "It was a very well-made weapon, don't get me wrong. But it's weakening, structurally. I'm no battle mage or necromancer, so I can't say for sure how it happened, but it is a slightly magical blade. It feels to me like it was put through a lot. It's been stressed almost to the breaking point. And if you continue using it, it will eventually break down completely. Depending on how you use it and what on, it could be quite some time. Or it could be your next fight."
"Not a gamble I care to take," he agreed. "But I have another recently acquired that will serve."
"Oh good!" she said, clearly relieved. "I don't have any of this style or type in stock right now. Just the farm implement type. It would take me a lot longer to reforge a blade to fit."
"I would like you to take a look at the other one when you have a moment."
"Be happy to!"
Overhearing the conversation, the young man, Yverius, leaned toward them. "I'll give you some coin for it," he offered eagerly.
"This is Yverius," Charsi introduced. "We've been working together for a few years now. He's got a real knack for selling and trading smithing materials. I can't really fix it anyway; it would need to be broken down and reforged. But it's your call."
He considered it and asked how much was on offer. The young man motioned toward the scythe in askance. He nodded in its direction, welcoming the man to handle it. There was silence among them while he inspected it thoroughly. The bustle of the busy plaza was a steady roar in the background. Again, he was aware of the numerous eyes turned in their direction as he stood so openly in front of Charsi's shop. After a couple of minutes, Yverius placed it back on the table. He made an offer that made Charsi blink and then frown slightly. He couldn't help wondering almost reflexively if he was being cheated, though the offer seemed rather generous for something that would just be broken down into scrap. Seeing Charsi's reaction, Yverius waved his hands at Charsi with a grin.
"I know. I know, it's a lot! But the only thing wrong with it is the blade," he explained. "The handle, the blade mounting, the grip, pretty much everything else about it is in excellent condition. I'm sure I could find a buyer for it that's willing to have a new blade forged."
Ah, I see, Pyresong thought.
And he did see; more than he expected. The young man was out to impress Charsi by being overly generous to one of her friends. His expression gave absolutely no indication of his amusement when he countered with an amount considerably lower.
"I don't need the coin as badly as that. If you turn a good profit, you're welcome to it."
The young man's relief told him the rest. He really did need the money, but he would do absolutely anything to look good for Charsi.
Poor lad, he thought with a mental grin. It appeared Charsi was oblivious.
"Okay, then. That's settled," Charsi agreed as Yverius handed over the gold. Then she looked around for a moment at her piles of ongoing work.
He took the hint. "I'll be at Cain's workshop. And he's invited you to supper as well."
"Excellent! You can tell him I'll bring the wine."
She shook his hand one more time in parting. By that point, he was more than happy to retreat indoors after all the unexpected commotion of the day. He'd had a lot more exposure to the population than he would have liked, but it had been unavoidable. He spared a thought for Vic and Charsi and just hoped it would not cause them problems as the rumors would fly around the city by the end of the day. In the same token, he hoped someone wouldn't send a guard to escort him out of the city before he was ready. He made his way uneventfully back to the quiet haven of Cain's workshop. Hopefully, he was not disturbing the man's rest by returning before supper. His knock was answered almost immediately, though, so it was clear he'd not been still napping.
"You have no need to knock, my friend. You're welcome to come and go as you please," Cain informed him. "Did Charsi give you the grand tour?"
"Not quite, but enough. It seems my scythe is worn out, and my armor dented pretty severely. It's going to take a couple days."
"You look like you could use the rest," Cain told him.
He couldn't help a grin. "I don't doubt it."
"While I'm researching ways to destroy the shards, you're welcome to browse any subject you find. Unless you have other things you need to do?"
He shook his head. Until his armor was repaired, there was little more he could do. He would restock his supplies right before leaving. Much as he enjoyed visiting a city, he knew he should keep his exposure as limited as possible. He just hoped what had already transpired would not cause Cain any difficulties. Besides, he so very rarely got to indulge in his love of books these last many years. Any excuse to get his hands on something to read was welcome, indeed.
"Sounds interesting," he commented, earning a smile from the old man.
"Help yourself," Cain pointed vaguely to one corner of shelves as he sat back at his desk to resume his research.
He wandered over to the shelf and browsed a bit. He was quite amazed at the sheer array of subjects he found. Many were written by others, but equally as many were written by Cain himself. He found something that looked interesting at the moment. He picked up the book and returned to his previous chair by the fire. For a very few years after achieving mastery, he had spent most of his early days as a scholar. No particular subject. He studied the arcane arts as well as sciences and maths. Geography and history were also of interest to him. But, truthfully, he would read just about anything put in front of him. He had once spent an entire afternoon reading a treatise on the inner workings of the evolution of the political systems of far-off Kehjistan. It was absolutely meaningless to his work, but it had been something to read while recovering from some injuries. Before leaving the obscure monastery he had been residing in, he would spend most of his time in study, which he knew would never really benefit him in any meaningful way. It was just a way to pass the endless hours when he was not needed.
Again, a comfortable silence descended on them, broken only by the cheerful crackling of the fire, the occasional scrape of Cain's quill on parchment, and the turning of pages. A few hours later, they were both pulled back from their individual studies by a light tapping on the door. Pyresong set his book aside and rose as Cain shuffled to the door.
"Supper for you, sir!" a young voice on the other side called.
"Ah, excellent!" Cain said, flipping the latch and throwing it open wide.
A young boy with an untidy mop of light brown hair carefully pushed a small wooden cart laden with covered dishes into the room. The child chattered as he crossed the room to pull out a small round table to set them on. Apparently, this was routine for him.
"Oh, Ma says next week might be a bit of a mess," the child said, never stopping. "There's going to be some extra orders because of...I forgot what she called it. But I'll let you know when I'll be coming around."
"Thank you, Everen. " Cain dug into his purse and produced some coins. "I will need enough for one more in the next few days, as well."
"Sure thing! I'll let her know," the kid said, slipping the coins into his pocket and pushing the cart back out the door.
"I pay a young woman down the street to cook for me," Cain explained. "Never did have the knack for it. It's a wonder I survived all my travels in my younger years eating my own—"
He was cut off by another knock on the door.
"That must be, Charsi," Cain said, happily returning to the door. "Perfect timing, young lady!"
But it wasn't Charsi. In the doorway stood a couple of well-armed and armored city watch guards looking uncomfortable. Standing in plain view behind the elderly scholar, Pyresong knew they had seen him when the front guard cleared his throat uncomfortably and tried to stand at attention and look official.
"Can I help you, Corporal Gwyars?" Cain asked, confused.
"Sorry, Elder. There's been reports of a necromancer accosting and attacking people in the city. It was said he was also seen entering your workshop."
Having expected this, though he'd hoped it wouldn't be so soon, Pyresong stepped right up behind Cain and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"It's all right," he told Cain soothingly. Then he told the guards, "I'll get my things."
"You will not!" Cain barked. "This is ridiculous! He's a guest in my home! He's harmed no one!"
"I'm sorry, sir," the young guard in the doorway mumbled sheepishly as the guard behind him tried his hardest to look invisible.
Cain eyed the young man furiously. "Who accused him? Where is the magistrate's order?" he demanded. "He has the right to face his accuser."
He tried again to defuse the situation. "Cain, it's all right. I can—"
"Silence, young man!" Cain ordered, earning a reflexively cocked eyebrow from Pyresong.
The only time someone spoke to a Priest of Rathma in that tone was another master addressing an apprentice. Still, he couldn't help being more amused than insulted. He just barely kept his lips from twitching instead of his eyebrow.
"What's up, guys?" Charsi's cheerful voice came from just to the left of the door. "Hey Gwyars! How's that new plate fitting? Bet it's a lot more comfortable now, right?"
The guard's face flushed an even deeper crimson. "Y-yes, Miss Charsi. I'm sorry, but—"
"Pyresong's been accused of—" Cain started to explain.
Unable to take the pressure anymore, the second guard burst out, "Look! We just want to get him out of the city. It's not like we're going to throw him in the prison or anything."
"I should hope not! He's not leaving!" Cain stated again. "I don't see an order signed by a magistrate here. Where is it? Who has accused him of a crime?"
The guard shifted his feet uncomfortably. "I don't know, Elder," he finally admitted.
"Then you go tell the magistrates to make a formal complaint naming the accuser so we may resolve this matter legally, formally, and officially," Cain told him much more calmly. "When the summons is ready, we will appear before the magistrate. If he has a problem with using the city's legal system as intended, have him speak with Chancellor Severonis. And he can tell Brian I sent him about this matter."
The guard actually sagged with relief. Invoking legal rights was way above their pay grade, and they knew it. They were off the hook for this one.
"Yes, sir! Have a good night, sir!" Gwyars called happily.
The two guards backed away so Charsi could pass. They nodded politely to her before they beat a hasty retreat. Cain closed the door, still muttering angrily about the stupidity of laws for the wealthy. Then he turned his ire-filled glare on Pyresong, standing quietly nearby.
"You remember that," he demanded, waving a finger at him. "When you're in this city, you have the right to face your accuser before a magistrate to hear the complaint."
Pyresong, being the type that would go out of his way to avoid legal confrontation whenever possible, frowned at this. "But what will that do?"
"Ha!" he barked. "They cannot lock you up or banish you from the city until the case is seen by a magistrate and the order is signed by the magistrate, according to their own city laws. Unless, of course, you get caught in the middle of committing an illegal act. Then, they can lock you up until a magistrate is available to see you. And that could take months."
"I see."
"Yeah," Charsi chimed in. "If they can even find the person that reported it and get him to talk to a magistrate. Pretty big 'if, ' I know. And, like he said, could take months to even get the summons. Don't worry, friend. They'll have forgotten about it by tomorrow."
This came as a great relief to him. He only really needed a couple of days, and then he would be gone to the Dark Wood in search of another shard. As if sensing his line of thought, Cain spoke again as Charsi was dishing up the food.
"If they even bother with the formal process, you'll be long gone by then. We can just tell them you've already left the city."
They all sat down to eat comfortably. Over supper, they traded various tales and anecdotes. It was possibly the most pleasant meal Pyresong could ever recall. After a while, Charsi said she needed to get back to the forge to get to work on his stuff. She quickly looked over the new scythe and agreed with Cain's assessment. It was very powerful and very useful and would make an even better replacement for his broken one. She handed it back almost reverently and took her leave.
The rest of the night was spent in quiet study, much as the hours before supper. He was surprised to find himself so warm and comfortable, he was stifling yawns while sitting in his borrowed rocking chair.
"Oh dear," Cain said, finally breaking the silence. "I'm so sorry. I meant to show you to your room hours ago."
He smiled warmly as Cain rose from his desk. "I think I can find my way. Up the stairs on the left?"
"Yes, it's the only room up there. Usually filled with clutter and crates of junk. My apologies. Stairs and I don't get along anymore."
"It's quite all right. Sleep well."
"You too."
Cain returned to his studies while he took the scythe and pack he'd left standing in the corner up the stairs. In the darkness, he was easily able to make out a candle on the bedside table. He sent a thin tendril of fire to light it. The room was simple but clean. He found no sign of the clutter Cain had referenced. In one corner stood a table and mirror with a pitcher of water and a wash basin. It wasn't long before he climbed into the old bed and fell asleep.
***
The next morning, Pyresong woke before sunrise, as he often did. For a moment, he lay in the unfamiliar surroundings just listening. The lack of a skeletal warrior guarding his sleep had left him feeling a bit vulnerable. But he had been able to convince himself there was no need and slept on. The city was quiet now. He could hear Cain's snoring downstairs in the bed below. For a while, he just lay there, letting his mind wander in a sort of meditation. He smiled to himself, recalling the previous day's events and his laughter with Cain. He realized he was forming a bond with that one. When he thought of the word friend, Cain definitely came to mind. He had little experience with such things outside the priesthood, and he had never been close with anyone. He saw no reason to distance himself from his new friend, yet.
He could see the sky turning a dark blue through the small window. Yawning and stretching in contentment, he rose silently from his new bed, careful not to disturb Cain. He was relieved to feel that his throbbing aches and pains had disappeared completely in the last day without further healing or potions. Cleaning and dressing, he considered a walk before things could get too busy out there. He quickly reconsidered. He knew he needed no more exposure and wanted no more problems for Cain or Charsi. By the time he finished dressing, he could hear Cain moving about downstairs, muttering to himself. He slipped down the stairs in his usual silent fashion. Cain was bending over the fire with a kettle of water.
"Good morning," he called softly.
Despite his efforts, Cain was still visibly startled. "Morning," the old man growled back, finally getting the kettle to hang correctly over the fire with a deliberate and angry clank. "I should have warned you before now. I'm not a morning person," Cain said, plopping down into the chair at his desk.
Pyresong grinned, "I see that. I will stay out of your way."
Cain made no reply as he turned his attention back to his ongoing research on his worktable, still muttering darkly and grumpily to himself. Pyresong resumed his position in the right rocking chair from the night before and continued silently reading his book. It was roughly an hour or so later that the lad with the cart arrived with breakfast, a couple of hefty bowls of porridge topped with honey. Cain seemed to be in a much better mood after his morning tea and chatted happily about his theories for destroying the shards while they ate.
The morning passed peacefully. Pyresong mostly browsed various books and scrolls that lay around the shelves. Occasionally, Cain called him over to help with something like holding a book or trying to read something that was hard to see. He was not uncomfortable with such forced idleness. Though he would very much like to get on with his hunt for the shards, he understood the necessity of the downtime and was happy to spend it with his new friend. The fact that it involved books on too many subjects to list was an added bonus. He had always been fascinated by their world's various types of magic. And now, he had a virtually unlimited number of books on related subjects all around him. And any assistance he could provide Cain—admittedly, it wasn't much—was very welcomed by the elderly scholar.
At some point near midday, Cain had given up on candles and relied entirely on the sunlight from the window above his desk. He had opened a very large and very ancient tome to study something that was in a written language Pyresong couldn't even identify. Clearly, the old Horadrim recognized it and seemed to have no trouble understanding it. But he struggled when he turned to one set of pages with a large and detailed depiction of a very intricate seal.
"Pyresong," he called. "Can I trouble you again for a moment?"
"Certainly," he said, abandoning his book and rocking chair. "How can I help?" he asked, approaching the desk, curious.
Standing over Cain's shoulder, he listened as Cain pointed out the large seal covering two pages. Some parts seemed very faint, as if badly faded with time.
"Can you make it out more clearly? Maybe copy some of it down for me?"
"Of course," he replied
He was somewhat confused about how this was supposedly faded. It was quite clear to him. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time he had encountered an older scholar with failing eyesight.
He carefully took the tome and some parchments to their usual dining table. He had had no trouble making out the seal and all its intricacies even without a candle. He set to work carefully copying quarters of the seal on four different parchments, thinking the larger version might be easier for Cain to make out. Behind him, Cain moved back and forth from the shelves to his desk several times. On one such journey, when Pyresong was nearly finished, he heard Cain gasp right behind him. When he whipped his head around, he realized Cain's wide eyes were fixed on the parchments he'd been working on only a moment before.
"What is it?" he asked, looking back from Cain to the parchments.
"Is that what you see?" Cain finally asked.
"Of course, I copied it exactly," he replied, puzzled. "Is something wrong with it?"
Cain was silent for a moment, still staring in puzzlement at the open tome and parchments. Then he glanced at Pyresong's puzzled expression, and his eyes widened again.
"Of course! Your eyes!" he exclaimed.
"What about my eyes?" he asked, setting aside the quill, unsure if he really wanted to hear this.
"Your eyes see magic that others cannot," Cain explained. "Oh, don't look so worried! It's not a bad thing, just something an old man's brain forgot."
Carefully, Cain described what he saw on the pages of the tome versus what he had copied down. Pyresong still couldn't see it. Cain grabbed another piece of parchment and drew the base outlines of the main elements of what he saw. When he gazed at the book pages, he didn't see anything even remotely similar. He shook his head, at a loss.
"Why can I not see the same? What does it mean?"
Cain laughed almost giddily. "It means this tome was written not just about magic but withmagic. And I've been a fool! The seal on the pages appears as one thing to a normal person, and the truth lies beyond in the magical writing.”
His hand glowed with a soft gold aura to Pyresong's sight as he reached out and hovered it above the pages of the tome. Aside from the obvious glow, nothing changed.
"And there it is. I can see it clearly now."
Cain sighed and muttered to himself. "I'm sorry if I've worried you," he finally said. "There is nothing wrong with your eyes. They're just different. You have an enhanced sight that can see things only magic would normally reveal."
Cain patted his friend on the shoulder comfortingly. Then he stood straighter, rubbing his eyes and forehead vigorously. Clearly, it was time for a break. Pyresong abandoned his work at the table and guided Cain to his rocking chair by the fire. There, he prepared some tea for both of them. The old man accepted gratefully and drank his thoughtfully while Pyresong joined him in the other chair. After a while, Cain finally broke the silence.
"Would you care to tell me the details of how you came to have such magical sight? I remember you saying something about a witch?"
"And I remember you telling me the sigils were ancient," he shot back. "You're the first to have even recognized them."
"They are ancient. The sigils in the outer circle around the triangle are most assuredly magic lost to time," Cain assured. "But it is still a curious thing. Healing typically leaves no mark. The seals on your irises are more like replacements than healing."
"I never actually saw her. I only know she was a witch because she told me."
He went on to tell of his battle with a relatively minor illusion demon that had ended the fight in a suicidal blast of light and magic when it knew it was going to lose. Though he had been shielded well enough from the blast not to take any other physical harm from it, his eyes had felt utterly burnt out. They burned and ached so badly that he was surprised to find they weren't just empty sockets. He had various other wounds he could not even see to tend. He used up his healing potions, hoping to survive the other wounds, though it did nothing for his sight.
Disoriented and helpless, he had made his way through the forest, hoping he was at least going in the direction of the village that had asked for his aid. If nothing else, they could send word to others on his behalf. After three days of helpless wandering, he had given up hope of finding the village in the permanent darkness. He was starving and exhausted and had few options to consider.
Sitting in the forked roots of a tree, he decided it was time to stop considering any kind of recovery and begin considering how to live with the condition. By feel, he could find the moss that grew on one side of these particular trees to tell what direction he was traveling. But that was a painfully slow way of moving, stumbling from tree to tree. If he listened, he could tell the difference between night and day in this temperate climate. He could feel living things around him if he reached into his arcane senses. And, of course, there were always his skeletons. They could not hunt or prepare fires or provide him with shelter. But they were a weapon he could use defensively.
He spent a long, hungry day beside a brook somewhere deep in the forest, putting his few skills to good use. By following the water path, he hoped he would eventually find people, preferably ones that would not take advantage of his weakness and rid the world of another necromancer. Many isolated villages and farms always popped up around fresh water sources. Even if he was just allowed to shelter in a goat shed, he might be able to pay someone to get help.
Covered in bruises from all the bumps and falls and exhausted from restless sleep and lack of food, he finally gave in and just lay there in a bed of moss. No, he wasn't going to lie down and die. But he was going to get some rest at least so he could think his way through his next moves.
While he slept, a woman's voice echoed through the forest. He jolted awake. He knew there was no way anyone could get close enough for physical harm with his skeletal warriors standing guard. But he also had no idea what he was dealing with. Something about that voice told him magic was involved. Reflexively, he had already shielded himself. Reaching out with his arcane senses, he found...nothing. Just the usual local animals. She had asked him what he was doing in her forest. More impatiently, the woman asked him again what a Priest of Rathma was doing in her forest. Seeing no reason not to answer, he called back.
"You know what I am. And as long as you live by the Balance, you know I'm no threat to you."
"Balance," she called back, her hollow laughter echoing from every direction. "The balance of Nature is its own. You have no place here."
Of course, he thought to himself, tiredly.
"What are you?" he asked.
"A witch," she answered simply.
"Since you know what I am and want me out of here as much as I desire to leave this place, guide me out."
"Head southeast. A day's walk will bring you to the trade road."
"Easier said than done," he admitted. "I cannot see."
"You are blind?" she asked in clear surprise.
"Yes, I was...wounded by a demon."
The voice was silent for some time.
"Sleep," it finally commanded.
He was frustrated to feel himself sinking into a deep, magical sleep akin to healing sleep. His skeletons crumbled to dust around him as a different darkness closed in on his mind. Slightly panicked, he fought the sleep, but it was no use.
He had no idea how long he'd been out when he finally woke to the sounds of a crackling fire and the scent of wood smoke. He could sense another presence very nearby. Ropes wound around his wrists and ankles separately, leaving him spreadeagled on the loamy floor. His mouth watered, and his stomach twisted painfully at the scents of cooking food. Carefully, he tested his bonds, tugging gently with one hand.
"They are tied to trees," the female's voice informed him calmly. "Struggle, and I will put you back to sleep. Summon one of your foul minions, and I will leave you here to die."
"What do you want?" he finally asked, not bothering to hide his weariness.
"You have been many days without food and are weak," she explained, voice flat. "I have made a stew. I will feed you."
That doesn't answer my question, he thought irritably.
Tired and frustrated, he clamped his mouth against a much worse retort. He thought it best to keep it to himself if he wished to get at the food. He could hear her moving around the fire and cursed himself for this whole stupid situation. He could easily use something like spirit fire or a bone spear against her and then free himself. But he had no idea what kind of protections she had. If he failed, she would turn against him. He would only have one chance. Other than forcing him into helpless sleep, he had no idea what other spells she might have prepared. He was too tired and weak to deeply consider whatever games she might be playing or plan to play with him. In his travels, he'd come to understand that the worst monsters were always the ones that wore human skin.
"No more questions?" she asked.
"You didn't answer the first," he shot back before he could stop himself.
"I want nothing to do with you," she replied, the loathing clear in her voice. "The spirits have told me of your purpose. You cannot die here. There is much for you still do to."
"Well, that's comforting," he commented dryly.
"I will repair your sight," she told him bluntly. "But only because I am obligated to do so. I talk about things you cannot understand."
He heaved a sigh. "Forgive me. I did not mean to sound ungrateful."
"Accepted." He heard her come up beside him and kneel. "I will feed you. I do not trust you, so I will not release you, no matter what the spirits say. But I assure you, you will not be harmed."
At this point, he had detected enough of her accent to place her originally from somewhere in northern Khanduras, very likely from somewhere in or near the Sharval Wilds. Given what little he knew of those people in that region, the fact that she claimed to be a witch came as no surprise. The base of their religion was of the Zakarum faith. But it was one very heavily influenced and laden with its own regional spiritual beliefs and superstitions to the point of being nearly unrecognizable to outsiders. Their witches and practices were a virtual unknown to him.
By this point, he was drooling, and his painfully twisting stomach could take no more. He needed food. Weakness of the body was something that had always bothered him. He probably could fight it and win at this point, but why? What did she have to gain by poisoning him? She had not even needed to drug him to make him sleep. He couldn't see any motive. And he was too weak to think too deeply anymore. If she poisoned him, there really was nothing he could do. Hells, with her magic, poison would just be pointless.
"Very well," he finally agreed.
She was surprisingly adept at such things. As far as he could tell, there was not a drop wasted. She fed him as much as he could handle. Full of warm, comforting rabbit stew, he had begun to relax somewhat. It would appear so had she.
"Feeling better?" she asked in a much softer tone.
"Very much so. Thank you."
"Don't thank me, Priest. Thank the spirits. It was they who led me to you. It is they you must repay."
"I see."
"No, you do not. You cannot understand the obligations of a witch. Nor should you try," she stated firmly. But in a more soothing tone, she ended with, "Your kind has their own burdens to bear. You, perhaps, more than any other."
What? he thought confused, before he briefly remembered the dreams and prophecy and quickly stifled those thoughts.
Those things he did not mention to Cain in his retelling. After all this time, he had hoped it was long past and never meant to involve him anyway. After the events Xul had been caught up in, he even wondered if it was somehow averted altogether. However, he did not tell Cain anything about that. He still wasn't entirely certain the events he now found himself tangled up in had anything to do with what he had seen and what Rathma had given him. Until he was certain, he had no intention of telling Cain any of that.
After the witch's curious statement, Pyresong just lay there helpless while she moved around the fire. He never had been one to make small talk. And she seemed unwilling to speak to him more than necessary anyway. After a few more hours, she finally finished whatever it was she had been doing. By this point, a spicy smell of something like herbs burning came from the fire. It had a sweet undertone of wood rot as well.
"It is time," she informed him as she knelt beside him. "You will sleep. When you wake, you will head south and east until you find the road. Then the direction is up to you. Whatever else you do, do not stop, do not turn back. Never return here."
He wanted to make some kind of remark about how he didn't even know where "here" even was, but there was no time. She used her magic again to send him into a black abyss of sleep unlike anything he'd experienced before.
When he woke sometime just before sunrise, he had vague impressions of the woman's voice screaming powerful commands. And hints of burning agony in his eyes. Some deep instinct told him her screams were not the only ones that night. But he had no real memories of what had been said or done. Just impressions of burning pain in his eyes and screaming, likely his own. As disturbing as that thought was, he was still extremely grateful.
In the gloomy darkness of predawn, he realized he could see. Everything was just a bit clearer than he remembered. Objects seemed to have more definition, more...realness. He couldn't quite put it into words. His eyes ached and burned, and rubbing them made no real difference. The entire experience had been frightening and confusing. But he didn't give himself time to think about it. He knew she was watching. He could almost feel her gaze as something predatory, just waiting for him to make the wrong move.
Out of respect and thanks as much as habit, he bowed deeply, priest to priestess, having suspected her of being more than a simple witch living alone in the woods. There was much, much more to this place, and he knew it. Aside from having spent three days walking this territory with not a single warped creature, demon, or any other threat, this place had a sacred feel. He had felt it when he crossed into this territory more than a day ago but had no idea what to make of it in his blind state. Now, he had some vague suspicions and knew no Priest of Rathma would be needed in this place as long as these guardians stood their posts.
As instructed, he oriented himself and began to head southeast out of the forest without any summoned minions.
Some days later, he'd caught sight of his eyes in a pool of water and realized how they had been visibly changed. As time went by, he began to realize he could see things others couldn't, such as streams of magic or auras around magical items. But it wasn't until he'd been in the Unformed Land that he realized just how to focus his magical sight to really aid him. The incident with Cain and the tome had gotten him thinking and wondering what else his magical vision could do. For a while, Cain was silent, absorbing all of this.
"Quite the tale," he finally said. "Maybe when we have more time, we can experiment."
"Perhaps," he replied noncommittally.
"Well, my friend, we've had quite the break. It must be nearing supper time."
They agreed to go back to their individual pursuits for the rest of the evening.
***
The next day started off much the same, though Pyresong was beginning to feel confined. While thoroughly enjoying his conversations and spending time with Cain, he was beginning to feel the need to get to the Dark Wood. Every time he let his mind wander, it came back to the shards and his hunt. It was as if something was urging him to return to his pursuit of the shards. More than anything, it was an irritating distraction he could not figure out. More than once, he diverted the bizarre sensation of anxiety by seeing what he could learn about the Dark Wood.
He had never actually been to that specific area or the Eastgate Monastery in his travels. It was bordered by mountains on one side and jealously protected by the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye. Unlike many places, however, they were slightly less unwelcoming to Priests of Rathma. The Sisters and the Rogues understood the necessity of a necromancer's work in a way most others could not. Still, they tended to be a closed-off group to anyone not from that area.
With the forced idleness having given him ample time to recover, by the second day—now his third in Westmarch—he decided it was time to make good on the request that had been made of him when he first arrived. Consulting his mental map of Westmarch, he realized the tavern he'd stayed at was only a few blocks away from Cain's workshop. He knew Jack wouldn't be as busy in the hours just before midday, which fell between the morning and evening rushes. Hoping he'd timed it right, he greeted the bartender. Bailey eyed him, almost warily.
"You never came back. Problems with your room?" Bailey asked with no small amount of sarcasm, and yet, as if expecting some form of complaint anyway.
"Not at all. I simply met up with a friend and chose to stay with him a bit longer."
"Well, you aren't getting your money back, so don't ask."
"I had no intention of doing so," he assured. "I came to ask about the boy in the bathing facilities."
"That little bilge rat! What's he done now?" the Bailey growled.
"Nothing that I am aware of," he replied with an amused grin. "I would like to request his assistance with something. If he's too busy, I can schedule for a more convenient time, preferably later today."
Bailey stepped back and crossed his arms. Now, his expression was downright cold.
"What are you up to? He's not for sale."
Sadly, Pyresong knew exactly what the man was getting at and again kept his expression serene.
"I'm not 'buying' him, and I have every intention of compensating you for the loss of his labor as well as paying him for his time. I simply need him to help me run an errand. I assure you, nothing like what you're thinking," he finished coldly.
Bailey eyed him threateningly a moment longer before slowly nodding. It appeared that something about Pyresong's demeanor led him to believe what had been said. Usually, it was much more of a fight for him. Typically, once a person got a disgusting idea in their head, they were convinced a Priest of Rathma would be fine with it. He was actually relieved the man hadn't pushed the issue further.
"I pay his mother a half gold a day for him to work the bathing room."
"I'll give you one gold for the few hours I'll need him, if that's acceptable."
Bailey still frowned, like he didn't like something about the arrangement, but couldn't find anything wrong with it. At this point, not knowing if there was any truth to Jack's claims about his mother hearing the voice of her dead son were true or not, he was reluctant to discuss his "errand" with anyone. He had no intention to generate gossip or, worse, make a mother look unfit or unstable when he didn't even know her. He was about to come up with a plausible story to give the barkeep when he seemed to make a decision.
"Jack's upstairs. Should be quiet enough until just before supper time. Be sure he's back by then. I don't want to have to use one of my men."
"I will see that he returns by then," he agreed, handing over one gold coin.
For a moment, Bailey stared at the coin in his hand as if he had second thoughts. Pyresong didn't give him a chance to figure out what they might be. Quickly and quietly, he crossed the room. A few patrons took brief notice of him but seemed overall uninterested, thankfully. He listened at the top of the stairs as he approached the bathroom door. Whispered voices on the other side told him the two children were talking about something excitedly. Just in case another person was bathing, he went ahead and knocked. There was a brief squeak of surprise and the sound of small feet running for a moment. A second later, Jack's curly mop of dark hair appeared in the cracked doorway. When he realized it was Pyresong he beamed a smile of welcome.
"Welcome back! When you didn't come back the other day, I figured they'd thrown you out."
"No, I simply found other accommodations. Are you busy?"
"Nah, why?"
"I would like you to show me the place we discussed where your brother was found." he saw no need to be delicate...yet.
Jack's eyes grew wide for a moment. "You gonna check it out? Like you said?"
"Yes, and I believe it would be safe enough for you if I were to accompany you, though your mother may disagree. I would like to speak with her as well, afterward."
"Bailey's gonna be real mad if I just take off."
"I've already spoken with him. He wishes you to return before the supper hours."
"Great! Let's go!"
He nodded to Bailey as they walked past the bar. Jack excitedly waved but, thankfully, kept his mouth shut otherwise. Bailey gave a careless wave back to the boy but one last cold glower to the necromancer in clear warning. He kept his serene facade. Let the man think what he likes. Either the boy would have an interesting story to tell for years to come, or Pyresong would help put an end to a mother's grief.
Whatever the outcome, they had to get there first. Knowing what he did of Westmarch and this side of the city, it wasn't unlikely that they would encounter some pirates in the rocks north of the docks. That place was riddled with tidal caves and shallows that were perfect hiding spots within easy reach of the docks and larger ships. As they left the docks, he carefully watched the boy's movements to know where to step in less slippery places. Given his much larger stride, following along was easily done. In only a few short minutes, they rounded a curve in the rocks and were completely out of sight of the docks.
After a few more minutes of hopping and jumping from rock to rock, Jack finally stopped. Here, there was a flatter, more open shelf of rock that was smooth but not slippery and high enough above the waves not to get wet in anything other than a violent storm. In the shadows along the solid wall behind it, Jack showed him a small crevasse that led to a tiny cave that was currently unoccupied. It would have been difficult for even a thinner adult like himself to get through the narrow and low entrance. For a child like Jack, it was easy. Nonetheless, clear signs of recent usage indicated this was not just a child's hideout.
"Were you here when John was found?"
Jack had gone from feeling like he was out on an adventure to eerily still and silent at the direct question. He nodded his head. He walked toward the edge of the rock that overlooked the crashing waves. He pointed down almost directly beneath the rock shelf.
"He was down there. Some pirates said they found him floating down there, caught on some rocks. He-he was...c-cut to p-p-pieces. A-and all bloated. And I couldn't—"
Sensing as much as hearing the boy's welling grief, he knelt to look him in the eyes and squeezed one shoulder comfortingly.
"It was only his body, Jack. Remember that. When you die, the body is no longer needed. It doesn't hurt anymore."
A couple of tears fell from Jack's eyes as his face scrunched up. He shoved the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to stifle more.
"It's okay to mourn, Jack. It will get better one day. But, right now, you miss your brother."
Jack nodded, his breath hitching. "Ma says I've got to be good now, like he was. I can't—" he coughed and swallowed. "I can't..."
He squeezed the boy's shoulder gently, more to get his attention than for comfort. "I know you will make your mother proud. Are you sure you're up for this? If you can't do this, you can stay up here, and I will go down there."
Jack nodded vigorously. "Yes. I know the way. Come on!"
Before he even had a chance to process the child's sudden change, the boy was running off to the right of the shelf. In an instant, he disappeared so fast Pyresong's heart leapt in his chest thinking the boy had just fallen off the ledge. He sighed with visible relief a second later to see Jack had just dropped down to land on a patch of sand a few feet below. There was a flash of irritation just below the surface. To be fair, he should have expected it. Children were mercurial in temperament, and giving the child something to do had taken his mind off the hurt.
Not that Pyresong had a problem with the child's grief. He knew children of any age could experience such a loss, and there was no real way to protect them from it. But, as children, they were often better equipped to recover from such grief. No, his focus here wasn't Jack; it was his mother and possibly John himself. A grieving mother who couldn't let go could damage her own soul and even cost her her family. He'd known mothers that had completely forgotten about and neglected their other children when the loss of one obsessed them to a point of madness. Though he hadn't met Jack's mother, he knew that, for most people, revisiting the place of death day after day after day was a sign of that mind leaning toward such an obsession. And, in some cases, they preferred to be with that lost child more than to continue on and care for the others. He hoped that would not be the case here. Carefully, he followed Jack's footsteps almost right up to the water.
"There," the boy pointed.
He looked around. These were a different type of rock altogether. The waves had sharpened them into wicked peaks that looked like they could slice leather and flesh. He could all too easily imagine what it would do to someone falling from above. He looked further under the rock shelf, where there were some more smooth, though smaller, surfaces. If the tide rose any higher, they'd be soaked. He would just have to be as quick as possible and hope for the best. He motioned Jack back toward those shaded rocks.
"Sit there," he said, pointing at a relatively flat surface that looked like it would fit the boy's small behind. He spotted one that might work for him a couple feet away.
"Whatcha gonna do? Magic?"
He grinned at the boy. "Something like that. Probably nothing like what you're considering. It's much more...simple. And entirely invisible."
The rock he'd chosen was so small, he could just barely sit. No chance he'd be able to take his customary meditative position. As a compromise, he planted his feet a little apart and balanced himself as best he could. He knew in a few minutes he wouldn't be feeling his body much at all anymore and had no intention of falling on those wickedly sharp rocks.
"What I'm going to do is listen," he explained to the eager boy. "Your mother said she can hear him. So I'm going to listen to see if she really is hearing his spirit. If he's here, I should be able to communicate with him to find out why he's not resting peacefully. If he's not here, we can give her some peace. Understand?"
Jack nodded slowly, curling up into a ball and wrapping his arms around his legs.
"This may take a while, and you may get bored. But your mother is right; this place is dangerous, and not just because pirates may come wandering by. So I want you to be silent and stay right where you're sitting now. I will be aware of what's going on around me, so don't think I'm asleep."
"Yes, sir."
"And if you do see or hear someone coming, just call my name."
"Yes, sir."
Turning away from the still wide-eyed child, he took a deep breath and sank into a state unlike his other meditations. His usual meditations were turned inward to his own mind and heart. This time, he was moving outward. Once he was able to relax enough that he no longer felt his body quite so heavily, he began to listen. Beyond the crashing waves, beyond the sounds of the physical world, he listened. Most of his waking life he spent keeping the voices out. This was one of the rare times he opened himself up to them.
For several seconds, there was nothing more than the usual background whispers of so many weak dead. Cities always had massive numbers of souls hanging around. Some felt wronged, others didn't want to let go, and some had unfinished business. It wasn't long before the voices were loud enough to understand. Most of them were talking to themselves, often using obsessively repetitive phrases. Just the act of listening often caught their attention, which is why it was so important to block them out most of the time.
"I can hear you. I'm listening," he told them in the cold emptiness.
At first, there was no response. It seemed none of the spirits were interested in communing with him. That was actually something of a relief. There were times when he'd done this as a child and been absolutely bombarded by wailing, crying, screaming, and shouting. He could sense the deaths that had taken place right in this area, and there had been many over the centuries. But none of them seemed immediately restless or in particular need of help. Some were so far gone that they clearly couldn't even remember why they were still here.
Good, he thought to himself. No distractions.
He sent his mind and spirit forward to the edge of the rock near the water where Jack had pointed. At first, there was nothing again. But, as he listened, there was something. It was very faint but definitely conscious. It babbled over and over and over.
"I'm looking for Jack's brother. His name is John," he attempted to address the babbling voice.
It went silent for a few seconds. Then he felt something rising out of the water coming closer to him.
"Jack!" it called, catching sight of the boy. "You shouldn't be here!"
"He cannot hear you, but I can. Why are you still here?"
"Ma..." the voice moaned and then grew more agitated. "Ma won't let me go. And I got it for her. I fell. And it's still up there, but she can't find it. She doesn't know!"
"Be calm now. I can help. And I will do what I can to help your mother."
"She can't hear me! How am I supposed to do it? Tell me what I need to do!"
Though it was difficult to judge his age by his nearly hysterical voice, he guessed he was, at most, a teenager just starting to find his way in the world.
"John, I need you to stay calm and listen to me. I cannot stay long, but I will help you. Tell me what I'm looking for and where I can find it. I will bring it to her."
"No! You'll just take it, like the pirates!" the ghost snarled and shrieked. "It's hers! You can't have it!"
Though he couldn't make out any definitive form since the entity was so weak, he still felt it trying to lash out at him. It didn't have enough strength to do more than make him feel a faint chill on his body somewhere far away.
"John, this is your chance to rest in peace before you might be stuck here for eternity. You don't want to stay here. I brought your brother because he asked me to help you and your mother. I swear I will not keep whatever it is. But if you wish to move on to your rest and for your mother to live out her life in peace, I must know what it is and where it is to help you both."
"I'm already stuck here! I'm dead!"
"And I am a Priest of Rathma. I can help you. I came here at Jack's behest. He asked for my help, for you."
"Jack..." it almost wailed.
"Will you go to your rest if I help you get this thing to your mother?" he finally asked after the silence had stretched on for some time.
"Yes. But how will I know?"
"I will send your mother to tell you when this is over."
"You will? Can you tell her to bring Jack? I want to say goodbye. He...he can be better than me."
"Are you ready to say goodbye to him now?"
"Yes!"
Returning a portion of his mind to his body, he moved his faraway arm across the gap and laid a hand on Jack's leg. As detached from his body as he now felt, his voice was not much more than a whispering echo to his own ears when he spoke to the boy.
"Close your eyes and listen."
Startled, Jack did as he was told. Then he made the delicate connection to Jack's bright and strong soul, bridging the gap.
"John?" a trembling voice came through the darkness.
"Jack! Jack, you can hear me!"
"John, it's you! What happened?"
"I fell, Jack. You need to stay away from this place. It's not safe. But I need you to do something for me. I got her box back. It's buried in the cave up there where we used to play. You have to get it."
Jack's ethereal voice wavered, "I don't want you to go!"
"Jack, he must go. Until he is at peace, he will suffer, not in body, but in spirit. He's trapped by his need to finish what he started. You must do what he asks," he explained gently.
"I-I'm sorry. I love you, John. I miss you."
"I know you do, but you have to be strong. You are stronger than I ever was. You're the man of the house now. Be better than I was. Be good to Ma. Take care of her."
"I will! I promise!"
"I love you, Jacky-boy."
For a while, Jack could say nothing. Pyresong suspected the tears had returned. He maintained the connection and kept silent to give them what little time they had. He was already prepared to open the door for John, and it was just about both of them letting go now. After a few more seconds, John seemed to come to a decision.
"I have to leave now. I trust you, and I know you'll make Ma proud. Goodbye, Jacky."
He sensed a shifting in the energies more keenly than he had expected. Though he had never seen a fully formed ghost from John, he could now see the outline as a pale blue light radiated behind him. It was John's exit from this world to the Unformed Land. He was glad the boy had chosen on his own. Forced crossovers could still leave a piece of themselves behind that would be forever miserable. Coming back here later to help him move on could be difficult. At least this way it was done. Having Jack with him had done the trick, as he'd hoped.
He let go of Jack and pulled back into his own, heavy body. As expected, he found Jack curled up in a ball of misery, sobbing, his face buried in his knees. There was little he could do for the boy except give him time. When he sensed the sobs winding down a bit, he put a hand on Jack's head.
"You are strong, Jack. And now your brother is at peace. You did right by asking for help. You will see him again one day. Hopefully not too soon."
Jack wiped his eyes vigorously. "I gotta take care of Ma now."
"But you knew that already. And now you've got one last thing to do for John."
Jack nodded miserably and then took a couple of deep breaths. He watched as the boy got on somewhat unsteady legs. He followed while the boy led them around the opposite side of the rock where they had come down. It was a tricky climb with both sharp and slick rocks. Jack climbed like a squirrel and was back at the top in seconds. He was a bit slower, not wanting to risk a fall and wishing he'd worn his gloves now. By the time he reached the top, Jack had completely disappeared into the little cave. With a mental sigh, he carefully lay on the smooth rock and attempted to peer inside. All he accomplished was blocking what little sunlight was coming through the small opening. Just a few feet away, he could hear Jack digging furiously in the sand. Reaching in just a bit further, he extended his hand and let it glow softly with prepared spirit fire. Realizing there was a new source of light, Jack's head whipped around with wide eyes. He grinned at the boy's innocent amazement.
"It's just some of my energy condensed into my hand, ready to cast a spell," he explained. "Keep going. He said it was in here. You know where."
Jack nodded and returned to work, pulling up handfuls of loose sand and shoving them into corners. He waited patiently. As the hole grew deeper and the sand piled up on the sides, it began to seem like they would have to move at least some of the sand out of the little cave since it kept falling back down. Just as he was considering options, the boy's heavy breathing turned into more sobs. Before he could question this, Jack's fingers worked furiously around the edge of something. He nearly sighed with relief. It was almost over for the boy.
Unable to speak, Jack just sat there clutching the small box that was only slightly larger than a book. He carefully cleaned off most of the sand with trembling hands. As the sand fell away, Pyresong could just begin to make out the curvature of various carvings in the wood. It had been a masterful creation of some artisan once. Perhaps it would be again once it was cleaned up. Jack was literally biting his lip trying to hold back more tears while he worked more sand out of a simple clasp. When he finally opened it, he did a mixture of crying and laughing at the same time.
"It's all here! He got it all back! We're going to be okay again!"
"That is good to hear," he said, not knowing what it might be. "Let's get it and you back to your mother, shall we?"
At first, Jack tried to crawl out with the box held tightly to his chest, but he struggled a bit. Seeing the boy wasn't willing to part with it even for a moment, he let the glow of his hands fade and gripped Jack by the elbows to tug him out carefully. Having felt more than a bit claustrophobic in there, he happily took a deep breath of fresh ocean air as soon as they were back in the sunshine. He helped to brush some of the sand off of Jack. Together, they made their way carefully around the rocks back to the docks and then into Westmarch proper.
Jack seemed to have fallen into a daze, as if he couldn't really believe what had happened and what was happening. He knew the boy would never be able to really explain what had occurred, and if he tried, his mother was likely to accuse him of making up stories or worse. Unfortunately for them, however, the boy's absence had caused something of a stir. Before they even got near the house, a woman who looked remarkably like Jack came running up on the verge of hysterics.
"Where have you been?" she nearly shrieked, grabbing the boy by the shoulders. "Bailey said you were borrowed. What does that even mean?"
"Ma! Ma! Listen, Ma!"
Pyresong stood back. Apparently, in her panic, the woman had completely failed to notice him. When it became obvious that her shrieking was drawing attention and not giving the boy a chance to respond, he finally stepped in.
"Excuse me."
"What the hells do you want with my son?" she demanded, pushing Jack behind her protectively.
"Jack asked for my help," he explained, keeping his expression serenely calm. "It was regarding the loss of your other son, John."
"How dare you! That's none of your concern. I'll be going to the watch right now about—"
Whatever she was about to say was cut off when Jack finally managed to force his way around to her front and held up the box for her to see. For a moment, he thought the boy was actually going to bash her in the face with it.
"Now, will you listen to me?" Jack asked as the woman took it in trembling hands.
Seemingly knocked senseless by what she was seeing and feeling, the woman sat there dazed for several seconds. Pyresong backed up another step to give her a moment to process.
"He was there, Ma. Just like you said. He helped me talk to John," Jack explained, pointing to Pyresong, tears rolling down his face. "John did it, Ma! He dove down there and got the box with everything in it. We're going to be okay now."
The woman seemed completely at a loss and speechless. Then she went to her knees, sobbing and hugging her son. After several seconds, she seemed to realize Pyresong was still there. She glared up at him angrily.
"What did you do?" she asked, still accusingly.
Mentally, he sighed but kept the irritation out of his serene expression. Unfortunately, he was all too used to such reactions.
"I can't speak for this box or what has happened to it. I can speak about your son, John. He told Jack himself that he had fallen off the rocks. There was no murder."
"But John..."
"Yes, he really was there. You were not wrong. He wasn't strong enough to communicate because he didn't want to stay."
"But..."
He knelt down to see her on her level. "Understand, Jack asked me to look into it. It's part of what I do. You should be proud of Jack for helping his brother. John needed to make sure you got that box. Once he was sure that would happen, he went to his rest peacefully. He's not there anymore. And you will not hear his voice again in the waves."
Trembling all over, holding back sobs, the woman buried her white face in Jack's shoulder for a few seconds. Jack clung to her just as fiercely. After a few deep breaths, she finally regained enough composure and possibly sanity to think again.
"You're going to get right back to Bailey this instant," she ordered the boy, "and never do that again without telling me where you're going.
"Yes, Ma!" He gave her one last hug and ran off, still covered in sand.
He politely offered her a hand up, but she ignored it. Very well, he was accustomed to worse. Seeming still in a bit of a daze, she looked from the box in her hand back to him. All he could do was wait patiently to see what she would say next. He was more than ready for further accusations or lashing out. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision. His expectations were happily proven wrong, for once.
"You've given me something more precious than all the contents of this box, though it is worth a small fortune," she said in a trembling voice, clearly trying to regain her dignified composure. "If someone like you says my son is at peace, I believe you. I can only say thank you, but it doesn't seem enough."
He shook his head. "There is something you can do for me."
She gave him a wary look.
"Talk to Jack. Tell him what a good man he is growing up to be. He thinks he will never live up to his brother's example. You wounded him when you neglected him in your grief for John. Give him all your love and attention, and let him care for you, too. You will need each other."
Her face had relaxed from wariness to embarrassment, finally into red-faced shame. She knew what he said was true, and there was no denying it at any rate. She nodded, unable to even look at him with her eyes fixed on that box. He was actually quite relieved she couldn't find further words. Grieving mothers could be more unpredictable than a demon, and he was happy to be away from the situation. It was up to them to help each other heal now.
Quietly, he turned to walk away, back toward the safety and comfort of Cain's workshop.
Late that afternoon, Charsi sent word through one of her apprentices that she would be bringing his gear after she closed up shop. Knowing he would leave in the morning, he planned to restock his supplies. Given what had happened in his earlier ventures into the city, he opted to borrow some paid help. When Everen arrived with dinner that afternoon, Pyresong offered him some coin to gather the items. The kid promised to be right back as soon as he was done. True to his word and eager for the gold, he came knocking an hour later.
"I have a list for you," he explained, handing over a scrap piece of parchment and a small purse. "There should be more than enough to cover the cost. If there is anything you cannot obtain, just come back with whatever you can."
The boy scanned the list intently. "Should be easy enough," he agreed. "You some kind of necromancer or something? Someone was talking to my mum about you."
Of course, they were, he sighed mentally.
Bending closer to the child, he scowled darkly. He used his magical eyes to bore into the now squirming kid.
"Yes, and we don't like being cheated. Be careful with those shady merchants. I can only bleed you of life force. The merchants will bleed your purse dry, which is usually far more painful."
Realizing the big, scary Priest of Rathma was having fun with him, the kid giggled. "Yes, sir!"
He ran excitedly out the door. Cain had watched the exchange with some amusement, but said nothing. The boy returned with all of the supplies on the list carefully placed in a sack and presented it proudly a couple hours later.
"Very good. Thank you," he praised, earning a beaming smile.
The boy handed over the purse, still jingling with coin as he patiently waited for his payment. Pyresong tossed it right back at the boy, who caught it deftly before it would hit the ground.
"It's yours," he explained. "And give some of it to your mother with my compliments on her wonderful cooking."
"Wow, thanks!" his eyes wide at the generous amount still in the purse.
He couldn't resist ruffling the kid's already messy mop of hair. "Maybe you'll consider using some of it to get a haircut."
The kid batted away his hand while Pyresong laughed softly.
"See you later, Elder!" he waved to Cain.
Cain again watched the exchange with amusement and a slight grin this time that he didn't bother to hide. Pyresong just cocked an eyebrow at him as if challenging him to speak.
"You like children?" Cain finally asked.
"Yes, they haven't had time yet to develop quite the same level of loathing of Priests of Rathma at that age," he replied dryly with a wry grin.
Cain, sensing there was more underneath that comment, chuckled slightly. Yet, he was a very intuitive man who had learned to read all kinds of people. He knew when a subject needed to be dropped. To his surprise, it was Pyresong who didn't let it go.
"Do you have any children?" the necromancer asked tentatively.
Cain hesitated, somewhat surprised. Still, it had been a long time ago. Some wounds never healed but were easier to bear. Somehow, you just got used to the weight on your heart.
"I had a son, once," he said, pointing to the painting above the mantle. "Jered and my wife, Amelia."
His eyes widened in shock. Now he could see it. He felt utterly stupid for not seeing it sooner. The planes and lines and angles of the face were all there, of course. But the deeper emotional scarring on the older man's face made it quite difficult to put the pieces together. Cain laughed softly as shock and embarrassment flickered across the younger man's features.
"Yes, that was me," he affirmed. "In another life some, oh, forty years ago now."
"I'm so sorry."
"No need to be sorry, friend. It is an old tale, and one I may share with you one day. But to answer your question: No, there will be no further Horadrim or their progeny. I am the last. And I pray the world has no further need of us 'relics. '"
"There will always be a need for goodly scholars such as yourself, my friend," he told him warmly.
Cain made no further comment while he returned to his desk, and Pyresong took the supplies upstairs to sort through and put away. Once properly stored, he did one final inventory. Tonight would likely be his last night in a bed for some time. He intended to make it a pleasant one.
As expected, Charsi appeared just after sunset with his restored armor, shield, and even clothing. The clothing he had written off as rags. Amazingly, someone had done an almost magical job repairing those as well. When questioned about who he owed, Charsi waved it off. She carefully put the sheet-wrapped bundle on the floor and proudly untied the knots and flung it open. He was pleasantly surprised and impressed. The lightweight plates of his articulating armor had been carefully reinforced with ultra thin layers of metals he couldn't begin to guess at. A slight aura of magical enhancement also emanated from each item, where it had not before. Charsi had improved them considerably without losing any of the key qualities for protection and maneuverability. If anything, they almost felt lighter somehow.
"Most impressive," he praised as she stood nearby watching him anxiously. "Better than new. I'm grateful for your skill and efforts."
"It was just a few enhancements to reinforce them and give you a little added advantage."
"I'm sure they will serve me well."
"When you're ready to leave in the morning, just come by my shop."
She gave Cain a quick hug, shook hands with the necromancer, and left.
"Well, my friend, it seems an early night is in order," Cain told him, reaching for the kettle. "Come, sit with me by the fire for a while. I'll fill in some more of the details of the Dark Wood for you."
They spent a pleasant night discussing what Cain recalled of the Dark Wood and its history. He recalled many stories of his time there and his adventures. As the fire burned down to embers, they again found themselves in a comfortable silence. He was reluctant to end it, but knew he needed as much sleep as he could get this last night before he headed into another waking nightmare. Cain bid him good night, thinking they would speak again in the morning.
Pyresong mused in the darkness of his room about the unexpected companionship he had found with the old man. He sent out a silent prayer of thanks to the universe and hoped he would one day return to this, even if only for a little while.
Chapter 5: 04 Dark Wood
Chapter Text
Dark Wood
As ever, Pyresong woke before sunrise. He swiftly and silently cleaned up and dressed himself. He hesitated at the idea of walking down even these dark and deserted streets in his full gear, attracting still more attention to himself. Yet, he had no idea what he would be walking into next. It would not be wise to be caught unprepared. He positioned his heavy pack on his back and his satchel at his side. Then he hung his shield on his back over the backpack and the new scythe on his belt. Over the years, he had specifically chosen these armor items for their sound-muffling quality. A bit of leather or wool in just the right place ensured nothing scraped or clanked. Silent as a shadow, he went downstairs and left a note on Cain's desk where he was sure it would be found. Then slipped out the door. Cain snored on, oblivious.
The sky was just beginning to turn a pale blue as he made his way through Central Square. Shopkeepers and merchants were already preparing for the day in Rakkis Plaza just beyond. Early mornings were usually a fairly quiet time when merchants, craftsmen, and tradesmen got together to do their own business with one another before the real business day began. It was not uncommon to spy a group of them all having breakfast together in Rakkis Plaza in the morning. It was much too early for even that right now. At worst, a rambling watch guard or some of these really early morning merchants might see him in full gear and try to say something. At this point, it didn't matter. He was leaving.
As expected, Charsi was moving around her smithy with a couple of apprentices preparing for the day. She greeted him with her customary smile and guided him around to the darker shadows of her forge in a slightly more open area with just a bit less clutter.
"Remember I said I grew up around the Dark Wood? Well, I used to belong to the Sisters of the Sightless Eye. They have a monastery nearby. It's only been a few years, but it feels like a lifetime since I've seen my sisters," she told him sadly. "High Priestess Akara gave me this amulet when I left. Said it would open a portal in case I ever needed to find my way home. If the Worldstone shard is there..." she shuddered visibly. "They're going to need help. I pray nothing bad has happened. I want you to use the portal. It's only good once, I think. But it will take you right where you need to be without all the travel time. It should put you just outside Blackstone, on the south end of the Dark Wood. I'm sorry you had to wait two days, but I couldn't let you go into that without reliable armor. This is my way of making it up to you."
"Thank you, Charsi," he said, taking the amulet. "This is a very helpful gift. Don't worry. I will find Priestess Akara, and I will have her enchant it again. I promise to bring it back."
Charsi nodded, seeming on the edge of tears as she backed away and motioned for him to go ahead and use the amulet in the open space between them. He did so. He smiled at her reassuringly as he stepped through the blue swirling portal.
He stepped into a black, nighttime landscape. Behind him, the portal closed without a sound. Once its light was gone, he was plunged into an even deeper darkness. He knew from all the maps he'd studied over the years that this place was not that far away from Westmarch. It was further east, so it should be well after sunrise by now. And portals didn't typically travel through time, either. No, this was a wholly unnatural darkness. He tucked the amulet into his satchel and then readied his shield and scythe.
For a minute, he just let his eyes wander through the darkened forest. There was a palpable feeling of anticipation and tension. Magic was so thick in the air that he felt he could breathe in its miasma. The sky was pure, empty black, not even visible clouds. He knew the clouds must be too thick even to let in a meager amount of sunlight. The very land itself felt cursed, somehow. His every sense was on edge, as if he had just walked into a demon lair. And his feeling of urgency was raised exponentially. There was no point in lamenting his delay; it was done. Time to get moving. Four skeletal warriors summoned and a skeletal mage readied, he stepped off the waypoint platform.
Following the wide, well-traveled road north of the waypoint where he'd come out of the portal, he stepped carefully and silently. Within only a couple of minutes, he could see the high stone walls around a large village comparable to Wortham. Where the road entered the village was a large wood entrance that had likely once had a sign near the top. Now, there stood only the arched wood covered in thick layers of vines so dark they appeared black. If there had been gates, they were long gone. Still, he instinctively slowed his steps, catching sight of something lying in the center of the road between the stone pillars that marked where the gates should have been.
At first, he couldn't quite make it out. It was grayish and lumpy. It only stood out because of his magical sight. There was something vaguely wrong about it, and the lingering wisp of magical aura only made it feel worse somehow. Taking a couple more steps closer, he realized it was a desiccated corpse. It was naked and dried and shriveled. Used to seeing corpses in just about every state one could think of, the necromancer was surprised to realize he did not want to go near it. Not even enough to see if it was male or female. It just felt so...wrong. Gradually, his other senses began to register the complete lack of sound all around him. No wind. No animals. Nothing stirred. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. There was more than just a curse on this place; he was completely surrounded by imminent threats on all sides that he could not readily identify.
Before he could analyze these subtle warnings further, the unnatural silence was shattered by a man screaming just ahead. Turning his attention away from the corpse, he jumped over it as he ran through the gates. He heard the man scream again in a house just to the right of the entrance. And some women laughing.
"Somebody, help! Get this thing off me!"
He kicked the slightly opened door all the way in and right off its hinges. Beyond the door stood a couple of very pale women in black clothing and armor. He didn't need to hear their laughter to know they were the enemy. They, too, held an aura of dark magic. They were so caught off guard that the first swing of the scythe was all he needed. Meanwhile, the skeletons were further into the house, hacking away at some deranged, magical vine that had been attacking the man lying face down on the floor. It was only a moment before they had killed the thing, cutting it apart. Seeing the massive and evil-feeling red thorns sticking into the man's legs and torso, he quickly grabbed it in a gloved fist and tried to pull it off of him. When the man screamed again in agony, he paused. For a moment, he couldn't figure out how to help him.
"Don't bother," the man said in a voice gurgling with blood. "I'm dying. Come closer."
He knelt down beside the man's head. Meanwhile, he kept listening intently for more of those women, expecting further ambush. He tried to assess the wounds visually but could see little in the darkness around the wicked vines. He reflexively laid a hand on one of the bottles of healing potions on his belt, wishing he could do more.
"How can I help?" he asked softly.
The man struggled to look upward at him and eventually gave up. He just didn't have the strength. In a voice barely above a whisper, the man said, "My-my daughter...she's in the village. Please, save her. Her name is Alyssa. She's hiding in a cellar."
"I will try," he replied, realizing that this man was no more than maybe twenty-five years old. Gently, he asked, "Can you tell me what happened here?"
"No time...women, black armor...summoned..."
His words trailed off as he coughed up more blood. Then gasped in pain, choking on the blood in a vicious cycle. He knew the man's initial assessment had been correct. With wounds in his lungs that deep, a healing potion would only prolong the man's suffering. Pyresong rested a hand comfortingly on the man's shoulder, doing the only thing he could in these situations.
"It will pass," he promised soothingly. "Focus on your slowing heart."
It seemed to work; he stopped choking and coughing after a few seconds, and his breath was getting slower and more shallow. The obvious bubbling and gurgling with each breath told him the rest. The man would not live for more than a few minutes with those kinds of internal injuries.
"I tried...to warn the Sister-sis..hood. Letter...in my pocket...Kasha. Please..."
The man's eyes closed, and Pyresong squeezed his shoulder again comfortingly.
"Yes, your heart slows. Listen to it. When it stops, you will be free of the pain."
"Save...Alyssa," the man whispered one more time.
"I will find her, if I can, and warn Kasha. Rest now," he urged softly. "Let go of your fears and suffering. You did your part. You can rest now."
He continued to whisper soothingly to the man while silently saying prayers for the dying in the hopes the man would let go and rest peacefully. This world had no need of another worried or vengeful spirit. Eventually, the man's struggles to breathe ended in a final gurgling sigh. He continued to speak to him soothingly and comfortingly, knowing the heart still beat weakly. Then it happened. To his trained eyes, there was a pale white glow rising up from the man's body. Looking up at it, he could tell it teetered on the edge of wanting to stay.
"No," Pyresong told it. "You must go. Be at peace. You've done all you could."
He was relieved to see the fuzzy outline form into a ball of light and then fade. He had gone to his rest willingly through the open door. Quickly, he rifled through the young man's pockets and found the letter, a few coins, and a locket. He pocketed the coins and the locket. Coins were always handy, and he may be able to return the locket to his daughter if he found her, which seemed very unlikely to him. Given the large size of this village, there likely wouldn't be time to search it. Maybe the Sisters could help later. The letter was a single piece of parchment and unsealed. Now stained with blood, he could still make out the bulk of the short missive.
Lady Kashya,
Blackstone is under attack by strangers clad in black armor.
Please, my lady, we beg for your aid!
Lucian
He carefully placed the letter in his side satchel and took up his shield and scythe again. In the eerie silence, he dismissed his skeletons. This place was so quiet that even his own soft breathing sounded loud to his ears. No people, no animals, not even birds. He stalked through the shadows and streets around houses silently. As far as he could tell, this place had been a large and bustling village only days ago. Here and there, he found some more fresh corpses to help him discern a timeline. None of them had been dead more than a couple of days. Most of those he found had died of battle wounds. No signs of a magical battle. Yet he also found many more of those naked, desiccated corpses.
All of them left to rot like garbage, he couldn't help thinking, his anger rising.
He continued along the street to the west. Ahead, he could see and hear movement as pale women walked through the now abandoned village in twos and threes. He couldn't tell if they were some kind of patrol or just wandering aimlessly. Either way, after his encounter in the house where he found Lucian, he had no intention of drawing more attention to himself. He had no idea how many were actually around, but it had to be a lot to take out a village this size. Clinging to the darker area around one house to his right, he spotted another corpse. It was sucked dry, just like the first one he had found.
Pale women. Desiccation. Vampires? he wondered.
He'd seen the results of vampires before. The corpses were indeed sucked dry of blood, but they were otherwise whole. Others were cursed by the bite itself. This was like everything was sucked out. The blood, the life force, all liquids...they were left more like mummies. This didn't seem like the usual vampire attacks. And even when vampires roamed in packs, they didn't clear out whole villages like this. Beside one desiccated corpse, he found a pile of clothing, which was also strange behavior for vampires. Why would clothing need to be removed at all? As with the others, the desiccated ones all had the faintest aura of filthy magic, but not the same as what he'd felt with the shards.
It was difficult for even him to see more than a couple dozen feet in the overall dark and evil atmosphere of this place. With or without his magical sight, the darkness here was oppressively thick. Maneuvering carefully around the corner of a building at an intersection of two roads, he spotted something hanging from a tree branch above the street. It was pulsating and writhing. A sort of sac hung down while there were more of those wicked, thorny vines running around and up the tree right to the sac. He was debating on whether to cut it down to get past or go another direction. Instinctively, he knew that sac was somehow a threat. Even after watching for several seconds, he couldn't figure out what it was or what the actual threat might be. And he had no desire to find out the hard way.
He could hear more feet and possibly someone talking not too far away. Cutting the thing down would likely make no small amount of noise. He turned his attention to the numerous other buildings, looking for more shadows to hide in. Lucian's final pleas scraped across his heart. He reminded himself just how big this place was. He chafed at the idea of having to search every single home to try to find one little girl. Maybe he could get help when he finally made contact with the Sisterhood. At this point, even if he found the girl's corpse, would he even be able to tell amidst all the others littering the village? And he had seen many children among the other corpses. It seemed no one was exempt from this slaughter.
He was just turning around to head back the way he came and find another path when the sac unexpectedly opened up. Like some sort of demonic flower, its petals peeled back and dropped another desiccated corpse. In the branches above now sat a blood-red flower that was easily ten feet across, likely waiting for another victim.
The vine is feeding on the corpse! They are draining this entire village of its blood. But why?
He thought furiously, running through lists of demons and other creatures he could recall. So much of this just didn't make sense!
The silence was broken by the wicked laughter of some more of those women in a house diagonally across the intersection. He crept closer, listening and hoping to learn something. One of them pounded on a hatch in the floor with her bow. A muffled squeal of terror came from somewhere in the same house. Forgoing listening at the window, he approached the open front door. They were somewhere near the back of the house.
"Come on out, little one. We just want to play with you," one of the women taunted with a sinister laugh.
Below the locked cellar door, he could just barely hear the painfully high-pitched screams of a terrified little child. His heart leapt in his chest, and he gave in to his instincts. Trying to make as little sound as possible, he ran through the door and cut down all three of them in half a second. They never even had a chance to raise their weapons. He stood over their bodies for a moment, listening intently. Were there more coming? Had they heard?
Beneath him, the child had gone silent. He could just barely make out her terrified sobs through the cracks in the wood. Once he was satisfied that none of the other women roaming the village were coming after him, he squatted down to get a closer look at these dead ones. They looked like normal women, except that they were as pale as he was. He lifted one's lips to get a better look. Definitely vampires, based on the fangs, but no red irises. He still could not quite make sense of this. An entire nest of vampires wouldn't attack a village this size head-on. It drew too much attention, and any number of groups in Sanctuary would happily hunt them down and annihilate them. It would take a literal army of vampires to do this with so much confidence. And that vine? How did that fit into all of this?
Still alert for any nearing movement or footsteps, he shifted his attention to the trapdoor in the floor. He moved one of the bodies off of it. He gently tugged on the edge of the trap door, surprised to realize it was latched from the inside. Immediately, he realized this wasn't just a normal cellar, but more of a safe shelter for the inhabitants. In a village this size, why would they even need such a thing?
"I can hear you. Who's out there?" the terrified little girl called out in a quavering voice while trying to sound brave.
Hoping beyond hope, he pitched his voice to be soothing but also just loud enough to be heard through the door and no more.
"I'm a friend. I killed those women. Is your name Alyssa?"
"Yes, did Papa send you?" she asked through the cracks.
"He..."
He hesitated, considering what he was about to tell her. Being as tense as he was, it was reflex to just tell the truth. But he wasn't dealing with another warrior or even an adult. He had no time to deal with a grief-stricken child or possible hysterics. Pulling back on his anger and anxiety, he settled back into his serene facade.
"We need to get you out of there. More may show up," he told her softly.
He just hoped he could get her to trust him. If she didn't, there was little he could do to get her out of there, short of hacking the door to pieces with his scythe. Aside from making way too much noise, it would likely only terrify her further. He sighed with relief when he heard her slide back the bolt a moment later. He lifted open the door that squealed with rusty hinges, making him flinch reflexively at the noise. Just as he was doing this, his ears caught approaching footsteps through the open window nearby. He didn't wait for her to make it up the ladder. Still crouched down, he hooked his scythe on his belt and grabbed her by one arm to lift her out. When she squeaked in surprise, he quickly covered her mouth with his other hand. The shield hanging from one strap on his forearm nearly bashed her in the head. He set her on her unsteady feet beside him, whispering in her ear.
"There's more right outside. Be absolutely silent," he instructed.
He remained squatted beside her, his eyes on the nearby window as she nodded. He readjusted his shield and put a hand to his scythe. Ready for another attack, he listened intently. Letting his senses extend beyond this house just a bit, he realized there were several more vampires roaming in little packs. It seemed aimless, like they were looking for something but didn't really have an organized search pattern established. Not too far away, he could hear more of them talking and laughing, though he couldn't quite make out what they were talking about. Given what he had just witnessed out of them, he probably didn't want to know what they were laughing about.
Still squatting beside Alyssa in the dark room, he was ready to spring at whatever came through the door. The footsteps came down the street and right past the still-open front door. Mentally, he was irritated with himself for having forgotten to close it. At least they were not in a direct line of sight with the front door two rooms away. He was easily prepared to summon a skeletal mage but hoped he would not need to. He didn't want to terrify the little girl further. If she screamed or panicked and ran...
To his relief, he could hear the multiple sets of booted feet now moving away from their position. Ever so carefully, he removed his shield from his left arm and propped it next to him, ready to take it up in a heartbeat. When he felt it was safe, he turned his attention back to the trembling little girl trying to stifle her tears with her tiny hands in her mouth. Despite being only a little older than a toddler, she had done very well controlling her sobs and fear. His heart ached for the little girl.
"It's all right, Alyssa, we can speak softly now," he whispered soothingly.
"Who-who are you? Where's my pa?" she whispered, wide eyes staring at his magical ones.
Realizing she was further frightened by his eyes, he averted them but kept his voice calm and soothing.
"I'm a friend. Your father, he didn't..."
He couldn't tell her. Not yet. He needed to get her to cooperate. There was no time for further tears or hysterics. She couldn't have been more than maybe six years old. There was so much she just couldn't understand right now. At the moment, his only concern was getting out of this village to get her to safety. The rest of whatever was going on would have to wait.
"Listen, your village is under attack. We need to get you out of here, right now."
"Leave?" She said hollowly. Then she shook her head vehemently. "N-no, I can't leave without Papa. He told me to stay hidden. He promised he'd keep me safe!"
"And he did, Alyssa," he assured, trying to calm her as she got more panicky. "It will be all right."
"He's going to come back!" she told him in only a half whisper, seeming to get more hysterical. "He has to! I can't leave him—"
He again covered her mouth with his left hand. At least this time, he didn't have to worry about maybe bashing her head with the edge of his shield. Inwardly, he sighed to himself in frustration. They didn't have time for this! Yet, he couldn't bring himself to be too harsh with her, either. His compassion wouldn't let him. He hated to resort to intimidation under the circumstances, mostly because he needed her to trust him. Instead, decided to try the truth. He forced her golden brown eyes to meet his glowing ones.
As gently as he could, he said, "Alyssa, your father is dead."
She squealed miserably beneath his hand but stopped trying to pull away. More tears welled in her eyes while she choked and sobbed. Amazingly, instead of wailing behind his hand, she clenched her little fists and struggled to control it. He still wasn't sure if she would be quiet enough, so he kept her mouth covered a moment longer, trying to think of a way to get her to cooperate.
"Listen to me, Alyssa," he continued soothingly. "I was there. I couldn't save him. Your father's last request was for me to save you. I'm going to do that, understand?"
For a moment, her terror-filled eyes closed, and her tiny shoulders hitched. He could sense she was trying to stifle her rising hysteria. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and nodded.
Better, he thought
He took his hand off her mouth. Gently, he gripped her by the shoulders.
"He also gave me a letter. I need to find someone named Kashya."
The girl's eyes widened in recognition of the name.
Good, he thought. A purpose should help her through this.
"I don't know who Kashya is. I need your help. Can you take me to her?"
She nodded, her tears drying up. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists as she again struggled to slow her breathing. As he had hoped, giving her a task was helping to get her calmed and focused.
"We will bring her the letter together," he told her, picking up his shield. "Do you know what a Priest of Rathma is?"
Alyssa thought for a moment and then nodded. "I th-think so."
"We are going to try to sneak our way out of here," he explained. "As quietly as possible. But, if it comes down to a fight, you must stay behind me. I will summon skeletons to aid me. You might be afraid of them, but you cannot run away from them. They will protect you. Do you understand?"
Alyssa nodded, trembling but looking determined.
"From here, where do we need to go to find Kashya?"
For a few heartbeats, she continued to stare at him as if not understanding the question. As near as he could tell, she wasn't going into shock. But there was something going on behind those eyes. He decided to change tactics to see if she understood where they were in relation to the Eastgate Monastery when she surprised him with a question of her own.
"You really did see him, didn't you?"
He nodded. "I would never lie to you. He is at peace now."
"P-papa," she groaned softly.
She clenched her fists again but refused to let the tears fall as she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and then let it out, her little brown eyes now boring into his. Those brown eyes held nothing of childish innocence anymore. She was hurt, and she was angry. He could very much understand that but was uncertain if she could control it.
"You're right," she said, her voice steady now. "We have to go. I can take you to the Sisterhood's camp. Kashya will know what to do."
"It is what your father would have wanted," he assured gently with relief.
He stood to leave, still not hearing any footsteps close to the house. Instead of following him, Alyssa stood perfectly still, staring down at the three vampire corpses he'd nearly forgotten about. Wanting to spare her further trauma, he tried to turn her face away from them.
"Don't look—"
"No!" she growled, pulling away. "I'm going to be a Sister! I will avenge my parents!"
Before he could try to form more gentle words to get her moving, she stepped right up to one of the corpses and kicked it viciously. When its arm moved, he caught the flash of steel. Alyssa, her tears now gone, replaced with anger, pulled the hunting knife the rest of the way out from under the vampire's corpse. In her tiny hands, it looked more like a short sword. She glared up at him almost defiantly.
"I'm not a Sister, yet, I know. But I will not be helpless. Mama taught me."
These words coming from this traumatized little child gave Pyresong hope for her. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was impressed. She had managed to channel her fear and grief into anger that would serve her well. Most adults would likely not fare as well. Then again, children and their mercurial temperament were, in many ways, better equipped to shift so quickly.
"You're a brave and strong little girl, Alyssa," he told her warmly. "We'll get through this. Just stay close."
He couldn't help wincing as her small footsteps sounded like thunderclaps to his ears. But there was nothing for it. He certainly couldn't carry her and fight if they encountered anything. As they reached the front of the house, Alyssa pointed out the direction. Still trying to keep silent. He nodded and kept one step ahead of her. They encountered no more of the vampires while they crept down the alleys and yards in the shadows of the houses. Then they approached what looked like the village square with a well in the middle.
Too open, he thought warily.
He gently grabbed Alyssa by the shoulder and squatted down again. For a few seconds, he let his eyes roam around and across the square. He could not see any immediate movement, which was good. He also couldn't find any way around some of the open spaces. His instincts for threats had been screaming at him since arriving at the waypoint. It was hard to tell if there was a more immediate threat here versus everywhere else. Right now, all he could see was a great, big, open space where they would be entirely exposed to anything with a bow or projectile magic. Though he eyed all the second and even third-storey windows, he could still not detect a visible direct threat. He turned his attention back to the building's lower levels and deeper shadows. All of the doors were open, and every interior was shrouded in darkness. There were a few old, tall trees. But none had low-hanging branches they could use for cover. Alyssa tapped on his arm to get his attention. He leaned in as she whispered in his ear.
"We've gotta get to the other side, over there," she pointed to a place diagonally across the square on the opposite side.
Of course, it would be the other side, he thought in frustration, not liking any of this.
He nodded his acknowledgment and then scanned the area one more time. There was far too much underlying magic in the whole area for him to make out the faint magical aura that surrounded the vampires. He couldn't see or hear any of them nearby. There were only two buildings they might use for cover that looked like shops on either side. Across from them looked like more forest that would make for better cover. For now, though, he could see no way to sneak past this open area. They would have to make a run for it.
Standing back up and readying himself, he reminded her, "Stay close."
Alyssa just nodded with determination and gripped her knife in a ready position. Carefully he ran, mindful of keeping his steps slow enough she could keep up. When they approached the well halfway across the square, he began to actually hope they might make it undetected.
"More peasants trying to escape the village! Get them!"
He clamped his teeth on a vile expletive. The voice had come from an open door on his right, but already there were a couple of the vampire women coming out of the building to his left. While he summoned some skeletons to assist, he caught sight of more coming from the roads to in front and to the right. They were not quite surrounded. Though he knew going back was not an option. Beside him, he saw the little girl turn and raise her knife like a sword, ready to square up with them.
"Alyssa, get back!" he ordered. "Let me fight them!"
Even as he said this, there were six closing in on them. He counted himself lucky there were none coming up from behind. Alyssa, seeing one of the skeletons rushing at the vampire closest to her, never lowered her blade as she backed up behind him.
"Watch our backs!" he instructed.
Turning her attention away from the fighting, Alyssa did just that. Relieved, he turned his full attention to the fight and kept himself between them and the little girl. A couple of archers further across the square took aim as he danced death among the vampires that tried to surround him. By twos and even threes, he cut them down while more were appearing from around the other buildings. In between swipes with his scythe, he sent bone spears at the more distant ones in the hopes of keeping them away long enough to cut down the closest ones. He then sent another skeleton to harass the archers. He must have missed one, though, as he felt an arrow skip off his breastplates at a shallow angle after one swing of his scythe. Reacting on instinct, he summoned a skeletal mage to deal with it. While he was slicing the legs out from under another vampire woman, he caught sight of something black and white moving behind him.
Realizing it was going after Alyssa instead of him, terror gripped him. No longer thinking at all, he gave in to reflexes. Frantically, he dodged a blade and turned toward her. Alyssa had seen the vampire coming and raised her blade again, this time horizontally. He went wraith form and blazed his way back to Alyssa, right through some of the vampires. Somehow, the girl had managed to block the vampire's initial downswing. Obviously, it wasn't intended to kill. The vampire was just toying with her, as if sadistically feeding on Alyssa's terror. She stumbled backward under the weight of the blow. He again became physical and shoved the little girl aside. Taking advantage of the vampire's unbalanced forward stance, he swung his scythe upward. It sliced right through her laughing head and face.
Then he turned back to the other battles going on around the square. His skeletons were harassing them, but they were really no more than a nuisance. These women were all combat-trained at the very least, if not experienced. He moved the skeletons with a mental command to surround Alyssa, all but the skeletal mages he set to blasting spirit fire at the archers. He would have to finish this quickly. As they continued to pour into the plaza from all directions, he began throwing more bone spears that went right through some of them, effectively taking them out of the fight.
What seemed like half an hour of fighting was only just a few minutes, but he was sure it was enough time for more to spread the alarm. By the time he made his way around the village square, the ground was littered with dozens of vampire bodies. When the last corpse fell to the ground, he turned, listening in every direction. The silence that descended was almost more frightening. Were they hiding? Were they waiting to form a concerted attack?
Certain there would be more any second, he was about ready to hook his shield and carry Alyssa at a run. Still wary, he backed his way to where she stood guarded by three skeletons. He caught the sight of blood on the little girl and paused. His heart stuttered, thinking she might have been injured by a stray arrow or the vampire that had attacked her. Not a thing stirred in or around the square. He mentally commanded the skeletons to move aside so he could get to her as he knelt down. For a stuttering heartbeat, he was certain he hadn't been fast enough. Her pink dress was covered in dirt on one side, and he could see blood on one of her arms. More blood trickled from her nose, and one side of her face was scraped and covered in dirt. She must have landed pretty hard when he'd gotten her out of the way.
"Are you all right?" he asked, reaching for a healing potion on his belt. "Did she hurt you?"
She was shaking from head to foot. He was glad to see there were no more tears.
"N-no," she stuttered, her teeth chattering. "I'm okay. I'm s-sorry! I d-didn't know what to do!"
He reached out to soothe her once more, but she danced away from his hand on her shoulder.
"They killed my father...the whole village," she hissed, her expression transforming into one of childish wrath. "And she was right there...taunting me like I was nothing! I wanted to kill her!"
Seeing she was just getting herself more worked up, he needed to cut it off. His heart ached for the child, and he was proud of her attempts to help him. But they didn't have time for more of this. They were too exposed. Gripping her by a shoulder, he forcefully swung her around to face him. He no longer spoke in soothing tones as he had with other children. Even if she was in a little body, her mind was no longer that of a normal child...and never would be again.
"Listen to me, Alyssa. You are not nothing. We will ensure those women pay for what they did. I promise you. But you need to train with the Sisters first. You did good, stopping her long enough for me to get to you. But don't take them on for yourself yet. You're not ready."
She nodded, her eyes still dry and her expression determined. "We have to find Kashya. This way."
He was pleased with the little girl's bravery and resilience. He moved to walk around the well just ahead of her. A few steps beyond the well, a wicked laughter rang out.
"How touching!" a dark, female voice echoed through the square. "Now you both die."
Just ahead, a vampire that reeked of foul magic stepped out of the shadows of the trees. Directly ahead of them where they had been headed, several more vampires began coming out of the shadows of the buildings. His instincts had been correct; they had been waiting for a concerted attack. He surrounded Alyssa with his skeletons and took a stance, realizing this one wasn't going to be as easy as the others. Magic wielders were always more complicated and dangerous. And now there were just too many others to deal with as well. He was about to summon a sturdier golem to grab Alyssa and get her out of there when the first one raised a glowing hand and snapped her fingers with a wicked grin. Behind him, he heard Alyssa squeal in fright. He didn't dare turn his back, even for a moment, but he stepped back so she was in his peripheral vision.
Alyssa was engulfed in some of those vampiric vines!
His mind froze, enemies all but forgotten. Already Alyssa was screaming in pain as the wicked, life-sucking thorns dug into her flesh. His heart lurched painfully. All around him, the sounds of battle erupted in every direction, but all he could hear were Alyssa's screams tearing him apart from the inside. He went to his knees, tearing at the vines, trying to pull them off of her. He couldn't let this happen! He couldn't understand why the others hadn't attacked him yet, but his mind was too filled with horror and panic to consider it. Dropping his shield beside him, he took up his scythe again. Desperately, he hacked at the vines. More and more appeared to take their place.
Please, no, he thought. "Hang on, Alyssa!"
Careless of the vines now trying to wrap themselves around his arms, he tried again and again to cut them off of her. Somewhere beyond his panic, he realized the square was now filled with women battling the vampires. He pulled back his skeletons to guard him as he tore at the vines. Already Alyssa was silent. He couldn't see her face through the vines, but he couldn't stop, either. The vines began to wrap themselves around his legs and torso. In his panic to free the now-silent Alyssa, he didn't even feel the deep cuts and gouging on every exposed part of his flesh.
"Don't fear," one woman spoke nearby. "We will fight back these traitors together!"
Sensing she was standing guard over him, Pyresong let her. The vines were no longer multiplying, but he had no time to think about that. He cut and slashed and tore the vines now with no regard to possibly harming Alyssa. He was too desperate to get her out of there. Injuries could be healed.
"More are coming, outlander!" the woman standing over him shouted.
He was torn. He knew he should be helping them against the vampires. But he just couldn't leave Alyssa... She had stopped screaming. The silence within the vines lashed at his soul mercilessly. Suddenly, there was an angry and pained scream across the square. He had no idea what had just happened, but the vines dried up and fell to dust. He caught Alyssa as she fell, limply. Around him, the sounds of women battling raged. Alyssa's soft brown eyes stared blankly up at him from where he cradled her in his arms.
"Your father's last request was for me to save you. I'm going to do that, understand?"
"I would never lie to you."
“We'll make it through this.”
His own words blazed through his mind. He had lied. Pyresong's blood turned to ice, and his mind stopped working entirely. She was dead. He had failed. He could still hear her agonized screams and Lucian's pleading. Her pale little face and blank eyes froze him from the inside out. The sense of icy terror in his heart turned to a cold rage. He had learned a long time ago never to let emotions dictate one's actions in battle. It never ended well and often proved fatal.
For this one moment, he didn't care.
His scythe glowing, he danced around the square in a violent rage. Any woman in black felt his fury. He was just controlled enough not to target any of the women wearing brown and green. But the vampires were all going to pay for Alyssa. Right now. One by one, he cut them all down with his naked blade. He wanted to feel them being ripped apart. The other women in green and brown armor backed away from him, fearful of his violent and nearly crazed attacks. When there were no more vampires to kill, he was almost disappointed.
It was nowhere near enough.
He stalked back to where he had left Alyssa's corpse near the well. The woman who had guarded him earlier now knelt by her side. He glared down at her, struggling to pull back on his rage.
"Is that all of them?" he asked in a voice that was chillingly calm.
"Yes, but we must remain alert. We are close to their den," the woman told him.
She shook her thick mop of vibrant red hair out of her bright emerald green eyes. She glared up at him angrily. Ignoring her for the moment, he hooked his scythe on his belt and set aside his shield. Right now, he had a task, and he needed to get himself back under control. He knelt beside Alyssa's cooling corpse. Long ago, he had mastered the expression of the serene master of death he was supposed to be to the rest of the world. He used it now, though all that roiled in his heart was rage and sadness.
I'm so sorry, Alyssa, he thought, his heart aching.
"A cruel fate for one so young," the red-haired leader said, standing and backing away.
Carefully and with steady hands, he arranged Alyssa's corpse and murmured the prayers. He hoped she was with her father now. The woman stood by in silence while he completed his ritual. Moving back a few steps, he bled off the remaining anger and pain in the form of fire as he immolated the corpse. He couldn't save her, but at least he could make sure she would not be tormented further in death.
"What are you doing?" the red-haired woman asked angrily.
Still wrapped in his emotionless, serene facade, he turned his magical eyes to the woman across the fire.
"Ensuring she rests peacefully," he explained coldly.
Though he typically left burial or cremation rites up to the family or other survivors, he could already see for himself there likely was no other family. At the moment he wasn't even sure if these vampires could spread to those already dead; and he wasn't going to find out with Alyssa. And what tiny bit of the local population remained—if any—would have their hands full with the rest of the village. At least he could do this for the poor girl. The woman glared at him angrily for one moment longer before seeming to accept this and nodded slowly.
"I knew the girl's father, Lucian. Since you were with her, I take it he did not survive, either?"
"No."
"You are no villager," she stated coldly, now taking on a suspicious air. "Who are you? Why are you here?"
"I am a Priest of Rathma."
"Clearly," she said dryly.
Ignoring her sarcastic tone, he continued serenely, "I came here seeking a Priestess Akara...and have found only carnage and loss. I also need to find a woman named Kashya. Lucian was trying to get her a letter when he was attacked."
"I am Commander Kashya," she said, holding out her hand.
Taking the gesture of greeting for what it was, he clasped hands with her briefly, content to forgo the more formal bows.
"Master Pyresong. I have the letter here."
He dug into his satchel and produced the blood-stained piece of parchment. Kashya took it firmly and gently tugged at the places where dried blood had stuck together.
"Alyssa and her father died trying to bring it to you."
Kashya's already dark expression flickered with some deeper emotion, and her eyebrows twitched at this comment, but she remained steady. Her eyes scanned the short missive. Then they unfocused as she took a deep breath. Behind those hard green eyes and tough expression, he was certain he had caught a glimpse of grief. Then she shook her head and carefully folded the letter to place into her own satchel.
"Lucian was right to be afraid. These 'Bloodsworn', as they call themselves, are traitors to the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye. This village is not the first atrocity they have committed."
Bloodsworn, he thought to himself. A vile enough name.
She heaved a sigh and ran her hands through her hair as if in frustration as she continued. "Sadly, Blackstone is gone. And, like with this poor girl, there is no undoing the terrible loss of life." Then her expression hardened. "But we can avenge the fallen and prevent further misery. My Rogues and I are going to put an end to these Bloodsworn."
Before he could answer, another rogue came running up from their left.
"Commander," the woman called breathless, her chest heaving. "Lakrii's forces ambushed us! The Bloodsworn retreated beyond the overgrown village, but our numbers are too few to pursue! And the wounded—"
Kashya cut her off before she could get too much more worked up. "Flavie!" she snapped. The other woman stood stiff at attention now. "Order the Rogues to pull back. Get the injured to the battle camp and bury the dead."
Flavie, still at attention and a bit breathless, nodded.
"Go! We will take care of Lakrii," Kashya dismissed the woman.
Turning back to him, her emerald green eyes were blazing with anger. "Outlander, I will beg of no man as long as I still have breath. But I'm asking you, will you help me now?"
Amused but feeling no need to injure her strong pride, he nodded simply.
"Thank you," she breathed. "When it is done, I will take you to High Priestess Akara, the one you seek."
She called out some more orders to the rest of the Rogues standing around waiting. Some shouted back about there not being enough and that they needed her at the camp. Kashya considered for a minute, frustration painted on her face. Then, seeming a bit calmer, she finally turned back to him. She quirked a grin at him.
"It appears you have the honor of heading in first, outlander," she told him with a hint of mocking challenge. "Once we have ensured the safety of our sisters and recovered the bodies of those who have been lost, I will join you. Acceptable?"
He smiled wickedly with a nod.
Kashya grinned broadly at this. "Considering you fought your way through this village, I doubt you will miss me too severely." Then her eyes turned hard and cold again. "Go, show those traitors death is the only mercy we will afford them."
An image of Alyssa and her bravery flashed through his mind, though he gave no indication of this as he held his predatory smile.
"Gladly. I will see you inside, Commander."
"The enemy's den lies beyond the felled tree," Kashya pointed to the left of the square in which they stood. A place where cobbled roads became forest paths. "Take caution; the Bloodsworn are not to be trifled with!"
He nodded and summoned a couple more skeletal warriors. The time for stealth was over. The roiling emotions he had put away for later were just beneath the surface. Now he wanted something to kill. He took a few seconds to down a healing potion to stop the bleeding from the deeper gouges the vines had inflicted. They were no more than scratches when compared to the pain he felt within. Many could likely use stitches. The potion would at least stop the immediate bleeding, and the rest could be tended to later if needed. His only concern for now was ensuring his grip on his scythe didn't become slick or unsteady.
He jogged silently through the darkened woods. He could sense the underlying magic all over the land, thickening ahead. When he followed the dirt path, he found several more of those wicked vines twining their way up trees that now appeared to have had the life sucked out of even them. He stayed well clear of the thorns. He began to suspect the vines had killed everything in the area, including the animals and other plant life. He still did not understand what role they played or why the vampires were even using them at all. He would have to find out later. At the moment, the only question on his mind was where to find more of these Bloodsworn to cut apart.
It wasn't long before he approached the location of the ambush. The gallons of blood soaking into the dirt were still moist. He saw the bodies of Bloodsworn and Rogues on every side. The Bloodsworn bodies clearly outnumbered the Rogues many times over. These women were very much warriors indeed. Not one died without vampire blood on her weapon.
The Rogues were outnumbered but fought well, he thought admiringly and angrily. I will finish their fight.
Though he encountered no more living bodies, the twisting movements of the wicked vines as they reached for him made him want to stop and chop them all down. But, no, he didn't have time to indulge in such wasted efforts. They would likely as not just grow right back. Whatever filthy magic created them would never make it so easy. He knew he needed to learn more first before they could be destroyed. Up ahead, he spotted a cave entrance. The condensed sense of evil pouring out of the opening confirmed his suspicions. He paused to consider those sickening energies. Nothing here felt like the shards had felt to him.
For a moment, he again considered stealth. Then he shook it off. He needed a fight now, he had to admit. There was too much pent-up emotion right now, and meditation would have to wait. Right this second, he just wanted some semblance of justice for Alyssa and her father, for all the villagers and Rogues. And, even if this wasn't his fight, he wanted to kill every last one of those Bloodsworn in any way he could manage. He knew it wasn't the wisest decision, but he'd seen their ability and had their measure. He was confident in his own abilities.
Walking boldly, making as much noise as he could, he walked down through the cave. There was nothing near the entrance. They hadn't even posted guards. He would teach them to regret that before they died. The twisted vines were thicker here and covered the walls and ceiling of the cave. He could easily see some more of the writhing blooms and even sacs as they fed off more people. Probably some of the recently slain Rogues. Keeping out of their reach, he stalked down the path.
It wasn't very long before he encountered a few Bloodsworn. In small groups, the vampire women stood around talking and even laughing. He gave them a chance to recognize his presence and then swung into action. Small groups spread out the way they were; it was no hard task to dispatch them with just his scythe. He didn't even bother with skeletons. He wanted to feel each of them dying by his hands. Giving in to the rage and blood lust, he was nearly mindless. Then, he heard a man screaming ahead that nearly shocked him right out of it.
Rounding a corner at a run, he found himself facing six of the Bloodsworn standing in a semi-circle around a giant of a man huddled in some more of the vines. The screaming ceased and became painful pants when the vampires turned toward their unexpected guest in clear surprise. As with most creatures, they in no way expected an assault in their own lair. For a moment, there was a frenzy of activity, and then the last corpse dropped to the floor.
He just stood in the silence, listening for more of them as the man panted in pain beside him. After a few seconds, he was sure no more were coming from further down the tunnel. He turned his attention to their latest victim. He knelt down before the man. His magical sight picked up something he had not expected.
A Druid, he thought curiously.
The man stared back at him in silence, waiting for whatever was to come.
"I will get you out of here," he told him, eyeing the vines.
These vines, though very similar, did not have the same color or blood-red thorns. The green thorns were just digging into the man's flesh painfully, unlike with Lucian or Alyssa. He paused to consider for a few seconds how best to get them off of the Druid without inflicting further suffering. Stepping back a bit to give himself more room, he swung his scythe with surgical precision, severing a few of the thicker ones to one side. They dried up and fell away. Perfect. A couple more swings and the man's massive bulk began to fall forward, out of the neat little prison.
He dropped his scythe and caught the much bigger man by the shoulders. With his help, the Druid was able to stay on his knees at least. Now, he could see the full extent of the man's numerous injuries. They were serious and possibly fatal. Even before he had been trapped and tortured in the vines, he had clearly been in a ferocious battle. He unhooked one of the strongest healing potions off his belt and held the man steady while he tilted his head back to drink. Despite his efforts, the man landed on his butt almost falling sideways. He carefully maneuvered the Druid until he was leaning against the rock wall, his legs out before him.
"Thank you," the man wheezed painfully after downing the potion. "I did not expect much kindness was left in these woods...not since the Bloodsworn began their vile...hunt."
"You're welcome," he replied, placing the empty bottle back on his belt. He considered giving the man another one when he saw many of the wounds still bleeding freely. "So far, you're the only prisoner I've seen still alive. Why have they not killed you?"
The Druid shook his head slightly as if trying to shake off his shock and weakness. "They were torturing me... Wanted me to join their perverse cause." Seeming a bit more anxious, he met Pyresong's eyes. "They want to spread that corruption through the woods and beyond. A Druid would sooner die than aid in such a thing." Then he chuckled softly to himself, his eyes wandering away again. "Heh. In fact, I almost did."
And may yet, Pyresong thought, eyeing the Druid's many severe wounds.
There was no telling how much internal damage he had suffered, either. He was about to reach for another, more powerful healing potion when another sound had his right hand moving in a different direction. Hearing running footsteps approaching, soft though they were, he snatched up his scythe and spun to meet the attacker with a vicious upswing. The woman deftly spun sideways beyond the blade's reach by no more than an inch.
"Not bad," she commented, seeming utterly unfazed by the fact that he had nearly killed her.
"Kashya," he said, almost a growl.
Mentally, he swore a filthy obscenity as he relaxed his stance. The words to berate her for nearly getting herself killed—by his hands no less!—were on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back. Instead, he pitched his voice into something more akin to amusement, sensing it would irk her far more. The hard edge of sarcasm made his voice frigid.
"You've missed all the excitement," he drawled.
Kashya just grinned coldly right back, her green eyes flashing dangerously at his tone. But there was no time for trading verbal barbs. She turned her attention to the Druid, pulling a healing potion off her belt.
"Lakrii and her retinue captured this Druid. The injuries are severe."
While the Druid finished off her potion as well, he began to seem a little more coherent. "You two must stop them. They're that way," he pointed further into the tunnel.
"You've lost a lot of blood, friend," she told him gently. "You will not survive long without treatment." She looked up at Pyresong. "Someone will have to stay with him until we can get him back to camp."
He cocked a chilly eyebrow at her. "I have gotten this far on my own. What's a little further?'
She smiled approvingly, both at his words and his sarcastic tone. "You outlanders seem to love surprising me. Fine, very well, go and deal with Lakrii. Once the deed is done, follow the path out of here and keep going into the forest beyond. It will take you right to our camp."
He nodded and turned his attention to the tunnel ahead.
"May the Great Eye watch over you," he heard Kashya call softly behind him.
A blessing? he thought dryly. I must have impressed her.
Already something about her irritated him in a way he could not pin down. But he had no time to seriously consider it anyway. He would deal with her later. More to the point, he needed her to take him to Priestess Akara. Once that was accomplished, he hoped he would never have to deal with her and her hostile attitude ever again.
Focusing on the tunnel ahead, he strained his sight and his ears for some time, hearing and seeing nothing more than the thickening miasma of evil power all around. He was somewhat surprised to encounter no more Bloodsworn. After several minutes, he could hear the difference in echoes that indicated a bigger location up ahead, steeped in an evil aura. It practically oozed out of that larger chamber. Remembering the last time he'd been in one of these situations, he crouched down low in the shadows just outside the larger chamber. When he crept around a large stone, he caught sight of several vampires kneeling in what looked like a pool of blood. The wicked vines and blooms covered the walls completely. In the center of this semi-circle of vampires stood one with hair so red it could not be natural. There was no mistaking the aura of filthy magic and shard corruption. Yet, it wasn't strong enough. The shard wasn't here with her.
The woman raised her arms as if performing a ritual. "Mistress!" the woman called, her voice resonating throughout the chamber. "I've done as you asked. The blood of every man, woman, and child in Blackstone runs through your veins."
Rising up out of the pool of blood, the image of what he thought must be a demon with wings began to form itself. It had a demon's wings, certainly, but otherwise had a human appearance. A tall, powerful female. Some kind of succubus? When it finished forming, it hovered over the pool, staring angrily down at the woman he now thought must be Lakrii.
"Yet it is not enough," the vision spoke angrily. "I must be whole once more. Hasten your efforts, lest you lose my favor!"
Lakrii fell to her knees in the pool of blood. "Yes, Mistress! I swear it!"
The vision sank back into the pool of blood and disappeared. He filed away the information he'd gleaned for later. He was already summoning skeletal warriors and mages to help him. Jumping out of his shadow, he made for the little circle of vampires. He sent spirit fire to disorient them. Once more, he danced death among these women, his skeletons and mages making them turn in distraction as attacks came from all sides. But his main focus was on Lakrii. She was the key to ending this. If nothing else, she had been in contact with the Worldstone shard. He could see its lingering power on her.
Lakrii carried an unusually long red saber that looked like it might have been forged in the Hells. Apparently, she knew how to use it. It made his job that much more difficult with her longer reach. It was nearly impossible to get close enough. And she was just too fast. Unlike most of the other vampires he had fought here, she had gained enough power to be inhumanly fast, likely enhanced by the shard's power as well. He considered slashing out at her with blades of energy from his scythe. She gave him no chance to do more than dodge or parry. Her sword glowed with vile power and seemed to come at him from multiple angles simultaneously. It was all he could do to avoid it for the moment. Around him, the skeletons kept the other women busy, but how long would that last?
Nearly cornered by Lakrii, he rolled forward under her latest sword swing and through the pool of blood, not sparing a thought for how disgusting this felt. He had hoped to catch her by surprise by getting behind her. She had apparently seen right through his trick. Her sword was already ahead of her as she turned her swipe into a spin to face him. He caught the sword tip on his shield and tried to use the power in his glowing scythe to cut through the blade. She was too fast again, though, and he missed.
Somehow, his skeletons had managed to take out the others, much to his surprise. Freed up from their other fights, he ordered his minions to close in on Lakrii and distract her. She danced around, skillfully cutting them down just as fast. He never even got a chance to fling a blade of energy at her before she moved away again. Lakrii realized she was now alone.
"No, no, no!" she screamed, painfully, in that closed-in chamber. "I won't fail her! I can't!"
Summoning her unholy power, Lakrii formed a shield made of raw energy around herself as she backed away toward the chamber entrance.
"This land has always belonged to her!" Lakrii shrieked madly. "She will ensure you remember those you have forgotten!"
With a swing of her sword, Lakrii sent a wave of powerful energy nearly identical to what he would do with his scythe. That wave crushed his remaining skeletons and even challenged his stance; it was so powerful. Holding up his shield, he just managed to stay on his feet as the wave washed over him. When he lowered his shield a second later, she had disappeared somewhere.
She's gone! Damn! he cursed silently. Commander Kashya will need to know about this.
Fairly certain, but not entirely, that the cave system was now empty, he jogged silently back through the tunnels. Wary of any more ambushes, he summoned a few skeletal warriors. He met no resistance as he reached the mouth of the cave. Just outside, he found another Rogue ready for a fight. Catching sight of him instead of a Bloodsworn, she quickly lowered her bow. He approached, his arms out non threateningly.
"Where is Kashya?"
"She left for the battle camp a while go. Had a Druid in tow. Bleeding everywhere, that one was. Hopefully, the priestess can see to his wounds." She pointed down the trail that Kashya had mentioned to him earlier. "Head east through the woods to find the camp, but be careful. There have been reports of demons moving in through that section of forest."
Vampires and demons... Charming, he thought, nodding to the woman as he passed.
He was pleasantly surprised to find he encountered nothing more dangerous than the magically twisted forms of some wildlife. Direwolves, quill rats, bears, and a few other things occasionally crossed his path. He put them down easily or let his skeletons deal with them as he continued jogging silently east. Again, he was struck by the miasma of evil magic that permeated this forest like a thick haze. Had he not been outright told this path headed east, he likely would not have been able to tell in this gloom. He wondered how anyone could even try to live in this dismal place.
A little ways ahead, he caught sight of several fires in the thick darkness. He slowed his pace a bit so he could scout the area first. That plan was thrown out a second later when he heard a girl screaming somewhere in the middle of all those small fires.
"Leave me alone, you monsters!"
The circle of fires had clearly once been a trading caravan. The wooden carts and wagons stood in a large circle on either side of the path, every one of them ablaze. Dancing around the flames in wicked glee were a handful of small, red demons.
Fallen, he identified them.
Running between the blazing fires, he finally caught sight of a woman in the middle, turning every which way and firing her bow in rapid succession at any of the cowardly creatures she could make out in the smoke. He was impressed to note that every single arrow she fired found its mark, as fallen screamed and squealed. Wasting no time, he jumped right in, scattering the little pack and killing or maiming as many as he could. Thankfully, he found no shaman to resurrect the corpses. It was enough to scare them off...for the moment.
The Rogue, breathing heavily, kept her bow nocked with an arrow and ready. Her wide, dark eyes roamed around wildly in fear, expecting more to come out of the shadows and smoke at any moment. Approaching her, he visually checked her over for obvious injuries. He was slightly concerned to see that this really was just a girl. She couldn't be more than sixteen at most. He had to remind himself that he had been battle-tested by sixteen. Some people started training their children from as early as six or seven. Who was he to judge?
"Thank you for your help," she said in a shaky voice, never taking her eyes off the shadows. "The Fallen have grown much more aggressive in the last few hours. Kashya asked me to wait for you. I'm glad you came along when you did. I'm Liene, by the way."
Appreciating her attempts to sound confident despite her clear terror, he smiled. "You're welcome, Liene. Master Pyresong. Do you know where I can find the battle camp of the Sisterhood?"
Her voice growing steadier, she nodded. "It's not far. Keep going down this road, and you'll find Kashya inside the battle camp."
He nodded again and turned to leave. Behind him, she called out. "Oh, while you're at it, maybe you can kill a few more Fallen on the way. That would certainly help us out."
He couldn't help a chuckle. But Liene hadn't been exaggerating. Just beyond the fires was another relatively untouched trading caravanserai. Several more abandoned wagons and carts lay scattered about. Here and there, he thought he heard movement, but nothing came out to confront him. There was no doubt many more Fallen right here in the area.
Just beyond that more open space, he caught sight of some more, much smaller fires. In the murk and miasma, it was hard to make out at first that the faint glow of fires were surrounded by makeshift fences and barricades. It must be the camp. He quickly caught sight of a couple of rogues stepping out of the shadows near one gated entrance to challenge him. Their bows were raised and aimed right at him. He again put his arms out to his sides in a non-combative gesture.
"What do you want, outlander?"
"I am Master Pyresong. Commander Kashya told me to join her at the camp."
One of them nodded to the other, and then they stepped back into their shadows to resume their sentry. "She's by the cook pot straight ahead after you enter," one of them called to him softly.
"Thank you."
While he passed through them, he hung his shield on his back and his scythe on his belt. With a mental command, he dismissed his skeletal warriors. It would not do to further frighten any refugees he found inside. Just as he had been told, he found Kashya standing over a cooking pot hanging over a fire about twenty feet ahead. Beyond the cook fire, there was a ramshackle makeshift tent that served as the food storage. Catching sight of his approach, Kashya put the ladle back into the pot and turned to face him. She eyed him up and down, frowning in disgust. Only then did he remember his little roll in the pool of blood in the cave. She made no comment on his appearance, however.
"Ah, you've returned. I trust you bring news of victory?" she asked, no small amount of challenge in her cool voice.
He stifled his immediate irritation and kept his serene mask firmly in place. However this would play out, he already knew he would be hunting down Lakrii to find the shard. It would be best if he kept his tongue from making enemies he might actually need later.
"Some. The Bloodsworn are driven from the village, but Lakrii escaped," he admitted blandly.
Her expression turned grim. "I see. Still, you've done well. This was never truly your fight, outlander," she replied in chilly tones, clearly offering him a way out.
"Anything or anyone that disturbs the Balance is my fight," he replied just as coldly.
She smiled darkly at this and nodded her thanks and...understanding? He wondered but quickly dismissed the thought. He already knew the shard was somehow involved with this Lakrii. He had clearly seen its taint all over her. Even if she didn't have it, she knew where it was. Still, something about Kashya had him on edge. More out of suspicious reflex than any real thought, he switched his focus more to the magical spectrum as he scanned her. No, there was no taint of curse, dark magic, or shard on her, and no magical shields, either.
"If I remember, you came to this land in search of Akara, yes? It's time the two of you met," Kashya offered.
He cocked an amused eyebrow at her with a grin. He looked down at himself. He was tired, hungry—now that he'd seen food—and literally covered head to toe in sticky, drying blood. What kind of impression would he make on this priestess Charsi and Cain thought so much about? Kashya laughed softly, catching on.
"Not to worry," she told him. She pointed to the northwest, "Just beyond that bit of fence, there is a rather deep creek. Have a swim. There will be time for more later. But it is getting late, and Akara will need her rest."
"Thank you," he said, sincerely grateful.
Following her directions, he vaulted the fence and found the creek in less than a minute. As she had said, it was fairly deep. First, he plunged his shield and scythe and washed them off with the swiftly running water as much as he could. Then he set them aside with a few other items and plunged feet first into the water. The icy cold water was refreshing, but he knew it could become painfully and dangerously cold to his body if he stayed too long. Nonetheless, he relished the feeling of the minor aches and pains being temporarily numbed by the chilly water. He swished around a bit to dislodge as much of the sticky blood as he could, knowing much of it would still be stuck to his clothes underneath. He tried not to think of it or how much time he would spend cleaning it all. Briefly, he dunked his head under the water and scrubbed his face and hair. He grimaced mentally at the sensation that all of his hair had just become one giant blood clot on his head. After a few seconds of vigorous scrubbing, at least it began to feel more like his own short hair again.
Not wanting to waste more time, he climbed out quickly and recovered his stuff. A minute later, he vaulted back over the fence. Kashya was now sitting by the same cook fire with a bowl of something hot steaming in her hands. She quickly set it aside at his approach.
"Well, at least you're presentable now," she drawled.
He couldn't help cocking an eyebrow at her again. "Would you prefer I donned my dress armor for the occasion?"
Kashya grinned but said nothing further on the subject. She pointed across the camp to a larger fire surrounded by more tents.
"Go to her, and show respect. She may be the High Priestess of the Sisters of the Sightless Eye, but she is also like a mother to me," she warned, a dangerous glint in her green eyes. "Oh, and don't fret about Lakrii. My Rogues and I will handle her."
She gave him one last frigid glare to ensure he understood that his banter and sarcasm were fine with her, but he would keep a civil tongue with the priestess. Not wishing to irritate her further at the moment, he nodded deeply, with his shoulders slightly bowed to show he understood and would respect her wishes. There was no point in starting an argument with her over Lakrii, either. With any luck, he could just deal with Akara from here on out. Satisfied, she sat back down with her steaming bowl and dismissed him. Starving as he was right now, he knew he would have to put aside his body's needs for just a bit longer.
Sitting contentedly beside the fire, gazing into it intently, he spotted a lone figure clothed in purple and lilac robes. Though he could not see her face, from what he could see of her in profile, she had a regal bearing that almost felt welcoming. She seemed to become aware of her surroundings once more as he stepped up to the fire.
"I do not recognize your stealthy steps, warrior," she whispered, still staring into the fire. "You're not one of us."
Letting the warmth of the now-nearby blazing fire soak into him to banish the last of the chill from the water, he watched as she slowly and gracefully rose to her feet.
"Priestess Akara?"
She nodded, eyeing him curiously. Her ancient eyes and withered face spoke of many hardships in her life. Yet she carried a sense of wisdom and presence that was in no way diminished by her obvious age. And, again, he detected no sense of the shard. Though Charsi had spoken highly of the Sisterhood, his suspicious thoughts couldn't help checking. Still, there was something about Akara that struck him as far less haughty and cold than most high priestesses he had encountered over the years. If anything, she had a calming, motherly presence about her.
"I am Master Pyresong. It is an honor," he said, bowing low, priest to high priestess.
Akara snorted and then chuckled. "Kashya said something, didn't she? Enough of that foolishness. Sit down," she gestured to a split log seat behind him. Then she motioned to one of the women nearby, "Get him some warm food, he's starving."
He smiled gratefully as he seated himself where she had indicated. Just to his left, she resumed her seat casually, still eyeing him with open curiosity.
"My words were sincere, Priestess. I am honored to meet you. She was not the only one who spoke highly of you. Deckard Cain and Charsi did as well."
"Ah, my friends..." she said, letting her sad eyes roam the fire for a moment before focusing back on him.
"I've come with a dire request," he continued. "Elder Cain and Charsi believed you could help us find a Worldstone shard hidden in these woods."
Akara's ancient eyes lit up. "A shard of the Worldstone? Interesting. That certainly could be the source of our troubles..."
She was quiet for a few seconds, gazing into the fire again. He got the sense that she was listening and kept silent. After a while, she took a deep breath and turned back to focus on him, but this time, he felt like she was seeing through him. She was somehow weighing and judging him. Though his serene expression never wavered, something shifted inside of him, and his heart skipped a beat. Something akin to guilt rose up. He locked it up for later and held her gaze steadily with his own.
"It seems the Great Eye has aligned our goals, my friend," she finally said, as if she'd sensed whatever had just happened inside his heart.
Maybe he had just imagined it. He quickly removed his gauntlets and sodden gloves.
"As you have undoubtedly seen, the Dark Wood suffers at the hands of the Bloodsworn. Their leader, Lakrii, was once part of the Sisterhood until her heart was...broken. She rejected us and found someone else to accept her. A Worldstone shard could be the source of the new power they have acquired."
"I have seen traces of it on Lakrii, though she does not have it," he confirmed.
Just then, the other woman that had been sent on her errand returned with a large bowl filled with what smelled like venison stew. He took it from her gratefully. Clearly too hot to eat, he held it in his now warming hands. Akara motioned that he could go ahead and eat, no insult would be taken in the circumstances. He nodded gratefully.
Akara continued, "If thus is the case, you will need all the assistance I can offer."
"We are most grateful to you."
Akara thought for a moment; a smile flickered across her ancient features as she gazed again into the fire. He could tell that once she had been quite the beauty in her youth, though no vanity ever stirred in her soul.
"Years ago, Deckard Cain left me with a gift: a tome of Horadric origin. In truth, its strange magics were never meant for me." She turned her amused smile on Pyresong. "How fitting that he has sent you here to complete the circle. I would like you to take it. It may serve you, or you can return it to Deckard when next you see him. And I have another gift for you that will help you to carry it."
She eyed him with a darker scrutiny. Again, her eyes were unfocused, as if seeing beyond the physical. Once again, he felt she was seeing much more than just his outward appearance. Yet he did not sense any kind of magical or mental probing. Though it disturbed him slightly, he allowed it for now. He was willing to put up with almost anything right now that would help him find that shard and put an end to the nightmare plaguing this land.
"The essence of the Bloodsworn and Fallen still lingers on you."
He was not surprised by this. He knew full well that coming in contact with various things left something behind that could not so easily be washed off. To his own magical eyes, he could still sometimes see a lingering trace of the essence of things he'd killed with his scythe. It was always weak and easily removed with some purification rites and cleansing rituals. But it was never a pleasant thing to think about for him. It always made him feel somehow grimy in a way he couldn't not really describe.
He wondered curiously why she would even bring it up. At the moment, of course, there was little to be done about it. Akara grinned as if seeing right through his mask...and discomfort.
"I mention this because the tome is such an item that it can sense those essences. And it can cleanse them. It takes that essence from you and traps it within the pages. While I have no need or love of such things, it may serve you, or, as I said, you may return it to Deckard with my blessings."
"Thank you," he replied neutrally, though more than a bit curious at this point.
She motioned again for him to eat while the food was still warm. She turned her gaze back into the fire, clearly seeing and listening to something beyond the here and now. Thanks to his talks with Cain, he had some idea of what she might be doing, and had no desire to interrupt her.
He took a few spoonfuls to silence his growling stomach. He was pleased at its savory tastes and thickness. It was not the usual hasty camp food he was accustomed to and a very welcome thing right now. Akara kept her peace while he ate, absorbed in her own thoughts for several minutes. As he finished, her eyes flickered to a place in the shadows behind him. She rose again when another priestess approached.
"Ah, there they are," Akara said, taking the two burdens from the woman.
She knelt down beside him as he set his bowl aside. One item was a relatively small backpack, not even as large as his side satchel and much smaller than his current one. The other item was a massive tome she placed on his knees. The outer covers were made of wood, delicately and intricately carved in somewhat subconsciously unsettling patterns. It radiated some kind of magic that felt in no way threatening. She flicked through the thick parchment pages to somewhere in the middle and then moved back a few inches.
"Touch it," urged softly with an amused grin.
Not certain what would happen, he gently placed a finger on the empty page. For a moment, there was a very slight glow, softer than any candle. And then he felt...tingling? Was it a sort of warmth? It had a feel of protection, certainly. But what else? The book had taken something from him. Then he recalled what Akara had said before. Removing his finger, he looked down at his scythe hanging on his belt. Yes, the faint taint of what it had encountered was gone.
"It trapped the essence," Akara explained, moving back to her place by the fire. "Over time, it will take enough essence to give back to you knowledge of whatever it was you encountered. Very useful to a warrior such as yourself, I imagine."
"It is, indeed," he admitted.
He could see its potential usefulness. Yet the idea of carrying around a massive tome did not appeal to him in the slightest. Much as he loved books, this enormous thing would just be downright inconvenient.
"The backpack I offer both as a gift for your aid in this and as a means to carry the tome. It is a magical bag that can hold much, much more than it would appear. You could easily fit the tome, all of your armor, clothing, food, and any other supplies in its depths. When you need to retrieve something, set your mind on the object you desire, and it will come to your hand."
"It is most appreciated. I am honored," he told her sincerely, amazed at such a wonderful gift.
Though he'd heard of such magical items as this backpack in his travels, he had never actually seen one. They were extraordinarily rare and nearly priceless to any traveler, let alone a warrior living on the roads. Briefly, he wanted to question what Akara could have seen that would prompt her to give such a rare and valuable gift. Yet, she had already explained it away as being needed for the tome. Still, he couldn't quite accept that was her only motivation, especially with what little he knew of the Sisters of the Sightless Eye. Without a doubt, she had seen much more of him than he had anticipated.
"Now, then—we must return to the task at hand," she said, as if having made a decision. "If you are to find your Worldstone shard, you will need help. Thankfully, we are not alone in this endeavor. I've had some time to speak with the Druid while I was tending his wounds. He should still be awake but resting. Let us speak with him further."
Putting aside his numerous other curious thoughts about this place and the Sisterhood, he nodded. He followed her across the camp to another large makeshift tent that was little more than an awning on sticks. Within were several sleeping pallets and some crates of healing supplies. They seemed well equipped to deal with a variety of injuries, he was glad to see. Once again, he was pleased to note this was no hasty battle camp. They had been well prepared. In one corner, the Druid looked up as they entered the tent.
"Hemlir," Akara called warmly, "your rescuer has returned."
Hemlir's bearded face lit up with a genuine smile in the dim light of a nearby candle when he caught sight of him just behind the priestess. Only then did Pyresong notice that he stood head and shoulders above the elderly priestess. She was not burdened by her age in the form of a stoop or hunched shoulders, but she was only the height of a girl. Such was the powerful presence and confidence of this woman that she seemed so much taller and bigger to him.
"Ah, you're back...ha! Good!" Hemlir struggled into a slightly more upright position.
Naked from the waist up, Hemlir was a mass of bandages, some still oozing blood. A long scar now lined the right side of his face from forehead to beard where once it had been an open wound. Luckily, it seemed his eye had been spared any damage. He knelt beside the Druid's oversized pallet on the tent floor. He noted this new scar did nothing to diminish the Druid's bright and happy smile when he offered his hand as if greeting a friend. He took it firmly.
"I didn't get a chance to introduce myself while I was choking to death on those vines," the Druid said rather more cheerfully than the description warranted. "My name is Hemlir, and I...well, I suppose I owe you my life, don't I?"
Pyresong got the sudden sense he was somehow being teased or set up. As entirely out of place as this seemed in the circumstances, he just couldn't shake off the feeling. Akara's dark eyes twinkled mischievously beside Hemlir, where she had knelt on the other side of him, placing another sack of bedding behind him to keep him upright.
"It was the least I could do," he said, trying to find the words. "Are you familiar with the Priests of Rathma?"
"Very much so," Hemlir affirmed, his own eyes crinkled with a grin.
"Good, then you must know that you owe me nothing." He paused before giving a wicked grin, "At least, not yet."
Akara burst out laughing, and Hemlir chuckled a few times painfully.
"Excellent counter, my friend!" Hemlir finally managed to say.
Akara nodded her agreement.
Getting serious again, Pyresong asked, "Still, I am curious: What brought you here? The Dark Wood is quite a distance from your homeland, is it not?"
Laughter fled from the Druid's large and gentle face as he nodded. "Aye, 'tis. And how I miss Tùr Dùlra!" He sighed longingly before continuing. "But the corruption of nature in these lands cannot be ignored. I felt it. All the way in my homeland, I felt it beginning. I came here to commune with the great tree, Inifuss. I was on my way there when I was captured by those Bloodsworn," he spat the name like a filthy curse word that made him want to wash out his mouth. "The dead tree teems with old magic. Older than these lands, older than the Dark Wood itself. The tree whispered to me of a way to cleanse this corruption. Unfortunately, the ritual is complicated, and I lack the strength now to gather the resources."
"How can I help?" he offered, eager to obtain any information that would help him cleanse this land of the corruption and restore the Balance.
Hemlir's sad and distant gaze refocused on the necromancer with no little amount of surprise. Then he thought about it a moment and realized it really should have been no surprise.
"The Balance must be restored," Hemlir said.
Pyresong smiled and nodded. Rare was it that he ever encountered anyone who really understood. Druids were not as closed off about Priests of Rathma. They understood the Balance and the Great Cycle in their own way. More often than not, Druids acknowledged the need for necromancers, though there was always some distaste in method and a difference of opinion. But it was not unheard of for Druids and Priests of Rathma to work together toward a common goal.
"We must acquire native reagents," Hemlir began to explain. "A crimson arach's giant eye, a thorn from the largest of those blood flowers," again he spat the words distastefully, "and a branch of the darkest wood. Combined, the forest itself will reveal the truth to us."
He nodded, fixing the list in his mind. Already, he silently cringed at the idea of yet another giant spider encounter. Though he had no real fear of any creatures anymore, spiders had always made his skin crawl. He avoided them whenever possible.
"Now, the spider's eye and the thorn should be simple. I'm certain both can be found just north of the camp. But the branch..." Hemlir paused, seeming to rifle through his mind for something he couldn't quite make surface. Finally, he sighed, "I don't know, exactly. The oldest trees here are where the Fallen make their camp. I can feel it. But I also feel there must be another way. Sending anyone into the heart of a Fallen camp with all those shamans is suicide."
He put a comforting and reassuring hand on the Druid's bare shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll do what we must."
"Why don't you start with the other two? I'll keep searching to see if there's another way to get what we need."
"Very well," he agreed as Hemlir yawned hugely.
Surprisingly, Akara echoed the yawn. He could almost feel it coming on for himself as well and just managed to stifle it. In the constant nightscape of this land, he had no concept of time. But now that he paused a moment to think about it, it felt like at least a full day had passed. It was probably much later than he realized. Despite being eager to get on with things, he knew it would be senseless and reckless to go after the reagents right now. He was in a relatively safe location; passing up the opportunity to rest would be downright stupid.
"It seems we're all in need of sleep. The hunt can begin in the morning. Rest now, Hemlir. Regain your strength," Akara said.
Hemlir nodded and yawned again as he carefully shifted around until he was mostly prone. Akara covered him with a couple of handy blankets. He was snoring loudly by the time they left the tent a few seconds later. Pyresong was just glad there were no more recovering wounded in there, with some amusement. Likely, no one nearby was going to get any sleep with that snore going on.
Once they were out of the tent, Akara headed toward the fire where they had met. It must have been later than he realized. Most of the camp was already settling down or asleep. Most had their weapons to hand and settled anywhere they could find a place. Kashya herself slept against a larger tent pole; upright, arms crossed, and head down. He spotted the bow and quiver of arrows in her lap. Despite her soft snores, he knew she would be ready for battle in a heartbeat. Spying much of the same around the rest of the camp, and knowing the sentries were all hiding and watching, he gave a mental nod of approval.
"There is an unoccupied tent over there where you can change out of those wet clothes and finish cleaning your armor," Akara pointed to one shadowy corner where the tent nestled between two ancient pieces of stone wall. "When you have finished, you can set the clothing over here by the fire to dry. I'm afraid there's little I can offer for sleeping arrangements."
"It's quite all right," he assured.
"I will retire to my tent for the night." Then she paused, looking around the camp, frowning. "Kashya won't let me have it otherwise. Nonsense about looking the part of a leader."
He nodded with a slight smile. "She's not wrong. You're a symbol to these people. You must be both a part of them and above them. Circumstances dictate how."
Akara snorted but accepted it. "Good night."
"Good night, Priestess."
He gathered up his few belongings near main campfire that had burned down considerably by now. For a moment, he eyed the tome and the small backpack. He knew it would be rude to refuse them now. The tome he had no real use for. The pack...invaluable to him. Carrying all this, he silently made his way to the wide, tall tent Akara had indicated. Clearly, it was some kind of makeshift dressing room. He was by no means ashamed of his body. Some necromancers even considered it a temporary meat suit and nothing more. He was not unaccustomed to dressing or undressing around others, either. Though he had to quirk a grin at himself, a camp full of strong, battle-hardened women did slightly change things.
Quickly, he removed all his armor and set it down as quietly as he could. Then peeled himself out of his still soggy clothes underneath. As expected, the arms of his shirt were basically shredded. Underneath the cloth, he found dozens of deep gouges and holes. The vines around Alyssa had tried to latch on to him, as well. Though he had essentially ignored the wounds, earlier, now they needed at least some tending. Thanks to the earlier healing potion, they had stopped bleeding and were now healed enough that none of them appeared to be too serious. After cleaning and inspecting them, he simply wrapped up the deeper ones with bandages to avoid possible infection setting in later.
From his now former backpack, he produced a fresh pair of tightly rolled clothes and his meager cleaning supplies. A candle flared to light at his touch, so he would have just enough light to work by. Yawning, he set to work cleaning everything as thoroughly as he could. He was disturbed by how much of that blood still clung to his armor. Longing for sleep, he was disappointed by the amount of time he would have to spend on this, but there was no choice. Improperly cared-for armor and weapons could present too many problems later. Worse, the scent of drying blood was almost overwhelmingly sickening.
When he was finally satisfied it was all clean, he moved all his belongings to the new backpack. Then, hesitantly, he tried to get the tome into the opening that seemed far too small. Familiar with magic, though, he understood that human perception shaped much of the functionality of magic. Focusing on the tome going into the little bag, he watched in amazement as it seemed to grow smaller and drop right in. Pausing for a moment, he thought of something and stuck his hand inside to experiment. Just as Akara had told him, he felt the object in his hand as he withdrew. Nodding in satisfaction, he returned it to the bag and tied it closed. For a few seconds, he considered his options.
Returning to the heart of the camp, he glanced around. All over the grounds, Rogues slept in various ready positions. He had no wish to disturb their meager rest. And he had no desire to be in their way when the camp woke. He had no idea how much longer it was to sunrise or if this forsaken place would even have a sunrise. Thus far, he'd not been able to tell night from day in this place. How they did it was beyond him. Finally, he spied a deep shadow not already taken just behind the cook tent. Luckily for him, there was a patch of crumbling stone wall there as well. He silently lowered himself to the ground with his back up against it. Then, much as had Kashya, he placed his scythe in his lap and his shield next to his left arm.
In times like this, with so much tension in the air, it was always hard to sleep. He could hear some of the women whimpering in their nightmares. Others would jolt awake with a gasp, only to roll over and go back to sleep. He very much doubted they would appreciate him summoning a skeletal warrior to guard over his sleep. And, if he wasn't aware enough, it might pose a risk if anyone came too close. Settling himself as comfortably as he could, he focused his mind and body to sleep. As tired as he was from the day's events, it didn't take as long as he thought it would.
***
Though his aching body said he had only been asleep a couple of hours, Pyresong knew from general awareness and being a light sleeper that he had definitely gotten more rest than he expected. The camp had not been attacked directly, at least. All around him, the Sisters were stirring sleepily. Some rousing others for sentry duty. Others moved toward the food tent to prepare for breakfast. The only noticeable difference between night and day that Pyresong could ascertain was the fact that people were moving around. Why had this land been so cursed as to never even see daytime?
Then, the obvious occurred to him. Vampires. Vampires were significantly weaker in the bright light of day. Sunlight didn't kill them but reduced their effectiveness and overall power. An eternal night was their ideal living condition. He resolved to find a way to end this night and all the nightmares it contained.
In the tent a few feet away, he heard some women talking quietly among themselves while they prepared the morning meal. It seemed the bulk of the camp still slept. No matter, he did not want to delay any longer than he had to. He knew what he needed to do at the moment.
Right there in the shadowed nook he'd found, he got himself ready for the day's tasks ahead. He had slept with his armor on, so it was more of a quick inventory than anything. He had three healing potions left. He would likely have to restock soon. He still needed to get his other clothing from where it had been drying by the main campfire, but he was otherwise ready.
Having hooked his shield and scythe in their usual places, he did one last check of what he was carrying and where. That was when he found it. When his fingers encountered a small hard object in his hidden breast pocket that was not a coin, he paused.
Before he had even taken it out of his pocket, he remembered. For a moment, he was flooded with guilt and grief. The locket had been on Lucian. He had intended to give it to Alyssa if he had somehow managed to find her. He hadmiraculously found her, but he'd forgotten all about it afterward. And now it was far too late. At some point the night before, he must have moved it without even realizing.
Staring blankly at the oval, silver locket nestled in his palm, he struggled to put aside his gut-twisting guilt. There was no time for it now. Briefly, he considered giving the locket to Kashya. Maybe she knew some extended member of the family that had survived.
Not likely, he thought, considering Blackstone and how it had been left.
Struggling to put all those swirling emotions away again, he clenched the locket into the bare flesh of his fist painfully.
"Good morning, sunshine! So dawns another glorious day in Dark Wood."
Those memories and the guilt were instantly replaced with irritation, though not directed toward Kashya. He was irritated with himself for a moment. He had been so distracted by his own thoughts that he hadn't been paying enough attention to his surroundings. He quickly shook off his irritation and mentally prepared himself for another round with the commander. She had walked right up on him, and she obviously knew it. There was no missing her smug grin. He shoved the locket back into a secret pocket under his chest plate. Kashya's sarcasm was not lost on him and was actually appreciated right now.
"So it would seem," he replied with a quirk of his lips.
She crossed her arms and looked him up and down critically. "Hemlir says you're going after some...reagents, I think he said. A spider's eye, a thorn, and something in the Fallen encampment."
He was amused by her chilly assessment of him. Knowing she was likely fishing for a reaction, he kept his serene facade just to irritate her.
"I am," he confirmed.
He knew his assessment of her had been spot on when she visibly looked annoyed by his lack of reaction. But he could sense there was something more, as well. She frowned to herself for a moment before seeming to bite back something likely more acidic.
"I can't spare anyone right now. After you cleared out that lair of Lakrii's, she's moved her camp, and we don't yet know where. I have scouts hunting in every direction."
"It's quite all right," he assured her serenely, still covering his growing amusement. "I can handle it on my own."
She huffed and shook her head, all frigid seriousness now.
"Spiders and demonic plants, fine. Just don't go into that Fallen camp alone. If you come back here before you go there, maybe I can spare some help, then."
Though he knew she was deadly serious right now, he couldn't resist ruffling her feathers.
"Oh, so this outlander takes orders from you now?"
For a moment, she looked like she was about to snap at him angrily before she changed her mind.
"The ones who want to live usually do."
"Are you saying I have a death wish?" he shot right back with a wicked grin.
Kashya finally relaxed and grinned back at him with a predatory smile, looking him up and down deliberately and seductively.
"You might, by the time I'm done with you," she shot back flirtatiously.
Pyresong was so caught off guard that he couldn't help laughing outright at the blatant seductive tone. Mentally, he conceded she had won that round through sheer surprise in her unexpected change of tactics. Maybe dealing with her wouldn't be as tiresome as he had feared.
"Very well, I will do as you ask," he agreed, still grinning.
"Thank you," she said more seriously. "Akara's still sleeping, but I think she gave you as much information as we're going to get right now. I have two more things before you go. One is that there's a cavern just north and slightly to the east of this camp. It has been plagued with giant spiders for as long as I can remember. You'll likely find the eye you need there. The other is a bit more complicated. I think there's a thorn from a specific location, and I know where it might be. None of our scouts have been able to get that deep into it, though."
She paused, clearly irritated by the admission. But she also seemed to be running something through her mind.
"Go on,” he prompted after several seconds.
She sighed and shook her head as if uncertain.
"Once you find the spider cavern, go almost due west. There should be a hunting trail. It will take you right into a swamp. Somewhere in that swap are the...roots of those vines. I think that's the case, anyway. So once you see the thinner ones, follow the vines to their center. I have no idea how big it is, so be careful."
"Understood. And thank you."
"Good luck," she called over her shoulder, returning to the heart of the camp.
"Good hunting," he called back as she went around the tent and out of sight.
For a moment, he stood there and considered Kashya. She definitely was nice to look at, and seemed to know full well her power over men, much to his amusement. Without losing an ounce of her femininity, she had become a strong and capable warrior and a trusted, almost worshiped, leader of her people.
But was the flirting serious? he wondered. Or just more verbal sparring?
He made his way toward the main fire to locate his clothing. Those questions faded quickly as he approached the fire. He was perplexed when he couldn't immediately find his clothing.
"Oy, if it's your clothes you're looking for, Kashya had Indry take them to be cleaned for you," one woman called as she stoked the fire and added more wood.
Clever, he thought.
He suspected Kashya had at least ensured he would have to come back at some point to retrieve them. Given that he would have to come back with the reagents for Hemlir anyway, it seemed a senseless move. But he just could not shake off the feeling there was more going on there. He couldn't detect any ulterior motives, like some darker intent to mislead him away from his hunt. She was sincere in her loathing of the Bloodsworn. And she had certainly not been touched by the shard or its power. Initially, the impression he had gotten from her had been one of dislike toward him, at the very least. For once, he could at least see it wasn't because he was a necromancer. Maybe she blamed him for not being able to protect Alyssa. Clearly, she had known the little girl.
Forcefully, he shook it all off. As long as she didn't get in his way, it didn't matter what she thought of him and his failures.
He nodded his thanks and let it go for now. He quickly put on his gloves and gauntlets. Turning toward the north, he made his way through another makeshift gate set up between some trees. The immediate area outside the camp had been fairly well cleared of anything that might present a problem. Nonetheless, he summoned his skeletons while he followed the path. Eventually, it wound its way slightly east along a rock cliff. It almost looked like half a hill had just been cleaved off. The rocks were jagged and completely vertical. After a few more minutes of walking, the path turned to the west and away from the cliff wall. He continued along the wall, now following the scent of rotting and decaying flesh, among other unpleasant things. After a while, he spied a darker part of the wall just ahead.
A cavern to the north... Yes, this looks exactly like the place a giant spider would hide. Lovely, he thought, mentally shuddering.
Eyeing the cavern entrance carefully, he saw the telltale signs of many giant spiders: a full nest. He sighed to himself silently at having to deal with these disgusting things once again. He prayed that someday the Balance would rid the universe of such things, knowing full well that wasn't going to happen. Pausing just inside the entrance to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he could hear movement all around. The walls, floors, and ceiling were all covered in sticky residue from many years of spiderwebs being built and rebuilt over and over again. His boots squelched and tugged with each step. He did not want to think of what he was walking through.
Sending a flow of energy to make his scythe blade glow, he held it up away from his eyes. The tunnel at the entrance was little more than a thick wall. Beyond was a large, rectangular chamber with ledges leading deeper into the recessed earth. He could almost make out what might possibly be some kind of giant crevasse off to his left. All around him, spiders the size of dogs and even horses skittered away from his light; all but a couple, anyway. Hanging on the far wall, about fifteen feet away from him, was one massive spider that wasn't purple, blue, or green. It was a vibrant red.
Crimson Arach, he thought to himself.
Normal, unenchanted giant spiders were typically more inclined to run than attack unless they were hungry. Given the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh that poisoned the air in this cave, he could safely assume they'd been well fed lately. Villagers, Rogues, Bloodsworn, large animals- it was all the same to them. He was slightly grateful for this when he stepped into the cavern. As he had hoped, most of them ran away from his light. But not the crimson one. It watched him with a wary intelligence he did not like. He doubted there was any real intelligence there, but the way it shifted as he approached, he knew it could see and understand his threat.
Still, it sat on the far wall. It didn't run but didn't come any closer. The problem with spiders was their carapace. It was as hard as any armor made of steel and even harder to penetrate. Even if he had enough power to cut through it, they could take a while to die. Meanwhile, it could be spitting venom, trying to trap him in sticky webbing, and the front legs would be flailing at him. Even for all of that, there were still the fangs to avoid. Oh yes, this was going to be tricky.
Neither of them moved for several seconds while they sized each other up. Finally, he decided on a course of action. Sincerely hoping the numerous other smaller spiders wouldn't step in to interfere, he set his skeletons to guard his sides and back. He had a growing suspicion that this enormous monster was the matriarch of the nest. He ran the last few steps up to the vibrant red spider and leapt into the air to swipe at its head. He had known from the start that it was a move doomed to fail, but at least he was able to force it to move. He breathed a small sigh of relief when it jumped and landed in the middle of the open floor. He had been concerned that it would run to the ceiling or even into the crevasse.
On the other hand, now it was on the attack. He barely had time to set his stance when it came flying at him. He quickly sidestepped a shot of venom while he mentally sent his skeletons to attack. As with most cases, this was meant to be more of a distraction than anything useful. Nevertheless, he focused them on the legs. The distraction worked only for a few seconds, really. The skeleton's swords couldn't penetrate the hard body or legs. By the time he spider realized they were no more than gnats, he already had his skeletal mage blasting it with somewhat more painful spirit fire right at the many eyes. In the chaos, it lost track of his movements.
He had backed up almost to the wall. Seeing his opening, he ran the few steps across the chamber and took a flying leap. His scythe was powered with as much as he dared to spend right now. He brought it down on the weakest part between the head and the cephalothorax. It sliced clean through the monster.
Certain this had been the matriarch of this nest of spiders, he knew this was going to get ugly. He hooked his scythe on his belt and grabbed the head. Behind him, he could hear the nest going berserk. Giant spiders of all colors were violently attacking one another. They now paid no attention to the fleeing human while he made a desperate run for the entrance. His skeletons followed close behind when he exited the cavern and ran a bit further along the cliff wall to the north.
Feeling a safe distance, he dropped the head and swung around to face the way he had just come from. For several seconds, the only sound was his pounding heart and rapid breathing. He laughed in relief when he was finally certain nothing would be following him. Hooking his scythe again and setting his shield on the ground beside him, he pulled out a large hunting knife. He was no stranger to such grisly tasks, but this one in particular he disliked.
Very carefully, he removed one eye that was nearly as big as his own head. Frowning in disgust, he suddenly realized he had no good way to carry it. He ran through a mental inventory of what he had in his backpack. Well, there was his old backpack stuffed into the new one. Being leather, it would at least not let the blood seep through into the other contents.
Though, in truth, he had no idea how things were even organized in this new backpack. One big pile? Nice, neat little cubbies? Drawers? A magical wardrobe? Shaking his head at his own ridiculous thoughts, he removed the magical backpack and reached in. Just as before, the desired object came to hand. He quickly stuffed the eye into it and tied it closed, placing it back into the magical backpack.
That's done, then, he thought to himself. Next is the blood flower's thorn. Hemlir seemed to think it was close. Kashya said to look for the vines and follow to the west. Hmm...west.
For a moment, he stared distastefully at his blood and gore-covered gloves and gauntlets. There was no convenient source of water nearby, and he did not care to use up his drinking supply on such a thing. He would just have to ignore it and the stench for now. Shouldering the pack and taking up his shield and scythe once more, he considered Kashya's instruction. As far as he could tell, the cliff he had followed had been almost straight north and south. He had run a bit farther to the north than she had indicated, but not too far, he hoped. There was no path or trail he could make out in the murkiness of this so-called day. And he did not want to risk going back toward the cave and the spider war going on in there right now. There was no good way to orient himself beyond the direction of the rock wall.
He made his way through the thick undergrowth in what he hoped was a westerly direction. He was annoyed by the amount of sound he couldn't avoid making. At least he hadn't run into anything hostile. And there weren't any of those vicious vines reaching for him. It took a lot longer than he liked, creeping through all the dried-up plants and trees. After more than an hour, he was beginning to think he'd need to go back and retrace his steps from the original path to find the trail she had mentioned.
Then he heard a sound that made him freeze in place. Ahead of him, beyond the shadows of the trees and undergrowth, he could hear footsteps. They were slow, deliberate, booted footsteps. Having encountered no threats this last little while, he had not even bothered to summon anything. Maneuvering his skeletons through the undergrowth would have been nearly impossible. Now he was glad he hadn't summoned anything. The steps were wrong somehow. They were too light, he realized after a few seconds. He was more accustomed to men's boots treading the ground. Though they were several feet away from him, he hardly dared to breathe when he caught the sound of soft voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying, no matter how hard he tried. Worse, they were just standing there. They weren't even moving away at this point.
He cursed his luck mentally. He was trapped in a mass of dried-up growth that would sound like a pack of werewolves no matter how he tried to escape it. Going around, going straight, going back... Hells, even going up was going to make far too much noise. His white hair and face might blend in somewhat with the varied shadows around him. But he was no more than a handful of feet away from the voices now coming swiftly closer. There was no way they would miss him standing there.
Considering he really did not have any options to avoid detection, he did the one thing he could. Wraith form. In the absolute silence of his spectral form, he passed right through the trees and bushes again. Not fifteen feet later, he found himself on a relatively open patch of ground that was clearly a trail of some kind. The two Bloodsworn stared at him, too surprised react at first. A moment was all he needed. As he became physical once more, his scythe was already in mid-swing. Before either of them could call out to alert others, their heads rolled away into the darkness beside the trail.
He paused again, listening to see if there would be any further attack. Finally, certain he was alone, he took in his surroundings. As if the path was some kind of wall, the vines did not appear at all on his right, where he had come from. To his left, however, they twined and climbed over every tree and branch, strangling the life out of everything. Keeping well out of reach, he inspected them closely.
I must be getting closer, he thought with some relief.
Following this new trail, he saw that it did curve gently from north to west. After only a few minutes along the path, the unmistakable stench of a long-established swamp wafted through the stagnant air. Along with that, he noticed the vines were indeed getting thicker, very much so. He found himself having to move deftly out of the way and even slice a few before they reached him. They were not sentient as far as he could tell, but they did sense his warm blood.
And I would much prefer to keep it to myself, thank you.
Summoning a couple of skeletal warriors to assist, he crept further into the swamp. It wasn't long before he spotted his target. He had considered what he thought were giant thorns beside him and whether they would be enough. Then he spotted what the commander had been referring to. In the middle of a pond stood a giant blood flower. It was easily twice or even three times larger than any he had seen thus far. Crisscrossing the water were more thorny vines that were thicker than his thighs. He eyed these much larger and deadlier vines closely as he approached. By the looks of them, they weren't exactly the roots of this vile plant. Yet, he had the feeling they would not be able to move as did the smaller ones.
There we are... he thought darkly. Where there is a blood flower that size, there are surely thorns.
Silently creeping closer, he realized that these wicked thorns were massive indeed. One could easily pierce right through his chest and stick out on the back side by several inches. They were shaped exactly like a rose thorn, which gave them more weight and substance, further increasing the danger. Just beyond the water's edge, he paused to consider his target and how best to cut one off without becoming trapped. If he was wrong about these not being able to move, it would be his last mistake. The vines coming out from directly under the bloody bloom were easily as wide as his shoulders.
He took note of all the corpses littering the area. His scythe ready, he stepped slowly and carefully into the water, testing it. He expected at any moment for the massive bloom or its vines to attack, like vibrating a spider's web. He grinned to himself for a moment. It was a rather apt comparison. But, as he waited, nothing happened. Not a single vine so much as shifted. In his mind, it was waiting for him to get closer. Expecting the thing to rise up out of the water and try to engulf him any second, he inched forward. Carefully, he kept his skeletons just out of reach but ready to attack.
Finally, he was close enough to touch one of the giant leaves that ringed the bottom of the enormous flower. Still expecting an attack, he used his scythe to lift it up the leaf a bit to check for a suitable thorn. A heartbeat later, he was jumping backward away from the flower when it opened violently. One of the thick, leathery petals nearly slapped him down into the water. At the same time, a voice came out of the now-open bloom.
"Who dares... Ah, the obedient hound of the usurpers barks at my door at last."
It was the same voice he'd heard ordering Lakrii in the cave. Just as he recognized it, so too did her familiar shape begin to form in evil red light above the bloom.
"Vassarici, show this mongrel what it means to be sworn to the blood. Go, kill or die for me!"
"Yes, Countess!" replied a robed woman as she rose up out of the murky waters.
He was not pleased to see her staff and robes. Mages could be tricky. Mentally directing his four skeletal warriors around the woman, he added two skeletal mages. Almost as soon as he did, he dodged to the right of the woman, blasting her with spirit fire. She easily blocked all of these and then returned with a volley of blood-red bats in a wide spray around her. Again, he ducked and dodged to avoid them, having no idea what kind of damage they might do to him.
"The blood obeys me," the vision above the flower told him.
Just then, he caught sight of more Bloodsworn running up from all directions. He swore softly under his breath. He should have seen this coming. He was going to be surrounded and trapped in a circle with the vines and a mage. With his eyes focused on harassing the mage with his minions, he sensed rather than saw or heard the vampires coming up behind him. He had no idea what weapons they might be carrying, but he let his combat instincts guide him. He ducked as he spun, bringing his scythe around in a vicious sweep right through their legs. They screamed in a pitch that made his head ache before he finished them with a couple of follow-up slices. Behind him, he felt his skeletons crumbling to the mage's power. The thing above the flower laughed in delight.
"The blood returns to me. Do you see?"
He growled when he saw and understood. The vines were soaking up the blood even from the Bloodsworn. Even as the water all around him began to turn crimson, the thorns sucked it right up. He let slip a filthy profanity under his breath. The last thing he needed was to give this creature more of what she demanded. But he had no more time to think as he dodged more bloody bats when they were flung at him. With all the other Bloodsworn arriving, he let the skeletons go to be replaced with a bone golem. Much more powerful and sturdy, it could take the punishment from the mage for far longer. While it was keeping the mage occupied, he danced around the vampire women, killing and maiming at every turn.
"Everything is mine," the spectral woman told him. "Even your victories hasten my return!"
The Bloodsworn dealt with, he turned his attention back to the mage. His bone golem was barely holding together now, but it had worked as more than just a distraction. The mage had seemed to have exhausted herself with her frantic efforts to keep it from pummeling her. Closing the distance, he saw the mage was infuriated and lashing out almost blindly at this point.
"These 'lives' you value are a lie built upon the remains of my kingdom."
You really do enjoy hearing yourself talk. Don't you? he thought, dodging through more blood bats and now even red lightning.
Finally, there was an opening. It wasn't much, but it was just enough for him to bury his scythe blade into the mage's side just under her arm. He felt a satisfying crunch as it shattered bones, likely sending shards into her heart. The magical attacks stopped instantly. Pulling the scythe toward him, he planted a booted foot on her chest to yank his scythe free. Blood splattered his face and breastplate. For a few seconds, the darker part of him enjoyed it. Counting it as a victory in Alyssa's name.
"The blood flowing in their veins is stolen. I will have it back!"
And still she's talking! he thought in disgust, turning to face the image.
At this point, it was fairly clear the vision above the flower had no power to so much as strike him directly. Seeing she had his undivided attention, she smiled evilly.
"Yes, only suffering awaits you if you continue on your path. I see into your heart. You lack the strength to bear such loss," she crooned, almost seductively.
He snorted derisively. Reaching under the flower with his scythe, he quickly hacked off a thorn almost as long as his forearm. With a predatory smile to this Countess, this source of so much suffering, he held up the thorn.
"The thorn is mine, coated in the blood of the enemy," he called to her.
Instead of being angry, she laughed as she faded away. Well, he had tried to make her angry, at least. Any being, human or demon, typically got angry when their plans were thwarted, especially by mouthy, confident mortals. Unfortunately, he couldn't really tell if it had worked. He just hoped it had. The angrier she became, the more mistakes she would make.
He turned to leave the way he had come to make his way back to the camp. He paused when he changed his mind. Eyeing the blood flower, he hefted his scythe. Not sensing any other presence around him, he decided it was worth the time and energy. Stepping back a few more feet, he poured all of his available energy into his scythe. He was amazed to find that this scythe could handle much, much more than his last. When it finally felt like it could hold no more, he swung it in a wide arc at the flower, unleashing the waves of blazing greenish white energy it now contained. The waves were so powerful, so devastating, that they sliced clean through the now-closed flower and into the trees beyond. A couple of the trees toppled over ponderously slowly.
He wasn't finished.
He would make sure this thing never claimed another life. Feeling a bit drained but still burning with furious anger, he poured the fire magic through his hands as he set the crumbling flower to blazing. Unlike other areas of the forest, this was a swamp. Sure, it could burn, but it was unlikely to spread into a wildfire. Being in the middle of a large pond made it that much easier. The inferno lit the swamp all around.
"Let that be a beacon, a sign that I am coming for you," he told the Countess.
Now satisfied with his work, he followed the path away from the bonfire and back toward the Rogue's battle camp. Only briefly did he regret the overuse of his energy. Yet, it had been worth it, to see the thing destroyed forever.
In less than an hour, he located the path that crossed this little trail, just as Kashya had described. He turned in the direction he was fairly certain was south and was soon within visual range of the camp. The two Rogues posted as guards in the shadows waved him in. He wasn't quite sure what time of day it actually was, but it felt like maybe midday at the most. There was likely still plenty of time to speak with Hemlir and see what the plan was at this point. The smell of dinner cooking nearby reminded him he hadn't had breakfast in his haste to get on with the tasks, to say nothing of the Commander's distraction. Akara greeted him as he hooked his shield and removed his still filthy gauntlets.
"You were successful?"
"Yes, and I think I know who is the real threat compelling Lakrii," he told her.
He frowned at his blood-covered gauntlets. Then he realized that his entire breastplate, face, hair, legs...pretty much everything was at the very least spattered with blood.
"Come, we have buckets of bathing water over here," Akara told him, answering his disgusted look with a knowing grin.
"Thank you," he said gratefully. He followed her back to an area just behind the larger tent that was used for dressing. "Does the name 'Countess of Blood' mean anything to you?"
Akara's eyes flickered for a moment as her expression turned grim.
"Her again," was all she said softly.
"I believe so. I encountered a phantom of her at a blood flower where I recovered the thorn," he explained, splashing water around to clean himself and his armor as much as he could. "A mage addressed the image as 'Countess'."
He dunked his head into the bucket and scrubbed for a moment. It wasn't much, but at least his hair wasn't sticky anymore. Again, he reminded himself he needed to cut it soon. It had to be almost three inches long now. Stepping away from Akara, he flung and wiped off as much water as he could. Still, it irritated him as it trickled beneath his breastplates. Akara sighed heavily beside him.
"I suppose I should not be surprised. She returns every so often to corrupt these lands. No matter how hard we try, it seems there is no ridding the Dark Wood of her presence eternally."
"It was only about seven years ago another Priest of Rathma put her down again," Kashya told him as she approached them.
He nodded. He'd heard the story from Cain and still very much suspected Master Xul, though, he hadn't outright asked. He just wished he could find the source of her unholy power that let her keep returning. If he could find it, he would find a way to destroy it. He just hoped taking the Worldstone shard away from the Countess and Lakrii would be enough. Maybe it was why she had been able to come back this time, and that would really be an end to it. If not, he could likely get more information from Cain to look more deeply into it.
One problem at a time, he reminded himself.
To his surprise, Kashya seemed like she was uncomfortable facing him for a moment. Despite his internal amusement, he kept his expression carefully serene. He eyed her curiously, waiting for her to find whatever words she was looking for. As if needing a distraction, she looked down at the bundle in her arms.
"Here," she said, handing over the clothing. "I had them cleaned while you were away."
"And I kept my promise to return, as you knew I would," he commented with a smirk.
To his surprise, Kashya blushed visibly. "It wasn't meant to question your integrity," she said hotly. "And they really did need actual cleaning and mending."
Akara chuckled dryly and excused herself. Feeling the need to relieve Kashya of her growing discomfort, he dropped the smirk. Then he stepped closer to take the bundle off her hands.
"My thanks," he told her sincerely.
He found her staring intently into his eyes as if lost in them for a moment. At first, he couldn't tell if she was just inspecting the sigils or if it was something else altogether.
Her face seemed to drain of color slightly. For several seconds, neither moved nor barely breathed. He couldn't help noticing how strikingly beautiful her emerald eyes could be when she wasn't being so openly hostile. She was so absorbed in him that she didn't notice the seconds ticking by. Deciding to test his theory, he smiled warmly, and color returned to her cheeks somewhat. Reaching up slowly so she had plenty of time to pull away, he moved a lock of her untameable red hair out of her face.
He held perfectly still for him.
So, it wasn't all just teasing, he thought, keeping his expression oh so carefully serene.
"They're watching," he whispered, his lips barely moving.
The moment was shattered. Kashya's face blazed as red as her hair while she all but jumped backward away from him. For a moment, she struggled to find her composure. He gave her the time by turning his attention back to the bundle of clothing and stuffing them into his new backpack. While in there, he retrieved the other bag with the crimson arach's eye and the giant thorn. By the time he turned back toward her, she was standing stiffly with her arms crossed and tapping her foot as if impatiently waiting for him. Her green eyes blazed at him in warning to say nothing more of what had just happened.
He gave her a reassuring nod and an understanding smile that made her at least relax her posture enough that it didn't look like she would shatter from the cold radiating off of her. He motioned for her to lead the way back into the main camp area. Once they were more out in the open, Kashya spun on him, almost as if she wanted to slap him right then and there.
Thankfully, she instead told him, "Hemlir is still recovering. He's tried a few times, and every single one points him to the Fallen camp for the 'darkest wood.'"
"Very well, then, that is where I go next," he replied flatly.
"I'm not letting you walk into a nest of demons by yourself," she practically growled.
"Trying to order around the outlander again, are we?" he teased gently.
Kashya's face went red before it went white again. She was clearly in no playful mood. At this point, he was done with the little games. He had more important things to deal with.
"Every available scout is out looking for Lakrii and her nest of Bloodsworn. I will go with you," she declared with no small amount of challenge.
Already weary of the emotional ups and downs with her, he shook his head.
"No. I've dealt with such demons before. They are cowardly, except for maybe some of the shamans and occasional berserker. Easy to intimidate and frighten away. Enough chaos, and I should be able to get in and out quickly."
Her lips thinned in anger again. "You don't understand. My scouts have brought back reports. This 'camp' is built up more like a small village. Something with more intelligence is directing them. They are much more organized than the roaming packs you're likely used to."
"Then I will have to be careful," he told her simply, as he put his gauntlets back on.
He watched her out of the corner of his eyes. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words, as if too furious even to say anything. When he turned to face her again, he cocked an eyebrow at her in question. Finally, she expelled a huge breath of air and ran her hands angrily through her mop of thick red hair, pulling it back out of her face. Clearly, she wasn't finished, though he certainly was.
"Look, just wait, then. Give me a few more hours—"
"Enough," he cut her off gently but firmly.
He leaned closer and let his eyes bore into hers as he pitched his voice in a whisper that wouldn't carry.
"Stop and think about this for a moment. You are letting your emotions cloud your judgment."
This accusation hit Kashya harder than a slap, and he knew it. He regretted its necessity, but there was no time for this sort of emotional foolishness. If they were going to find a way to put an end to this evil in Dark Wood, they had to move forward. Emotional entanglements were not going to make matters any easier or better for either of them. Her cheeks drained of color again before blushing furiously once more, and then draining again as she seemed to clench her teeth on something she desperately wanted to say. He watched serenely while she struggled to regain her dignity, having no desire to wound her further.
"Fine, get yourself killed like all the others. Why should I care about some arrogant outlander?" she hissed in a whisper
Then she did a precise about-face and walked away from him. He kept his calm facade instead of giving in to a deep, heavy sigh as he watched her walk away. He was disappointed and in no small part frustrated. He dropped the backpack with the reagents near the healing tent.
While he headed for the part of the makeshift wall that was considered the south entrance to the camp, he ran it all through his mind one more time. Ultimately, he could think of no other way it could have gone. Cruel as he'd been, he knew he had also been right. He could move far more easily and quietly alone, and he wouldn't be distracted by another presence. Briefly, he wondered how much of his own judgment was being influenced by a need to keep her safe. Hefting his shield and scythe, looking at the task ahead, he knew it wasn't. Oh, he did feel...something for her. But he had no time to analyze or explore it right now.
A tiny whisper deep inside of him hoped they would have the chance.
He was by no means celibate; it was not required for them. Quite the opposite, really. Priests of Rathma were all too familiar with the fragility of life. Sexual experiences were not frowned upon, though they usually stayed within the priesthood. Too many people either feared or hated necromancers to engage with them in any capacity willingly or frequently. Most priests and priestesses simply just didn't have the time or patience to deal with the responsibilities or burdens of family life, so they kept such encounters simple and brief.
And, for him, any kind of responsibility outside of his oaths and pursuits as a Priest of Rathma were entirely out of the question. Though he didn't know exactly what awaited him, he knew there would never be anything for him beyond his work. He could not even envision a life without these obligations. More to the point, the idea that he would survive beyond today had not crossed his mind more than a handful of times in the last couple of decades. He had never expected to live this long.
If there was going to be anything at all between them, it would be simple lust, most likely; or so he tried to convince himself.
Stalking silently through the forest south and west of the battle camp, Pyresong noted keenly that there were far fewer Bloodsworn than there had been previously. In fact, he encountered none.
No wonder Kashya and her Rogues were having so much trouble finding them.
It seemed his bold move against the Countess had made her reconsider her strategy. At the moment, he had no idea where all the Bloodsworn were hiding. It was up to Kashya to figure that part out. Right now, all he wanted was to find the Fallen camp. He was almost an hour west of the battle camp when he saw his first indication of the cowardly little demons. Occasionally, he came across the bodies of various magically twisted animals he had seen on previous occasions. He only crossed paths with one small pack of the red, monkey-like demons and it had been easily dispatched.
Then he began to hear them, dozens of them. He followed the sound toward its source. Listening intently, he came around a bend in the path. He could see nothing through the dense undergrowth, initially. When he peered around the edge of one larger tree, he got his first glimpse of the camp and its massive bonfire up ahead. Taking it all in, he stepped back to consider.
The Commander wasn't exaggerating, he thought darkly.
He could now clearly hear the chanting and screaming of several shamans in the midst of a major summoning. There were numerous crude wooden huts and shacks; it was a small village, really. The reason he hadn't encountered more of the demons on the road was that every available Fallen was dancing around the shaman in the center ring. In the very center of the growing village was a twenty-foot totem-like wooden pillar standing in the middle of a giant bonfire. The stacked wood for the bonfire alone had to be thirty feet across and piled ten feet high. And the whole thing was ablaze, lighting up the whole village and some of the surrounding forest.
The ritual's constant screaming and chanting grated on his nerves. He couldn't begin to imagine what they were summoning. And he didn't really want to find out. Running through a mental map of what he'd seen, he began to realize that this was nearly impossible. Half a dozen shaman, at least two score of the little buggers visible, dancing around; and who knows how many more in the huts?
He wracked his mind in frustration. Somewhere in there was the reagent he needed. But there was no way to get close enough. Fallen were cowardly to their core. But enough of them in a pack regained their courage way too quickly for his liking. Plus, these had been worked into a frenzy that could easily be put to good use against anyone trying to break up the ritual. Add to that the fact that the shaman could resurrect their warriors and berserkers faster than he could kill them, and this whole mission spelled doom for him.
Oldest trees. Darkest wood, he thought furiously over and over again, trying to come up with any other solution. Hells, he didn't even know what that much meant!
Then, a thought occurred to him. The fire. Burnt wood. That must be why this was the place. The Fallen had cut down some of the oldest trees in Dark Wood to make their little bonfire. The unholy energies they poured into that ritual bonfire had likely affected the wood. Darkest wood. All he had to do was grab a piece of that wood and hope he was right. If he was wrong, he was taking a massive risk and for nothing. But Hemlir had been adamant, again and again. What the Druid needed was in this camp.
Leaning against the tree deep in thought but watchful for any attacks, he raced through dozens of scenarios. There had to be a way. Wraith form? No, too visible, and it wouldn't last long enough for him to get in and out again. Maybe send in a few skeletal mages to shake them up? No, they would be overwhelmed in seconds, leaving him no chance to sneak in and out. A golem or two might last longer, but there were still too many to fight. Curses? There was no way he could blind, stun, or immobilize that many Fallen long enough to get in and out. Hells, he even considered lighting the whole damned village ablaze. But if that got out of control with all the dried, dead trees around them, the whole forest could be at risk.
In the end, only one plan presented itself. Distraction. He needed to get them out of there, somehow. Just long enough to dive in, grab a piece of burning wood, and run back out. Swiftly, an entirely too reckless plan began to form in his head. There were still so very many ways it could go wrong. But, for now, it was all he had. And if it failed, he would have to return to the Rogue's battle camp and wait for Commander Kashya to call in enough of her Rogues to come back in force. By then, who knows how many more demons there would be?
Still hiding behind his tree and thick bit of undergrowth—vine free, thankfully—he summoned half a dozen skeletal mages and warriors. It wasn't much, and they certainly wouldn't last long, but he had to try. They would be much faster than a couple golems. He gave them mental commands to run into the camp and create as much chaos as they could and then run away just fast enough to keep the Fallen chasing them.
He watched intently from the shadows. He could not even believe his luck. He nearly laughed aloud as the entire mess of Fallen—shamans included—chased after his skeletons.
He didn't waste a moment beyond that, considering his good fortune. He had his opening, and it might only be a few seconds. He headed for the heart of the village and its bonfire at a flat run. Even as his booted feet touched the planks leading up to the heart of the camp, the ground beneath him shook violently.
Something is coming!
In the center of the village, just between him and the fire, a new demon rose out of the summoning circle painted in blood on the ground. It was the hulking mass of a Fallen Matron. Every Fallen clan had several shamans but only one female. And she was enormous. In both height and girth, she would easily be a match for any balrog he had ever seen.
He skidded to a halt with a vile profanity and then threw himself to his left. The Matron swung a giant spiked club straight down where he'd been standing only a heartbeat before. The spiked club was so huge and powerful that the strike had left an enormous hole in the hard-packed dirt. Before he could even take a swipe at her vulnerable legs—her knees being roughly chest high to him—she swung again; this time, it was sideways. He had to duck to avoid her swing swooshing through the air inches over his exposed back. Somewhere in the distance, he sensed his skeletons falling one by one. There was no chance of summoning more here. Even if he did, they wouldn't last more than half a second in this barrage of club swings.
He knew his one chance was to jump in and maybe slash her throat after a powerful downswing while she was bent forward and off balance. He dodged a couple more times and taunted her openly with an obscene gesture. The next downward swing was almost too close. When he tried to sidestep and keep his balance ready to spring upward, he stumbled on a clod of earth she had turned up. His right ankle twisted painfully, but he was just able to keep from falling.
It was already too late. By the time he recovered his footing, the club was over her head, ready for another downward slam. He would have to dodge sideways again. He'd lost his initial opportunity, but he was ready for another.
He didn't get a second chance. He watched in astonishment as a javelin went right through her left eye. The club she was holding fell from her limp hands while the massive matriarch crumpled to the ground. Despite his well-experienced reflexes, there was another clod of earth to trip him again. This time, he landed flat on his back. Her shoulder crushed his right leg into the dirt, twisting it painfully to one side.
He grunted in pain and attempted to extricate himself despite the flaring agony with every tug. The whole battle had lasted no more than a few seconds, but he knew his skeletons were already gone. That whole mess of Fallen would be on their way back any moment. It was only a matter of a few more seconds—maybe a minute—before they would return to find him trapped. Desperately, he began to summon a sturdy bone golem to help him lift the body off his leg. His summoning was interrupted when he felt strong hands grab him under the arms. They heaved him out from under the Matron in one violent tug.
"Kashya!" he gasped through the explosion of pain in his leg when she pulled.
She said not a word as she forcefully hefted him to his feet. He bit back another cry of pain when he found he couldn't put any weight on his right leg. Distracted as they were, neither of them saw or heard what was happening until it was almost too late. The demonic matriarch had slammed the ground so hard that it had destabilized the nearby huts. One of them collapsed like a house of cards. Though he tried to pull her out of the way of some splintering logs, one still managed to slam into the side of Kashya's head. Incredibly, most of the heavy debris missed them, but the damage had been done. The Commander was unconscious and bleeding from a wound somewhere on the left side of her head.
Hearing the pack of frenzied, screaming Fallen returning, Pyresong summoned his bone golem. With a mental command from him, it ran to the fire and grabbed the first burning log it could grasp. Then it ran back out of the village and scooped up Kashya in the other arm. It carried her like a doll in a way that looked so painful even he winced. But there was no time. He wasn't even certain she was still alive or would be for long. He gritted his teeth against the pain and followed it back down the trail in the direction he had come. A few minutes later, he called them to a halt when he sensed and heard no pursuit behind them. More than likely, the clan was in absolute chaos right now with the death of their Matron. With any luck, they were tearing each other to pieces, much as the spiders had done.
Sweating and shaking from the pain, he instructed the golem to drop the wood and carefully place Kashya on the ground. He nearly sighed with relief. Yes, she was still breathing steadily and slowly. She was just unconscious. By this point, the blood had pretty much coated the left side of her face and hair. He needed to get her back to the camp. For that matter, whatever was wrong with his leg would need tending as well. Though it did not feel like there were any broken bones, he felt white hot agony in his knee whenever he tried to put weight on it, or bend it even slightly. His current stash of healing potions would not be enough.
Quickly forming a plan, he shoved the still warm, charred wood into his backpack and instructed the golem mentally how to pick her up properly and gently. He downed a healing potion that at least took the edge off the pain for a few minutes but did not actually manage to heal whatever was damaged. While the golem cradled Kashya's limp form in its arms like a child, he hooked his shield on his back and moved the scythe to his left hand. With his right hand, he gripped the sturdy and steady arm of the bone golem and used it like a crutch. He hopped along beside it, directing every step so he wouldn't fall.
What had taken only maybe an hour before now took him what felt like the whole of the afternoon and part of the evening. Hopping and hobbling back toward the battle camp was one walk he knew he would never forget. Once again, there were no Fallen, twisted creatures, or even Bloodsworn. Had there been, this painful little stroll would have gotten much more complicated in a hurry. He was far from helpless but had no desire to test his skills while barely able to think through the pain. His chest was heaving with exertion and exhaustion when he finally neared the camp. His left leg was now flaring painfully and threatening to cramp up from the unusual hopping method he employed. He knew right around the next bend he would spot the sentries.
"What the—let me go!" Kashya growled thrashing in the golem's arms.
"Kashya, calm down. It's just—"
He came around to the front trying to get through to her in her disoriented and terrified state as she thrashed around frantically. When her elbow caught him painfully in the forehead, he gave up. He gave the mental command for the golem to drop her. Balancing on one leg, he caught her by the shoulders and let her feet fall to the ground. It still ended up being a shockingly painful maneuver when he was forced put his right foot to the ground to steady himself. But it had worked. When Kashya caught sight of his pain-twisted expression, she found her legs quickly. He sighed in relief as he was able to take the pressure off his right leg again.
"You were unconscious. I had it carry you," he explained through gritted teeth.
"You're hurt! What's wrong?"
"My right leg. I don't think it's broken, though," he said, forcing his breathing to slow.
Kashya looked around. "I know where we are. We're just a couple of minutes away from the battle camp."
"Yes, I should be able to make it there. Are you able to walk?"
Kashya gave him an annoyed look. When her hand reached for her face, she realized she was absolutely covered in blood. Her hair was matted thickly with it to a point it stuck to her shoulder and face.
"Damn, I can't go into camp like this."
"Why the hells not?" he asked, beyond irritated at this point.
"Because I can't have them thinking I'm out of commission at a time like this," she shot back hotly.
Beyond caring and only desiring to reach the camp and a healer, he snorted at her explanation and then resumed his grip on the golem. When he turned to continue down the path toward the camp, she gripped his arm.
"Wait. You said not broken, right?"
"As near as I can tell, yes," he told her, reigning in his rising anger and irritation.
"Come with me," she pointed into a thicket of trees. "There's a fresh spring just over there that comes from way blow ground. It's ice cold. It will help. Then I can go get someone from the camp to help."
He shook his head, just barely refraining from growling something obscene at her. He had no time or patience for her games. Let her do whatever she wanted. He just wanted to sit down, preferably with a healer. Not bothering to respond, he hopped another couple of steps; again clinging to the golem. Kashya came around to stand in front of him blocking his path. The full-armed slap was so unexpected, he could only stare at her.
"Now who's being the emotional fool?" she taunted. "I'm not trying to entice you. I'm trying to help you. If you go back to camp now and that leg is swollen, we'll just have to use more magic and resources to get the swelling down before we can set it. If we rest it in cold water for a while, it might help. But, sure, you go ahead on into the camp."
Turning on her heel, Kashya stalked away into the bushes like an angry cat. He half expected to see her hair bristling like a cat's tail. Before she got three steps away, he laughed softly, both at himself and at the mental image. She rounded on him again as if she was going to come back for another slap.
"My apologies," he apologized sincerely. "You're right. I wasn't thinking clearly. Your aid is most appreciated."
Her green eyes still blazing angrily, she stepped a bit closer. "You help me, and I'll help you," she told him simply. "Can it carry you the same as it did me?"
He considered this for a moment. He knew the golem was more than strong enough, but he didn't like the idea of it. Bending his right knee to carry him as it had Kashya was not an option. And, if he wasn't careful, that's exactly what would happen. As a matter of fact, her mention of swelling now made him realize that other than the flaring pain, he really couldn't feel anything below his thigh.
Seeing his hesitation, Kashya waved off his answer. Instead, she took his right arm and put it over her shoulder while wrapping the other arm around his waist just below the breastplate. Clearly this was not her first time, he realized, as she gripped his belt firmly. Together, they managed to hobble the eight feet to the edge of a deep spring. It was only a few feet across, and the edges of it were sheer rock all around. It was so clean and clear that he couldn't even tell just how far down it went as the sheer, clean rocks went almost straight down into darkness. Beyond this little pool, a swiftly running creek wound it way through the forest. He then realized this was the same creek he'd bathed in previously; this was just the source of that deliciously cold water.
They were just barely out of sight of the path, here. And, if he strained his ears, he could easily make out the sounds of the battle camp a little off to their right and out of sight. He positioned the golem between them and the path to stand guard. Kashya carefully lowered him to the ground beside the spring. She relieved him of his shield and scythe before removing the backpack. Not unaccustomed to pain, he breathed through it slowly as he tried to slow his heartbeat. He removed his gauntlets and gloves so he could wipe some of the sweat off his face.
Meanwhile, she knelt by his right leg, eyeing the greaves and cuisses critically. She delicately lifted his leg an inch off the ground, making him clamp his teeth against a filthy profanity. Clearly she was no stranger to field medicine. She probed a bit further by trying to move it gently from side to side. It all hurt like white hot fire in his leg, but he knew it had to be done.
"I think...you're right. Not broken. At least not entirely." Then she sighed. "This is going to hurt."
Carefully she reached around to his calf and ankle where the leather straps buckled his greave. He had never bothered with sabatons as it would only make stealth more difficult, if not impossible. Deftly she probed around to find the buckle. She frowned darkly when she realized his leg was definitely swollen underneath; already pulling the buckle painfully tight. And she had to pull the leather even tighter to release the buckle.
"Just do it," he told her through gritted teeth.
Kashya nodded to him and then held her breath as she pulled, flicked the prong through the hole and then pulled it apart. The maneuver hadn't hurt as much as he had expected. But the sudden release of pressure certainly made itself known in the form of acid-covered needles in his calf and foot. He watched while she prodded higher up around his thigh to get at the buckles for the cuisse. She frowned thoughtfully as she considered her options. Finally she decided the easiest way was to just lift his leg. Coming around to kneel in front of him, she hunched down as small as she could and then gently lifted his leg to rest on her shoulder.
He couldn't clench his teeth enough to prevent the groan of pain that escaped his lips. But Kashya's experienced hands worked quickly, and she was able to rest his leg back flat on the ground where it hurt considerably less within seconds. While he took several deep, slow breaths once again, she began to work at his boot. Those controlled breaths were quickly aborted. As with the calf and knee area, this was badly swollen as well. Unable to take anymore, he just lay back and clenched his fists trying to hold as still as possible while she tugged at his boot. It felt like his leg was coming apart!
And then it was over. Gasping, trying to recover from holding his breath against screams, he just lay there for a few more seconds. He seriously debated on another healing potion to at least take the edge off. But he knew it would be a waste. Besides, dulling the pain right now in that way could work against him later. He needed to be able to feel the extent of the damage before trying to walk again. The release of pressure on his foot once again triggered the feeling of acid-covered needles, but it was still a far cry from the white hot pain of before.
"I've got you," she said, coming to kneel beside him again.
"Thank you," he finally managed, as she helped him back to a sitting position.
Carefully, she twisted his torso right to the edge of the sheer rock ledge of the pool. He positioned his rump on the ledge and his right leg submerged in the icy water up to his mid thigh. Immediately he began to feel relief. The water was so cold, it worked its magic quickly. He sighed in relief as the acid-covered needles and throbbing pain began to decrease almost instantly.
Seeing that he wasn't likely to fall in, Kashya laid on her belly with shoulders and head over the edge of the pool beside him. She dipped her head completely beneath the water. In seconds, the pool began to cloud with blood. For a full minute, she just let the water soothe her pain as well. Finally, when she needed air, she shook her hair in the water several times, and came back up. Scooping handfuls of icy water, she scrubbed away at the blood on her face and in hair. Then she began to probe around the sizable lump on the left side of her head.
He saw her flinch when her fingers encountered something; likely the open wound that had bled so much. Her left hand almost completely covered in her hair, she moved her fingers carefully again. Her face only an inch above the water, he could see her frowning expression turn to one of pain.
"What is it?" he finally asked.
"I think there's something in the wound."
Just then, a new trickle of blood ran down her face and into the pool. With a growl of frustration, she dunked her head again. This time when she came up, she flung the top part of her hair out of the way; effectively parting it to make the wound visible.
"Can you take a look?" she asked, shifting to her knees and scooting closer.
Though she curled up as small as she could, he still couldn't really see anything at that angle. Beneath his probing hands, he could feel her trembling in that uncomfortable position.
"I can't see well enough," he admitted, seeing more blood run down her face.
Kashya huffed in frustration and then shifted beside him. Carefully she lay her head on his left cuisse. Her face toward his feet. Thankfully, it had given him a much better view. But, to be extra careful, he let his left hand glow slightly to inspect the wound. The cut was maybe an inch long and very deep, but not bone deep. He could see the brunt of the impact had been taken by her leather headband, likely saving her life. Within the cut, however, he could see some smaller dark objects lodged deeply in the flesh.
"Splinters," he told her.
"I suppose that's better than a Fallen's hatchet blade," she commented wryly. "What the hells hit me, anyway?"
He reached over to his backpack and pulled out a set of rolled bandages. Picking out the splinters would be easy, but it would likely start bleeding all the more when he did. Carefully, he unrolled the bandages and readied them.
"Some logs. You're lucky you have a thick head," he couldn't help teasing.
He felt he shoulders tense. "Saved your hide, didn't I?"
He laughed softly. "Indeed. And I am grateful for your stubbornness."
She seemed to relax a bit at this. Bandages ready, he set to work. One folded pad of bandage he he pressed to the side by her face to keep the blood from running into her eyes.
"This is going to sting a bit, they are embedded deeply."
"Just hurry up," she muttered irritably.
He located the few splinters and tugged them free quickly. As expected, fresh blood flowed from the wound, which he knew to be good for expelling any smaller splinters or other debris that might cause infection. He let his mind wander back to the events of the day while he worked. Kashya flinched only a couple of times while he worked. Inspecting the wound once more to make sure he'd gotten everything, he finally came to a decision.
"Do you wish to talk about earlier, or would you rather it never happened?"
Her flinch beneath his fingers had nothing to do with his probing of the wound this time. She remained silent for several seconds. Since she made no move to answer, he decided the latter would be best. At the same moment he decided, he pressed a wadded bandage to the wound to help slow the bleeding. She remained silent as he wrapped another bandage around her head to hold it in place and tied it neatly.
"There we are. Better?"
He was disturbed to see a tear roll off the end of her nose as she continued to lay there when he finished. Despite his irritation with her, his compassion could not ignore this. A part of him knew this was her home, her people, that she was watching suffer and die. And she felt responsible for all of them. Whatever facade she showed to the rest of the world, he had no doubts she was suffering, too. Not entirely certain what this was about or what he could possibly do for her, he stroked her wet hair soothingly and kept silent.
For a while, Kashya seemed to wrestle with something as she breathed deeply and slowly. Once, he thought he caught a hint of a sob trying to come through as her shoulder twitched. Instead of feeling uncomfortable, however, he was somewhat surprised to find he felt more honored. Clearly she trusted him enough to let her guard down. He couldn't imagine her showing this kind of vulnerability to her Sisters. After a couple of minutes, she seemed to get her emotions under control and sighed heavily. Though she still lay where she was.
"I'm sorry," she finally said. "The blow to the head must have scrambled my brains."
"It's quite all right," he told her gently.
Heaving another sigh, she finally sat up and shook her head. "It's not all right. You were right. I was being a silly love-struck fool. I know I did the right thing or you wouldn't be here now. But you were right."
He cocked an eyebrow, keeping his expression mild. "Love-struck? Or is it just lust?"
She sat back on her knees. "I don't know," she admitted honestly. "It's something, anyway."
He shook his head sadly. Then he surprised even himself by reaching out to caress her face. Oh yes, there was definitely something there. Something he had absolutely no intention of allowing to distract him now...or ever. Giving in to his instincts, he lowered his guard and told her the truth.
"I'm sorry, Kashya," he said as gently as he could. "I can never give you what you truly deserve. A man who will be your equal, and be devoted to you alone."
She leaned in to his cold hand and nodded. "I know."
For one heartbeat, he struggled against the urge to outright push her away verbally and coldly, as was his usual habit. Why this was different, he couldn't even begin to allow himself to think about. Not now. Hopefully not ever. He caressed her cheek with his thumb one more time before taking his hand back.
By this point, his right leg had gone down to a dull throbbing. He was relieved to note there were only two painful echoes; one in his knee and one in his ankle. It was still possible something was broken, but at least it wasn't a major bone needing to be set and healed. For a few minutes more, they sat in silence as a darker gloom began to descend. After a while, she deemed it time to get moving.
"Did you at least get what you were after?" she asked.
"I think so. But only Hemlir can confirm."
"I'll run back to camp and get a litter."
"No need," he said, trying to stop her.
Instead, she ignored him and stood up. The moment she regained her feet, she staggered slightly to the side. On a mental command from him, the bone golem still guarding them, caught her gently by the arms.
"I'm fine," she snapped at him, stepping away from the golem in disgust. "Just stood up to quickly."
"I imagine the pounding in your head would disagree," he said dryly. "Go on, ahead. I will follow shortly. It will help me. You should at least stop them from worrying about you."
She looked indecisive for a moment, but could see the resolve in his eyes. It wasn't pride that stopped him from accepting aid, it was simple manpower. He had resources they didn't. And he knew how to use them. The Sisters were few and likely in far greater need. She nodded to him and disappeared through the thick undergrowth back to the camp. Not looking forward to the next several minutes that promised to be very painful indeed, he gathered up his things. He left his leg in the cold water just a couple more minutes while he did so. He shoved everything except his shield and scythe into the magical backpack.
Finally, he could delay no longer. With the golem freed up from carrying Kashya, this would be much simpler and faster. Mentally directing his golem, he used it to pull him straight up until he could balance on his left foot. Then he turned the golem and had it wrap its thick arm around his breastplate and hold snugly. This way, his right leg was just above the ground and his left leg could hop along. Even then, the golem was bearing most of his weight and his foot dragged more often than it supported him. Regardless, it worked. Within a couple of minutes, Rogue sentries were calling out that he'd returned; all of which, backed well out of the way of his large golem. Akara appeared within the gathering group.
"To the healing tent," she directed sternly.
Beyond tired, he nearly laughed at the order. He had no intention of doing otherwise. At the entrance to the tent, he balanced himself on his left foot and dismissed the golem. It was at least the size of Hemlir. It was awkward enough out in the open. In the close quarters of the tent, it could wreak havoc. Akara and a couple of other rogues appeared by his side to help settle him onto a pallet as carefully as they could. Nonetheless, he was sweating with pain again as this was accomplished. His leg had been jostled a couple of times. Akara's hands glowed a soft golden color as she laid a hand on his leg and delved him to check for injuries.
"No other injuries?" she inquired with some surprise while she worked.
"No, but have you seen to Kashya?"
"Nothing a few stitches and a good night's sleep won't take care of," she assured him. "She's in another tent already."
"Good."
After a few more seconds of poking and prodding, he watched Akara's face as she frowned. This did not bode well. He waited patiently for her to speak.
"The bones and muscles are intact," she told him. "But the knee has been separated and twisted. And some of the connective tissues within have been torn. Your ankle is badly sprained, but also not broken."
"That is good to hear."
Akara stood up and walked over to a small table with some bottles. She returned with one that was a deep purple color.
"This will let you sleep while I set your leg properly in your knee."
He waved this off. "Keep your supplies, they will be needed by others."
The priestess frowned darkly, her lips thinning. "It will be painful."
"So was getting here," he shot back with a grin. "I've survived this long."
"Very well, then."
She set the bottle back on the table and motioned to another waiting Rogue. "Hold his leg here," she directed to his thigh. "Do not let it move."
He mentally prepared himself for the shock of pain that was to come while she positioned her hands on his shin and calf. Akara glanced up to the Rogue and she pressed down uncomfortably. Akara began to explain what was coming next.
"In a moment I will—"
She never fished her sentence; or, if she did, he certainly didn't hear it. As she had planned, she caught him completely off guard when she pulled and twisted in one expert motion. He felt the shock of pain like a wave through his whole body. He flinched and tensed with the pain as he choked back a surprised grunt. Though he had entirely expected the surprise, it had worked perfectly. He hadn't been given a chance to tense before the maneuver, making it more difficult for the priestess to get it set right. As he breathed through the waves of pain, her hands glowed softly once again over his knee and ankle. She appeared satisfied with the results. Turning to meet his gaze again, she seemed to consider something.
"You don't have weeks to let this heal naturally. I can boost some of the healing with potions, but it will still take too long. I will heal as much as I can now. But much of the energy for this will come from you. Do you have the strength to supply it?"
"Of course."
"Good. Give me your hand, then."
She gripped his hand firmly, and closed her eyes. Instantly, he could feel the flow of power from himself through her and into his knee. It spread like a warm blanket down his leg to his ankle and foot, and up his thigh nearly to his hip. Beneath the surface, he felt the mildly disturbing sensation of things writhing and twisting back into place. The pull on his energies didn't seem like much at first, but the draw became stronger and more noticeable as the minutes wore on. The pain completely gone by now, he felt the movement of flesh and connective tissues settling back into their proper places. It was not his first experience with active, magical healing; so he knew what came next.
When Akara finished some several minutes later, he felt considerably drained. Not so drained as he sometimes was after a prolonged battle, but definitely tired enough to sleep. Akara, needing to rest and recover as well, made her way out of the tent. Behind her entered two more Rogues to assist with removing his remaining armor and making him comfortable.
He was just about ready to doze off when a priestess came in with a bowl of stew and thick bread. Only then did it occur to him he'd forgotten both breakfast and dinner in the activity of the day. In addition to that, his body would be desperate to replenish the resources he had expended with the active healing. He thanked older woman and downed the meal quickly. Just as he was handing back the empty bowl, Hemlir poked his head into the tent.
"Oh, good. You're not asleep, yet. Akara's healing is wondrous, is it not?"
"Indeed," he agreed, stifling a yawn.
"I just wanted to let you know, I believe I'm well enough to perform the ritual. It will wait until tomorrow when you're more recovered."
"That is good news, friend."
"I'll leave you to your rest, then."
He was vaguely aware of the Druid shifting his bulk back to his feet and shuffling back out of the tent. He was asleep moments later.
***
Sometime later, though he felt like it might be what passed for morning in this dismal place, he woke gradually. His first sense was always hearing. He'd become very adept at listening to his surroundings, even when sleeping what he considered deep sleep. There was a little movement around the camp. A few soft snores could be heard coming from beyond the healing tent. So far as he could tell, there was no one sharing the healing tent at this time. No longer concerned with disturbing other people in need of their own healing sleep, he rolled over and stretched tentatively. The pain was gone. Not even aches remained, he noted happily.
He got to his feet carefully, not wanting to strain the newly healed knee. But he need not have bothered. Now he understood why it had taken Akara so long to complete the healing. It wasn't just the extent of the damage, as he had feared. To his amazement, it was as if the injury had never happened. In his many experiences with active healing, the healer typically did little more than repair the worst damage. With necromancers, they barely even expended more than the bare minimum to get them back on their feet and out the door. In almost every case he could remember, Pyresong had spent days if not weeks recovering even after active healing.
Picking up his magical backpack that contained everything he possessed at the moment, he crept out of the tent and peered around the camp. As he suspected, it was too early for most of camp to be up and about. The sentries were swapping out and a couple were stoking the fires, stocking wood, getting buckets of water, and starting the day's cooking. It would likely be some time before Hemlir was up and about. Clearly the man was still healing from his own much more grievous wounds.
He looked around the camp for a few seconds before deciding he wanted to leave the camp for some meditation. He again vaulted the fence and returned back to the spring where he and Kashya had been at the night before. It was close enough to the camp he could keep track of the activity and be audibly alerted if anything were to happen. And he was far enough away to have some semblance of privacy. Taking a seat beside the water in his usual meditative position, he summoned a skeleton to guard him.
Relaxing into his meditation, he spent some time exploring all the thoughts and emotions that had been building these last couple of days. His failure with Alyssa still haunted him, and his mind turned back in curiosity to the locket. He still hadn't opened in and wasn't sure he even wanted to, despite his curiosity.
And the issue with Kashya... Was it really settled? Could she forget what she was feeling for him? What did he even feel for her? Physical attraction, obviously. But was there anything else? He twisted his mind and heart around this from several different angles. Yes, there was something there, but vague and weak. His statement to her had been true. He could never be what she deserved and what she needed. Partners in combat, likely. But mates, no; or, at least not for long. He had other priorities. Obviously, whatever she felt was something deeper than just lust. It would not be fair to her. Having thoroughly analyzed this to his satisfaction, he set it aside and moved on.
Eventually, he became aware of the increasing activity in the camp and slowly came out of his meditations feeling much more relaxed and calm. Rising to his feet, he stretched thoroughly every muscle in his body to loosen the unconscious tension. It was time to see what his efforts had produced. Hopefully Hemlir was indeed well enough to perform the ritual. He quickly donned his armor as he mentally prepared for the day ahead.
A couple minutes later he shouldered his backpack and vaulted the fence. Catching a whiff of the camp's breakfast, he stopped briefly at the cooking pot. It was a nice, thick sweet porridge topped with a handful of dried berries. Thanking the Rogue that had handed it to him, he moved on toward the main fire. There he found Hemlir, Kashya, and Akara speaking in low tones as they ate their own breakfast.
"May I join you?" he asked as he approached.
Kashya scooted over a foot or so on her split log bench. "Welcome."
Whatever other conversation they'd had before seemed to cease as they focused for a few minutes on the warm, comforting food. Then there was a bit of light talk about this or that going on in camp. Mostly things that sounded more like gossip than substance. Given that these Bloodsworn were traitors to their order, Pyresong had been unable to completely let go of his suspicious thoughts. Every time he walked through the camp, he scanned each one he saw with his magical sight. Thus far he had found no taint of shard or curse on any of them.
It also seemed they were all avoiding the darker subjects at hand. He sensed a very deliberate attempt to not bring up Lakrii, the shard, or the Countess. Whatever their reasoning, he could sense the tension in the air. He was more than a little curious. Yet he was well aware both he and Hemlir were outsiders to them. He could understand their desire not to discuss the secrets of their order with guests present. Despite this and the tension, he was surprised to note that he in no way felt unwelcome or unwanted here, either. He couldn't help mentally shaking his head at his own wandering thoughts when he realized this was only one of maybe a handful of times he had ever felt welcomed anywhere. He quickly stifled it and his random thoughts to focus on the tasks ahead.
After a few minutes, everyone finished and returned their bowls. Kashya wandered away to take care of other things. Akara seated herself in her usual position by the main fire with a book. Hemlir looked around for a moment before deciding Akara's fire would be the best option.
"Come, we'll use the campfire for our catalyst. Let us see what Darkness curses these woods."
Already the Druid had the three reagents in his hands. With tendrils of energy, he hovered them above the flames. Pyresong switched almost entirely to his magical vision to watch with curiosity. The three items were all linked with a green rope of power that came from Hemlir. The Druid's eyes were unfocused as the items circled the fire sedately. For a while, there was silence as he stared into the flames.
Pyresong waited patiently as the seconds stretched on. Akara seemed completely absorbed in her book, at a glance. Yet he could see her shoulders tensing beneath her robes when the seconds turned to a minute, and then two, passed by in silence. Eventually she gave up pretending to read and turned her attention to the Druid. With a puzzled expression, Hemlir floated the reagents back to his hands.
"It failed," Hemlir declared in frustration. "I don't understand!"
"What happened?" Pyresong asked, thinking about that "darkest wood" he'd recovered from the fallen camp on a guess. "Did I get something wrong?"
Hemlir shook his head quickly. Akara, seemed equally as puzzled, but had already turned her attention back to the book. Pyresong could see her eyes weren't actually moving, though.
"No, no. The ingredients were exactly what Inifuss instructed. The ritual should have worked." He huffed for a moment, staring into the fire before continuing, "Each piece represents a part of the Dark Wood's current condition. The flames should have revealed their connection. We must be missing something..." At a loss, Hemlir turned to Akara. "Akara, we could use your help."
Akara snapped her book shut with a wry grin. "Could you, now? It is nice to know that, even at my age, my insight is still appreciated."
Despite the dire circumstances, Pyresong couldn't help a soft laugh. Her eyes flashed mischievously as she set aside her book and stood. He could tell where Kashya got her tongue and tone from clearly now. Akara moved a couple steps closer to the fire. She reached toward it with one hand as if feeling the lingering energies there from the reagents. Grasping her amulet of the Sightless Eye in both hands, the priestess closed her eyes and concentrated. For several seconds, all that could be heard was the cheerful crackling of the fire. Then she began to speak in a soft, almost distant voice.
"Yes, a woman. Her wicked desires have perverted the nature of these woods. Only a magic equally as dark can bind your ritual."
When she opened her eyes and resumed her seat, Hemlir looked thoughtful. On completely uncertain ground here, Pyresong just waited. While he was vaguely familiar with ritual magics, this was way over his head. He couldn't even venture a guess. The Druid shook himself out of his thoughts quickly, though. He reached around to take Akara's delicate hands in his much bigger ones.
"We would be blind without your wisdom, Akara. Thank you."
She smiled and bowed her head at his thanks before returning to her book.
To Pyresong he said, "We seek a great evil that is equal to, but not part of, what is happening in Dark Wood. And I think I know what that might be."
He motioned for the Druid to continue.
"On my way to the great tree, I encountered a camp of cultists. They've been scouring these woods looking for something."
A ball of dread was forming in the pit of his stomach. "What kind of cultists?"
"I don't know exactly, but definitely demonic in origin. I could practically taste the evil they radiated. If we're seeking dark magic, that's the place we will find it."
He took a few seconds to consider this. Given their proximity to Wortham and Ashwold, it was possible they were the same cultists, but just as likely something altogether different. After all, there was no shortage of demon-worshiping cults all over Sanctuary. Regardless, he would have to find them. His questions and suspicions would be answered when he did. He hoped he was wrong.
"Can you show me on a map approximately where you saw them?"
Hemlir considered this for a moment. "Yes, I believe I can."
He dug his relatively detailed map out of his bag and unfurled it in his lap. It was one of several Cain had provided. He pointed to approximately where they were and then he pointed to Inifuss as references. Hemlir let his eyes wander back and forth across the map for a few seconds. Finally he pointed to a spot and nodded with certainty.
"They may have moved on, but I'm sure they were near that area, right there. We just need an object that is precious to them and filled with demonic power."
He stood as he rolled up the map. "Very well. I will return soon."
"No need to keep running around. That camp is not far from the tree. When you have it, just meet me at the Tree of Inifuss. With all four of the components, we should be able to fight back this corruption."
He frowned at this. The Druid was still healing, probably not ready for another fight, just yet.
"You should wait for me here, where it's safe."
"Oh, no, my friend. I know what I'm in for now. I can avoid them easily," Hemlir shot back with no small amount of amusement.
Seeing the Druid was not going to be deterred, Pyresong just nodded. He had met enough Druids in his life to know they had some incredibly powerful abilities when they chose to use them. In their hands, Nature itself could be weaponized. Hemlir had survived this much, and traveled halfway across the world. Likely he would be capable of handling any Bloodsworn that might show up. As of now, they still had not found Lakrii's new camp. And no scouts had found any roaming the area, either.
He clasped hands with the Druid; and then bowed to Akara, priest to high priestess earning him another amused grin. He quickly took his leave of them, his mind already set on his next target. He readied himself and exited the camp to the north.
He followed the path to the north that hugged the cliffs towering above, jogging at a silent and wary pace. After it veered off toward the west, he followed it for a few minutes. With a shudder, he gave the cave a wide berth. Then continued following the cliffs for another hour. In the overall miasma that hovered on the land, he began to make out something ahead that definitely felt more hellish. He slowed his pace as he realized there was another path just a couple yards to his left that also paralleled the cliffs.
Keeping off the trail, he blended into the shadows along the cliff wall. Hearing footsteps approaching along the path, crouched down behind some thick, dead bushes. Four cultists in a tight group, talking among themselves walked right past him just a few feet away. It only took him a glance to realize that their clothing was all too familiar.
These are the same cultists that attacked Wortham, he thought to himself. Skarn must have sent them seeking the shard after I took the last one from him.
After the cultists had moved on, he resumed his silent stalking through the brush. He had no idea how many there were, and he hoped to not have to find out the hard way. Eventually, he came to the outer edges of their camp. He was relieved to see it was a hasty camp recently thrown together. By his estimate, it had only been here maybe a week. Likely it wouldn't take much effort to oust them from the territory; though, that was a problem for another day. The camp was lined with sharpened stakes that he would have to go around to get any closer. They were just a little too wide and tall for him to vault; and climbing would put him a position that was far too exposed.
Taking in the full map of the area visually, he spied another one of those unholy seals carved into the ground and filled with blood about thirty feet away. It was almost dead center of the camp. A single priest stood in the center of the filthy sigil, silent and still. He was just considering the best way to get around the sharpened stakes when he caught sight of a woman with hair so unnaturally red, there was no mistaking it.
Lakrii, Pyresong snarled silently.
Completely untouched by the score of visible of cultists milling about the camp, she walked right up to summoning circle where the priest awaited her.
"Your master wishes to speak?" Lakrii sneered.
Instead of responding verbally, the priest pulled out an evil-looking ritual knife and slit his own belly wide open. As the blood poured out, red lightning ran from him into the circle along with his own blood. Lakrii just stood passively, clearly unimpressed by the display. The silence stretched on as he bled into the seal for a few more seconds. The scene was eerily similar to the charred man that had appeared in Wortham. Just as he was thinking those thoughts, it happened almost identically. A large vision of flame and blood came out of the summoning circle.
Skarn, he thought darkly. This can't be good.
The demon lord's powerful voice reverberated throughout the camp as cultists fell to their knees. They buried their faces in the ground, cowering before their master. Pyresong couldn't help grimacing with disgust. Given that their choices led them here, he couldn't even feel pity. Despite living by the Balance and understanding the need for both sides, there was a part of him that just couldn't understand people like these. When they weren't reveling in pain and violence, they were suffering the violence and pain. Meanwhile an entity was enjoying breaking these human toys for fun.
"Deliver unto me the fragment of the Eye, the 'Worldstone', and you shall have whatever your heart desires," Skarn offered.
Lakrii laughed. "My heart desires only one thing. And your precious fragment is hers."
Almost before she finished the last word, Skarn used his priest as a fleshy puppet. The arm moved up to point at her and sent a line of red lightning at Lakrii. It wrapped itself around her throat and lifted her into the air. For one second, he let himself hope Skarn would just kill her, ridding the Dark Wood of at least one problem.
"Deliver the stone or the Burning Hells will cleanse this world. Your mistress included," Skarn demanded.
Lakrii struggled only slightly before using her own power to break the connection. Dropping to the ground, she crouched, ready to spring with a scream.
"If you had such power, you'd be taking the shard! Not asking for it!"
Before Skarn could reply to that, she lunged forward, right through the cloud of blood and flames. She used her red-bladed sword to impale the still-bleeding priest. That effectively broke the summoning. She laughed chillingly and slashed at the unholy circle on the ground.
"You have your answer. With the shard's power, even Hell cannot stop her."
Seeing their priest murdered, the cultists all over the camp went into a frenzy. They surrounded her in half a second, weapons drawn. There turned out to be a lot more than the score he had caught sight of.
I suppose it would be too much to ask that they finish her right now, he thought.
At least now he knew for certain the shard was in the Countess of Blood's possession and not with Lakrii herself being hidden somewhere. It was no more than he had suspected. He watched while Lakrii danced with her sword turning deadly circles. Her speed was such that he had trouble keeping up visually with her moves. Being as empowered as she was with vampiric speed and strength, those weak, human cultists didn't stand a chance. Even the mages and priests had trouble keeping track of her swift and lethal movements.
Having tasted her fighting prowess for himself once, he was not surprised in the least when she was the only one left standing after less than three minutes. Cultist bodies littered the entire camp. Any who had been in there were now dead. There may be a few remaining ones that had not been in the camp, but he doubted there were enough to pose any kind of threat to Dark Wood right now. Reveling in the blood she had shed, Lakrii laughed once more and ran with blurring speed out of the camp.
He was disappointed, but not entirely. She had just cleared the way for him to search the camp for what he needed. Instead of going around, he quickly climbed over the stakes. He caught sight of something glowing red in the summoning circle. Wary of any cultists that might be hiding or returning, he crept up quietly. The hellish evil that radiated off that summoning circle was palpable. But what he sought was right there. As he came closer, he realized the priest's body had condensed into as sort of red, glowing coal. Standing over it, he realized what it actually was.
An ember of the Burning Hells; left behind when Lakrii severed the connection. He thought, eyeing it warily. It smolders with dark magic...this must be it. I hope it will be enough.
He had absolutely no intention of touching it himself; gloved and shielded hands or not. Looking around the camp at all the cooling corpses, he considered what he might be able to use to transport it. Off to one side, he spied a collection of containers filled with things he didn't even want to contemplate too closely; likely vile ritual ingredients. He rummaged for a moment before finding an empty glass jar. It would have to do.
Carefully, he scooped up the ember with a stick and sealed the lid of the jar. Hearing footsteps approaching and raised voices, he knew he'd overstayed his welcome. Just to give him a few more seconds to get away and out of sight, he went wraith form, going deeper into the camp. He found a gap in the makeshift fence that was just enough he could leap over it at a flat run.
Once he was back outside the perimeter of the camp, he ducked into some dried-up undergrowth. Mentally, he reviewed his maps and attempted to orient himself. Not for the first time, he growled in frustration at the lack of sunlight or stars to help. Taking a guess on direction, he headed toward where he hoped he would eventually find this Tree of Inifuss. He just hoped Hemlir was safe and waiting for him there.
A couple hours later, he could just make out the giant remains of the tree he sought. The gnarled, dead branches of Inifuss stuck up out of an enormous, natural bowl in the earth. Hearing women all but shrieking with wicked laughter, he muttered a vile expletive under his breath. As he approached an unexpected waypoint platform, he could see in the depression below several Bloodsworn closing in around a prone Hemlir. He wasn't sure if the Druid was already dead or not.
"Hemlir! Hold fast!" he called, leaping right off the ledge and into the midst of the circling vampires.
He didn't give the five creatures time to regroup. Summoning skeletons as he danced, he cut them all down in seconds. Then he turned his attention to the Druid, who was struggling to his feet. Pyresong nearly sighed in relief to see the big man moving at all. For a few seconds, he had been certain he was too late.
"Hemlir, are you all right?" he asked, already reaching for a healing potion.
The Druid nodded breathlessly.
"Good," he sighed, relaxing slightly. "For a moment there, I feared the worst."
"And with good reason," Hemlir replied grimly. "The damned Bloodsworn are giving us precious little time to waste. Were you able to get the final component?"
"Yes," he said, digging the jar out of his pack, "I believe so."
"Then not all is lost," Hemlir replied happily.
Tentatively, the Druid took the jar, his face twisting in disgust. Pyresong could empathize. Even with the jar, magical shields, and gloves, he had felt the power radiating off the thing. Hemlir turned his attention to their surroundings for a few seconds before settling his gaze firmly back on Inifuss.
"Now, this ritual will bridge my consciousness to the tree and the forest beyond. This magic is...chaotic, ancient; the kind that scars the soul. Can I count on your protection, friend?"
"Of course. Do what you must. I will keep you safe," he replied, instantly.
He was not entirely unfamiliar with Druidic rituals and magic, and how engrossing they could be. Still, something about the way the Druid had spoken... He didn't like it at all. Hemlir smiled warmly and reassuringly as if reading his thoughts. Then turned his attention back to the tree. Kneeling between two enormous roots, he produced all four reagents. Pyresong stepped back as the man chanted and raised his arms in supplication to the tree. Around the Druid, a vibrant green glow appeared as it seeped from him to the tree.
Keeping his ears on the forest around them, he watched with interest while Hemlir worked. Despite the booming volume of his voice, it held nothing of command. To his untrained ears, this sounded more like pleading. His fascination was soon interrupted when he heard some approaching Bloodsworn.
Not now, damn it!
He spread his summoned skeletons in a semi-circle around them. He positioned himself back to back with Hemlir, maintaining only enough distance to keep out of the Druid's way. It took only a matter of seconds for the Bloodsworn to appear. Some of them were screaming angrily, as if Hemlir was somehow defiling this place. Ready as he was, they were dealt with quickly. It was only three Bloodsworn, as if on a patrol. Hopefully they were just attracted to Hemlir's loud chanting.
A tickle of something along his arcane senses made him wonder if there were likely more headed this direction. He could almost feel the energies from Hemlir and Inifuss reaching outward in thin, weak tendrils across the surrounding land. He turned his attention back to the ongoing ritual. He continued to stand over the Druid protectively while the minutes ticked by. The reagents had disappeared, though he had no idea where they had gone.
Finally, Hemlir went silent for several seconds, his hands on the roots of the tree. Pyresong hooked his scythe to help the Druid as he struggled back to his feet. Hemlir's bright, hazel eyes were far away as he saw something only he could see. But it was what the necromancer saw when Hemlir turned to face him that made him freeze in confusion and concern. He was shaken to his core at the sight of the skin on the Druid's face transforming. It was taking on an appearance similar to tree bark as it withered and cracked. An icy ball of fear formed in the necromancer's gut.
"The tree... It's guiding my sight!" Hemlir said excitedly. "I see the Darkness infecting this land. An evil that has festered for so long in the deep places. It corrupts life. Feeds off it like a parasite!"
"Hemlir, your face, it's—we have to stop this!" he said in horror.
The half of Hemlir's face that had not turned to bark smiled sadly. "Did I not warn this kind of magic scars? No, friend, we cannot stop. The ritual awakened the power bound within the tree. It wants to be free. It will help us fight the corruption...for a price."
Turning back to the tree, Hemlir again raised his hands, but placed his palms firmly on the trunk this time. Pyresong resisted the urge to reflexively stop him. What price?
"You have your bargain, Inifuss. Banish the corruption infecting this wood and its people as promised!"
A moment later, he watched with rising horror when Hemlir tried to recoil from the tree, but his hands were stuck fast.
"What's happening?" Hemlir cried in pain. "W-wait...it's inside me! Pulling the corruption out!" He turned his now blind eyes to Pyresong begging, "Please, friend, you must destroy it. It can be purged!"
"How?" he asked in frustration. "Tell me what to do!"
This time, Hemlir outright howled in pain, his back arching painfully far, while something with sickly purple and green glow streamed out of him and began to take shape. Pyresong jumped back in surprise, but only for a moment. He still was completely uncertain what to actually do. Listening to his instincts, he poured energy into his scythe. As soon as the tendril of power stopped connecting to Hemlir, he swung his glowing scythe right through the entity that was the corruption made manifest. It came apart like a puff of smoke.
Relieved, he turned back to the Hemlir. His enormous hands were no longer bound to the tree. The hulking Druid had gone to his knees, looking weak and exhausted. By this point, most of his face and one of his arms had turned to bark. He couldn't even begin to imagine just how horrifyingly painful it must have been for the Druid. Both eyes were clouded over and seemingly blind.
"Hemlir?" he asked, uncertainly.
The giant of a man struggled just to breathe for several seconds. "It is done," he finally whispered.
"Hemlir, are you all right? Is it over?"
The Druid seemed to balance himself almost upright in a kneeling position. "It is, but...there is no cause for celebration. The forest will not be purged so easily. Not while the heart of its corruption remains."
Hemlir took a shaky, rasping breath. His unseeing eyes gazing somewhere beyond them. The sorrow in his voice tugged at Pyresong's heart.
"I can see it all now, friend...and it is terrible to behold."
The Druid seemed to struggle for a few seconds to both catch his breath and find the strength to keep going. He watched helplessly and silently prayed Akara could help heal Hemlir when this was over. Even as he watched, the bark was spreading, drying, and cracking down into exposed flesh. He struggled against the urge to force a healing potion down Hemlir's throat.
"A blight seeps from the Forgotten Tower. At its roots lies a woman in a pool of stolen blood. Around her neck, a red stone pulses with a power older than the world itself." He breathed in shakily. "The vines whisper to me. They tell me of an abomination: a true Blood Rose. Through the rose the blood flows to her, feeds her. It must be cut down!"
He coughed in a way that sounded too dry to be human anymore, more like wood scraping.
"I will alert the Sisters of the Sightless Eye," Pyresong assured firmly; more than ready to end this as fast as possible for Hemlir's sake.
"Wait… You will have your chance," Hemlir assured, weakly, sagging against the tree. "The plants tell me a Rogue is on her way here now."
"That's enough. We need to get you back to Akara."
Even as he reached to pull the Druid to his feet, Hemlir swung blindly, forcing him away.
"No, you're not. Not if you wish to survive this. We've been given a chance, but we must move now. Go, kill the Blood Rose. As long as it feeds her blood, the Countess cannot die, and this corruption will never end. The tree can help purge the lingering corruption. But...for now..."
Hemlir struggled to breathe for a few more seconds. There was no chance Pyresong was going to leave the poor man here in this condition. He was about to summon the largest bone golem he had ever attempted. He wasn't sure it would be enough, but he had to try. It was likely the only way he would be able to get Hemlir back to the camp and help. Before he could try, though, the Druid took one last, deeper breath.
"The Rogues need you. And now I return to the Great Cycle. Inifuss, take your payment."
"No!" Pyresong shouted, horrified, but it was already too late.
Ghostly roots from the tree wrapped themselves around the Druid pulling him toward the trunk. The visible, dead wood of the trunk parted like a door. Hemlir gave one last wheezing cry as he was absorbed into the trunk of the tree. Helpless, Pyresong danced back away from the tree as Hemlir disappeared into it and the crack sealed itself again.
Stunned, he could only stare at the place where Hemlir had been swallowed up. Inifuss had demanded Hemlir's very life for this information. He wanted to rage at the tree, and cut it down. He wanted to believe it was evil. He wanted to hate it. Yet, somewhere in his shocked mind and heavy heart, he realized it was not evil. The tree needed something from Hemlir that could only be given willingly. Sacrifice to end the corruption. The Druid had known that and given what it needed.
These thoughts didn't help him at all.
At the sound of running footsteps, he pulled himself out of his shocked and saddened thoughts. He swung around expecting more Bloodsworn, hoping for something to kill. Only as he caught sight of Flavie did he remember that Hemlir had said one was coming for him. Flavie was spattered with blood from head to toe and looked nearly frantic.
"Flavie! What has happened?"
"Kashya led a war party to attack the Forgotten Tower. I was returning to the encampment to rally the others when I saw what was happening here. I'm only sorry I arrived too late to help you," she told him, eyeing the bodies all around them.
"There's nothing you could have done," he assured the Rogue. "Why are they attacking the Forgotten Tower?"
"Now that we know the Countess is behind this and Lakrii, we can put an end to this evil. We were ambushed before we even got there. The Bloodsworn are fighting ferociously. The Commander sent me to ask Akara for aid."
"Damn!" he swore darkly. "The Countess cannot die while the Blood Rose lives. Your sisters are walking into a trap!"
Flavie's eyes widened in terrified comprehension. "I will get to Akara and find help. Head to the Forgotten Tower and pray you are in time to stop them."
This last part she threw over her shoulder as she ran headlong into the darkness. Map fixed firmly in his head, he took off at a flat run in the opposite direction. If Kashya was already... No, he couldn't think like that. He had to focus.
There was no more time for stealth or caution. He didn't even bother finding or following any trails. He raced through the dark forest not even pausing to consider the numerous creatures and demons that might try to ambush him. His only hope was to give them no time to catch up.
He was just beginning to feel a painful stitch in his side when he came in sight of the crumbling outer walls somewhere south of the Forgotten Tower. He had lost his direction at some point and ended up too far south. Mentally cursing, he was about to angle north when he caught the scent of fresh blood.
Just ahead, he could make out several Bloodsworn bodies littering the ground. He knew he'd somehow found the site of the ambush. Occasionally, he spied the body of a Rogue. As with before, they had fought valiantly but been outnumbered many times over. With each body he encountered, he found himself getting more frantic; fearing each one he found would be Kashya. When he approached an ancient section of crumbling wall, he heard screaming to his left from the south. Reflexively he ran toward the frantic screaming. A large group of Bloodsworn were dragging a handful of struggling Rogues around the side of the crumbling tower walls. Here he could see a very few, but absolutely massive vines.
This must be where the rose hides!
Too frantic with worry, there was no finesse in his next moves. He ran right up to the vampire women and cut them down, freeing some of the Rogues. When he was certain there was no further attacks, he turned to the one Rogue he had just rescued that appeared to still be at least semi-conscious. Most of them were already dead, or obviously fatally wounded and unconscious. One was struggling to crawl along the path toward her other Sisters. He ran over to her, recognizing that long, blond braid.
"Liene, you're hurt! Who did this? Where is Lakrii? Where's Kashya?"
For a moment, Liene pulled away from him in shocked terror. Pyresong realized he'd been too harsh on someone so young who had so recently been suffering at the hands of the Bloodsworn. She was likely in shock. For a moment, he was ashamed. One arm hung limply at her side, her shoulder stabbed clean through with a blade. An arrow pierced her thigh but had been broken off in her struggles. In various other places she was bruised and bleeding. She was hurt, possibly fatally.
Reining in his roiling emotions and bundling them away for later, he took a strong healing potion of his belt. He scooped her up gently in his left arm, cradling her. She was half-delirious from pain and blood loss already. He held her to him as he poured the thick potion down her unresisting throat. Soon her shudders of pain and terror began to ease. Her eyes found his as they began to focus. Choking slightly and stuttering she stared up at him with wide, terror-filled eyes.
"B-blood...the rose...it's drinking their blood! It has the others! Please, save them!"
"Gods above!" he breathed, icy fear climbing into his chest. He was convinced Kashya was among them. "Listen, Liene. I'm going in there and I'm going to kill that thing. But you will not survive if you stay here. Flavie is sending reinforcements. Hide and wait for them."
She nodded, clearly struggling to hold back her tears.
"Stay hidden, and I will return as soon as I'm able, all right?" he told her soothingly.
"Keep going," she told him in a voice that still quivered on the edge of hysteria. "Do what you need to. I'll try...I'll try... Just go!"
"You're a strong woman and brave warrior, Liene," he told her, gently setting her down.
A flicker of similar words spoken to another, much younger girl echoed painfully in his heart. He crushed that thought as fast as it formed. There may still be hope of saving Kashya and the others, but only if he hurried. He gently set Liene back down and took up his scythe.
He ran around the corner into the darkness beyond. The putrid scent of decay and rotting corpses assailed him. Overlaying all of that was the coppery tang of blood he could practically taste in the air. Standing amid more Bloodsworn dragging the limp bodies of unconscious or dead Rogues, one woman stood taller than the others directing them. She glowed with the power of the curse. She caught sight of him the moment he rounded the corner. Then he realized it wasn't just the curse. She was some kind of mage. And, much like Lakrii, he could see the taint of the shard on her.
"Someone's approaching!" she shrieked. "Feed their corpse to the rose!"
Tightly controlling his fear that one of those still struggling Rogues was Kashya, he pointed his scythe at this leader. Just beyond this shard-tainted mage, he could see the giant pool of blood and the Blood Rose coming out of the far wall. It had three struggling Rogues in its vines and was pulling them closer toward what was clearly a demonic mouth.
"Both your bloody rose and your mistress die tonight!" he roared.
Fueled by his anger at the sight of yet more Sisters being murdered by these traitors, he ran headlong at this leader and the few Bloodsworn turning about to face him. He turned off thoughts completely and let the warrior in him rule. In later years he could not recount exactly what had happened, but all of the Bloodsworn in that chamber had been killed in seconds.
For all his efforts, he was still too late. The three struggling Rogues were nothing more than desiccated corpses when the rose dropped them into the pool of blood, completely drained. Briefly he checked their hair, none of them appeared to be Kashya. But he had no time to feel any kind of relief. The rose seemed to be watching him, analyzing him, testing him.
So this abomination is what feeds the Countess.
“Well then, monstrosity, your end has come,” he snarled at it.
Once again, he turned off his thoughts and let his training and experience kick in. He sent his skeletal warriors and mages in to harass the thing while he blasted it with spirit fire. None of it seemed to be making much of a difference. He had to duck and dodge as it sent vines after him again and again. He saw his skeletal mages and warriors being gripped by the same vines, and flung back across the room when it couldn't suck the life out of them. It took a few seconds, but he finally figured out the the real weak spot was the stem beneath the yawning mouth of the bloom.
Once, twice, three times he empowered his scythe and let the blades of energy slice through the monster's stem; just like slitting its throat. He almost regretted there was no form of blood for it to spew in every direction when he likened it to slitting a throat. He was still summoning more skeletons to replace the ones he'd lost in the battle when the flailing vines suddenly fell dead into the pool of blood. The flower's head nearly severed from the trunk, it shuddered.
Good riddance, he snarled silently.
Unexpectedly, the flower's mouth opened in a final scream and burst of energy. Caught completely off guard, Pyresong felt his body flying through the air like a doll, as had his minions. He landed hard on his back off to the right of the blood pool on some rocks, the wind knocked out of him. Even as he struggled to relax and get his breath back, he realized to his terror he was paralyzed! In the blast wave, his skeletons had shattered like match sticks. He couldn't move any part of his body; he was frozen there, helpless. His mind filled with momentary panic. Then he heard a scream of rage approaching.
"What have you done?" Lakrii screamed. "What have you done?! No! The rose! It withers!"
She turned her rage on him. In his helpless state, all he could do was watch while she raised her red-bladed sword above him. A familiar, chilling calm began to descend over his mind and heart.
"I should slay you where you lay! But I am no fool!" she screamed at him, her face twisted in anger. "I will not chance losing and failing her again! The rose will have you when I am done."
He watched with complete icy calm when she stabbed her sword into the ground an inch from his head.
You missed, he thought with an almost deranged mental laugh.
He would have smiled tauntingly at her had he been able to move at all. Since he was helpless and very likely about to die, he just watched and listened. Maybe the paralysis would wear off. Maybe... He could feel his scythe in his hand, but he couldn't move it. He began to send power into his scythe hopefully. He could see in his peripheral vision that it glowed beside him, but still did not move. With a calm that was somehow more terrifying than the rage had been, Lakrii stared at the dying rose while she spoke.
"She entrusted her blood to me. A gift to ensure her beautiful world came to fruition. It will be enough."
Then she swung around to him, rage twisting her face once more.
"But I can't have you interfering!"
She stomped down on his hand where it gripped his brightly glowing scythe. Given that his gauntlets only partially covered the backs of his fingers, he was surprised not to feel the distinct crunching of bones outright snapping. Despite the paralysis, he could feel everything. In this frigid calm he had come to know so intimately over the years, pain was a distant thing. Often he analyzed it only enough to determine if it really would kill him. If it wasn't crippling, he dismissed it. Unable to even scream, he just stared up at her. She kicked away his scythe and it disappeared somewhere in the pool of blood. She stood over him a moment longer.
"Sit there and witness your failure!"
Summoning all of her power in a red glow around her, Lakrii approached the still-twitching rose with her arms held out in supplication.
"My Mistress, I give back all that you bestowed upon me! Take everything! My life, my blood...is yours! Let me serve you forever!"
As some part of him realized he was not about to die, anger replaced his earlier calm. That stupid, selfish woman was about to give all that power to the damned thing! Though he couldn't see it, he could hear the movements of the vines and tendrils in the pool shifting. At her desperate calls, the rose seemed to awaken once more. It reached out some kind of evil tongue and took her into itself. The vile red glow spread from Lakrii's body into the rose, healing it.
Whether the paralysis had simply worn off or the demonic flower was too occupied to keep it up, he couldn't be sure. And, at the moment it didn't matter. Now he was furious. That damned woman had not only given it her blood, but the power of the shard she had absorbed as well. That insane woman and her schemes had caused so much suffering with her betrayal. An entire village dead. This whole land plagued by monsters and curses. So many dead from fighting against this corruption. Commander Kashya and her Sisters likely already sacrificed to this thing.
He was done.
The moment he felt the paralysis dissipate, his hand clenched painfully. He leapt to his feet. That tightly controlled rage had been roiling beneath the surface for days since Alyssa's murder. He didn't bother to stifle it, this time. He couldn't help from screaming furiously as he waded into the pool of blood trying desperately to find his scythe.
"Damn you, Lakrii!"
The rose was moving. It was reaching for him again. Vines came from every direction. Frantically, he danced away from them as he summoned more skeletons to keep it busy. But there was no sign of his scythe. It was only a matter of time before one of the vines caught him, too. And this time he didn't even have more than a hunting knife to cut at them. Frustration mounting, he finally did the one thing he could.
He gave in completely to that blind rage that was always just beneath the surface. Having seen what mindless rage could do in others, he had always kept his on a very tight rein. This time it screamed at him, desperate to be let free. He let it, happily. His entire body glowed with pale green and white light. No longer thinking at all, he dropped his mental shields entirely and screamed again. He reached out to all the restless spirits in the area. They replied to his mental scream, flowing into him from every direction.
He threw a barrage of bone spirits unlike anything he had ever managed before. They were enormous and exponentially more powerful than he ones he normally, but rarely, used in combat. They were the raging and restless souls of the recently slain Rogues all around him that cried out for justice and vengeance. In addition to those were countless other dead that had lingered here for centuries. Thousands of them. He was happy to oblige them all.
They flowed through him, coming out as giant skull-shaped projectiles. They flew into the gaping maw of the demonic rose. In a few heartbeats, it exploded into hundreds of pieces, unable to even keep its shape against the powerful assault. There was no backlash of power or paralyzing attack, this time.
There was a faint burning sensation somewhere inside of him as they moved. Realizing the rose was destroyed, he quickly slammed his mental shields back in place and cut off the flow. His chest heaving, he struggled to calm his racing heart. He still needed to find Kashya. And his scythe was somewhere in this—
The Countess' laughter rang out clearly in the murky air, mocking his rage and fear.
"You have failed, little man. It is done! I feel the blood once again! Rise, my servants! Slay all who oppose my will!"
At least that creature will no longer poison the land, he thought grimly, calming slightly.
He decided to forget the scythe. He could come back for it later. Right now, he had to find Kashya and the other Rogues. Then he had to find the Countess and put an end to her. He spun around and headed back the way he had entered. He cursed himself when he suddenly remembered Liene. He'd nearly forgotten her completely. He had to get her to safety, first.
Something scraped across the rock below his boot. He reached down through the blood and managed to retrieve his scythe. When he tried to grip it firmly, he felt the bones that were cracked, but not entirely broken in his hand. He had no choice, he had to be able to use his scythe. He downed a thick, potent healing potion. His hand burned and stung as everything began to knit back together. It was the last potion he had. He summoned some skeletons as he headed away from the rose.
The Countess is vulnerable, he thought, trying to formulate a plan. Now we can strike at the heart of the Forgotten Tower.
He prayed Kashya hadn't already beat him there. He pushed that thought aside violently. There was no time for that! Alive or dead, the best thing he could do for Kashya and the others was put an end to this nightmare. He still needed to find Liene and get her to safety. That was his immediate concern right now.
Rounding the corner at a run, he skid to a stop when he spotted Akara, kneeling beside a body. Akara's ancient shoulders were hunched and her head was bowed with grief. She was sobbing softly to herself as she pulled Liene into her arms to cradle her. The rage he'd felt only seconds ago, drained from him as he took in the sight. It was swiftly replaced with cold fear and black sorrow. He knelt down before her on the other side of the cooling body. It was Liene.
"Akara..."
"Hemlir, Liene, dozens of our sisters...all of them laid down their lives to prevent evil from returning," the priestess cried angrily. "We cannot allow such sacrifices to be in vain!"
His heart broke for her. "I'm so sorry. The Blood Rose is dead, but Lakrii gave up her life before I could stop her. The Countess has returned."
Akara's eyes and expression took on a hard, almost cruel edge. "Then she must be slain again. There is no other course, no other way. An evil like that cannot possess an artifact like the Heart of Creation."
"Agreed."
"It will not be easy," she warned, "but you must act as the heroes of Sanctuary did. As one of your own brethren once did in the name of destroying evil. Join Kashya and the others at the Forgotten Tower and end the curse upon this land!"
"She's alive?"
His mind somehow skipped right over the rest. He had been so certain she was among those ambushed here.
"Yes. They're waiting for you." She waved her hand at an open space nearby and a portal opened. "Take that portal. It will get you there faster. Go, friend, this world depends upon your task."
Too relieved for words to hear that Kashya was not yet among the corpses this day, he nodded firmly, running for the portal.
No pressure, he heard in Kashya's sarcastic voice.
His lips twitched in a smile. Oh how he wished to hear that voice again in life!
"May the Great Eye watch over us all," Akara intoned behind him.
Stepping through the portal, he raised his scythe and shield ready for an attack. When none came, he turned a full circle. There, below him was Inifuss. He was minutes away from the main entrance to the Forgotten Tower. That was the only other place that made sense. Feeling the loss of Hemlir all over again, he stared mournfully down at the tree.
"Hemlir..." he whispered. "I don't know if your spirit can hear me anymore...but I'm going to end this. Wish me luck."
Of course, my friend, he heard Hemlir's voice in his head, followed by the fellow's comforting laughter.
That was one voice he knew he would never hear again in this life.
He ran flat out down the paths. This time, there was no doubt where he was going. Instead of following the wall south, as he had before, he followed the decaying brick paths to the north. He knew they lead directly to the gates of the Sanguine Ruins, the Countess' lair for centuries. He vowed to himself that when this was over, he would find a way to ensure she never came back again. With some concern, he looked all around the crumbling columns and walkways. Kashya and the others were nowhere to be found. What had happened? He felt a twisting tendril of fear in his gut.
They must already be inside...
He prayed Kashya had not been so stupid; especially after the ambush. Akara had said they were waiting. He ran right through the still-open gates. In the courtyard beyond, he spied many of the withering vines. Just ahead of him, was a pack of Khazra. Already the damned Countess and her Bloodsworn were summoning worse than just Fallen here. As near as he could tell, it might be Blood Clan Khazra.
How fitting, he thought darkly.
He absolutely hated Khazra, more so than spiders, even. These beasts were just intelligent enough to be a problem. And they were many times stronger than most any other demon of the same type. At least the Countess had not had enough time to summon more than a few here in the outer courtyard. Axes raised, they came at him. Behind these warriors, a shaman was beginning a fiery summoning circle. He sent his skeletons to fan out around him while he moved in with his scythe. His minions were little more than an irritation to the goatmen and were quickly dealt with. But that was all he had needed. He cleared his mind of everything but the fight ahead. In minutes, the courtyard was clear of Khazra.
Knowing his presence was not just detected, but expected, he made no attempt to hide his movements. He hadn't seen a single Rogue in the courtyard, dead or alive. They must be further in. Taking the stairs down into the bowels of the tower three at a time, he raced right for a cluster of Bloodsworn at the bottom. They guarded an arched entrance that held no doors. Yet again, his mind tried to latch on to mental images of Kashya and her sisters being cut to pieces up ahead. Viciously, he flung those emotions away into the darkest recesses of his soul.
Not now! he snarled to himself.
He tore through the handful of Bloodsworn outside the arch that lead into the main building and kept running. Unfortunately, this headlong race ran him right into a trap. Four Bloodsworn surrounded a priestess. The priestess laughed manically at the sight of him.
"Oh, how the Life shall flow from you!"
He added two skeletal mages to his minions and scattered them throughout the room, keeping the Bloodsworn busy while he rushed the priestess. To his surprise, this priestess wasn't very powerful at all. She tried to swipe at him with her staff a couple of times. Twice he dodged easily before he realized that, even as she missed direct contact, she was taking something from him. At close range, he felt the staff pulling life energy out of him. She hadn't been boasting!
Focusing on the staff, he caught the next pass with his scythe and twisted hard enough to break it. The now-useless head clattered to the floor while he followed through with a swipe at her chest. She landed on the floor choking on her own blood.
"Blood cannot be unspilled," she still said laughing as she died.
Finally she lay still, but he was already moving again. These Bloodsworn were too easy. They had put up very little fight and his skeletons had even managed to kill most of them. This did not feel right at all. There had to be more to the trap.
Behind him, he heard gasping and swung back around thinking the priestess was rising again. Instead, his eyes caught sight of a struggling Rogue. She had fallen to the floor along the wall just inside the doorway. He hadn't even seen her as he ran in here. Sensing the area was clear for a moment, he set the skeletons to guarding him. Carefully, he rolled the young woman onto her back to make her breathing easier. It was clear her wounds were fatal. Her soft brown eyes lit up with recognition.
"What has happened here?" he asked softly, gently cradling her in his arms to offer what comfort he could.
"You're too late... They're all around us. She's raised an army. The sisters don't have the strength to put this many down. Hope...has abandoned us..."
"Never," he told her firmly but soothingly. "I will see that your Sisters survive. Where is Kashya, and the others?"
The eyes widened slightly as the pupils fixed themselves on something only she could see. Offering what he could in the hopes she would rest peacefully, he whispered in her ear. He knew she was seeing into the next world.
"Go to them. Rest now. The pain is passed."
Her whole body relaxed in his arms with a final sigh. He closed her eyes and laid her gently back on the cold stone floor.
So many...
But he had no time for that, either. He had to find the Countess. He would make her pay for all the suffering she caused; suffering he had to bear witness to. Not sure which way to go, he eyed a portcullis on the left and another on right. For a couple of seconds, he closed his eyes and listened. There was the faint sound of movement to his left.
He was tired of this. Tired of being too late. Tired of not being able to save anyone. Tired of the suffering. The Countess hadn't been far off the mark about him; he felt something inside fracturing. Holding on tightly to this slowly building rage, he pushed aside his exhaustion. He was going to end this. Now.
Having no patience left, he swept his scythe around at the rusted iron bars that blocked his path, letting a wave of energy blast the weakened metal to pieces. Beyond the doorway, stood several more Bloodsworn. He cut through them by twos and threes. Instinct lead him to summon skeletal mages to take out the archers he hadn't even seen visually yet. The bodies fell all around him. At the far end of the room, he spotted another gate, this one open.
"Seal the gate!" screamed one of the Bloodsworn as he sliced and blasted his way through them.
"They are pinned down, my Bloodsworn," came the voice of the Countess, echoing throughout the chamber. "Move in! End this insurrection!"
"They"? he echoed mentally. Kashya!
Once there was no one left standing, he turned his attention to the gate that had been shut. His eyes could see that this one was magically sealed as well. He didn't have time for that. Kashya and the others were in here somewhere.
I'll have to find another way, forward, he thought as he doubled back to the previous chamber.
Directly opposite him was the other rusty portcullis he had noticed. He didn't have the patience left to stop and listen. Much as with the previous, he blasted the rusty bars to shards with a blade of energy. He smiled with grim satisfaction when he heard screams of pain on the other side as the metal fragments cut into their flesh. He followed this with another sweeping blade of energy from his scythe. This room was almost a mirror for the other one. He knew where he had to go.
"The enemy has breached our defenses!" someone screamed at the far end. "Keep them from the Mistress!"
Good luck with that, he thought.
And then he could have cursed his own sarcastic thoughts. Further into the chamber, another priestess summoned a demon. No mere Fallen or Khazra this time. It was a fire-breathing Ravager Lord. And it was about three times the size of his usual bone golems. It was guarding a much larger gate behind it.
This time, Pyresong had to let go of his skeletons to summon a golem; all but the two mages harassing the others. Only one of his golems would be able to stand up to that demon long enough to be of any use. He dodged and parried when it attacked with teeth, fire, and claws. Finally he was able to get around the beast while it wrestled with the golem. Jumping onto its back, he hooked his glowing scythe blade around its throat and pulled with all his might. The head rolled off to the side as he rolled backward off its scaly hide and back to his feet. He swung around to face the chamber beyond the gate.
The gate was open, and there was no magical barrier to stop him, either. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought flickered a warning at him. He silenced it along with everything else. His rage wouldn't allow him to stop now. Stalking into the room, he found the Countess standing calmly within an unholy seal painted on the floor in blood. She smiled wickedly as he crossed the threshold into the chamber, flaring her leathery wings. He stood calmly before her. With a flick of her power, she closed and magically sealed all the entrances into this chamber. He nearly laughed openly at that. He had no intention of leaving this place until she was dead. All she had done was seal herself in with her doom.
"And here you are..." she cooed a him. "Let us begin, then."
He stood motionless, waiting for her to make the first move. His bland expression showing just how not impressed he was.
"This place was to be my tomb. Let it be yours!" she hissed.
Still getting no reaction out of him, she growled angrily. As he had anticipated, she was far more accustomed to fear and groveling. Defiance and fearlessness made her feel disrespected and angry. She leapt into the air and disappeared completely. Another illusion. He closed his eyes and let his other senses take over. So many projections and illusions she had used thus far. He smiled grimly. She had no idea what she was dealing with.
He rolled to his left a heartbeat before she landed with a thud where he had just been standing. The flap of those leathery wings had given her away. She hissed at him angrily and stood to her full, demonic height of about ten feet. By this point, he had opened his eyes to watch for possible spells. As he had expected, she sent a swirling volley of blood bats in all directions. Again, she was trying to disorient him. The blood bats, were more than likely just another illusion. But he didn't dare take the chance of finding out the hard way if he was wrong. Besides, this anticipated chaos worked entirely in his favor.
He dodged and danced away from each dizzying display of blood bats moving around the room. He was listening more than watching her movements. He let his combat instincts fueled by his rage take over completely.
Then heard it coming up from behind him. Thatwas the real Countess.
She hadn't even tried to muffle the sound of her clawed feet on the floor. In addition to that, there was no mistaking the powerful, filthy feel of the shard she possessed. He pretended not to notice her approach, being too absorbed with the bats and the ten foot illusion. He wanted her within arm's reach. He was going to enjoy this. He wanted to feel her dying on his blade. When he felt she was close enough, he pretended to slip in some blood and fall to one knee. He had given her the perfect opening. She couldn't have resisted it.
Down on one knee, he dropped his shield. He gripped his scythe in both hands as he swung around and up with it. It glowed brightly, screaming through the air. The hooked end of the blade slid neatly up through her belly and behind the rib cage. With hardly any resistance, it tore into her soft tissues beneath. She was so completely shocked and in so much pain, she could not even react. Those wide, red eyes stared at him in disbelief. The ten foot illusion and all its spells vanished instantly. He brought the agonizingly hooked body closer to his snarling face. His eyes bored into her wide, shocked ones.
"For Alyssa and Lucian," he growled. "For Liene. For Hemlir. For all the people you made to suffer in your obsession and vanity."
Her mind finally processing what was happening, rage twisted her features into an ugly mask.
"I will not fade again!" she screamed.
One of her hands that had been slightly out of his field of vision suddenly came around violently, headed right for his face. Reflexively, he let go of the scythe with his left hand to block it. Even as he flinched back, he saw it out of the corner of his eye. She had tried to strike him directly with the shard. In his rage, he hadn't looked for it around her neck. Though he had known it was here, so very close, he had never expected her to use it directly as a weapon.
He just barely managed to intercept her punch with his gauntlet. Thwarted again, she screamed when the collision with the gauntlet jarred her delicate wrist so hard, the vile red shard slipped right through her numb fingers and flew away. Without it, she began to crumble to dust not making another sound. Even had she said something, he would not have heard.
Through the rage, he felt a brief sensation of something chillingly horrifying when the shard came into contact with his gauntlet. There was a flash of pain that left his hand tingling. For a few seconds, he was flooded with visions of what he could do with such power. He saw a crystal clear image of Kashya writhing and screaming in agony on the floor...by his hands. Punishing her for... He shuddered away from it, mentally fleeing. Then there were so many others enslaved by his power. They bowed before him. People no longer stared at him with loathing. Now they either worshiped or feared him. Either way, they obeyed his every dark desire.
He had become their god. Even in death, they could not escape his power.
Feeling sick, his mind reeling away from those images in horror, he reacted out of pure mindless instinct. He let go of the scythe handle in his right hand so he could use it. Some animal instinct drove him to tear off the left gauntlet that had been somehow infected by the shard's filthy, violent power. As he flung it off and away from himself, the horrific images began to abate instantly. Beside him, the scythe lay in a pile of dusty ashes; all that remained of the Countess of Blood.
What in the hells...
He tore off the left glove next and flung it away. Feeling as if that sickening power and visions had somehow infected his right glove, he clawed at it to get it away from him. His hands were shaking so violently he struggled with the gauntlet buckle and even used his teeth to get the glove off quicker.
Afterward, he stood there trembling. His heart still raced painfully in his chest. Trying to focus on his ragged breathing, all he could do was rub his eyes as if to unsee what the shard shown him. There was no doubt in his mind that it was just a vision. It wouldn't actually happen. He couldn't accept anything else. But it had been so...real. And his laughter...
"Oh gods," he groaned, struggling for sanity.
For a while, he was too horrified to even think clearly. He covered his face with his hands, trying to find his focus, find his calm center. The rage that had enjoyed those visions evaporated while he wrestled to force away those sickening sights and screams. For a few seconds, he thought he would vomit, unable to completely push them away. Part of him wanted to deny them entirely as impossible.
A darker part of him knew better. He could. And he likely would, if the shards ever...
Never, he snarled.
But you could, the shard whispered. Share in our power.
He slammed his mental doors, reinforced his shields, and ceased all thought. He forced himself to focus only on slowing his racing heart.
He had no idea how much time had passed, but he finally managed to master himself. With a shaky breath, he pulled his hands away from his face. Before him sat a pile of dust and his scythe. He picked up his scythe and kicked viciously at the dusty remains of the Countess to scatter the pile. A darker part of him felt like it was nowhere near enough punishment for that vile woman. Maybe later he could gather those ashes and scatter them all over Sanctuary.
The gauntlets and gloves he would never touch again. Slowly, he turned to take in the rest of the room. His shield was just beyond arm's reach where he had deliberately dropped it. Several feet beyond that, he spied the evil glowing shard. It pulsed with unholy power. For one terrified moment, he imagined it was his own heartbeat it pulsed with. He shuddered. Violently denying this connection, he stalked over to it. In a brief flash of anger, he wanted to stomp on it in the hopes it would shatter. But he knew better, it could never be that easy. Besides, he didn't want to come in contact with it again in any form. The idea of having to carry it back to Cain made him feel like vomiting all over again.
But there was no hope for it. Somehow he would have to get it out of here and back to Cain's workshop in Westmarch. He was already feeling drained and exhausted from the last several hours of fighting. The damned thing would just keep trying to get at him in his weakened state. If not him, it would call to others. He had to get it out of here somehow.
When he approached, he felt it pulling at him. It had seen a darker side of him the others had not. It had seen and connected with the tightly controlled rage. It had shown him where it could take him, if he just let it. Whatever rudimentary sentience it possessed, it knew how to manipulate him now. And it was far more powerful than the others. It wanted him to use it. It would teach him how to use it. So many souls he could enslave and torture with it. No more would he be the pawn of others and their designs. Let others be the pawns of prophecy. He enjoyed the rage, the power it gave him. And the shard promised to teach him how to use that rage to its full potential.
Shuddering physically as well as mentally, he clung to his training desperately. He retreated into the mental void he so often used for meditation. In that empty silence, no thoughts or feelings existed without his allowing them. And he would not let them now. Cold and serene as an icy pond, he fetched out the glass jar that had once housed the ember of hell from his backpack. He used it to scoop up the shard up off the floor. It pulsed violently one last time in rebellion as he did so, blasting him with images and thoughts he refused to acknowledge or see. Then he sealed the jar and threw it into his magical backpack.
Almost instantly, the battering and pulling stopped. He couldn't hear it or feel it at all anymore. Whatever magical properties the bag possessed, seem to shield its contents from the outside. He was flooded with relief so powerful he almost felt dizzy. He realized he would not have to battle the shard or anything it called to it all the way back to Westmarch. It would remain safe in his bag for now.
It was over.
But not quite. He still hadn't found Kashya and the others. There were no more sounds of battle. He had no idea if the Bloodsworn had sensed the Countess' destruction, or if they had even perished with her, like some vampires clans. Leaving behind the tainted gauntlets and gloves, he gazed around the room. The gates were all open and unsealed now. There was one that seemed to go to a chamber he'd not yet been through.
He had no idea how big this place actually was. There could be dozens of chambers and corridors still intact and hiding even nastier surprises than what he had seen thus far. Still, a part of him desperately wanted to find Kashya and the other Rogues. Since he was already near this one, he might as well at least check.
The darkness beyond that arched entrance was absolute. He let a trickle of power make his scythe blade glow softly as he held it above his head. There, in the far corner, he found a pile of bodies. Rogues, every one of them. For a moment he was frozen in the grip of grief. There was no more rage left to fight it. Slowly he approached. In the gloom and shadows with the quivering light of his scythe, he thought he caught the telltale sign of Kashya's vibrant red hair. His hand gripping the scythe shook until the light coming off of it cast wavering shadows that were downright disorienting. But he couldn't stop it.
Something in him hurt acutely. His legs were already trembling when he fell to his knees beside her. In his exhausted state, he couldn't even really process what was going on inside of himself. His heart ached in a way that made him almost wish he hadn't survived. Struggling to breathe through the clutching pain in his chest, he reached out to caress her hair away from her face. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to see her beautiful face one last time.
He froze before his trembling hand could even touch her. Had her eyelids just fluttered? He watched for a few heartbeats, not even daring to breathe.
She's alive!
Almost overwhelmed with shock and relief, he placed his bare hand on her chest. Yes, he could just make out a very slow heartbeat. He couldn't find any obvious wounds or indications of poison. He shook her roughly a couple of times trying to wake her. There was nothing.
Magical sleep?
Quickly he moved to the others. They, too, were all so deeply asleep they appeared dead at first. For several minutes, he tried to shake them awake. None of them would stir.
Akara will know what to do, he thought.
But he couldn't leave them like this. He had no idea what else might still be roaming around. If anything found them in this state, they'd be helpless. Even if he left a skeleton or a golem to guard them, he could only move so far away before it would crumble to dust. He clenched his fists in frustration. There was nothing for it. He had to get them help. He was torn with indecision. He couldn't summon enough golems to carry them all out.
Or could he?
He paused, thinking furiously. Over the years he had pushed the unconfirmed limits of his capabilities further and further. Earlier today he'd summoned a mass of bone spirit that had been empowered by the restless spirits around him wanting justice. He'd never done that before. He didn't even know he could make bone spirits like that. He was beyond most Master Necromancers; but that was more a matter of skill then strength. Could he do it?
He was exhausted. He'd already pushed himself beyond his known limits today...tonight? But, maybe, he could do it one more time. He quickly hooked his shield on his back and took a deep breath to center himself and focus. Putting all else aside, he focused his mind on bone golems. Each golem hefted one woman over each shoulder. Eight golems altogether were needed. The effort of keeping them summoned and even just walking was almost too much.
He was shaking, sweating, gasping for air, and staggering by the time he followed them up the stairs to the courtyard. Had any more Khazra or Bloodsworn come out to challenge him, he would be dead now. He didn't care. His only concern was getting the Rogues out of this awful place and into Akara's capable hands.
Just beyond the stairs that lead to the Forgotten Tower's courtyard, he heard raised voices shouting. He was too far gone by this point. He couldn't even understand what they were saying. His mind was completely consumed with keeping the golems summoned and moving. Only the tiniest part of him was even aware of his own body anymore. He caught sight of a lilac robe somewhere in the crowd of women and golems.
"Akara," he thought he called, but it was really only a whisper.
He felt the golems crumbling to dust as the darkness took him. He never even felt his body hit the ground.
***
Whispers of sound and light washed over Pyresong from somewhere far, far away. He struggled toward the sound in the endless darkness, but could never seem to grasp it. Flickers of what he thought was sunlight beyond his closed eyelids flashed in and out of his consciousness. Ever so slowly, he began to gain awareness of his body. He was lying on something hard. His back ached slightly, like he'd been in one position for too long. He heard someone groaning, and then felt a rising sensation.
Black waves of unconsciousness swept him away again.
The next time he heard the voices, they sounded clearer. There was a pink quality to the light now that was much more faint. But his mind still could not form a thought he could hold on to. The voices were just meaningless noise. Again, he struggled up through the darkness. Again, he was met with the sensations of lying on a hard surface. This time, the ache was in his legs, but he couldn't find them to make them move. Again, he heard someone groaning incoherently nearby. Something warm pressed comfortingly on his forehead. A soothing voice faded away as the darkness crept over him without him even realizing it.
The third time he began to rise up out of the abyss, there was no sound. His first impression was alone. He was all alone in the abyss. His own private hell where he would drift for eternity. It was familiar to him. He had been here before. That thought terrified him. Yet it somehow felt right to him, too; as if he belonged here. And it was all so hauntingly familiar.
This time, the agonized groaning of someone suffering was much closer. A voice drifted through the darkness. A woman's voice. Flashes of something about a woman with red hair and the impression he was no longer alone. The groaning again.
Is that me? His first cohesive thought.
That set off a chain reaction of thoughts. An explosion of memories. Now he fought the darkness in earnest. Somewhere not too far away, he could feel his sluggish heartbeat, sense his shallow breathing. His body. But it was just so heavy. Yes, aching pain in his left hip! This time, he knew he was the one groaning, struggling to form words with a body that would not obey his commands.
"...shya..."
More voices besides his. A warm hand placed comfortingly on his forehead. He felt the caressing strokes as they brushed back his hair. He stopped trying to make his body comply as he struggled to listen.
"You're all right."
"Be still."
"You need rest."
There was an agonizing explosion of light when he found his eyes. His head felt like it was erupting behind his eyes. He clamped his teeth on a cry of pain. Against his wishes, another moan escaped his lips. He blinked several times before just squinting his eyes to let the smallest amount of light through, while still being able to try to focus on his surroundings. He felt hands lifting his shoulders, and something warm and firm was placed behind his back to keep him upright. The warmth was soothing. It felt safe, somehow.
"Not too fast, now," he heard a female voice.
For a while, he couldn't find the strength to hold his head up. But the flaring pain in his head and neck helped bring his thoughts into focus.
"Welcome back," came a gentle whisper in his ear.
Kashya, he was able to identify, not realizing he'd said it aloud.
"Oh, so you remember me, then?" she teased playfully.
Stifling another groan, he finally remembered how to hold his head up. He blinked several times again as a purple blotch in front of him started to come into focus.
"Aaahkara," he said slowly, slurring without realizing.
In the almost painfully bright tent, he struggled to answer his own question of where. For a moment, he couldn't recall anything. By Rathma, his head! He almost prayed for death just to make the pain stop.
"What's wrong?" Kashya asked.
"Are you hurting?" Akara asked.
His tongue felt thick and dry as he tried to tell them. But it was too much effort. He let his head fall back down until his chin touched his chest. He had yet to figure out how to move his arms. The voices spoke above him, and over him, but he tuned them out. He vaguely felt Akara's gentle touch on his forehead and the tingle of magical delving. He had the overall sensation that he was safe, that was enough for the moment. Now he just wanted to retreat back into darkness where his head didn't hurt.
A few seconds later, he groaned again and tried to turn away when someone lifted his head up by his chin.
Why won't they just let me go?
Again he hadn't realized he had been speaking out loud. It was just too much effort anymore to even try to think.
"Because you're a stubborn fool. We're trying to help you," Kashya again whispered with amusement in his ear, using her warm hands to hold his head in place.
He felt something shoved between his teeth and a sour-tasting liquid hit his tongue. Reflexively he swallowed the three or four mouthfuls.
"There, that should do it," he heard Akara say.
Do what?
For some time, all he knew was the pounding in his head and Kashya's gentle hands caressing his forehead and temples. He soaked in her warmth. It was comforting and safe in a way he couldn't even think about right now. He started to drift off again before he felt a bit of a jolt. There was a literal sensation of falling, that made him flinch his whole body.
"Don't fight it," Akara instructed gently. "Just focus on your breathing, it will pass."
In an instant, it seemed the whole world was spinning around him inside his head. Whatever she had given him had scrambled his brains. Flashes of memories from his childhood morphed into his battle with the Blood Rose which were swept away by... No, he wouldn't go there. He did not want to revisit that Darkness, ever. Instead, he reflexively sought out light.
He forced his eyes open. It was still too bright, but at least now he didn't feel like he was about to vomit. For that matter, he finally remembered how to move his arms and legs. He was finally aware of holding his head up on his own, and the pain had receded considerably. Akara smiled gently where she knelt beside him.
"Better?" she asked.
He nodded carefully, the pain receding rapidly. "Much. Thank you."
Now his eyes roamed around the tent and understood where he was. The light of several lanterns and candles was still almost too much for him. But he realized they were in the battle camp. This was the healing tent. Swiftly the memories came flooding back.
"The others. The ones I brought out..." he started, concern lacing his voice.
"They all survived. You got them out in time for me to lift the sleeping curse before it became irreversible," Akara told him soothingly. "Rest easy. You saved them."
"And the rest of Dark Wood, too," Kashya added.
"He did, indeed. But there will be more time for talk later. Right now, you haven't eaten in at least a few days. It's time we filled your belly. You will need your strength. I will return with food shortly."
Suddenly he became acutely aware that his shoulders were resting on Kashya's warm chest. He could feel her breasts swelling and falling with each breath. He shifted his arms under him to slide forward a little further in hopes of relieving the weight on her. Kashya, sensing this, slid her arms under his and pulled him closer. She locked her arms firmly around his chest.
"That can't be comfortable for you," he said.
"Oh no, we're fine right here."
He laughed softly. "As you wish."
Silence descended as they let the moment happen. It would never go beyond this, they both knew. But life was so short and so precious that neither of them would deny themselves this one moment of mutual comfort. He became so comfortable in her warm embrace, he almost began to doze off. Akara reappeared at the tent entrance and made her way back to him. She knelt briefly to hand him the bowl of stew.
"Have you got it, or would you like me to feed you like the invalid you are?" Kashya taunted.
Akara and Pyresong both chuckled as he took the bowl with hands that shook only slightly.
"Oh, no, I've quite learned how to feed myself. I might even learn to buckle on my own armor one day," he shot back.
Akara chuckled again. She patted his leg and then made herself absent. Again a comfortable silence descended while he made his way slowly through the bowl of stew. The first few spoonfuls had been difficult, not because of any coordination or muscle weakness issues, thankfully. Initially, he felt as if he had no appetite. But, Kashya's gentle pleas were more effective than she would ever know. At the moment, he could deny her nothing. About halfway through, he realized he was actually hungry and finished the entire bowl. Kashya set it aside for him.
Wrapping her arms around his chest again, she hugged him and rested her chin on his shoulder. He sank into her embrace, relishing her warmth. After a while, he began to get drowsy again. Sensing this, Kashya pulled back a bit.
"Akara thinks you might need a couple more days of rest," she warned him.
He wanted her to stay there just a moment longer. Her warmth was soothing and comforting in a way he couldn't describe. He could not recall right now having ever felt anything even remotely similar. But he knew it would do neither of them any good to encourage this further. Instead of pushing her away, his mind coughed up an excuse to keep her there just a little longer.
"I don't remember much of anything after I found you and the others in the tower," he confessed. "What did I miss?"
"Akara says you overtaxed yourself. You put a strain on your own resources that your body... It wasn't able to cope with it all. She suspects it was the golems."
A clear question rang in that statement. He nodded, struggling to remember the blurry details.
"She's not wrong. It was a strain to have so many at once. I wasn't sure I could even do it."
For a few seconds, Kashya was quiet. Then there was a soft laugh from her that felt like it echoed inside his own chest.
"That's twice now I've misjudged an outlander. I suppose I need to work on that."
He laughed along with her. "I would offer to help with that, but I need to get the shard back to Cain. He should have found a way to destroy the shards by now."
Kashya sighed and let her forehead rest on his shoulder. The tingle of her warm skin against that sensitive spot between the shoulder and neck gave him shivers of pleasure he struggled to suppress. He could feel her sadness and reluctance to let go. He very much shared it in that moment. But she was a strong, intelligent woman. He trusted her.
As he had expected, a few seconds later, she breathed deeply and resolutely, taking in the scent of his clean hair and the part of him that was uniquely him. Then she slid out from behind him. He was happy to note he could easily hold himself up, though he was growing more sleepy by the second. She knelt beside him, her green eyes dancing with a mischievous light.
"Maybe you can find your way back here some day, and I can give you a real tour of Dark Wood. Unfortunately, this time it lived up to its name."
He could feel her letting go, detaching herself from him emotionally now that the physical connection was severed. She wasn't the only one. He still had no idea what he really felt for her, but there was definitely something warm and safe. He couldn't help himself. He reached up to caress her face one last time; just a few more seconds of her warmth.
What started as a simple caress surprised even him. He found himself leaning toward her before he even realized what he was doing. For a while, time and the rest of the world ceased to exist for both of them. When she finally pulled back to end the kiss breathlessly, he knew that was the end of it; for both of them. He sighed in contentment as he lay back down to rest.
He never knew of the tears Kashya shed later when she was alone in the forest.
***
The next morning, Pyresong was pleased to find he was able to wake on his own before sunrise as was his usual habit. He felt mostly recovered, just a bit of lingering weakness he chalked up to being lethargic after being inactive for so long. He didn't care. He was getting that damned shard back to the safety of Cain's workshop as soon as he could manage it. He dressed and exited the tent, intending to get his own breakfast this morning, despite his shaky legs.
The sun was barely breaking the horizon and the camp was already bustling with activity. Several of the Sisters were breaking it down since they intended to move back into more permanent quarters in the Eastgate Monastery. Others were coming and going as Kashya gave orders to finish ridding the Dark Wood of the evil creatures that had inhabited it of late. Akara herself was directing other preparations. For a moment, he seemed at a loss and rather useless.
When he made his way to the cooking pot and a steaming bowl of porridge, it occurred to him that is was actually morning. Ridding them of the Countess had brought back the magic of daylight. The miasma was gone, and he could practically feel the land around them coming back to life. As he crossed the camp, he was greeted with waves, smiles, handshakes, and many, many thanks. His still foggy mind was amused by this, wondering if this is what normal people felt like in society; but there was no bitterness behind it. He'd long ago accepted what his life would be like as a Priest of Rathma.
A short while later, having finished his breakfast, he returned the empty bowl and headed back to the main fire where he found Akara reading peacefully once more. She didn't even look up from her book as he approached.
"You'll be leaving shortly," she told him.
He smiled. "And not without reluctance, I assure you."
She rose to her feet eyeing him closely. Seeming satisfied with what she saw, she nodded. He nearly grinned. It was not the first time a healer had doubted his ability to recover so quickly. And he was more than willing to admit he wasn't entirely recovered. But his desire to get the shard safely to Cain overrode even that tugging tiredness and weakness right now. He would not risk it claiming more victims, even at the cost of his own life.
"Kashya has something for you. She wished to speak with you before you leave." Akara told him, pulling an amulet out of one of her many pockets. "Here, please return this to Charsi and let her know, we miss her. She's welcome to use it to come home any time."
"She misses all of you very much," he assured her. Then he sighed, "But, she's also very busy. Maybe Cain can convince her to take some time away from her shop."
Akara smiled warmly. "We would welcome that."
He tucked the amulet safely away in a vest pocket.
"I will open the portal to Westmarch when you are ready. I believe Kashya was working with Flavie by the south gate."
"Thank you, I will go to her now."
By this point, he knew all of his possessions, including his weapon, shield, and armor were tucked away neatly in the tiny backpack. He left it by the fire near Akara until he returned. Just as the priestess had told him, he found Kashya just outside the gates.
"Oh! And don't forget to—"
"I know!" Flavie snapped. Then her eyes darted to him as he approached.
Wondering what had drawn Flavie's attention away, Kashya turned to see him. Flavie quickly took advantage of the moment to slip away. Catching sight of him, the Commander beamed a smile. He almost couldn't believe the contrast between this and the hostile woman he had met only days ago in Blackstone.
"Up and about already?"
"Yes, Akara said you wanted to see me."
"I do. Let's walk back into the camp. I've got something for you."
"Oh?"
Casually, they walked side by side at a leisurely pace. "Isolde mentioned she couldn't find your gauntlets after you fell unconscious. We seem to have found everything else, and Akara wouldn't let anyone near your backpack. Still, she assured us they were not in there."
She paused to glance at him curiously. He stifled the gut-twisting memories that rose to the surface at her words and just nodded in confirmation. Seeing she wasn't going to get more out of him, she grinned and continued.
"While you were napping, I found a replacement for you. I believe they should fit well enough, and Charsi can modify them if you need."
"Thank you. I will use them well."
"You better. They're made by the best blacksmith the Dark Wood has ever known. Charsi originally made them several years ago for someone else who never came back to collect," she explained. "They've been around quite a bit, but there's something...off about them. No one really wants to use them for very long."
"Oh?"
"I think you'll understand when see them," she told him with a grin.
Close to the main fire where Akara sat with her book, patiently waiting for him, Kashya disappeared into a tent for a few seconds. When she came out again, she had the gauntlets in her hands. They looked as new as the day they were made, and perfectly ordinary. It didn't look as if they'd been used much at all. Kashya's smirk had a mischievous glint as she handed them over. The moment he touched them, though, he understood. These had been made for a necromancer. He could feel it in their power. They were attuned to a Priest of Rathma's specific needs toward bone-based spells. They would significantly increase the power and duration of anything from a bone spear to his bone golem, and even the bone armor and bone walls he almost never used. He flipped them over to look on the underside of the hand. As he had expected he found the sigils, but there was also a decorative skull etched into the metal. He wondered if they had been intended for Master Xul. He would have to ask Charsi sometime.
"Very nice," he said. "Thank you."
"Well, I know you're itching to get out of here, so I won't hold you up. Please, though, give Cain and Charsi our love. I miss her dearly."
"I will, I promise."
With one last clasp of hands, they parted ways. Akara waited for him to stow his new gauntlets and then motioned to the waypoint platform nearby. The portal opened, and he gave the priestess one last bow of thanks; priest to high priestess, earning him a dry chuckle, as he had hoped. Though he meant it entirely seriously, he already knew Akara had no need of such formalities or obeisance.
He did wish that he could return one day, but something inside him said it would never happen.
Chapter 6: 05 Westmarch / Wortham
Chapter Text
Westmarch / Wortham
When Pyresong stepped through the portal and onto the waypoint to the south of Westmarch, he smelled the salty sea air and underlying stench of a city. He was pleased to see that there wasn't a queue of refugees or a guard lieutenant questioning everyone on their way in. Casually strolling and blending in with the few but increasing number of people wandering the city, he headed right for Rakkis Plaza and Charsi's shop. As expected, she was already in full swing for the day. She moved from one project to another, always juggling more things at once than he imagined anyone else could. For a few seconds, he just watched her in action.
Yet, he was also hurrying to get back to Cain with the good news and find out what Cain had learned. As he stepped up to her forge, Charsi glanced up at him. She smiled and beamed widely at him. She immediately threw the metal rod back into the coals and came around to greet him. For one moment, he thought she would go all out and embrace him right there in the plaza. To his relief, she grabbed his hand and arm enthusiastically...maybe a little too enthusiastically, as he winced. She had a very strong grip indeed.
"Welcome back! Did everything go all right?"
Then he understood the tightness of her grip. Though she tried so very hard to hide it behind her typical, enthusiastic smile, the worry in her eyes couldn't be mistaken for anything else. He patted her hands with his free one.
"Yes, and I will tell you all about it, soon," he assured gently. "I just came to return your amulet."
He fished it from his pocket, and she took it back reverently.
"Kashya, Akara, and the other Sisters wanted you to know how much they miss you. They wish you would come to see them sometime."
Charsi's smile wavered briefly, and tears formed in her eyes. "They're okay."
"Yes," he assured as she rubbed at her eyes.
"Thank you," she gushed. Then she shook it off and looked regretfully back to her ongoing projects. "I need to get back to work."
"We will talk when there's time," he promised.
She nodded and went right back to work. He quickly turned his steps north toward Central Square and the peaceful safety of Cain's workshop. Feeling the physical strain creeping in, he sighed mentally. He knew he wasn't entirely recovered. But the idea of keeping that shard in the Dark Wood any longer than necessary seemed bad. With any luck, he would have a few days to rest and recover here. The idea of a hot cup of Cain's delightfully strong tea had him at least somewhat more motivated. He quickened his steps as he walked through Central Square and around the corner. When he arrived at the door, he raised his hand to knock. Then he remembered Cain's previous words and let himself in. He found Cain resting comfortably in his rocking chair with a cup of tea.
Is it too early? he wondered, trying to figure out if Cain was still in a grumpy old man mindset as was his habit of the morning.
"You're back!" Cain called happily, leaping out of his chair. "Come! Come and get some tea. The two of us have much to discuss, I'm certain!"
"Indeed, Cain," he replied with some relief. He set his backpack beside his chair. "Once again, you were right. The shard was already in the hands of evil when I arrived."
"And you recovered it? I don't feel it," the old man said, frowning.
"I did," he reassured, gratefully accepting the offered tea. Then he heaved a sigh, thinking of all that had happened. "Many laid down their lives to aid us in reclaiming it."
Cain reached across the space and patted him comfortingly on the arm. "I want to hear it all, but only when you're ready. Understand?"
Again, he marveled at the man's insight. With just a few words, he had seen through to the weight on Pyresong's heart and soul and eased it, somehow. He had absolutely no doubts the old man really did want every detail. And he was somewhat surprised to note that he did want to tell it all to his elderly scholar. The two sat in companionable silence for a while, each wrapped up in their thoughts. Then, Cain seemed to come back to the present.
"You're tired," Cain commented.
He waved it off. "It took me a few days to recover, but I'll be fine."
"My friend, your room is ready for you if you need more rest. I just want to get the shard safely away first."
"As to that, you may be pleasantly surprised. You said you don't sense it, correct?"
"Yes," Cain admitted curiously. "Not a thing."
Despite being so tired, he couldn't help a mischievous spark. He grinned and lifted his pack.
"And neither do I. Priestess Akara and Commander Kashya send their love. They wish you to come visit sometime."
Cain was fidgeting now as he seemed ready to burst with questions. His wickedly mischievous streak came up with a dozen ideas to toy with the old scholar and his growing impatience, but he just couldn't torment the man any longer with a straight face. He grinned and tossed the unbelievably light backpack across the small space between them. It dropped neatly into Cain's lap.
"Weighs practically nothing, does it?"
The scholar frowned, turning the bag this way and that. Pyresong was enjoying this almost more than he liked to admit. He almost wanted to taunt Cain about his amazing abilities at determining magical properties. After letting the silence stretch on for a bit more, he couldn't help the mischievous smile that tugged at his lips.
"There is something about it..." Cain mused, not able to determine much from the outside.
"Akara told me about a Horadric tome you once gave her. I believe it weighed over ten pounds and was as wide across as my chest and bound with wooden covers."
He frowned slightly, trying to remember, then his eyes lit up. "Oh, yes, the bestiary!"
"Well, it's inside that backpack right now."
The old scholar's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "A bag of expansion!" he exclaimed. "They are wondrous things. Can carry hundreds of pounds and you won't feel a thing!"
"Ah, you're familiar with them. Good, then you should be able to retrieve the tome yourself." he waved permission. "Be careful, though. The shard is in there as well, sealed in a glass jar that once held an ember of hell."
Cain's bushy, white eyebrows shot up toward his nonexistent hairline. That thought nearly made Pyresong snicker. He stifled it quickly.
"So much to tell," Cain muttered.
As expected, the bag produced the tome easily. He was relieved to note again that he felt nothing from the shard while the bag was open. Very likely, it would have to be in Cain's hand actually being withdrawn before he would feel it. Still, he was in no hurry to find out at the moment, either. He was too tired and knew he was far too vulnerable at the moment.
"Akara said she never could get used to the Horadric magic. She wished to pass it on to me. But I feel it would be better kept in your collection, once more."
"Can't say I'm unhappy to have it back, given all the strange goings on of late. It might come in handy," Cain agreed. "When the demons overrode the monastery, Akara was unable to identify any of them at the time. Now, I hope, they have no further need of it."
"Another property I discovered was that while the shard is inside the backpack, I cannot feel it...reaching out to me."
He mentally recovered quickly from the stumble, and yet it still felt off to him to even try to cover up what had run through his mind. Cain deserved to know, but he was just too tired to try to think his way through it all for the man right now.
Cain grunted as he tried to lay the enormous book carefully on the floor, only for it to land with a loud thud anyway. But that was forgotten when he turned those penetrating eyes on his friend in the other chair. Pyresong knew he had stumbled, uncertain what to say about his most recent encounter with the shard. He had not intended to be anything other than completely honest. Yet, he hadn't really had time to work his way through all of that with meditation or anything else. And, he had to admit, there was a part of him that was at least somewhat ashamed of what had transpired. He knew, without a doubt, the shard had not only sensed his rage but had fed on it. The questing look Cain gave him told him he had not entirely covered his little verbal stumble. He had no doubts the elderly scholar had seen right through him, regardless. He sighed mentally and wrestled all of that back down for now. He would tell his friend, just not right now. Cain seemed to sense his reluctance to speak and let it go for now.
"That is an interesting property I was not aware of," Cain mused neutrally after a few seconds. "And it might come in useful again."
Exhausted and relieved, Pyresong just nodded and turned his attention back to the soothing sound of the fire and the calming comfort of the tea. He let his mind wander for the time being, tiredly trying to get away from those threatening shadows crawling around his mind. They sat in comfortable silence again for a few minutes before Cain heaved a sigh.
"Nevertheless, it's time to move the shard to the safe, for now. If you're ready?" Cain asked.
Pyresong frowned, hesitating. Cain was clearly watching him, as if having seen something. Very likely he'd seen a lot more in that hesitation. At the moment, he didn't even want to be present when the shard was able to reach him. He'd grown more wary and stronger against their attacks, but... The images the shard had given him of what he could do with its power flitted through his head. Apparently, something of this must have come through on his face.
"What is it, my friend?" Cain asked softly.
He wasn't considering how much to say so much as how to say it. Cain read the hesitation in his eyes. A part of him knew that being this tired and vulnerable had him more wary than he probably needed to be, yet he was also afraid. And he knew a part of him was just trying to avoid it altogether, for now, hoping he could at least have some time to reorder his thoughts and not sound like he was overreacting to the whole thing. Or worse, making his new friend think he was some kind of liability here.
"Something happened with the shard?" Cain prodded softly.
He nodded slowly, staring off into the fire. Trying to block out the visions had done no good. It had shaken him to his core. He wasn't afraid to admit that. Illusion though it had been, it had still dug deep, right down into the darkest parts of his soul. It had dug into things he acknowledged existed within himself: his own frustration, anger, rage, fear, hate, and so much more. Everyone possessed them, he knew. And he'd never had a problem denying those darker tendencies within himself.
He growled at himself mentally, disgusted with his own fears of what Cain might think of him. If Cain wanted to end their partnership over it, so be it. He scrubbed his face with his hands tiredly and pulled himself together. He knew the images would be with him for the rest of his life; there was nothing he could do about it. However, they haunted him acutely right now. Cain waited patiently for him to find the words.
"It wasn't...like the others," he finally started hesitantly. "It didn't just...call to me, I guess is the word. It didn't try to just entice me, as the others had," he sighed and let his head rest against the back of the chair, staring blindly at the ceiling. "I know what it did. And I don't like it. It...dug more deeply than the others, I suppose. And it found something."
He took a deep breath and ran a hand down his face once more. "I'm sorry, this is probably not making any sense to you."
"Nothing to apologize for, my friend. Take your time."
He stared into the dancing fire for a while, letting it and its sound soothe him as it once had when he was a child. Finally, he found a starting place for this that would not take hours of explaining. Despite being far too tired for this, he needed Cain to understand and be wary. He didn't want to believe those vile shards ever could... But, what if...
"I made some...friends, I suppose, in the Sisters of the Sightless Eye. I had developed...deeper feelings for one woman. But that was absolutely not the time or place for such things, and neither of us could afford such a distraction. The Countess..."
Cain's eyebrows shot up again at the mention of the Countess. He knew that one. But he kept his mouth tightly shut. He had some idea that this retelling was far more painful and frightening than the priest was even willing to admit to himself. He didn't dare interrupt.
"At the end, the Countess used the shard as a weapon...physically. When she swung it at me in her fist, I blocked it with my gauntlet, but...something came through. The shock of it knocked the shard out of her hand, at least. Without its power to sustain her, and with my blade buried in her chest, she crumbled to dust. Part of me even wonders if that was an attempt by the shard to find a new...wielder."
His voice trailed off for a few seconds. Then he shook himself and locked his gaze on Cain's expectant ones. If the elderly scholar was going to continue working with him, he had the right to know. If nothing else, he needed to warn the old man to be wary around him and the shards.
"It didn't just try to call to me. It showed me what I'm capable of." His gaze almost challenged Cain to disagree. "It showed me what I could do with its power."
"How so?" Cain asked, forcing his voice to be mild.
His eyes roamed back to the fire. "I was torturing...her...as if to punish her for what I was...trying to deny. Using my skills as a Priest of Rathma, I was torturing her living body and soul. And there were others, even worse perversions... The rage... I don't deny its existence, but... It showed me what I could do with the power of those souls. It found something in me it thought it could use. Things I..."
He let his words trail off. There was so much more than even what he was telling Cain. Things he couldn't bring himself to speak into existence. He shuddered, recalling the vivid images. For a few seconds, he struggled to just focus on the warm comfort of the fire and push it all away again. Cain's touch on his arm startled him out of those images. The old scholar reached across the empty space and grabbed his arm once more, firmly, this time, to get his attention. Pyresong's eyes met his uncertainly, and Cain shook his head.
"Keep those...illusions. They will fade in time. But always keep that horror fresh in your mind and heart. As long as it is a horror to you, it will not happen. I know you can't forget something like that, so use it. The very fact that you are so...shaken by this is exactly why."
He frowned as he turned this over in his mind. Eventually, he nodded slowly, seeming still dubious. Maybe he was just too tired to make sense of it all.
Letting go of his arm, Cain said, "You will see, I am right. The shard itself is a perversion. And being wielded by an entity equally as perverted and corrupt as the shard..." Cain shook his head. "It likely lashed out at you, obeying her will in the fight against you. It was trying to throw you off or distract you so it could obey her will to give her the power to survive. Let it go, my friend. Don't let it torment you further."
He sighed tiredly as he let his head rest on the back of the rocking chair. He just wished he could believe what Cain was saying. But his fight against the resurrected Blood Rose, his battles through the Forgotten Tower, the raw rage when he killed the Countess... Was it possible...
"You're tired, friend," Cain repeated. "And still recovering, by the looks of it. Go upstairs, get some sleep. I will move the shard when you're ready or when you're not present so it cannot reach you again."
He smiled warmly thanking him for his understanding. "Thank you, my friend."
Pyresong was surprised that he was able to drift off to sleep as easily as he did in broad daylight. But, as his walk across the city had reminded him that morning, he was still not recovered, though he'd decided to get back to Westmarch anyway. Cain let him sleep through the day but did wake him for supper that evening. He was relieved to learn Cain had already moved the shard to the new safe. He didn't recall feeling anything reaching out to or attempting to assault him in his dreams. He knew full well the nightmares he had were his own, clearly influenced by what he had most recently been through.
As he shook off the lethargy of too much sleep, he stretched and considered some meditation later. The gods knew he needed it. But was he even really ready to deal with such things? No, putting it off wouldn't do him any good. And Cain wanted—needed—to hear the whole story. In the meantime...
Food, first, he reminded himself.
Right now, his focus was food; everything else could wait a bit longer. His belly growled appreciatively when he came down the stairs and caught a whiff of the delicious scents wafting up from the table. He forced the thoughts racing around his head to the back of his mind and put on a warm smile of appreciation for Cain's benefit. The old man seemed livelier than usual as he plated up some food for his new roommate.
"Charsi came by earlier. I told her you were still recovering for at least tonight," Cain explained as they sat down. "She wanted to hear more about her Sisters. For that matter, how is Akara? I know you mentioned the Countess, and I certainly hoped the Sisters of the Sightless Eye weren't tangled up in all that."
He kept his expression neutral. The story would come out later. "I will tell you the whole thing tomorrow. It's too much for tonight."
He almost felt bad being too tired to really focus well. Cain was chattering away, almost giddy about the upcoming destruction of the shards. He went on to describe how he'd finally come across a spell that hasn't failed to destroy anything it was ever used on. And he confirmed with several cross-references of the spell's use in various other tomes and scrolls. Pyresong again marveled at the collection within these walls. A lifetime's work didn't begin to describe it. And he most definitely had an interest in further perusing it one day. Despite the massive change in his chosen life, some twelve years ago, he had never lost his love of books and reading. While he was staying with Cain, it was a perfect opportunity to indulge in that love. Cain went on to describe the mechanics of the spell and some of the tomes where he'd found reference to it. Much of it was beyond Pyresong's basic grasp of magic, but he was still very much interested in learning more.
Without a doubt, he was just as eager to see the shards destroyed. But, at the moment, he found he couldn't focus. His tired mind kept wandering away to some recent events and a certain set of green eyes. He sincerely hoped they were doing well and recovering. Briefly, he felt some guilt about not staying to help them finish clearing the Dark Wood. But Hemlir had said the Tree of Inifuss would help them continue the cleansing. Maybe he could go back, and—
He came back to the present to find Cain chuckling and realized he'd missed something.
"I'm sorry—" he started, feeling his cheeks redden.
Cain cut him off. "Nothing to be sorry for. I'm the one talking your ears off tonight. And, I can see you're in no condition. You still look exhausted. Maybe tomorrow, but you've still got shadows under your eyes and look like you shouldn't even be out of bed."
"Akara said it would likely be a couple more days," he sighed, pushing his mostly finished plate away. "I...overtaxed my abilities, and it took what it needed from my body. Nevertheless, I had no desire to keep that shard anywhere near the Dark Wood with the lingering corruption. The Tree of Inifuss..." He frowned for a moment, recalling Hemlir's jovial smile and how much he would miss him. Then he shook it off. "Inifuss will help them finish cleansing the Dark Wood."
"You sound more like you're trying to convince yourself than me," Cain observed with a grin. "It wouldn't have anything to do with a certain lady friend, now would it?"
He laughed heartily. He knew Cain was teasing and testing.
"Maybe a little," he admitted, still grinning. "Are all old men as nosy, or is this just part of your Horadric training?"
Cain laughed as well. "Truth be told, I think men in general are more gossip mongers than women. Go and get some rest, my friend. I will likely need your help tomorrow destroying the shards, if you're up for it."
He rose to help clear the table and Cain waved him off. He had to admit, even if he didn't need more sleep, meditation would be massively beneficial. And so would...
As the thought occurred to him, he turned back from the stairs. It was something he hadn't even considered in far too long. Yet, at the moment, he was just too tired mentally and physically to stifle the need as he normally would. And, right now in this safe place, he was literally in the perfect position to make use of that particular outlet.
Hesitantly, and more than a little uncertain in this decision, he asked, "Cain, would it bother you if I indulged in a...hobby of mine? Occasionally, I play a flute. Would it...disturb you?"
The elderly scholar smiled. "I don't know. Are you any good at it?"
"I don't think so," he shot back with a grin. "But it's not like I've ever played in a tavern before."
The old man waved him off. "It won't bother me. I hope it helps. Indulge away."
He shook his head at himself this time. He felt that he should not be surprised anymore at Cain's ability to read people; especially him. Despite being an entirely new experience, there was something almost painfully familiar about him, too, that he could not place. Of course, he was far too tired to even try to figure it out right now.
Like all other Priests of Rathma, he had worked most of his life to cover the outward expressions of emotions. He'd also struggled for longer than most apprentices with the emotions that come with the tasks necromancers are obligated to perform anywhere they go. When he closed the bedroom door behind himself, his tired mind just couldn't help wondering what it was Cain was referring to with that last comment. The teasing about finding love in the wrong place and wrong time, or the...other things.
Heaving a deep mental sigh, Pyresong shoved it all aside. He had found many ways to cope with the things he didn't want to deal with, And, ultimately, meditation had been by far the most effective for him. He had been assured even as a child that every Priest of Rathma went through something similar in their training. The good ones found a way to deal with it. The bad ones didn't usually live long enough for it to get out of hand. To this very day, over twenty-five years later, a tiny part of him was still very slightly irked that he had never had a choice. His life had been determined by his abilities when he was born.
Very early in his training, he had come across a lad, an orphan, not much older than himself. The boy hung around the tiny healing monastery where they were staying at the time. The boy did odd jobs to earn coin. He had played the flute in the courtyard from time to time. Sometimes he even played for his dinner in a nearby village. When he had free time, Pyresong had taken lessons from the boy with Master Z's amused blessing.
It was the only instrument he knew, and he knew nothing about music formally. Sheet music was an arcane language beyond his comprehension. But what he did know was that a flute could make music that came straight from his soul. Meditation had served him well as a way to cope with what he had to live with. The flute was his outlet. Never an escape, never a means to avoid what was going on inside of him. It took his pure, raw emotions and feelings deep in his soul and purged them in a way that he felt was beautiful, if not constructive or meaningful, like the writing encouraged by the other Priests of Rathma.
He was almost ashamed to think of how much he dreaded that purging right now. He was not weak, he knew that. Yet he had always struggled with his emotions to some extent. And he doubted even his meditation could soothe his pains the way that simple wooden object could, right now. He had been all but forced to give up writing after being sent out by Rathma; not that it had done him much good then, anyway. He was no master with words and he knew it. Writing out what he was feeling more often than not frustrated him more than it helped.
Thankfully, Cain seemed to be understanding, at least somewhat. There were times he could play for hours, for most of a day, even, without tiring. Still, he knew it was also getting late. Often Cain was up until sometimes the early morning hours. He had no intention of being rude. If he needed more time to play, there would be tomorrow.
Hello, old friend, he thought as he unrolled the hard leather case and then the velvet interior wrappings.
He had seen and experimented with a variety of pipes and flutes over the decades. But this simple, carved, dark wooden "stick," as his master had called it teasingly, was by far his favorite. He had left a small collection behind in the last monastery he visited. As with so many other things, they had to be discarded in favor of what he could safely carry when he'd left all those years ago. Briefly, he wondered what had become of them. Maybe a new apprentice to that order of healers had found them useful or comforting, or so he liked to believe. More than likely, the quiet, never-changing monastery buried in the forests where he and his master had sheltered off and on for years had left them untouched in his cell to that very day. It wouldn't surprise him.
Musical interest was not common amongst Priests of Rathma; nor was it discouraged. Yet, among the necromancers he had met over the decades, it seemed they all understood the need for some outlet at some point. As long as it didn't involve disturbing the Balance, it was more or less allowed.
He thoroughly inspected and even cleaned the flute, almost surprised there wasn't visible dust on it after all this time. It had been so long since he'd even considered it. Until he found it in the bottom of his now retired backpack, he had nearly forgotten he even had it with him. For a while after leaving the healers' monastery, it had been his only friend in the lonely darkness of isolated nights spent camping alone. But, just as often as not, it was not safe to play; even supposedly alone in the forest. It could draw the unwanted attention of anything from other humans to a demon, or even twisted creatures.
He had neglected it perhaps for too long. He was somewhat surprised it had survived intact as long as it had. It was small enough to stow in either his backpack or his side satchel. He grinned happily to realize it would most definitely fit in his new backpack, along with so much more. He would never again have to consider leaving it behind for something more important; as he had done numerous times over the years. He couldn't help being amused at his own irrational attachment to such a simple, seemingly useless object.
Curling one leg underneath himself, and the other foot resting solidly on the floor, he sat himself comfortably on the side of his small bed. For a few seconds, he closed his eyes and let himself feel the flute. As he blew the first note, it was no longer an instrument. It became as much a part of himself as his own hands. And it was a direct extension of his soul. He never knew beforehand what it would sound like. To his mind, it wasn't even really music. It was just a series of notes played by the vibrations of his soul. Sometimes long and sad, sometimes short and almost whimsical "tunes" would come out. For a while he just blew, moving his fingers around the holes and listening to what his soul wished to say. When he found the right sound, he swore it literally resonated in his soul.
Beyond the dusty window, the sky began to turn orange with the sunset.
He never knew of Cain's own reaction to the music downstairs.
At first, the older man didn't even hear it. But as the minutes wore on and his other, less important research and general writing continued, something tugged at his ears. In the first few minutes, he had been able to easily ignore the sounds from upstairs. He had been sincere in hoping it would help his friend with the fear and sorrow that seemed held back just under the surface. He knew he would hear the story eventually. But, until Pyresong was ready to talk, it was bottled up inside of him. Cain had known men to go mad trying to deny or bury such pain. For now, he could only suspect what ate at his friend's heart. And he was surprised to realize how much of a friend he considered the priest.
Initially, the music from the flute upstairs had been easy to ignore. He was not unaccustomed to working in busy taverns with various musicians earning their meals. As the minutes passed, Cain's ears unconsciously tuned in more and more. He had not intended to pry or question his friend when he wasn't ready. Yet that music...was it even music? He could make out some rhythms, and occasional repetition of harmonies. It was unlike anything he had ever heard anywhere before. It seemed more a constant flow of hurt...no, that was not strong enough. It was sufferingtranslated to the form of air moving through a simple piece of wood.
Cain had had no idea what to expect from the flute or his new friend. A little tune, maybe something recognizable from a street player his friend had seen. Possibly even a little ditty that every sailor knew that maybe his friend had picked up somewhere.
But this...
Cain didn't even realized he had stopped writing until the quill fell from his numb fingers. Carefully, he picked it up and set it aside. No, he wasn't going to be able to focus on his work right now. The music by no means irritated or bothered him; it spoke to him more eloquently than Pyresong's words could ever have done. Cain's heart ached for his friend. Only someone who had suffered deeply could produce such a sound. The old man had no doubts whatsoever that this came right from the heart. For a moment, he even felt bad about teasing him. These notes spoke of a loss that cut so deep, it would never be forgotten. He resolved never to speak of it again unless the priest himself brought it up.
He hadn't even realized his eyes had teared up, until he turned to look at the painting above the mantle. The one love of his life, beyond that of his books. And they had died so long ago. Some wounds never healed, but they got easier to bear with time. At the time, though, Cain had thought he would lose his mind to that guilt and grief. And his heart had been forever closed off toward romantic interests. The scar was too thick for anyone to get through. He made sure of that.
Yet, a part of his heart that ached with the sound of this music had him wondering how old his son would be today had he lived? What kind of man would he have become? He was startled to realize he was even going there. He hadn't dared in all these years.
He moved from his desk to the rocking chair. Yes, the music had spoken to him; reached deeper than he thought possible. Still, as the minutes passed, Cain struggled to remember that the sound wasn't for him.
His ears picked up a new intonation in the notes. It spoke of many things, not quite as dark, but still haunting in an undeniably painful way. He was almost as absorbed in the music as Pyresong playing upstairs. Minutes became hours, and it still went on. Never was it happy, though. At times, it spoke in mournful or heartbreaking tones instead of pure, raw suffering.
Cain once more realized how absurdly nosy he was being by listening to all the things Pyresong could not yet say about his trip to the Dark Wood; and very likely so many other unrelated things. But, right now, he just couldn't help it. That music was giving him an insight to a man who wore a hard and cold mask, but had a kind and gentle soul. Cain knew he had always been an excellent judge of character. Much like his ability to see the hidden potential and strengths in magical objects, he had seen the same in people. He recalled a time, some six or seven years ago now, he had met another Priest of Rathma who had absolutely no idea what he was capable of. That man had not only changed the world, he had saved it.
His first impression of this "Pyresong", as he called himself, had not been the greatest. He could admit that to himself. He had thought the man just another wandering adventurer lured by the promise of reward. Even a necromancer could be enticed by money or renown, sometimes. For a moment, Cain sighed to himself. Pyresong. He began to think he might have some understanding of where the name had come from. Of course, one day he might ask. People who adopted such names usually did so because they were either hiding from someone, or ashamed of their birth name not sounding grand enough for the legend they wished to carve into history. Cain had sensed very early on that neither of these applied to his new friend.
The priest's dedication to their ongoing task had been both surprising and welcome. The fact that Cain had felt an instant connection to him was not totally surprising. One of his best friends and the world's greatest hero of the time had been a necromancer. Initially, he'd thought that was the source of his affection for this younger man; some sort of nostalgic influence. That idea had been dispelled almost immediately. Pyresong was unlike any Priest of Rathma he'd ever met. He was absolutely confident in his skills without being arrogant. He had never shown any disregard for the living in favor of the dead or dying. He was generous and compassionate in a way Cain rarely ever saw in anyone, let alone a necromancer. Priests of Rathma could be hard and cold people, but not without good reason. Somehow Pyresong had attained that level of facade, but all that lay underneath was so much more...human; as this music was revealing so very clearly.
Cain returned to the present from his ruminations when his ears picked up the melody changing once more. It seemed to cycle around from suffering, to heartache, to now...anger? Cain himself had never learned to play a musical instrument, but he had listened to more varieties of instruments and styles than he could possibly remember, from strings and wood to metals and drums. It never ceased to amaze him how much emotion could be conveyed on a simple instrument that could only produce a few dozen varied notes at best.
The very same air, the very same instrument, the very same fingers, the very same heart now played something that spoke of anger so deep and so raw...it actually worried Cain. Pyresong had spoken of what he was capable of, true. But that had been the shard's doing. That evil thing had played with the priest's heart and mind, for its own evil reasons. Cain had only been speculating what he'd told him about it earlier. Yet, he had learned through decades of study and travel, that the worst monsters were, indeed, human sometimes. Being created of a mixture of angel and demon meant humans had a choice. And some made choices that lead to more suffering than a demon could even imagine. Could the shards have stirred something that...
Absolutely not! Cain thought furiously, shoving that idea aside.
There was clearly so much he didn't know about his new partner. But he could not find it in himself to believe Pyresong would ever make those kinds of choices. That generous and gentle soul he'd seen beneath the cold mask was too strong for that. And the priest was outright terrified of those shards. The younger man knew how they could influence him. He knew their power. He knew how to shut it out. He knew how to protect himself. And the one time a shard had clearly and directly gotten through to him, it had shaken him to his core. No, he just could not see Pyresong turning to the Darkness. Not now, not ever.
But...
No! Cain told himself firmly.
There was always a "but", there was always temptation, there was always influences, there was always...something. He refused to lose his faith in his new friend. He would not sacrifice his total trust in the man. He couldn't begin to understand why he felt so close to or so confident in this one. And with this momentary emotional upheaval, he was not ready to question it, either. There was something about him that not only inspired instant trust, but also an emotional trust that was on a level he had never experienced before. Whatever else lay under that cold, hard facade, the priest was a dear friend to him; and not just another professional acquaintance to work with for a while.
While wrapped up in his thoughts, the the music faded away. Cain didn't think Pyresong would come back down, tonight. He had looked downright haggard after supper. Clearly he needed time to think, and to sleep. But, just in case his friend needed to talk...
He put a kettle over the fire and returned to his desk.
Pyresong hadn't lit a candle before losing himself in his music. He had no idea how long he'd played, but it had been a few hours at least. Lowering the flute from his lips, he strained his ears to listen downstairs. No, Cain wasn't snoring. He must still be working on something. The telltale rattle of the kettle told him the old man was preparing to be up for a while. Good. The last thing he needed was to irritate his housemate by keeping him up when he needed his rest.
While he played, he'd gone through and explored most of his memories from the Dark Wood. For the most part, the purging had been successful. Mentally he felt like he could deal with them now. Meditation tomorrow morning would probably do more. He was surprised to realize he really did want to share his experiences with Cain. Something about the old man made him feel he could talk about literally anything with him, and not be judged for it; well, at least not to be found wanting in the old man's eyes.
He laughed to himself softly as he cleaned the flute and returned it to its case. He really did care about what the old man thought of him. He'd not felt that so acutely since the days of his apprenticeship. No, he didn't want to do something to impress the old scholar, or even try to somehow earn his approval as he had with his master over the years. Yet, he felt a gut-twisting fear of disappointing or hurting him. He almost couldn't believe the level of trust he held with Cain.
Somewhere in the back of his weary mind, he wondered if this was really what it was like to have close friends. He'd never considered anyone a friend before; at least, not in any meaningful way. Passing acquaintances at best. And all of them at a safe emotional distance. Pondering his relationship to Cain, he found it utterly unique in his experience. And, so far, it had all been to the good; at least for him. He grinned ruefully to himself wondering if Cain was possibly less happy with the current status, and more interested in getting the younger man out of his remaining hair; especially after his little "performance" tonight. Well, he had no doubts the old man would give him an earful about it if he had a problem with it.
The unexpected yawn consumed his attention for a moment. He was frustrated and wanting this recovery to just be done already. Being tired nearly constantly and physically weak did not sit well with him. He actually felt a bit of guilt forcing Cain to delay the destruction of the shards they had gathered. Cain had been so excited, but had also wanted him present; for reasons both obvious and not.
Still, it was late, and there was nothing going to happen tonight. He would give his body a few more hours of sleep and hoped it would pass quickly enough. At least he wasn't having to wait days or weeks for an injury to heal. As he crawled into bed, he strained his ears once more. No snoring. He briefly hoped Cain would get enough sleep. He was more than a bit excited. Destroying those shards suddenly meant more to him than he even wanted to admit.
They terrified him.
***
Pyresong's meditations were a lot shorter that morning. There were parts he didn't want to revisit right now, and there were some he felt dealt with sufficiently for the time being. And there were some he knew he would never be able to sufficiently deal with. Twinges of guilt at his multiple failures in Dark Wood would haunt him for the rest of his life. He just had to accept that and do better in the future. He must, or he would be too afraid to move forward.
Somewhere beyond his meditation, he heard Cain's customary morning grumbling. He decided to be the one to make the tea this morning. He couldn't help smiling fondly hearing the old man muttering darkly into his beard as he fought the bedclothes back into some semblance of order. With not a word to give the old man reason to bark at him, he filled the kettle, set it over the fire, and took his usual seat. He was mildly surprised to see Cain take a seat in his own rocking chair rather than his table. Usually, Cain would shuffle around some parchments or even pick up where he'd left off the night before. The moment felt more...tense than he expected. A flicker of concern tickled his mind as the grumpy morning Cain went silent.
For several minutes, he wrestled with his uncertainty. Was he just being overly sensitive? Embarrassed even? Cain's gaze seemed miles away as he stared into the fire. But did he dare speak to him this early in the morning before the first cup of tea? As he finished making the tea the way Cain liked it—black as a demon's heart and strong enough to hold up a fortress wall, as Cain had once said; much to his amusement—he decided it was worth it to feel Cain's wrath. He caught Cain's attention as he handed the old man his cup.
"Is everything all right?"
"What? What are you talking about?" Cain snapped at him in return.
"Are you all right? You seem a little...distant, this morning."
Cain grumbled something that sounded unpleasant under his breath, but replied, "Getting old is not fun."
"Well, I'd like to try it some day, but I can see the downsides, I suppose," he tried for levity.
It worked. Cain huffed a laugh sipping his still too hot tea. Then he sighed and shook his head with a grin.
"The worst part is the aches and pains. First thing in the morning, they're a beast."
"Ah, I see. Understandable."
In truth, Pyresong was relieved. For a moment, his heart had twisted with guilt thinking his little indulgence the night before had either deprived his friend of some much needed sleep, or had irritated him enough in some way that he was about to give him an earful. The downside of being a boarder was living under the rules of the owner. It had almost always been uncomfortable at best, and sometimes literally impossible at worst. He was fairly certain he could hide out at the tavern again, at least for a little while. Eventually he would be forced to leave the city and make camp somewhere out beyond the city walls. Which, of course, would make getting to and from Cain's workshop a real time-consuming bother.
The silence stretched on, much more comfortably, this time. At least now he understood why Cain was not a morning person. He just wished there was something he could do about it. He was no alchemist or apothecary. And he assumed for all of Cain's various studies, he would have sought out something herbal or a potion by now that would help him. He resolved to look into options that would help his friend in the very near future. Though, he had no idea what it might be at the moment.
Eventually, Cain rose from his chair and stretched, his joints creaking and popping audibly. Though the man almost always wore robes that covered his entire body other than his hands, neck, and head, this stretch showed him the old man's arms were covered in scars, not unlike his own. Pyresong filed this away for another day. There was just so very much he didn't know about the old man...and he was surprised to realize he really did want to know. Maybe he could get him talking this evening after their work was done. Cain sat back down with a sigh and a fresh cup of tea. After a few more minutes in silence, Cain turned his attention to Pyresong beside him; looking far more speculative than grumpy, at least.
"Are you feeling better today?"
He nodded. "Much."
"But not entirely recovered?"
He shrugged. "Nothing that would prevent me from helping with the shards, if that's what you're asking."
Cain contemplated his companion in silence, to a point Pyresong wondered if he was being analyzed; or if Cain was just thinking his own thoughts. Finally Cain seemed to come to a decision.
"I trust you, you know. I trust your judgment. So if you're not ready for it, for any reason, just admit it."
He was initially a bit surprised at the fact that Cain had even felt the need to say the first statement. But then he realized what the old scholar had been judging was whether or not he was truly ready, emotionally as well as physically. He decided to give him a reassuring smile that he was certain came off a bit grim.
"Oh, I'm ready, I assure you."
Cain decided to push it. "Will you tell me what happened in Dark Wood?"
He laughed softly, surprising both himself and Cain. Oh, yes, he could talk now. He very much understood old man's underlying concerns as well as the challenge he was presenting. He knew that, as little as a day ago, discussing all that had happened and how raw he felt would not have been a good idea. Let alone allowing all that to go unchecked while dealing with the shards and their manipulations. Even just trying to tell it all to Cain, he might not have even gotten the story out coherently.
"I'll be fine, my friend," he assured him. "I thank you for your concern, though."
Pyresong got himself another cup of tea and returned to his chair. Shadows still lingered in his heart and behind his eyes, but at least they weren't as agonizing as they had been. He'd had time to organize his thoughts and put them all in the right sequence. He knew he was no master with words, and could only do so much to convey his experiences and struggles; both internal and external. But, for Cain, he would relive them as many times as needed to satisfy his friend. Now he had some idea what those shards could do. And, like many types of vile magic, it all came down to the user and their intent. If he walked into this with any exploitable real fear or doubts, they would eat him alive, and he knew it. He was more than willing to let Cain analyze him to see if he was really ready to face them again, and not become a liability if the shards did lash out.
His recounting of events was interrupted by the arrival of their breakfast a short time later. Another warm, comforting porridge with dried apples and honey. Abandoning the table for the comforts of the fireside chairs, they enjoyed their breakfast leisurely while Pyresong continued the tale. Cain interrupted, here and there, to ask clarifying questions. When the priest spoke of Alyssa, the old man's heart ached for his friend. The younger man's grief and guilt were still so visible; at least to him. He wondered that the priest didn't see it for himself. Cain wanted to remind him that it was not his fault. But the necromancer knew all that already.
Cain was surprised that the man had held nothing back; not even his feelings for Kashya or the unbound rage he'd willingly given in to at one point. The same rage the shard had tried to exploit as a weakness. No, this was no sterilized or abbreviated version of events. The younger man trusted in him enough to speak of everything. Cain was touched by Pyresong's trust in him. And he knew it was mutual. He felt he could discuss literally anything with Pyresong and not be judged wanting. It was nearing dinner time, when he wound the incredible tale to a close. For a few minutes they were silent, each wrapped in his own memories and thoughts.
"They miss you, you know," Pyresong finally said after a while. "When this is over, you should convince Charsi to close up the shop for a little while and go visit them."
"I just might, at that," Cain agreed. "Well, dinner should be arriving soon. No point in working on an empty stomach, eh?"
Pyresong rose and stretched thoroughly, feeling unaccountably stiff. At least the lingering weariness had mostly left him. He was more than ready to get on with destroying those shards.
"Agreed," he sighed happily as his body loosened up. "I look forward to it."
While Cain returned to his desk for a while, Pyresong browsed the shelves at random. He had already been told that the only things that were off limits were in the other room behind the locked and warded door. And that was only because of the shielding needed to keep them from harming anyone. Such tomes and artifacts really held no interest for him, so this was not a problem. There was a lifetime of reading right here in this room. Before he resumed his seat, he asked if Cain needed help with anything; remembering the incident with his magical eyes. He almost wanted to experiment more. Though with some magical tomes it seemed he would need an extra set of eyes unlike his own to even really experiment; maybe the old scholar would think of something later they could play with. Cain waved him off, so he returned to his very comfortable chair by the fire.
As expected, dinner arrived not too long later. The two of them busied themselves with their food for a while, both eating a bit faster than usual in their excitement for what came next. Pyresong could feel Cain's excitement and anticipation, too. But his own excitement was tempered with something else. There was something tickling the edges of his thoughts that he couldn't quite grasp. While the old man once more described to him the spell he would be using, Pyresong tuned him out only enough to dig deeper. What was he feeling that seemed so persistent he couldn't shake it off? While Cain went over the mechanics of the spell and how it would work, he put down his fork and closed his eyes.
Cain went silent immediately, surprised to realize he was almost...wary. Then he realized what he was actually looking for in the priest's frowning expression was a hint of the shards' influence. Was one or more of them trying to get to stop themselves from being destroyed, even now? He knew he wasn't incorruptible himself, but the shards' rudimentary sentience couldn't get through to him. He was far too experienced and too well guarded against them. But Pyresong?
"What is it, my friend?" Cain finally asked after several seconds of silence.
He didn't open his eyes as his brows furrowed deeply. "I don't know," he admitted. "There's... Something is troubling me about this. But I can't... I can't...recall it...I guess is the word? Ugh!" he said in disgust shaking his head as he opened his eyes. "I don't even know how to describe it. It's just...a feeling. Something not right."
Cain reached across the table and took his hand tightly. He let his eyes bore into Pyresong's.
"Are they calling to you? Trying to stop us from destroying them?"
He couldn't help noticing the edge of concern and a deeper resonance to Cain's voice. Twisting his eyes to focus, he saw the telltale glow of magic in the air between them, and on Cain's hand. He put his other hand over top of Cain's comfortingly.
"No, not like that," he replied.
He lowered his mental shields to let the old scholar look deeper and see the truth. Cain's relief was visible as he let go of the spell he'd used to compel the priest to tell the truth. Then his cheeks blushed pink a moment later.
"I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
He squeezed the old man's hand in both of his own. "You're wrong. You absolutely should have. We can take no chances. And if you ever feel the need to check, do it. Don't ask my permission and don't apologize. You have far more experience with such things than I. I would never be able to forgive myself if they had somehow managed to get through and I...did something"
He shook his head and let go of Cain's hand. He mentally shuddered recalling even a fraction of what that last shard had thrown at him. Then he shook it all off and refocused.
"No, it's not that," he continued after a few seconds. "I don't know what it is, really. Maybe just my own fears. I won't lie, they terrify me as nothing else ever has."
Cain nodded, understanding. "Such sacrifice... Each shard has only fallen into worse hands. It is far past time we were rid of them."
"Indeed," he agreed wholeheartedly.
Well, that had effectively killed their appetites. Once they had gathered up the dishes, they placed them outside for Everen to pick up. Cain wasn't about to let anyone into his workshop until this was done. He magically sealed the door to his study as well as the front door. This done, he turned his attention to the pedestal and the safe that housed the shards, considering.
"Wait!" Pyresong, suddenly stopped him, his gut twisting fear finally making clear what he couldn't see earlier.
Cain paused in confusion.
"I know what it is," he said with a sigh of relief. "I'm feeling unprotected, vulnerable. Give me a few minutes to get my armor on."
Cain's eyebrows shot up. It made perfect sense. And he was well aware of the numerous enchantments on the priest's armor. He'd had time to discuss them with Charsi while Pyresong had been gone. Charsi had done an incredible job giving him a massive edge. His armor wasn't just heavily enchanted, it was heavily enchanted with a number of things that worked together to boost everything from his raw power to specific spells that he used as Priest of Rathma. Charsi had learned much of a necromancer's needs from Master Xul. Though each one had their own preferences in spells, some of the core aspects of being a necromancer were the same from one to another; and she had used that knowledge to ensure Pyresong's equipment was tailored to those needs.
And its resistances to any form of magic intrusion were well above that of other armor found in the market. Though Charsi had charged him no more than the minimum required for the materials, she had given him a set of near legendary quality that heroes would dream of possessing. The price on the market for that one set could set her financially for life. And she'd just given it to him. She had, of course, sworn Cain to secrecy on this matter. And he saw no reason to break that oath now.
Maybe those enchantments would serve them well now. If Pyresong was feeling particularly vulnerable—and Cain had no doubts his friend's emotions were still raw—it definitely couldn't hurt.
Pyresong hadn't waited for Cain's approval. He was already upstairs pulling them out of his wondrous backpack and putting all of them on. In his years wondering around Sanctuary—often battling his way—he had learned the value of well-made armor; especially those with magical enhancements. Almost any smith could help enchant something to boost physical strength or stamina. But it took a real master blacksmith do imbue objects with enhancements for the arcane. Even then, it was exceedingly rare to find pieces tailored to a Priest of Rathma. Pyresong had never been finicky, though. He used what worked and what he could piece together. That was all their was to it. He'd heard stories of people naming their armor or weapons and always considered it silliness. Armor and weapons were just tools. And a good quality tool was invaluable, but always replaceable. When a piece was damaged beyond usability, he replaced it with what he could find or what he could afford.
He had no delusions of carving himself a legend in the pages of history; nor had he any desire to, despite Rathma's warnings. As far as he was concerned, destroying these shards was the end of all of that. Whatever became of his life after that didn't really matter to him. He refused to believe his entire life had been predetermined. He made his choices, and he would gladly live with them.
His armor wasn't even near a complete set, either. Because of his slim build, finding pieces had always been a bit of a problem. More often than not, once he found a piece or a pair of items that would fit, it still had to be modified somewhat. It was easier to just focus on the critical areas, and rely on his skill to avoid injury. He wore cuisses and greaves, but didn't bother with sabatons or poleyns. He had ankle-length leather faulds that covered the back of his legs, but could easily be belted on under his utility belt; or left off altogether. Lightweight rerebraces and vambraces were complimented by gauntlets and really only covered the backs of his hands and part of his fingers; mostly they were protected by thin, supple leather gloves. He abhorred helmets of any kind due to the clunky feel and often vision-restricting designs. Then there was his articulating front and back plates that allowed him to bend and move freely. Even the pauldrons he wore were just wide enough to ensure his shoulders weren't entirely vulnerable; but would not prevent him from raising his arms above his head.
He hooked his shield on his back and his scythe on his belt, just for good measure.
Much better, he thought to himself almost laughingly.
He couldn't help being, at the very least, slightly amused by the feeling of being naked without all of it. This mixed up hodgepodge of equipment he'd collected and bought over the years probably made him look like little more than a scavenging adventurer; which wasn't all that far from the truth. Yet, the idea of ever bothering with a full or matching set just screamed vanity to him. That was one trait he knew he would never have to worry about. Still, he couldn't help wondering why his armor felt so very important all of a sudden.
He was still turning that all over in his mind while he made his way back downstairs. As silent as ever, he found Cain patiently waiting for him in front of the pedestal. Again he felt just the tiniest bit foolish about the whole thing.
"I will never understand how you can still be so quiet with all that armor on. You walk like a cat," Cain teased.
Feeling much more at ease, he chuckled. "It's a talent."
"Speaking of talents," Cain said, moving around the room to add more seals, wards, and shields, "you really must give yourself more credit. I couldn't hear much of what you were playing last night, but what I did hear was very good, indeed. You don't have to hide up there when you wish to play, my friend. Play down here any time you like."
"Thank you," he replied in surprise. "I'll consider it."
He was happy to note he didn't actually blush at these words. Yes, the main's praise in anything meant a lot to him. Still, the music was something that dug so deep inside of himself, he wasn't sure he was ready to actually share it. Besides, he got a feeling the man was not being entirely truthful when he said he didn't hear much of it. And why mention it at all? He began to wonder if there was some other insight here Cain had seen.
Then, the old man finished what he was doing with a satisfied nod. With his magical sight, Pyresong could see a protective bubble around the room that glowed in a rainbow of various colors with all the different seals, shields, and wards.
"This workshop is now sealed tighter than a Horadric vault. Nothing will get out of here except for me." He motioned to Pyresong to come closer. "Let me add a key ward to you, as well."
Curious, he bent down a bit so the old scholar could reach his forehead. Standing well over six feet, he was mildly surprise to note how much taller than Cain he actually was. Much like Akara, Cain stood only maybe shoulder height to him. But the old scholar had a power and presence about him that made him seem much larger. Cain drew something on his forehead with a glowing fingertip. It tingled slightly and then faded away.
"There. Now, I think we are ready." He motioned to a place just to his left, almost in front of the doorway to the stairs. "Stand right there, for now."
He paused when Cain knelt down to open the safe in the pedestal. "You are not wrong, Pyresong. Your armor protects you in more ways than I think you realize. And with the combined power of three shards possibly working together, we need to be ready for anything."
He was more than a little relieved by those words. For just one moment after he'd told Cain his intentions, he had felt absolutely foolish. He nodded that he was ready and braced himself and his mental shields while Cain began to open the safe. Despite being prepared for another mental wrestling match with the shards, he was still taken aback by the assault. It was exponentially more powerful than anything he had dealt with thus far. He found himself clenching his fists and sharpening his mind into a shield with razor edges. Even Cain seemed taken aback. He grunted as he used his power to levitate the objects onto the pedestal one at a time.
Despite the unexpected stutter, he forced his heart to a slow, calm beat. He forced the tension out of his body. He had to be ready but not already strained. He listened while Cain chanted forcefully in a tongue he didn't recognize. He felt as much as saw the familiar lines of powerful magic gathering around the Horadrim. The staff began to glow a comfortingly gold color in contrast to the vile red color of corruption radiating out of the shards. To his magic-seeing eyes, Cain began to glow so bright it was almost painful to look at directly, like a small sun. He had sensed the enormous power behind Cain's scholarly facade; but he'd never thought he'd see it like this. He remembered his recent encounter with his own limits and wondered what effects such overreaching might have on his elderly friend.
There was no more time for concern, though. They would do whatever it took to destroy those shards. He could feel the shards battering away at him, trying to get through. It was past time for enticing or threatening. Now, they were trying to take control of him. He could feel them reaching, pulling forcefully. He shuddered but forced himself to focus beyond those sensations. He ran through a list of all the lives he knew had been lost due to their power. Using this raw anger, pain, and hatred, he fought back violently.
Never, he denied them.
Ready, Cain thrust his unbelievably bright staff at the shards. As one, they pulsed visibly to Pyresong's sight. It was almost as if the staff had encountered a barrier just inches away from them.
"The spell seems to have no effect!" Cain explained, clearly straining. "It's as if the shards are resisting!"
He retracted the staff with an angry growl as he released the spell. He thumped it on the floor in frustration. Pyresong realized they had made a mistake in allowing the three to be together. Was it too late to undo that mistake? Cain sighed, frustrated but not defeated.
"I should have guessed this would not be easy," the old scholar said with a shake of his head. "I had not anticipated them working together. Usually, such corrupt artifacts work against one another, trying to be the ultimate power themselves. I suppose I should be glad they're not fused, at any rate. But could they be separated now?"
Knowing little of these things, he kept silent and focused on keeping out those filthy and violent sensations battering away at him. Cain pondered the problem. He was somewhat surprised when Cain's face lit up and turned toward him.
"I'm an old fool!" he said, laughing at himself. "Even the ancient Horadrim never worked alone. When dealing with shards of the Worldstone, they always worked in pairs at a minimum. One could exponentially increase the power of another, directing the energies."
"I see. But I am no Horadrim," he replied dubiously.
"No, and it does not matter. You have a power all your own. And it is one tested several times over in your battles against the demons and monsters that had the strength to use these shards. No, my friend, you are even better and stronger than them."
He still seemed uncertain about the whole idea of it. But he trusted Cain implicitly to know what he was talking about and what he was doing. He nodded, thoughtfully.
"My friend, I will need you to lend me your strength if we are to attempt the ritual once more. Are you up to the task? If not, we can wait a bit longer."
"No," Pyresong said firmly. "Let this be finished. What must I do?"
Cain motioned to his other side. "Take my other hand. Just one more step further away... Perfect. Reach inside yourself. Sense the power you know you have. It's a bottomless well from which you can draw. No, don't think about it, just feel it inside of you. Just pull on that power, ready to cast spirit fire through your hands, but not fully formed yet. Just the raw energy... Yes. Now focus on destroying the shards and give me that power through your hand, as if you're about to cast a spell."
Fumbling a bit both against the shard's battering at his mental shields and the idea of not thinking about what he was doing, he did as asked. He was not entirely unfamiliar with the concept of shared power and its flows. Mages did it frequently. It felt almost familiar to him, as if he should already know how to do this. He opted to treat it the same as he would if he were holding his scythe. But, unlike his scythe, Cain could pull it through his hand. It was more like the connection he had shared with Akara during the healing a few days ago.
"Yes, just like that," Cain told him happily. "The rest will be up to me."
He nodded with a shudder as something vile again tried to distract him from his focus, very nearly forcing him to back away from Cain and the shards reflexively. He felt his muscles twitching and shaking while he tried to keep his focus. Struggling to keep his now-divided focus on his mental shields strong enough to keep out the shards' ongoing attacks, he began to shut out all thought and rely on instincts. Cain knew what to do. He didn't need to think. Finally, he opted to shut his eyes and shut out the sounds of Cain's chanting. Nothing existed now beyond that flow of energy.
The pull got stronger and stronger while the chanting continued. The assaults upon his mind faded drastically, as if Cain's own power was extending its protection to him. Now, he could focus more on helping Cain destroy the shards. Digging deeper, he pulled more. Cain took it. His heart began to race and it felt like a flood of his power flowing into his friend. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Even while he wondered how long this could go on, he felt the pull increase even more. It was a raging torrent of power now...and still going! For a moment, he reveled in the feeling of pure, raw energy.
Feeling Cain leaning forward, he opened his eyes. No longer did they burn from the sheer amount of power and magic. He was amazed to realize that was because he was a part of it! It was indescribable and wondrous. The staff seemed to move toward the shards in slow motion. Inch by inch they got closer to the shards. Again, there was an invisible barrier between the glowing head of the staff and the shards. This time, it lasted no more than a second. The staff broke right through it. His already racing heart leapt for joy with the coming victory.
Then the world exploded.
He felt his connection to Cain severed when the elderly man was thrown bodily backward across the room like a rag doll. For a heartbeat, the backlash of the energy flowing through the connection stunned Pyresong. He staggered for a second, trying to keep his footing on shaky legs. Cain cried out in pain when he was thrown right through the shields and landed on his worktable. The force of it broke the table into pieces when he fell in a heap. Red lightning lanced out at Cain but was somehow thwarted by the power of the shields. Cain's staff also went dark as the old man lay utterly still in the collapsing wreckage.
He had no time to think about what had happened or what condition Cain was now in. Suddenly, there were other bolts of red lightning dancing across the floor and leaving behind demon shadows and worse. The red bolts even danced around him, somehow being either absorbed or blocked by his armor. To him, they were no more than a tingling distraction he barely felt. Where the lightning had touched the floor, shapes began to form. Shadows and writhing bundles of tentacles covered the visible floor, clearly outlining the edges of the shielded area. At least they could not escape the shields. Something much worse than shadows and tentacles appeared before he could even force his legs to move himself beyond the shield. He froze when his stunned mind began to see the outline of a huge, winged demon take shape.
By the time it was fully formed, Pyresong already had a couple of skeletons summoned out of panicked reflex. His shield and scythe were ready. So completely shocked by the turn of events, he couldn't even think; he fell into his combat instincts. He let the skeletal warriors deal with the shadows and tentacles as he sent a flood of energy into his scythe to confront the demon. He ducked around the pedestal with the three evil glowing shards and swept his scythe low, taking the demon's thick legs out from under it. He followed this up with a blade of energy that sliced the monster's belly and chest wide open in a vertical line that nearly cut it in half. Even as the monster fell, he could sense the shards building power again. It was getting ready for another attack, and likely something much worse than what he had just defeated.
He had no time to plan or find an alternative. Some deeper instinct knew that if he had stopped to think or feel anything, the shards assaults would have been successful. They wouldn't have just stopped him from his next move; they would have taken him completely. As it was, he did the only thing that made sense. He dropped his shield and scythe to the floor with a clatter. Then he snatched up the shards in his gloved and shielded hands and shoved them back into the safe in the pedestal and slammed it shut. He didn't know how to seal it, but it flashed a golden sealing spell anyway when he closed it.
Then he felt it.
His body had moved on pure, mindless terror and adrenaline. But now his mind had time to catch up to what it had experienced when holding the shards for that moment. Those few adrenaline-sped heartbeats were more than enough time for the shards. There was no mental shield in the world that could have kept that out while in direct, physical contact with them. On his hands and knees beside the pedestal, Pyresong's whole body trembled. It was all he could do not to black out.
"Oh, gods..."
He closed his eyes to block it all out. The images, feelings, and even sounds the shards had given him were only that much clearer and real. The countless screams mingled into a chorus of agony. Images of torture and suffering blazed behind his closed eyes. Horrifying demonic laughter and glee laced through it all. Some of that laughter was his own, showing him again what he could do with such rage and power. If he would not do so willingly, they would force him.
"S-s-stop," he whispered, not even realizing he was speaking.
For several seconds, he was lost. All he could see was what the shards had shown him. They had lashed out at him like never before. The hideous scenes of suffering and torture were not his own. He knew that much. They had belonged to the previous owners of the shards. And that was almost worse. His own mental processes and emotions being twisted, he could combat. But these... They were real, likely real memories now embedded in the vile shards. A groan from the shattered table drew him out of it.
Cain!
Shaking too badly to stand, he just crawled across the room unsteadily. Cain was shifting, but Pyresong couldn't tell if he was conscious or how badly he was hurt. He forced his shaking right hand to his belt, praying he wouldn't drop the precious potion. Stopping on his knees, he gently rolled the old man toward him. Cain's wide, terrified eyes met his. He didn't wait to ask. Besides, his teeth were chattering too hard to form words. He uncorked the bottle with trembling fingers and tilted it toward Cain's mouth.
Seeing Pyresong's hand shaking so badly seemed to spur the old man to move. He blinked a couple of times, and then he took the bottle and drank it himself, knowing he was at the very least badly bruised. Thankfully, so far, he felt no broken bones. Beside him, Pyresong seemed to collapse in on himself. He gripped his head in his gloved hands, his breathing ragged. His whole body shook violently, as if some kind of fit. And then he fell sideways and curled up on the floor.
Cain struggled to his hands and knees. Pyresong was breathing in terrified pants. His wide, horror-filled eyes were fixed on something only he could see. For a moment, Cain thought the priest must have been badly injured. His old heart stuttered fearfully. He couldn't see any blood or obvious wounds. Beyond them, in the shielded area, he felt the foul energies of demons, though there was nothing visible now. He had felt them come at the summons of the shards while he was still shocked by the initial blast. Spying another healing potion on the priest's belt, he moved to unhook it. The younger man blinked, and then his hand flew to Cain's. Apparently, he wasn't entirely unaware. Cain watched as he closed his eyes and began to force his breathing to slow.
"N-not injured. I-I touched them!" he stuttered out, little more than a whisper. "They...oh gods. Make it s-stop…"
Cain's heart sank as he understood. His friend had been injured in a far worse way than any physical or crippling wound could ever have inflicted. Forcing his own hands to stop shaking, he unbuckled and removed the gauntlet and then the glove on the priest's right hand. He gripped Pyresong's trembling hand tightly in his own. His friend's breathing was slowing and the shaking less severe, but his whole body still trembled. Those wide, seal-covered eyes opened and closed as if trying to shut out what he was seeing. He could sense as much as see the younger man's mind spiraling deeper into the abyss of horrors he was seeing.
Cain's heart broke when a tear slipped out of Pyresong's eye and rolled off the man's nose to fall unheeded on the dusty floor. He was shutting down, mentally fleeing from the world around him, unable to escape what was now inside of him. The priest's whole body convulsed with repressed sobs, his breathing once more growing erratic as he struggled for some semblance of sanity and control. It wasn't the first time the old scholar had seen someone consumed by such things. Not knowing what else to do for his friend, Cain's hands glowed with warm golden light. One hand he held firmly in Pyresong's desperate grip. The other he laid on the necromancer's cold, clammy forehead.
He knew the priest was broken. He'd been wounded mentally, possibly to the depths of his soul. Whatever those shards had done to him was just too much. He couldn't even begin to imagine what those vile things had made him experience. The younger man began to sob, no longer even able to struggle for control, just retreating from the world entirely. He turned his face to the floor as he tried to get away from the horrors, but there was no escape. They were inside him now. Cain had already seen something of the strength and resilience this one possessed, but every man had his breaking point. And the shards were likely very adept at finding and exploiting those weaknesses they had found. The man who called himself Pyresong was more human than most Priests of Rathma.
And far too gentle, Cain thought, now regretting he had ever gotten him involved in all of this. He may never forgive me for this.
Cain's hand rested firmly on Pyresong's icy cold and clammy forehead. He did the one thing he knew he could accomplish with his powers. How much it really helped the priest was up to him and his own resilience. He closed his eyes while he focused inward on his task. Though he could not read minds as some Horadric texts indicated was possible, he could find the blackest spots of Darkness and pain. Where Pyresong's mind was twisted by suffering, he could send his healing and shielding energies to bind them. He could not heal a soul or the damaged emotional nature most called a heart, but he could bind the sources of that suffering in the mind. He could seek out and ward the memories.
Frequently, he caught flashes of images from the priest's life. It was impossible to avoid from the inside. Cain had to know that what he was binding was directly linked to what the shards had done to him. Binding anything else was just wrong. They were Pyresong's memories. They were the essence of what made him the man he had become. It would be cruel to change them. When he encountered the memories of more recent events in Wortham, Ashwold, and Dark Wood, he flitted away again.
Then he found them. Lurking just beneath the threshold of consciousness. Scenes of such horror that Cain would have gagged and screamed had a physical body in this place. As it was, he found them so powerful they were hard to contain. They were trying to spread into other memories within Pyresong, like an infection. He knew instantly that none of these were Pyresong's memories. They were memories from within the shards themselves. Memories from those that inflicted the suffering and then fed them to the shards in a reciprocal relationship. Even Cain could not find the words to describe the horror. Nor did he try. He focused all his remaining power on them as he wrapped them in his binding spell and healing energies. Then he tied those shields to the priest's own source of power.
He was nearly knocked back on his heels by that power. Cain had felt an inkling of the massive power reserves the man possessed when he'd been linked with him. But this? This was like an ocean compared to his own little pond. It was simply massive. Cain just prayed it would be enough to keep the shields stable and intact for long enough. If Pyresong could have time to deal with them on his own someday, he might survive unbroken. Perhaps one day, Cain could help him find a way to even purge them altogether.
He prayed to any good god that would listen that he would be given the chance to do so.
The level of invasion of privacy to accomplish this task was literally incomprehensible for most people. When delving into someone else's mind, they were stripped naked of all their facades, masks, and self-control. Every memory, every nightmare, every experience was revealed to someone who was an outsider with no context to even begin to really understand. The truth of every unfiltered thought was laid bare. Even the darkest secrets were unguarded in here...and there were many.
Cain did the best he could to avoid seeing other, unrelated memories. But there was always some bleed-through. When minds touched, there were just so many random memories floating around it was impossible to avoid entirely. The Horadric healers of the ages past had once been supreme experts in this practice, and they were also the greatest secret keepers. They were bound by unbreakable magical oaths to never speak of what they saw to anyone other than the person being healed, and, most of the time, not even then. Cain was not bound by such oaths, and he had never before thought he would have to do this in his lifetime. He only knew of it from mentions in heavily warded texts he had discovered and quickly sealed away again. The one time he had even experimented with this was in Tristram. And that had failed entirely with poor Farnham. Without the oaths that bound the healer, that magic was far too dangerous to risk falling into the wrong hands.
He knew Pyresong was a private person. He'd sensed that from the very beginning, which is why he'd been so touched when the younger man had opened up to him so completely just earlier that very same day. Flitting through fragments of memory and disjointed emotional attachments to those memories, Cain was not really surprised to find that Pyresong had no friends, no family. Not even within the ranks of the Priests of Rathma did he have anyone he considered himself close to; past or present. For just one moment, he caught a passing glimpse of the crippling loneliness the man had suffered intermittently throughout his life. That Cain would not touch. He knew it could and likely would fundamentally alter his personality to do so. However, his heart ached for the man, all the same.
As one such random memory of a late night visit by another dark-haired priest flitted by, a bright light of...something came his way. As if attracted by his presence, it came closer. Cain backed away, not wanting to see more if he could help it. But this flicker chased him. It followed him as if trying to catch up. He was nearly finished. The blackest parts of the necromancer's mind that had radiated such suffering as a beacon seemed mostly contained, but...
The flicker of light caught him. It grabbed on to his consciousness somehow and pulled him deeper into it. Cain struggled to free himself from it. He couldn't afford to be caught too deeply in one of Pyresong's memories.
Cain... Pyresong's deep voice echoed all around him. It called to him, sounding desperate. Cain, don't leave me there again! Please! So cold... So dark...
Damn! Cain thought.
It was Pyresong's active consciousness. In a way, he knew he'd just been caught. There was no way to hide what he'd done from the priest, anyway, at least, not for very long. And trying to do so would only shatter the trust he had developed in Cain. If it weren't already broken, which he very strongly believed would be the case once he was able to speak with the man again. But right now, he didn't need this kind of confrontation. If Pyresong did get angry, they were within his mind. He was the ultimate power here and could do literally anything to Cain with no more than an irritated thought. It was far too dangerous.
Sleep! Cain commanded, echoing this with a small blast of his own power to detach himself from that consciousness.
Alone in the darkness... So alone...
Pyresong's deep, mournful voice froze Cain for a few seconds. Something else had been there, a sort of echo stabbing at his heart. He couldn't begin to comprehend what the man was thinking or feeling at that moment and almost regretted sending him to sleep. Then he shook off that agonized indecision. He had to get out of here.
Hoping he had been thorough enough to at least keep his friend sane for now, he quickly retreated. Back in his own mind and body, he was shocked all over again by the pain and bruising all over his body. He was extremely thankful he still didn't feel the sharp pain of broken bones, but oh he would be feeling this for days!
Opening his eyes, he found Pyresong sleeping soundly, still curled up on the floor. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd gone into the man's mind. Based on the much larger wet spot on the floor and Pyresong's pink face, it had been a while. His cheeks seemed so much more hollow. The shadows under his eyes were so much darker. His usual laugh lines and even worry lines were mere impressions, at the moment, as the face relaxed into sleep.
Young man, Cain thought distantly, watching the eyelids flicker with some dream.
Cain shook his head. Yes, compared to himself, Pyresong was a young man, indeed. But his experiences and his training so very young... He was not nearly as young as he looked. And there was something more there he could not quite comprehend. Though the priest looked no more than maybe late twenties, most of the time, he now looked to Cain more like fifty. No, it was nothing physical, really. It was just his mind and soul being far more experienced at some things than anyone his age ever should be.
With the hand that had bound itself to Pyresong's forehead during the spell, he now stroked gently and soothingly, much like a father would his own child. And, yes, he did feel like something of a father to this one, now. And, he knew, he always would. He could not even begin to make sense of it all at the moment with the emotions raging through him unchecked, both his own and the priest's. He just hoped Pyresong would not hate him for what he had done. And, if he did, Cain still would not regret his actions.
"Rest well, my friend," he whispered, ignoring the tears that ran into his beard.
After a while, Cain pulled himself together. He was fairly certain they had missed supper at this point, but he had no appetite anyway. The warding and shielding around the room ensured no one would be able to enter. Even if they had managed to somehow break open the door, they would have seen an empty room, thanks to the illusion he'd attached to it. And if they had physically touched the shield just inside the door, they would have been frozen where they stood, unable to move until Cain released them from the paralyzing illusion.
Thankfully, no one had. Now, he had to undo all that hard work. As with all magics, undoing was typically easier than creating. It required a lot less energy, for one thing. In minutes, he'd returned to the room to its normal level of shielding. He made one last check of the pedestal, glad he'd put an automatic locking spell on it to trigger as soon as it was closed. Pyresong had suffered for it terribly, but he'd done exactly right. If those things had managed to summon demons—and he could still feel the hellish residue—then their only hope had been to seal them up again. The spell had failed, and the shards nearly destroyed them in retaliation. He was going to have to keep researching and praying for a solution. His greatest magic, massively enhanced with an almost unbelievable wealth of power from from the priest, had done no more than piss them off.
Exhausted and aching, Cain gazed down on the sleeping man. He had no doubts the priest was used to sleeping in his armor, but that couldn't be even remotely comfortable on this hard, wooden floor. With the power of his Horadric magic behind the command he'd given, he knew that Pyresong would be sleeping for quite some time. Cain was no expert in armor, but he felt he should be able to at least make the man more comfortable. He prodded him gently this way and that to get at the buckles and releases. He carefully piled everything, including the discarded shield and scythe at the foot of the stairs. So tired was he that he shuddered as the energies attuned to a necromancer bled through to his hands at the touch. Quickly, he reinforced his shields, berating himself for the lack of focus that caused it, and shuffled his way to his bed.
Somewhat painfully, he pulled and wrestled the wool-stuffed mattress off its deep, wooden bed frame and dragged it across the floor. He pushed and rolled Pyresong onto his side and shoved the edge of the mattress up against his back. Then, he gently rolled the man onto it. He was surprised to realize just how light Pyresong really was. Under his clothing, he was almost pure, hardened muscle. But his appearance was deceiving. The man was thin, by Cain's estimation of his weight. Most warriors other than pure mages were far bulkier in his experience.
This task accomplished, he returned to the pile of bedclothes for a blanket. He had several piled on just the way he usually liked it. Too many years spent sleeping outdoors with nothing more than a cloak had taught him to appreciate blankets. He was thankful for that indulgence now. He was in the process of separating the layers of blankets when he froze.
"Cain... I... I can't..."
Whipping around, he realized Pyresong was talking in his sleep. He sighed in relief. The man desperately needed his rest. And so did he. Neither of them was fit for a talk about what had happened...or the likely confrontation that would follow. He got the impression that the priest was a very light sleeper, usually. Most people forced to sleep in open camps under the stars learned to sleep very lightly or were caught unawares and never woke up. Still, there was only so much creeping an old man could do. Hells, the creaking of his knees alone was audible across the room! Chuckling to himself at this random thought, Cain picked the thickest and heaviest blanket he owned and walked back across the room. He shook it wide and settled it over the Pyresong as carefully as possible, hoping not to accidentally wake him, despite the magical forced sleep.
"Please...not again..."
That plea tugged at something Cain could not ignore. He knelt beside the priest again with a sigh and a pained groan. Pyresong's eyes flitted rapidly with whatever dream he was in. The lines of strain began to form on his face.
"I'm here, son. You're not alone," Cain whispered, stroking his head again.
He murmured something Cain couldn't make out, but his face relaxed once more. Cain watched with some concern while the man's whole body shifted as it relaxed again. He could not imagine what the necromancer was dreaming. His only comfort was that at least it wouldn't involve anything of what the shards had inflicted on him. He had ensured that much. He ignored his aching back, legs, and knees for a few more minutes, stroking the man's forehead and hair comfortingly. He knew it was very possible that after what had happened, and what he had done in Pyresong's mind, the priest would likely resent him for the invasion of privacy, if nothing else. A man's memories were sacred, and Cain had torn right through so many of them, even if passively and accidentally. Likely, he had saved the man from insanity only to lose him to a broken friendship.
Whatever would happen would happen. He trusted Pyresong completely and with his very life. But, could Pyresong do the same? He hoped so. This young man meant so much to him now. After all the memories he'd experienced from his life, it was impossible to completely separate himself emotionally. In a way, he really did feel like a protective father. And now he was so wrapped up in both his own fears and Pyresong's memories, he almost couldn't separate his own, earlier memories. So much suffering... How had he... Just a child... And...
His heart heavy, Cain struggled to push it all aside. He was beyond exhausted, mentally and emotionally, as well as overusing his power. Focusing on just moving himself, he left his bedside vigil. He needed sleep just as badly, if not more so, than his friend. One last time, he went over to his pile of blankets haphazardly tossed onto the floor in his haste and picked one at random. Struggling and failing to stifle a yawn, he shuffled his way tiredly to his rocking chair.
In moments, he was deeply asleep. Unfortunately, even that could not entirely stop the memories.
***
Pyresong jolted awake with a gasp. He was breathing fast, huge breaths as if he'd been running...but from what? There had been...screaming. High-pitched screams. Was he running toward something?
Then his eyes registered the fact that he was in an unfamiliar place. He wasn't in one of his temporary camps or in the bedroom Cain had offered. He summoned a skeletal warrior by reflex. Blinking away the blurriness of sleep-crusted eyes, he looked around the darkened chamber. The familiar sounds of Cain's snoring did more to calm him than even the recognition of where he was.
Cain...he was...hurt.
Something flickered in his mind and then fled away again. He dismissed his skeleton, seeing no threat, and then rubbed his eyes. Ugh, they were absolutely crusted over!
What the hells happened?
He wiped his eyes repeatedly, struggling to remember what had happened and how he had ended up here. Clearly, his friend wasn't injured and seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He had the impression he had just awoken from a nightmare, which was rare. He'd learned a long time ago to sleep through night terrors or escape them; otherwise, he would never sleep at all. And, they had gotten much less frequent in more recent years. He vaguely recalled the last one had been some years ago at this point.
Why now?
Having cleared his eyes thoroughly and feeling a desperate need to wash the sleep out of his mouth as well, he carefully uncovered himself, hoping not to disturb his sleeping friend. That's when he realized he wasn't just on the floor but on Cain's mattress. For a moment, he just sat there trying to remember. Something about the shards. His heart clenched fearfully in his chest and gasped softly. His head whipped from the pedestal—safely closed and locked—and then to the ruins of Cain's desk. A trickle of memory rose up from the fragmented images. They had tried to destroy the shards, and something went wrong. Cain had been thrown across the room and landed on the table.
Demons!
Tuning his eyes to magic, he could feel the vile residue of their presence. This place was clearly going to need a cleansing. After the demons, though, there was nothing. Something about Cain tugged at him very, very strongly. But, clearly, the man was not badly injured. His snoring indicated healthy, restorative sleep. He struggled to slow his heart again after the terrifying jolt, confused as to why he had even felt it in the first place. Why was Cain sleeping in the chair? How had he gotten here on the floor? Where had his armor gone? What...
Ugh, it was too much.
The gaping dark hole where he felt memories should be was too much for him to handle right now. More than anything, he wanted a quick wash. He felt unaccountably grimy somehow.
Silent as ever, he got to his feet and made his way to the stairs. In the almost complete darkness, he was glad he'd shifted his eyes to the magical spectrums. The very faint glow of his armor to his special sight saved him from blundering right into it. Well, moving it was definitely going to wake Cain. And he was not yet ready to deal with a grumpy Cain that had been forced to sleep in his chair. Feeling guilty, he vowed to make it up to the man. In some vague way, he knew this bizarre sleeping arrangement had been his fault.
He leapt to the third stair with only the faintest sound of his bare foot on the boards and then made his way up to his room. There, he knew he would find the pitcher and basin and a towel. He knew the Rogues had groomed him while he slept for a few days. But now, it had been another couple of days since he'd last shaved. Almost as fast as he thought this, he threw it aside. No, he was just too...something...muddled, maybe? Tired certainly. And...something else, he couldn't figure out. He had the sensation that something had been rifling through his mind like a book, tearing up the pages in the process.
Staring at himself in the mirror, he shuddered at the thought that it might have been the shards. Things, even memories from earlier in his life, suddenly felt jumbled and a whole lot more recent. He had no idea what was really going on in his head, but he strongly suspected it had been the shards.
They must have gotten through, somehow, he thought with sickening horror.
Were it not for Cain sleeping peacefully downstairs, Pyresong's heart would have started racing all over again. Whatever they had done, at least he hadn't hurt his friend. Had that happened... He shoved that aside, too. He was not ready to deal with any of this. Half in disgust at himself and half desperate to feel clean again, he splashed refreshingly cold water on his face and neck.
Several minutes later, feeling much more awake but no less confused, he sat on the edge of his bed. The sun was already coming up. He should probably meditate. It might help him gain some clarity. Yet it also felt like it was the very last thing he wanted to do. He ran his hands through his hair in irritation. It wasn't like him to be so—
"Pyresong, are you up there?" Cain called in a surprisingly concerned voice.
"I'm here," he said, crossing the room in half a second. "Are you all right?"
"I should be asking you the same thing," Cain said, eyeing him as he flew down the stairs.
He felt a flood of warmth and undeniably love for the old man as he flew down the stairs. For a second, he was completely startled by his own roiling emotions. He gripped Cain by the shoulders and eyed him closely.
"You were hurt. It… They flung you across the room!"
Cain reached up with one hand and patted Pyresong's hand that gently gripped his shoulders.
"I am all right. I'll make us some tea. We have much to talk about."
Deeply relieved by this reassurance, he nodded, still startled by his own chaotic emotions swirling just beneath the surface. Knowing Cain was clearly watching him for some kind of reaction, he grinned.
"Obviously, you're not all right. You haven't snapped at me once yet. And you haven't had your first cup of tea, either."
Cain's unsteady laugh was laced with relief, and he could hear it. Curiosity nearly outweighed all else. His own relief at knowing Cain was unharmed had all but flooded him. A part of him was certain there had been something horribly wrong with the old man. It could wait. He motioned Cain to his chair and got the tea going for both of them. Right now, a soothing cup of tea sounded divine.
"How much do you remember?" Cain asked, still eyeing him closely.
He sighed with mild frustration as he hung the kettle over the fire. He felt like his mind and memories were all over the place suddenly. He struggled to focus on a single train of thought. And there was a darker, creeping terror below the surface, especially when his mind wandered back to most recent events. For Cain's sake, if nothing else, he struggled to focus on what he was being asked and nothing else, not even the fear lacing them. He bought himself a couple more seconds by settling into his rocking chair.
"You were flung across the room, as I said. Right through the shields. Thankfully, because the shards tried to attack you directly while you were unconscious. When that failed... Demons being summoned by the shards. Then... Nothing."
"How long have you been trying to recall?" Cain asked, an edge of worry in his voice.
"I've only been awake for a few minutes. I apologize if I woke you."
Cain waved away the apology. "As I said, we need to talk. But, for the moment, I will give you one command, and I beg you to follow it."
Taken aback, Pyresong stared blankly for a moment, an icy tendril of fear crawling up his spine. Had he actually done something? Had the shards taken control of him? Cain leaned toward him, emphasizing the seriousness of this with a grim expression and boring eyes.
"Do not try to remember. I will explain everything, but you cannot pry at those memories. Not now, not yet. Do you understand? Swear to me you won't try again."
For a moment, he was so stunned he couldn't speak. He just nodded slowly. Of course, he trusted Cain completely. But this? An oath? He felt sick as possibilities raced vaguely through his mind.
What in gods' name happened? What did I do?
Struggling against the rising panic, he forced himself to focus. Feeling the need to calm his friend, he took Cain's hand where it sat on the rocking chair.
"I promise I won't."
Cain sighed with relief and patted his hand with the free one. "It will make sense shortly."
"I believe you."
He sat back in his chair, staring into the fire as Cain began the tale of their failure...and its result. He frowned darkly when Cain explained what he had done with the Horadric mind spell. The sick twisting feelings of guilt and fear eased with the relief of knowing he hadn't done something at the direction of the shards. For a few seconds, he had been convinced the shards had used him like some sort of puppet, wreaking havoc. Still, it was more than a little unsettling to think of someone perusing the contents of his memories.
Cain himself seemed not to be able to meet his friend's gaze anymore. He broke it down as simply and plainly as he could for the necromancer, but his heart still twisted painfully and with no small amount of guilt. He knew he had saved Pyresong's life and sanity, maybe even his soul. But he'd crossed a boundary to do it that should never be crossed by one with the power to do so.
When he fell silent, Pyresong considered all of this. He was still too relieved to even come close to being angry at the violation. Though, maybe that sharing of memories was the source of his powerful new feelings for Cain. Or perhaps they had already been there, and he had just refused to acknowledge them. There was so much going on in his head that it was hard to separate everything. Everything felt jumbled up and fresh, as if his whole life had just occurred yesterday. While turning all these and other thoughts over in his mind, Cain sighed heavily, eyes locked on his fidgeting hands in his lap.
"I'm sorry, my friend. I couldn't let them destroy you like that."
Then it dawned on him. The old man really was apologizing...for saving his life! Pyresong almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But, then, it did make sense. That feeling of having his mind sifted through also made sense now. He struggled to find the words of gratitude he felt. The man hadn't just saved his life; he'd likely saved his soul, which, to a necromancer, was far more important than the body. He managed not to give in to the initial reaction of laughing at the absurdity. He had no doubt it would trouble or offend the poor scholar. Yet, he desperately needed to ease the man's torment. Giving in to instinct, he got on his knees before Cain to force him to meet his eyes and took the old man's wrinkled hands into his own.
"Don't... I mean..." he struggled to find words and then gave up. "My friend, you saved me from madness and corruption. All I can say is thank you, though it doesn't seem nearly enough."
The relief that flooded Cain's expression finally broke his composure. Pyresong's scrambled brain coughed up something he absolutely didn't have a filter to stop at the moment as he stood up to return to his chair.
"Although, I must say, I didn't see psychic voyeurism as a hobby of yours..."
He couldn't finish it. Cain's own surprised laugh had him laughing outright. And, yes, half of it was still near-giddy relief as he could finally banish those dark and terrifying possibilities. He was pleased to hear Cain's laughter echoing his. For a minute, Cain had looked lost and afraid. The tea was ready by the time they had settled down to the occasional giggle. They still chuckled periodically as they sipped their too-hot tea.
Now, he had to wonder, though. How much had Cain seen? Did he know about the dreams? Had he seen Rathma's visit? The journal? Finally, he just had to ask.
"How much of what you saw in my memories made sense to you?"
Cain frowned, his eyes locked on his cup. "Most of it, I think," he replied cautiously.
"Be at ease, my friend. I only ask so that, perhaps, you might be able to give me some perspective one day," he said soothingly. "Clearly, you're not ready to discuss it further. And, truth be told, I'm not sure I am, either. My head feels a little...disorganized right now."
"Understandable."
"I just hope one day you'll share your memories with me. Verbally, of course," Pyresong couldn't resist adding the last to tweak the old man.
Cain huffed a laugh and then downed his tea nearly in one gulp. He quickly got more. Watching him more closely, Pyresong realized the man was struggling with some very obvious physical side effects of yesterday's events.
"You're still hurting." He set aside his tea to go get his backpack from upstairs.
Cain waved him back toward his chair. "Bah! Just some bruises. I think the damage to my pride was more extensive than the damage to my backside."
Accepting this, Pyresong settled back into his chair, still trying to put away all those swirling memories and emotions. After a few minutes of silence, Cain muttered something darkly about Baal's irrevocable corruption and its effect on the shards.
He shook his head and said, "I'm sorry, but...I am truly at a loss."
"Despair will do us no good, my friend," he said gently.
Cain seemed about to say something snappish back but stopped himself. He heaved a tired-sounding sigh and set aside his cup.
"You're right, of course. There must be an answer somewhere! There always is. But I will need to go through everything again. The Horadric texts are the answer, I can feel it! I must have missed something. But there are so few references to the research on the Worldstone shards... They were very closely guarded secrets. That kind of power in the wrong hands... Well, you've seen for yourself."
"I understand. It will take some time. I'll be happy to help however I can," he offered.
Silently, Cain wrestled with himself for a few seconds. While he had initially welcomed Pyresong's help in this endeavor, he was extremely reluctant now. The priest had suffered enough. They had been lucky that all the shards had done was try to forcibly stop him from shutting them away again. The horrifying possibilities still danced around the edges of his mind. No, at this point, he would not have been surprised in the least if Pyresong was ready to walk away from all of this. Yet, Cain knew his own mind and heart were still reeling and coming to terms with how he felt about Pyresong now. Was he being irrational in considering turning the man away?
Cain shook his head to shake it all off. Much of this, he would just have to figure out later. Right now, he had a simple task he could focus on until his mind settled.
"I have a mess to clean up before I can even try to get back to work," he said, pointing to the pile of destruction where his worktable had once been. "Besides, Charsi is probably driving herself to distraction, wanting to talk with you. She'll want to hear more about what went on in Dark Wood. Hopefully, by the time you two are finished, I'll be ready to resume. Oh, and while you're out, I'll give you some gold. I'm going to need a new work table. You should be able to find one at the market fairly inexpensive."
"I'll be happy to if you're sure you couldn't use an extra set of hands here."
Cain waved him off. "No, I'll be fine."
Pyresong stretched, feeling his muscles ache slightly from the strain yesterday, he assumed. Then he turned his attention to Cain's mattress. While Cain eyed the catastrophic damage under the window that had once been his work table, Pyresong easily hefted the mattress and blankets back into their proper place. Once finished, he gathered up the rest of his belongings and returned them to his backpack. Again, he briefly considered further grooming, but he shook it off. He now understood it was likely a subconscious reaction to what had happened to him yesterday. Besides, he didn't look completely unkempt. It would do for now; Charsi was sure to have seen worse. And Cain was right; she was likely beside herself with concern by now since they had not come out of the workshop since he arrived. Feeling a bit more put together, he made his way back downstairs. Cain was sifting through the piles of what was and wasn't salvageable from the desk, muttering darkly.
"Don't lose hope, Cain. I'm sure you will find something," he assured, double-checking his small side satchel and purse before leaving.
Cain just grumbled something in another language that had the feel of a profanity in return and kept shifting parchments and books around. Pyresong laughed softly, making a mental note to ask the old man what that one was. His one vulgar indulgence was building an extensive vocabulary of profanities, obscenities, and curses for special occasions. Though he never used them in conversation, there were times he felt them imminently appropriate. And, sometimes, they were just fun entertainment.
Stepping out into the morning sunshine, he took a deep breath. Yes, he felt cooped up and needed a walk and fresh air. He also needed to sort through some feelings and thoughts. The memories swirling around in a chaotic, jumbled mess was one thing. But his emotions were all over the place along with them, as if he wasn't just remembering but reliving some of them. He would keep his oath about not prodding those other memories, but the rest of it just felt so...scattered. He needed time to think and let things sort themselves out. He hoped a couple of days and some meditation would help put it all back where it belonged.
He set his pace to a steady, comfortable stroll. As always, he was aware of looks, and even stares, his white face and hair attracted. At the moment, he barely cared. Now that he knew the trick about involving a magistrate, he figured he could handle it on his own if he were approached again. And it was a perfectly beautiful day. The sun was warm, the skies clear, and even the smells of the city were wafted away on a gentle breeze. He also found himself heavily distracted by the beauty of the architecture in this part of the city. Suddenly, he very much wanted to see the fountain and pond in the middle of Central Square.
Rounding the corner into the Central Square, he found himself reflexively spinning sideways and almost right into a lamp post when Charsi came barreling around the corner at a sprint. Charsi herself danced deftly sideways, trying to avoid slamming right into him. Her cheeks blazed furiously in embarrassment before she realized who she had nearly run right over.
"There you are! Is everything all right?"
He smiled and steadied her as she recovered from the near collision. "We're fine, Charsi."
"No one answered last night, and I thought..."
"We're all right, I assure you. Cain is cleaning up a bit of a mess. I was just headed to your shop to fill you in."
Charsi's smile lit the street. "Now that I know some kind of apocalypse didn't happen, I can get back to work."
He laughed softly. In a much more sedate pace than she had used to get there, they headed toward Rakkis Plaza. Spying a vendor with fresh meat pasties just coming out of the oven, he paused momentarily. He had not eaten anything since dinner the day before, and not even much of that. His stomach growled in protest at the neglect to remind him. He got two. Charsi declined, having eaten her own breakfast. Waiting for the pasties to cool as they resumed their trek, he began to fill her in on the events of Dark Wood. Unlike his version of events to Cain, this one was much abbreviated and somewhat sterilized. Clearly, she knew Kashya very well. To Charsi, she was an older sister and something of a mentor. If Kashya wanted to discuss her love interests, that was up to her. He was not about to go there, especially right now, with his mind and heart still feeling more than a bit disorganized.
Once they reached the shelter of the forge and its privacy, Pyresong glanced around to ensure none of the hardworking apprentices were within hearing range. Then he leaned in and whispered about their failure with the shards' destruction. Concern painted her face once more, but she knew better than to say or do anything to draw attention to their whispered conversation. Of all people, she knew just how much of a target Cain was, hiding those things in his own workshop. As powerful as the Horadrim was, even he could not hold out forever against hordes of demons. And Pyresong had absolutely no desire to discuss what the shards had done to him or how Cain had had to intervene. For now, it was enough that she knew their first real attempt to destroy them had failed and that Cain was alive and well.
He quickly filled her in on their ongoing research. Then, he stood back at a more comfortable distance. Charsi nodded that she understood and then picked up a piece to work on, as if to cover her next questions. He was surprised to realize just how much she actually understood of the shards and what they could do. After a few more minutes of assuring her Cain was well and recovering, she finally seemed to let it go. Obviously, she wasn't going to entirely believe it until she saw the elderly scholar for herself. He agreed to let Cain know she would be coming by later.
Then she caught sight of someone approaching her shop. She moved over toward the display table to greet them. The man looked kitted out for war right there in the plaza. Pyresong stifled his amusement when he saw several socketed gems and jewels glinting in the bright sunlight. He could already guess what this one was likely after.
"How can I help, friend?" she greeted the customer.
For a moment, the heavily armed and armored man browsed the collections both on the table and on the racks around it. Pyresong, awaiting the man's business conclusion, took the opportunity to browse several items himself. Every single one was excellent quality. Even the non-magical and non-utility items like decorative wind vanes and fence pieces were exquisitely intricate. One that looked to be some sort of wind chime was eye-catching and beautiful. The long, hollow tubes were twisted and etched with climbing ivy vines. He couldn't help admiring her talent in any form it manifested. Having tuned out Charsi and her customer, he was startled out of his admiration a couple minutes later when the man's voice rang through loud and clear.
"...touched by a filthy death mage!"
He spun around, angry words ready on his lips before he had a chance to stop himself. Thankfully, he didn't have to. Charsi beat him to it. Realizing what he'd almost done, he was appalled. He had been accustomed to such things for decades and almost didn't even hear it anymore. The idea that he'd almost lost his composure that quickly and easily disturbed him. He swiftly took himself in hand and forced himself to the serene mask he'd learned to wear in public.
"You won't be doing business with me, then," Charsi snapped coldly. "You can try the market over there. I hope you survive your own stupidity!"
He was still mentally chastising himself about the near outburst when Charsi turned back to him sheepishly.
"Sorry about that."
"There's nothing for you to be sorry for," he assured her. "He was an ignorant man with his own opinions. I'm just sorry you've lost business."
"Are you kidding? That idiot won't survive the next walk in the alleys around here. With that attitude, someone will teach him a hard lesson. Most of his kind don't survive with the thugs in this city. But it doesn't stop them from picking fights anyway."
Pyresong nodded. He knew the type.
"Oh, yeah! You weren't here!"
Quickly, she explained the city's latest gang war going on in the shadows and alleys of Westmarch. Apparently, Vic wasn't the only one attacked in broad daylight recently. Now that the problem had drawn the attention of the nobles, word had been spread far and wide regarding some hefty bounties on all the city's gang members and thugs. It seemed like wannabe heroes were flocking to the city to do something about it, and make money off the thieves' corpses and bounties offered by the city guards. He just shook his head. He had never understood the desire to draw attention and try to make a mark on history. But everyone wanted a legacy, he supposed. Briefly, he wondered what it said about his nature that he didn't. For as long as he could remember, he just wanted to come and go in this world, leaving no reason for anyone to remember he had ever existed. And that was long before Rathma's visit.
"But, hey, to each their own, right?" Charsi added with a shrug. "A lot of adventurers like to test themselves. Why not get rich doing it?"
"I supposed they spend a significant portion of that on your shop?" he teased with a grin.
"The more, the merrier!" Charsi shot right back. "I've actually taken on some new apprentices. Business really is booming."
He just couldn't imagine ever being so bored or desperate for money that he would need to tangle with city gangs. But he did consider his dwindling purse. It had enough to last him several months, provided he didn't have to purchase something like a new set of armor. A few platinum, a couple hundred gold, and a handful of jewels could go a long way in the right circumstances. Now that he had some inside help here in a city as big as Westmarch, it might last him for many years, even with all the typical gouging he experienced. And he considered his new backpack. That bag would be incredibly useful if he came across anything that seemed valuable, beyond the little things he could fit in his pockets or satchel.
He ate his pasties and answered what questions he could about the events in Dark Wood while she worked. She had lots to say about his venture. She was deeply concerned to hear about the Countess, but he assured her the Sisterhood was in good hands with Akara and Kashya. Their numbers may have been decimated by the Bloodsworn traitors, but they had survived centuries. They would rebuild, as they always had. Though, he did gently remind her to find the time to go see them herself with that amulet she'd been given.
Finished with his meat pasties and his tale, he bid her farewell and headed across the plaza to the now-open market just to the south. It was getting to be late morning, and the place was absolutely chaotic with activity. People all around him were buying, selling, trading, and sometimes just talking. It was a distinctly uncomfortable place for anyone used to being alone most of the time. And, as ever, he was not entirely surprised to see spaces opening up around him when people realized a Priest of Rathma walked among them. Many threw him open looks of disgust or fear as they backed away. As long as they left him alone, he paid only enough attention to identify a threat. He was just grateful he hadn't caught sight of any cut-purses roaming about. This kind of bustling market was like a magnet for their kind. And he had absolutely no desire to draw attention to himself defending his purse.
He passed through various sections, trying to find what he sought. It didn't take long before he became somewhat irritated at the occasional, accidental jostling. He stifled the irritation and then covered it with his usual serene mask, though it was a bit more of a struggle than he would have liked. He was already considering other places where he might find a new table for Cain that would involve far less crowding when he finally spied a larger section of wood artisans and their wares. It appeared that the three of them had banded together to rent space at the market. His eyes were immediately drawn to the fine quality of the pieces. Seeing him browsing, the eldest of the gentlemen approached with a smile that quickly faded once he realized what he was addressing. Pyresong ignored his reaction, keeping his demeanor as serene as ever while he explained what he was looking for.
"I'm sorry, I don't have anything matching your...needs. Good day to you, sir."
The chilly politeness was almost worse than an open insult. However, he gave no indication of this as he bid the man farewell politely and moved on. After a few more hours of roaming the market, it was clear the best of the choices had been that first one. He had even spied exactly what he thought Cain would appreciate, and in the right size. But he didn't dare go back and show interest. Even if he could convince them to sell to him, a Priest of Rathma, they would gouge his purse so badly he'd feel it for months. Casually, he returned the way he had passed before to eye the desk out of the corner of his eye more carefully. Yes, it was exactly what he wanted for his friend. And, at most, it could not be more than maybe an inch too wide. No matter, book cases were easily moved.
Leaving the market, he briefly considered seeking an actual shop in this huge city. There had to be more than this one trio of woodworkers. But it was just as likely they wouldn't sell to him, either. Besides, that desk was unique and absolutely perfect for what he wanted to give Cain. No, he would have to get help from Charsi. It chafed, but it was better than returning empty-handed or, worse, dealing with black market merchants. Turning his steps north toward her shop, he was surprised to find himself being hailed by what appeared to be a wealthy merchant.
Very wealthy, he amended seeing the array of gems and expensive clothing.
"How can I help you, sir?" he offered, more than a little wary.
He kept his expression as serene as ever but could not prevent a slightly cold edge. He was not having a good day. And, honestly, he was in no mood to deal with anyone else right now. To his surprise, the man's smile only widened.
"No, 'how can I help you', is the question. I'm not afraid to do business with a Priest of Rathma, unlike some of my idiotic peers. I saw you at Bartholomew's display. I'm assuming the arrogant prick turned you away."
"Indeed, he did."
"No matter! I'll be happy to get what you need." He extended his hand. "My name is Fizriah. I am a sort of go-between for various buyers and sellers. Some of them prefer to remain anonymous for their own reasons. I never ask. My primary currency is that of the knights of this city. They're called Hilts."
He produced a strange little coin from his pocket. Yes, Pyresong remembered these. They were only really used by official knights and their apprentices or squires. Most of the time, they were traded in for gold or platinum to deal with more common merchants.
"I am familiar with them, but they are not a currency I carry," he replied, hoping that would be enough to rid himself of this new nuisance.
Fizriah flipped the coin and made it disappear as if by magic. "Not to worry! It is not my only source of business. As I said, it is just the one I work with the most. And I'm well-equipped to get you some in a fair exchange. Hilts buy far more in this city than just material items. Bartholomew will accept a fraction of the number of Hilts as gold coins. He 'knows' he's selling to an honored knight. Though he'll never know who."
Pyresong considered this. Though he had no feeling of deception from the man, something still felt...shady. He eyed Fizriah coldly.
"And what will this exchange and help cost me?"
Fizriah's greasy businessman smile disappeared completely. Now he was all seriousness. "For a Priest of Rathma, the first one is free."
He smirked and shook his head. It was too good to be true. "No, thank you."
The man waved his hands to stop him. "I mean it, on my honor as a merchant, and you must know what that is worth. Without our honor and integrity, we can't keep customers. I will do the transaction right now. I will go in there, get what you need, pay the Hilts out of my own pocket, and return to you with the receipt as proof. Then we can do the exchange. And I well know, cheating a necromancer can have much more dire consequences than crossing an assassin."
Pyresong realized others were staring as they passed by. They were drawing attention he had hoped to avoid. Yet, he still sensed there was so much more behind the haughty man's eagerness to help than just making coin. In his own words, he wasn't making any coin off this little transaction. Pyresong crossed his arms.
"Do you now? And you can tell me off the top of your head the gold value of a Hilt before you have a chance to make—"
"One gold will get you ten Hilts," the man cut him off, knowing he was being tested.
He considered this. He really did want that desk for Cain. And there was still Charsi. He glanced toward her shop to gauge how busy she was at the moment.
As if reading his mind, Fizriah said, "I've seen you talking to Charsi. More than once. If you don't trust me, we can go speak with her. She will vouch for me."
"Yes, let's do that," he accepted readily.
Fizriah walked in silence as they approached the busy forge a few minutes later. Glancing up between her work, she smiled and waved them to come around the other side, away from all the customers and apprentices.
"Hiya, Fizriah!" she greeted him with a handshake. "How can I help you?"
"Just what I've been asking him!" Fizriah told her with a smile as he gestured toward Pyresong.
"He offered to help me purchase a new desk for Cain...in Hilts."
Charsi's eyes got wide. And then she frowned as she turned back to Fizriah.
"You know this won't change what's happened."
Fizriah seemed panicked for a moment. "No! No! Not like that! But it'll make me feel better. But he doesn't trust me."
Charsi sighed and patted the man on the shoulder comfortingly. "All right, then." Then she turned to Pyresong, "I would have helped."
"I know, but he approached me at the market."
"Gotcha. Well, the answer is yes. You can trust him with your money and your secrets. Any purchases you need, really. If he chooses to tell you why, that's up to him."
Fizriah's smile was enormous as he shook her hand again. He was clearly relieved that she hadn't told him...something.
We all have our stories, I suppose, he thought as they left the shop.
"What is your usual rate for these sorts of transactions?"
"It depends on the difficulty and expense of what I'm acquiring. But, like I said earlier, this one's free."
"Why?"
Fizriah's smile slipped again for a moment. "It is a long story and not one I care to recount. Please, accept it as a gift, and return to me when you need."
"I'll consider it, depending on how things turn out today, of course."
"Fair enough."
As they approached the market entrance, they paused. Pyresong described the desk he wanted to purchase. For a moment, he debated having Charsi help him collect it later. But Charsi was very busy, and there was no telling when she would be available. The market might even be closed when she wrapped up for the night. He opted to purchase anonymously, of course, as a gift to be delivered to Cain's workshop.
"Consider it done!"
Fizriah disappeared into the crowd. Trying to look engrossed in the other stalls and merchants nearby, he roamed around for a bit through Rakkis Plaza. He was quite surprised to find the man looking for him less than thirty minutes later.
"Done and arranged. They will get a cart to have it transported this very afternoon. Twenty-three gold, including the delivery cost."
Pyresong's eyebrows shot up in mute surprise. At the rate of exchange, that would be... Not possible. He took the receipt. It was genuine and even had the craftsman's unique seal stamped into the wax. Two hundred and twenty-five Hilts.
"You were not exaggerating," he said, unable to completely conceal his surprise. "I had expected to spend at least ten times that amount in gold."
"I told you! Hilts buy a lot. The renown attached to them is worth more than gold or platinum. And Bartholomew will consider it an honor to have his work spoken of in a knight's household."
He shook his head in wonder as he dug into his purse. "Somehow, it still doesn't feel right. But it's his choice to sell at those rates."
"Exactly. And, as I also said before, he's an arrogant prick that would turn his nose up at perfectly ordinary gold just because it came from a Priest of Rathma. That's his problem. Not yours, and not mine."
He handed over twenty-five, still unsure of the man's usual rates. "Keep it. You saved me a ton of gold and some headaches. Next time, just tell me what you wish to charge."
"Dislike being in debt to anyone, eh?" Fizriah said slyly.
"Something like that," he muttered, shaking the man's hand and turning away abruptly.
He was...irritable. The crowds, the unnecessary hassle, even Fizriah's smile and overly helpful demeanor were all grating on him. He was ready for some time alone in the quiet space of Cain's workshop. It was nearing midday, anyway. Struggling to shake off his tension, he forced his face to serenity again, surprised at how much of a struggle it was. He strolled casually away from the busy Rakkis Plaza. He breathed more easily once he passed through the less crowded Central Square. Despite his earlier desire to stop and appreciate the beautiful fountain and detailed stonework, he walked right past it. Rounding the corner onto the nearly deserted street, he heaved a sigh of pure relief. Yes, most assuredly, his mind was in disorder, and it was showing through his rapidly shifting emotions. He just hoped a few days of quiet would help him put everything back in place.
It's like a badly organized library in here, he thought, amused.
Letting himself in, he was not entirely surprised to find Cain still sitting on the floor, hours later grumbling to himself about the mess and the destroyed notes. He wasn't entirely sure if it was some sort of procrastination tactic or if the old man really was struggling. Either way, he was here to help now. And he was in a bit of a hurry to get the area cleared. As he knelt beside Cain, he saw something of a pattern to the piles of parchments, books, ink, and quills. And, then of course, the unsalvageable stuff in a further pile. It slightly amazed him how much had been piled on that worn old table. He urged the old man to go get a cup of tea while he carefully relocated the piles to another corner of the room. After all, their dinner would likely be arriving soon. The other table was not a good idea.
"Oh, blast it," Cain said from his rocking chair. "I forgot to give you some gold to find another worktable."
"Not to worry. I've handled it. It will arrive this afternoon," he assured, making more progress in the rubble in five minutes than a distracted Cain made in five hours.
Within thirty minutes, and almost the same time their midday meal arrived on a little cart, Pyresong was finishing up. All that was really left was to remove the chunks of table and sweep up the rest. He motioned for Cain to go ahead and start eating without him while he hurriedly finished this part up. He was a little concerned that the desk would arrive before he finished.
This sense of urgency must have been prophetic. Just as he joined Cain at the food table, his sensitive ears picked up the sound of a small but heavily laden cart coming from the direction of Central Square. He waited a few more seconds to be certain it was headed in their direction. He realized he'd never heard a horse-drawn cart coming this way before, so it must be them. He motioned for Cain to remain in his seat as he headed for the door. He spotted the two burly men walking beside the donkey-drawn cart. The desk had been carefully wrapped in soft cloth to avoid damaging it during its short trip across the city. One of the men frowned darkly, seeing a necromancer in the intended doorway.
"A gift for Elder Cain, from a 'friend,'" he man growled.
"You're in the right place, gentlemen. Here is the receipt as proof of your delivery," he said, trying to ignore the obvious disgust.
The one guy huffed, clearly not happy dealing with a Priest of Rathma. But what choice did he have? After a long, drawn-out moment where Pyresong was sure the man was trying to think of a way around this—if for no other reason than pure spite—he was about to go fetch some gold out of his purse. It was that, or he was going to say something obscene he would later regret.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Cain asked, stepping up behind him.
"No, sir, Elder. A gift from a knight."
"A knight?" he was puzzled for a moment.
Turning his back to the men, he gave Cain a wink. "Yes, a well-dressed gentleman gave me this receipt while I was visiting with Charsi in Rakkis Square. I'm sorry I hadn't had a chance to pass it to you when I returned."
"Oh! That gift!" Cain played along, curious. "Please, bring it on in, if you would be so kind, gentlemen."
Cain glared at him curiously, still obviously puzzled as he moved back inside at Pyresong's urging. Try as he might, Pyresong could not help the mischievous grin that planted itself firmly on his face. Cain was forced to retreat to his fireside chair. While the men unwrapped the desk, he dug a few gold out of his purse, anyway. They would appreciate it, he was sure, and would be a lot less likely to damage it with such incentive. There was a bit of discussion on the best way to get it through the small door. He visibly and audibly placed the gold on the table before coming over to assist by moving Cain's bed a little out of the way. Once the bulky desk was inside, he directed them to the newly emptied space under the window. There, they fit it in with a couple of inches to spare on either side. They didn't even have to move any shelves.
Perfect! he thought, proud of his guesswork.
He handed them the now expected gold and thanked them politely as they left quickly, wanting to spend not one second more in the presence of a Priest of Rathma. He was too pleased at the moment even to feel insulted. By this point, Cain was running his hands on the smooth, polished surface of the wood. Its heavily carved decorative theme of scrolls and quills was exquisite. But he frowned as he rounded on his friend.
"This must have cost a fortune!"
"Actually, it's an interesting tale. But, no, twenty-five gold...well, twenty-nine if you count the bit I just gave them for the delivery."
"How in the world... I know Charsi's bargaining skills are some of the best, but still..."
"Does the name 'Fizriah' mean anything to you?"
Cain's eyes got wide for a moment before his expression turned sad. "Yes. And now I understand. Hilts trade, I take it?"
"Yes. Is there something wrong?"
"No, he's entirely honest in his trading, almost to a fault. But he's still trying to make up for something that never should have happened and wasn't his fault to begin with."
"Charsi wouldn't tell me more."
"Nor should she," Cain agreed. "It's his story to tell, and I doubt he ever will. But I can assure you no matter if it seems too good to be true, he is honest and trustworthy. He never cheats, even the craftsman who sell exclusively to knights." Cain chuckled, "If anything, he uses their own snobbery against them! He's a clever man."
Cain turned back to the desk, marveling at the beautiful and practical work of art. "Thank you, my friend. I will cherish this."
"I'll settle for putting it to good use," he said, reaching for a nearby pile of parchments.
As he gathered them up, one slipped through his fingers and drifted somewhere behind him. Rather than risk losing more trying to catch it, he placed that stack on the new desk for Cain to begin sorting through. He located the rogue parchment nearly halfway across the room. It was a charcoal sketch of someone named Zoltun Kulle. He didn't like the look of it. Some kind of mage, he assumed. The man's expression was one of power and arrogance. He quickly placed it on the desk beside Cain and reached for a stack of books.
"By the Heavens! That's it! I've been a bloody fool of an old man!"
Cain's sudden excitement drew his attention in concern for a moment. He quickly dropped the stack of books back on the floor and came over to peer over his shoulder.
"What is it?"
"This... But that's impossible," Cain said, clearly talking to himself. "Still, what if... There's no way it could be..."
Patiently, and with no small amount of amusement, he waited while Cain nearly knocked over his chair running to a nearby shelf of books. He muttered something to himself that the necromancer couldn't make out. Finally, Cain pulled out a very thin volume, written in his own sharply angular handwriting. Turning back to the desk, Cain began to explain.
"Zoltun Kulle was one of the most powerful Horadrim to have ever lived," the scholar explained. "It was centuries ago, and he was eventually destroyed by his own brotherhood. The histories are almost nonexistent about his research. The Horadrim of the time, and subsequent generations, worked hard to erase all mention of him." Cain flipped through pages. "But he was one of the original creators of the soulstones that were used to imprison the Prime Evils. They, too, were shards of the Worldstone that the Archangel Tyrael had helped them acquire to study and make into soulstones."
"He worked with shards of the Worldstone, then?" Pyresong asked, getting a feeling of where this was going.
"Yes! And so much more. But, more importantly, he left behind libraries, workshops, and other things that were...trans-dimensional, I believe is the word. Some of them only had doorways in Sanctuary, and others were literally under Sanctuary. The Horadrim destroyed almost all knowledge of where to find them, but I did find a reference to one some years ago. I think it was..."
Cain went silent as he scanned the pages of the little book he'd taken off the shelf. Caught up in the elderly Horadrim's rising excitement, he couldn't help peeking over his shoulder at the untidy scrawl. He held his questions as patiently as possible, reading over the older man's shoulder. It looked more like a project journal than a book. Crude maps, scribbled notes, and even just random personal comments littered the pages in what looked like a bit of a mess.
"There! Yes! The area now known as the Shassar Sea! I was right!" He turned to Pyresong, "If we can locate and gain access to this library, I'm sure we'll find what we need there."
He let this sink in, impressed. He nodded thoughtfully. "Searching the world over for traces of a man who died centuries ago is no small feat. I can't imagine how you did it."
Cain laughed and waved this off in his excitement. "That was the easy part. The hard part will be searching the deserts and finding a way in."
They were both quiet as they considered this possibility. Then Cain sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging with obvious disappointment.
"People have been hunting for these workshops and libraries for centuries, ever since the Horadrim failed to expunge the rumor of them. And then they essentially tried to pretend they didn't exist. Others came looking. No one has ever returned from their hunt to confirm they even exist. I was unable to find more than rumors. But there were several ancient tales passed down in this one area of the Shassar Sea. It was too frequent and widespread in that area to ignore. Very likely, there is an entrance, at least, somewhere in that specific area around Greater Fahir."
"Do you have a better idea?"
"No," Cain sighed again. "But I'll keep looking."
"And I'll go to the Shassar Sea. Maybe there's some locals that will help."
"Ha!" Cain barked. "I barely survived the locals! The human ones were as hard as the steel they carried. Bandits and murderers, most of them. Then there's the lacuni, sand wolves, sand monsters that swim in the sand like it's water to then come up underneath to bit your legs off or drag you under. And the bugs..." Cain shuddered visibly. "Sand wasps bigger than dogs! Literally everything there is wanting to and capable of killing a person. If the locals are feeling generous, they'll just slit your throat. If not, it can take days to die staked to the ground in the open sun. No, my friend. It is not a place I wish to see again."
"Then it's a good thing you're not coming with me," Pyresong said with a smirk.
Cain nearly jumped up from his chair. Pyresong held him down gently with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, friend. Unless you can come up with another idea to destroy the shards, this is at least worth pursuing."
"But I—"
"We can't leave the shards here unguarded. And I wouldn't dare risk taking them with us, even shielded in my backpack," he replied grimly. "No, my friend, you must remain here and continue your research in case I fail."
"If you fail, you won't be coming back," Cain warned.
He huffed a laugh. "And that's any different from my little adventure into the Dark Wood, how? Besides the obvious fact that the Shassar Sea is well beyond Caldeum, I mean."
Cain nodded, frowning darkly. Then he seemed almost sad before he shook his head in resignation. "You are right, my friend. We don't have a choice. But I don't have to like it."
He gently squeezed his shoulder again. "Neither do I. But we will both do what we must."
Cain turned around and pulled out a torn piece of parchment. "We'll need to book you passage on a ship. Here, you can take this note to the Wolf City Tavern near the docks. Look for a man named Captain Rehm. If he's not there, the bartender, Bailey, should know where to find him or when he'll be back in port."
"I'll head there at once," he agreed, happily, mostly for Cain's benefit.
In truth, he sighed mentally at having to deal with more people right now. He immediately resigned himself to the tiresome task and decided to just get it over with as quickly as possible. He shoved his purse in his satchel and headed out. He knew from here he was only a few blocks away from the tavern. It was the same tavern he'd stayed at his first night in Westmarch. He hoped the bartender was still as friendly as he had been the last time. He no longer moved at a stroll. With a purpose and a sense of growing anticipation, he took the back roads and alleys to the tavern. This time, without his gear on and in broad daylight, he hoped to pass as just another citizen. He was in no mood for a confrontation. And his wildly off-kilter emotional and mental states were not helping. Not that he didn't trust himself. He just didn't believe he would handle it with his customary grace and dignity.
Recent events had rattled him, shaken him to his core, and left him feeling vulnerable and exposed, and definitely on edge. He spared a thought for the scythe that he was rather relieved he'd left behind for once. As it was late midday by the time he arrived, most of the dinner patrons had already come and gone. The usual bunch of drunken and rowdy sailors were all that remained. Not quite blocking the entrance were about half a dozen he didn't recognize from his previous "lesson". He glared at them, staggering around reeking of alcohol and unwashed bodies, and passed right through and around them nimbly and skillfully. However, he doubted their inebriation allowed them to realize at that moment that such skill is usually obtained through years of melee combat experience.
Mentally, he sighed with relief. At least he hadn't been called out or accosted. He wondered if they just didn't have time for the input of their eyes to make it all the way to their brains through the alcohol fumes. Whatever the reason, he was inside without incident. Glancing around, he found Bailey helping to clean up a mess near one of the back tables. Bailey saw him coming and paused in his work with the broom. He put a hand on his hip and grinned.
"Welcome back," Bailey said happily. "Thank you, by the way, for helping Jack and his mum. Heard you were staying with Elder Cain?"
Of course, he thought with mild irritation.
The biggest gossips in any city are barkeepers. He neither confirmed or denied the question aimed at him. He knew he didn't need to. In reality, the man was just fishing for more gossip, likely about Cain.
"I'm looking to book passage for a voyage to the eastern lands, and a friend told me that I might find help in this tavern. Would you happen to know of a Captain Rehm?"
"Your friend's a wily one, whoever they are. Yeah, you're in the right place. But the guy you're looking for is likely outside...pirates tend to get a little rowdy."
Pirate? Interesting, he mused.
And yet, this didn't seem to surprise him, given what little he knew of Cain. Before he could question Bailey further, they were both distracted. Unexpectedly, there was the sound of raised voices around the corner near the front entrance. This was followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the wooden planks of the outside wall and the sound of a bottle or two being shattered.
"Gods damn it!" Bailey swore. "If they're starting a fight out there, they better not bring it inside!" Then he turned to Pyresong, irritation written all over his face. "What are you waiting for? An invitation to the brawl?"
Pyresong couldn't help shaking his head in irritation. Of course, this was his luck. His first appearance here having been in full gear covered in gore from recent battles, Bailey knew full well what he was likely capable of. He was so not in the mood. He sighed heavily, covering a growl. He rounded the corner to the open doorway and, sure enough, a bit of a brawl was going on. What had been a half a dozen people was now an easy dozen or more. Six of them were fighting drunkenly in the street while a giant, scarred-up thug and a couple of cronies confronted another man in a wide-brimmed hat with a rather ridiculously large red feather sticking out of one side of it. The man with the hat stood casually, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
Pyresong was not fooled. The telltale twitch of the man's fingers told him the guy was clearly armed with hidden knives in addition to the sword at his hip. That posture just put them in easier reach. And the boot he had planted against the wall spoke of a readiness to launch himself in almost any direction except backwards in less than a heartbeat. And, of course, where was another, longer blade in that boot just visible from this angle. He caught the angry words of the scruffier man as he and a few others stalked toward the one with the hat.
"It's your fault we lost half the gold, and you know it!"
"Yeah," agreed one of his little minions, "How's about me and my boys take the rest from yer corpses?"
"I'd certainly be amused to see you try," replied the man with the hat, calmly. "It would at least give me a good laugh."
He held back in the shadows of the doorway a moment longer. It was one thing to have a couple of drunken sailors or even pirates going at it with fists. But when the odds were five to one and blades were drawn, it was a mob. Having been on the receiving end of a couple, Pyresong had a very strong dislike of them. He waited, hoping it wouldn't come to that.
Of course, he couldn't possibly be that lucky.
The moment the blades were bared, he made his move. At the same time, so did the man with the hat. At this point, Pyresong had no idea which of them might be Captain Rehm or if any of them were. He could only hope he wasn't making things more difficult on himself. He kicked one crony neatly in the stomach, sending him staggering backward to fall on his rump. He dodged the clumsy knife swing from the other and punched him squarely in the cheek, knocking him flat on his back. Meanwhile, the man with the hat had made a similar move. No blade from him, yet.
Suddenly, the whole game changed.
"A thousand gold to whoever takes out the tough one!" the biggest thug called out.
The man with the hat leaned back in his position against the wall, throwing a wicked grin at Pyresong.
"This should be interesting," the man said.
Pyresong muttered a vile profanity under his breath. With the other men having recovered from their blows, he now found himself confronted with all five pirates. Luckily, he was still in the doorway, limiting how many could get at him. And with the monetary incentive, several more drunken sots were leaving their own fights and heading his way.
Lovely.
Even without his scythe and armor, he was used to fighting with whatever he had: skill and experience mostly. These men were used to drunken brawling involving swinging, biting, or kicking anything that moved, even their own people. He gave them one warning in the form of a predatory smile as he made his hands glow with prepared spirit fire. That was usually enough to get through the alcohol fumes. If it didn't stop them, it usually at least gave them pause.
It worked beautifully this time. Despite the monetary incentive, at least four of them backed far away from him. Even if they didn't recognize him as a Priest of Rathma, people with glowing hands were typically some form of mage and did not fight "fair" in their drunken opinion. Unfortunately, those four were the ones in the very back. Probably some of the same group he'd encountered previously. But that moment of pause from the others was all he really needed. In their inebriated states, they couldn't even hope to keep up with his fists and feet as he danced his way through them. Most were on the ground in seconds, and a few more were running. The biggest thug that had called out the reward curled up on the ground with his arms over his head.
"Stop! Please! We only wanted to scare 'em into giving up the gold! Mercy!"
Pyresong, beyond irritated at this point, resisted the urge to kick the man back to his feet. Instead, he backed off in clear disgust.
"Bailey dislikes brawling. Get out of here. You had best keep it on the docks from now on."
The last couple of men recovered from their blows and took off just ahead of the big thug. Behind him, the man with the hat laughed heartily and applauded. Pyresong rounded on him angrily, his fists already twitching and ready for another target.
"Well done!" the man said, stepping forward. "Most Priests of Rathma don't understand the concept of a good old-fashioned tavern brawl. Or don't appreciate it, at any rate. Letting them live was a wise move. Pirates like that come and go. Never know when you'll be forced to work with them again."
He stifled his anger, hoping this one would at least be willing to answer some questions.
"I'm looking for a Captain Rehm. Please tell me that wasn't him I just thrashed."
The man laughed even more heartily. "Him? Nah, just the usual pirate scum. Now, me, I have finesse and charm. Who's looking for him?"
He eyed the pirate for a moment. The well-kept goatee and immaculate clothing made it obvious he was not one of the usual pirate scum that Pyresong was accustomed to encountering. Whatever he was, the man obviously recognized him as a necromancer, and a clear flicker of fear had crossed his face at the mention of the name. His initial instinct with pirates and the like was to scare the information out of them. However, he had a feeling that wasn't likely to work with this one, anyway. Acting on a hunch, he removed the note from his satchel. Already irritable and in no mood to play these games, he forced his tone to neutral rather than frigid.
"I need to book a passage to the eastern lands. I was told I could find Captain Rehm here at the tavern."
He held the note as if he was going to hand it over, and then pulled back at the last moment. "Are you Captain Rehm?" he demanded softly, letting a chill creep into his expression and voice.
"Depends on who's asking," the man said, not backing down from his intimidating gaze.
"Elder Cain," he finally replied, unsure if he admired the man's willingness to endure the stare down or if he was more irritated by the fact that it hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped.
"That sly old man!" Rehm laughed. "Caught me in a corner, didn't he? Well, let me see it."
He watched the captain smile to himself as he read the short letter.
Rehm,
The time had come for me to call in an old favor. This Priest of
Rathma carries the fate of the world on his shoulders. Please,
take him where he needs to go.
—Deckard Cain
"Yep, calling in his favor, sure enough." He slipped the note into his pocket and eyed Pyresong more seriously. "'Fate of the world'... Yes, it's a code to ensure I'm not being tricked. But, knowing what I know of him, he might just be serious."
Pyresong kept silent.
"Fine, then. Where are we headed?"
"Ever heard of the Shassar Sea?"
Rehm's smile disappeared, and he blinked in surprise. "Course I have. Didn't realize you had a death wish, though.”
When Pyresong gave no reaction to the statement, Rehm glanced around, though Pyresong got no sense he was trying to wriggle his way out of the situation. Then the dark eyes returned to his, more curious than concerned.
“I usually don't go that far out. But, after this little spat, my men and I might need to spend some time outside the city..."
He removed his hat and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, clearly thinking furiously. For once, Pyresong didn't have the impression that someone was trying to think their way out of dealing with him. Returning his hat with a wry grin, the captain nodded and presented his hand.
"All right, you have a deal. It'll take me at least three days to restock and prep the ship. We can sail with the morning tide the day after."
"Agreed, then," he said, shaking to seal the deal, almost surprised the handshake had been offered at all.
The captain flashed another amused grin. "Now I've just got to figure out what the hells I'm going to tell my men about a necromancer spending weeks aboard my ship."
"Hire a new crew," he shot back more coldly than he intended.
The captain just laughed again as he headed for the docks. Halfway down the block, he turned back.
"You tell crazy old man he owes me a dinner when I get back!"
He nodded, his expression still cold, and waited for the pirate captain to get out of sight around a corner. Speaking of food, he'd forgotten his own dinner when the desk arrived. The events of the day had left him tired, at least mentally. Heading back toward the quiet safety of Cain's workshop, he shook it off, though. They had much to discuss before he left. And he wanted to make sure it wasn't all research, either.
Despite the explanation of events from the previous day and night, he couldn't help feeling that his closeness to Cain had developed even before then. Something had kindled the very first night they met in the church. And he knew beyond a doubt that the old man knew far more about him than the other way around.
It was time to hear some of Cain's tales.
***
Knowing it would take a few days for Rehm to restock, Pyresong turned his attention back to the contents of Cain's workshop. Cain had resumed his research, exceedingly happy with his new desk. Meanwhile, Pyresong felt at a bit of a loss. He offered several times to help Cain with his research and was brushed off. Honestly, he couldn't read most of the books Cain was now researching anyway. They were in a variety of other languages he had never learned. More than anything, he just tried to stay out of Cain's way and make the best of things.
The second day after Cain had rifled through his memories, he felt at least a bit more organized in his head and a lot less disoriented. Definitely much more his usual, calm self. Nevertheless, he found his mind wandering back to recent memories. While he was able to mostly convince himself he'd gotten justice for Lucian and—more importantly, Alyssa—it did little to soothe the pain of his failure and her loss. She was such a brave, strong little girl. She would have made a great Sister.
But so was Liene, and she died too. She was barely older than a child, too. The injustice of it grated on him. He knew that. But what could he have done differently? Still...
Inevitably, thoughts of Dark Wood and the Sisters brought him back around to Kashya. He angrily ground those thoughts to dust and then shoved the dust into dark holes.
Half in frustration with his wandering mind and emotions, he sighed heavily and gave up on the book he'd been trying to read. It was only a little after breakfast, and he could not focus. Maybe he should just meditate. He set the book aside, wrapped up in his thoughts. He stared at the soothing fire, contemplating where else he might go. He was not looking forward to another day spent with nothing useful to do while his mind chased itself in circles like a cat after its own tail. And he knew wandering the city idly could cause even more problems.
So far, he had tangled with drunken pirates—twice—and some thieves. Seems like every other time he walked the city, it was something. Next time, he might not be so lucky in terms of getting away without bodies being left in his wake. And Charsi had warned him of the gang wars going on in the alleys. The last thing he needed was to be caught in the middle of something like that. Maybe he could...
"What's troubling you?"
Pyresong was so busy with his own thoughts that he hadn't even noticed Cain eyeing him from where he sat at his desk surrounded by mounds of parchment and books nearly covering every available surface. For a moment, he was even more irritated with himself for disturbing the old man's hard work. No, hanging around here wouldn't do either of them any good.
"My apologies, friend. I'll make myself scarce."
"Nonsense!" Cain told him, waving him off. "It's nice to have someone around again. You're no trouble. But if you're feeling restless, why not go for a walk around the city?"
He shook his head as he stood up. "I have no interest in drawing further attention to myself."
Cain eyed his friend for a minute before seeming to come to a decision. "Rehm said it would be at least another day or two before he and his crew were ready to sail. Would you be willing to do me a favor?"
"Of course," he replied eagerly.
He was more than willing to be an errand boy if it gave him something to do besides rummage through his mind and memories for another couple of days. Cain dug around on his desk for a minute. Not finding what he needed, he muttered to himself and moved over to the large satchel he usually carried with him that was loaded with books and parchments. There, he retrieved what he sought.
"There it is," he muttered, pulling out a scroll. "I made this portal scroll a while back, thinking I would use it to return to Wortham. But I haven't dared to leave the shards unguarded. Would you be willing to return there briefly?"
"Certainly, am I looking for something specific?" he asked, genuinely concerned now.
"No, nothing specific," Cain said, considering. "Evil that blankets a land like that can sometimes leave a residue. It can affect anything from people, psychologically, to twisting creatures and the land itself, to cursed plants growing there."
"I understand."
"I have no doubts the guards have recovered considerably and are hunting down the twisted creatures with ease now that the source of their power and corruption is gone."
Cain seemed hesitant.
"But..." Pyresong prompted after a few seconds.
Cain sighed. "The shards are a whole new territory for me. I don't know how much of a lingering influence they might have left in their wake. Or if they've tainted the land itself in some kind of permanent way. I know some people that could help cleanse it, but I don't want to call them in unless it's necessary."
"Understood."
Cain handed over two scrolls. One would be used to get there and the other to come back.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Cain couldn't help asking.
He smiled warmly. "I'm sure. And, to be honest, more than a bit relieved to have something to do at last."
Cain chuckled, "I thought as much. You're far less restless than many I've known and far more comfortable with books. But everyone has those times when forced idleness wears on them."
"Agreed."
It took him only a few minutes to put on his armor and grab his backpack and satchel. By the time he returned downstairs, Cain was once more buried in his work. Only then did he realize the almost frantic quality of Cain's research now. Cain was much more vocal—to himself, at least—telling himself repeatedly that the answer must be in there. He almost felt sorry for him when he realized the old scholar was really looking for any excuse not to send him off to the dangers of the Shassar Sea alone. He silently wished him luck but knew it would likely still need to be done. Besides, normal people not under siege by the undead or cultists and creatures not twisted by magic would be a refreshing experience for him after recent events.
He let himself out as quietly as possible, hoping not to disturb Cain's work further. A little further down the quiet road and near the mouth of an alley, he used the scroll to get to Wortham.
Even in just the couple of weeks since he had last been here, the place had changed much, and for the better. Makeshift barricades had been taken down and replaced with newly crafted, sturdy gates, and sections of wall that had been damaged over the years were being neatly repaired and reinforced. He could easily tell life was returning to normal for these simple people, and he was happy for them.
He rarely ever returned to a place where he had done any significant work. Aside from necromancers being unwelcome in general, there were some that inevitably wanted to reward him or treat him like some kind of village hero. He had even been offered someone's daughter once. He still shuddered mentally when he remembered that delicate situation and his almost desperate escape from it. As ever, the unexpected presence of a Priest of Rathma drew attention here quickly. Some found other places to be, and others... He was surprised to see a few smiling faces across the square.
"Ha! Look who's returned!" a booming voice called out to his right. "Welcome back, friend!"
He recognized the voice instantly as Korrin but was less than enthused by the boisterous greeting and the attention it drew. As usual, he had hoped to come and go quietly after checking a few things. The big man made his way through the crowd easily. Much like with Charsi, the blacksmith had a bone-crushing grip. He hadn't bothered to put on his gloves and gauntlets just yet. Now, he wished he had.
"It's good to see you, Korrin," he said neutrally, opting to ignore the others now watching them intently.
"Whew! And quite the upgrade, I see," Korrin said, eyeballing his armor appreciatively. "Must be doing well for yourself."
He frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"
The man's bushy eyebrows shot up. "You don't know?"
"A blacksmith named Charsi repaired my armor, recently. She said she gave it a 'few minor enhancements.'"
As if just now realizing they were drawing a crowd, Korrin motioned for him to follow back to the slightly less open smithy nearby. There, he motioned for him to take a seat on one stool while he pulled up another one for himself.
"I've heard of this Charsi and seen a bit of her handiwork come through here. She's in Westmarch capitol, right?"
"Yes," he replied, not sure where this was going.
"Well, she's making quite the name for herself, don't you doubt. But yours is a masterpiece of craftsmanship and a lot more powerful than I'm used to seeing." Once again, the blacksmith eyes the armor from various angles. "It's a set."
"So she said."
Korrin began pointing to various pieces as if drawing an invisible line. He visually followed along and caught the tiny engravings of various sigils. He had inspected it for himself on a few occasions and could see the faint lines of magical energies Korrin was following. After a moment to consider it, the blacksmith finally sat back and nodded to himself.
"Each piece plays its own small part. Like your chest plates, it lowers the cost of your energy usage. And your cuisses enhance your natural shielding ability. Then the shoulders enhance your stamina. And so on. But, combined, they form a sort of web of power attuned specifically for the protection and spell needs of a nec...Priest of Rathma."
"Necromancer is fine,” he assured quickly.
"I don't know this Charsi, personally, but I would love to meet her. This is a set I'd never dreamed of seeing in my lifetime. And the gods know I'd never be able to create anything half so nice.” Korrin admitted with obvious awe in his expression. "Good materials can cost a fortune, but the power and skill to enhance just this set alone is almost beyond measure. Several of the pieces are obviously specialized for a necromancer. I only guess that since I don't recognize the enchantments. But just four pieces—chest, shoulders, rerebraces, and belt—would easily fetch you around oh possibly fifteen hundred platinum on the market to the right buyer."
Though Pyresong's outward expression never changed, many things flitted through his mind. That quoted price was one and a half million gold! His mind nearly stuttered and froze at the number. Part of him thought that couldn't be correct. The first coherent thought, of course, was Charsi's generosity. Followed quickly with shock and how he could possibly ever repay her for such a gift. Finally, he just had to shake it off. He'd definitely have a talk with her about it later, though.
To Korrin, he grinned and said, "It's a good thing I'm not enticed by money, or I'd likely be retiring soon." The man laughed along with him. "But thank you for telling me. She certainly said nothing. Other than 'a few minor enhancements'."
"Ha! If that's what she calls 'minor enhancements,' then she's already a legendary craftsman with no peers."
"Indeed," he agreed with a grin.
"If you've been hanging around a place like Westmarch, what brings you back to this neck of the woods, friend?" Korrin asked with no small amount of concern in his curiosity.
"Elder Cain wished to come himself to see how the land was fairing after such a brutal assault. He's busy, so I was sent. How goes things?"
"Quite well, all things considered." Korrin started relaxing a bit, but then his expression grew dark and somber again. "Our population was decimated, I won't lie. There are abandoned farms all over the countryside. There was no one left to return to them."
"Food supplies will likely be a problem in the coming years," he commented, catching on.
Korrin nodded, but then seemed to shake off the moment and smiled again. "We will recover. We always do."
"How is the land? Have you heard any rumors about...twisted places from the guards? Any more cultists lurking about?"
The blacksmith shook his head. "There's still some creatures roaming around, warped by the cultists. The guards are taking them down by the dozens. There are a couple of caves they're working on sealing up. Too much evil has happened there. If there's any place that's been permanently scarred, it's those caves. We've found most of the undead by now, I think."
"Sounds like Wortham has its recovery well in hand."
Korrin nodded proudly. Standing, Pyresong clasped hands with the blacksmith one more time.
"I'll let you get on with your work. And if you ever need help, send word to Elder Cain in Westmarch."
"Will do, friend. Be safe out there."
Stepping out of the shade of the blacksmith's workshop, he glanced around. There were very few guards patrolling the streets right now. Most likely, they had their hands full clearing the countryside. Despite what he'd learned from Korrin, he was reluctant to head back to Westmarch so soon. He would likely be just as confined and restless. There had to be something he could spend the day doing. He was already here. Maybe he could meet up with one of the patrols. He wandered around to the newly rebuilt gates toward the northwestern road out of town. There stood a couple of guards, of course, but ones that appeared to still be recovering from recent events. One was missing his left arm. The other was missing an eye. He was glad to note that both appeared alert, rather than bored with their sentry duty.
He approached them casually to get a general report. He was hoping to meet with the person in charge of the guards in this area to get a full report. After the cultists and Lethes, Captain Azmir had been given command of Wortham. He was out with the rest of the men who were not needed to stand guard at the gates. They were roaming in small groups in an organized pattern, clearing out anything that they found. He produced the maps from his pack to get a better idea of where the hunting parties were working. Supposedly, there was a nest of something on an old farmstead that had been abandoned for decades somewhere to the northeast. A group of less tenured guards led by Azmir were headed that way now to scout the place and report back.
As he stowed the map back in his bag, he considered his options. This farm was a good couple hours' hike away from Ashwold, even. He would maybe catch up to the scouts before midday if he pushed himself. On the other hand, what was there for him to do besides head back to Westmarch and report to Cain? At least this way, he felt like he was doing something. The exercise alone would do him some good with clearing his somewhat scrambled mind. And he could easily use the other scroll from anywhere to return to Westmarch.
Decision made, he headed through the open gates while pulling on his gloves and new gauntlets. Kashya was right; he could feel the difference. His previous gauntlets had been unenchanted and purely for protection until Charsi got a hold of them. These felt somehow more natural. And he hadn't needed them modified in any way, which was always a bonus, given his long, slender fingers. He was also glad he had restocked his healing potions while in the market the other day. While he hoped this little venture would be a simple outing, he hated the idea of going anywhere unprepared.
Taking a deep breath of the warm, pine-scented air, he unhooked his shield and scythe. He set himself at a somewhat faster jog than he normally would. Pushing himself just a bit physically felt good right now. More than anything, he felt as if he had been sitting for too long. He followed the paths that he had pointed out and questioned on the map with the guards earlier. The man said he'd never been there for himself, but they were definitely the fastest way to get there by his estimation. Since the scouting party was working in a sort of grid pattern back and forth to work their way up to it, they were assuredly moving at a much slower pace. Settling into a steady and only slightly strenuous pace, he had some time to think. His eyes never stopped roaming the shadows for any hint of a threat, and his ears were wary for the sounds of creeping things in the forests, but his mind could wander a bit on its own.
Part of him felt much recovered from the previous days' events. Though he had the distinct impression he should be far more disturbed by the idea of Cain having rifled through his memories as he had, he just couldn't bring himself to be upset about it. Sure, he wasn't the type to go around expressing himself to the world, but his level of trust in the old man was unshakable. He knew Cain would never speak of what he'd seen without prompting. He was also somewhat curious about what the old man had seen. He fully expected Cain to mention the journal and the dreams at some point. Some tiny part of him hoped he hadn't seen it or the long-ago nighttime visit that had turned his life in an entirely different direction.
He was used to living his life with other members of his order or entirely on his own. And his master had long ago taught him how to deal with memories and experiences that could influence him for the rest of his life. He'd never hidden anything from his master, but then, that was nearly impossible anyway. He had been a child when his training began. Most were adults and had their own secrets. However, most masters ferreted them out at some point, anyway.
His biggest frustration in the whole situation was the feeling he had somehow lost something. He couldn't entirely rid himself of the sensation that something was missing. As promised, he did not attempt to prod at those specific memories, but there was something more. The first day, he had felt completely off-kilter somehow. Memories with emotional attachments he'd dealt with long ago had risen to the surface. As his jumbled mind randomly pulled up memories he did not wish to revisit, he was forced to put them away again. The most recent was his crushing guilt over failing Alyssa and Liene. But he was fully aware that revisiting such things never made them better.
No matter how often he went over it, there was typically nothing he could or would have done differently. Leaving Alyssa to hide alone in the dark basement might have only extended her life by a few hours. Sooner or later, the vampires would have somehow found her again and dragged her out. She would be just as dead. And Liene? Maybe he could have helped her find a safe place to hide, but would she have stayed there? Unlikely. Though he had no idea what the details of her passing were, he had a feeling it had been Lakrii who had killed Liene. Liene had probably seen her coming and tried to stop her. The girl's fear had been obvious since she hadn't learned to conceal it, yet. But she had a warrior's heart and would never have given in to that fear. No, he could not have saved her, either. But he didn't have to like it.
He turned these and many other thoughts over in his head as he jogged down the various narrow paths. Occasionally, signs of long-ago habitation began to appear in the forest. Old fences that had been left to decay denoted territory that had once likely contained herds of farm animals or even lined fields of various crops. For the most part, though, the forest had taken over. Pyresong was no expert in tree growth, but much of this looked to have taken over many years before.
When his steps turned him down the final fork in the path that would lead to the targeted farmstead that had supposedly been abandoned long ago, he slowed his steps. This particular path was badly overgrown, almost invisible. Right before him, the sign of others passing through was plain to see in the broken branches and cut limbs. He strained his ears and could just hear the voices ahead of him. He spared a few moments to get his breathing back to normal as he walked more sedately forward. He knew he would have no problem catching up to them, and it sounded as if they had to cut their way through the brush.
"Hold!"
He grinned to himself. Apparently, not all of them were young and inexperienced. Though he had walked with his usual silent steps, there was no way to completely avoid making some noise as he pushed his way through some of the branches and bushes. The moment the group went silent, he called out.
"I am Master Pyresong. I've come to assist."
One of the men, considerably older than all the boys in ill-fitting guard uniforms around him, sheathed his sword and stepped forward.
"I know that name!" he called, pushing aside another branch. "You saved my brother in Ashwold."
He took the man's extended hand. He had no idea who the man was talking about, so he just nodded.
"I'm just Gan, or Sir, if you prefer. You're a welcome addition to our party, indeed! Captain Azmir was diverted to help deal with a den of direwolves. We have no idea what we're walking into, truth be told."
"What have you heard? What brings you so far out?"
The dark-haired guard frowned grimly. "Demons, so some say. Some kind of nest that comes out at night, mostly, and makes away with livestock and even a few women."
He considered this for a few seconds. "That doesn't sound like the work of demons. They typically take nothing and destroy everything."
"Exactly. But the captain wants to be sure, so he's sent us to check it out. Personally, I'm hoping it's more of those cultists."
He shook his head. "Let us hope we are well rid of them forever."
"What do you think?" he man asked, turning to resume their trek toward the farmstead.
"This place has been abandoned for a long time?"
"Yeah, for at least as long as I can remember," Gan agreed. "I recall rumors about a family murdered out this way when I was a boy. Why?"
"It's far enough away to make a good base of operations for a lot of things, bandits especially."
"Now you're speaking my language," Gan said happily. "Be nice to get back at some of those nasty buggers. Don't matter what else is going on; they're like rats. You can never get rid of them completely, even in the worst of conditions!"
"Indeed," he agreed.
The others were whispering among themselves as they continued down the overgrown path. He caught a few pieces of conversation about necromancers and Ashwold. It was clear some were uncomfortable with his presence, while others were hailing him as a hero. He decided the best thing he could do was ignore them all. He had no desire for a direct confrontation here. At this point, he considered himself lucky to have not been immediately turned away by the leader of this expedition. Azmir was one he knew would welcome him. Anyone else would have been questionable, at best. And he was mildly disturbed to think his presence might have caused some discord in a unit that would rely on each other to stay alive in some circumstances. As long as Gan could keep order, he would keep his thoughts on their whispers to himself. Worst case, he might resort to intimidation to keep them from balking at whatever came later.
Rounding a curve in the path that skirted another crumbling piece of wooden fence, he caught sight of the open space ahead of them. Though the forest had clearly reclaimed most of the land, there was a very deliberately cleared area just around a farmhouse up ahead. He didn't want them stumbling into the open. He motioned Gan and his men back a bit. For a moment, the older man looked like he wanted to argue, but here was not the place. Once they were several feet further back down the trail and out of sight, he explained.
"There's a cleared area about of a hundred feet leading up to the house. Someone is certainly maintaining it."
Gan considered this for a moment. Being an obvious veteran, he could see the problem. Pyresong considered the small group for a moment before deciding, and he knew Gan wouldn't like it. Since he was already here, though, he might as well make himself and his hard-earned skills useful to them.
"Your uniforms are easily spotted, too bright. And your armor will reflect the sunlight. If there are sentries or guards or even someone just looking out a window at the wrong moment, it'll get complicated in a hurry," Pyresong explained. "I can do some reconnaissance. You and your men take a break, catch your breath. There's no telling what we might be in for. If it is a larger den of thieves or bandits, we may have to go back and get reinforcements."
As expected, Gan didn't like it. This was his mission. But he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't about to put his men's lives in danger for his own pride. He nodded and then turned back to the others to explain. Half of them looked relieved at having a break, half of them looked even more afraid of what lay ahead, and a couple looked like they just might argue. That was Gan's issue to deal with. He slipped away into the trees while Gan was still talking.
Despite Charsi's enhancements, he'd gone over every inch of his armor to ensure it would not catch the light. Often, in the past, he had had to treat new items with an ash coating to dull the reflective surfaces. This set had various textures and plates with dampened colors combined with his darker clothing underneath, ensuring it was much harder to spot in a place like a forest. In the shadows inside a building, his white face and hair were more likely to draw attention than anything. But here? The mixture of light and dark would conceal him perfectly. Better than most trained thieves in a city, in fact.
Carefully, he made his way through the trees and around the brush, making no more visible movement in them than a gentle breeze would account for. Just within sight of the cleared space, he could tell it was a large area that stretched all the way around the farmhouse in the middle. He had started by working his way east and then north. The path they had used to get here came from the south. So far, any paths he'd encountered were equally overgrown as the one he and the guards had come from. Most of them looked like little more than animal trails. When he got all the way around to the west side of the property, he encountered a path that was much more obvious and well-kept. By his estimation, they were only a few miles from Ashwold Cemetery. The trail indicated that was the most likely path they used when coming and going from this forgotten place.
Finishing his circuit, he was happy to note the men were sitting quietly and waiting patiently. He was sure this was in no small part due to Gan's ever-present scowl. Clearly on the alert, the older guard turned in his direction while he awaited his visual arrival. And it wasn't long before he emerged.
"Find anything interesting?"
He nodded. "There's a barn and shed to the northeast of the house. Both are locked with chains and clearly in use. The windows all around the house are all covered well enough that no one could see through them. Although it looks run down, it's clearly inhabited. Definitely human. No signs of any kind of magic. At least, not enough to account for demons or cultists. Bandits, or possibly grave robbers, would be my guess."
"Grave robbers? How do you figure?"
"There is just one well-worn path to the west. It could likely be going right to Ashwold a few miles over. These people work at night. Right now, the place is completely still. There aren't even any guard animals, such as large dogs that typical bandits would use to hunt down victims."
Gan growled in the back of his throat. "Bastards. And I saw them working with that rotten bitch of a death mage with my own eyes!"
Gan's face flushed red with embarrassment the moment the words left his mouth, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking with. Given the mild nature of the profanity and that Pyresong himself had thought much worse about Lethes, he was more amused by the insult than offended, even if the "death mage" part was considered a universal insult to Priests of Rathma. Before Gan could stammer an apology, he waved it off with a grin to let him know he had taken no offense.
"If my suspicions are correct, they'll be heading out by late afternoon or early evening," he cut in. "It will be safer to wait for them to come out."
"What are you suggesting?" Gan asked, recovering quickly.
He smiled wickedly, knowing full well the unsettling effect his faintly glowing eyes had on people.
"Ambush."
Gan laughed. "A bit eager, are we? But, truth be told, your plan makes more sense than assaulting them in their own defensible position. We'll hash it out later."
He turned back to the others and explained the next moves. He relocated the small group into two positions on either side of the well-worn path. By this point, it was well after dinner time and all were quite happy to dig out their own meager supplies. None of them had anticipated spending the night. And, if all went well, they would easily be home before midnight. While they sat around eating, he moved off a ways to talk more privately with Gan.
"I can only guess how many are in there. But if these are a pack of grave robbers, they're used to dealing with the undead. They're not likely to ready for any kind of coordinated fight or ambush," he explained. "Your men will easily have the advantage of them."
"Agreed," Gan said as he eyed the house through a gap in the trees. "I can't see it being more than maybe a score of the bastards."
He eyed the house again himself. Gan was right. But, as he well knew, any den of thieves or bandits or even grave robbers never left a place undefended. Numbers aside, it made no sense to assault the place directly.
"Your men can take the group that will come through here. I'll take the house. There may be more of them if there is a cellar. I think they locked those other buildings to stash their loot. Though, I could be wrong."
"How so?"
He frowned for a minute, something tickling his memories. He tried to tease it to the surface but couldn't. So he said the one thing he knew for a certainty.
"Grave robbers don't take captives. It was mentioned women have disappeared as well."
Gan sighed. "True, but there's been so much happened with the cultists, and demons, and twisted creatures, and even other stuff. Hard to say, really."
He nodded. The man was right. They could speculate for the rest of the day but would likely get them nowhere. He would have to just hope for the best. In the end, they agreed to let them deal with the ambush while he got into the house. They all hunkered down in various places to wait. He chose a spot that put him on a direct line of sight with the house to watch. He just hoped his instincts were correct.
He forced his body to relax as he slowed his breathing and heart to conserve energy. Though he tried to clear his mind, something was still trying to get his attention that he couldn't quite grasp. The minutes stretched into hours. He was keenly aware of the others a few feet away and their mixed feelings about him. It gave him an excuse to separate himself for a while. He was slightly irritated to realize those old memories were still floating just beneath the surface, waiting for him to acknowledge them. He certainly felt far less scrambled than he had the first day, but it was frustratingly distracting right now as something continued to elude him. It was almost as if...
I don't want to remember, he realized. But why?
Growling to himself silently, he decided the best course of action was to ignore it. Swiftly, he blocked out everything except this one task of watching the house and what lay immediately ahead of him. Whatever tingling memories this place seemed to want to dredge up would serve no purpose here. He settled into a state not unlike his meditations. Silence within. He would have plenty of time to figure things out later.
As expected, maybe thirty minutes before sunset, there was finally movement. He signaled to the others as a group of yawning men formed up on the lawn just beyond the small, open porch. They were far enough away that even his sensitive ears could not make out the words, despite the raised voices and shouting.
So far, it seemed like what would be a normal start to a day for them. Not a one of them looked around warily. None appeared to be armed with anything more dangerous than a shovel. He was relieved to note that the faint traces of magic he detected were likely nothing more than some kind of charms.
He watched intently, certain there were no more than eighteen by his count. He passed that number on to Gan and his men. Several of the boys' faces turned pale under their helmets. Obviously this would be their first real engagement. But it was Gan's problem to deal with them, now. He disappeared into the deepening shadows between the trees. He had his target.
His instincts were practically screaming at him now. Something here was not what it appeared, though he couldn't figure out what. Aside from the distracting memories, there was something else he could not pinpoint, something that had him wary and on edge. Earlier, he had tried to silence all of it. Now he was struggling to listen and frustratingly still could not figure out what the threat was. It was no more than a subtle shifting of his subconscious feelings going from distracted to razor sharp, as if expecting an ambush just ahead. Despite this, there was nothing he could outright detect as a threat between himself and the house.
In only a couple of minutes, he had worked his way around with a perfect line of sight to the front door just beyond the men milling about. He couldn't make out the instructions being barked by another man inside. Still, no sight of any women or other captives. It appeared none of these men were on the alert for any kind of threat or ambush. If anything, he thought they all looked overworked and tired. Immediately, his mind conjured up the memories of so many grave robbers in Ashwold digging up corpses to free them for Lethes to use. This made him angry all over again. Whatever his instincts for threat were trying to tell him, he now overrode that distraction with anger.
Then, one man exited the house and closed the door behind him. Every man had an enormous backpack and shovel slung over his shoulder. These were the kind of grave robbers that stole armor and weapons, not just jewelry and small valuables. They were worse than scavengers. The shovels might prove an effective weapon, but he had rarely ever seen a grave robber that would willingly stand up to a sword. He was still fairly confident that they would pose little threat to the group of young guards.
The moment the last one crossed into the tree line, Pyresong made his move. By his estimation, there was maybe half a dozen at most still in the house, if he was unlucky. If he was lucky, no more than just the gang leader himself. Pyresong was nothing more than a shadow as he crossed the open space to the side of the barn. He kept the closed front door in his line of sight, half expecting someone to peek around it and see him at any moment.
He reached the deeper shadows along the side of the barn. It was then that he detected the almost overpowering scent of rotting flesh. Now he understood the instincts for threat now screaming in the back of his mind. He had detected faint traces of corrupted necromantic magics. He had been too distracted by whatever memories his mind was trying to dredge up to recognize it. For a moment, he froze, listening to the movement inside the barn. And there was movement. But no sound of breathing from animals or people, either.
With more and more certainty, he realized they were keeping the undead in there. But why would they? It made no sense. The undead were mostly uncontrollable by all but the most experienced necromancers. Their only desire was to attack and eat fresh flesh. Even then, they were more inclined just to kill the living flesh and let it rot. Food wasn't even their primary goal. Inflicting the living with death was more their mindless style. Though he was fully schooled in corpse reanimation, he had never felt the need for it. Not that he was squeamish; it just didn't feel right to reanimate a recently deceased person unless there was no alternative. And he had yet to encounter such a scenario. With his ability to use the millennia of bone dust in the earth all around him, he didn't even need corpses to summon skeletons or golems. He was far more likely to use corpse explosion or corpse lance if there were corpses involved.
He shook it off. If all went well, he could investigate later. He readied his shield and scythe as he ran the last little bit of open space right up to the front door. He was prepared for just about anything, except what he found when he kicked in the door. Standing calmly in the center of the room was a woman, grinning madly back at him.
"It's about time. I've been waiting for you," she told him.
Damn, he thought to himself angrily.
Apparently, she had detected his necromantic abilities as well.
He had just enough time to realize two things. She was some kind of undead, and she was holding a powerful talisman in one hand. The other hand pointed directly at him as she began some sort of spell. He raised his shield reflexively as he rolled to the side. Whatever it was, it missed him, though he felt a soft tingle across his armor as it brushed his arcane shields. She gave an angry growl as she started her invocation again. He didn't give her time. He rolled to his feet and launched himself shield first at the woman, hoping to knock the amulet out of her hands. Unfortunately, it was wrapped around her wrist with some kind of leather thong. But at least he'd been able to interrupt her next spell.
Instead of being angry, she shrieked with insane laughter. When she jumped to her feet and ran away, she took flight to another room. He quickly regained his feet to follow. She slammed the door before he could get to it. Somehow, she magically sealed it. He wasn't about to let the creature get away. Summoning his own power, he lashed out with his scythe and blades of energy. The barrier had been tied to the door itself rather than the framework. It faded as the door shattered into pieces.
Amateur, he realized.
Of course, she was as ready for him as he was for her. In the close quarters of the small room, he could not effectively swing his scythe. He ducked to the right of the door as another spell flew past him, just barely missing his shield. He hooked his scythe on his belt and dodged into the small room with her. Hoping to once again knock her off balance and maybe wrest the amulet from her, he charged with his shield. She cackled insanely again, catching him completely by surprise with a kick to his shield so powerful he was thrown back into the opposite wall a few feet away. His back plates absorbed most of the shock, though his head still impacted the wall hard enough to see stars. Once again, his fighting instincts served him well as he reflexively rolled out of the way of another spell the instant he landed. Instead of regaining his feet, he swung around with his shield. Putting all of his body weight and momentum behind it, he shattered both of her legs with the edge of his shield.
Even as she was falling, feeling no pain whatsoever, he made a grab for the amulet. Through his gauntlet, he felt the surge of power as she again tried to attack him with it. Whatever the spell was intended to do, he felt various parts of his armor tingle almost painfully as the spell was absorbed somehow. There was no time to think about it or bless Charsi's amazing talents. He pulled so viciously, her arm snapped audibly. The thong that bound it to her wrist had been sturdy. She shrieked in pure, insane fury as he rolled away from her, using his body weight to counter her inhuman strength.
The thong never broke. Instead her hand and part of her arm just above the wrist came away with a sickeningly wet crunch. There was not so much as a scream when she began to decay rapidly an instant later. Still clutching the amulet, he flung the remains of the twitching hand away. At first, it was as solid as the rest of her had been, but after bouncing off a wall, it landed on the floor with a squelch that was just short of a splatter.
Quickly, he turned his magical sight to the amulet now dangling on its thong from his fingers. He'd definitely felt the surge of power as she had tried to fend him off. He was once again thankful that Charsi had given him such protection. Focusing his relatively new magical sight on the amulet, he began to realize at least some of its hidden power. It had not only animated her corpse and sustained her, it had kept her spirit intact. In essence, she was a form of lich. He glanced at the decaying pile on the floor. No, there was no spirit there, now. He didn't waste any time thinking of where it might have gone, either. He couldn't begin to guess where this amulet had come from, but his magical analysis screamed perverted necromancy of the worst kind. This thing was somehow evil or tainted by evil. Whatever other powers it had, he was sure Cain could help identify them. For now, it would be kept safe in his backpack.
He set his shield against his leg while he retrieved his backpack. Much to his annoyance, the shield slipped and fell against the wall with a thunderous clatter. Reflexively he paused to listen before he shook his head at himself. Had there been anyone else in this house waiting for him, they would not have missed his little tussle with the lich. No, there was no one else in here, he convinced himself, wondering why he couldn't shake off the intense feeling of something off about this whole place. Something here still felt entirely wrong and threatening, as if the walls themselves would collapse in to attack him. He very nearly snickered at the ridiculous idea. But he couldn't entirely shake off the desperate need to get out of this place. Once the amulet was safely tucked away in his backpack, he hurriedly squatted down to retrieve his shield where it had landed, slightly tilted against the wall.
That was when he spotted something that made him freeze, staring in absolute disbelief. For several seconds, his mind could not process what his eyes were seeing. He was paralyzed, just sitting there staring. That tickling sensation in the back of his mind now exploded with a thousand memories of a life so long gone he'd nearly forgotten it altogether. His life of more than a quarter of a century since then had done much to help him forget. He had all but erased that existence, even convinced himself it never happened.
Lost in the memories, he just barely caught himself from falling over completely by going to his knees. Part of him wanted to run, flee this place, pretend he hadn't seen it, and make the memories go away again. But he couldn't take his eyes off what he was seeing. He could barely breathe he was so fixated on those images.
Carved into the baseboards was a design that wrapped all the way around the room. He didn't even have to turn around and look to verify; he already knew. It had been made by one set of hands over the course of months. Lovingly and carefully carved along the eight-inch baseboards were dozens of angels. His father had carved them before putting them in. He vaguely remembered his father building parts of this house.
His breath came in small, shocked gasps while his heart stuttered painfully with unexpected emotions. His hands shook as unconsciously he tore off his gauntlet and glove. Some unconscious instinct neededto feel them again under his much, much larger fingertips. He ran his long, slender fingers over the intricate carvings. Each angel was unique. Each angel had a name. He had named every one of them as a child.
They had once been his friends.
Flooded with memories of this other life he'd worked so hard to obliterate, he found himself numb after a minute. He trembled when he remembered his parents' names, the name of their herding dogs, and then the hunting dogs, even the name of the cat they kept to keep rats out of the house. Names flew through his head. He'd named everything as a child to make himself feel less lonely. And that crippling loneliness was still there, waiting to engulf him in darkness so deep he would never find another living soul. Out of the darkness of those buried memories rose one name above all others.
Rylan.
He had had a name once, too. Before—
The sound of approaching voices finally snapped him out of it. With no small amount of effort, Pyresong shoved all of these memories into the darkest hole he could find, hopefully never to be seen again.
Rylan was dead. That boy had died with his parents so very long ago.
Let the dead rest, he told himself. There was nothing here for them, and there never would be.
Having recovered his shield and composure once more, he took a closer look around the house. There was clear evidence of habitation for an extended period. He never knew what became of his former home after he left as a child. But with no other family, it was unsurprising that it had been left to rot. The farm was so far outside even Ashwold, there were few that would be comfortable in this area. Even without a massive magical and demonic assault on the whole region, there were always people and creatures eager to kill that could so easily overwhelm a family in the dark of night. As an adult, Pyresong now realized how brave his parents were to have settled out here on their own.
And then I destroyed their dreams.
He snarled at himself silently in disgust. No. He would not go there. Not how and likely not ever.
He had more important things to deal with. He could easily hear the approach of several of the men. He just hoped the ambush hadn't gone badly. The moment he stepped through the remains of the front door, he caught sight of Gan and his men ordering every one of the prisoners to their knees in neat rows. It appeared there had been no fight. No obvious wounds, and everyone was accounted for.
"There you are!" Gan barked. "I'd begun to fear the worst! These men have quite a story. They've thrown themselves on our 'mercy,'" he finished dryly.
Letting his magical eyes bore into some of the raggedy men closest, he put on his best expression of disgust. Apparently, they recognized him as a Priest of Rathma. The terror was obvious on every face.
"And what might that story be?" he asked them coldly.
"P-please, sir, don't h-hurt us. I don't care if you kill me, just don't... Please..."
He remained perfectly still, as if contemplating what to do with such scum; knowing full well it would be nothing. He never wavered and never blinked, further unnerving the man directly before him.
"It was her!" one of them finally broke in a near shriek. "She made us do it! You don't know what she did to them! Please! Mercy! Don't make us one of them!"
"One of what?" he finally asked when it seemed the men were clearly more afraid of him than the guards.
"Is she gone?" one finally asked. "Just tell me she can't get to me, and I'll tell you everything."
"I destroyed her and took away the amulet that gave her the power. Now tell me—"
The entire group of grave robbers practically collapsed with relief. Some wept openly, while others sagged limply. It seemed they really would rather die than cross that woman while she was still around. Not entirely surprising. After all, grave robbers were cowards, one and all. Disgusted by the babbling, he raised his hand, letting it glow ominously with spirit fire in the fading light of day. One of the men literally fell back as if to crawl away in terror.
"Tell me," he growled at the cowering men.
"All right, we will! Just please, don't..."
"She killed them and then brought them back!”
"She wouldn't let them die!"
"She won't let us die!"
"We're all damned!"
"That's enough!" Gan roared as other voices joined in the now hysterical babble and cries.
Letting the glow fade from his hand, Pyresong pointed at the one closest.
"You. Speak."
The man was now trembling from head to foot, but he nodded. After several terrified swallows that made his Adam's apple bob convulsively, he nodded again and seemed to find his voice.
"We're grave robbers."
"Obviously," Pyresong said coldly. "Spare me your excuses, and tell me what happened here."
"Sh-she was buried a few years ago. Some wealthy merchant's daughter, we thought." he stared at the ground, unable to even look up at the necromancer. "We didn't know! There was no funeral or nothing. They came in late at night and put her in a crypt. It was all covered with markings. When we opened it, she-she...oh gods, she ripped them apart!"
The man hugged himself in misery, or as if to protect his guts to keep them from falling out at the memory. Pyresong could not find a single drop of sympathy for his human scum. Internally, he smiled.
"Continue!" he barked, making the man flinch.
"She had that thing in her hands," another one picked up the story. "She used it, and it ripped people apart. The ones that were still mostly whole sh-sh-sh-she...g-gods...she cursed them... Brought them back."
The first one spoke again, "She threatened to do it to us if we didn't obey. She said she would get her revenge on her father for trying to lock her up. But she needed money to do it. She was using us to get the money!" the last part was almost a wail.
"And why should I believe a bunch of grave-robbing filth?" Pyresong asked.
He asked more out of a need to torment them sadistically than anything else. Oh, yes, he very much enjoyed seeing these men cower and beg. He knew his limits, though. Inflicting physical suffering on them was out of bounds. But watching them suffer horrors they themselves had caused was justice to him. In the end, likely, none of them would be executed. If anything, they would serve as forced labor somewhere when this was over. This was as close to justice as he would get for all the desecration they had caused.
"Look in the barn!" several of them shouted.
As he had earlier suspected, undead were being kept in the barn. He gave one last glower at the men sitting miserably huddled before him. Then he nodded to Gan and walked the thirty feet to the barn doors. Heavy chains wound through the sturdy handles. He wasn't about to return to the pile of sludge left in the house to recover the key. Instead, he opted for an easier and more satisfying method. He held his scythe out to his side as he filled it with power, making it glow threateningly, just in case any of the men had any ideas about using whatever was inside as a trap. In a single, neat swipe, he cut the chain into multiple pieces. There was hardly a scratch to mark the blade's passing on the wooden doors.
He moved the chains aside to grip the handle. All the while, he had been listening for what was going on inside. He frowned to realize there was not a whisper of movement. Knowing the undead as well as he did, he fully expected mindless zombies to fill the widening gap of the opening doors. It wasn't likely to be more than he and his scythe could handle in a barn this size.
When no attack came, he raised his scythe above his head, letting it glow a bit brighter. Before him sat at least thirty undead. Every one of them seated and staring at the door.
"You've come to free us," a man's voice spoke calmly.
He watched warily as the zombie rose to its feet slowly a few feet away. It put its hands out to its sides, palm up in the universal body language of non-threat recognized everywhere in the world. Accepting that he was not about to be rushed by nearly two score undead, he lowered his scythe.
"What has happened here?"
"Do you not recognize us, Priest of Rathma?"
Oh, he did, he just didn't want to admit it. His heart sank further.
Lazars.
Forcibly created lazars were a profanity, even to necromancers. He heaved a sad sigh and shook his head, mentally spewing expletives and curses at the now dead woman in the house.. This day's work was far from over. Seeing there was no threat here, he hooked his scythe on his belt.
"I'll be back. Give me a moment."
He returned to the group, his expression frigid. He knew none of the men cowering on the ground before him could have done such a thing. And it had horrified them as much as it would any sane person. He had no idea who that woman was, and it no longer mattered. Her deeds were finished; he had ensured that much. And he would get Cain's help to ensure the amulet never fell into the wrong hands again.
"Take these men back to Wortham for trial."
Gan eyed him curiously. "So it's true? What they said?"
He nodded. "And much worse than even they realize." In a louder voice pitched for all to hear, he said, "If anyone tries to escape. Cut him down. Death will be the only mercy they are allowed until the authorities serve justice. And they better hope it is justice, or I will be looking for them."
Gan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he nodded in agreement.
Good, he thought, in no mood for an argument.
He sincerely hoped his threat would keep the men in line. He knew he would never actually hunt them down, but they'd had more than a taste of what abused and perverted necromancy could do. The idea that a Priest of Rathma would hunt them down would likely give then nightmares. It would likely terrorize them for the rest of their lives. At least, he hoped that would be the case. He pitched his voice much lower as he motioned Gan to follow him out of earshot of the others.
"When I am finished, I will be returning to Westmarch. I have other obligations. But I will tell you now, when I am through here, there will be no more farm. I will ensure this place burns to ash so no one uses it ever again."
"What did you find in there?" Gan's curiosity simply could not be silenced, though his expression was grim.
"A profanity even to necromancers. That is all I will say. Go, now. I wish to be finished with this," he replied coldly to ensure there would be no more questions.
While the men were organized, tied together to help prevent escape and items recovered, he turned his back on the living. It was the dead that needed him now. This was something almost no Priest of Rathma ever dealt with in their lifetime, but it was not entirely unheard of. His lifetime of experience and training had prepared him for this.
That didn't make it any easier.
Standing in the doorway of the barn, he wasn't at all surprised to see not a one of them had moved. Even the standing one was as still as a statue. Feeling virtually nothing in their dead bodies, they had no need of food, sleep, or even comfortable positions. Lazars were forbidden everywhere in the world and by every order that even bordered on necromancy. No, the Priests of Rathma were not alone, but they were the most ordered and disciplined of any Pyresong that had ever known. Knowing it would be a few minutes before they could leave the barn, he motioned for the lazar to resume his seat and followed suit.
"How many are you?"
"Thirty-seven," this spokesman replied promptly.
"Were all of you grave robbers?"
"No, most were ambushed in Ashwold Cemetery while paying their respects to deceased loved ones. Some were dead before she came and dragged our spirits back. Occasionally, she needed to make an example but did not want to lose her manpower to do so. Others were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."
That could complicate things. He turned his attention to the group before him, considering his options.
"Are any of you afraid to pass?"
"We have had many months and some of us even years to discuss our condition. We are all ready," the spokesperson told him. "We just waited and prayed to the Light for someone to release us."
He never took his eyes off the group of rotting faces in varying degrees of decay.
"Is that so?" he addressed the group as a whole.
Every one of them nodded.
Well, that will make things easier, he thought with an invisible sigh of relief.
What made a lazar so different from other reanimations wasn't just the retaining of their intelligence. Their souls were now trapped within those rotting carcasses. Just like a normal undead, they felt nothing in terms of pain, thirst, or tiredness. They also did not crave living flesh, thankfully. Yet they retained the core of the emotional nature and their souls, as well as their intelligence. Most went insane as they watched their bodies rot away with no chance of escape. A few sorcerers had been known to make themselves into lazars, essentially becoming liches. But lazar souls could not be released without someone to separate them from that body. The closest they might get to escaping would be immolation. And, even then, he'd heard tales of bones keeping the spirit trapped.
"Lazar, a word once used to describe someone who died from an affliction or disease," he heard Master Z telling him.
Now, it was an almost unknown word in all the languages of Sanctuary. It was actually more common to come across a lich than a lazar. And now he had thirty-seven forcibly created lazars to release. He could all too vividly imagine their mental and emotional suffering; trapped in bodies they could not escape, locked in a barn in the middle of nowhere. At least some of them had crossed over, even if only briefly by the looks of their relatively well-preserved bodies. Thanks to their experience, it seemed they had been able to convince the others that passing was far preferable to this existence.
He strained his ears. The last of the light had faded, and the night was now overcast. A darkness not unlike what he'd experienced in Dark Wood was settling on the place. Somewhere, the musical sounds of crickets and frogs began in a way that was far more peaceful and natural than he could appreciate right now. But there was no sound of the men. They had all gotten far enough away that he could no longer hear them crashing and cutting their way through the dark forest. He hoped the lack of moonlight would not hamper them too much. If they hurried, they could be back in Wortham before midnight. It was too dark in here for him to see clearly, even with the faint traces of vile magic around each one of them. Besides, it would be much easier to get to each of them one at a time out there. Silently, every one of them walked out of the barn and sat in three neat rows a few feet apart. All but their spokesperson.
"Though they have no lingering fear of death or dying, and we all desperately wish to escape this mockery of Life, some have suffered more than others and fear the process more than the result. I will be happy to show them how."
"Very well," he agreed, motioning him to lay down right in front of the group.
He knelt beside him as the man lay flat. He'd already cleared his mind of all distractions and was completely focused on this one task. This many would tax his energy, he knew. But there was nothing for it. He wasn't going to leave these people suffering in this condition. No one deserved this, no matter what he had threatened in the past to others. He had always known it was an idle threat meant to end a confrontation. If Rathma had even a suspicion of one of his own forcefully creating unwilling lazars, he would likely come out of hiding and destroy them himself. This kind of non-physical suffering was beyond most people's comprehension. Even Lethes had not been so sadistically cruel to her victims.
Rathma, let your blessings be with me now! he thought desperately.
He hoped he was both able and strong enough to accomplish all that needed to be done. He had no time to study whatever vile magic had created these lazars. In some ways, it didn't matter. He just needed to sever the connection between body and soul forcefully. The magic might have its own hidden strengths that could make it more difficult. He prayed it would not.
His hands now bare, Pyresong placed one hand on the lazar's chest and the other on his chilly head. He met the man's all too aware eyes as his hands began to glow. Slowly, his consciousness sank down and through his hands. It sought the spark of concentrated energy that was the spirit. It didn't take long to find it. This one was bright and powerful, though placid and calm. The sheer force of the man's spirit struggling desperately to escape had managed to keep him sane. He could feel it struggling violently against an invisible tether. Both their eyes were closed now as he dug deeper to find the anchor that held the spirit back.
By the time he found it, he was no longer aware of his own body. There, deep inside this man's spirit, was a black blob of something so evil, he wanted to recoil. But this was what he'd come for. Having no body at this moment, he shaped his thoughts and energy into a blade not unlike his old straight-bladed scythe. He swung viciously with all his strength at a bright line just above the Darkness. Though there was some resistance, the blade went clean through.
He had expected some resistance. Yet, this was not the same. That black anchor that held the tether had fought back, trying to grab him. Whatever evil magic had created it, it did not want to lose this soul and was more than willing to claim another in its place.
On the edges of his consciousness, he felt the unchained soul fleeing away from that anchor. The necromancer considered the anchor and its vile magic firmly lodged within the flesh of this body. Something about it tickled his memories again, but there was no time right now. He quickly retreated to his own body.
Thirty-six sets of unblinking eyes watched. As undead, they too could see the spirit he had released. As he had with Lucian, he watched while the pale white mist coalesced into a slightly brighter ball and faded away when it fled through the door he had opened for it. The lazar had spoken truly. He wanted to be released, and he had wasted not a second looking back. He found his door to the Unformed Land and fled. He murmured the ritual prayers for eternal rest and then turned toward the others.
"He is at peace now in the Unformed Land. I can open the door if you do not see it. What you must understand is that he wanted to be released. Part of the effort must come from you. Once your soul is untethered, you can choose not to cross over. But, in this world, you will be suffering as much as you are now. No one will know you're there. No one can hear you. You can't touch anything. And if your loved ones can sense you, they will suffer all the more their grief for you." He paused, sadly. "For your own sake, I ask that you do not remain to become enraged phantoms or restless spirits. You have suffered enough."
"We understand," a female lazar spoke for them now.
"When you see the door of light, go to it. Do not look back. Leave it all behind and go to your rest. Nothing else matters anymore."
They all nodded with the same eerie quiet. He didn't know how many of them truly understood, but he could hope. One by one, he had them lie flat as the others watched in almost unnerving silence. Most of them had little resistance when it came their turn. There were always some reluctant to let go, mostly out of fear of the unknown. But, disturbingly, the spell that anchored the soul to that body fought back viciously every single time. More than once, it tried to grab onto his own soul. Though he could not detect any kind of sentience behind it, he began to feel it weakening as it fought back. It was actively trying to tug on the soul it had captured.
About halfway through the patiently waiting lazars, he felt the telltale signs of exhaustion creeping through his energies and his body. Somewhere deep in his disconnected thoughts, he realized it wasn't a single spell that created each one of these. The evil spell seemed connected from one to another. His severing the connection on each one weakened it a bit more. A faraway thought began to form, but he couldn't hold on to it. Something about a web and an undead army of slaves.
By the time he was nearly finished, his whole body shook with exhaustion. His head hurt to the point he couldn't think anymore if he tried. His whole world—his whole life—narrowed to this one task. Nothing else mattered.
Just a few more. Please, I just need to hold out a little longer! he thought to his own body.
Outwardly, he gave absolutely no indication of his frustration or struggles. The sweating and shaking he couldn't help. But he would not fail these people. They had suffered enough. He was exceedingly fortunate they were all sane and willing. He would give them peace.
Every. Last. One.
As the last one thanked him and lay down to wait, he felt the world tilting around him. For a moment, all he could do was hold himself up with one hand and try to breathe through the dizziness. Painfully, he shook his head to clear it. No! He wasn't going to fail now. He dug even deeper to a reserve he knew must be coming from his own body's energy source. His heart stuttered painfully. For a moment, the world shifted again. He couldn't get his eyes to focus. His breathing had become too shallow and sharp. Viciously, he pushed it all away. He didn't need his body right now so much as consciousness. Somehow, he managed to get both of his hands on the woman, though where, he had no idea. It didn't matter as long as he had physical contact. He sank into her as he had all the others.
Confronting the black anchor, he gave himself no time to question. He put what he had left into the psychic blade and swung. The resistance was almost non-existent. He had weakened it enough it was practically powerless. And her soul's desperation to escape had been strong enough. She found her own door to the next world. Had she not, he wasn't sure what he could have done. Probably nothing at this point.
In some distant and detached way, he felt his consciousness returning to the body that grew ever heavier by the heartbeat. His head was so painful now; there was no room for even the memories to torment him. The darkness crept around the edges of his vision. As his eyes closed and the darkness rose to engulf him, there was a moment of utter panic when he realized he was all alone again and exposed. Briefly, somewhere nearby, he thought he heard the rattle of bones, but it didn't matter anymore. He was too far gone.
***
Pyresong woke many hours later, well after sunrise. His whole body ached, and his head felt like it would explode at any moment. He heard himself groan as he rolled onto his back. His right arm and shoulder had gone completely numb in the awkward position. And everywhere his armor had pressed into this flesh through the clothing, felt bruised. More out of instinct than any real hope of effectiveness, he fumbled a healing potion off his belt. It did nothing for the pain in his head, but at least eased some of his other aches. When he became more aware, he realized it had rained at some point during the night. He was shivering with cold and soaked all the way through. Finally finding the willpower to shift himself further, he sat up to find a skeleton guarding him.
At least I haven't lost all of my survival instincts, he thought wryly.
The headache was almost too much. But with some light meditation and breathing techniques, he was able to put it aside enough to function. As expected, this was not something a healing potion would be able to fix. He was going to need a few days of rest. Well, he would get plenty of that when this was over, and he was cooped up on a ship at sea for several weeks.
Right now, the problem in front of him was finishing what he'd started. Unlike any other Priest of Rathma he had ever known, he had a talent for fire. He'd discovered it one night while studying at his table and didn't want to get up to light another candle. The candle he'd intended to use was still lying beside him on the desk when it lit itself. Or so he thought at first. Putting aside his studies, he put the fresh candle in the holder and put it out. Once he was sure the wick was not even so much as smoldering, he focused on it again. It seemingly lit itself again. He carefully experimented with it on several other handy candles. Reducing some of them to puddles of wax by accident.
The next day, he discussed this ability with his master, who had been only somewhat surprised. Command of various elements was not unheard of in the order but fairly rare. It did take some arcane understanding to accomplish some things as a Priest of Rathma, but they were usually untrained innate abilities regarding Life and soul energies. They were natural energies that were diverted into their more necessary forms as necromancers. He gave various demonstrations with his fire to his master, before Master Z seemed satisfied it was not powerful enough to cause anyone harm. Being just a boy, he couldn't understand just how dangerous fire really was.
Master Z explained that those who had a natural ability or affinity for elemental magics could lose their temper and, in his case, possibly even set a person ablaze. As a child, he was terrified by what his imagination conjured.
He had nightmares about such things for weeks after learning this. That had been enough for him to find the motivation to conceal and control his emotions from that moment on. No more emotional outbursts from him. He swore to himself and his master that despite his earlier struggles, he would never again allow his emotions to rule him. Not even for a second. And the lessons had stuck with him after that. No matter how angry he felt inside, he never reached for that well of power that could control fire. For some time, he was even too afraid to use it at all. But Master Z encouraged him to do so. It was a tool, nothing more. And it could come in handy in too many ways to count.
"Never throw away or disregard a tool," Master Z's memory reiterated.
With a groan of pain, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Bursts of color flashed through the darkness as she struggled to put away memories that could serve him no purpose here. It took him several minutes to wrestle them back into silence. As always, when tired physically, his mind would wander off on tangents, sometimes downright silly or foolish ideas. At the moment, he wanted to ask Cain if he knew some kind of spell to make such distractions and tangents hold off until later instead of pestering him while he worked. He couldn't help huffing a laugh at the mental image of Cain waving a wand. Yes, he was exhausted right now.
But this wasn't finished, and he would not leave here until it was.
Finally, he convinced his aching body to obey his commands and stand up. The expected dizziness only lasted a few seconds, but it was definitely there. He knew what he had to do but now decided to do it as practically and simply as possible.
In the house, he found jugs of lamp oil that he flung all over. He grabbed a couple more for the barn. He was now thankful for the rain the night before. The air was still, too. He had no desire to start a forest fire that could easily rage out of control, possibly destroying more farms. But this was a task he would not neglect. In some vague way, he felt a responsibility toward this place he couldn't even contemplate too deeply right now; as if its twisted usage and neglect were somehow his fault. Having coated the house inside and out as much as was practical, he repeated the process with the barn and then the bodies. That just left the shed. For one moment, his squeezed painfully at the idea he might have missed more lazars waiting silently and patiently in there.
But, no, the others would have said something. Half hoping to find more lamp oil conveniently close by, he used his scythe handle to beat at the simple but huge lock until it finally popped open. Unlike the other door, this one was chained in at least a dozen loops. Someone wanted to make sure it was impossible to get in there without making a whole lot of noise. His head rang like a gong at the sound of all those chain loops clanking together. Certain they could hear him pulling them out a mile away, he finally removed the last chains.
Carefully, he cracked the door to let in some meager light. He only found a single, very large wooden chest and numerous rusty tools hanging on the walls. He forced his eyes away from those tools and the memories they tried to dredge up. He used his magical sight to examine the enormous chest. There was a definite residue of magic around the lock but not the rest of it.
Loot, he thought to himself. They must have kept it all out here to keep anyone from filching.
The magic seal was weak, not unlike the one he had experienced with the door during the melee with that lich inside. On a hunch, he kicked the lid hard with the heel of his boot. The jarring sensation and explosion of pain in his head nearly made him fall back out through the door. Fighting off the dizziness, he regained his footing quickly. When he returned his attention back to the chest, he was rewarded for his efforts by the lid practically bursting open. The weak spell and even weaker lock—likely helped along by years of rust—had popped right apart.
Inside was more money, jewelry and other valuables than Pyresong had ever seen in one place in his entire life. He shook his head sadly. They would never be able to return all the personal possessions to their owners. And that reminded him of something else. It was not unheard of for spirits to attach themselves to precious possessions. Straining his meager resources, he moved his hands over the chest's contents to check.
Nothing, he thought, sagging with relief.
At least he wouldn't have more work to do in the form of detaching spirits from their possessions before he burned them. Had he needed to do so, he knew he would have to come back. He didn't have enough strength right now. And he never wanted to see this place ever again. He knew when he left, he would do his best to forget it all over again. Maybe he could even convince himself it was possible to forget. Right now, he was just too tired and in too much pain. Whatever would happen tomorrow would happen. His only concern was the here and now.
Reminding himself sadly that the possessions were not even likely be returned to living family members with all the recent devastation, he shook his head. It would take more time and effort than anyone even in Ashwold was likely willing to put in to find all the graves or family plots to return the items. He decided to just burn it along with everything else.
A stray thought about all that wealth and Charsi's incredible work made him pause in the doorway. A vile obscenity crossed his mind. Oh, he knew she would never ask for a single coin. She probably thought his work in the Dark Wood had been more than enough payment for the armor. But there was still some niggling guilt about it deep down. Owing anyone anything had never sat well with him. Though he couldn't really say why. It was just a part of him that was unwilling to bend on some things.
And, of course, there were so very many other good things that the money could be used for. Rebuilding this area, buying food when shortages began, and so many other things spun through his head. Somewhere deep down, the part of his brain that was still functional beyond the pain came to a decision. With his backpack, he could carry the entire chest. But that was not only impractical; it was also risky. The personal possessions and jewelry could easily be identified if he tried to sell them. Though some of it looked to be hundreds of years old. And taking those possessions that were so precious, they were buried with the deceased just felt wrong anyway.
Putting aside all else for a moment, he considered the contents of the chest. It was easily big enough for him to curl himself inside upright with room in the lid to spare. And it was at least two-thirds full. He sighed and rubbed his aching eyes. Seating himself more comfortably, he began to sort items into two piles. Coins and gems in one, and everything else in the other. Even for taking only items that could not be easily associated with a single person, it was still more wealth than he had ever seen. He had probably never seen that much cumulatively in his life. The rest he would burn along with everything else.
He returned to the house to find a bag capable of holding what he'd chosen to keep. For a moment, he recoiled in disgust at using the same backpack others had once used to acquire that chest filled with stolen loot. Then, the practical side took control once more. He knew he was tired and not thinking clearly.
Move. Just keep moving. he told himself, trying to focus.
Once the gems and coins were scooped into the now ridiculously heavy backpack, he dropped that backpack into his magical one. Safely tucked away, he managed to dig out one last bottle of lamp oil from the pantry in the house. It would have to be enough. A tiny spark on the porch, another in the barn, and one more for the shed, he was able to accomplish easily enough. Then, he turned his attention to the bodies. Not a one of them had made a request beyond release. He would burn them as well. The faint traces of the filthy magic used to bind their spirits to the bodies still clung to each one of them. He would ensure no more desecration and that they would rest peacefully. More than likely, all of them were presumed dead anyway.
With the air so still, there was no need to watch too closely as the fires raged. He took a seat at a safe distance from the three buildings and waited. He was almost surprised how fast the fires engulfed the buildings. It seemed only a matter of minutes. Though he did question his sense of time right now with how miserable he was feeling, it seemed less than two hours had passed before there were only smoldering embers where the buildings had once stood. On the grass near where the barn had been was one larger black patch with unrecognizable ashes. He offered up some final prayers for all of them.
Numb with exhaustion, a stray thought flitted across his mind. He didn't even know where his parents were buried. Or were they cremated? Sent home to other family? He shook it all off. He was not about to go looking now. This was Rylan's funeral pyre. He nodded to himself and to the ghost of the boy that had once lived here. It was well and truly over, and he would never look back again.
He just hoped that little boy would rest in peace.
It was late morning when Pyresong finally used the scroll to get back to Westmarch. Again, he just about couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. The blinding pain in his head had settled somewhat to a persistent throbbing ache that at least left him feeling a bit more functional. Since he didn't really have a choice in the matter, he was relieved to find himself exiting on the waypoint platform at the Palace Courtyard. Cain's workshop was just a short distance away across the courtyard and south down the stairs to Central Square. The crowd between his location and the road he needed were sparse but animated. There was a general air of celebration spilling over from the Palace Courtyard. He was surrounded by the expensive silks the wealthy and powerful wore. The near constant assault of various perfumes and colognes from so many people made his stomach churn.
Desperate to escape whatever this celebration was, he forced his usual serene mask in place. He didn't quite push his way though, but wasn't far from it. The party only continued on and into the Central Square where people of slightly lesser status were also celebrating. He had no idea what it was about and couldn't care less right now. He shook his aching head as he made his way through the boisterous crowd. All around him, people were shouting and jostling him. Most appeared too drunk to even notice he was a Priest of Rathma, despite his full gear.
Any other day, he would have been pleased to have gone unnoticed in the city. Today, he just wanted them to get the hells out of his way. The thicker crowds of the comfortable but not wealthy that were crowding the road Cain lived on definitely noticed him. As usual, the crowd parted slightly around him when they realized a rather haggard but armored necromancer walked among them. He ignored it all. All he wanted right now was to get to the comfortable safety and quiet of Cain's workshop and sleep for a month.
Food might be a thing at some point, he thought.
With these goals in mind, he wove his way quickly down the small road on which Cain—and now himself—called home. For a moment, that thought stuck with him. His tired mind latched on to it with no small amount of amusement. It was like all other thoughts fled in the light of this understanding.
Home.
He turned the word around in his head and analyzed it from every angle. What did it really mean to him? Yes, he felt like he was coming home. He had spent the last twelve years wandering all over Sanctuary. Nowhere did he feel as if he belonged, except on the occasional visit to a monastery that welcomed Priests of Rathma. He fulfilled whatever needs the local population requested of him and moved on. But, thinking even further back in time, he began to realize even the Necropolis had not felt like home. Yes, he felt welcomed and considerably more comfortable in places that welcomed or even trained Priests of Rathma. But, ultimately, they were simply a safe place to stay and sometimes recover. What did home even mean to him, anyway?
Approaching the door to Cain's workshop, he felt the beginnings of a genuine smile. This residence may only be temporary, but right now, it felt like home. And he couldn't quite grasp why. In the end, he tiredly tried to put those thoughts away for later analysis, assuming it must have something to do with Cain's influence on him.
He couldn't quite put those thoughts away entirely as he let himself in. His relief at entering this building was just too strong. Now he could sleep. Now he could eat. And now he could talk to Cain. He was surprised to realize just how much he wanted to do that. A darker flicker in his mind tried to warn him about getting too close to people. He countered it with the fact that it did make the old man happy to hear his stories. And, with the amulet, he would certainly need Cain's help.
The old scholar set aside his quill and turned around happily to greet him. But the smile fell from his face the moment he caught sight of his haggard friend.
"You look terrible, my friend. What has happened to Wortham?"
He couldn't help a chuckle. "Good to see you, too. It's nothing a good cup of tea and some rest can't cure. I'll be back down in a few minutes."
While he quickly made his way up the stairs to his room, he could already hear Cain getting the tea going downstairs. As exhausted as Pyresong was, that amulet was something that needed to be addressed in some way right now. That was one item he had no intention of carrying around. Everything else could wait.
Once he was out of his armor, he peeled himself out of his still-damp clothing and lay them out to dry as best he could. His ears caught a knock on the door downstairs. But the voices were too low even for his sensitive ears. The one thing he felt about the interaction was that it ended amicably.
Why would it not? he wondered.
Then he realized that, in his exhausted state, he was just downright edgy, even here. In some bizarre way, that realization made him feel better. Having only just realized how he now felt about this place, it would not do to get too comfortable and let his guard down completely.
Downstairs, Cain was waiting for him in his usual fireside chair. He gratefully sank into the other chair, fighting off a yawn.
"I'm not up for a detailed story right now, though you will hear it, I promise. Wortham itself is recovering nicely. The guards were working in groups to clear out the rest of the monsters. They caught wind of a place where some might be nesting northeast of the village. By sheer good timing, I caught up to them, and we found a nightmare."
The old man kept his peace while Pyresong tried to organize his thoughts. Exhausted and realizing his mind was drifting again, he scrubbed his face with his hands and reached for the backpack. He gave his friend a quick description of what he'd found and what he believed caused it as he pulled the now seemingly inert talisman from his bag. He handled it by the thong, not really wanting to come in contact with it. In his tired state, there was no telling what might come through his very weak shielding. Cain's hands glowed a bright gold as he reached out to take it from him. Cain frowned darkly as he analyzed it. Then he closed his eyes and made a sort of gesture, like he was gripping something that extended out from the amulet. Opening his eyes, Cain sighed.
"It's ancient. It was once the head of a staff, I believe, for a Vizjeiri magus. Very old and very dark, indeed. How it came to be in that woman's hands, we'll never know. But I have a safe place to store it for now, and then maybe it can be destroyed."
"Thank you, Cain. I was sure you'd know how to handle it," he replied gratefully.
Cain disappeared into his little room on the other side and returned a minute later. Pyresong had finished the tea and gotten himself another cup by the time he returned. He was just settling back into his chair with a sigh of relief as his aches began to relax away in the comforting heat of the fire and tea.
When the elderly scholar sat back down, Pyresong was considerably more alert. His heart jumped a couple of times in anticipation of what came next. For a moment, he didn't know where to start. And, not for the first time, he questioned his own judgment in that decision. Still, leaving it all would have been a pointless waste, right?
"In your travels, you've seen riches most men only dream of, I would venture to guess," Pyresong started tentatively.
Cain nodded with obvious amusement. "Most of it cursed, warded, and guarded by something terrible. But, yes, I have led more than one adventurer to their wealth. Why do you ask?"
"Occasionally, I've come across bandit caches and even looted people who have attacked me, but never found any considerable wealth. Until now. And despite its source, it seemed a waste to burn it along with everything else."
"Burn it?"
He shook his head and downed the soothing tea. "I'll explain that later."
He set aside his now empty teacup and retrieved the backpack again. He reached inside for the other, much heavier backpack. Thanks to the magic, it slid out easily. The moment it was out of the bag, its weight fell solidly onto his thighs, making him grunt with effort needed to even keep it upright. As strong as he knew he was, it was still an effort to carefully slide the bag to the ground at his feet. It hit the wood floor with a cheerful clinking of gold and jewels.
Cain's eyes were wide with surprise. "All that?"
"Yes, apparently she had been using the grave robbers to rebuild a fortune. Something about a revenge plot. In the end, I burned all personal possessions when I purified the place, but I kept the coin and the loose gems. I knew there would be no chance of ever returning that much to their rightful owners."
"Well done, my friend!" Cain congratulated him with a smile that tugged at his white beard.
Only then did he consciously begin to realize he'd had some concerns about Cain judging him for taking the items. A tension he had felt in his chest released its grip on him. He knew, in his heart, that Cain was as much of an adventurer as he was a scholar and that he would understand. He smiled back in relief as the tightness in his chest eased.
"You're welcome to take as much as you like," Pyresong told him. "The gods know I'll never spend it all. And I'm going to need your help with something."
"Certainly, friend."
He opened his mouth to explain and found himself stifling a yawn.
"Charsi..." he finally managed to get out. Then, he shook his head to clear it. "I spoke with Korrin when I arrived in Wortham. He mentioned my armor set could easily sell for fifteen hundred platinum on the market. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"
Suddenly, Cain's teacup was the most engrossing object in the room. He muttered something into his beard as his cheeks, just visible above the white hair, turned pink.
"That's what I thought," he said with a grin.
"She swore me to secrecy!" Cain finally admitted. "But, you know Charsi can't help but be proud of her own work, and she let it slip while you were away in the Dark Wood."
"Well, you're going to help me make it up to her, then."
"Gladly. What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know yet," he admitted tiredly. "I will need to think on it."
He yawned again and didn't bother to stifle it this time. Cain gave him the good news that a messenger had arrived earlier, letting them know that Rehm's ship was ready to sail with the morning tide. He would need to...
Pyresong's soft, slow breathing drew his attention back to the other chair. The man was out cold. The haggard lines of exhaustion on his face once again smoothed away in sleep. Cain had hoped to at least get the man a meal and off to bed. But, if this warrior was so exhausted he fell asleep right there in the chair, he needed every minute of it...and a lot more, too. He just hoped the voyage at sea would be uneventful enough to give him time to recover.
Setting aside his teacup, Cain shuffled over to the bed and retrieved what he thought was the most comfortable blanket. Hoping he would not disturb the priest's desperately needed rest, he draped it over him up to his shoulders. Pyresong's breathing never changed. He really was that exhausted.
And maybe something else.
Cain had lived and worked with warriors and adventurers of all ages in his life. Even in the safety of a tavern or cottage, most of them couldn't—or wouldn't—sleep without their weapon at hand. The ones who survived long enough to see retirement age maybe, anyway. Cain was warmed by the man's trust in him to see to his safety in sleep. He resisted the urge to stroke the man's head as he had done before. There was a level of closeness he had not felt with any of the others here. And, after hours and hours thinking on this, his only explanation was that he had basically adopted this man. Those decades of memories he had seen had given him an insight he could not ignore. To him, Pyresong was a son, now. And some part of him was certain Pyresong likely felt something similar, though he might never admit it even to himself.
Cain settled himself back at his desk to resume his research. He knew the dangers that lay ahead for the priest and was terribly reluctant to let him go; especially alone. He was a capable warrior, and a powerful necromancer. But would it be enough?
Cain wasn't sure what he would do if he lost Pyresong now. He'd let things get too far. He would just have to hope and pray.
Cain intercepted Everen bringing his dinner to avoid a knock on the door waking the priest. And he warned Everen to bring lots of extra for supper that night. He knew the necromancer had somehow overtaxed himself again and would likely wake up ravenously hungry. He set aside Pyresong's dinner in case he woke before then hungry and went back to his research. In a matter of hours, his friend would be boarding a ship headed to the far away Shassar Sea. He still held some hope that he could find something—anything—that would prevent that from happening. But his hopes dwindled away with every hour.
A couple of times, he paused when Pyresong muttered something in his sleep. But the man seemed in no distress, and he would settle again moments later. He was surprised that the priest slept through the rest of the morning and almost the entire afternoon. He knew supper would be arriving soon, and he was so tired by this point his old eyes could hardly focus anymore. He decided to wait until after a rejuvenating meal to continue his work. He took a seat in his fireside chair. When the priest began to mutter again in his sleep, he contemplated the man.
Cain had experienced so many emotions in his life. He had never thought to feel this close to anyone ever again. He always kept people at a comfortable emotional distance. Initially, he'd done much the same with this one. There were a few he had essentially accepted over the years, Charsi being one of them. But the little foray into the necromancer's memories had destroyed any hope of keeping himself and his emotions detached from this one. He now knew more about Pyresong than his own parents would...if they had still been alive. Cain could not help the heavy, sad sigh. So much tragedy for one so young.
He knew full well that Priests of Rathma always sought out the order of their own choosing and as adults, or nearly enough to adult to be accepted even into a guard regiment or army. Almost no one did so as a child. It had been a massive distraction that first day when he had to sort through all he'd seen from his friend's memories. He had been flitting around in the priest's mind, so none of it had been in any kind of order. He still wasn't entirely sure it was. But it was enough for him to gain an understanding. And the one theme that ran through it all made his heart ache all the more for the man.
Underneath Pyresong's emotionally detached and aloof nature that others inevitably saw was a theme of loneliness and fear of that loneliness. And, yet, the younger man had never let himself get emotionally attached to anyone, not even his master. He supposed the loss of his parents had been the catalyst, like some sort of trauma. Of course, he couldn't prove that. And, in the end, it didn't really matter. Cain felt their relationship was mutual. There was no need to really discuss it further. It might only drive Pyresong away.
The priest was muttering again as a furrow appeared between his brows. Cain thought he possibly caught names in there but couldn't make out anything definitive. For a second, it seemed like Pyresong would settle back into a restful sleep from whatever dreams were plaguing him. Instead, he unexpectedly jolted awake. His wide eyes whipped around the room momentarily, unsure where he was.
"You're safe, friend," Cain assured.
He seemed to take this in and blinked a few times. He rubbed his face vigorously with his hands as if to scrub away whatever he'd been dreaming.
"My apologies," he said, looking a bit sheepish after a moment.
"Nothing to apologize for," Cain assured him. "You were exhausted. I could see that."
Pyresong groaned tiredly and stretched thoroughly, shaking away the aches and stiffness. He returned the blanket to its proper place on the bed as he glanced out the window.
"It's late. How long was I asleep?"
"Most of the day, but you needed it. Supper should be arriving soon. If you're hungry now, your dinner is on the table."
In response, it was his stomach that answered with a hungry growl. He grinned thankfully to Cain as he retrieved the covered plate. The food was nowhere near as good at room temperature, but he was far too hungry to care. Cain let him eat in peace while he turned his attention back to his own thoughts. When he had finished his meal—in record time—Pyresong stood and stretched again. Then, he made his way back over to what he'd come to think of as his chair by the fire. He was somewhat surprised to see Cain had taken a break from his near frantic research.
"Nothing new, I take it?" he queried, catching Cain's frustrated expression.
Cain shook his head with a sigh. "No, but maybe something will present itself."
"I'm sure it will," he agreed with a grin.
Each sank into his own thoughts for a few minutes. Cain was frustrated that he had yet to find an alternative way to destroy the shards. Not even a vague reference. He was beginning to think the answer was in another library entirely, one he could not possibly get to right now while he watched over the shards. And he did not dare to take them out of this place. He could easily imagine those damned things calling to anything and everything; possibly even finding a way to get through whatever had shielded them inside Pyresong's new backpack.
He was pulled out of his own thoughts a few minutes later when he noticed Pyresong sighing and running a hand through his hair; not something he did frequently, but something that did occasionally happen when he was clearly frustrated by something. He could easily tell something was bothering the priest.
"What troubles you, my friend?"
Pyresong glanced to him, his face gone smooth again as he forced away his unconscious expression out of habit. Then he seemed to change his mind. He shook his head, again obviously frustrated or irritated over something.
He had again tried to put away the memories that had assailed him in that farmhouse. But they had come back to haunt his dreams. Things had gotten mixed up in there. Memories of his parents melded with images of villagers in other places that he had met; villagers that stared at him with loathing and fear. Then another village was attacked by demons. The vague recollections of what he thought his parents looked like were everywhere, even in the middle of that village as it was overrun with demons. Next the blurred faces of his parents stared back at him among cultists. Then, they were shopkeepers kicking him out of their shops. Then they became something else. Over and over again, they were angry, disappointed, or dying in his dreams.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" he finally asked of Cain, trying to figure out where his thoughts were even going in this jumbled mess.
"Of course."
"How well do you remember your parents?"
Cain blinked in surprise. This was by far the most unexpected of all the things he thought his friend might have asked. But he gave it due consideration as he reached for his memories.
"Truthfully, very little. It's been so many years. I was young when they passed."
Despite the magic seals, the priest's eyes seemed miles away as he stared into the fire. Though he didn't admit it openly, it made Pyresong feel a little better. Some part of him now felt he'd betrayed his parents by intentionally trying to forget about them. To Cain, he just nodded as his mind wandered away again on its own chain of thoughts.
"What brought this on?"
He was silent a few seconds longer, though he never took his eyes off the fire when he did answer. Reflexively, he wanted to ignore or brush off the question. But there was something about Cain's gentle prodding and open warmth that tugged at him. In some strange way, he felt he owed Cain an explanation and a whole lot more. Cain knew so much about him through those shared memories that he wondered at the fact that the old man even had to ask. Giving in to his deeper instincts and pushing away his habitual reaction to such questions, he sighed and refocused his thoughts.
"I tried to forget them," he explained, feeling something between shame and confusion on the whole subject. "I tried to forget that whole life before being taken to the Necropolis. And, for the most part, I was successful. After a while, I couldn't even remember my own birth name, let alone their names or what they looked like."
"Understandable, given the circumstances."
"That abandoned farm I mentioned. That was the house my parents built. I recognized the... I saw...something," he admitted, not quite ready to go into details. "And then it all came back for a moment. I can't help wondering if it was wrong of me to have forgotten, as if I'd done them an injustice by doing so."
"Oh, no, my friend. You cannot think like that," Cain jumped in quickly. "You were a child. It was a horrible accident that changed your life forever. You did what you needed in your young mind to cope with it and move on."
Though the dark expression never left his face, he seemed to accept this.
Feeling the need to change the subject, Cain asked, "So what is this 'Pyresong' about, anyway?" He hoped to lighten the mood and get his friend out of his funk.
Caught off guard by the question, he actually laughed softly. "Probably not what you're thinking, if you have to ask."
"Oh?" Cain asked with a grin.
"I was still very young when I learned I had a talent for fire. Master Z, as he preferred to be called, encouraged it. I was afraid of it, initially."
Cain nodded. "Not unheard of for Priests of Rathma to have other more magical abilities."
"All I could see was its destructive potential at that age. I actually had nightmares about it. But he taught me how to control it, make it a useful tool. He put up with my vagaries better than I think even he realized." He smiled faintly, remembering his master's ever-calm and never harsh demeanor. "But he would not tolerate shunning any tool at my disposal."
He seemed lost in the memories for a moment, but then he turned his attention back to the present. Cain waited with his usual patience, but curiosity was clearly all over his face.
"I think I was maybe eight. We were seeing to the cleansing of a small village that had been overwhelmed by a plague demon. There were no survivors, and it was a grueling task. Anyone who might have survived had fled. There was no one to bury them. My master didn't see the point in burning the entire village down when many of the cottages might one day be put to good use again.
"By the time we finished collecting all the bodies and performing the requested rites, it was late, and we were both exhausted. But Master Z wanted the task to be finished. He decided that now was a good time to test my strength, rather than skill or control."
He shook his head, chuckling. "I think I surprised even him. All I wanted was supper and a bed as fast as possible. The entire pyre was alight and blazing in seconds." He glanced at Cain with an almost sheepish grin. "My mind has a tendency to wander off on tangents when I'm tired. Maybe it was because I was tired, or perhaps just childish fancies, but I told him I could hear the music, a sort of song, in the flames. By this point, I was well-acquainted with the burial and cremation rites of many cultures. More often than not, some form of music was involved. The song in the flames seemed fitting at that moment, and I said so.
"He teasingly called me 'Pyresong,' and the name just sort of stuck. I had already nearly forgotten my real name, which was rarely used. Pyresong seemed as good a name as any. And certainly better than just 'boy.'" He shot Cain another grin. "Not the grand, heroic tale I'm sure you're used to hearing."
Cain seemed equally amused by this comment, but he waved it off. "I had no expectations, just an old man's curiosity."
"Satisfied, I hope?" he queried, teasingly.
Before Cain could respond, there was a knock on the door when supper arrived. For a while, the two of them fell back into a comfortable silence while they ate. Cain was pleased to see Pyresong had managed to shake off whatever dark thoughts from earlier. They both knew this would be their last meal together for many weeks...maybe forever. By some unspoken consent, they kept their talk light as they swapped anecdotes. But it wasn't long before the exhaustion crept back into the priest's voice again. Cain caught him stifling a yawn and "ordered" him to bed. Pyresong was reluctant, knowing he could likely catch up on sleep while on board the ship, but he could see Cain was eager to get back to his work in the hopes of finding something that would prevent this trip from happening in the first place.
He wished him luck, silently, but held no real hope.
Hells, he didn't even think this trip across the world had any real hope of succeeding. Hundreds of people had sought this mysterious library over the centuries. But scouring the sands of the Shassar was far better than sitting around here waiting for something that might never happen.
He made one last check of all his gear and supplies and readied everything for later. He'd already filled his purses from the bag of loot and deposited the rest in Cain's protected room. He tucked the full purses and another one that was much lighter into his backpack. Given what Cain had said about the locals, he had no doubts the extra coin and even gems would come in very handy. With nothing left to do, he settled down to sleep for a bit, trusting Cain would keep his word and wake him later.
The moment the priest was out of the room, Cain resumed his near frantic research. He pretty much knew it was already too late. Pyresong would be on board a ship and sailing away in a few more hours. He silently cursed his massive piles of research that had gotten him nowhere. For this final stretch, he set himself to maybe trying to find a whisper of another archive or workshop in a place that was at least safer than the Shassar Sea. But Zoltun Kulle knew what he was doing. He had intentionally picked the most inhospitable places in the world for his blasphemous research.
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Cain finally gave up. In a few minutes, he would have to wake Pyresong to get ready to leave. He readied one last pot of tea, struggling to rid himself of the feeling that he would never see his dear friend again. He'd lost so many over the years, but this one...it was different. Still, he greeted the priest as cheerfully as he could.
"There you are, my friend. All ready to go?"
Pyresong had decided to forego the armor for now, as all he was doing was sitting on a ship. He had it safely stowed in his wondrous new backpack. He also had some hope that Rehm's crew would be less likely to balk at a passenger who essentially looked and dressed like any other person.
"Indeed," he affirmed, letting Cain take his hand.
"I wish you luck as you brave the unknown. When you return, I will be here in my workshop. Until then, my friend," Cain told him warmly.
Sensing something more under those casually spoken words, Pyresong surprised them both, giving in to instinct. He pulled Cain into an embrace, feeling not the slightest bit awkward. He was gratified to feel Cain returning the embrace.
"Be safe, my friend," Pyresong told him, pulling away. "I will return."
Apparently, the priest had seen right through his own facade. He wasn't entirely surprised. The man had an instinct for people that was not entirely unlike his own. Cain said nothing more as he left. He just wished his heart could believe what his friend had just said. But he knew he wouldn't. Not until it actually happened. He'd lost so many dear friends in his life. He couldn't help thinking this was going to be another one. And this time, it felt like he was losing a part of himself. Cain scrubbed his face with his hands as if to scrub away the thoughts. Inevitably, they crept back in. Finally, he gave up and went to bed.
He offered one last prayer in the darkness for Pyresong's safe return.
Chapter 7: 06 Shassar Sea
Chapter Text
Voyage / Shassar Sea
Pyresong strode through the darkened streets toward the western docks near Cain's workshop. Here, pirates and the like preferred the darkness, so almost every lantern had been destroyed or vandalized at some point. Still, he was accustomed to the even thicker gloom of a forest on a moonless night. This was well-lit by comparison. His ever-scanning eyes and ears were alert and detected movement and even some figures skulking in the shadows and alleys. As he approached the docks, some of them even turned out to be nothing more threatening than drunken sailors sleeping off another binge. Still feeling worn out from the events the previous night, he couldn't help feeling vulnerable. Rehm was waiting for him on the deck of the Black Bower, making last-minute adjustments to their plans as he approached. Moving away from his men, he approached the necromancer, hands on hips.
"Cain said you'd be here. I'd half hoped we wouldn't have to go all the way out there," Rehm admitted, not unhappily.
"And the fact that I am a Priest of Rathma will not pose any conflicts with your crew?" Pyresong couldn't help asking.
Rehm laughed and motioned for him to follow. "If it does, the other men will throw him overboard. Most of my current crew owes their lives to Cain. This is his favor to call in."
He nodded, more than a little relieved as the captain led him to a set of three small cabins. One larger and two smaller.
"This is my cabin," he pointed out the larger one. "This one's yours for now. We don't typically take passengers."
"I'm sure you have much better cargo to haul than warm bodies," he replied with a smirk. Then, he got serious. "How trustworthy are your men?"
Rehm bristled at this a bit, "I trust them with my life every day at sea."
"Good enough for me," he said, holding up a hand before further could be said. He hadn't intended a confrontation. "I simply ask because I carry something that will make your journey a lot less...bothersome for you and your crew."
Interested, Rehm relaxed. "And what might that be?"
"Two hundred fifty gold for each member of your crew and five hundred for you upon my debarking. And the same amount again on your return to Westmarch. Cain will have it ready for you."
Rehm smiled at the idea but shook his head quickly. "Sorry, friend, but I won't take more than my crew. Besides, this is Cain's favor to call in."
Pyresong smirked again. "Well, it's my money to spend. If you prefer to throw it overboard..."
Rehm chuckled. "Very well, it is your choice where and how to spend your coin. But, if you insist, I get equal to my men, not a coin more."
"Agreed, then. You're welcome to let your men know now if you believe it will resolve any conflicts that may arise."
The captain shrugged. "My crew's loyal. And not a one of them is stupid enough to cross a Priest of Rathma, friend of Cain's or not. But this is going to be a long and possibly difficult voyage. We rarely go that far out. We can revisit this another time if needed. For now, welcome aboard the Black Bower. You can move about the ship as long as you stay out of my men's way."
"Understood."
Rehm eyed him more closely in the light of a nearby lantern. "Don't know what you and Cain have been up to, but you look like you've been through hells. Is the old man all right?"
"He is well. And I've just had...more work than I would like lately."
"Good," the captain said, more than a little relieved at the news about Cain, more so than his passenger. "If you get seasick, there's a bucket. If it's bad enough, I've got a potion that will cure it."
He waved this off. "I just need some rest."
"If all goes well, you'll have more than you can handle."
"Sounds delightful," he shot back dryly.
"So you say now," Rehm chuckled. "I'll get back topside and get us out of here. Rest well."
He entered the little cabin and closed the door. There was a latch but no lock or bolt. And, of course, the chair and table opposite the bunk in the small space were bolted down. He considered having a skeleton guard his sleep but decided that would likely cause problems if anyone came to check on him. Instead, he removed his shield from his backpack and leaned it against the door. It would stay as long as the ship didn't hit rougher waters. He did hope this was an unnecessary precaution, but he had no idea what kind of people he was dealing with other than their given name of pirates.
He slept through most of the day and woke feeling much refreshed and only slightly lethargic. The headache that always seemed to accompany his overuse of energy seemed to have left completely. For a few minutes, he debated on whether to continue keeping to himself in the cabin. He had no desire for confrontation at all on this voyage if it could be avoided. But he also knew he wouldn't be able to tolerate being confined to this cabin for weeks. He stretched thoroughly and was considering some meditation. He knew he needed it, but there would be time enough for that later, too. In the end, the question of what to do next was answered for him when Rehm knocked on the door, rattling the shield. He set the shield aside and released the latch.
"Supper will be ready soon," Rehm explained cheerfully. "Would you care to join us?"
He certainly was hungry, more so than he had expected. And the invitation had been unexpected, to say the least. But there was something about Captain Rehm that made him feel the invitation had been genuine, not just a formal courtesy extended to an unwanted guest. Figuring he could always retreat back to the cabin if things didn't go well, he decided to accept. This was someone Cain clearly trusted, despite his reputation as a pirate. He felt there was much more to the man than just his jovial and charismatic demeanor.
He soon learned that Rehm was not like other captains he had sailed with, or other pirates, for that matter. He was above his men, as a captain should be. Yet, he held himself as part of the crew, too. He ate with his men. He worked with his men. He drank with his men. He even slept down below or on deck with his men. There was no job aboard the ship he was unwilling to take on for himself. He shared every payoff, every sale, every haul with his men equally. These things had made his crew not only exponentially more motivated but loyal to the death.
It wasn't long before he realized that the bulk of the men had no real problem with him being a Priest of Rathma. And the few who did were only being protective of their captain. For his part, Rehm could tell the ugly, whispered remarks and comments were not about to incite the necromancer to violence, so he let them slide. If anything, he made a point of being seen chatting with their passenger openly and frequently as the days rolled by. As expected on any long voyage, everyone settled into their routine quickly and easily.
Feeling at a loss for what to do, Pyresong spent a considerable amount of time on deck enjoying the fresh sea air and sunshine. Often, he spent hours watching what the other men were doing and learning about the ship. On his few other voyages, it was more typical of him to be all but locked up in his cabin for the duration. Most of the time, he kept one of the books he'd borrowed from Cain's collection with him to look like he was at least doing something. Really, there was little else to do.
Gradually, as they became more accustomed to his presence, several of the men relaxed considerably. On more than one occasion, Pyresong would engage in a talk with someone only to have them realize they were talking to a Priest of Rathma and try to change their language. He put them at ease with a laugh and assurance he wasn't about to curse someone for, well, cursing. As a matter of fact, he learned some very inventive new phrases to add to his own collection of vile language he used so very rarely. In return, he shared more than a few necromancer jokes he'd learned from Cain and others.
He learned much about the captain and his view of the workings of the world in which he lived. Sure, he accepted the given name of pirate, but, in reality, he was just a smuggler and successful businessman. He never attacked a ship or stole from others. He never shed blood unless there was absolutely no alternative. Despite all of that, rumors and stories made the rounds of every seaport in Sanctuary of the pirate known as Captain Rehm. He was the man who could get things done, and goods were moved in secret without inspection or taxes. If he lost a haul, he repaid his debts. If he was crossed, that person was never heard from again, despite the fact that the captain never actually did anything in retaliation. The captain himself did much to encourage these rumors. He learned quickly to filter out the bravado in Rehm's stories and find the nugget of truth underneath. Still, Pyresong considered him a good man and a great captain to his crew. He protected them as much as they protected him. He could easily see why Cain had taken a liking to him over the years.
As everyone around him relaxed, he found them accepting him more and more as part of the crew. Even occasionally asking for his help with various tasks. He was more than willing just to have something to do besides sit around. And an encounter out in the open waters had done much to aid their view of him as a crew member as well.
Somewhere between the Skovos Isles and Kingsport, as they were headed into the Twin Seas, they were spotted by some real pirates who were clearly out for blood and booty. For the most part, Rehm typically dealt with them much as he had port authorities and watch guards. He would pay them off, and they would part amicably. Pyresong was surprised to learn that there was actually a pirates guild. Paying the guild kept the rest of its members off your tail for extended periods of time. But, there were always free lancers, looking for an easy payoff. Anyone with a ship of their own could pay their way into the guild. Anyone who preferred to remain independent was destroyed by the guild fairly quickly. Yet, there were always a few that had escaped the net somehow.
This was one of those.
Rehm watched calmly as the ship approached. He didn't recognize the flag but already had a bad feeling about them. He made sure his flag was flying high. In the cases of guild interactions, the flag was required to be visible from a distance so there was no misunderstanding. Still, the other ship pursued relentlessly. Despite his bad feeling, Rehm went to his cabin to retrieve is proof of dues and protection fees paid to the guild. The men on the deck muttered darkly. Finally, the captain called a halt and ordered his men armed and ready, but otherwise casual. He ordered most of the men to hide below decks to make it look like he had little more than a skeleton crew. Then he eyed Pyresong with no small amount of amusement.
"Many guild ships pay the extra to have a mage of some kind go with them in the more dangerous areas. I think you'll do nicely."
He cocked an eyebrow at the captain with a wicked grin. "Before or after the battle?"
Rehm chuckled, "I knew I liked you for some reason. Practical thinker. But, to answer your question, before, preferably. Go ahead and get dressed up for the ladies." Then, he got more serious. "The more intimidating you look, the better."
Pyresong didn't disagree. If there was a way to avoid damaging the ship and slowing their progress, all the better. Quickly, he put on his armor and tied some of his hair back out of his face with a piece of leather cord. Irritated with himself, he still hadn't remembered to cut it. The other ship was almost within ballistae range when Rehm called out to identify themselves. Pyresong stepped up beside the captain. Scowling menacingly, he stared down the raggedy and filthy crew on the other ship.
Apparently, someone on the other ship recognized him as a Priest of Rathma, and the shouting back and forth began. Over the wind, it was hard to make out exactly what they were saying. But it was obvious when several men motioned for them to turn around and leave. The hulking and filthy captain clearly had other plans. When one of the men approached him more directly, he apparently didn't like what was said. The scruffy captain stabbed the smaller man through the chest and kicked the body off his sword into the water. He turned around to confront the others, and they all backed down.
"Bastard son of a..." Rehm muttered beside him but didn't finish it. He shook his head with a sigh. "There won't be any talk with this one. Use whatever you've got on him. But try to kill as few as possible of his crew; they might come in handy."
Rehm fired a few of his ballistae, knocking giant holes in the side of the other ship before it even got close enough to be boarded. By the looks of things, all that raggedy crew had were some crossbows and blades. Rehm figured the captain must be some kind of madman to even attempt such a thing without better weaponry at the very least. Or maybe he just didn't care how many men he lost as long as he got the booty.
Rehm called out to the crew on the other ship that anyone who surrendered would be taken aboard safely and dropped at the next port. This tactic worked better than Pyresong had expected. Most of the men unwilling to confront a Priest of Rathma for any reason bailed off the side of the ship and began swimming toward them. The rest were determined nothing, not even being turned into undead, would stop them from getting whatever Rehm had on his ship.
He watched for a few more seconds while the remaining crew on the other ship prepared to board. After a quick headcount, he nodded to himself. Then he walked away to the other side of the Black Bower's deck, leaving Rehm staring at him curiously. Just as the two ships were barely close enough, he drew his shield and scythe. With a running start across the deck, he leapt the distance between the two ships and easily rolled to his feet right in front of the crazed captain. He held his scythe out, but ready.
"Surrender and you will live, on my word," he told the filthy hulk.
"Get him!" the captain screamed at his remaining men.
Apparently, it was one thing to see a Priest of Rathma on the ship you intended to capture; it was a whole other thing to be confronted by an angry necromancer just a few feet away. A few more men dropped their weapons and ran to throw themselves into the sea. Pyresong found himself surrounded by roughly a dozen men just as crazed as their captain. Well, he had tried.
While the distance between the ships narrowed, Rehm just sat back and enjoyed the show with a grin. More than once, his men wanted to jump into the melee to help, but Rehm ordered them back. Watching Pyresong dance back and forth across the deck, switching from spirit fire to scythe and even a few bone spears, he knew his own experienced men would just get in Pyresong's way.
In a very few minutes, it was over. Pyresong had barely broken a sweat. He turned back toward Rehm's ship to find every single one of the men just staring at him; the people in the water below momentarily forgotten. He shook his head, partially at himself. He hadn't meant to put on such a show. He just wanted it ended quickly with as few casualties as possible. Well, he'd accomplished that. The only casualties on their side had been his skeletal warriors. And, even then, only two of those. He threw Rehm an icy glower when the captain began applauding, much as he had after the fight outside the tavern. His men started cheering a moment later. He hopped back across the much smaller gap, landing directly beside the captain.
"When you've fought demons, men are little more than practice," he told the captain and his crew coldly.
Rehm just laughed heartily. Once again, the necromancer's glower and tone had failed on this man. It irked him more than he was willing to admit. He was used to people backing down, not laughing in his face. Annoyed, he decided the rest of the men could do the work of hauling the others up onto the ship and securing them. He'd done more than his fair share today. He returned to his cabin to clean up the gory mess.
Eventually, the noises on the deck calmed down, and he could hear Rehm shouting at the new men. Knowing their only other choice was a slow death drifting in the ocean, every single one of them agreed to the Pirates' Guild official terms of capture. They would make it to the nearest port unharmed provided they behaved themselves. They could pay their way out of trouble or submit to the guild's punishment, which usually came down to little more than temporary slave labor on the docks. As a result of their willing agreement, they were kept in a section of the hold that was set up similar to a prison and fed. No injuries had occurred in this little skirmish, so no additional resources were expended.
That night, it was Rehm's crew that asked him to join them for supper.
He spent the better part of a week overhearing everyone's different tales of his battle and how incredible it was. Along with their gratitude, of course. Injuries at sea could easily be fatal without a healer on board. Still, this wore thin quickly. In his own mind, he had done nothing extraordinary. More to the point, the tales grew more fantastic with each retelling he overheard. By the end of a week, it was a hundred men and a kraken with eighty-foot tentacles he'd taken out. That was when he decided to retreat back into his cabin for a few days.
Captain Rehm wouldn't let him, though. He explained with no small amount of amusement that this was all just part of life on a ship. Ultimately, it was boring in the extreme; his men just needed something to talk about. He understood, knowing it would eventually be forgotten. He just prayed it would be sooner rather than later.
***
Finally, they were beyond the twin seas and moving up the river between Kurast to the south and Kehjistan to the north and west. At first, it was all lush jungles on both sides. But the further northeast they traveled, the more arid it became. Soon, it was obvious that the only real plant life was in the immediate area along the river banks. The lands to the north and west were virtually barren. Not even the occasional irrigated farm dotted the landscape. They were on their guard constantly here. Though the river was wide and flowing swiftly, there were bandits, river monsters, flayer demons, and all manner of twisted creatures. Pyresong began to feel the tension in the crew as they continued.
Rehm always kept his jovial attitude but ensured his men were on their guard. Pyresong even began taking shifts on lookout duty. After what seemed a month on this river alone—he'd lost track of days by this point—the captain said they were no more than a day away from their destination. The captain explained to him that there was one small dock where one of his boats could slip up to and then away again without putting the whole ship in danger of being boarded by the oh so friendly locals of the Shassar Sea. Having grown used to one another, Rehm couldn't keep the concern out of his expression as he asked one last time if he really wanted to do this.
"No, but I'm going to anyway," he assured the captain with a grin.
"Well, if I can't change your mind, do you want me to wait a few days in case you need to escape?"
He couldn't help another, darker grin. "Given what Cain and now you have told me of this place, if I fall afoul of the locals, there won't be an escape. No, you and your men should turn around and get out of here as quickly as you can. When you get back to Westmarch, tell Cain the bar tab is on me. He'll know what it means."
Just after sunrise the next morning, Captain Rehm dropped anchor and set one of his men to ferry him over in a small boat. Despite no sign of trouble, Rehm had his ballistae and bowmen at the ready. He shook hands as he parted ways with a crew he'd come to appreciate. By this point, the captain already had the gold, and he trusted the man to see to it being distributed appropriately once they were safely further back down the river. He was pleasantly surprised to note he had not needed that gold as an incentive much earlier on.
As they came within reach of the little dock, he realized it was almost entirely unused now. It was little more than a fishing pier that had likely been forgotten through the ages. Along either side of the path leading away from it were decorative carved sandstone columns that likely served to hold up some kind of roof at some point. The sandstone carvings themselves were virtually unrecognizable after hundreds, if not thousands, of years exposed to the elements. Occasionally, he caught sight of a gnarled dead tree that spoke of what had once been a lush place, all left to dry and petrify in the desert heat and wind. Though he felt the heat the moment he stepped onto the deck of the ship this morning, it was nothing compared to the baking heat he felt coming up from the stones beneath his feet. He felt like he was walking in an oven. In less than an hour, he could already see how brutal and unforgiving this land could be.
With his shield on his back and his scythe on his belt, he kept his pace to a moderate stroll that would get him somewhere quickly enough but wouldn't exhaust him in this almost unbelievable heat. For just a few seconds, he almost regretted wearing his armor. The sun had warmed it until he almost felt he needed another layer beneath to keep his skin from blistering. But he knew that was a foolish notion. If this place were half as dangerous as Rehm and Cain had described, his armor would likely save his life many times over.
As the path wound its way around several more natural rock formations, he began to hear angry voices ahead. Despite its proximity to fresh water, this place had an uninhabited feel about it. He hadn't expected to cross paths with people so soon. And, of course, they were not the kind of people he wanted to cross paths with at all. He had been told, many times over, that just about the only people that lived in the Shassar Sea were the ones that didn't want to be found. Bandits, thieves, murderers, pirates, and just about every unlawful name for a felon one could think of. If they knew the desert and the locals well enough, the Shassar Sea would swallow them up, and no one would ever dare chase them into it. By the sounds of things, there wasn't even a recognizable village here anymore. Just bands of men and women struggling to survive in this inhospitable environment.
He ducked behind a bit of rock and strained his ears. All the other voices became silent when this one spoke.
"I'll make this easy, you double-crossing rat. Give me the map, and maybe you live long enough to scurry away."
Based on the forced laughter, he could guess no more than maybe five or six people. He inched around the rocks just enough to see a very large thug standing over another man who was kneeling and chained up. Instantly, Pyresong's mind reacted to what he saw. This was no friendly chat, obviously. He had no idea what was going on here, but a helpless man chained up while several other armed men surrounded him was never a good thing. Silently, he got his shield and scythe ready.
"What's going on here?" he called, stepping back onto the path in full view of the others.
The largest thug, easily the size of a barbarian warrior, jumped and then glared angrily at his men. Pyresong supposed they were intended to be on the lookout and failed. The smaller men cowered away from the big one. This leader backhanded one of them right off his feet. Then, the hulk turned to the man in chains, who sat frozen with a pleading expression aimed at the newcomer.
"Look at that, Zov! A stranger from out of nowhere to save ya, hm?" The man laughed heartily. "I will enjoy gutting you both!"
That was all the prompting the other men needed. They rushed Pyresong all at once. He deftly dodged one large curved blade and swung around with his scythe to catch another as his shield blocked a third. In seconds, the four were dead. And the enraged thug that had been their leader was now running right for him, barehanded. The man was a hulk but clearly not trained at all. Unlike the Barbarians he was familiar with, this guy was all rolls of fat and incredibly sloppy. He was no warrior, just another bully. Pyresong easily dodged and ducked his clumsy but powerful attacks. He took the man's head off with a single, clean swipe when the opportunity presented itself. He paused for a moment to listen for anyone else that might be hiding in the rocks around them waiting to ambush them.
"Um, a little help here," the guy in chains called out.
He shook his head in disgust. Already, he was off to a great start. Turning back to this Zov, he eyed the chains. Instantly, the guy felt slimy somehow. He didn't like him and wouldn't trust him. But, so far, he was the first local he'd encountered that might possibly be willing to help him in return in some way.
Then again, maybe not, he considered as this weasel of a man squirmed under his glare. The man's whole demeanor screamed coward.
"Who were they?" he demanded.
Zov barked a laugh. "That is a question no native would ask. Haha! Those brutes were the Sand Scorpions. A group of vile murderers that I am overjoyed to no longer be a part of."
Something about Zov's statement rang true to him. He believed him, though he wasn't sure why. The man looked more likely to offer him money to let him go than to help him. But what choice did he really have?
"Why don't you grab the key off Thiago and free me, hm? Then we can talk more."
Assuming Thiago was the leader, he kicked the corpse over so he could get to the pockets. Sure enough, there was a key. The purse and other small items he pocketed out of habit. Behind him, Zov sighed in relief. He finally understood he wasn't going to be left out here to die. When he returned, Zov squirmed around until he could get to the lock in the back. He was actually rather impressed by the intricacy of the chains and how they were woven around his body and limbs and through various loops so that only one lock was needed. As he released the lock and helped unwind them, he realized that this set of chains had been made specifically for human prisoners, not the general use most chains were created for. For some reason, that disturbed him slightly.
"You were amazing, friend!" Zov felt the need to say as the last of the chains were removed. "Not every traveler waylaid by the Scorpions has the strength to fight back—much less to kill Thiago the Bloodthirsty!"
"I'm not 'every traveler,'" he commented coldly.
Zov caught the dangerous look in his eyes and swallowed whatever he was about to say. Given the total lack of obvious fear of a Priest of Rathma the others had displayed, he was slightly mollified to sense at least some fear out of this one. But, then, was there anything this little coward wasn't afraid of?
"Well, yes. Clearly. What brings someone like you to this forsaken desert?"
He debated how much to tell the man. But, at this point, he really didn't have a choice who to ask for help. He forcefully softened his expression a bit to keep Zov from running.
"I'm looking for the library of an ancient mage. It is said to be buried beneath the dunes. Would you know anything about that?"
As he voiced his question, the man became wide-eyed and nervous. He looked around the rocks once again as if they would attack him. Then he shook his head.
"A little too...forthright for these sands, friend. You never know who may be listening. But, yes, I know of what you seek. Come, we can discuss things in a safer place."
He motioned with his scythe that Zov should lead on as he readied his shield. Just around another cluster of rocks was a much more open sandy area. He still half expected an ambush the way Zov had been acting. He had even considered the possibility that the man was leading him into an ambush, likely one of the rival gangs that he probably worked with now. He wasn't about to let the man get behind him. As if sensing this, Zov put on a smile.
"Welcome to the Shassar Sea. A more turbulent and accursed place you may never find. Haha!"
The man's forced laugh grated on his nerves, but he let it go. It seemed Zov was following some kind of trail or path only he could see. To his eyes, it was all just blown about sand and small dunes, cluttered here and there with exposed mounds of sandstone. Still, his vigilance paid off. Not twenty minutes later, he spotted some men in the deeper shadows around a rock formation. Just as he opened his mouth to call Zov to a halt, the men realized he had seen them and made their move. He was absolutely not surprised when Zov squealed in fright and ran back to him.
"Stay behind me!" he barked, summoning some skeletons.
The man seemed almost as afraid of the skeletons when he frantically backed further away. Pyresong ignored him.
As long as he stays out of the way.
While his skeletal warriors engaged with the men wielding swords, he was surprised to see two bandits standing further behind the others. They didn't have obvious bows or other ranged weapons. Then he caught sight of them throwing small round objects. He couldn't quite see what they were throwing at him, but he knew it couldn't be anything good. He caught one of the little round objects on his shield, and it exploded. Only slightly startled, though, he was quick to retaliate with some spirit fire. Rarely did he ever need to use this spell against humans, but he knew from personal experience it would be just as stunning and painful to a human as it was to a demon. While the two men were stunned, he sent one of his minions to keep them occupied. He whipped through the men with his scythe, finishing off a couple that were not quite dead yet.
He hated shedding human blood, but he would at least do it mercifully if he must. They would not die a slow death out here on the sands. When it was done, he began to realize all over again just how brutal the heat here was. Even his sweat evaporated in seconds. He could feel the draining effect it had on his body. He knew the heat and dry air would take some getting used to. In the meantime, he would have to keep himself aware of his body. Sunstroke could kill out here, and he would likely succumb to it quickly. He was far more accustomed to temperate or even cold climates.
Zov, eyeing the skeletons warily, began to move again. "You're a necromancer!"
"Yes, a Priest of Rathma," he replied, not quite ready to share his name yet.
Zov broke into a wide smile like he'd just won some kind of prize. "The Sand Scorpions have never forgiven us for leaving them. But Tabri has a strength they lack... Come, you'll see!"
With a bit more enthusiasm, Zov led the way once more. Pyresong was far more accustomed to clear trails found in mountains or forests. He struggled to make out something like a path or trail, but it still seemed like a featureless landscape other than the rock formations. He considered that maybe that was how Zov was navigating. But to him, one hunk of rock looked just like any other. After a few more minutes, he could see what looked like badly decayed sandstone buildings in the distance ahead of them and above the rocks and dunes. He was no expert, but they looked ancient. The little bit of wood he could see supporting the structures had dried over the years to something akin to rock itself. Zov picked up his pace as they rounded a building to find sharpened stakes and fences. There was a long, shallow set of carved rock stairs that led up to more buildings. But the gate was open and unguarded. Zov paused, as did Pyresong.
"Where is everyone?" Zov asked. His expression became very worried as he turned to Pyresong, "It's not like the guards to be lying down on duty..."
He motioned with his scythe for Zov to continue. He wasn't about to step foot in this place looking like Zov was his prisoner...at least, not yet. Warily, Zov stepped forward. There were a handful of people all running about just inside what appeared to be an ancient village square, complete with a waypoint. There was this gate to the north and another one to the south. Sandstone buildings and walls surrounded the rest of the area. Just inside the gates, at the top of this flight of stairs, sat one man leaning against a wall. His belly had been slit open and was bleeding profusely, yet he refused to let go of his sword. He moved Zov out of the way as he knelt down beside the man, a healing potion in hand.
Zov turned to one of the others running about. "You there! What has happened?"
The man Pyresong had been helping relaxed as the potion took effect, soothing away his pain. The wound was not deep, just painful, he was glad to see. It had not cut deep enough to expose or damage any internal organs. The lookout blinked and shook his head to clear it.
"Thank you, stranger. The Lacuni attacked again... Tabri and the others went to fight them."
Zov, having been ignored by the passers by growled, "Those damned beasts attack without end!"
Just beyond the south gate, Pyresong could hear the fighting. As he stood up, Zov grabbed his arm.
"Listen, friend: to find your library, you need to speak to our leader, Tabri. Right now, she is in the midst of repelling a Lacuni invasion."
He shook off Zov's grip and all but ignored him as he headed for the south gate, grateful for any excuse to be away from the slimy little coward.
"Hey, it's not all sandstorms and wasps! Sure, there are a few panther-monster-people in your way." Zov stopped well short of the gate. "But a person of your skill can easily remove them, yes? Haha!"
Even as he approached the gate, one of the guards shouted back into the village.
"We need all the blades we can get!"
"I'll just take care of the wounded," Zov called back.
There was no missing the multiple looks of disgust thrown Zov's way. Surprisingly, Pyresong was virtually ignored as he ran through the gate, already summoning more skeletons. Not until the skeletons were noticed did everyone seem to get out of his way. And it was a good thing they did. Literally five feet beyond the damaged gates, a battle raged. He launched himself at the closest two panther-like creatures and cut them down, but not easily. These were more like khazra; easily intelligent enough to fight well together. And they were considerably more agile than the goatmen. Claws, knives, spears, nets, and more explosives were just some of what he encountered. He put all other thoughts out of his mind as he moved from one little cluster battle to another. Soon, he found himself having to ignore the pain of multiple minor wounds and burns. But there was no time to stop even for a potion. He danced his way around the men and into the waiting claws of dozens of these Lacuni. He was startled briefly by a high, loud scream that sounded very much like a giant mountain cat he was familiar with.
Apparently, it was a call to retreat. It was over; the Lacuni were flinging whatever they had as they backed away and then dropped to all fours and ran like cats. His chest heaving and the heat making him dizzy, he realized the last of the Lacuni were falling to the blade of one woman. By this point, they were a good half mile away from the south gate. Struggling to regain control of his breathing, he realized even the hot, dusty air here was almost painful to breathe. He took the opportunity to consume half a healing potion. He'd already used one; he didn't want to risk running out. The usual welcoming warmth of healing just made him shudder, wishing for anything cooler at this point. When he approached the woman, the three other Lacuni that had been trying to get at her fled back into the deserts.
"Go!" she screamed. "Scamper back to your dens! Nothing but death awaits your kind here!"
Her own chest was heaving with the exertion of the battle as she wiped her blade clean and sheathed it on her hip. When she spun around, she nearly walked right into Pyresong before realizing he was there. Behind him, she spotted the skeletal warriors, along with many Lacuni corpses littering the ground. Before he could speak, she scowled at him.
"You have either excellent or terrible timing, outsider. While I appreciate your aid, I do not know who you are. What brings you to my camp?"
A better reception than I expected,he mused to himself, but he kept his expression neutral.
Whatever else, this woman was to her people; she was as completely unafraid of a necromancer as the others had been. Nor had he detected any open disgust, either. At least he had that in his favor.
"Your friend—Zov, I believe his name was—said I should speak with you. I'm looking for something buried beneath these sands."
The woman huffed in disdain. "Friend is a strong word... If Zov sent you, he must see good omens in your arrival." Then her expression got even harder, if that was even possible. "There is no fortune to be found here."
She gestured to the blood-soaked sands and the numerous bodies. "Look around you! The Amber Blades are barely holding on against this threat, much less Vataos and his thugs. The desert sands devour hope. You should leave before they claim you, too, stranger."
He was forced to step out of her way when she resumed her trek toward the southern gates.
"Luck is all I can offer you, outsider. Leave, and may Fahir's eye never fall upon you," she tossed over her shoulder.
Dismissed is better than dead, I suppose, he thought tiredly as she walked away.
Despite her openly hostile demeanor, there was some undertone in her words that shifted his perspective slightly. With her open lack of fear or disgust, he had no doubts she could turn against him without hesitation. Yet, he couldn't shake the impression that she and the others he had encountered here so far would not. He was too tired to figure it out. Right now, he had other problems.
He kept his expression to its default serenity and resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. He would just have to come up with another plan. However, the idea of joining with the Sand Scorpions was not an appealing option. He just hoped that there might be someone else—anyone else—that could help him. Could he possibly work with the Lacuni? He shook his head even as the thought crossed his mind. Based on what he'd seen thus far, it would be like working with khazra. Not an option at all. He began to wonder about the dead in this region. In this inhospitable environment, he could likely find at least one that knew of the library. Maybe he could get one of them to at least give him some information, if not a way in.
"Friend! Over here!" he heard Zov call a few feet away.
Tired and irritated that he would even have to speak with that weasel of a man again, he stifled his frustration and followed the voice. Zov was better than considering Lacuni, though not by much.
"What?" he demanded silently pleased to see the man cowering again.
After a moment, Zov seemed to recover himself. "Let me guess, Tabri told you to leave, hm? Haha! That woman is surely the coldest person in a thousand miles. Colder than a winter night in the desert. No wonder Vataos is frightened of her!"
"Who is this 'Vataos'?" he demanded, tired of the man's blather.
"He's the leader of the Sand Scorpions!” Zov explained, looking around as if the man himself would leap out of the shadows. “We were all under his rule, once. She broke away and took us with her."
"And how does this help me?" He was already considering killing this Vataos just to please Tabri and get on with his search.
Zov sighed. "Listen, your problem is an easy one."
Unlikely, he thought to himself.
"She believes you are going to be a burden, yes? So, instead, we lighten the weight upon her shoulders! Simple! And I know exactly how we do it!"
This time he did sigh, just shy of a growl. He had just known it was coming. This slimy coward probably thought of nothing but how to use things and people to his advantage and for profit. He was too much of a coward to do anything for himself. Having access to a combat necromancer must have been a dream come true. Zov scrambled to get to the point before he lost the willing ear.
"Several of our men were dragged away in the last attack!" he said, nearing panic. "Save anyone still alive, and kill the Lacuni pack leader. Oh, and bring back proof of your kill! It's not like you're going after Vataos. But Tabri, for some inconceivable reason, favors action over words."
I like her more already, he thought to himself, still disgusted with this little man.
But, he had to admit, the idea did sound appealing. Rescuing some people is always a good thing. These Lacuni could be cunning, as he had seen for himself. Maybe if he at least did enough damage to their camp, Tabri might reconsider. As unpleasant as it was to think about, Zov just might be right. And it was considerably easier than going after this seemingly renowned thug called Vataos.
"Where is the camp?" he demanded, more than ready to be away from this pathetic excuse for a human.
Zov beamed a smile. "Those old buildings over there," he pointed to more abandoned sandstone structures off in the distance that were much more spread out. "Follow the path south through those and then take a left. You can't miss it."
Not wanting to waste any more breath on this man, he turned on his heel. Broad daylight and he was going to walk into a Lacuni camp less than two miles away from the village and rescue some people. Even to him, it sounded downright reckless and stupid. Sure, there were shadows, but not the kind he could hide in. In the blazing light of day, even the shadows were brighter than what he was used to in terms of shadows. His eyes already burned and ached from the constant bright light and dry heat. No, there would be no stealth this time. And, just to make matters even more complicated, something Cain had told them about the Lacuni sense of smell and hearing came back. They were much more like cats than humans.
Hearing no movement ahead, he inched his way around the wall of another crumbling building. Exactly where Zov had said it would be stood a sandstone wall surrounding more buildings. So it wasn't even an open camp. He'd have to find a way over the wall or through the gates. Though some of the walls were crumbling, the majority of what he could see was easily eight feet tall. Standing over six feet tall, he might just be able to pull himself up onto the wall at some point. But he would be far too visible of a target in his darker armor and clothing. He would have to get through the ramshackle excuse for a gate. The only other plan was to wait until after nightfall. And he had a sneaking suspicion these creatures were much like other cats he had encountered, nocturnal.
Watching for several minutes from the shadows while he both cooled off and surveyed the area ahead, he realized it was far too quiet. Though it had to be nearing at least midday by this point, he could hear almost nothing from this camp. He saw no indication of sentries. Yet, he was certain there were some. While most creatures—demon or just magically twisted ones—felt safer in their home territory, he could not credit the Lacuni for being that stupid. They were easily as intelligent as any khazra he had ever dealt with, possibly even more intelligent. There must be sentries somewhere nearby watching.
Then, an idea struck him. Though he wasn't overly fond of animals in general, he'd been around enough cats in his life to know they were predators to their core. From mountain lions and jaguars to mousers and even wild bobcats, they were one and all absolute predators. Even when not hungry, they would stalk, pounce, and kill almost anything that moved that wasn't bigger than they were, and sometimes even things considerably larger than themselves.
Kitties need a mouse, he thought with a grin.
Ducking back around the corner where he would not be seen, he mentally commanded all of his skeletons to walk almost right up to the gate. As expected, the Lacuni sentries jumped out of their hiding places and perches. Before they could land, he had his skeletons running away in the opposite direction of where he waited. The moment they passed him, he ran flat out for the makeshift gate. Really, it was little more than some sticks and boards loosely tied together. It was too tall for him to leap over but was easily destroyed with a single energy blade from his scythe. As he had hoped, the guards had not sounded an alarm when they set off chasing their new toys. Despite the little bit of noise cutting down the gates, there was nothing else to immediately challenge him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It really was just far too quiet in here. If the size of the assault on Tabri's fledgling village was any indication, there could easily be at least a hundred here. He wasn't sure if they were typically nocturnal, but it seemed almost too quiet for a camp of its size.
He found a man sitting inside the gate with his back to the wall. It took only a moment to realize he was dead. Even with the head down posture, it was clear his throat had been ripped apart. All around the camp were hanging the bodies of men, women, and children. A few seconds later, he spotted what was in a cook pot over a fire.
The Lacuni don't take prisoners, it seems, he thought
He had suspected as much. They were just too much like khazra in his mind. And he had known Zov was lying about something. Now he knew. This was never meant to be a rescue mission. Was it possible Zov was trying to get rid of him?
Very likely.
Yet, he still sensed some truth in the man's words. Maybe if he could get to this Lacuni leader, the rest of the camp would abandon their attacks, for a while, at least. Silently, he stalked further into what definitely now felt more like a sizable village of Lacuni. As he had hoped, there were several of them sleeping soundly. Some were out in the open, some in makeshift tents, and some were likely indoors. There were easily thirty just within visual range of his current position. His connection to the running skeletons having weakened with distance, he was now fairly certain the guards were on their way back. Depending on how fast they moved in this heat, it might only be seconds before they discovered the ruined gates. He had to draw out this leader and somehow survive possibly as many as a hundred Lacuni warriors. He just prayed there were no shamans or magic users among them, as there inevitably were with khazra.
Then, it was too late to consider any plans. A screaming cry that reminded him all too clearly of his previous encounters with mountain lions rang out. He had obviously been spotted. He didn't need to understand their language to know he was in trouble. Reacting on instinct more than anything else, he summoned a couple of skeletal mages and two giant bone golems. It was almost too much, but he had to make it work. The golems could handle far more punishment than his skeletal warriors, and they could do a lot more damage. Meanwhile, the mages could cause general confusion and mayhem with their spirit fire. It seemed the Lacuni were easily distracted by his summonings. Perfect.
He flung his rarely used curses in every direction to blind or slow down the Lacuni closing in on him. When there were enough bodies, he used combinations of corpse explosions and corpse lances to take out the ones closest to him. Having picked a random direction, he ran, setting every item he could on fire as he passed. In the general chaos, he was able to slip away through the smoke. Around the camp, he ran at random, setting as much to burning as he could. When he felt a mage or a golem disintegrating, he summoned another one behind him as he ran. That way, a constant string of battles was going on to his rear. He rounded one section that seemed to center around a main, enormous bonfire. The pit was an easy twenty feet across. Darting around it to his left, he was surprised when a Lacuni warrior's bulk dropped to the ground right in front of him.
Another one of his seldom-used vile obscenities escaped his lips in his surprise. Reflexively, he threw himself to the ground and somehow managed to slide right between the Lacuni's giant legs. There was no doubt in his mind that this must be the leader. It was easily as big as one of his golems, possibly bigger. Like any pack animals, the largest usually ruled. As it swung around to confront him, he decided it was time to play cat and mouse again. Despite the heat making him unsteady at this point, he rolled right back to his feet and kept going. He ran straight for a sandstone wall on the other side of the fire just a few yards away. Just before impact, he switched to wraith form, blazing right through the solid wall. With an ear-splitting scream of rage, the giant Lacuni followed. He didn't need to understand the Lacuni tongue to recognize a profanity when he heard one. It launched itself onto and over the eight-foot wall, just as he'd hoped. He re-materialized, still at a flat-out sprint away from the camp. He knew he couldn't outrun the creature for long, but maybe just long enough.
A painful stitch was already stabbing at his side, and the heat was making him dizzy. Forcing himself to focus, he spotted a rock formation just ahead. He went wraith form again to gain some more distance. It was the only way he could move fast enough to keep away from the enraged cat creature. Then he re-materialized and skidded around the rocks. Following his instincts, he swung about with his scythe blazing. By sheer luck, he caught the cat in mid-leap. His glowing scythe blade sliced right through the head and most of one shoulder. It was dead before it hit the ground. His chest heaving, battling against the tingling dizziness that crept into the edges of his vision, he leaned against the rocks, listening intently.
His last golem had gone down almost as soon as he'd passed through the wall. Now there was just general chaos in the Lacuni camp while they tried to put out the fires and figure out what just happened. Quickly, he downed the other half of one of his healing potions to regain some strength and combat the heat that was baking him from the inside out. He knew it wouldn't be long before scouts or patrols would be coming around outside the camp. That fact that the leader had not been followed was nothing short of miraculous. He was far from safe here.
When he stared down at the lightly armored Lacuni, he knew he would have to bring back some proof. His breathing finally slowed to something almost normal again, and he grimaced. The head was in two pieces now. That was usually the easiest and cleanest proof of a kill. He eyed the mottled fur and stripes down the back. Hopefully, this one's pelt was unique enough for Tabri to recognize. Regardless...
Ugh, this is going to get messy, he thought as he hooked his scythe and shield and pulled out his large hunting knife.
He was no great hunter, but he had survived extended periods off of what he could hunt in the forest. On rare occasions, he had even been able to sell the fresh pelts to some locals in the area for a bit of coin. Grisly as this task was, he at least knew what he was doing. He cut away the few straps holding the bits of leather armor together and skinned the Lacuni's back pelt quickly enough. Now, he had a long and dangerous trek back to the Amber Blades' camp. Not pleased at all with the pelt dripping blood all over the place, he did his best to ignore the awful smell of sweaty cat fur as he rolled it up and slung it over his left shoulder. There was no way he was putting that smelly thing in his backpack, magic or not.
Hoping the Lacuni were too busy in the camp dealing with the mess to have patrols and raiding parties roaming about, he carefully worked his way north, away from the camp. He managed to find enough energy to keep a few skeletons ahead of him in case of an ambush. Several times, he found himself having to stop for water and, sometimes, just to steady himself. He'd taken Cain's and Rehm's warnings to heart about making sure he had enough water. He had filled so many skins of water that he wondered that his backpack didn't slosh. Just as Cain had described, the magical bag seemed to have no end of space. Once he was far enough away from the Lacuni camp, he found some shade behind some of the seemingly endless sandstone rocks and took a more extended break. The heat was deadly deceptive. The sweat dried so fast it didn't seem quite as hot. Still, the tell-tale trembling in his limbs and overall dizziness made him realize he was close to sunstroke. He had to rest, regardless of the risk at this point.
The sun was just beginning to touch the horizon when he resumed his trek. He knew he was very close to the Amber Blades' village now. His little run in the other direction away from the Lacuni camp had cost him several hours circling around to get back. He'd had to take a very wide path around to avoid getting too close to the still-burning Lacuni camp. Thankfully, the smoke at least gave him a point of reference to use in this featureless landscape. At this point, he wasn't entirely certain he could fight off another Lacuni patrol. The sky was a brilliant display of oranges and reds when he finally spotted the south gate of the Amber Blades' camp. Under any other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the spectacular display of colors. Right now, all he could think about was forcing his legs to stop shaking as he approached.
Much to his displeasure, Zov was waiting for him. He was in no mood for that little man or his antics. But he was pretty certain he wasn't going to get back through the now-closed gates without him. Stifling the urge to gut the slimy weasel, he just managed not to grimace at the sight of him.
"Hey! Look who's back! Oh, and with a...pelt. Oooh, that's disturbing but clever!" he quickly added as Pyresong glowered at him. "Tabri won't be able to deny such, uh...compelling evidence."
When he opened his mouth to tell the man to shut up and get on with it, Zov cut him off.
"Anyway, Tabri just returned to camp. She was with the others burying our dead. Follow me, and I'll take you to her. She's certainly going to be surprised to see this!"
Clearly, Zov was squirming under his glare by this point. He let his icy silence do the talking for him. It was hard enough to keep his legs and arms from shaking at this point. He knew if he let go of the pelt, he was likely to punch this little coward if he didn't hurry up and move. And he still needed to get help from Tabri. She didn't seem to like Zov very much but would likely be protective of anyone she considered one of her own, especially against an outsider. Unfortunately, punching him would likely just make things harder for himself.
Zov, unable to take the glare anymore, turned and practically scurried to the gates. He didn't even catch what was said and didn't care. At the moment, all he wanted was to clean up and find a safe place to sleep. The rest could wait until he could at least think clearly again. They found Tabri standing outside one of the many overhangs that provided shade for the camp. Hard as her expression was, he couldn't miss the telltale marks of exhaustion on her young face. She threw Zov a glare that warned him she was in no mood for his antics, either. Then turned her glower on Pyresong.
"You had best have a good reason for disturbing me again, outsider."
Forcing his expression to something other than a frigid glower was almost more effort than he was willing to expend. He grunted, almost a laugh, and threw the pelt down at her feet, letting it unroll slightly with the fur side up.
"What is this supposed to be?"
"The proof that the leader of the Lacuni camp harassing you is dead," he replied coolly.
Tabri paused and then eyed the pelt more closely. Anyone who had tangled with Lacuni long enough quickly learned to recognize the different patterns in the fur. Much as he would recognize one Khazra clan from another by their colorings. And, very likely, she had faced off with this one before. Her eyes and lips narrowed, and she seemed to become somehow even angrier. As if to head off an explosion, Zov jumped in excitedly.
"Isn't it amazing, boss? We killed Alvas! Those lousy Lacuni will know better than to mess with us!"
Pyresong's head whipped around in disbelief at such a blatant lie, and right in front of him! How stupid could the man possibly be? Before he could say anything, though, Tabri beat him to it, turning her ire on Zov instead.
"Us? Considering your new friend's hands are the ones bespattered with blood, it isn't difficult to see where the credit is due."
Zov cowered away from her. Seeing he was put in his place, she turned back to him. Clearly still angry, she took a breath and relaxed grudgingly.
"As for you...go and hang the beast's skin on my gate. Let those mongrels see its stripes every time they think about encroaching on my territory. When you're done, clean up. We will talk."
He knew he was being tested to see if he could accept her command and take orders. He nodded to her in silence and rolled up the pelt while she disappeared into the deepening shadows under the nearby awning. Pushing back his exhaustion just a little longer, he walked back to the gate. The guards, more than happy to assist with this grisly task, were proud to set the pelt waving in the wind on the outside of the gates. By then, it was full dark. With the sun that had baked the desert in the day now below the horizon, he found himself shivering as the last of the heat in the sandstone bled away into the night air. One of the gate guards pointed to a corner of the village typically used for cleaning up. The one thing this location had in its favor, apparently, was an underground river with easy access. Food was a problem, of course, but water was endless. After thanking the guard, he made his way to the ready buckets of water behind a canvas curtain. He was too tired and filthy to even care about privacy at this point. Already, he was wondering why anyone would want to live in this horrid place, and he'd only been here a day.
He cleaned and stowed his armor in his bag for the moment, not wanting to present as threatening when he met with Tabri. Though the thought of Tabri being intimidated by him nearly made him laugh. He emerged feeling somewhat refreshed, but now freezing cold and exhausted. He hoped this conversation would be a quick one. He was surprised to see his breath misting in the air as he crossed the camp back to where he had last seen Tabri. She was just beyond a curtain further in that was meant to give her some privacy, much valued in such a place. She beckoned him inside and motioned to a pile of cushions. The hard lines of her face were relaxed somewhat while here in her private sanctum, but her dark eyes remained as cold as the desert night. She offered him some wine, which he gladly accepted. Then, she seemed to consider him for a few seconds. Thus far, he had yet to see anyone offering formal bows, so he simply took a seat informally as directed.
"Don't bother telling me your name," she said, once he was seated. "If you survive a week here, I might be willing to learn it. Two weeks, and I might even be willing to remember it. You're an outsider to me. You come. And you will go."
"Understood," he said, too tired to really care. In truth, he would be more than happy to leave this place behind once he found what he was looking for.
"So, you have proven yourself to be quite the fighter, haven't you?"
It seemed a rhetorical question, so he just shrugged a shoulder as he tasted the wine.
"You are a Priest of Rathma, yes?"
"Yes."
"Then you understand the need for balance in all things. Too long this desert has been ruled by vile murderers calling themselves Sand Scorpions. I was one of them, once, much to my shame. But no more. I now fight to create a world where people can live free of fear for their lives."
"A noble goal," he agreed, keeping his tone neutral.
The last thing he wanted was for her to try to recruit him to whatever cause. He would get what he needed and get out of there. She glared at him again, as if trying to see the sarcasm in a remark he hadn't intended to be sarcastic. He cocked an eyebrow at her challengingly. Finally, she seemed to accept his words as he meant them.
"This is not your fight, nor would I have it be your fight," she declared.
Yet her words were not quite as forbidding as he had been expecting. He was relieved but sensed something more and kept his peace. She nodded to herself as she seemed to come to a decision. She sat back and relaxed into her cushions, toying with her cup of wine.
"Zov tells me you seek the fabled Library of Zoltun Kulle."
"He's not wrong."
"At least he told me that much truth," she said with a scowl. "Very well, I know of it. And I am willing to entertain helping you get there...for a price."
No surprise there, he thought to himself, sipping the rather deliciously fruity wine.
"And what price is that?" he asked, carefully lacing his voice with equal amounts of amusement and curiosity.
"The Scepter of Fahir."
Pyresong, unaware of who this Fahir even was, shook his head.
"It is an artifact once held by the rightful ruler of Shassar, and split into three pieces after his death. With it, I can finally bring peace to this land. Anyone who has ever lived in this desert will acknowledge its owner's right to rule. Obtain all three pieces, and you will have what you seek."
He gazed into his cup for a moment, considering this. Really, he knew he had no choice. Maybe he could go find Vataos, but he sensed this woman knew far more than just a possible location. And the idea of working with the other bandit leader wasn't appealing either. It was possible this Vataos knew absolutely nothing and would use a necromancer for his own ends.
He met her gaze, keeping his expression guarded. He sensed no deception from her. But it grated on him that he would have to waste valuable time on what was likely to be a pointless task. Still, there really was no other choice. Whatever her ultimate goal really was, he would have to at least work with her for now. If it did turn out to be something more nefarious, he would likely find out along the way.
"Very well, we have an agreement."
He hadn't realized how tense she was until he'd replied. Her whole body seemed to relax in relief. No, she wasn't setting him up. Tabri sincerely believed what she had said to him, and this meant more to her than anything. He filed that bit away for later analysis.
"Agreed," she said before he could change his mind. "This place is new; there are few designated quarters, as we are rebuilding and repairing what we can. You are welcome to sleep anywhere you find comfortable. In the morning, seek out Peth. His guidance will be invaluable to you...newcomer."
Interesting, he thought, noting the change in his title.
He nodded and bowed his shoulders slightly in acknowledgment of the welcome, priest to village mayor. She returned this with a bit of amused surprise in her expression. He finished his wine, mentally noting it was likely the best he'd ever tasted anywhere. When he rose to leave, she surprised him when she caught his arm gently.
"Before you go, take this as proof of our pact." She shoved a gem into his palm that he gripped more out of reflex than any conscious thought. "This gem—and others like it—will prove useful to you on your journey."
Other than the obvious monetary value, he could only assume she was referring to the weaker magical properties of some gems. He nodded to her and walked back out of the makeshift tent. Back out in the central square, he eyed the gem in the light of a nearby fire. It glowed faintly to his magical sight. It was one that had been imbued with the power to enhance the damage caused by a physical weapon. No, he was not entirely unfamiliar with gems and their properties, but he'd never liked the idea of anything so...gaudy. He'd seen fighters whose armor and weapons shined and glimmered in even the weakest of light. He much preferred to rely on his own skill. And he had absolutely no need of the gem for the monetary value at this point. He was, however, pleased to see her part with such a valuable gem as proof of their pact. That, at least, meant she wasn't trying to get what she wanted and then burn him for his part. People in places like this took such verbal pacts as sworn oaths. She didn't really have to give him anything, but it did much to allay his fears about the situation.
"Oh! Look at that, my friend," Zov's voice oozed across the fire from where he approached. "A tourmaline! A rare gift in these parts, indeed. You must have made quite an impression on her, eh?"
"It is a symbol of our pact," he explained coldly. Hopefully crushing what he suspected were lewd ideas from Zov. "Nothing more."
Slightly put off, Zov coughed and tried to recover himself. "Yes, well...I know where you can sleep tonight!"
"No, thank you," he replied, politely as he could manage.
Not giving the man another opportunity to open his mouth, he spun around and headed for a darkened corner between two walls that appeared unoccupied. He knew he wasn't going to get much real sleep, but he would take what rest he could get. He was amazed at just how cold it had gotten, only maybe an hour after sunset. Thankfully, he'd brought a rough, heavy blanket at Cain's insistence.
He propped the backpack like a pillow behind his back and summoned a skeleton. He was not about to let his guard down in a village of former thieves and murderers. No matter what good things Tabri thought of her people, there was still Zov to consider. And he wouldn't put anything past Zov. As physically exhausted as he was, he quickly fell into a light sleep. Not deep enough to dream, just enough to give his body the rest it needed. As he drifted away, he just hoped this little quest of hers wasn't a total waste of time.
***
Still more than an hour before sunrise, his light sleep was interrupted when his ears caught some raised voices nearby. Apparently, someone had taken exception to the presence of his skeleton standing over him to guard his sleep. Not wanting it to actually harm someone unintentionally getting too close out of curiosity, he opened his eyes to see a small crowd gathering about fifteen feet away. He just managed to refrain from grinning wickedly to add to their discomfort. The more people that knew he was a necromancer, the better.
As he dismissed the skeletal warrior, Tabri pushed her way through the small crowd. He threw off the blanket and stretched slowly, letting her know he was not going to be intimidated by her presence.
"Just what the hells do you think you're doing?"
He took his time getting to his feet. "Sleeping."
"And that...thing?"
"Guarding my rest," he replied calmly, rolling the blanket to return it to his backpack. "You made no mention of summoning being banned in the camp."
Suddenly, and entirely unexpectedly, Tabri smiled dangerously. "Oh, so you don't trust us?"
"Of course not. No more than you would trust me."
Tabri laughed as if appreciating a good joke. "Very well then," she told him. Then turned back to the gathering crowd. "Back to work, all of you!" she snapped.
He watched with some amusement while everyone suddenly scurried away, trying to avoid catching her eye. With his little sleeping corner being well-shaded as the sun began to rise, he shivered slightly with the lingering cold and the stiffness it had left in his limbs. He stretched more thoroughly before turning his attention to his backpack. He hoped this Peth was an early riser so he could get on with this. If he was going to go on some kind of ridiculous hunt to recover artifacts, he might as well get moving. He made one last check of his food and water supplies after he'd donned his armor.
It didn't take him long to find this Peth he was looking for. His was the only real tent in this little village. And all around it were tables of artifacts, books, and parchments. The man looked as worn and tired as any of the guards he'd seen thus far, maybe worse. The man was sitting at a table, muttering to himself, when Pyresong approached.
"Huh, this relic actually appears to be genuine. Miracles do happen..."
"Excuse me," he called to the distracted man. His attempt to not startle Peth clearly failed, but he ignored it and continued, "Tabri sent me to speak with you about the Scepter of Fahir."
"What? The Scepter? Can't you see I'm busy?" The man turned back toward the items on the table. "What do you need to know about that cursed thing?"
Biting back a sharp remark, he firmly put on his usual facade of serenity. "Where to look for it. Supposedly, it's been broken into three pieces."
With a sigh, Peth turned back around. "Please, I know all about the scepter's history. Tabri's had me looking into it since we met. What I don't think you understand is how impossible the task you've been given is. The scepter was separated and buried intentionally when Fahir's reign ended."
Pyresong stared serenely, wishing the man would just give him what he wanted. He was in no mood for a history lesson or the accompanied warnings. Whatever the outcome, he had to at least get there, first. The young man ran a hand through his dark hair when Pyresong seemed not to react to this warning.
"Our forebears understood that deeds like King Fahir's must never be repeated. We know where the three pieces are. It's obtaining them that is the fool's errand."
Again, Pyresong let the silence do the talking for him. Peth eyed his serenely calm expression, looking for any hint of doubt before sighing heavily.
"I've seen that look in an adventurer's eye before..." Turning back to his table, he fetched a torn piece of parchment out of a rather tall pile. "Very well, if you cannot be dissuaded, there is a map to one of the scepter's fragments. Take it, if you wish. But do so at your own peril."
"Thank you."
He just managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Peth dismissed him—likely as a dead man walking—and returned to his research. He studied the crudely drawn map. It was mostly done in charcoal with outlines of buildings that somewhat resembled this little makeshift village and some of the further buildings beyond. His suspicions had been correct. This place was once a thriving city long ago. Its proximity to what could have once been a shipping harbor on the river made sense. Vaguely, he wondered what had happened to it.
The Chamber of Wisdom, he read at the bottom.
That sounded promising, at least. However, the fanged snake head symbol didn't do much to allay his fears of what lay ahead. Consulting his mental map in relation to the waypoint reference on this crude piece of map, it didn't take him long to figure out which way to start. The guards let him out of the south gates, happily mentioning there had been no further sight of Lacuni since his little venture yesterday. He accepted their thanks and just hoped it would remain quiet for them all long enough to at least recover. Many of them looked more than a little worse for wear.
Peth's dire warning did have him again questioning Tabri's true motives behind wanting to obtain something so greatly feared it was all but destroyed. He had no idea what power it might contain. Rather than people acknowledging it as the "crown" of this awful desert, what if it was some sort of coercive magical implement? He had definitely sensed Tabri's honest desire to build a better life for her people. And that was indeed a noble goal in his eyes. But how one achieves such a goal could sometimes be the key difference. Tabri wouldn't be the first to consider enslaving people as a great way to create a better world. In the end, he let it go for now. He would have to learn more about this thing and what it could do first. He would definitely be wary, though.
Despite the sand piling up all over the place, it wasn't too difficult for him to follow the stone markers that lined the ancient road at intervals. Most of the former city buildings were either covered by sand or little more than crumbling ruins. Occasionally, he caught sight of carved sandstone or giant blocks that had once stood as solid walls many feet high. The sun was barely above the horizon and already baking hot by the time he found the location. He was just glad he didn't have to waste energy on fighting off or avoiding more Lacuni for the time being. Right on what he thought was possibly the outskirts of the ancient city, he spotted the open archway to the indicated location. It was a flight of stairs that led right down underground.
Realizing the place was already lit up, he was instantly on edge. Braziers, lamps, and candles could all be clearly seen down below in what should have been absolute darkness. Somebody was down there. He just hoped they were friendly. After all, he wasn't the first one sent to get the scepter pieces by the sounds of it. Maybe someone else had decided to beat him to it. An overly enthusiastic follower with delusions of getting in tight with the leader, maybe?
Zov, he assumed with a mental sigh.
Knowing it was very likely that little weasel, waiting to try to get credit for literally anything Pyresong found, he readied his shield and scythe. He was not about to let that coward follow him around, especially if things got dangerous. Still, even with these thoughts in mind, he decided to dismiss his minions and crept down the stairs silently. Despite the plentiful sources of light, much of the large chamber was still shrouded in shadow. The only sound his ears picked up was that of his own shallow breathing and light steps.
Just as his boot came down on the second to last stair, something shot out of the deep shadows on either side of him. Though he raised his shield and scythe defensively, whatever it was wrapped itself around him and squeezed painfully. He grunted in surprise but held perfectly still. If it was what he suspected, struggling would only tighten the magically enhanced chains. One of them slipped over the top edge of his shield and around his neck.
"Look what I caught," a female voice drawled.
Her voice had come from the shadows on the far side of the room in the darkness beyond the braziers. A young woman began to step out of the shadows around the columns some forty feet away. She was suddenly surrounded on all sides by skeletons rising up from where they had been lying still only moments before.
"Watch out!"
Apparently, he had no need to warn her. In an instant, the girl was firing a hand crossbow in seemingly every direction at once and nimbly dodging the skeletons' swords and even axes. In seconds, they were all just so much broken clutter. Struggling to breathe now from the slowly increasing tension of the chain around his neck, he had to admit, he was impressed with her skill.
"As I was saying," she began again calmly as she reloaded her little crossbow, "Enjoy your trip back to the Burning Hells, you—wait, you're not demon!"
By this point, he was seeing black around the edges of his vision while the chain cut more deeply into his neck. Despite holding still, they had continued tightening. Now it felt like his armor was the only thing keeping them from crushing the life out of him. As it was, he was slowly being strangled to death.
"No," he struggled to gasp out through pain-clenched teeth, "I'm not. I assume you're the one responsible for this."
"Proudly," said the young woman. "There's a demon using illusion magic to sow chaos and feed upon the locals. I'm going to trap it and kill it,” she told him haughtily. “Now stop talking, and I'll free you."
As if I have a choice, he thought, completely unable to breathe now.
For a moment after she destroyed the traps, thus freeing him from the magical chains, he was only aware of the sweet taste of stale air. He realized he was now sitting on the stairs, having managed to somehow not fall on his face. He glared down at the dark-haired woman as he shoved himself back to his feet, still a bit dizzy. By his estimation, she couldn't be more than maybe sixteen years old; even that seemed a generous estimate. And with an attitude like that, she wasn't likely to live much longer, even if she was a Demon Hunter, which was more than obvious by this point.
"My name is Valla, Demon Hunter. I suggest you leave this place as well. The only thing I've found in here is death."
"Then it's a good thing Death and I are on friendly terms," he couldn't help snapping back.
For one heartbeat he regretted letting his mouth get the better of him. She quickly dispelled any regret he might have had when she glared dangerously at him and then proceeded to shove him aside with her crossbow.
"Get out of my way. I have a demon to hunt."
Charming girl, he thought acidly, just barely refraining from openly throwing something much worse at her.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to let it go. He had worked side-by-side with varioud Demon Hunters on several occasions in his life and knew they could be incredibly helpful to have around. They were among the few that seemed to have absolutely no issues with Priests of Rathma, for one thing. And they were some of the most skilled fighters he had ever known. He almost considered trying to go back and re-introduce himself to Valla. Then he shook his head at the idea. Even if he had been able to start over with her, he doubted she would be any more pleasant to deal with even if he did behave and reign in his tongue. Silently he wished her luck, as well as hoping they never crossed paths again.
Then, he turned his attention back to the room. Numerous skeletons lay all about in various pieces. He had the feeling it wasn't the first time they'd come up to surprise someone. Unless he was sorely mistaken, not all of the countless bones that littered this place were of undead guards. He summoned a few skeletons of his own.
Across the room was what appeared to be a giant set of wooden doors. He sent his skeletons ahead of him. As expected, the undead guards were triggered once more. They were easily dealt with, in much the same manner Valla had; blast them to pieces again and hope they stayed that way. Once it was still again in the room, he approached the doors for a closer inspection. The ancient wood down here had done much the same as the wood above ground. The heat and arid climate had baked them into something akin to stone. It would take a ridiculous amount of effort to break through them.
But something didn't feel right about this place. Aside from the obvious undead guardians in pieces all around, there was a handful of wrapped mummies awaiting interment. And one unwrapped, dried out corpse still in armor resting against a stone pillar; as if they had just sat down to take a nap and never woke.
No handles...and it's sealed with magic, he thought to himself with no small amount of annoyance. There must be another way of opening it.
The one thing that felt the most out of place here was the wrapped mummies just left on the tables. Why would they be left out here in the antechamber? He moved closer to one on the left. He prodded gently with his scythe, half expecting it to try to get up and attack him. When it didn't, he pushed a little further. For a moment, he thought he saw...
Yes, there is something here, he thought, pulling out a piece of well-preserved parchment.
It had been magically preserved, according to his enhanced vision. For a moment, it appeared in an ancient language he didn't recognize. As he refocused his eyes to see more into the magical spectrum, the shapes reorganized in his mind to make out a clear message. He was almost shocked to realize he could actually read and understand them. Apparently, some things written with magic could be somehow interpreted with his magical sight. His mind flickered briefly to some of Cain's tomes and wondered if that trick might somehow work with them, as well.
To future generations, learn from our mistakes. Fahir is no god,
and today, his reign of death is over! His abominations would
not die, so they have been bound with their accursed creator.
May he be forgotten. May our souls seal this place forever.
Let them be the last sacrifice in his name.
Ominous, he thought, sliding the parchment back under the mummy.
It was no insight on how to get those doors unsealed, so he moved to another one on the right side of the room. As with the other, he found a magically preserved piece of parchment just visible under the wrapped body.
Blessed be you, O thousand souls, the King's deserved sacrifice.
Through your gift of the spirit shall our god's wonders be made
manifest.
Rest eternally, knowing the Scepter shall guide our great kingdom
forever.
Frustrated, he returned this parchment as well. With this place as open as it was, it seemed very unlikely he was the first to have found them. Now, he felt like he was missing a key. Two of the mummies had had no parchments. Likely, those pages were long gone, taken by some other. He glanced around the room thoughtfully again, eyeing the numerous skeletal remains.
Then again, maybe not.
Maybe they hadn't left this chamber. He switched almost entirely to his magical sight as he scanned the room. There were faint halos of magic around just about everything, even the braziers. If those missing parchments were in here somewhere amid the dozens of skeletons, he would have to look for it the old-fashioned way. It would take a lot of time and effort he really didn't want to spend, but there was no hope for it. Likely, there were at least two missing parchments; one of which might just give him the answer to unsealing the doors was somewhere in this room.
Again his eyes fell on the one thing that felt almost entirely out of place for reasons he couldn't quite bring to the fore. There was that one set of dried-out out desiccated remains still leaning against the pillar with all its armor and weapons. Perhaps it had something on it. He squatted down close to the remains, using his magical sight to make out the writing on a large amulet that hung in front of the breastplate.
"Watep the Sacrificed," he read aloud.
Thinking there might be more under the thick layers of dust, he reached toward it. The thing began to come alive. Surprised, he rolled backward and up to his feet as it began to rattle. Already his skeletal warriors and mages were beating away at it, seeming to have no effect. Having recovered from the surprise, he swung his scythe to connect just above the shoulders, shattering the neck. Unlike the other undead guards, this one didn't shatter. It immediately crumbled to dust, like one of his own summoned skeletons. In its place now sat a flickering bluish flame. Somehow, he knew that was the key, but what exactly was it?
The only thing he could think of was getting it closer to the doors. Maybe something would happen. But how? Not sure what else to do and unwilling to come in contact with the blue flame himself, he had one of his skeletal warriors drop its sword to sort of push it toward the doors. He was surprised when it actually worked. He nearly laughed aloud when he realized there were just two unlit braziers in the whole room; one on each side of the sealed doors. When the bluish flame with no fuel source was pushed again closer toward the giant doors, it suddenly split into two and went right into the unlit braziers on either side of the stairs. The magic sealing the doors flashed out of existence.
There is no way it is that easy, he couldn't help thinking.
Wary, expecting some kind of undead trap, he sent his minions in ahead of himself. Nothing. In the center of the unsealed room stood a giant statue of a snake, possibly some kind of deadly cobra, based on the flared neck. Whatever magic had unsealed the doors had lit all the lamps, torches, braziers, and candles throughout this room. At least he could be reasonably certain nothing was hiding in the shadows to surprise him, since there were no shadows. As he approached the threshold, he could easily make out four similar snake-head carvings painted in red on the floor. Given what he'd seen so far, he suspected it was likely dye mixed with real human blood. Still, nothing threatening jumped out at him. All was still, almost too still.
He took another hard look around the room. To his right looked like another door; likely more chambers going deeper underground. Across the room was a wall covered in a variety of glyphic writing, though none of it appeared magical, and it made no sense to him. The left wall was also covered in writing. The only other features were those cobra-like images on the floor around the statue. Even the statue itself held no noticeable aura of magic. Then he realized what was making his hair stand on end. Aside from there being no obvious magical traps, there were no bones, either. Given how easy it was to get in here, he had a hard time believing that literally no one had ever made it this far. But the scepter piece had to be in here somewhere. He decided to check the door on the wall to his right first.
When he finally stepped fully across the threshold of the door, he felt it inches behind him. A magical barrier had gone up, sealing him in this inner chamber. A vile oath he'd learned from Rehm's crew slipped through his lips. A split second later, the statue of the snake poised to strike began to sink down into the floor with an ominous grinding sound. He cursed again under his breath, not sure what to expect.
For several seconds, nothing happened. He had actually begun to hope that maybe whatever trap had somehow failed or aged to a point of no longer working. Likely, the scepter piece was down there somewhere, in a deeper part of the—
He didn't get to finish the thought when he jumped back away from the hole to avoid a massive demonic snake with a flared neck rising up out of the darkness at him. This time, he cursed for real, and loudly. The snake's initial attack failed when it was blinded by the necromancer's curse. He knew he only had seconds before the curse would wear off. He sent his skeletal warriors and mages in to harass it. While it was thrashing around blindly at them, he managed to get in close enough. On the right side, away from the flailing tail, he used his empowered scythe in one powerful swing, unleashing a blade of blinding energy. He had been so startled by the unexpected surprise that there had been no finesse or control in the blast. Hells, he hadn't even been certain it would hurt the damned thing. So, he flung as much power as he could into that wide arc.
The snake's enormous head fell to the floor, still writhing, hissing, and spitting. For a few more seconds, the rest of the body flailed and twitched. He retreated to a corner of the room away from the thrashing body, until it finally lay still. As if finally realizing it was actually dead, it began to crumble into piles of sandstone. Only then did he notice the puddles of spit venom all over the room. He shuddered as he realized just how lucky he'd been. The puddles of venom spit and bubbled as if they were acid eating through the stone. Either that thing ate or dissolved every person to have ever gotten in here. That explained the lack of bones. He nearly laughed in hysterical relief. He had been unbelievably lucky.
An unexpected grinding noise had him back on the alert when another pedestal began to rise up out of the square hole in the center of the floor. Expecting another attack, he re-summoned more skeletons to replace the ones that had been destroyed. For the second time in as many minutes, he nearly laughed with relief.
That monstrosity was guarding a scepter piece. No wonder so many died trying to obtain them.
There, on this new, smaller pedestal, lay a piece of the scepter. It looked like a slender, wooden rod about twelve inches long with a ring of rubies around one end. Its powerful magic still produced a visible aura to his enhanced eyes. Not yet moving out of the corner of the room for fear of another trap, he watched it closely for almost a minute. Again, he wondered just how many had been less lucky, and less wary.
Still, even based on the magical aura he could see coming off the thing on the pedestal, he could sense nothing overtly evil on or around it. There were no hellish energies or curses. Of course, he was no expert in magical objects or what they could do. After more than a minute, when nothing still happened, he could not see or detect any further traps. But he was still trapped in this room. The magical barrier was blocking both of the doorways. He wondered if the way out was somehow tied to the magic he could see on the scepter rod. Cautiously, he sent one of his skeletons to retrieve it. He held his breath, ready for anything when the skeletal warrior grasped it.
Still, nothing happened. This only made him more wary. He directed the skeleton to him with the piece, half-expecting it to explode or something. As he grasped the item, there was a brief flash all around the room. The magical barrier disappeared. Hopefully forever.
Finally relaxing slightly, he shoved the jewel-inlaid piece of wood through his belt. The faint tingle of magic through his gauntlet didn't even feel threatening. He felt a blast of warm air to his right, making him spin around. Apparently, it was a gust of wind from the open door and nothing more sinister. Still on edge after so many surprises this morning, he made his way around the wall to find another set of large wooden doors standing wide open. He ran up the stone steps, happy to be back in the fresh air outside, even if it did feel like breathing in an oven.
Relieved to be out of that place, he paused to reorient himself. He took a quick right to go around to where he'd entered so he could follow the path back to the Amber Blades' fledgling village. Right outside the entrance to this place, he had the rotten luck of running into Zov.
"You're alive! Hah!" Zov cried happily.
He let his frigid glare speak for him.
"I mean, of course you are!" Zov fumbled uncomfortably. "Of course; just look at you... So, did you find it?"
At first, he considered ignoring the annoying man and continuing on to the camp. Before he could get away, the man's greedy eyes were drawn to the shiny reflection of sunlight glinting off the rubies on the piece of scepter tucked behind his belt. The stupid man actually moved as if to take it right out of his belt.
"Look how it shines!"
He stepped back, glaring a warning to Zov not to reach for it. He swore to himself, if the man actually did... He quickly shoved the initial idea aside. He wouldn't kill him, of course, just punch him hard enough to never try something so stupid ever again.
"Sorry! Sorry!" Zov cried, cowering away again. "But, perhaps this task is less impossible than we thought, hm? You're ready for the second piece, then, yes?"
Again, he resisted the urge to punch the man. "'We'?" he asked darkly.
"Oh, yes, I've got the next map! Peth gave it to me."
I'm sure he did, he thought sarcastically, knowing full well Zov had stolen it.
"The headpiece was buried along with Fahir in the hopes no one would ever reach it. Tabri is waiting for you in Sereth outpost," he babbled quickly, sensing Pyresong's growing impatience. He handed over the piece of map. "As for me...uh, I have some business to attend to first. You go on ahead. I'll catch up later."
"I'm sure you will," he said, lacing his voice carefully with enough chilly venom to make the little coward squirm in his boots.
Once Zov was out of sight down the stairs, he eyed the piece of map. Irritating as it was to get this in pieces, he understood Peth's reasoning behind it. To fit in all the little details needed to guide someone from one location to another, it had to be fairly large. And, very likely, no one had ever returned from the first one he'd just encountered. These ancient city ruins were a lot larger than they appeared at first. Still, he was fairly confident he could get to the Sereth Outpost with the markers on the map.
"Don't worry!" Zov called from down below. "I'm just going to take a quick look in this chamber! Make sure nothing...dangerous was left behind."
For one second, he hoped the skeletal guards weren't also disarmed by taking the scepter. But he just sighed and shook this off. He had more important things to worry about than that slimy little weasel getting himself killed. He'd probably be doing Tabri a favor by letting it happen.
He put these thoughts out of his mind while he followed the outlines of another road to the north and a little west. It took a few hours to cross this ancient piece of the city. He almost wished he had more time to explore. Some of these ruins still contained glimpses of architecture and artwork that were eye-catching and beautiful.
Rounding the corner of a cluster of crumbling buildings, he was surprised to see an ancient waypoint platform, not unlike the one he'd seen in the Amber Blades' camp. He sincerely hoped these would never be needed, at least for himself. He really did not want to have to come back to this place after his business was concluded. But it didn't hurt to remember them. As expected, he spotted Tabri resting in the shade of another building just across this wide street in front of him. She got to her feet quickly when she caught sight of him approaching.
"You've arrived. Does that mean you have the scepter piece?" she asked with no small amount of challenge in her tone.
Ignoring the challenge, he pulled the wooden piece out of his belt. He had the satisfaction of seeing Tabri's eyes go wide in surprise. Clearly, she had been ready for disappointment. Her hard expression fell away entirely when she reached for it with trembling hands. For a while, she could only stare at it in wonder. The rubies glittered brilliantly in the sunlight. He watched her intently, seeing if there was a glint of something darker behind those amazed eyes. A part of him sincerely hoped he would not see it. After a few seconds, she nodded slowly, her eyes locked on the piece in her hands.
"Alluring, is it not?" she said in awe. "It's hard to believe I'm really holding this... Perhaps the winds really are about to change."
She seemed to be more talking to herself—or, rather, the stick—so he kept silent. Then, the hard expression returned to replace the disbelief and amazement.
"You aren't the first outsider to come through here...to speak with my people. Many have dared the chambers and tombs. And each of them wound up the same. But you are different, aren't you?"
Despite her hard expression and calculating gaze, her voice had been soft and more curious than accusatory. Though he had yet to catch anything overtly sinister, he still wondered exactly what power he was giving her in all of this. He just shrugged as her eyes searched his.
"What is your name, outsider?"
"Oh, I've earned a name now?" he queried dryly before he could stop himself.
For a moment, he was certain his mouth had gotten him into trouble with this one. But she surprised him with a gentle grin.
"For the hope you have given me, yes," she replied, absolutely serious.
"Master Pyresong," he replied more seriously.
She nodded. "Just know that your task only gets more difficult from here. The head of the scepter was buried with Fahir himself. You will need to brave his tomb to find it."
"Very well."
"There is one entrance to the hidden Tomb of Fahir that we know of. It is at the end of this road. Just past the columns, you'll find a collapsed floor with a ladder. Take it down to the tomb. Be wary inside that tomb. The Old Kingdom hid many terrible secrets. Ones that prefer to remain hidden," she warned.
He nodded to acknowledge her warning. "I best get on with it, then."
Doing his best to ignore the almost painful heat radiating up from the stones as much as blasting down on him from above, he followed the still easily visible road. On both sides stood the ruins of many old buildings. Some looked almost intact enough to be functional. Not for the first time, he wondered what had happened here. Clearly, thousands, if not tens of thousands, of people had once called this city home. What could have caused so many to just completely abandon a place so large? Even today, the shelter these buildings provided could be the difference between life and death for some of these people.
As she had described, he soon found the hole in some collapsing sandstone bricks. He could not know how much of the collapsed floor was still stable. There appeared to be recent footprints in the dust and sand leading up to the hole. That ladder was too new to have been left from long ago. He suspected it was Peth's doing. It didn't seem like it could be too threatening if Peth was going down there. While he was considering these things, his body decided to remind him it was already late in the morning. He had decided not to eat breakfast earlier in his haste to get moving.
In this pavilion's slightly cooler shaded interior, he opted to rest before going down. He fetched another water skin and some bread and cheese from his backpack. He wondered if his magically enhanced bag also had some sort of stasis properties that would keep food goods for extended periods. Possibly something to experiment with later.
Replaying in his head the last encounter with Tabri, he still could not find any subtle warnings in it. Whatever else was going on here, she really believed in that scepter's power, even if no one else did. Then again, to be fair, he didn't understand most of the supposed rules and rights that monarchs came up with to justify or confirm their right to rule. Crowns, scepters, magic blood, whatever, it was all the same to him. In his mind, loyalty was earned, not handed down from one person to another. And it certainly wasn't automatically given by possessing a single object. Then again, entire religions had arisen due to the supposed power of a single artifact.
After he finished eating, he gave himself a few more minutes to ponder this place while resting in the shade. He had only seen a tiny fraction of it overall. But every single person he had spoken with beyond the Shassar Sea agreed it was an unlawful and brutal place to live. Chaos and bands of thugs ruled these sands in small patches wherever they could stake a claim. He had tasted some of its unforgiving brutality for himself. He still could not comprehend wanting to live here. He shoved it aside for later analysis.
Rested and satisfied his body's needs, he made his way back to the hole. The ladder looked sturdy enough but also like a long, long way to the bottom. Refocusing his vision in the magical spectrum, he realized it was something of an illusion. Clearly, there were magical braziers and candles lit that would never burn out, but there was more. It was almost like seeing through a heat wave in the air. The further down he looked, the deeper it looked; the more warped it became. Acting on a hunch, he positioned himself on the ladder and then closed his eyes to descend. The reality of his other senses informed him it was really only about twenty feet to the end of the ladder. Once down there, though, he felt a sort of nausea of the senses. Everything, even the dead air down here, felt wrong somehow.
A foul magic lingers within these halls. If the scepter piece is still here, it lies in the deepest recesses of this tomb.
Without a doubt, the powerful magic that was not unlike what he'd encountered poisoning the atmosphere in the Dark Wood hung around here as well. Magic miasmas that potent didn't linger on their own. Something was keeping the effect going.
He found himself on what appeared to be some kind of bridge, spanning an unfathomable chasm below. Ahead were platforms and walkways to various areas. Refocusing his vision yet again, he realized most of this was an illusion. Rather than alleviating his concerns about falling, it only made them worse. If the depths weren't real, what was? Traps where there should be empty space? No matter how hard he tried, he could not penetrate the illusion, even with his magical sight to see what was really there.
He started to summon some skeletons more out of habit than anything, and then rethought that idea. This place was so utterly still that his skeletons would sound like an army clattering through. No, for now, he would make his way around alone. From the outset, he couldn't see anything overtly threatening. The main walkway led onto a platform that branched off in three cardinal directions. In the center was some kind of hollow or open well. Much as with either side of the walkway, it appeared to go down forever. No, he definitely could not trust his visual senses in this place. Directly across from where he entered was a large set of stone doors.
Magically sealed, of course, he thought with irritation.
To his left and right were more bridged paths that led to other platforms and even what looked like actual walled rooms. Not sure which way to go, he figured the closer path to his left was as good as any. Still stalking silently in the almost unnerving stillness, he strained through both magical and normal vision to detect anything. Even his own near-silent footsteps echoed throughout the place in all directions like whispers. It was maddeningly still and silent in here. It made the anticipation of traps or guardians all the worse. Likely hundreds, possibly thousands, of people over the centuries had tried to retrieve the pieces of the scepter. Even more had gone through numerous tombs and monuments in the deserts in search of treasure. None had survived to tell about it. He knew there had to be something down here guarding them.
If that was true, it made not a sound.
After about an hour moving from platform to platform—or room to room, as he thought of it, still not sure there really was all that empty space below—he finally came to something different. A set of four stone stairs led up to a platform that was closed in on three sides with ornately carved stone fencing. In the near center of the sandstone brick floor was inlaid some metal design he couldn't understand with either normal or magic vision. He sensed a warning, but he wasn't sure what it meant. In the center of that platform, just beyond the floor design, was a giant black statue of a stylized priest holding an ankh. It not only glowed with magic, it radiated an evil presence, as if somehow aware. In the layers of dust on the ankh it was holding, his magical vision made out some words.
"Icon of Rebirth," he whispered. It still sounded like a shout in this place.
Slowly, he approached the statue. He had no doubts that it held at least part of the answer to the magically sealed doors. This twisted place had given no other clues. Maybe if he—
Suddenly, the eyes and ankh lit up red. Not just in his magical vision, either. There was an ominous scraping sound as the ankh rose up out of the floor. In the unnatural quiet of this place, it was a deafening roar to his ears. Reflexively, he summoned some skeletons as he backed away from it. A moment later, he was glad he did. The ankh somehow spit out several small fireballs that landed on the floor around the statue. Where they landed, ancient undead warriors spawned out of the floor like some kind of miniature summoning circles. He sent his minions after them. Even as he did so, the ankh lowered and raised again and spawned even more. In seconds, there were over two dozen of them. His skeletons were no match for these undead warriors, either. They were crushed with a single blow from any one of them. And more were coming.
Even his golems couldn't have withstood that many for more than a minute. He had no choice, he had to stop this thing before they multiplied further. He poured all his energy into his scythe and flung the blades off of it at the statue again and again, sending out slicing waves of energy. Many of the first were stopped by the ranks of undead warriors that they shredded. But, finally, he was able to get close enough for a direct assault on the statue. He could only pray it would work. The first slicing wave of energy that was a direct hit seemed to have done nothing. The second that followed it, only a heartbeat later, severed the top part of the ankh from the bottom. When the bottom piece fell back into the hole in the floor with an echoing thunk, the whole thing went still and dark.
He stood in disbelief for several seconds in the unnatural silence, still expecting another wave. None came. Finally, he came to believe it really was broken or off or whatever, and slowly backed away from it. His skeletons had already crumbled to dust in the assault. He didn't bother to summon more, just yet. In the deafening silence, he carefully made his way around to some rooms off to the sides. One looked like some kind of treasure chamber filled with treasure chests. He wasn't about to bother with those, especially when he noticed the faint aura of magic around each one. He would have to warn Tabri and Peth in case they decided to come and check it out for themselves. Very likely, those chests were cursed or otherwise trapped.
It wasn't long before he realized there was nowhere else to go. He turned to retrace his steps. He made his way back toward the main platform, near where he had entered. When he approached the chamber where the magically sealed doors waited, he spotted something that made him pause well before he got there.
Some kind of engravings on the floor with an ankh symbol were now glowing yellow and red. Some part of him was certain it was some form of magical trap. Unlike the writing he had seen in the snake chamber, these looked more like some form of hieroglyphs. Despite refocusing his eyes into the magical spectrum, they still made no sense to him, and they didn't feel outright threatening. Just to be on the safe side, he summoned a skeletal warrior to test it. It walked right across them, untouched. Moving closer, he was able to catch sight of a red brazier on the left of the sealed stone doors.
It was lit with red fire!
But the door was still sealed. Carefully, he stepped onto the glowing hieroglyphs. He sighed with relief when absolutely nothing happened. Now he had at least some idea how to unlock the doors. Given what he'd encountered on the left path, he fully expected something similar on the other side. At least now he knew how to deal with it, too. He again dismissed his summoning, unnerved by the silence of this place.
Though the rooms to the right of that center chamber were shaped very differently and far more open, there was still no expected guardians. If anything, he had expected hordes of the undead. Then again, that statue had been one hell of a surprise. Maybe the builders felt no need of anything more. Still, he could not bring himself to do more than sneak cautiously around every corner.
It took him what easily felt like at least two more hours to find the next platform and statue. This one somehow managed to look even more sinister than the last. And it radiated a powerful magical aura as well. He stood just outside the platform range, searching for any clues as to what it could do. There was no floor inlay on this one, just an open space.
Icon of Souls, he was just able to make out the ankh.
At this distance, with the magical blue glow from all the candles, everything felt even more distorted. Whatever this statue was meant to do, he couldn't figure it out. He summoned a couple of skeletons and sent them toward it. The seconds stretched on while nothing happened. Apparently, whatever it was meant to do was not triggered by the undead. Just for good measure, he had one of them hit it with its sword. Nothing more than a nerve-jarring clang that echoed through the vast spaces that echoed back with reverberation and distortion that very nearly made him shudder.
Instead, he sighed with irritation. Given the undead warriors he'd seen earlier, that made a sort of sense to him. He couldn't help feeling as if this place had likely once been crawling with undead guardians. If undead set off that statue, it would never have stopped. He knew there was no chance of his skeletons disabling it for him, either. For that matter, even one of his golems didn't seem likely to damage the thing. Though that didn't stop him from toying with the idea of using his own blood to summon a blood golem. He quickly tossed the idea aside. Even if the golem triggered it, the thing most likely wouldn't be able to damage the statue or ankh. There was nothing for it; he would just have to trigger it himself.
Cautiously, he made his way up the three steps. Closer. Wait. A little bit closer...
As he'd been expecting, when he got within twenty feet of the statue, the enormous ankh rose up in the now animated hands of the statue. Unlike the previous one, this one glowed a threatening blue. His scythe was already glowing with all the power he'd forced into it. He was ready. Just as she swept the scythe before him in the hopes of severing the ankh base, much as he had the other, he was caught completely off guard by a bright blue beam that shot out of the top of the ankh almost directly at him.
He aborted the sweeping motion with his scythe as he brought up his shield. He almost didn't get his shield up in time. As it was, part of the beam had caught his legs a glancing blow. The painful tingling of energy around him as his shield and armor absorbed most of the blast was all but forgotten an instant later. He was stunned nearly senseless when he felt a cold so painful it burned white hot across his legs. When his legs froze, he fell to the floor, unable to feel them anymore. All he could do was roll helplessly away from the roving beam that seemed to chase him.
And that was not all.
Where the beam had touched the floor, wrapped mummies appeared all around him. Scrambling to get away, he saw the wrapped corpses glowing brighter and brighter. Having rolled almost all the way back to the stairs, he felt as much as heard the mummies explode in icy blasts. They shattered, sending ice shrapnel in every direction. He'd only barely managed to avoid any serious damage by curling into a ball and covering himself with his shield. Even then, more and more of them were rising up out of the floor wherever the beam had landed. His skeletons had already been blown apart. Even his golems couldn't withstand this! Shoving down his rising panic, he did the one thing he could think of in that moment. He gave in to his combat instincts. Instantly, the uncontrolled fear became defiant rage.
He would not die in this accursed place!
His whole body began to glow. Somehow, he focused enough to reach deep inside and found a connection with the thousands of vengeful and restless spirits lingering in this place. He pulled them into himself and then cast them out as concentrated, powerful blasts of bone spirits. Wave after wave launched right at and through the exploding mummies. The mummies themselves continued exploding, completely unaffected by the bone spirits that passed through them. Then the skull-shaped bone spirits slammed into the ankh and statue one right after another in a series of explosions that literally echoed through the network of chambers until there was a sort of hollow clunking sound, and the beam stopped.
Spent, he lay on the floor trying to recover from the shock while the statue went still again. Then the agony in his legs registered to his briefly shock-numbed mind. He couldn't feel anything below his knees except white hot pain. Some twisted part of his mind laughed at the idea that they might have shattered right off from the magical cold.
Praying the damage wasn't permanent, he decided not to even look yet. He grabbed a large and potent healing potion off his belt and downed the entire thing. The warmth of healing spread through his body rapidly. When it concentrated into heat in a dozen or so places, he realized the icy shrapnel had caught him in a number of places, leaving deep, though ice-numbed, wounds. He was horrified to realize neither the warmth nor concentrated healing heat spread below his knees. It was as if the potion had hit an invisible barrier. Maybe they really hadshattered.
Too horrified by the thought to even think his way through things clearly, he struggled to focus. Shaking and sweating from the pain, he grabbed another one off his belt. Before he could uncork it, though, the cold sensation in his legs fled to be replaced with a fiery burning. It felt like his legs weren't just on fire; they'd been dipped in acid! For a few seconds, he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. The bottle of healing potion clenched spasmodically in his right hand shattered. The first potion was working, but... gods, the pain!
Alone in this horrid place, there was no one to hear him scream. Unable to hold back any longer, he gave in to it. For a while, all he could hear was his own screams echoing back at him throughout this unholy tomb. If there had been anything else aware and guarding this place, he would be dead. But he couldn't even think of that beyond the blinding pain.
Some small eternity later, when the pain finally began to recede, he gasped huge lungs full of air, trying to regain control and stay conscious. Gradually, he regained awareness beyond the pain. He realized he could now feel his legs and even his feet. They still tingled and burned, but at least they were there. Still, some part of his mind was certain the damage was permanent. He crawled weakly on his hands and knees away from the platform. Whatever lay behind those magically sealed doors was beyond his reach for now, even if they were unlocked. He was just too exhausted and battered.
With shaking arms, he managed to crawl to a dark, empty piece of corridor that had three walls around it. For once, he was happy to embrace the illusion of safety. He had encountered nothing else in this place, but he just couldn't trust it. He knew he wasn't going to make it forward or back out of there tonight. He had lost all awareness of time by this point. Best guess, maybe early evening. He reflexively summoned a skeleton to guard him as he had on thousands of other occasions.
This time was different, though. This time, he wasn't so sure he could hold it. He was just too tired from the bone spirits and shock. He caught himself dozing off almost immediately and shook himself awake. Yes, he needed rest, just not yet. He set his scythe and shield to either side of him and retrieved another healing potion. This time, the warmth spread evenly and quickly. It helped, but it wasn't going to be enough. He would have to eat and sleep to let his body recover from the massive shock it had just endured. But first...
Quickly, before the effects of the potion could wear off again, he unbuckled his greaves and tore off his boots. Despite the effects of the second healing potion now in his system, his feet still burned and tingled. Fearing frostbite, or worse, he carefully inspected them. His shins and calves were the healthy color of living skin. His feet were still unusually white, even for a Priest of Rathma's bleached skin. When he rubbed them, he almost couldn't feel it. Still, he could tell they were healing and was flooded with relief when he was able to actually move his toes.
Not knowing what awful thing to expect next, if anything, he quickly put his boots and greaves back on. He retrieved some food and shoved it down his throat. He knew that when the immediate effects wore off, the exhaustion would claim him. He wasn't wrong. Minutes later, the backpack still in his lap, his chin sank to his breastplate, and he fell into a black abyss. It was too deep a sleep, but he could do nothing to stop it.
***
Sometime later, Pyresong woke to the unnerving silence of the tomb. There was a terrifyingly familiar quality to it that had him jolting awake with a racing heart. Some part of him was unspeakably relieved that at least it wasn't totally black in here. That chillingly familiar silence had conjured vague images of a black abyss he somehow knew in a way that felt like something out of remembered nightmares. Even the sound of his own breathing did nothing to banish the lurking fear; if anything, it made it that much worse. He mentally growled at himself and shook it off, along with the lingering disorientation from the deep sleep that had caused the unusual panic to begin with.
Again, he had no idea what time it was. Having slept so deeply, he couldn't even keep a skeleton summoned, he couldn't even venture a guess. Hours? A day? Longer? The only indication he had of the passage of time was the fact that he woke ravenously hungry and painfully stiff. He knew he would have to restock his supplies the next time he returned to the Amber Blades' camp. But, for now, his body was desperate to replenish what it had lost in that last battle and the healing afterward. His feet felt normal again, and he was aching almost everywhere from sleeping on this hard, cold floor. But, otherwise, he felt much better. His energies had also had a chance to recover. Yes, he'd been asleep for a very long time.
By now, Tabri must think I'm dead, he thought with some amusement at what a stir his return would cause.
He quickly stretched himself thoroughly to shake off the stiffness and aches. Then, he headed back the way he vaguely remembered getting here. He mentally shuddered when he passed that horrid statue. Some part of him half expected it to come alive again.
Still, this little venture was far from over, he knew. Whatever lay beyond those magically sealed doors in the main chamber would likely be worse than anything he'd faced thus far. Supposedly, Fahir himself lay beyond those doors. Given what little he'd learned about the legendary and horrific king, he didn't doubt it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd confronted an undead ruler. Hells, it wouldn't be the first time he'd confronted a demonically tainted undead ruler.
He froze for a few seconds with that thought. Still trekking back to that main chamber with the doors, the idea returned to him. He could do as he'd done with King Leoric. It was risky, and he might not have enough energy. He closed his eyes and dug deep to feel his energy. No, he was certain he could pull it off. He had no real idea what he would face, but enough power coming off his scythe in such uncontrollable blades would likely do it. Yet, as ever, when he used his power that way, there really was no room for defense. Resuming his walk, he had time to reconsider.
Again, there were glowing glyphs and seals in the floor as he approached the center chamber. These were blue. He was too weary of this place to try to read whatever they were trying to tell him at this point. He just wanted to finish this and get out of here. And it didn't really matter. It was probably more of a poetic praise for the murderous king. When he rounded the final corner, the right brazier was now glowing blue, and the door was unsealed. The stone block that served as the door appeared to have retracted into the floor at the bottom of the frame.
Beyond the door, there was another one of those bridges, this one lined with statues. All of them had the same tyrannical king. Each statue was lit by a brazier burning with what first looked like normal flames. But no human had lit these fires, not for hundreds of years anyway. What looked like a huge open chamber was at the far end of the bridge. Silently, he stalked down the length of the bridge, fully expecting some kind of trap. He even reminded himself how much of this was all an illusion. He might not even actually be on a bridge right now.
Cautiously, he approached the large opening to the room beyond. Lining either side of a central walkway were narrow slits in the floor that had flames rising up. These ended in a statue on either side of an indentation on the floor that was easily forty feet across and forty feet long. The statues matched the designs he'd encountered on those two platforms, ankhs and all. They glowed with unholy fire, no blue this time. Still, he felt that the statues weren't the threat here. Whatever it was, Fahir or anything else, it would come out of that indentation in the floor; he just knew it.
Standing at the beginning of that walkway outlined in fire, he summoned all his power and poured much of it into his scythe. He knew his entire body was glowing at this point. He held onto everything he had right on the edge of being painful. His shield remained on his back. He stepped into that outlined walkway with no energy or thought to spare for summoning minions. Just as he had expected, part of the floor in that indentation slid away to each side before he could even really make out what the carved design had been. When the slabs of floor in the indentation disappeared, an enormous skeleton that radiated evil arose from the open space. In one hand, it held a scepter shaped more like a mace. He didn't give it a chance to even finish rising. Unleashing his power, he spun with his scythe out repeatedly. Back and forth, round and round, he swung his scythe, unleashing wave after wave of slashing energy that cut right through the skeletal thing and right into the wall beyond. A voice filled with rage resounded through the chamber as it screamed in fury.
"Impudent slaves! The dead will not be dishonored so! Segithis, defend your god!"
His chest heaving from exertion as he backed away trying to regain his balance, Pyresong was nearly knocked flat on his back by a blast that shattered the back wall beyond where Fahir had risen. He just managed to get his arm up to shield his eyes from the flying debris when a creature came though and scooped up the shattered bones and the ghost of Fahir that hovered over them. In the sudden darkness of the chamber, he couldn't make out what it was, but he could tell it was massive. He got the impression of several giant, hairy arms just before it disappeared back through the wall.
For a moment, he was too stunned to move. Then he realized that Fahir had gotten away...likely with the scepter piece. As he caught his breath, he just stood there trying to process it for a couple of seconds. He scanned the room with his magical sight one more time. It wasn't here. Silently, he ran through some filthy expletives. If Fahir had the scepter piece, it had disappeared with him. Again, he had no choice. He had come this far, and he couldn't go back without the scepter piece. But did he have the strength to go on right now? He shook his head and shook off the thought. He had to. There was no telling what Fahir and this Segithis would do or where they would go if he waited too long. Mentally, he swore again in frustration. Then he sighed and let go of the frustration. He would do what he must.
He was surprised to find an even older section beyond the hole in the wall. This was no longer made of sandstone but darker carved rocks. Somehow, it felt even more ancient and vaguely familiar to him, as if he had been in a similar place once. Yet, no matter how he tried, he could not recall anything even remotely similar in his travels. There was no writing or carved designs to indicate the origin of the builders, but he was certain it predated the upper sections by possibly millennia. As he followed the corridor, he spotted newer sections of wood that could not have been original. It appeared all the original wood was a much darker type. These planks and boards were paler, like the wood that had been cured in the desert sun for centuries. Parts of this area were collapsed. There was really only one way to go.
That's when it struck him. The warping feeling of the previous chambers was gone. Whatever monstrosity was hiding down here had nowhere near as much magical ability as King Fahir had possessed. When he reached the end of this corridor, he was both glad and dismayed at the lack of magical warping. Now, he could trust his eyes in what they saw. But that also meant the mechanical elevator platform at the end of the corridor was real, as was the yawning abyss below. He lit the darkness as best he could with his glowing scythe.
Nothing.
There was no bottom he could see in the gloom. And now he could hear things moving below. Of course, his imagination gleefully supplied images for those skittering and clacking sounds that made his skin crawl. Well, he'd faced giant spiders and the undead before. He could easily do so now. Summoning a handful of skeletal warriors to assist, he reached over to the lever and started the mechanism. He could only pray it was still intact and functional. With a heart-stopping clank and grinding noise, the platform began descending. He was relieved to note how slow it was. He'd half expected it to just crash to the bottom after that initial clanking. Just in case something like that might happen, he inched closer to the chains to his left.
All around him and below him, he could still hear the movements echoing up and down this shaft. Even if his curiosity hadn't needed to be satisfied, his creeping fears and skin-crawling mental images certainly did. He raised his glowing scythe well above his head to preserve as much of his night sight as possible. He almost wished he hadn't looked. Crawling down the wall nearby was a centipede that had to be at least a hundred feet long. He backed further away from the wall and prayed it wouldn't come after him.
And I thought the spiders were bad enough!
Almost as soon as the thought formed, they manifested all around him. Jumping off the walls and onto the platform were a half dozen or so spiders at least as big as himself. So far as he could tell, none of them were toxic lurkers that could spit poison, but he wasn't planning to give them a chance to, either. He sent his minions to attack as fast as he could, shoving and blasting away at the disgusting creatures. More than anything, he kicked or bashed them off the edge to fall into the abyss below.
He felt like the melee had only lasted a minute or so. The platform continued descending slowly. Still, he didn't hear the spiders hit the ground below. It must have been hundreds of feet down. His curiosity got the best of him this time. He inched toward the edge of the platform carefully, keeping an eye out for more spiders. Instead of getting a better look at the endless shaft below, he nearly tumbled right off the edge when that centipede caught up to him. Pulling heavily, it latched onto the edge closest to the wall behind him. By some miracle, he managed to regain his balance enough to fall back onto the platform. Now he was staring up at the giant gaping maw of the magically twisted centipede filled with dozens of teeth easily a yard long each. He rolled one way and then the other to avoid it either biting or stabbing him. Giving in to his instincts, he rolled to his feet and spun around. He found an opening and sliced his empowered scythe right up through the soft tissue of the lower jaw.
The thing went berserk.
Instead of letting go as he had hoped, it screamed in a pitch so high he thought his ears would bleed. As it thrashed around in pain, the platform began to come apart. Still gripping his scythe, he danced around, just trying to keep his footing. The mechanisms keeping it from racing downward began to grind and scream under the pressure and side-to-side movements. The centipede finally freed itself from the wood of the platform and disappeared into the darkness. With a final, painfully loud scream of tortured metal, the platform began to free-fall. He didn't know if it was a few more feet or a few hundred more feet to the bottom. Reacting on adrenaline-fueled reflex and instinct alone, his scythe fell away along with the rest of the platform, while he threw himself at the nearest chain. With his gloves, he knew he would never get a tight enough grip to arrest his fall completely, but at least it might slow him down.
He was still falling way too fast!
Far below, he heard the crash when the broken remains of the elevator platform finally hit the bottom, splintering to pieces. He gripped the chain tighter and even tried to wrap his legs around it. It just wasn't enough. He felt his booted feet impact the stone floor a few fearful seconds later. Still reacting on mindless adrenaline-fueled panic, he bent his relaxed knees. He nearly kneed himself in the face with the force of the impact. Even so, the wind was knocked out of him, and, for a disoriented minute, he lay painfully on the ground, unable to breathe. When he finally was able to breathe again, he was amazed to realize he was relatively undamaged. After a few more seconds to slow his racing heartbeat, he tried to get back up onto his shaky feet. There was dull throbbing pain in his knees and hips, possibly pulled muscles, but definitely no broken bones, to his relief. Amid the pieces of shattered wood, he could feel all around him in the total darkness, he felt incredibly lucky he hadn't been impaled, either.
Whatever is watching over me must be in a good mood today, he thought dryly.
Now he was weaponless. His shield had stayed hooked on his back since before he'd faced Fahir. But he'd had no time to place the scythe on its hook when he dove for the chain in the free fall. Only now did he think to look up. Total darkness. The level he'd come from was so far away, he couldn't even make it out in the gloom. He had absolutely no idea how he would get out of this place. And that wasn't even his biggest concern at the moment. He could hear things moving again.
His hands glowed slightly as he sifted through the debris for his scythe. As with all his other gear, he'd treated it to ensure it would not catch the light for when he needed stealth. His ears were straining to hear anything that might be trying to sneak up on him as he searched. At any moment, he expected more spiders or even another giant centipede.
When he carefully turned over another chunk of broken platform, he realized the only sounds of movement he'd heard were actually behind him in the next chamber. Subtle as they were, he could still make them out. He hadn't exactly arrived quietly. Behind him was a thirty-foot stone archway. And, beyond that, something was lighting the chamber with a faint green glow. It didn't flicker like some kind of fire, either.
There you are! he thought in relief
He finally spotted the scythe sticking out of a large chunk of wood. Relieved to have his weapon back, he mentally checked himself. Now that the adrenaline and shaking had backed off a bit, he could better assess his condition overall. No, he wasn't completely exhausted. He had enough strength left in him for at least one more battle. He just wished he knew what it was. Something had come through that wall and gathered up the shattered bones. For one second, Pyresong's mind screamed spider. But he remembered vividly now those huge, long, hairy arms and hands. They were far too long to have been human, despite the visual impression he had.
Silently, he approached the archway. His efforts were in vain, of course. Beyond the archway in the dimly lit chamber, a deranged voice unlike anything he'd ever heard before warned him.
"The scepter is the Master's..." the voice hissed and clicked and rolled its Rs and had a lisp, making it all the more eerie. "Only he is the shaper of the curse..."
Whatever it was, it knew he was here, and it was intelligent. No more point in hiding. He summoned four skeletal warriors and two skeletal mages. Just enough to be useful, but not enough to put too much of a strain on him. When he crossed through the archway, the place was lit up with an eerie pale glow that radiated out of some kind of mossy clusters all over the room. He almost wished it wasn't so well-lit when he finally caught sight of the thing. The eerie green glow all over the chamber revealed something out of deranged nightmares.
Pyresong froze mentally as well as physically for a few seconds while his brain tried to process what his eyes were seeing. Where a spider's head should be was a twisted human torso with spider-like mandibles of human flesh jutting out. Two grotesque humanoid arms curled inward like the pedipalps of a giant spider. Below the sickeningly twisted human torso was a giant, hairy spider body. Each of the hair-covered eight legs ended in a human hand with nails at least a foot long.
Oh no, not even in his worst nightmares could he have ever dreamed up such a horrifying sight.
The thing slung a ball of spider venom at him, snapping him out of his paralysis. Well, much like any other spider, the legs were the best target for his skeletons. And the mages could go after the face and eyes. This thing was no mindless beast. Again and again, he tried to get under it, hoping the belly or even that human torso would be the weak spot. But it somehow managed to block his every attempt. Looking for another opening, he realized his minions were having far more luck. Unlike a normal spider, these legs were made of softer humanoid flesh. They had already managed to hack off two of the legs by the time he realized. Turning his attention to the other legs, he flung a couple of blades of energy out from his scythe. They cut right through the flesh and bone of two more legs. In too much pain and too weak to continue, the thing screamed as it scrambled backwards and up through a hole in the far ceiling.
For several seconds, he just stood there, waiting for another attack that didn't come. Then, it began to dawn on him.
All that, and he still had not recovered the piece of scepter.
Now, he was nearly exhausted and didn't even have a clue as to where he would have to start looking for it in this unbelievable place. He just leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to recover something of his sanity and equilibrium. He was trapped down here with all manner of things he couldn't even begin to guess at after encountering that horrible mixture of man and spider.
Out of the corner of his eyes, a movement of a bluish mist caught his attention. Against the wall beyond where the creature had been waiting for him was a pile of bones and some twisted metal. The remains of Fahir. The impotent ghost of Fahir raged at him.
"It is mine! You will not have the scepter!"
Pyresong's laugh had a slightly hysterical feel to it. Wherever the scepter piece was, the ghost wasn't entirely wrong. Even if he found it now, he'd never find his way back out of here. He felt like he was miles underground in some forgotten city. Even climbing the chain would be impossible with all the spiders and other stuff. No, he would likely die down here.
At least I have company, this time, he thought, watching the raging ghost.
He laughed softly again, rubbing his forehead and trying to order his thoughts. Then a more sobering thought skittered across his mind in the unexpected momentary chaos.
And Cain will never know, he realized.
"Your power is broken, Fahir!" a new voice shouted, shocking him right out of those thoughts.
Startled, he spun around. There, in the archway he'd passed through earlier, stood the tall, powerful ghost of someone in robes. If his instincts were correct, this had likely once been some kind of court mage or priest.
"Your reign of bloodshed and sacrifice ended long ago!" it told the undead king. "You are powerless now!"
Fahir's ghost screamed and raged but seemed otherwise helpless, powerless, and trapped by the pile of bones. Whatever he had done to give himself this deranged form of immortality, he was now trapped. The ghost turned his attention to Pyresong.
"I do not know why you've come seeking the scepter, and it matters not. You have done us a great service by breaking Fahir's power. We will deal with him from here. The scepter piece you seek is in his bones."
For a moment, he was elated to hear this. The raging ghost could not harm him, he knew. Still reeling from the shock of the man-spider monstrosity and the fact that he was trapped down here, it hadn't even occurred to him to check the pile of broken bones and armor.
"I am in your debt," he told the mage gratefully.
"No, Priest. It is we who are in your debt. We've waited hundreds of years for this moment, never believing it would actually happen."
Ignoring the ghost's raging, he kicked away some of the bones to uncover the head of the scepter. Hefting the object in his hands, he sighed heavily. It would do him no good if he couldn't get out of here. He quickly shoved it in his side satchel for now.
"Is there a way out?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
"Of course," several unseen voices chorused, surprising him once again.
"We will return you to the sands above," the mage said, opening a portal between them.
He was overjoyed at the idea of getting out of here, but hesitant, too.
"You have suffered much in death. Is there anything a Priest of Rathma can do to help you rest peacefully?"
"Your offer is a kind and compassionate one. But we chose to remain to ensure Fahir will never escape again. Now is our chance to fulfill that oath. Go with the Light, friend."
He bowed deeply in respect, priest to honored mage, and in thanks for the blessing. With a final shuddering thought about the multiple horrors of this place, he fled gladly through the portal. As promised, the portal exited to the waypoint above in the ruins of Sereth Outpost just down the street from the collapsed part that had led him into that awful place. He swore to himself he would see it sealed before he left this forsaken land, even if he had to do it himself.
Daylight was once again waning as he looked around to orient himself. If he cut through the city ruins at an angle, it shouldn't be more than a few hours' walk back to Tabri and her little village, he guessed. The idea of food and rest was enough to motivate him. And, of course, some mischievous part of him looked forward to Tabri's shock and surprise upon his return. Even as he stepped off the platform, he was forced to spin around in surprise.
"You're alive!" Tabri's surprised voice called from the deepening shadow against a building.
Right where I left her, he thought. Maybe I wasn't gone as long as I thought.
"You've been gone for two days. We thought you dead," she told him as if reading his thoughts.
He couldn't help noting the cold edge of anger in her voice, as if he had asked her to wait for him. He couldn't resist smirking. For once, he didn't even care if his mouth got him into trouble. After what he had just been through, he was about as amazed to be alive and free as she was.
"It's nice to see you, too," he told her dryly.
For a moment, her hand twitched as if she would slap him. Apparently, she was able to control her temper, though her hand gripped the hilt of her sword instead.
"I presume you have the headpiece? Or would you dare to return without it?"
Before he could answer, another voice rang out above them. “Vataos wants those scepter pieces!"
A bunch of Sand Scorpions came down from the rooftops and out of the darkened alleys. Pyresong was irked to realize he hadn't even heard them coming in the distraction with Tabri. Maybe he was just tired, but he felt he should have at least detected something. Putting aside his irritation and growing exhaustion, he swiftly spun with his scythe, ready to catch the ones coming up behind him.
"Over my dead body!" Tabri screamed back, not wasting any more words on them.
These men were much more skilled than the ones he'd previously encountered. But Tabri tore through them faster than he could summon skeletons. It took no more than three minutes for the last body to settle on the ground. Pyresong did a quick check to at least ensure they were all dead and not suffering. They had all moved on without his help, as well.
Just as it looked like the fight was over, a much, much bigger man than Pyresong had ever seen outside of Barbarian lineage came out of the shadows to try taking Tabri off guard. He needn't have worried. She flashed him a predatory smile, and then she turned to meet the attack. The two of them clashed swords for a few seconds, alternating between parries and strikes. Concerned that his minions or spells would just get in her way, he stood back, watching for others to try to interfere. It didn't take long to realize the approaching men and women were Tabri's people.
It soon became obvious that this larger man was lacking in skill. He depended too much on his bigger size and strength, as did most bullies. Tabri's nimble moves got in under his guard quickly and sliced his belly wide open. Before she could follow this up, however, the man disappeared, staggering through a portal. Pyresong was satisfied to see him attempting to hold his guts in as he stumbled away. With any luck, he would die on the other side of that portal soon after.
Tabri cursed violently and colorfully to the now-blowing wind. He made an amused mental note to remember some of the more anatomically impossible ones she threw out. Then she gave a long, loud whistle to alert other Amber Blades in the area. She began running down the sandy roads.
"Back to camp! Now!" she threw over her shoulder.
Tired as he was, he followed behind her at a run. Clearly, some instinct or experience with Vataos lead her to believe the attack had not been isolated. Both were out of breath by the time they reached the south gates and were let in. Again, he felt like he was baking from the inside out and struggled to keep his footing. Amid the surprised chatter about his unexpected return, a couple of people handed them both water skins. Both drank thirstily as they tried to catch their breath. Having recovered first, Tabri rounded on him again, her hands on her hips impatiently.
"I take it that was Vataos?" he queried, reaching into his satchel for the scepter head.
"Yes, the leader of the Sand Scorpions, and our rival for these accursed dunes. Next time he will not escape my blade!" she growled. "Now, do you have it or not?"
Pyresong just tossed it to her. Her reflexes were excellent, and she caught it deftly.
"Hah! Of course, you retrieved it." She looked at him for a moment, her expression softening just slightly. "You know, if you're trying to make me regret doubting you, it's working."
He was too tired and miserable to even verbally spar with her at this point. He just laughed softly and shook his head at her. Her eyes never left him. Her expression softened even more...almost a smile.
"After all these years of struggling, we are so close to our goal. Only one piece remains. It's a piece called the Light of Fahir. Peth will give you a map with its location when you're ready. For now, you've earned a rest. And take a bath!"
The gathering crowd of onlookers snickered. Until that moment, he hadn't even given a thought to what he looked like after all he'd been through. The early fights against the statues probably hadn't left a mark. But the eons of dust he'd accumulated from his fall were clinging to his hair and skin, making him itchy. Then that was now covered in sticky blood splatter from that monster, Segithis. Then the fight with the Sand Scorpions... Even he sighed at the thought. Yes, he likely looked a right mess. And, yes, a bath sounded divine right about then.
He happily retreated to the privacy of what was quickly becoming a bathhouse in one of the outlining buildings. He didn't even care if it was cold water at this point. Despite the dropping temperature as the sun went down, he just wanted to feel clean again. Every part of his hair that wasn't spotted with blood came away with layers of dust that itched his nose mercilessly. Despite the cold water easing some of his aches, he downed another light healing potion.
When he emerged wearing clean clothes to finish cleaning his armor in another area, he was again reminded of just how unbelievably cold desert nights actually are. He was soon shivering and even had to wrap himself in a blanket to finish cleaning his armor. By the time someone handed him a hot bowl of some kind of stew, he was already nodding off. He found a dark, quiet corner and slept. This time, his skeleton was guarding him, as it should be.
He woke hours before dawn, startled and confused. Initially, the camp sounded quiet. But then he could hear swords clashing in the desert darkness somewhere beyond the south gates. He was already on his feet when a guard entered the camp and headed for Tabri's tent. No time for armor, Pyresong slung his backpack over his shoulders, hefted his ready shield and scythe, and headed for the gate. Moments later, an angry Tabri flew right past him, snarling. Just ahead, near a cluster of some rocks, were the sounds of a handful of men and women fighting.
"Surrender or die!" Tabri screamed at the dark-clothed attackers.
Of the six men, only one was still alive when the battle ended. By the looks of things, they had been a small group trying to sneak into the Amber Blades' camp. One of the dead was Tabri's man. Pyresong paused to ensure he was resting peacefully. While he was seeing to him, she shoved him aside to see for herself. He turned his attention to the other nearby bodies. It seemed none needed his help, at least.
"Vataos will pay for his, friend," she told the dead, ignoring his presence altogether.
The one living man from the small group who had not gotten away was badly wounded in the arm and shoulder; very likely to lose the arm by the looks of things. He was dragged up to Tabri by two of her men and thrown to the ground.
"This straggler was left behind," one of the men told her in disgust. "The others escaped."
"I will see the face of my enemy," she said coldly.
Tabri reached down and pulled off the man's dark mask to reveal a pale youth whose face was twisted in agony. The boy was weeping openly in fear and pain. He was barely more than a child. Pyresong didn't think he was even old enough to be accepted into an army.
"Tell me your name, dead man," she demanded coldly.
He was more than a little surprised by her reaction. From what he had understood, Tabri welcomed former members of the Sand Scorpions. And, many of those he had seen in the camp looked much older and more experienced than this mere boy. Though this was clearly the enemy, he was little more than a child. Still, whatever happened to the boy was not up to him. Young as he was, he'd made the decision to join one of these desert gangs.
Or had he?
From what he had seen thus far, no one out here really had a choice. You joined one gang or another if you wanted to live. You became as cold and hard as the desert nights and did what you were told for one side or the other. There were no opportunities here to join a city guard or become a craftsman. The few craftsmen he had seen were all clearly a part of Tabri's little group. And even then, he knew they had come from Vataos' own band of thieves and murderers.
The young man seemed frozen in terror, unable to speak. One of the guards standing over him prodded him in the back with their sword, making him flinch. He looked like he was maybe all of sixteen years old. And even that seemed a generous estimate.
"T-Tomi!" he finally blurted, throwing himself face down in the sand before her. "Please, I don't want to die. We just do what Vataos says! He'll kill us, otherwise!"
Tabri stuck her bare foot out under his chin to force him to look up, her cold expression never changing.
"Oh, believe me, I know how Vataos works. I saw it firsthand. If you return to him, you are dead. And me? I could kill you right now."
She smiled wickedly when the boy went from weeping to outright sobbing in fear of her and what she would do. She nodded to one of the men, who gripped the boy by his hair and pulled him upright. She pulled her knife and bent down slightly to force the boy to meet her eyes once more while his head was pulled back, leaving his neck exposed.
Pyresong twitched, wanting to stop this. It was just a terrified kid! He knew with this many men, all he'd be doing is making more enemies if he intervened now. He tried to convince himself it wasn't his place to save this terrified boy. Not for the first time, he questioned his place in all of this. He was not about to help a sadistic gang leader claim rights over these sands, even if it meant sacrificing his own goal.
"But that would be such a waste," she told Tomi, just barely touching his neck with the blade.
Is she torturing him? he began to wonder darkly, not liking any of this.
"The Amber Blades was formed of cast-offs, just like you," she told him, sheathing her knife on her belt and standing straight. "And just like me. To Vataos, you are already dead. But I'm offering you a chance to fight for something good before you die. Take your time, but when you speak, I expect an answer."
Turning to her men, she nodded. "Get him to a healer. See if they can save his arm."
Behind her, Tomi's grateful blubbering continued. "Thank you! I'll do whatever you want. I swear I will be loyal!"
More quietly, she spoke to one guard in particular. "He's no fighter. If he survives, get him to the artisans. See if he can learn a trade besides murder."
Pyresong's sensitive ears barely caught this exchange as he began to relax. The others quickly turned to head back to camp. Tabri stood where she was, looking over the blood and bodies. The boy's pain-filled choking sobs followed the men as they guided him much more gently to the gates. Pyresong, not sure if she wanted to be alone right now, cautiously approached.
"You see what we live with out here?" she asked, never taking her eyes off the bodies. "Mere children forced to become murderers to survive!" She turned to face him, her expression twisted with a cold rage. "I won't even bother telling you what becomes of the little girls who don't learn how to fight."
He kept his expression neutral as he nodded. Oh, yes, he could easily imagine what became of them. He had seen it enough in other places.
"You think this little task of yours is just another person's quest for power. I see it in your eyes. You could not care less what becomes of us once you have what you came for," she hissed angrily. "And this is not your fight. It is mine. But you have given me hope. Help me end this and give these sands peace. Acquire the Light of Fahir, and I will bring the hope of peace to these sands at last."
He could see the silent pleas and desperation in her eyes beyond the cold expression. This woman was more than willing to do anything, even sacrifice herself, to give these people hope of a better life. Until now, he hadn't entirely believed her. But he knew she hadn't put on that whole show with Tomi for his benefit. The men knew how to play their part. It was a regular occurrence among them, it seemed. Maybe it was some sort of test to see what kind of character was under the villainous mask of the Sand Scorpion they had captured. It didn't matter. She was desperate and sincere in her desire; that was enough for him.
"I will do all that I can," he assured her.
She sighed, turning back to the bodies as men arrived with shovels.
"That's all we can do," she whispered sadly.
Then she took a shovel and led her men into the darkness carrying the bodies. He had no doubts; she would bury her own men with her own hands. She was a tough woman, and it seemed these sands had made her that as it had spit out most of the other, even crueler people. He didn't really hold much hope of this object bringing peace. Peace was something everyone had to work towards. But it seemed she believed in it. Maybe even her followers believed it. Obviously, Vataos feared the scepter's power of influence, at the very least. Maybe through the power of belief, it could bring peace to this place. He could only hope so because she was right. This was not his fight, and he was likely never to come back once he'd left this place.
He was still turning these things over in his mind when he returned through the gates. As he dismissed his skeletons and returned to where he'd slept to recover his discarded blanket, he realized a crouched shadow was beside it. The flash of a long, blond braid told him all he needed to know. Stalking silently up to the little man, he was gratified when Zov squeaked in surprise and jumped backward right into the wall, landing on his butt awkwardly staring up at him in terror.
"Can I help you?" he asked mildly.
"Oh, no, I was just coming to retrieve your...um... Here, I folded your blanket," he recovered swiftly.
His rest interrupted, his thoughts in turmoil, he was in no mood for this thieving little weasel. Reaching down, he grabbed the skinny man by his shoulder and hauled him up roughly, hoping the bruises would be a longer-lasting reminder.
"Never touch my things," he said softly, letting his glower do the rest of the talking on where it would end if he did not obey.
He roughly flung the quaking man away from him. Zov stumbled away and again recovered himself quickly. He seemed to walk casually away. He knew full well the slimy weasel had meant to find anything of value he might have left behind in his haste to join the fight. Putting the man out of his mind in disgust, he turned his attention to the rest of the camp. It seemed as if most of the people were up and about now. Based on how much sleep he estimated to have had, it was probably still at least a couple of hours til dawn. He wasn't going to get any more sleep anyway.
Not surprisingly, he found Peth under his awning with more artifacts, yawning heavily as she shuffled some parchments around. He forced himself to calm again. Taking out his frustrations on this scholar would likely get him nowhere.
"Tabri says you know where I can find the Light of Fahir."
"Huh? Oh!" the man asked sleepily, blinking up at him. Then his expression lit with recognition. "I'd heard you survived Fahir's tomb. Impressive." Peth dug around in a pocket for a moment. "Here, I was going to give you this tomorrow. But, since you're here..."
The torn piece of parchment was much as the others. In one corner was the Amber Blades' little village as a reference point. It appeared to lead north around a charcoal blob of something he couldn't identify. But he was fairly certain it wasn't more ancient city buildings.
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the rough blob to the left of the path.
"Let me see. Oh, that's the Oasis of No Return. The path will take you right by the water's edge. Be careful; nasty things hide in the tall grass."
"Understood."
He walked away, headed for a quiet place where he could get into his armor and do another check of his supplies. As he moved his thumb away from the lower right corner of the map, he caught sight of some of Peth's writing and paused.
the light is hidden in the darkness
the Prison of the Scorpion
That bodes well, he thought dryly, as he considered the first giant animated snake statue he'd encountered.
Knowing he would not be leaving before sunrise, Pyresong took his time. He restocked a bit of food and a couple of healing potions he bought off one of the merchants. He was quite pleased to note that while the prices were higher than he was used it, it in no way felt like the typical gouging he was accustomed to. He also took the opportunity to refill his water skins. The predawn sky was just beginning to turn a lighter blue when he opted to go ahead and have a light breakfast.
He turned over the idea of a prison several times. What would a prison really look like out here in this land? From what he'd been told, the favored prison was stakes and rope out in the sands. And he had seen the incredibly effective chains for himself. The wardens sounded like whatever creatures roamed by to feed on your baking corpse. But much of this place had been built thousands of years ago by another culture, too. There were too many layers of history here for him to sort it all out. Maybe they had left behind more than just sandstone buildings.
Just before the sun broke the horizon, he made his way out of the north gates. Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the shifting sands and underlying structures, he'd come to recognize places that had been cleared down to the old smooth sandstone bricks used to pave these ancient roads. And, outside some of this, he could begin to make out places that were little more than hard-packed sand where many feet had tread for countless centuries. As he left the old sandstone city ruins behind, he was pleased to note he could easily follow the path around the oasis.
He kept a wary eye on all the tall grasses and even small trees that grew up on either side of this path. Clearly, this oasis was one still used as a water source by both humans and local wildlife. He could hear things rustling all around him, but nothing came out to confront him. He was happy he could conserve his energy for whatever lay ahead. About an hour after leaving the ruins, the curving path came around a bend to the west. There, he spotted something that made him pause.
This ancient structure was no sandstone, like the city or even Fahir's Tomb. No, this resembled far more the dark stone construction he'd seen deep under the tomb. But, even for the similarities, he could make out some major differences. For one thing, these were much more irregularly cut rocks, not like the fine straight lines he'd seen underground.
His natural curiosity about this place's history made him think again of Cain. He wondered if Cain had been in this particular area at any point. Maybe he knew more about the various cultures that had once populated this land. Based on what little he had seen, there were at least three distinct and different cultures all in this one area.
This structure was open at both ends and appeared to be a small span over the flowing water, more like some kind of shaded bridge or pavilion. Beyond the stone structure was more desert. In the center stood some kind of square, carved-stone pedestal. In the shadows, he caught some cat-sized scorpions shuffling about. Off to the right was some sort of pool of water. It didn't have the stagnant look of a pond or fountain long-neglected. If anything, it almost appeared to have water flowing sluggishly over top of something. It was shallow, but years of grimy buildup left whatever it was carved into the rock unrecognizable, even to his magical eyes. He quickly sent his skeletons to rid the place of the few scorpions hanging about as he fished the map piece out of his side satchel.
This is the location on the map, but it is no prison.
He turned around to consider the pavilion-like structure again. And then again.
The entrance must be concealed, he thought with no small amount of irritation.
He could not immediately find anything that would trigger it, either. At least, it was nothing magical. Refocusing his eyes in the normal visual range, he wandered around the structure, checking every stone. There were no telltale signs of wear that would indicate someone pushing on one particular stone regularly over centuries. Finally, he made his way back to the pedestal. It was the only thing that didn't fit in the otherwise empty space. Frustrated, he considered going back to camp and asking Peth. Much as with the walls and floors, there was no telltale wear on a single carving or stone piece of the pedestal that indicated use over the centuries. And no aura of magic.
Not willing to give up and go back to camp empty-handed, even for Peth's help, he took his gauntlets and gloves off. Though his eyes had detected no active magic or even residue of ancient magic, he was somehow convinced the answer was in that pedestal. As he had on many occasions in his life, he learned to turn off other senses to focus on one that might help. This time, he closed his eyes and ran his fingers around the different small blocks of the pedestal. They were cold and smooth. He couldn't even feel ancient, worn down writing to give any instruction or indication of what it could do. He couldn't even figure out what it was for. It was far too narrow to even serve as the base for a statue. Each block fit together neatly one atop the other, with no mortar, just as a master craftsman had designed.
No mortar...
Yet his fingers detected the slightest crack all the way around the small top stone and the next one. They weren't in direct contact; something was holding them apart. Something he couldn't see. Acting on a hunch, he placed his hands on either side of the top stone and twisted. It didn't budge. He tried again with more force until his arms shook and his fingers turned white.
Nothing.
Growling with frustration, Pyresong opened his eyes and examined it again. Then, he browsed around the room again. Maybe that little pool of running water... He examined it thoroughly again. Despite the fact that the shallow water flowing over the carved stone plate was clear and clean, he was reluctant to stick his hands in it to inspect the carvings through the slime coating and obscuring the carvings. Then, something tickled his thoughts on the back of his mind.
He returned to the pedestal and that top stone again. No, there were no holes that indicated some kind of key and locking mechanism, either. He inspected it with his fingers again. He hadn't imagined it. There was definitely a small gap, no more than a centimeter all the way around that small top square block and the larger square one beneath. Every layer right to the bottom was lined up with cardinal directions. It wasn't as if one was twisted a certain way to indicate anything.
Then he felt like a fool.
Of course! he thought with a mental laugh at himself.
He'd only tried twisting one way. Gripping the top stone firmly, he now tried twisting counterclockwise. It moved! But just a fraction. That was enough for him. Putting more force behind it, he wrenched the stone around ninety degrees. With a grinding noise that he felt right through his feet, there came the sound of stone scraping stone. The pedestal began to sink in on itself as he backed away. Flashes of memory of the giant snake rose up as he swiftly put his gloves and gauntlets back on. Then he shuddered openly recalling Segithis. Ugh! Whatever waited for him was likely be unpleasant at the very least.
Apparently, this was different. Instead of the expected monster attach, behind him, the water in the small pool flooded away. With another sound of stone scraping against stone, the basin at the bottom slid sideways, revealing an ancient stone staircase. Below, he could hear the roar of fast-running water rushing like a river. Cautiously, he sent his skeletons into the darkness, first. Letting the glow of his scythe light the way, he followed. The rushing water got louder the further down they went, until it was a steady roar in his ears. He began to realize this was likely the same river that flowed under the Amber Blades' village. Only this had been built up millennia before.
Despite the obvious indicators that it was built by something far older than Fahir, it seemed he'd discovered this during his reign. The stone viaducts that wound around just above the rushing water were lined with more of his ugly statues that stood as monuments to his undying vanity. Even here, so far under the sands they were in solid bedrock where no people would have tread regularly, he built monuments to himself. Once again, he spared a thought and a prayer for the souls that now kept that fallen ruler contained.
Ahead, he heard his skeletons engaging with what sounded like more scorpions. And then there was the leathery flapping of wings. Much as had the spiders, these house cat-sized scorpions made his skin crawl. But they were hardly dangerous as long as one avoided the stinger. His greaves and faulds would see to most of that. But some sort of bat-like creature? Ugh. Though he couldn't accurately measure the size, he knew he was well under the surface. This cavern could be massive. No problem for a flying creature to dive out of the darkness to attack. He summoned a couple of mages to assist the skeletal warriors and himself. It didn't take long to clear out the creatures in the immediate area.
Soon, the only sound was the rushing water beneath him. It was a raging torrent of white water. Still, this place seemed huge. He couldn't see the roof shrouded in darkness above him, and he was easily eighty feet below the surface, maybe more. For a few seconds, he closed his eyes and let his ears roam. With his sensitive hearing, he could make out the reverberation of the water off the walls. It definitely gave the impression of being a massive cavern, but his ears told him it wasn't quite so big as he feared. He refocused his eyes in the magical spectrum and detected a faint but definitive aura of magic in one particular spot along a far wall. As he moved forward slowly along the viaduct, he realized it was a closed-off chamber on the other side of the river that did not extend over the water. There was a carved stone arch that led into it. In the center of the floor were several different colored stones outlining some kind of stylized scorpion.
No surprise there.
Just beyond the entrance, he could see the area opened up into a large room. Though the area was completely unlit, it was easy enough to see the straight lines and thousands of carvings. Aside from the obvious scorpion motif, he spotted thousands and thousands of skeletons and skulls all over the walls. In the center of the room was a rectangular hollow depression filled with small white objects. That's where the faint glow of magic was coming from. He hoped—though he knew it was foolish to do so—that maybe that glow was radiating off the Light of Fahir. He found it hard to believe whatever had once been housed in here—likely a giant scorpion—was still alive after all these centuries. Then again, the giant snake and Segithis had survived. And if this thing ever came out of this room, it would appear to have plenty of food in the form of other creatures in the cavern.
As he stepped closer to the entrance, his heart sank. Bones. The countless number of white objects covering the depression in the floor were bones. And he had seen dozens of carvings of human skeletons and skulls, too. Then, another possibility came to mind.
On ossuary?
If it was an ossuary, it was possibly the most haphazard one he'd ever seen. They were just piled one atop the other like so much garbage. He looked to either side, off to his right and his left. In the distance, there were other outlined depressions in the stonework where many more bones were collected. The stone floor itself was clear, however. The idea of an ossuary seemed more and more likely. He had found ossuaries in a wide variety of places, most of them underground. They were usually more decorative and organized than just piles in pits like this, but it was not entirely impossible. Once the bones were dug up from their graves, maybe they were all placed here. Maybe that ancient culture had some belief that the location of the bones down here near water had some kind of significance. As near as he could tell, carvings surrounded every pit of piled bones.
Moving closer to inspect these carvings and to test his theory, he was caught almost completely off guard by a flash of light behind him. He spun around to see what it was. His heart sank further as he realized it was another magical barrier. He'd walked right into a trap. A vile expletive ran through his mind. Behind him, in the central depression where he'd first spotted the piles of bones, something rumbled. A bright, acid green magical aura began to coalesce. He readied his skeletons, knowing this must be the giant scorpion that had been referenced.
What emerged out of that green, magical haze was another creature from nightmares even he hadn't imagined. Its overall shape was indeed that of a scorpion, but it was otherwise made of twisted human parts. Where the insectoid head would have been was a warped human torso. Six human arms extended out from that torso and head. Behind that, extended giant scorpion pincers. They were easily as well armored as any normal scorpion. Beyond those were six scorpion-style legs, but they were the hairy legs—and arms—of a human that extended to the floor. The back end, though shaped like a scorpion and possessing a scorpion stinger tail, was made of twisted hunks of mutilated human flesh that were almost recognizable as a twisted mass of arms and legs all meshed togther.
While Pyresong backed away, trying to get out of range of its stinger, the horrifying thing screamed in rage, spewing venomous fumes in a wide fan around it. His skeletons were immune to the venom, but he wasn't. Even as far away as he was, the burning sensation that assaulted his eyes and lungs had him choking instantly. Though he was nearly blind, he could still command his skeletons. He sent them after the softer legs he remembered seeing while his mages targeted the human torso. He moved away from his original position only to find himself blindly tripping on more smaller scorpions the thing had summoned. Thankfully, his ankle-length leather faulds and his greaves prevented their stingers from getting to the unprotected parts of his legs. He blasted these smaller scorpions with spirit fire. Directly where he'd been standing only a second ago, there were the sounds of enraged thuds. The massive thing was slamming its stinger on the floor, releasing more venom into the air in small explosions. It didn't even need to actually sting something with it! He felt tiny splatters as the thicker, liquid venom landed on his armor and clothing. Instantly, it began finding unprotected places between plates to get to his skin through his clothing.
He swept his empowered scythe ahead of him in wide arcs to clear the area as he kept moving. He was summoning skeletons as fast as they were falling, but all he could do was run and keep moving. He was tripping over the smaller scorpions as often as not. The choking was worse now. He couldn't get a breath as his lungs burned worse with every painfully aborted inhale. He couldn't see at all now. He felt the venom burning his skin in various places where it had landed on his clothing. He wasn't even sure if his skeletal warriors or mages were doing anything more than irritating it. As his minions fell faster than he could summon them now, he summoned a golem that might just last a few seconds longer.
He was trapped in here with the venom in the air and the stuff already burning his flesh. He was weakening and couldn't even see to fight back. He kept moving away from the sound of the creature, but he knew he could only keep it up for so long. In his desperation and panic, he opened himself to the spirits of all those dead he'd seen in here.
They replied.
Much as he had done in the tomb, he took them into himself and then expelled them in a concerted assault of powerful bone spirits. Blindly, he fired multiple barrages in the direction of the screaming creature. Since he couldn't see to be sure, he just kept going until there were no more screams. When he finally stopped, feeling completely drained, the only sound was the rushing of the nearby river. Even his golem had been destroyed in the blast. He was completely alone, with not enough energy to even summon another.
He knew he had to get out of there and away from those venomous fumes. His cough had become heavy and congested and had already begun to include blood. He could taste it in his mouth, along with the bitter venom. It had literally burned his lungs. Crawling on his hands and knees, he followed the sound of the water back toward the viaduct. He paused only long enough to down a potent healing potion to stave off the worst of the damage to his eyes and lungs. The healing warmth he expected burned painfully all over his body. He wasn't even sure if the antidote potion he had dug out of his backpack would work against this venom, but he downed it anyway. The creature had been some kind of fleshy construct. It probably didn't even use natural scorpion venom. And while he might have some antidote in his backpack, he had no antivenin, even if it would work on this accursed thing's unnatural venom.
After what felt like an hour of crawling, he felt an edge to the stones. He lay flat on his belly to reach down and plunge his arms in up to the elbows in the icy cold water. Instantly, it relieved some of the burning on his arms. He swished his gloved and gauntleted hands and arms around in the rushing water, hoping to remove as much of the venom as he could. Then, he removed the sodden gauntlets and gloves. With his bare hands, he scooped up more water to wash out his mouth and thoroughly clean his eyes. But nothing worked. Despite the cold working its magic, the burning remained. His eyes were now swollen shut. He couldn't open them at all. Carefully, he pried them open and scooped water into them. But he could see nothing. He downed another more potent healing potion, feeling it ease his breathing somewhat. But, much as his eyes, his lungs had been badly damaged. The heat in his chest told him the potions were working, but they could only do so much. The venom had not been neutralized, or the small bottle of antidote just wasn't enough. That bottle for sure was empty.
For a moment, he contemplated getting into the water to wash off the venom that likely clung to his armor. At this point, if it was an acid-based venom similar to what the snake had possessed, his armor was likely in very poor shape. Though it didn't feel like the splatters on his face had left any gaping wounds, they still burned painfully. Of course, he knew the raging water below would be too strong. He would be swept away underground if he lost his grip on this ledge even for a second. Drowning wasn't the worst way to go, but he still shuddered at the mental images. No, he would have to just splash around and hope the venom lost potency with time. Maybe Charsi could repair the damage if it was as bad as he feared.
He shook himself mentally in disgust. He was tired, which always made his thoughts wander. And he was miserable and hurt everywhere. He knew he was dancing around the actual, important subjects. First, he needed to somehow get what he came here for.
Eventually, his ragged breathing eased enough with multiple healing potions that he could at least take a partial breath. His lungs still felt heavy, like they were filled with blood. But what the hells was he going to do now? He'd killed the awful creature but still didn't have the scepter piece! And now he was blind. He didn't dare let himself think it was permanent, yet. He had to hope.
He finally found the strength to pull himself into a seated position. Careful not to let his bare hands touch any other part of his armor, he put his sodden gloves back on. For now, he just tucked the gauntlets into his belt. His head ached miserably and he began to wonder if his eyes would explode. But, somehow, he found the trickle of energy and concentration needed to summon a skeletal mage.
He had never heard of any necromancer successfully using a summoned minion to see for them, and he wasn't about to try now. But some summonings were more intelligent than others. He sent it looking for anything in the chamber with a residue of magic. It came back to him with something small, heavy, likely made of metal by the weight of it. Pyresong took it in his gloved hands. Well, at least it wasn't a skull. Whatever it was, he shoved it in his backpack. Either it was the cursed object he'd come here for, or it wasn't. At this point, he'd killed the damned scorpion, Tabri could come back and get it herself.
Blind—and no small bit terrified of this for the second time in his life—he crawled his way carefully along the viaduct. Somewhere ahead, he could feel warm, fresh air. After what felt like another slowly dragging hour, his hands encountered the stairs. He was more than two hours' walk away from the fledgling village. And now he would have to somehow find his way back in this frightening darkness behind his eyes. He had some confidence that his summoned minions could deal with the natural creatures around the oasis. But he was so exhausted he likely couldn't manage more than maybe one. A blood golem might be able to help replenish his badly depleted resources. But what of Vataos and his men? If the Sand Scorpions showed up, he would be nearly helpless. He didn't have enough energy left for more than maybe some spirit fire to scare them off. And that likely would not be nearly enough.
As if summoned by the thought, he heard nervous voices drifting down from the top of the stairs high above him. He growled the most filthy obscenity he could think of under his breath. This Vataos was really starting to piss him off. Holding back more coughs that tickled in his chest, he struggled unsteadily to his feet. He lit his scythe with one hand and let spirit fire glow in the other. He tried to make himself look as threatening as possible. Swaying unsteadily, he couldn't even spend enough of his focus or energy on a skeletal warrior.
Damn those bastards!
To hells with it all and this whole miserable land. He was going to take at least a few with him.
"Stay back!" he shouted up the long stairwell.
There was a few seconds of quiet before he heard, "Master Pyresong? It's Peth. Tabri's sent us to help!"
Pyresong concealed his nearly giddy relief behind waves of anger as he released the spells and hooked his scythe. He growled more profanities under his breath.
Now she sends help?
"It's safe to come down," he called back calmly after a moment to control his anger and panic. "Beware the scorpion venom in the last chamber."
A couple of men had come rushing down the stairs at his reply. He could hear the crackling fire of their torches.
"I am also covered in venom," he warned them as they approached.
"Your eyes!" Peth exclaimed. "We have to get him back to the camp. Now!"
He felt large gloved hands take his arms gently to guide him. He let them guide him as quickly as they could up the stairs and back out into the baking heat of daylight. By the sounds of it, there were at least a dozen plus Peth. Only once did Peth mention the scepter piece.
"I don't know if I have it or not," he snapped. "I can't see it, but I have something. Feel free to have a look around down there for yourself."
"Of course, it can wait," Peth mumbled, not wanting to draw more of the necromancer's ire.
For a moment, he almost regretted giving in to his anger and no small amount of fear. He forced himself back to his calm and serene facade. The overall exhaustion from the battle, combined with the stress to his body from the venom and the pain he felt everywhere now, made the assisted march a miserable one. What had taken only an hour one way felt like many hours to return. All the while, the venom was coursing through his system. But Pyresong refused to give in to his body's weakness or his own fear of it.
Finally, he heard a couple of people running a bit ahead to ensure the gates would be open. By that point, he was stumbling, barely able to keep his feet. He was barely able to think beyond forcing his legs to keep moving. Everything had taken on a fuzzy, distant aspect in his mind. His coughing had become so violent he almost couldn't breathe at all now. The men guiding him held him tightly enough not to fall, at least. A few seconds later, when they crossed through the gates, his helpers were the only things keeping him upright. Somewhere ahead, he heard Tabri barking commands for a healer.
When they came to a stop just inside the gate, his knees completely failed him. The men gently lowered him to the ground. Even then, he nearly face-planted the stones. Through sheer stubbornness, he'd managed to keep from falling on his face with shaking arms. But his aching head swam, and a deeper darkness closed in around the edges of his mind. The voices all around him now started to spin away dizzyingly in his head. His arms trembled and started to go numb as he struggled not to fall flat on his face. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't make sense of the voices all around him.
Suddenly, he was pulled upright roughly, and a bucket of what felt like warm water was poured over him, scalding him painfully everywhere the venom had touched his skin. He nearly gagged in surprise at the floral smell that assaulted him. It immediately turned to coughing that made him feel like his eyes were going to explode from the pressure. When he tried to pull away, a couple of men gripped his arms more tightly to hold him in place. Disoriented and confused, he started to summon a skeletal warrior out of reflex. But he couldn't concentrate through the pain and dizziness. Then, a hand gripped his face, digging into his cheeks painfully to force his mouth open.
"Take it, you stubborn fool!" someone hissed, inches away from his face.
Reflexively, he swallowed whatever slimy lump was shoved in his mouth. He gagged almost instantly as the burning sensation was now inside of him, sliding down into his belly. Again, the floral taste assaulted his senses, making him feel like he was eating some kind of soap. His stomach burned and roiled for a moment. Before he could even give in to the nausea, though, his head was held still by multiple hands, and another, more delicate set of fingers forced his gummy, swollen eyes open. They poured something into his eye that burned even worse than the venom had. He clamped his teeth down on a scream, though he couldn't help the groan that rose in the back of his throat.
The shock of these things in rapid succession had brought his mind back to focus at least a little bit. Some part of him realized they were trying to help him, despite the pain they were inflicting. The voices began to fade again. He took several slow, shallow breaths to give himself something to focus on beyond the burning pain everywhere inside and out. Inevitably, the heaviness in his chest rose to choke him again. His whole body spasming with coughs trying to get it out, he felt more hands gripping him. When he could finally take a rattling, slow breath, the dizziness began to abate slightly.
Gradually, the now dim voices began to make some sense. They were talking about needing rest and something about food. He didn't even realize he was now lying entirely prone on the ground until they tried to move him. He felt several hands rolling him over. They lifted him gently up off the ground to carry him. The motion of it was too much for his aching head. The darkness swallowed him.
***
Pyresong found himself waking to a congested cough. For several seconds, all he could do was roll on his side and try to cough up whatever was strangling him from the inside out. A gentle pair of hands supported him and spoke encouragingly to him. She assured him it would pass, but he needed to get out as much as possible. He felt a cloth being shoved under his face as his whole body spasmed with the coughing fit. At least this time, it didn't taste like so much blood.
And then it ended as quickly as it had begun. He was so dizzy he could only lay there trying to find a single, cohesive thought. He was able to breathe again, he realized, though he still felt fluid shifting in his lungs. His deeper breaths still rattled uncomfortably. His eyes burned only slightly now. At the moment, the world around him appeared as nothing more than blobs of light and darkness.
"Better?" the woman asked him.
Still trying to recover his breath, he just nodded. Then he forced his body to obey as he struggled to sit up. He caught the sound of a disdainful sniff from another occupant of the room. And it was a room, by the sounds of it. He couldn't specifically say how he knew; his mind was still too muddled. Piecing together what little he could remember, he realized he was back in the Amber Blades' camp. Likely, he was somewhere inside one of the sandstone buildings Tabri had co-opted for her village. Behind his eyes, there was an aching sensation that he hoped was a good sign of recovery. The pounding in his head was little more than a dull ache, at least.
"How long have I been here?" he asked hoarsely, rubbing his eyes gently in the hopes they might start working properly.
"Only a few hours," Tabri answered from the direction where he'd heard the sniff. "It is early evening."
He was so not in the mood for her. She wanted only one thing from him, and he knew it. He ignored her for a moment while he mentally checked himself. Overall, he was sore and weary but felt no lingering effects of the venom. It seems whatever they had done had neutralized it. At least now he could see somewhat, far better than that terrifying darkness. As another memory floated to the surface, a slight bit of panic trickled in. He quickly pushed it away and tried to focus on Tabri in the corner of the room.
"Did your men find the scepter piece in the chamber?"
"No," she replied darkly.
He sighed in relief mentally, keeping his expression serene. He had this one bargaining chip now, and he intended to use it.
"Where are my belongings?"
"Your armor and clothing are being cleaned of venom. The backpack is beside you, to your right."
He nodded and reached blindly. Another set of hands moved it toward his questing fingers.
"Peth said you didn't have it," Tabri mentioned a little too casually, clearly fishing for information.
He ignored her for a few seconds while he stuck his hand in the bag and did a sort of inventory one object at a time. Yes, everything seemed to be there, including his latest addition. Satisfied, he set the backpack in his lap for a moment.
"I told him I didn't know. I was blind at the time and found...something. But we need to do a little renegotiating." He could almost sense the chill in the air as her anger rose. "We need to speak, alone."
There was a moment of silence, and then the woman beside him rose to her feet and left. He waited patiently while they whispered something to one another that he couldn't quite make out.
"Speak," she finally barked. "And if you cross me..."
He couldn't help laughing at her threat, though it ended in another coughing fit. At this point, he couldn't fight off a child. He was still mostly blind and bone weary. She could likely slit his throat right now and take what she wanted, and she must know it. But maybe his power as a necromancer had her hesitant to try. Then again, maybe there was something else. He'd sensed something about her from the beginning. Beyond the cold, hard persona she displayed openly to everyone, there was an underlying sense of caring for the people she called her own. That should serve him well, here. If his suspicions were correct. If he was wrong, he was likely making a grave mistake, and he knew it. But it was worth the gamble.
"Our original agreement was one thing in return for three. I now add a second request."
"Ha! I was giving you two because just knowing the location of the library isn't enough. Only we know the secret to opening it. If that's all you—"
"Regardless," he cut her off, roughly. "I have another...demand, if you will."
"And what is that?" she asked, warily, trying to keep her temper in check.
"I want Fahir's Tomb sealed off forever."
Tabri was quiet for several seconds. "Why?"
"Because his power is broken, for now, but may return. Many have sacrificed their eternal souls to guard his new resting place and ensure he can't return again. If you value your people and any potential future they may have, seal it. Destroy any entrances you know of. Collapse an entire mountain of sandstone on top of it. I don't care how you do it, just swear to me it will be done."
She sniffed again. "Peth certainly won't like it."
He let a predatory smile creep in. "If he wants to spend his eternity in the realm of the dead instead of here, he will."
"What did you see down there?"
"That's not your concern. It's mine. Will you do it?"
As the silence stretched on, he began to wonder if he would have to fight his way out of here. Little hope of that, he knew, but he wasn't going to let those sacrifices be in vain if he could help it. Some stupid mage or scholar lured by the promise of power or riches could undo what those others had done to further trap the evil ruler's spirit.
"Fine. It will be done."
That was as good as an oath coming from her, he knew.
"Thank you." He reached into his backpack and retrieved what the skeletal mage had handed him. "Is this what you're expecting?"
Tabri gasped as he held it up. That was answer enough. He tossed it in her direction.
"The Scepter of Fahir," she said in a soft, trembling voice. "I can hardly believe it." Her voice returned to its normal, hard tones. "You may never truly understand what you've done for us this day. But know that we will be forever grateful to you."
"Use it well," he warned her darkly. "I don't want to have to come back here."
Tabri laughed. "You have given me the right to rule this land. And, more importantly, provided us with a symbol that can unite our scattered people against Vataos and his ilk. It's time to rise up and cast off his cruelty once and for all."
He nodded tiredly. His gamble had paid off. She really was more concerned about making a better life for people than simply gaining power. He coughed again slightly, feeling the telltale strangling of something shifting in his lungs.
"You need rest, Pyresong," she declared. "I will guard your sleep. Save your skeletons."
He was too tired to argue. As he rolled onto his side, a distant stray thought somewhat surprised him. She had remembered his name. But that thought floated away as he drifted off back into a healing sleep.
***
He woke, many hours later, just after sunrise. He felt much improved, and his vision was mostly clear, but still painful behind his eyes. His chest still felt heavy, but at least he could take a full breath without rattling and bubbling. He was more than ready to be out of his place. As she had promised, Tabri sat in the corner, holding the scepter pieces in her skirts.
"And here I thought you would sleep through the morning, lazy one," she drawled as he sat up.
He huffed a laugh, which triggered another coughing fit, though not nearly as violent as the previous ones. Yes, his lungs were recovering as well. And, at least now, he could see well enough to spy the pile of clothing beside his bag. In a further corner stood his armor, shield, and scythe. Satisfied, he began to stretch thoroughly. It didn't take him long to realize he was completely naked under the blanket. And the amused glint in Tabri's dark eyes let him know she appreciated the view, scars and all.
"I waited for you to be with us when I present the scepter," she told him a little too mildly. "If you'll get some clothes on, we can proceed."
No, this was not the first time he had encountered this game with a woman. He grinned and just shook his head in amusement. He was not ashamed of his body or the scars it bore. Showing her the same lack of modesty, he threw off the blanket and got to his feet to clothe himself. He could easily feel her eyes on him but ignored them.
"Satisfied?" he finally asked with a grin when fully dressed.
"Mmhm," she practically purred.
He just shook his head in amusement again while she gathered up the scepter pieces and rose. He slung the backpack over his shoulder and followed her out. When she moved to the center of the camp, everyone paused to watch curiously. He shifted off to the side to let the gathering crowd have a better view.
"Let a new light shine upon the Shassar Sea!" Tabri cried out to the whole village, holding the pieces above her head.
Instantly, people came running from all directions. In less than a minute, it seemed the entire village had gathered, all but those guarding the gates. He watched as the scepter pieces glowed brightly with magic, even in the painfully bright sunlight. Still, he could see nothing overtly dark or sinister in the magical halo around the objects. Then, when in the right places, they melded together once more. All around him, the cheering crowd fell to their knees before Tabri. Every single one of them smiled as they bowed and clapped and cheered around her. They could probably be heard halfway across the desert. Her smile of triumph beamed at him. But he caught a mischievous smirk behind it as well.
"This outsider has given us hope and the means to make our dream a reality. He has earned his place among us! Pyresong of the Amber Blades!"
A new roaring cheer went up. Pyresong bowed formally, priest to village mayor, making Tabri laugh openly. Lowering the scepter, she stepped over to him. People began to disperse, a new hope shining through every one of them as they moved through the village now.
"It's funny... When I met you, I told you these sands devour hope. I have never been happier to be proven wrong, my friend," she told him warmly, almost seeming like another person at this moment. "Now it is time for me to fulfill my promise."
He shook his head. He was better, but I was not sure if he was recovered enough for whatever lay ahead. Cain had warned him about Zoltun Kulle's rumored research and creations.
"Give your people time to celebrate. It can wait until tomorrow."
Her smile grew even wider. "Very well. When you're ready, Peth will provide you with access to the Library that we know of. It's just north of the Sereth Outpost. Only he knows the ancient spell that parts the sands."
She tucked the scepter in her belt opposite her sword and moved through her people, engaging with each one of them. Pyresong returned briefly to the healer's and dropped a small pile of gold for her on a work table before retrieving his armor. Afterward, he walked around to the cook pot for some breakfast. The extra time to recover would do him good, he knew. And he wouldn't mind chatting with Peth about what he'd learned regarding Kulle's library and its guardians.
Even the aloof Peth was joyfully babbling when Pyresong tracked him down in his awning. The man kept interrupting himself to talk praises about Tabri. It didn't take him long to realize the scholar was crushing on her hard. He couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for Peth. After all, Tabri was as unreachable as a goddess and about as likely well-protected by her other followers. He hid his amusement well, though, and managed to glean some useful information, at least.
Ultimately, it came down to the fact that the fragmented records were just too incomplete. Something guarded the mysterious library, but no one had ever lived to say what. Occasionally, a mage would wander into the desert and maybe find a way in. And then they were never heard from again. Peth was quick to point out that he, of course, wasn't like others, so he would likely be just fine. It couldn't possibly be worse than what he'd already dealt with, after all.
The celebrations continued through the day and into the night. As before, he sought out a quiet nook to sleep in. Instead, he found himself invited to share in various tents and rooms throughout the camp, even Tabri's—which he politely but carefully declined. No one there was about to let one of their own sleep alone in the cold desert night. Ultimately, he wound up sharing a fire near Peth's place in the camp. And, feeling a bit more welcome, he decided to forgo the skeletal guardian tonight, much to Peth's relief.
Chapter 8: 07 Library
Chapter Text
Library
Shortly after sunrise the next morning, Peth and Pyresong prepared to leave the Amber Blades' village. He restocked his meager food supplies and several healing potions. The healer that had overseen his recovery sniffed disdainfully; something about needing far more time to recover. But, ultimately, she did sell him some antidote and some of their specialized antivenin. Hopefully, it would be effective against whatever else he may encounter. Apparently, it was made from the flower of some kind of local scrub brush that was common in the area and worked on almost every venom found in Sanctuary. He would definitely have to pass that information on to Cain and, hopefully, Priestess Akara.
At first, Tabri considered their path and how close it would lead to the Sand Scorpions' newest camp. Apparently they were trying to surround her access to the Oasis and other places to try to keep her people starved. They would have to cut right through some streets that were still highly contested areas, if not already claimed by the Sand Scorpions. Tabri wanted to send several men with them in an armed escort.
Pyresong rejected the idea, almost reflexively far more accustomed to moving on his own through dangerous territories. And he was not wanting to draw more attention to his intended goal. The potential power of what lay under the sands was likely too dangerous to risk falling into Vataos' hands. He also doubted Vataos would survive whatever guarded the library, but didn't dare risk it. In the end, it was Peth who made the decision to bring along just two Amber Blades with the most fearsome reputation and skill. After parting with the necromancer, he would have to get back to the camp in one piece, after all.
The excited Peth led the way at a near jog, following paths he'd clearly memorized. The two Amber Blades following behind kept a respectful distance from them. Almost as soon as they left the camp, he was slightly irritated with the scholar's constant chatter about things he'd found throughout the area. Pyresong was always wary in open places, listening for any hint of ambush. And here, he had to worry as much about the humans as the creatures that roamed the landscape. On more than one occasion, he very nearly told Peth to just shut up. But the man seemed perfectly at his ease walking around the rocks and dunes. Maybe he knew where the real dangers were, and this wasn't among them.
They easily reached the Sereth outpost in the early morning light. As they neared the ancient, crumbling sandstone buildings, even Peth had gone warily silent. Not so much as a native scorpion crossed their path. From the Sereth Outpost waypoint, he watched the shadows in every direction. His instincts were screaming at him that there was a trap here, somewhere. Even Peth seemed on edge as he took a right and went out onto a sandstone bridge that crossed a huge crevasse below. Beyond the canyon below stood the ruins of an ancient fortress. Once, this had been a grand fortress meant to hold back the threats from the desert beyond the ancient city. Much like the older ruins he had found, those were built with much darker stone. Unlike most of the city, these seemed much more well-preserved.
Still, with his nerves jangling and his instincts screaming, that open bridge seemed like a very bad idea. Though he had seen no bows or projection weapons beyond the little bombs, his mind couldn't help conjuring something aimed at them on that wide open bridge. He paused at the foot of the bridge, Peth only a few feet in front of him. Before he could catch up to Peth on the bridge, a group of Sand Scorpions emerged from the shadows around the buildings to their left.
Peth spun around on the bridge to come back, his own sword in hand. Pyresong and the two Amber Blades that had followed them engaged the handful of men, battling them right up and into the shadows of the buildings. Given their weak attacks and constant backing away, something itched at the back of his mind that they were trying to draw him and the others away intentionally. Almost as soon as he realized they were being lured away, he paused to turn around. During a break in the fighting, he heard muffled cries and vile expletives moving away from their position.
They had Peth.
He'd lost track of the scholar in the melee. It had seemed the man knew what he was doing with a sword. He'd taken out at least three Sand Scorpions himself. But not without injury. He motioned to the other two to stay with him and not go running off. While one of them looked like he was about to argue, Pyresong motioned to the trail of blood and then upward silently. They were being watched and he knew it.
He and the other two followed the trail of blood down the alleys. His eyes were on the ground while the others watched upward. Given the trickle of blood, at least it didn't seem to be arterial. Even so, he was glad he had put one of his strongest healing potions on his belt, just in case. A couple minutes later, he motioned the other two to pause when he caught soft voices ahead. He peeked around the corner of a building. A now silent Peth was kneeling with a sword to his throat while two more men tied his hands and feet. Instead of fear, Peth was smilingly grimly up at the one threatening to kill him. The blood seemed to be coming from a long wound in his right bicep.
"Tell us where the scepter is! We know you've been collecting the pieces!" the man with the sword to Peth's throat demanded.
There were only three men plus Peth. When the scholar continued to grin silently, the thug nicked the Peth's neck to emphasize his point. Having sized up their targets, Pyresong motioned to the others to move in.
"Tabri already has the scepter! Vataos has failed!" the smile never left Peth's face.
The Sand Scorpion pulled back his blade to cut the Peth's head off. Peth actually laughed as he fell back just out of range of the leader's slicing blade aimed for his neck. He kicked the man viciously in the knees with his bound feet. Stunned by the pain, the leader stumbled and hesitated. But a moment was all Pyresong and the other two needed to close in. Of the four people, only Peth was still alive a few seconds later. Pyresong again motioned upward to have the others guard for attacks from above while he saw to Peth.
His chest still heaving, the scholar rolled onto his side so Pyresong could free him. He quickly cut the ropes with a hunting knife. He could all but sense the many eyes on them and couldn't help wondering why none had attacked. Only when Peth regained his feet unsteadily did he see how pale and terrified the man really was. Peth quickly downed the healing potion he was handed.
"Thank you, my friends," Peth said, retrieving a sword off one of the fallen Sand Scorpions. "Vataos must be getting desperate. Come on. Let's get out of here before more show up."
Pyresong respected the man's courage. Peth had been certain he would die before help came and was still defiant and loyal. But under that soft scholarly appearance was yet another man hardened by this desert. Peth was silent until they'd safely crossed the bridge and into what the maps called "Greater Fahir". On the other side, he relaxed a little, seeing nothing more threatening than a couple of large, normal scorpions.
"The library isn't far," Peth called over his shoulder as they ran. "As I said before, we've never been inside. There were too many warnings. It seems even the Horadrim feared Zoltun Kulle's domain."
A few seconds later, Peth called them to a halt, pointing to a small sandstone bridge that seemed to end in more dunes of sand. He could see the illusion with his magical sight but not what it hid. Peth paused to catch his breath for a few seconds before turning back to him with a broad grin.
"If I believed in it, I would wish you luck, friend. Still, you did survive Fahir's Tomb... So, perhaps you stand a chance. Don't worry about us. The Amber Blades will retake the Shassar Sea and seal that tomb as Tabri vowed, thanks to you."
He took the offered hand firmly. Though a greater part of him hoped never to see this awful desert again, it also sincerely wished them all luck in their venture.
"Now, allow me to do my part," Peth said with a smile.
Peth's hands glowed bright yellow as he turned to draw some sort of seal in the air. The seal glowed orange as it formed under his fingers, hanging in the air. Then he pushed it forward, and it blazed a trail ahead. The sea of sands parted and then faded away to reveal a short bridge and then a platform with a well of light in the center.
The well glowed brightly to his magical sight as he approached. He could see no obvious way down into it. Then, a shimmer in the air with sand grains sliding gently down gave him the answer. It was a sort of magical elevator. He sent a skeleton ahead to be sure. It floated gently downward into the darkness below. Behind him, he could hear Peth and the others heading back to the safety of their village.
Satisfied he wasn't about to immediately plummet to his death, he stepped out into the open air of the shaft and dismissed his skeletal warrior. At first, the light above faded away into total darkness in the shaft. Much like his venture on the platform under Fahir's tomb, he felt this went down a very, very long way. Eventually, he began to detect a lighter patch below. He couldn't detect an obvious light source, though. It was a soft, white light that seemed to radiate from the stones themselves. And, again, he was struck by the similarity in rock carvings. This very much resembled the more ancient designs below Fahir's tomb.
Eventually, the shaft walls gave way on one side to reveal a bridge over an abyss. For a few seconds, he stood in awe of what little he could see. This place was a whole world in itself. Pyresong knew that Zoltun Kulle had made many places not quite in this world and not quite in other worlds. But this was mind-blowingly massive. The open spaces with towers and spires stretched on forever to either side. It was easily the size of a small city.
And this is what Kulle called a library?
Directly in front of him was a bridge connected to some enclosed chambers. Not unlike Fahir's tomb, this place was awash with magical auras. It was so powerful, even now, that it distorted the space around it. In reality, this entire chamber might be only a few hundred feet across. But with magic, it was likely many miles. This place had clearly been made by unbelievably powerful magic.
This is it! The Library of Zoltune Kulle! he thought, his excitement rising exponentially.
But he knew it was no time to be distracted or let his guard down, either. Tales of the Library's guardians were little more than nightmarish rumors. He still had no idea what to actually expect. Cautiously, he crossed the bridge. His mind was already supplying more nightmares fueled by his experiences with Fahir's guardians. He was headed for the one place he could reach right now, the chamber at the other end of this little bridge.
Beyond the arched stone entrance, he could make out some shadowy forms of giant structures. He couldn't tell if they were more walls or some kind of bookcases he was hoping to find. Keeping his skeletons close, he inched forward. Initially, when he crossed the threshold, he could just make out that the huge objects were, in fact, fully loaded bookcases! They were enormous. The sight of them got him excited again. There were so many more, much further in, but it was shrouded in darkness. As near as he could tell, these giant bookcases rose up easily three storeys. This one room alone could likely contain every book in the entire country of Westmarch!
Reining in his excitement, he carefully eyed the circular seal made with metal inlaid in the dark stone floor in front of him. Aside from the raw magic of this place, this particular pattern in the floor felt like some kind of summoning seal. There were no obvious runes on or around it, though, as he would have expected. Still, this gave him a bad feeling. He looked more to his left and right to see if he could go around it. It butted right up to the entrance in which he stood. There were no other platforms or paths, either.
Cautiously, he stepped across the threshold, expecting to trigger a magical ward or something. He felt more than saw the flash of magic as another glowing seal now barred the exit behind him. His sigh of frustration sounded more like a growl, even to his own ears. This was definitely getting tiresome. Being trapped in a room with who knows what threat...
"He warned me you would come...and, after centuries, here you are," a dark, gravelly, and downright snide voice echoed through the room.
He looked all around warily, trying to find the source of the magically enhanced voice. The underlying magic aura of everything just distorted things far too much.
"I am the Curator of this library, and I do not suffer thieves," it told him calmly.
"I am no thief!" he called back.
"Spare me. Your trespass is at its end."
He tuned out his magical vision as the warping in this space just disoriented him anyway. He sensed something building on the circular pattern in the floor. It was pretty much as he expected. It was something akin to a summoning circle. He danced backward away from it. Out of the floor rose a mage in black robes with a staff. He bore a striking resemblance to the sketch of Zoltun Kulle he'd seen. If he hadn't known already that Kulle was dead, he would have suspected it was the mage himself. As he put his arms out to signal he was not a threat, the mage waved his staff and sent what looked like a small whirlwind at his skeletons. Even as the skeletons were blown away—and to pieces, he realized—he was forced to raise his shield against the mage's powerful staff. He felt a jolt right through his shield and arm as it impacted.
"I'm no thief!" he repeated, hooking his scythe on his belt.
The mage ignored the non-threatening gestures. He battered Pyresong's shield and his skeletons with gusts of air and raw power. He refused to give in to his instinct to summon more skeletons or even a sturdier golem. He knew this mage could easily kill him, but he wanted to do whatever he could to prove he was no threat. Dropping his shield was just not an option. He was fairly certain one direct hit from that empowered staff would, at the very least, put him out of commission, leaving him too vulnerable. He opted for something less powerful but still hopefully stunning. He used his empty hand to fling some weak spirit fire at him.
Caught by surprise in mid upswing, the mage could not block the blast that hit him in the chest. The shock caused him to drop the staff with a loud clatter. But the mage was far from helpless. With raw power alone, he summoned blades of pure air around himself as a shield. Frustrated, Pyresong again launched a small, but more concentrated volley of spirit fire, hoping enough of them might get through to stun the damned man.
Unexpectedly, the blades of air faded away, and the last three of the balls of spirit fire hit the mage from three different directions at once. He went to his knees, seeming to just barely stay upright. Pyresong let go of the next round of spells and stood back, unsure what to expect. He put his hands out at his sides again. Only then did he begin to realize it wasn't a man at all, at least, not a human one. It was animated and looked like flesh, but the eyes were not real. They were orbs of light that now flickered weakly.
"Have the ages made me so weak? To die at the hands of a common pilferer... What a waste." It finished this last with a challenging glare at him.
Pyresong didn't relax. He expected a trick to lure him in, but his frustration was clear in his voice. He carefully kept his hands at his sides, expecting another attack.
"I have no intention to kill you. I came to this library seeking knowledge, a way to end the threat posed by shards of the Worldstone."
The thing continued to glare at him for a few more seconds before finally sitting back on whatever passed for its knees. It barked a laugh.
"Hah. How...whimsical," it laced its voice with acid. "Well, if such knowledge exists, the Master would have indeed stored it away here, in his private archives. Unfortunately for you, I cannot reach said location. The library has been ravaged by time and has fallen into disrepair. But it could be restored."
He took another couple of steps back as it struggled back to its feet.
"If you truly are no thief, then perhaps you will prove your innocence," it challenged with no small amount of amusement.
"What do you have in mind?" he asked carefully, thinking it might still be a trap.
The lighted orbs that passed for eyes flashed various colors for a moment. He couldn't tell if it was thinking or preparing for another attack. He forced himself to keep calm and keep his skeletons out of it for the moment. It nodded after a few more seconds of what he thought was consideration. Maybe the flashing orbs just indicated it was thinking or something.
"First, I must regain my strength. And a myriad of monsters stand between us and the statue where that can happen. Considering my weakened state is your fault... I'll let you clear the way."
He cocked an eyebrow at the accusation, but otherwise kept his peace. Seeing it had scored a hit, the thing smiled wickedly under the black beard. He took his scythe off his belt and summoned some skeletons, all the while watching the thing out of the corner of his eye. When it didn't attack again, he sent the skeletal warriors ahead of them in the direction the Curator had indicated.
Now Pyresong had a chance to better take in his surroundings. As distorted and massive as they appeared, this room was full of free-standing stone shelves that reached at least three storeys into the darkness above. Every single one of them was filled with books and scrolls. He began to realize that while there were sources of ever-burning light like braziers and some kind of lamps with globes atop them, most of the place had its own pleasingly soft white glow that emanated from everywhere. Though there were still plenty of dark corners and recesses, all the main walkways and shelves were easily visible.
The Curator guided them right down the central walkway. Ahead, he could make out some kind of orb and bands rotating around it. It was covered in magical runes and glowed and eerie orange. He didn't like the look or the feel of the thing. In his magic sight, it blazed like a small sun. He almost considered it might be another attack or some kind of trap, possibly one of these guardians he'd heard about. And the Curator was directing them right to it. Keeping a few steps further back, he waited while his skeletons approached the lighted area around the thing.
Instead of the moving structure reacting to the presence of the skeletal warriors, a handful of little imp-like creatures scurried up out of the shadows off to their right. Keeping one eye on their host, he moved in to assist his skeletal warriors. These little things weren't much more than annoyances. He was mildly disturbed at how much they resembled human children. They dissolved into sand the moment they were struck, and even that faded away after a few seconds. Still, he quickly found he shouldn't underestimate them. Their little hardened fists and heads were like solid rocks. They had managed to successfully damage a couple of his skeletons, causing them to dissolve back into dust. Individually, they were not a problem. Several of them together could present serious problems. The Curator hovered silently a few inches off the ground nearby, watching everything.
"What is that?" he asked warily, indicating the glowing orb.
"A sculpture," the Curator answered sarcastically.
He stood his ground. He wasn't going near it. He was certain there was more than one trap here.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," it told him, gliding right past him and up to the orb. "Come along."
This thing was grating on his nerves, but he had to keep his composure if he was to get any help from it later. Following this time, he again kept close to the mage-looking thing. Out of the darkness came a few more of those curious little imps. Thankfully, the Curator had enough sense to hover perfectly still while he and his skeletons moved around it to keep it unharmed. Just ahead, he could see another giant arched doorway into another section. Beyond the doorway was some kind of window-like hole in the floor. As they went right over it, he felt the telltale tingle of very strong magic all over his armor. But the Curator gave no sense of a problem and continued. A statue began to come into sight at the far end of this room.
"Here we are," the Curator said happily.
The statue had its hands cupped just below the face like it should be holding something, but he couldn't make it out. The Curator floated to a stop abruptly, still several feet away.
"Wait, something is amiss," it said, clearly surprised.
He eyed the shadows around them warily. Once he was certain there was no immediate threat, he turned his attention to the strange floating statue in the middle of a decorative hole in the floor. It sat in an alcove created by two curved staircases on either side of it. Floating just above the statue's hands was another orb. This one was dark and still. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad one. Or if it might possibly be another trap. The Curator's voice sounded tired and irritated.
"That orb the statue is holding should be teeming with transmutational energy. Unfortunately, for both of us, it is not."
"Can you explain why?"
"I could, but you likely don't have a mortal lifetime to waste on such a thing, so I'll keep it simple for you," it sneered and pointed to the decorative ring in the floor around the statue. "At the base of the statue should be three rune tablets. All three runes have been removed from the pedestal. I suspect they ran out of power."
Pyresong already saw what was coming next. He cursed silently, though he gave no outward indication of his thoughts to this thing.
Do I look like an errand boy? he thought in frustration.
"They will need to be recovered if we are to continue on your 'quest'," it continued, as if speaking to an idiot pupil. "Here, look for yourself..."
He could see from where he was standing the three oddly shaped holes in the base ring in the floor around the statue. He cocked an eyebrow at the thing, waiting for what he knew was coming next. For a moment, it glared at him, almost equally frustrated, as if speaking with a child.
"For your sake, I hope you're more intelligent than you look. Obtaining the runes will require some wit to accomplish. Good luck."
"Are you going to tell me where they are? Or shall I roam about at random...unsupervised?" he finally asked with a wicked grin, knowing that last bit was very likely to irk the thing.
It huffed darkly at the idea of letting him roam the rooms and shelves alone. Still, he couldn't shake off the sense that this thing really was as weak as it said it was. He had no real way to be sure, of course. This humanoid...thing was beyond his experience. He still wondered if it was setting him up. Yet the frustration and possibly other subtle clues made Pyresong actually believe the thing. The Curator growled in frustration and waved its hands at the floor.
"When the rune tablets run out of energy, they return to their place of manufacture." Glowing lines appeared on the floor. "Here is where we are. These flashing lights are the locations. They must be retrieved in the right order. Recovering one unlocks the path to the next. The Master always did enjoy his little mind games. There is the first."
He memorized the lines as they faded away. Most of it made no sense in this warped place. He just hoped his magical vision might help guide him to these places. If these runes were what powered the statue, they must radiate a powerful magical aura. He just hoped that was the case. The Curator sank to the ground again, no longer possessing the energy to keep itself aloft. For a heartbeat, he almost felt empathy for it. He sensed he needed to hurry. This thing, whatever it was, was his key to finding the information he needed. He knew he could literally spend his entire lifetime among even just the few shelves he'd seen thus far and never find what he was actually looking for. And that was assuming he could actually read any of it.
He took off at a jog away from the statue and toward their left where the first was supposedly located. He followed the well-lit central walkways, listening for more attacks from those little things that liked to come out of the shadows. Occasionally, they did just that. Coming around the shelves to ambush him, they were quickly destroyed with no more than a single slash of his empowered scythe. But he did wonder if it was all just a way to get him to expend enough energy so that he could not stand up to the Curator a second time. As with most things lately, he found himself setting these thoughts aside as he really had no choice. He was beginning to feel more than a bit like a pawn tossed around a game board.
After about only ten minutes on this new path in another adjoining chamber, he came across a section where stairs led down into a recessed area to his right. It was lined with thousands of books and scrolls. There was even an open book on a stand and some tables right up against the walkway down below. It was none of this that caught his attention, though. A powerful magical field at the far end along the wall opposite the stairs stood some kind of stand. At the top of it, a roughly circular disk with a carved symbol on it practically glowed in his normal vision. Not wanting to walk into an obvious trap, he carefully checked the rest of this little area. Nothing seemed ready to attack. But now, he could just make out, in the gloom, nine poles that ended with inert balls of some kind at the tops.
When he stepped closer, he realized they were the very same style of magical lamps he'd seen all throughout the library. It was just that the globes were dark right now. Cautiously, he touched one. It flared to life, but tiny bits of energy flew out in the cardinal directions, lighting the one ahead of it and the ones to either side. Curious, he touched the pole again. It went dark, though the others stayed lit. Well, at least it didn't feel like some kind of trap. And his skeletons stood along the stairs and walkway behind him. No magical barrier had arisen to stop him in either direction.
He turned his attention to the carved stone disk and the stand it rested on. He was at least four feet out of his reach. He considered summoning a golem that might be tall enough to reach it. Then he caught sight of another stone tablet at the base of the column. He brushed away some dust that obscured the strange writing. It was another script he didn't recognize. Just in case, though, he switched his focus to only his magical vision, which was nearly blinded by the tablet above his head and the power it radiated. He relaxed his eyes into the magical spectrum despite the glare. Slowly, the words began to make sense. Struggling to hold on to them, he read them aloud.
"'I awaken when the nine flames burn bright. Making one as day makes other night. Touching the tablet rekindles your plight.' Really?"
In the almost overpowering aura of the magic around the disk, he'd failed to notice. He looked over his shoulder at the lamps. Yes, all the lamps behind him were now dark. He nearly groaned.
It's some form of test. Ugh, I despise tests, he thought. Then he heaved a mental sigh. Best get to it.
For a while, he stood contemplating the lamps. He'd seen such puzzles before. He'd even known a few masters who used such puzzles and riddles to engage their apprentices to use their heads. More often than not, they were simple things he found entertaining people in a tavern. He, himself, had never found them very interesting. He almost regretted that now. Feeling time slipping away, he moved through the nine lamps. No matter how he tried, there was always at least one in the wrong order. Again and again, he reset using the tablet and tried once more.
Frustration building, he contemplated going back to the Curator. As much as it would grate on his nerves to ask for the thing's help—if it was even in any condition to help—he was at a loss. He contemplated the open tomes and scrolls on the desk and pedestals. Then he shook his head. No, a man who would so jealously guard his secrets would never leave the answer lying around to be found. He touched the tablet again and turned off all the lamps. Instead of trying yet again and wasting yet more time and energy running around the little space, he took a seat on the floor near the center. Forcing back his frustration, he relaxed his body and mind into his usual meditative position. He envisioned the puzzle in his mind, playing out different scenarios over and over. Eventually, he found one that just might be the answer.
This better work, he thought, just about ready to cut down all of the lamps.
Corner. Corner. Corner. Corner. Center.
It worked!
He laughed with wonder as all nine of the lights suddenly flew from their globes right at and into the symbol on the circular tablet at the top, making it light up. The symbol in the stone flared orange and then went dark. A new object appeared at the base of the pillar, glowing even more brightly. It looked like he wouldn't have to climb up there and get the thing after all. The small, fist-sized object hovered in the air. Half-expecting some kind of magical backlash, he reached for it. It came neatly to his hand. He shoved it in the satchel at his side. His skeletons, still guarding the stairs, moved aside at his command. On the return journey, he encountered only a few more of what he now called sand imps that were easily taken care of.
Even from a distance, he could see the Curator had not moved from where he had sat when he had departed. Now, it was seated on the floor with its legs crossed, not even standing anymore. If anything, its shoulders sagged even further. His sense of urgency kicked up a notch. The Curator looked up when he was still several feet away. He dug the rune out of the satchel and held it up.
"That was fast," it said, clearly surprised. "Place it there."
He held the rune over the indicated slot, and it practically jumped out of his hand to clink neatly into the hole.
"The second rune is in that magic circle over there," the Curator pointed to the window-like aperture they had crossed earlier. "Defeat its guardian, and it's yours. "
Now the aperture was glowing an unsettling orange color. As he approached, he began to see a swirling pattern in the energy flows. It seemed to sense his approach. Something that resembled a cross between a human and a demon rose up in a pillar of flames. He could make out general features but not much more as it glowed in various fiery colors. It seemed like some kind of humanoid fire elemental. He could tell it was trapped in that magic circle; neither the heat of the flames nor the claws it swiped at him with could cross the barrier. Could he cross it? A few swipes with his scythe would end this problem.
That's just it; it's a puzzle, not a test of skill or strength, he thought, eyeing the thing.
Only this time, there was nothing to indicate what that puzzle was supposed to be. Stepping closer, he analyzed the circular pattern on the floor. The thing raged at him in silence. No words or sigils were in the floor pattern, not even magically hidden ones that he could see. There was only the pattern that resembled flames flaring out from the circle. He kept his skeletons well back from the barrier. Perhaps crossing it would release the thing. He was not interested in finding out.
Behind him, he could sense the Curator's eyes watching him intently. It offered no suggestions, nor even snide remarks. Perhaps it was too...tired, he supposed the word was. Though it wasn't human to him, it still felt like some kind of life, and it was incapable of even picking itself up off the dusty floor right now. Briefly, he thought about asking it, but he just couldn't shake off the feeling that this was yet another test. And it was one the thing seemed happy to witness.
Squatting beside the barrier and circle in the floor, Pyresong contemplated for a couple of minutes. He let his vision range from the magical spectrum back to the visible spectrum. Yet nothing in the intricately decorative circle changed. There was something about the fire and the flames that tickled his mind teasingly. Well, he had nothing to lose by trying. He aimed a small trickle of flames, not much more than it would take to light a candle, to touch the circular pattern that most resembled flames. Nothing on the inner circle. Scooting back an inch, he tried the central ones outlined in golden colors that radiated further out. He was rewarded with a faint glow. The creature in the flames paused in its raging attacks against the invisible shield. He smiled to himself as he began to understand.
Sending more fire through both his hands now, he blasted the center flames in the design until they glowed an almost painfully bright orange. The creature in the barrier and the barrier itself evaporated after a few more seconds. Initially, there was just the pillar of flames and an object in the center that began to absorb them. After a few more seconds, the object solidified into another palm-sized rune tablet. He reached up and took the small glowing object that hovered above the aperture.
"Well done," called the Curator commented weakly as he returned.
He placed this rune in the center spot beside the other without comment.
"The final rune rests in a world that is a reflection of ours," the Curator offered, sounding almost too tired for more at the moment.
He consulted his mental map, nodding. He suspected he knew where. And if it was anything like the first one, he should be able to detect its magical power at a reasonable distance. The only real question was what the puzzle would be.
"Try not to lose...perspective in there," the Curator added smugly, as if unable to resist.
Feeling challenged, though very encouraged by his first two victories, he withheld his questions. Still, he couldn't resist a parting smirk. This time, he headed away from the statue and to the unknown area to the right of where they had come originally. As soon as he descended the stairs into the next room, he could see the blue glow of an arched doorway across from him. Cautiously, he entered the otherwise darkened room. There were no bookshelves here. Just mirrors. Tall mirrors framed in intricately worked stone fixtures stood all over the empty space and lined every wall. He carefully considered the Curator's comments.
Seeing no immediate threats, he posted his skeletons to guard the doorway. Already, he could see the rune he needed hovering in the glowing doorway at the far end. But, much as the others, there must be a puzzle here. Silently, he moved from mirror to mirror. None of them showed him anything other than his own reflection. None of them even held an aura of magic. There was not a single word written anywhere in this area. Wondering if the rune needed to trigger the puzzle, he stepped carefully up to the glowing doorway. The rippling waves of energy in the doorway felt more like some kind of portal than a barrier. They didn't feel in any way overtly threatening, either.
Nothing there gave him any clue as to what the puzzle could possibly be. He hooked his scythe on his belt. Hoping he wasn't about to be blasted for even trying this, he reinforced his magical shields as he reached up to try to take the rune stone hovering in the center.
A heartbeat later, he gasped when he felt himself being pulled into something. But there was no chance to pull away. A second after, he felt a deep chill that was now familiar to him in a way he could not immediately recall but terrified him nonetheless. It was as if the cold was inside of him. He was still standing on the stairs. But now he was on the other side of the glowing portal. Here, the mirrors in their frames stood randomly around the floor, much like the other room. But they were in different positions. He shivered, trying to shut out the cold and dark sensations, but was horrified to realize they were freezing his mind and heart from the inside out.
Where is this place? This place is...so cold…ruinous. Am I inside the mirror or beyond it?
He silenced the stray thoughts. This was a puzzle. He had to figure out what the puzzle was, what it meant...before these feelings took over. He could feel hopelessness oozing into the darker places in his soul. He schooled himself to emptiness and serenity to combat these feelings. Stepping quickly down the stairs, he could now see a sort of flickering light in each of the mirrors. Beyond them was a hovering symbol of the rune he was trying to acquire. It just hung in the air on the opposite wall, as if waiting for him to take it. Still, nothing to indicate what he should do. His normal vision could make out lines on the floor.
More like scrape marks, he mused, his thoughts feeling distant now.
He approached the hovering rune. The cold, dark feelings that engulfed this room started to fade back a bit. For one moment, he wondered if it was really that easy. He just needed to take the rune stone? It didn't seem right, but...
It's ethereal, he realized. Not real. Like inside a mirror's reflection.
The flash of red light he saw zip past him he somehow knew was very real. He dodged to the side, thinking it was coming right for him. When the beam seemed to bounce off a couple of mirrors and then off somewhere to the side of the room, he realized it was just that: a beam of red light, and nothing more sinister. Relieved, pondered this for a moment. He looked from the light to the mirrors and back again. Something about the different positions of the mirrors and the scrape marks on the floor gave him an idea. He tested his theory by pushing on one of the mirror frames. As heavy and solid as it looked, it scraped across the floor easily.
Despite his best efforts, the cold, hopeless feelings crept back in. He was shivering again. He couldn't seem to force it away completely. Some part of him kept whispering that he was trapped in this place...again. And this time, he would never escape.
Struggling to keep his focus, he hooked his shield and scythe. The dark, despairing feelings only seemed to get stronger the longer he was in here. His heart beat much faster as his sense of urgency increased. Instead of trying to think his way through it all, he gave in to his instincts. Giving full reign to his subconscious inklings he began repositioning the mirrors individually. Each time one intercepted the light, it bounced away in another direction, sometimes to end in darkness on a wall, other times, off another mirror. He played with the angles in his head.
Repeatedly, he was distracted by the hopelessness and sense of being trapped. He just needed to give in, nap on the cold floor, and let his body fade away.
A defiant spark rose up to fight it. Just as he was beginning to think he would need to try to escape the room through some other method, maybe back through the portal door—but it couldn't possibly be that easy—he got the last mirror into the right position. The beam of light bounced off five different mirrors and then was stopped by the hovering rune symbol on the opposite wall.
He watched with fascination as the rune flared from blue to a bright orange, which he'd come to expect when dealing with Kulle's little puzzles. Quickly, giving himself no more time for thought, he snatched up the hovering stone beyond the symbol and ran back to the glowing portal. To his relief, he slid through it easily with no more than a faint tingle of energy on his armor.
Behind him, there was a strange, hissing voice. He turned back to find some kind of enraged phantom clawing at the glowing doorway, unable to reach him. He stumbled back in surprise a few steps with a filthy expletive as his hand went to his scythe. Then his mind caught up to the fact that it couldn't cross the barrier.
Oh, it's good to feel warmth again! he thought, reveling in the sensation.
The warm relief that flooded through him at being away from that awful place made him almost giddy. Whatever that place was, it felt horrible. He just hoped that the enraged phantom deserved such an existence. But it was not up to him to figure that out.
That place had even made him begin to doubt he'd ever feel warm again. He quickly shook it off and turned his attention back to the present. Apparently, at some point, he had lost his concentration or connection to his skeletal warriors. He didn't bother to summon more just yet. He needed to conserve whatever energy he could. He was beginning to feel like this would take a lot longer than just looking in a book for an answer.
Now, to put this last rune in its place...
He jogged back through the empty rooms. As he approached the statue, he realized the Curator was now motionless on the floor. He was mildly irritated with himself at having taken so long. But the Curator certainly hadn't done more to help than offer snide remarks, either. He knew this whole thing had been a test by this guardian thing. But had it all been a waste? Was it "dead" now? The now dark "eyes" it possessed were staring at the ceiling. It did not breathe.
He didn't waste time trying to figure it out or rouse it, either. He placed the third rune in its slot and stood back while all three runes began to glow brightly. The visible lines of power traveled up the base of the statue. The orb in the statue's hand began to glow a vibrant orange. The orb spun wildly in various directions for several seconds before sending a ball of orange energy at the Curator. The black robed Curator jolted violently as if startled from a deep sleep. Then it rose into the air to hover as it had before, staff in hand.
"Excellent!" it said, facing him with a wide smile. "The damage you've done to me has finally been erased. At last we are even...not-thief."
"You're welcome," he replied only half sarcastically.
The Curator laughed in response to his tone, making him grin.
"Ahh, my strength returns to me. I can feel the magic coursing already!"
It turned and aimed his staff at an open area across the room. Lightning and wind spun violently for a few seconds in a small whirlwind. Seeming satisfied, it retracted the staff, and the spell dissipated. It turned back to him as if contemplating his presence. Still somewhat wary, he struggled to keep his hand off his scythe.
"Now, for our arrangement. In order to restore the library, we must bring the Central Core back to life. We should head there and see the damage done firsthand. Only once the Core is active will we be able to find the knowledge you seek. Shall we head forth?"
"After you," he indicated with a grin and exaggerated politeness.
He reached for his shield and scythe. He had absolutely no intention of letting it get behind him, just in case. Seeming more amused than insulted by his continued wariness, the Curator turned and hovered up the flight of stairs to the right of the statue's alcove. Given the fact that it was apparently back to full strength and had willingly turned its back on him, Pyresong began to doubt his own wariness. Maybe it was actually willing to help him. As it crested the stairs, it offered a bit more information. He almost got the sense it was trying to put him at ease, much to his amusement.
"The Master created me to ensure his library's continuance. It is a dull, but vital, task."
Ahead, there was a clearly visible magical barrier that glowed yellow to both his magical and normal sight. The Curator's hands glowed orange when it waved to dispel the barrier.
"The Central Core serves as the heart of the library and maintains its defenses."
The room beyond the barrier looked far more like a ruin. The broken stairs led down into a chamber that was littered with broken stones and piles of sand. All around the room, he could see various things he couldn't even give a name to. Constructs? Golems? He had no idea. They were all shaped like humanoids, of various sizes ranging from something like a human child to a behemoth the size of an elephant. Here and there, he could make out the etchings of runes and the residual glow of magic around each of them. He was disturbed to see several of them were held together or armed with bands of metal around the rock that they consisted of. Some even had wicked spikes that could easily impale him and leave room to spare. He didn't even want to guess how powerful they might be. The Curator took in the room, much as Pyresong was doing, for several seconds.
"Don't break anything...unless I tell you to," it instructed.
Pyresong nearly laughed. What could he possibly break that wasn't nearly destroyed already in that room? More to the point, what the hells was he going to do to damage rock? Even the braziers were in pieces. Thankfully, the whitish light that radiated in most library spaces was also active here. There were few shadows for other things to hide in. Still, he couldn't entirely shake off the feeling he was being watched, or walking into some sort of trap again.
He followed cautiously to the far end of the room where there was a sort of circular platform. Much as with the thing he'd seen early on, it appeared to be some kind of globe with bands around it. But this one lay in pieces in the center circle of this little platform, half buried in sand.
"Just as I thought," the Curator said, "dormant. Hold back while I reawaken it."
The Curator floated up to the center ring. He seemed to be summoning his power and then sending it into the globe in the middle. It and the rings that would normally float around it in odd orbits rose slightly out of the sand and then fell back into the shallow pit.
"It didn't work?" The Curator seemed dumbfounded. Then it growled in its deep, gravelly voice, "I hate it when things don't obey my command."
Suddenly, the two were startled by the sound of all the constructs in the room coming to life. They shifted ominously with little sound other than the scraping of their feet on the floor. He had more than half expected the sound of grinding stones at the very least. Their silent movement seemed to make them somehow even more threatening. He backed up closer to the Curator, who sighed in disappointment.
"Ah, yes. Of course, that would happen. Remember what I said about not breaking things? Those you may break. Immediately!" it barked the last, aiming its staff at several to their right.
Break rocks and metal? No problem, he thought in disbelief.
His skeletons would do no good here. Brute strength and raw power were the only chance. He dismissed the skeletons and summoned a rarely used stone golem. It wasn't likely to be able to do anything, either, against these, but it could at least guard his back. Pouring energy into his scythe, he swung at one of the smaller constructs at what looked like a weak spot across the torso. Even when the top half separated from the bottom half, it still crawled toward him. They were rock and metal! They felt no kind of pain. He danced around, away from them as they tried to close in on him from almost every direction. He ducked and then rolled between the legs of another enormous one that had shoved others aside to get to him. Frantically, he tried to figure out some kind of weakness he could exploit. What could...
On a hunch, Pyresong aimed his next slash of energy at the now glowing rune on what he felt was the thing's head. Slicing through the head or the rune seemed to work. He nearly sighed in relief. That enormous one fell, knocking over a couple of others, which bought him a few precious seconds to dance away again. He felt as much as heard the stomping steps of a much, much larger one coming up behind him. He ducked as the thing swiped at him, crushing his stone golem. He didn't waste time or energy summoning another. At this point, his one real advantage was his smaller size and speed. He came back up with another blade of energy that sliced vertically through its rune. It froze in place but did not fall.
So long as it's out of the fight, he thought to himself.
Meanwhile, the Curator was having much more difficulty. It danced around the room on air, using its power to hold several of the rock creatures in place. Being easy targets, Pyresong ran around the room behind the Curator, slicing through their runes while they were held in place. Catching on, the Curator began calling out his targets so he could move in that direction only a heartbeat behind. One after another, they managed to avoid any physical damage to themselves and silence these things. He was breathing heavily and had used up a lot more energy than he would have liked. When the last one fell to the ground, inert, he could only hope there weren't more of them later. Enough of them would easily overwhelm him. The Curator moved back to the globe in the center of the room.
"Now that that's over with..."
Pyresong stood where he was, across the room, forcing his breathing to slow again. Sensing an opportunity, he set his shield aside and hooked his scythe on his belt. A moment later, he fetched a water skin out of his backpack. He slung it back over his shoulder along with his shield while the Curator muttered to himself over the globe. Only then did he realize he'd lost track of time. It must easily be midday, possibly much later. There was no way to tell in this warped, underground space. Maybe time moved differently down here. He watched while the Curator tried once again to force the core to reactivate. It sighed in disgust when the second attempt failed as well.
"I fail to understand why the core does not respond!" the thing growled angrily again.
"Has it been damaged?" he ventured to ask.
The Curator spun back to face him, almost as if surprised he was still there. It seemed to calm considerably as it thought about the problem.
"No. Something is escaping us. The core powers all of the mechanisms within the library. If activated, I could remove the barriers between us and the secret archive. If the Master had any research on the Worldstone or pieces of it, they would have been heavily guarded and kept within the secret archives. But the Core refuses to heed my command."
"What do we need to do?" he asked, noting that its "eyes" flashed various colors as it seemed to think for a minute.
The Curator sighed again. "Unfortunately for you, our only course is to obtain the Master's journal. It details the inner workings of the library. But that knowledge has been kept secret from me. It is held within the Well of Knowledge to the west. Beyond the magical barriers that restrict my movement and some of the Master's more...unfortunate experiments. If we are to proceed, you must obtain it."
Yep, my armor definitely says "errand boy", he thought in irritation.
Once more, the Curator made a sort of map appear on the floor. This one outlined the different compass directions as well as the layout of the massive construct Kulle called a Library. If he was understanding it correctly, they were facing south now. West to the right of the core and east back to the left where he'd found the final rune. He nodded that he understood, and the Curator turned back to the globe that now frustrated him.
"Hurry back, if you would. I despise not having all the answers," it tossed over his shoulder at him.
Equally frustrated and now tired, he bit back another venomous remark and left the room to scan the corridor. He turned right, still contemplating summoning some skeletons to send ahead of him, when he spotted more smaller stone constructs. He changed his plan to a couple of stone golems. At this point, it was a bit of a strain, but it would be far more useful than his skeletons. Having gained the advantage of surprise, he used it to test a couple of different spells. He realized he could slow them down for a few seconds with something defensive, like a bone wall, but little else had any effect on them. Short of hacking away at the stone that held the rune with his physical blade, his only real option was slicing away at them with blades of energy to cut into the rock, destroying the rune. Forgoing the summonings altogether, he opted to stick with a hit-and-run tactic on the constructs he encountered.
Thankfully, there were only four in that room. He listened closely while he crept toward the arched doorway to another section that glowed with a yellow seal. He couldn't hear anything else moving in the room. And, honestly, he needed a break. It was likely well past dinner time, and he was using up his energy fast. In an empty nook in a corner between two bare walls, he sat down. He debated on summoning a skeleton to keep guard, but it would be a waste of energy. He could see clearly enough around the corners, and the stone constructs made a stomping noise that was impossible to miss.
Settling himself with shield and scythe to hand, he put the backpack in his lap. Quickly, he retrieved some of his dried meat and cheese. The hard bread was only edible with considerable amounts of water. And, right now, he didn't feel he had enough time to spare. However, he did make a point of drinking lots of water. Something about the dry air in this place made him feel as dusty as all the tomes and shelves that surrounded him.
Afterward, he just sat for a while. Not quite meditating, he let his mind wander while his body recovered somewhat. How long had it been since he'd parted with Cain? Two months? As far as he could recall, he'd only been in the Shassar Sea less than a week. So, probably not even two months. Given what he'd encountered so far, he couldn't help wondering just how long he would be staying in this place. Part of him desperately wished Cain was here to see it. The old scholar would be overjoyed to peruse these shelves, likely for the rest of his life. Maybe someday, he could bring the old man here when this business with the shards was concluded.
Tired as he was, though, he knew he didn't have long. The Curator was waiting, and his own sense of urgency seemed to increase slightly with each passing day. Aside from missing his friend, he worried almost constantly that cultists or demons or something would find Cain was holding the shards and attack him directly in his own workshop. Even in the heart of a city as big as Westmarch, it was all too possible to mount a small assault. It wasn't like the workshop was some kind of fortress. He had to forcefully remind himself that, even if that did happen, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it all the way on the other side of the world. He sent up a prayer for his friend. Then he sighed mentally and shoved these thoughts aside.
Probing inside himself, he felt he had gotten about as much rest as he could afford right now. Regaining his feet, he turned toward this magical barrier. It glowed a bright yellow in several different languages he could not identify. Nor did he need to. It screamed a warning at him to stay away. And, clearly, it was able to keep out the Curator. But would it keep him out? Carefully, expecting a shock or something, he reached through the barrier with his gauntleted hand.
Nothing.
It made a sort of sense. Keep the constructs out, but allow a human to move freely. After all, Zoltun Kulle was likely the only human that ever came to this place. He strode through the barrier with a slight tingling sensation coming through his armor, but nothing approaching discomfort. The walkway almost immediately descended down a flight of stairs to another large and open chamber. This one housed no shelves or books. Along the stairs in certain places, he noticed the blood-red tendrils of what appeared to be some kind of fungus. It grew all over the place in seemingly random patches. He wasn't sure if it was possibly animated or venomous, so he moved around it. It didn't make any moves toward him, at least.
Across the room and up another flight of stairs, he was confronted by a much larger patch of the tendrils that he could not hope to jump over or go around. It covered almost the entire stairwell. It was too thick and possibly several inches deep. Regretting the necessity, he summoned a skeleton to go ahead of him. It walked easily on the squishy patch of fungus. For a moment, he'd thought it might rise up and grab his minion. But beyond a disgusting squelching sound, nothing happened.
He dismissed the skeleton and carefully walked up the slippery stone stairs through the disgusting, squishy fungus. He wasn't quite relieved despite the lack of the expected smell a fungus would usually make. Underlying the almost stale air in this place was a sort of musky, animal smell he couldn't quite identify. At the end of the corridor, it again opened up into the largest area he'd seen yet. That fungus was everywhere, growing in rivers across the floor, at the base of every column, and even coating the distant walls. Though he couldn't see the ceiling, lost in the darkness high above, he suspected it was there, too.
That wasn't even his primary concern at the moment. All around him, he could hear hissing and slithering, even ominous growling. Other than the central walkway, the room was shrouded in shadows. More out of reflex and instinct than any conscious thought, he summoned a couple of blood golems. Something about this place felt horribly wrong. Now, at least somewhat, he began to understand the animal musk scent. Thanks to his encounters with Fahir's creatures, his mind almost gleefully supplied images of various horrors lurking in those impenetrable shadows. As he continued stalking silently down the center, he spied a reddish column of something standing in the center of the floor. Moving closer cautiously, he realized what it was, and his stomach turned.
It was the source of the fungus. This bizarre column of bone and chunks of what he thought might very well be human flesh stood perfectly still. It resembled hellish constructs he'd seen made of human sacrifices. Radiating out of it across the floors were rivers of fungus that led right to the walls and other nearby columns. He watched it warily, thinking it might move at any moment. He let out a relieved breath when he passed by it, and the only movement was still the slinking and scraping in the shadows. He did not want to meet them whatever they were, if he could avoid it. So far, they didn't seem hostile.
He could see another arched doorway at the far end of the room. It had another bright yellow seal. To his utter shock, he also recognized a small, circular platform that stood between him and that sealed arch.
A waypoint!
Zoltun Kulle must have understood the magic that was used to make waypoints. For one heartbeat, he very much considered this possibility. If he could find that information... Then he shook his head. He had no real idea how waypoints actually worked in conjunction with the portals. His overall grasp of magic in general was even more basic than a new apprentice. Even if he found the information, it would likely make absolutely no sense to him. All he knew was that some mages could make scrolls that would open a portal to specific waypoints. They sold them all over the world for obscene amounts of money. Cain obviously knew the magic for creating the portal scrolls and used it to his advantage. The one thing Pyresong did know about it all was the prime rule of waypoints and portals: To create a scroll set to a specific waypoint, you had to know that location well enough to envision it in your mind. Cain wouldn't know this place.
But maybe...
He spent nearly a minute memorizing every detail of this waypoint and every stone around it. He was no mage, not in the traditional sense. But maybe some day Cain could explain to him how to make a scroll and he could send Cain here. Then he considered so many other places where such knowledge would be a benefit. There was no telling how long this hunt would go on or where it would lead them. And the unbelievable wealth of knowledge in this place... Then the question became, would the Curator even allow that?
Questions for another time, he reminded himself firmly.
He knew his thoughts only roamed like this when he was tired, which made it even worse. He needed to focus now more than ever. Quickly, he moved forward to the next seal. Much as the previous, it just tingled a bit across his skin under his armor and clothing when he walked through it. Just beyond it was another flight of stairs going down again. This time, the place was completely different. Instead of closed-in rooms, this opened up to an unbelievably large, empty space. Another bridge was at the base of the stairs, much as he'd encountered when he first arrived. Beyond it were platforms connected by more bridges. He glanced down at the misty darkness below that still radiated almost unbelievably strong magic fields. And the core of this place wasn't even active! Where had all this power come from? What was sourcing it now?
The warping of this place made it look like miles of open voids in every direction except behind him. Reality could be that the floor was a few feet blow. But the space so completely distorted by magic could mean it was nothing but open space that you fall through into an abyss. Then, of course, was the possibility that these sections of the library, as massive as they were, were somehow stacked on top of each other, and a body would land with a painful crunch on the ceiling of another room.
He considered the various possibilities. Of course, none of them sounded appealing, even to his sense of curiosity. And he didn't really have time to explore. The Curator was waiting. And if his mental image of the map he'd been shown was anywhere near accurate, he must be getting close to the target. For a while, he stood at the top of the stairs, eyeing the stone constructs that lined one side of the bridge down below. No, this was not a place where he wanted to fight them. There was no room to dodge their powerful arms safely.
Once again, he regretted using his swiftly waning energy, but he could see no other way forward. He summoned two smaller bone golems and sent them at a flat run down the stairs and onto the bridge. Even as the constructs were beginning to come to life, he mentally commanded the first and second golems to tackle the constructs closest to him right off the side of the bridge. The moment they disappeared over the edge, he dismissed them and summoned two more. And then again, to take out the last two constructs. He never did hear anything hit the ground or roofs below. In a way, that was far worse. The idea of falling forever in and endless void made him shudder internally.
Again, his mind and imagination were roaming tiredly. He quickly shook off these thoughts and peered further ahead. The square platform beyond the bridge was mostly open but held a roof over it. Columns carved or shaped into statues of magi formed arches around each door. One before him and one to the right of that. To the left and straight ahead was empty space. For one moment, he thought his magical vision caught sight of an ethereal bridge extending out from the arch to his left. Before he could focus on it, it had quickly disappeared. He suspected it must have been something incorporeal in the magical spectrum that might have once existed but not anymore.
He could easily see into and through the platform from his position at the bottom of the stairs. No sign of any guards or constructs. Still, he approached slowly and cautiously. As he rounded the obstruction of the columns, the next bridge that was off to his right was far more intricately carved. On either side sat six orange glowing orbs that were similar to the first glowing orb he had seen but without the bands hovering around it. Stepping carefully, he made his way onto that bridge. Two of the orbs, one on either side, flared as flames rose up from them. He backed up a few steps, but nothing more happened. Again, he took a couple of wary steps forward slowly. The second of the four sets of orbs flared.
"A seeker of knowledge," echoed a voice in the emptiness.
Ahead on a raised, round platform at the end of this bridge, he could see a pedestal and a giant, ornate book that glowed with magical power. Nowhere could he see any constructs that had spoken to him.
"Yes, I seek knowledge," he confirmed to the emptiness.
"Yet, knowledge has a heavy cost," the voice warned darkly.
The voice was dark and heavy but not exactly like the Curator's. It was smoother, more natural. The words made him think that this was another test or even another puzzle. He took a few more steps toward the round platform and pedestal.
"And what would that be?" he asked, stopping just beyond the pedestal.
There was no reply this time. Keeping his shield ready on his left arm, he hooked his scythe on his belt and took another step toward the pedestal. Nothing presented itself. Assuming the puzzle was possibly presented on the platform, he walked around the glowing book. He couldn't find any indication what this test was in the intricate stonework. There was nothing written on the base of the ornate pedestal. Now, almost within touching distance, he could see the gold design on the jewel-encrusted cover. Somehow, he thought it fitting to Kulle's ego that a journal, even a magical one, would look so expensive.
And ugly.
Still, nothing resembling a test or a puzzle presented itself to either his normal sight or his magical sight. With no alternative or obstacle presenting itself, he reached out to touch the cover of the book. As soon as the tips of his glove made contact, the cover flew open, and the pages began flipping madly, as if by unseen hands. All around him, various tomes appeared, flying toward him from the darkness beyond this space. They glowed brightly as they circled him and the platform threateningly.
"Acquire the knowledge of the ages and become a slave to it!"
He watched the floating books circling him. Then they began to open all at once. A magical wind blew ferociously all around him. It was an effort just to stay on his feet. To his surprise, the circling books began to produce several angry phantoms. Skeletons and golems would do him no good here. Not even his scythe would help, he knew. With angry spirits, there was only one thing that could really be done. And few besides a Priest of Rathma would know how to deal with them. Oh, yes, this was another test and a puzzle, and one he was well-equipped to handle. Anyone else would have taken to fighting or blasting the phantoms. The phantoms could easily damage a body, rip it to shreds, even with their talon-shaped fingers. Yet they were insubstantial enough that physical harm to them was almost impossible. There were only two options with phantoms: outright magic or releasing the spirits that gave them life.
"Abandon the illusion of life, and share in our eternal burden!" the voice now raged at him.
He dropped his shield to the floor with a loud clang as his whole body began to glow with pale green energy. He reinforced his magical shields as strongly as he could. While the phantoms swooped and flitted around him, trying to get their deadly claws of ethereal iciness through his body and into his soul, they encountered an invisible shield. With his arms raised, he used Rathma's prayers and blessings to summon the personal energy he needed to release these tormented spirits. One after another, as they came at him, he released them. Twisted and tormented as they were now, it was hard to envision the fact that they had all once been human. Only a human who had suffered at the end of their mortal life could give life and permanence to such rage. Enraged phantoms such as these were most often the results of torturous murders. After enough time, they forgot who they had been and were consumed with the idea of vengeance in any form. Any pain, any hurt they could inflict on another living creature was all they wanted.
He showed them peace.
Just the touch of his extended spirit on theirs was enough to get through the rage into the person that once was. When they encountered this warmth and light, they froze, conflicted between their human selves and the enraged spirits they had become. That moment of hesitation was all the necromancer needed. With a mental blade, he severed the connection to the dark rage, much as he had freed the lazars of the evil anchor that bound their souls to their bodies. There was a brief flash of mist and light as the human souls escaped into the realm of the dead, fleeing the horror they had become.
In minutes, it was done. The platform was cleared of all but himself as he pulled his spirit energy back in. His head now pounded in time with his heart. He'd used up too much, and he knew it. But it was the only way he could have survived that many phantoms. Trembling a bit all over, he turned to the pedestal once more. The book was open, but still now. He could easily see the untidy scrawl that must have been Kulle's own handwriting. None of it was readable to him, and he didn't have the mental or physical stamina right now to even try. The Curator could sort that out. All he had to do was get it back to the Central Core where the Curator waited.
Carefully, he closed the huge book, half-expecting another surprise. But none came. He quickly stuffed it into his little backpack and retrieved his shield. Whatever else happened, he was spent. There was nothing more he could accomplish today. Was it even still day? He needed regenerative sleep and a hefty amount of food. He wondered if the Curator, being another magical construct, could even understand that concept.
It is about to learn, he thought tiredly, as he made his way back across the bridges.
At a jog, he made his way back through the barrier and across the waypoint. Heading what he now knew to be east, he again wondered how late it was. He was too worn out to be any real judge. And the Curator likely measured time in years rather than even days or weeks. How could anyone tell the passage of time down here? It was completely underground and magically warped. Tiredly, he wondered if time was even a concept down here with all the other magical warping. Maybe time was slower down here or something. Part of his mind figured it must be some kind of magical clock somewhere. It didn't really matter. At this point, he would have to give in to the demands of the body, regardless of what time it was.
When he approached the slimy red tendrils again, the sounds he'd heard in the shadows around the room's edges were much louder and more active now. Something had roused whatever they were. He wondered if maybe it was some sort of secondary trap to stop anyone that had managed to actually lay hands on that journal, a way to keep them from getting away. Whatever it was, they were active and hunting now. As exhausted as he was, his combat instincts were screaming warnings at him.
He wasn't even halfway across this giant chamber when things came crawling, shuffling, sliding, and slithering out of the darkness. Masses of twisted flesh that almost resembled animals but were grotesquely meshed with various human parts he could almost identify moved toward him. To his tired mind, these horrifically twisted creatures were somehow worse than what Fahir had constructed. And there were a whole lot more of them. He did not have the strength for this right now! There were far too many. He had no idea what level of intelligence they might possess or if they even felt anything resembling pain. If they were anything like the stone constructs...
Giving in to his instincts, he summoned skeletal warriors and mages to intercept them as he fled across the room. He knew that the magical barrier was his only chance. Even his summoned minions were as weak as him right now. They were nothing more than a distraction.
For the rest of his life, he couldn't believe he made it. Somehow, he'd managed to dodge or distract every one of the things that came at him just long enough to make it up the slimy, slippery stairs and through the glowing yellow seal. There was a painful stitch in his side, and his chest burned. The thudding of his racing heart was echoed by the pounding in his head. For a while, all he could do was lie there on the cold stone floor on the other side of the barrier, trying to catch his breath. Only a few feet away, those things screamed, snarled, and raged against the magical barrier. For once, a magical barrier had actually saved his life.
He would have laughed at the thought had he not still struggled to catch his breath.
Somewhere ahead, he heard the stomping of another behemoth stone construct. He froze, listening. His eyes scanned the darkness. He knew he had enough left for maybe one more spell, but then he'd likely be in the same condition he was in when the Sisters of the Sightless Eye had to carry him back to their camp. He couldn't afford it. If confronted by another construct, his only hope was to outrun it. He scrambled to his feet unsteadily, fighting off dizziness. His breath and heartbeat were only just beginning to slow, he listened as the heavy steps stomped away to some other part of the library. Relieved, he forced his shaking legs to support him. He wasn't that far from the core now. He could make it that far...he hoped.
He was too tired for his mind to even wander very far this time. Besides keeping his senses alert for any other threats, his only focus was the room ahead. Rounding the final corner several minutes later, he very nearly stumbled down the broken stone stairs as the Curator seemed to fling some kind of vile profanity at the inert core. You didn't need to be a linguist to understand that tone. He laughed softly at the sound of it but didn't have enough energy to ask what it was to add to his growing vocabulary of profanities. As if surprised by his presence, the Curator spun to face him.
"It still refuses to obey. How...exasperating."
He huffed another laugh. He was physically worn down and too dizzy to safely make it down the stairs. He half fell and half sat where he was. The Curator could come to him. He pulled off his shield and the backpack shortly after. He reached into the backpack and produced the giant book as it approached, clearly irritated by his stubbornness not to walk over to the Core himself.
"You have the journal. Excellent! Let me see it..."
He pulled it back just out of reach with his trembling arms. The Curator paused, mid-grab, clearly surprised.
"I need food and rest. Whatever comes next will have to wait," he told it flatly.
The Curator eyed him in a way that seemed both amused and curious. "The Master always did resent the demands of the frail human body. Very well. I will guard your rest."
"Thank you," he said, letting the Curator take the book from him.
He turned his attention back to the room. It was large, but much of it was littered with broken stone and sand and now broken constructs. He spied one slightly clearer spot just to the right of the core's platform. It wasn't much, but it would do. When he felt he could make it across to that space without stumbling or falling, he wove his way around the still stone constructs and other debris. He threw down his backpack to use as a pillow. Sleep would have to come first. Right now, he was so tired that food didn't even sound appealing. And his head throbbed with every step. He knew he couldn't afford to keep a skeleton summoned. He would just have to trust the Curator to keep its word. He still didn't totally trust the thing, but he was too exhausted even to consider it further. In minutes, he was asleep, and the sound of the Curator cheerfully flipping through pages was the last thing he heard.
***
Of course, Pyresong had no real concept of time beyond the body's needs in this underground world. Instead of waking sometime before sunrise as was his custom, he slept until his body was recovered enough to wake him on its own. For all he knew, it was the middle of another night on the surface. The aches and stiffness he felt from sleeping in his armor on a stone floor were unpleasant. Still, he supposed, better than not waking at all. He stretched and shifted, trying to loosen up as he looked around. His headache was gone completely. His energy even felt almost entirely restored. He had probably slept a lot longer than he would have normally liked.
The Curator sat perfectly still with its legs crossed and the journal in its lap, closed. It was so unnaturally still. The eyes still glowed, but it was clear the thing didn't breathe, giving it an unsettlingly undead quality. And it could apparently sit for extended periods like a statue, unlike most humans. Seeing he was waking, it turned its empty eyes of light toward him.
"All the Master's knowledge..." it said with clear awe.
He felt a brief flicker of amusement when it sounded almost entirely human as it expressed its wonder. He dug out some dried meat strips, cheese, and bread. With his exertions the day before, he knew his body would need it. He might actually be a couple of days in recovering entirely. But it all hinged on what the Curator had found.
"Go on," he prompted when it seemed it had gotten lost in its own thoughts. "What do we do now?"
"There is a problem," it told him.
Whenever is their not? he couldn't help thinking wearily, but kept it to himself.
Instead of commenting verbally, he cocked and eyebrow at the construct. The Curator seemed to consider how best to explain to this simple mortal. Pyresong couldn't help a mental grin.
"The Core, much like the Master's other creations, appears to be animated by living sand. This is why my magic does nothing. We must give life to the stone itself."
He chewed slowly as he considered this concept. In his studies under Rathma's teachings, he understood the balance of Life and Death very well. But giving actual Life to inanimate matter? No, it didn't sit well with him. It wasn't like his golems or even his skeletons. Actual Life was...something else. He could easily detect it in all living things; even simple organisms like grass had a sort of life energy. Still somewhat foggy from sleep, he couldn't quite sort the thoughts out in his mind. He frowned as he turned them around and around in his head. Already, it seemed Kulle had a god complex. Just one look at the massive magical construction he called a library would give anyone that impression. But playing god with Life itself?
"You see, the Master was of the Ennead clan, and transmutation was his specialty," the Curator went on to explain.
This statement made absolutely no sense to him, having no real concept of mage clans beyond what little vague history he'd found in his studies back in the days when he had time to indulge in such things. He knew there were clans, but he had no idea what their names were or what the names even meant. Or, if he had ever known, he had long since forgotten. Seeing his blank look, the Curator sighed in an all too human way. He couldn't resist an amused grin.
"Myself, the constructs, even those grisly flesh experiments you passed through—we're all forms of artificial Life. Sadly, making the spark that brings Life to his creations is beyond my abilities. The Master preferred to keep his creations under tight control, for reasons you've obviously seen for yourself."
He nodded, still thinking this over. He refused to accept that this was the end, though. He hadn't come all this way and found this ancient, secret library and all its knowledge to stop here.
"The information I need about how to destroy the Worldstone shards...is there any other way? Maybe some secret back door to the archives?"
"No," the Curator said immediately.
He wrapped up the rest of his food. He had enough for maybe a week. But there was no telling how long he would be here now. There had to be a way.
"Is there any way to get what we need, then?"
The Curator seemed reluctant. "I do not like disclosing the Master's secrets."
"And I don't like being here at all," he replied, careful to keep his tone mild. "But I will do what I must. I cannot leave here without that information. There are thousands of books out there," he pointed through the door. "If I must, I will begin to study every one of them."
To his surprise, the Curator laughed.
"Well said,” it told him in amusement. “Perhaps not a thief of tomes, but a thief of knowledge. Very well, I have come up with one possibility that might work. But I cannot do it myself. I am not only blocked by barriers, but I am forbidden from destroying the Master's other creations."
"I'm listening."
"To the east is the Chaos Engine. We can use it to extract the Life from stone constructs in that area, which should provide us with the means to reanimate the Core. I cannot do it, but you can. After all, in the name of research, some sacrifices must be made."
He didn't like the sound of those words, but he also didn't like the idea of artificial Life. Something about it all just seemed wrong to him. Still, he nodded to the Curator.
"Obtain the remains of a construct. Extract the essence of Life. Reanimate the Core. A simple plan," he said dryly, knowing it would, in reality, be anything but.
Ignoring his sarcasm, the Curator again gave him an outline of the floor plan with a pulsing light where he needed to be. He memorized it quickly and then rose to his feet. He did a mental check of himself. Yes, still stiff, but nothing he couldn't shake off quickly enough. His power reserves still felt weaker than he would like, but he had no desire to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary. The Curator seemed to fall back into whatever meditation it had been in while Pyresong was sleeping.
He left it to that clearly enjoyable activity.
Just outside the room that housed the Central Core and back inside what he'd come to think of as the main corridor here, he saw the sealed archway to his left. Wary of more of those rock constructs, he stepped through the glowing yellow seal. He crept up the small flight of stairs on the other side of the warding seal. Not halfway up the short flight of stairs, he could hear a battle raging ahead. Just beyond the stairwell and to his left, he could hear a mixture of magic and melee battles going on. He peered carefully around a corner to find a couple of the rock constructs battling with what looked like some other form of non-flesh constructs with swords and some with staves. They almost appeared to be some sort of skeletal knights and mages. Whatever they were modeled after, he sincerely hoped they and the rock constructs would take each other out. At this point, he was more than happy to just deal with the leftovers and move on.
While the mixed battle continued, he looked in the opposite direction for a way around the mess. Given the small area and open corridor beyond, it didn't seem likely. There were a couple more towering shelves he might hide behind. Getting to them across the open expanse of about forty feet would be too risky. He realized he would likely have to wait this out, to whatever end, and then finish off the remainder.
"Assistance required," he heard a deep, inhuman voice call out in the melee.
He cursed silently, realizing it was one of the stone constructs calling for help. The last thing he needed was more of them showing up. When he peered around the corner again, wondering if he should retreat back beyond the seal, he saw something he absolutely did not expect. The larger of the two stone and metal constructs was kneeling protectively over the other. The other was now missing both its arms and lay helplessly on the floor. The larger was continuing the fight with what looked like two mages and a knight battering away at it. Knowing he was exposed even around that corner, he watched the larger construct swing one of its enormous arms at one of the closest mages.
Despite the battle raging, he could hear more of those stone constructs stomping down the corridor from behind the two to join the fight. One of the mages was flung almost directly at his hiding spot. As he ducked back behind his shelter, it slammed into the corner and shattered into sand, not unlike the little imp creatures he'd dealt with before. Given what he'd learned recently, that was not entirely surprising.
When he peered around the corner again, the battle was over. The larger stone construct was trying to pull the other to its feet, but it was too overbalanced without its arms. It could not stand without being held up. Another large construct was just stomping up the stairs behind them. He knew they were about as far from human as a supposed life form could get, but this behavior was just too...human. Why would one construct even care about the welfare of another? Before he could really ponder this strange behavior, another sand mage came around a far column.
Again, the larger one moved between the smaller one and the threat to shield it. The confused necromancer had no idea what was going on here, but his instincts were again screaming. There were two more mages and another knight with a sword and shield approaching, too. It didn't look like either of the two stone constructs would survive this next assault. Giving in to his instincts and muttering to himself about his own stupidity, he summoned some skeletal warriors and mages to harass these newcomers. While they were distracted, the stone construct was able to swipe a heavy rock and metal arm at one and fling it against a column, where it, too, turned to inert sand. While the skeletons were engaged, he sent a blade of energy to slice easily through the small cluster of others, turning them back to piles of sand that quickly disappeared.
Still at the top of the stairs, ready to run back through the seal at the bottom and back to safety, he froze as the largest construct turned toward him. Behind it, another large one was helping to support the smaller, damaged one.
"A curiosity," he heard the deep voice again; he couldn't help likening it to scraping rocks. "Who are you? Why assist constructs?"
He put his arms out to his sides, hoping it would recognize the stance as non-threatening, much as humans would. He stood at the top of the stairwell, ready to dive back through the barrier. He still expected it to attack at any moment, as had all the others he'd encountered. Before he could answer the question—he wasn't even really sure for himself why he'd done it—the smaller one started to fall over where it was leaning against the larger one's back. The largest one that seemed to address him spun with surprising swiftness and caught the other before it could fall. Then the other larger, also intact one that had just joined them moved to let this smaller one lean against it supportively.
"Discussion needed. Let us converse," it told him while it aided its fellow away from this little alcove. "Confusing actions. Why assist constructs? Seeking potential rewards?" it asked, focused on assisting the other to walk.
It took a moment for him to even realize it was addressing him again. He was still grappling with the idea that it might attack. Hells, he couldn't even really process the fact that the larger two were actually helping their smaller companion, as adults would a child. He struggled to throw off his swirling thoughts and focus.
"What? No. The Curator and I are attempting to restore the library's defenses. But we cannot do that without Life Essence," he explained, still rather dazed by this turn of events.
After what he'd encountered of these things, he hadn't expected any form of intelligence, let alone conversation.
"Curator's companion! Answer...is...acceptable. Need further discussion. Follow to enclave?"
The slow, stilted speech, along with its grating aspect, jangled his already somewhat frazzled nerves. But it did not turn back to him as it guided its...damaged companion down a flight of stairs just behind where they had been fighting. It seemed to understand physical gestures and signals when he had presented as no threat. And now it extended him trust by turning its back on him. Though he sensed threat all around him, it seemed less and less like this one was a part of that threat.
Could it really be willing to help? he wondered.
He followed well behind them. At the top of the stairs the constructs had just descended, he could see down into another one of the lower, enclosed areas. It was very similar to where he had found the first rune. Other constructs of rock and metal stood throughout the room in various stages of disrepair. A few looked as if they were completely intact. One on the floor was in literal pieces. The larger one he'd been speaking with handed its damaged—he couldn't think of it as wounded—companion over to others and then pointed at the broken pieces of the shattered one he had seen.
"Life Essence," it told him. "You require, yes? Examine construct remains."
Still standing at the top of the stairs to this recessed alcove, not really liking the idea of getting any closer to them, he considered. He doubted he could take all of them at once. But none appeared to even take notice of his presence, other than the one that was speaking with him. And he did need the Life Essence. He knew if he made a mistake here, it would be his last. Yet, his instincts were still telling him this one, at least, was somehow not a threat to him.
As if understanding his hesitation, it motioned for others to move back to give him a clear path. They all complied with eerie silence other than their stomping steps. Then it also backed away from the shattered remains. He nodded, hooked his scythe on his belt and shield on his back, and finally descended the fractured stone stairs. The others remained silent and motionless while he approached the shattered remains. Not really knowing what the hells he expected to find, he let his glowing hands explore the air above the remains.
He blinked in surprise at what he found. One of the earliest skills he had learned was how to detect Life, most often in the form of a heartbeat. Of course, there were spirits, and not all of them human. He had even encountered animal spirits in his travels. Beyond even that, there was an energy that few could detect as the raw power of Life. This thing still tingled to his hands as if somehow faintly alive. And it was fading rapidly.
At least now I have some idea what I'm looking for, he thought.
Carefully, he concealed both his surprise and how disturbed he was by all of this. Giving any form of Life to inanimate matter just felt wrong somehow. Even his skeletons and golems weren't alive in any way. They were animated with his own energy. Yet, he could no longer deny that what he had felt was Life...of a sort. He pushed these thoughts aside as he stood to face the one that had spoken to him. On one of the iron bands wrapping around its head, he saw "Resolute Smelter" written in magic.
A name?
"The spark of Life in this one is fading. I don't think this will be enough," he told it, carefully.
Behind him, another one spoke in a very similar voice, making him flinch in surprise.
"Troublesome revelation. So few constructs. Alternate outcomes desired."
He turned to face it. He couldn't possibly conceive of these things possessing emotions, but the Curator most certainly did. Yet it was far more human than these things, too. Was it even possible? He started to question his own sanity here.
"I'm sorry for your losses," he told it, testing his theory.
"Condolences accepted."
He nearly blinked again in surprise. It did understand! He caught the name etched in magic on the band around its arm: Insightful Sands. He turned back to the first one that he now thought of as Smelter.
"Unfortunately, the Life Essence within these deceased constructs is of no use. Are there any other options? Larger constructs?"
It was Insightful Sands that answered, "Options...exist. The Eternal Guardian. Protects private sanctum. Now, quite demented. Better off destroyed."
So they did possess names and more than just intelligence. They were aware, and it sounded like the ones he'd encountered before now were just insane. Pyresong didn't wonder too hard at that. The idea of existing eternally, possibly as a slave to another's will, would likely drive him mad, too. Worse, they were created and left to their own devices for hundreds of years. He forced his thoughts back to the immediate conversation.
"An advanced construct that has already gone mad... That is indeed worth a look," he agreed, carefully.
In truth, he did not really like it at all. He shoved aside a dark and sarcastic remark, not sure how much of human emotions they would really understand, and turned back to Smelter.
"You and your friends have been most helpful. Thank you."
"Unnecessary flattery," it replied in its emotionless and grating voice. "Glad to assist. You are welcome. Visit this enclave any time. We will offer assistance. Give Curator regards."
He was at a loss. These things were more human than he could have imagined. He needed information. All of this felt wrong in some fundamental way. Taking something as sacred as Life and giving it to these things... And those other experiments with flesh? If he wasn't before, he was now convinced that the ancient mage had a sick and twisted god complex. He decided he needed to go back to the Curator first. A minute or so later, he crossed the yellow barrier. It had only been maybe thirty minutes since he'd left, and the Curator was sitting right where he'd left it. It turned its head well beyond the expected range toward him as he returned, further highlighting how not human it was.
"Encountered some difficulties, did we?" it asked in its usual sneering tone.
Again, he was struck by how very human this one was, especially compared to the others. So, he decided to follow his instincts.
"What do you feel?"
The Curator stared in confused silence for several seconds. If the lights that served as eyes had lids, he was sure they would have blinked in surprise.
"You do feel, do you not? Yesterday, you were frustrated. You even said 'exasperated'," he prompted further.
"The Master commanded me with many instructions," it replied warily, possibly not liking where this is going.
"And those other constructs? They possess emotional natures as well?" he pushed, for some inexplicable reason needing these answers.
"To some degree, yes."
He turned away, his mind swirling as he considered these things. What is Life, anyway? Energy? Sentience? Spirit? All of them combined? He shook his head, trying to figure out what he was even trying to get at.
"Is madness commanded into them as well?" he finally asked.
The Curator seemed to consider this seriously. "Not likely."
He felt somehow vindicated. "So the madness is what? Bad commands? A side-effect of the magic used to create them?"
"How does any of this matter?"
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I met some more of those stone constructs. None of the ones we encountered yesterday showed any signs of intelligence. They seemed little more than...golems, for lack of a better word. The ones I met today were from the same mold unless I'm sorely mistaken. And they were more...human than I expected."
"And this bothers you?"
"Yes! I felt the Life Essence of a shattered construct. Now I know what I'm after, and I have some idea how I can get it. But..."
"But it feels like murder, doesn't it?"
"Maybe," he conceded. "I don't know. This whole place feels wrong. I'm beginning to understand why Kulle was destroyed by his own people, though."
The Curator laughed heartily at this. Pyresong was in no mood. He'd come here for specific information. He had let himself get sidetracked. He couldn't afford to be so distracted. He just wanted to get his answers and get the hells out of this bizarre place. He took a deep breath and pushed aside his thoughts. He would do whatever he had to do. He forced himself back into focusing on the task at hand.
"I need to find the Eternal Guardian. The others say it's demented, and it should provide enough Life Essence for me to work with."
The Curator paused and then nodded. "They could be right. But it is massive compared to the ones you've seen. It was made to protect the Master's private sanctum."
"So they said. Just tell me where to find it," he sighed, not looking forward to this.
Again, it produced a map on the floor outlined in orange glowing lines. He nodded and then eyed the Curator. Now that his mind had settled from the initial shock, a new thought arose that he didn't even want to shove aside.
"One last question," he said, considering his phrasing.
"Only one?"
"Yes. Are you afraid to die?"
Again, the Curator laughed in a way that scraped his already raw nerves, though he refused to show it.
"Is that how you define Life?"
"No, but it does give me some insight as to Kulle's frame of mind when he created you and the others," he admitted.
"No. To cease to exist is expected, even for us."
He nodded slowly as he digested this. Then, he put it all aside for later analysis. This place and its inhabitants disturbed him more than a little. He knew Cain would love the books and scrolls, but he wondered if it was really worth it to ever bring him back to this place. Part of him wanted to see it destroyed. But if even the Horadrim had been unable to do so, how could he?
He followed the path he had started to take earlier. As expected, almost as soon as he crossed the glowing yellow seal of the barrier, he encountered more of the sand constructs that seemed to possess some kind of magical abilities, as well as the ones that looked like some kind of knights. These were much easier to destroy than the rock constructs, thankfully. It took very little time and energy expenditure to accomplish. Briefly, he wondered if they were more mad constructs or if they were just doing what they were created to do, like some kind of soldiers. Again, he had to push the thoughts aside to focus on the task ahead.
It took him nearly an hour to get through a couple of corridors and rooms to where the Curator had indicated he would find this Eternal Guardian. One room exited out onto a bridge that seemed to stop only a few feet beyond the room. He could see the massive stone construct standing motionless across a long stretch of emptiness where he thought the bridge was supposed to be. And it was massive. Easily forty feet tall and twenty feet wide. Luckily, the rune that gave it life—no, commands, he corrected himself—was on its head, like all the others. Now that he knew what he did of them, he was glad they didn't have faces. He growled mentally at himself in frustration. Whatever his thoughts or feelings on all of this, he had to move forward; there was literally no other choice.
Now, he just had to figure out what mechanism would restore the bridge. He looked around for a few minutes but could find no obvious levers or trigger mechanisms. Catching sight of more magical script carved right into the edge of the floor, he let his eyes slip into the magical spectrum. Most of what it said didn't make any kind of sense, but there was something about light. Standing back, he contemplated the lighted pillars on the left and right corners. More script about light, but no instructions. He looked around for anything that resembled a lamp or brazier.
Nothing.
Sick of these puzzles and tests, he walked around again. When he let his magical sight take over, he could just make out a very faint beam of energy that connected this part of the bridge to the part on the other side, which then connected to a large circular platform where the construct stood. He tried touching the beam. Nothing happened. Frustrated, he returned to the glowing pillars on either side. There had to be an answer somewhere, and it made him feel stupid wasting time trying to figure it out. Maybe those pillars twisted...
At his touch, the top half of the pillar separated from the bottom and spun itself. He hurried over to the other one and touched it. The same thing happened. But this time, the beam of magic he'd seen flared brightly into the visible light spectrum and widened. It was literally a bridge of golden light, created with magic. The idea that he was walking over an endless abyss on a bridge made of light made him pause. He looked through it again. Floating in the mists, he saw various large stone obelisks and monoliths that just hovered out over the empty space in all directions. Each one had a blue glowing rune. He couldn't even begin to try to make sense of it. He sent a skeleton out onto the bridge of light. It held. So it was no obvious trap. Knowing he had only seconds once he crossed, he sent his power flowing into the scythe. This thing was bigger than many houses he had seen. It stood more than three stories tall. The moment he stepped onto the bridge of light, it began to move.
"None are welcome in the Master's sanctum!" it roared.
Well, if it was demented, it hadn't forgotten its purpose. Still hoping to catch it by surprise, he sprinted toward it across the bridge. He jumped straight up in front of it and brought his scythe down in a vertical slash aimed right for the rune. As the blade of energy sliced through the power of the rune, the construct froze in mid-swing. It had been much, much faster than he had anticipated. He nearly slammed right into its knees as he landed. Unfortunately, it was heavily overbalanced when it did stop moving. His boots had barely touched the floor when he had to throw himself sideways to avoid it landing on him and squishing him like a bug. As it was, two of his four skeletons were crushed to dust under it. Even while he tried to roll away, it shattered, sending boulders the size of horses flying at him. He curled up tightly and covered himself and his head with his shield. Despite that and his magical shields close to his skin, a boulder roughly three feet across that felt like it weighed a few hundred pounds landed on his legs and rolled off. The shock of pain made him gasp. For a few heartbeats, he just waited for the dust to settle. By this point, his other two skeletons had also been destroyed by flying pieces. He still felt the sting in his left thigh where the boulder had struck him. Though he hadn't felt the bone breaking, he knew it was a very real possibility. Carefully, he extended his leg. No telltale grinding or white hot pain. He'd been lucky.
Very lucky, he thought, looking around him at the giant chunks of rock.
The construct hadn't just shattered; it had practically exploded. But it was over. Now he just had to find this Life Essence. Using a combination of his magical sight and the training one got early on when studying to become a Priest of Rathma, he quickly found one stone. It was only a little bigger than his fist and radiated both magical energy and the telltale tingle of Life. He shook his head. It still felt somehow wrong to him, but he didn't have time to consider it. He quickly scooped up the heavier-than-expected chunk and shoved it in his backpack. He needed to get to—
The bridge is gone!
He looked to either side. The pillars that had activated it on the other side were now resting as they had been when he arrived. And there were no pillars on this side. This platform was completely isolated. Frustrated, he looked all around. He refused to believe he was trapped here. Turning toward the platform at the far end where the guardian had been standing, he realized there was another yellow seal between two pillars. Nothing beyond it, though, to indicate another bridge or mechanism. He refused to believe Kulle would have left himself no way off the platform. Looking more closely at the structure, he realized there was a design to it, like pillars within pillars.
Stepping closer to inspect the runes, he realized they looked familiar somehow. When he approached, the outer area beyond the initial warding seal lit up with more sigils and a far more complex seal. It very much reminded him of the rings of a waypoint platform. Yet these were rotating around a central circle. Not sure what any of this meant at this point, he thought about this Chaos Engine the Curator had told him about. It was in a completely different part of the complex. He was startled when the symbols he was staring at changed. He thought about the Core. They changed again. Slowly, it dawned on him that the strangely familiar construct was some sort of portal device, and the yellow seal was to prevent anything from coming through from the other side.
Doubting his own logic and sanity at this point, he tentatively reached through the yellow warding seal. At first, there was only the expected tingle of magic from the warding seal. Then a voice sounded throughout the empty space that made him jump back.
"Alignment accepted. Dest—"
The voice ceased the moment he backed away. He spun around to find nothing. No attack. No phantoms. No other constructs. Just the humming silence of this eerie library space. He turned the thing's words over in his head. So it did react to thought. It was confirming something. Most likely the last place he thought of. It was worth a shot. He set his mind on the Chaos Engine and watched as the sigils changed once more. Then he held his breath and reached through the barrier to the portal beyond.
"Alignment accepted. Destination: Chaos Engine. Warning, magical energies are nearly depleted. Teleportation is one-way. Transfer to Chaos Engine beginning."
It's a good thing I won't need—
His thought was cut off as he felt his whole body being pulled through...something. It wasn't exactly like the portal scrolls he'd used in the past. This felt more like being squeezed through something tiny. He stumbled a couple of steps on the other side, feeling a bit disoriented at the unexpected size of his own body. Wary of an attack by some other kind of constructs, he struggled to keep himself upright. Once he'd regained his footing and the dizziness had passed, he realized he was in a place unlike anything he'd seen before. The raw magical power of this place radiated like heat waves...right through his body. And something inside of him he couldn't identify reverberated. He shuddered and reinforced his magical shields, not that it did all that much good.
In the center of this room was a large hole. Hovering inside it was a bright orange glowing pillar of light that had what almost looked like some kind of stone blades around it, not unlike the head of a giant mace. So far, he spied no other constructs but did take note of three of those orange, glowing orbs like the one he'd seen in the Central Core. These had no bands rotating around them. They just sort of sedately twisted this way and that on some kind of random axis. Walking around the room, he spotted a platform that extended over the central hole and right up to the pillar of light in the center.
Not sure what to expect, he leaned his shield against his leg and hooked his scythe on his belt. He mentally kicked himself for not getting clearer instructions from the Curator. To be fair, he almost hadn't expected to get this far. And he had been massively distracted by his discoveries today. Still, he was here now. He would just have to figure it out. He opened his backpack and retrieved the unnaturally heavy stone that had held the guardian construct's Life Essence. He was still disturbed by it, but probed it carefully. It had originally been very powerful compared to the other he had felt. Yet, he could already tell this one was fading. Whatever he needed to do, he had to do it fast.
He studied the powerful beam of light in the center of the structure. This platform led right up to it. Carefully, he tossed the stone into the light where it hung suspended in the light, waiting for him to retrieve it. His hunch had been correct. As he waited, he returned his backpack to its place. Nothing happened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the orange glowing orbs begin a consistent spin in one direction. Somehow, they had to be the key. Walking over to the closest one, he could find no written instructions or levers or even a panel he could push to activate it. And this seemed a very unlikely place for Kulle to put another puzzle. He huffed in frustration, very nearly a growl. He didn't have time to find his way back to the Curator for answers and this was feeling impossible.
Kulle was a Horadric mage, he reminded himself.
Following this line of thought, he put out his hand and sent a tendril of his one resource of actual magical energy to the orange glowing ball; a trickle of fire. It flared brightly in a way that felt entirely non-threatening, and then a beam of light shot out of it and linked it to the much larger beam of light in the central pillar construction. He let out a laugh of relief, still silently cursing Kulle and all his stupid puzzles that had him all snarled up on something so simple now. Satisfied he'd found the answer, he rushed to the other two and repeated the process.
All three orbs flared brightly and spun in consistent directions. Runes and sigils all around the room lit up a bright orange while the central pillar began to rotate. There was an almost painfully bright flash of light that forced him to look away. A few seconds later, the blade-like stones around the pillar opened. When he came around back to the platform in the center where he'd started, he could see it. Where the chunk of rock had once hovered, there was now a brightly glowing ball of energy. At its center was a single grain of sand.
Cautiously, he reached toward the ball of red light. He felt his fingers tingling. Half-expecting a shock, he closed his fingers loosely around the light. Instead of a shock, he felt a slow, gentle pulsing sensation. The warmth that it exuded surprised him more than any shock could have. Despite the raw power he could feel, it was somehow comforting and familiar. Opening his gloved hand to view it more closely, he let the sensation wash over him.
It pulses as if it were a beating heart, he thought, lost in the wonder of it. This is Life!
He realized suddenly that he had to rethink his whole concept of Life all over again. He laughed slightly at the absurdity of it all. The warmth and energy this thing radiated didn't feel wrong at all. It didn't feel evil or perverted. It just felt like Life without a body to house it. No, it felt nothing like a soul had ever felt to him. But it was somehow alive, and aware it was alive. It whispered of a need for purpose to fulfill itself. It spoke to him in a way he couldn't comprehend.
The Curator will want to see this, he thought with awed wonder.
Unable to find the will to shove it into his backpack to muffle or silence it, he decided to carry it in his hands protectively. That idea seemed ridiculous, and he couldn't even begin to figure out why. Yet, something about stuffing it in a dark place even felt wrong. He struggled to shake off these thoughts and focus. He knew he wasn't very far from the Central Core. But there was no telling what he might encounter on his way back there. He opted to summon half a dozen skeletal warriors and mages to move ahead of him. In the overall humming silence of the library, the skeletons sounded like an army to his sensitive ears. He took it as a good sign; there was nothing skulking about, ready to ambush him.
Minutes later, he spotted the glowing yellow seal of the archway that would lead to the corridor outside the Core. As luck would have it, he encountered nothing on his return trip. And the sense of wonder that had assailed him at touching this tiny spark of Life hadn't faded in the least.
"You were gone quite a long while. I hope you brought me something nice," the Curator called out as he descended the stairs.
Unable to find words for what he was thinking or feeling at the moment, he held it out in his open hands toward the Curator.
"Ha! You have done it! Remarkable! Now, the rest is up to me."
His mind was starting to feel...fuzzy. He resisted the inexplicable urge to pull back when the Curator scooped the spark out of his hands. He felt like he'd lost something incredible when he lost contact with it. And he felt like he'd just lost half his energy. He stumbled for a moment on shaking legs before going to his knees. A wave of dizziness left him gasping while his heartbeat suddenly felt heavy and irregular. The Curator watched this with an expression of curiosity.
"What...just happened?" he finally found the mental wherewithal to ask.
"Ah, I see," the Curator commented. "You were connected to it. I would have thought you had enough sense to shield yourself."
"From what?"
"The magic in these sparks of Life is strong enough to animate stone. What do you think it was doing to living tissue?"
He was horrified by the realization.
"Oh, nothing harmful," it added, obviously enjoying his discomfort. "But if you hung on to it long enough, it can replace your natural energy, giving you strength and stamina unlike anything you mortals could conceive. And eventually leave you incapable of living without it."
He struggled back to his feet, realizing this heavy sensation was not unlike the feeling he had when he returned to his body. Despite the numerous positive effects, he was still slightly disturbed to realize the Curator was right. He should have known enough to shield himself from something so powerful. He had shielded himself just nowhere near strongly enough. Hells, he wondered if he was even capable of shields strong enough to block out all that he had felt. Still, he had made a very basic mistake that could just as easily have cost him his life.
And much more, he thought, considering Cain would never know what had happened to him and would have to continue the fight against the shards by himself.
Considering it a lesson learned, he vowed no one beyond Cain would ever hear of this kind of power from him. The constructs here were terrifying enough to consider. What if that kind of power was wielded by men and women in Sanctuary? The thought didn't bear consideration. The Curator studied the spark of Life momentarily and then nodded as if coming to a decision.
"Now, the rest is up to me," it said, sounding rather cheerful.
He backed away a few feet as it had indicated. With a push of magical energies, it sent the spark to the Central Core's orb. It followed that with a beam of light from its staff. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, the orb and its orbiting pieces rose out of the sand and hovered a few feet above them in the air. It glowed a brilliant, warm orange color. They watched it for several seconds in silence. Then the Curator sighed happily.
"The wards that have stymied my progress for so long have finally fallen away." It turned back to face him, clearly pleased with the results. "It is done! I am in control once more. Even the Master's archives are open to me now! Excellently accomplished, my compatriot! I think you have waited long enough for the knowledge you seek."
He nodded tiredly. Being back in his own body once again fueled by its own limited power reserves reminded him he hadn't eaten or rested for the last several hours. Considering the Curator's comments about being gone for a long time, it had likely been at least several hours since he had woken, possibly as much as half a day. But he was just as eager to get on with it. He could rest and eat later.
"I will go on ahead and search for the tomes," the Curator said, once more creating the outline of a map on the floor for him. "Meet me in the Archive of Secrets, just up the stairwell, here. There, we will uncover the means of destroying those pesky Worldstone shards of yours."
"It'll take me a while to get there," he warned, seeing how far away the destination was.
"Why not just use a portal?" it asked, seeming surprised. "Have you depleted yourself so greatly today?"
"No, but I cannot make portals. I've always used scrolls created by other mages."
The Curator seemed more than a little surprised by this admission. "But you are more than powerful enough, even as a Priest of Rathma. They do not teach you these things?"
"Few know how to make the scrolls, and they live wealthier than kings," he explained, then amended his statement as he considered the ones Cain had created and even given out to people for free. "Well, most of them."
"But you do not need a scroll."
Tired and frustrated, he gave in to a bit of temper. "Will you teach me?"
The Curator paused, clearly not having considered such a request. Finally, it said, "If you're able to learn, yes. But not here."
"Fine. Then I will meet you in the Secret Archives...when I arrive."
The Curator sniffed as if disgusted. He motioned to a place ahead of him, and a portal opened up. "Or you could just take the portal with me."
He nodded tiredly in thanks to the Curator and followed it through. Part of him could easily believe he had the power to make a portal. He'd done much and learned even more in the last decade and more he'd been away from the monastery he had once lived in. Even just in the last few months, he had taught himself to do things he wasn't sure any other necromancer was capable of. Priests of Rathma weren't known for their overall magical ability. It took more discipline than power to be a necromancer. But if it was possible to create a portal to any waypoint he had previously visited without even needing to rely on scrolls, he was more than willing to learn. Maybe he could share the teachings with others. In his opinion, the exorbitant prices the mages who specialized in teleportation and portal scrolls charged were downright obscene.
Still, that was a problem for later. Right now, he just wanted to get to their destination and get some food. How long had he been gone? How long had he been in this place? Time was starting to blur for him again as he considered it. His greatest hope in all of this was that Cain hadn't given up on him as a dead man. Or worse, been attacked by cultists and demons.
"Ah, to walk these halls once more," the Curator sighed in sheer content.
He looked around at the giant curved cases of books and scrolls that lined the space below. Up here, it seemed nothing more than another stone platform made of magic. But the shelves and scroll cubbies seemed to go on forever down below. As he had earlier suspected, it was very likely the magical warping of this entire massive space was somehow stacked; at least, that's how it sort of looked to him now. After a visual inspection confirmed there were no immediate threats to be found here, he settled on a convenient corner while the Curator descended into the shelves. He stretched thoroughly and then pulled out some food. The construct seemed quite happy to get lost in the archives. The part of him that had always loved books wanted to get lost in these archives, too. Still, he knew he likely could not make sense of even a tiny fraction of it all if he could even read it. For now, he would have to exercise another skill entirely: patience.
Having satisfied his stomach, he let his head rest back against the wall. He knew there was likely nothing he could do for the time being that would be of any use, so he wanted to use the opportunity to rest. He dozed lightly while the Curator flew with purpose from one section to another below him.
Hours later, he was surprised to realize he'd actually fallen into a light sleep. It didn't take him long, however, to realize it was the presence of the Curator that had wakened him. It seemed to hover patiently a few feet away.
"Have you made any progress?" he asked, rising to his feet feeling more than a bit stiff.
"Yes, and no. But you should be well-rested enough to learn to use portals. You will likely need them."
"I've already needed them," he told it with a grin, recalling being trapped under Fahir's tomb only days ago. Or was that a week ago now?
The Curator was surprisingly patient in its lessons, only throwing out an occasional sneering comment. But it drove him hard to perform. Time and time again, he struggled to feel the unfamiliar energies needed to warp space and time and bring them together to a location of his choosing. By the end of the first lesson, Pyresong felt as if he'd just been through a prolonged battle. But it had been worth it. He'd been able to open a portal for a half a second to the waypoint right there in the archives. The Curator seemed satisfied and explained it would get easier with use, as do most skills. He desperately wanted to try it out with a waypoint in Westmarch, if only to see Cain for a short while to update him. He was fairly certain he could recall the Wolf Gate waypoint just outside the south gates well enough. But the Curator warned that such long-distance portals took more energy and concentration. He was likely not ready.
After this lesson, there really was no alternative but to eat and sleep. The Curator, needing neither, was able to continue with the research. It appeared content to allow him to rest as long as he needed without disturbing him. He also suspected it was doing its own bit of private research as well as fulfilling their bargain. Well, it would have all of eternity to do its own work, as far as he was concerned.
In between its searches through the archives, it had him create portals to various locations frequently until he was able to do it without instruction. He was surprised to realize it was a lot like attuning oneself to a specific type of energy. Once he could feel it more clearly, it made a lot more sense, and he could feel where inside himself he needed to pull to achieve his goal. Still, it felt like several days passed with little more than sleeping, eating, and practicing portals until he could do it almost without thinking at all anymore.
Ultimately, the frustrated Curator decided there was just not enough information. It appeared the secret of manipulating the deliberately cut shards of uncorrupted Worldstone had been a jealously guarded secret by all Horadrim, especially since they were the key to creating soulstones. In the wrong hands, soulstones could be a heinous weapon, even against angels. It agreed that uncovering even tiny pieces of information could take years. But it did have one idea. While Pyresong sat recovering from another, much shorter portal lesson, it floated up to him with another massive tome, not unlike the journal he had recovered.
"This tome is no light reading," it explained. "The Master transcribed memories in a way that left them perfectly intact...and available for others to experience."
"That does sound promising," he agreed. "Why do I sense there's more?"
"They were designed to be experienced by a living human. I am unable to access them."
"Well, at least there's something useful I can be doing, then."
"Come," it gestured to their right, "further to the north, there is an old chamber that the Master used for the purpose of reliving his memories. It will be safe in there. Head through here, turn left, and ascend the stairs."
The Curator teleported itself without a portal to their destination with the tome. Knowing it was no more than maybe a five-minute walk, he decided to make his way there more traditionally. He was still wearing all his gear except gloves and gauntlets. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed in that direction. He was nowhere near as tired after this most recent lesson as he had been with previous lessons. And portals had become something he could make almost as reflexively as swinging his scythe. The Curator hadn't exaggerated about how easy it would become with frequent use. And it had given him a massive advantage. When he ascended the stairs a couple minutes later, he could see the Curator flipping through the tome's pages, looking for something specific.
"Destroying the Worldstone shards is a curious endeavor," it commented. "It seems better to use such power, don't you think?"
"Perhaps, before they were corrupted," he was willing to admit. "But these are corrupted, and the only purpose they can serve is evil."
"It wasn't that long ago you thought artificial Life was an evil concept," it pointed out.
He couldn't help grinning at that retort. It wasn't wrong. He now had a better understanding that Life itself was neither good nor evil and just came down to the purpose that power was ultimately used for, much as magical powers did. While many of the creations he had encountered here were demented, none of them really had a choice when they were created, unlike humans. If anything, he felt a sort of pity for all of them. But the shards were a whole other matter entirely.
"I've touched them. There is nothing good that can come from those corrupted shards. And they are being used by a demon lord. Would you see this world and the library itself become a part of the Hells?"
The Curator chuckled, still flipping through pages. "Still, it is none of my business. Although, when you are done, perhaps you'll share the story with me."
"Perhaps," he replied noncommittally.
In truth, a part of him hoped never to return to this bizarre place. He hadn't even bothered to ask the Curator if he could bring Cain to visit sometime. If anything, he wanted to forget this place even existed, if only to ensure the knowledge and power of this place never escaped. He still shuddered to think what others might do with such knowledge.
When they arrived at the top in a larger, shielded platform, he spotted what looked like a stone desk with several scrolls cluttering the top and a central book stand. On either side of the desk were small, curved pillars that almost formed an arch over it. While the Curator placed the book in its obvious stand, he now understood the purpose of those pillars. Between them appeared a large, orange glowing disk that was uncannily similar to a portal.
"We can begin when you are ready," it told him.
He didn't like the look of the thing, and he had no idea what madness he was about to find himself in. Still, at this point, he had been given no reason to mistrust the Curator. More to the point, he actually rather enjoyed its company. And he got the impression it was doing more than just tolerating his presence. Early on, the sneering arrogance had rubbed him the wrong way, as it usually did with him. In more recent days, he found he actually enjoyed trading verbal barbs with the thing. He suspected it did, as well. Of course, he was willing to do or put up with just about anything if it lead him to how to destroy those damned shards.
"How does it work, exactly?" he asked, eyeing the swirling disk.
"Anyone with a human brain can enter the memories by focusing on the disk. I would recommend you have a seat. The Master's experiments indicated that the mind travels into the memory while the body stays behind."
He opted to seat himself a few feet away from the desk in his usual meditative position while the Curator explained. He watched the slowly rotating energies in the disk. They had a soothing, almost hypnotic quality very similar to fire.
"And what memories will I be...exploring?"
"This tale is from before. Before Baal led his army, before he breached the gates of Sescheron...and put the barbarian city to the sword. A thousand times before."
While it spoke, he thought he could almost make out images in the orange glowing disk hovering over the desk. He relaxed a bit more and focused on his normal vision on those vague images.
"To the time of the Horadrim," the Curator continued, "who faced the Lord of Destruction and imprisoned him within the soulstone."
He wasn't even aware anymore of what, if anything, the Curator was saying beyond that point. He had already begun to feel himself being pulled gently away from his body and into the disk. For a moment, he was blinded but had no eyes to see. Everything faded to empty white.
The next thing he was aware of was standing in a ruined city in the desert that was paved with familiar dark stones. Beyond, he could see the desert that he thought might have once been the Shassar Sea of the ancient past. At the very least, it was a strikingly similar desert culture of some kind. He tried to look down at himself but found he had no control. Before he could really process that, he was walking confidently forward, toward some soldiers in bright yellow uniforms standing beside a barricade. As near as he could tell by the wooden planking, it must have been a bridge that had recently been destroyed. One of the guards approached.
"The Horadrim! Y-you've arrived! Zoltun Kulle and Tal Rasha are already fighting below. Here, I'll open the way!"
The young soldier quickly pulled and kicked one of the barricade pieces out of the way. Out of the corner of his eyes, Pyresong caught the head of a staff moving slightly. he realized he was somehow riding in a mage's body, though he had no idea whose. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to say the least. But he reminded himself it was only someone else's memories. Clearly, they had to have survived this encounter, or Kulle would never have been able to obtain the memories. He had hoped he would be inside Kulle himself, where he might be able to glean more information or even stray thoughts. Now that he considered it, though, he couldn't hear the thoughts of the person he was occupying, so it may not have made any difference who he was in.
Once the barricade was sufficiently out of the way, he watched while the mage stepped out over the open air of the sheer cliff below. They dropped down to the ground, floating gently on magic. All over the sandstone floor of this city lay the bodies of various humans and many, many demons. Ahead, he could hear even more pitched battles. Soldiers and mages fought side-by-side against numerous Fallen. Once he was on solid ground, he ran forward toward none other than Zoltun Kulle battling with a staff. After he had struck down a handful of Fallen, Kulle turned to Pyresong.
"There you are. The demons are trying to keep us from the Prime Evil. Join me in foiling their efforts, would you?"
Now he knew where the Curator had gotten his tongue and looks. Clearly, it was a near duplicate of Kulle himself. The mage whose mind he was riding in laughed and then spun about on more Fallen trying to sneak up on him. In moments, the latest arrivals were also wiped out.
"All dead. How splendid!" Kulle commented happily. "Come, let us meet up with Tal Rasha before he, too, is a corpse."
As they followed the road east, it became more and more visually apparent the influence of Hell and its demons had had on this land. They were following what had once been a well-traveled road through a canyon. Hellfire blocked the road ahead, which Kulle banished easily. They were met with yet more Fallen and a few of their shamans. It seemed that this mage and Kulle worked together often and well. The two of them quickly destroyed all the little demons in minutes and found themselves again blocked by more hellfire. Again, Kulle banished it with deceptive ease as they continued to find yet more Fallen waiting to ambush them. Those demons were clearly no challenge for these two mages, but Kulle became frustrated as they were delayed from reaching Tal Rasha.
"Welcome, my friends!" a much friendlier voice called just up ahead. "Come, help me strike down these demons, and we can pursue their master!"
Much as the two of them had been doing, this other mage was engaged with several Fallen using his staff. Several more Fallen jumped down from the canyon walls in an attempt to ambush these three. But the three mages had clearly worked together before in such circumstances. The unknown mage, Kulle, and Tal Rasha all stood in a triangle with their backs to one another, each stepping to their left, circling slowly to alternate strikes on the demons surrounding them. The combination of magics was more successful than Pyresong had even anticipated. It seemed only seconds, and there were over three score Fallen and their shaman dead on the ground. He'd met several mages in his life and even seen magical duels. But this was a level of battle that didn't speak to power so much as the skills of the one manipulating that power.
Somewhere just around a curve in the canyon, he and the others froze when they heard the dreaded voice of the one they were after.
"Those who seek destruction...shall find it! Hahaha!"
Baal, the Lord of Destruction, he thought, slightly in awe of what he was now witnessing.
He shuddered mentally at the sound of that insane laughter. Of course, he could only continue watching helplessly as the three of them ran toward that voice echoing up and down through the canyon. When they rounded another corner, they found their target. Baal's demonic body was dancing around a larger cleared area with numerous twisted, beaten human bodies littering the ground around him. Baal laughed insanely all the more when the three mages surrounded him.
Once again, Pyresong was impressed when the three Horadrim surrounded Baal in a triangle to ensure no stray spells would accidentally be aimed at one of their comrades. He was enthralled, as well as horrified. This was the very same Baal that another Priest of Rathma had fought all on his own just a few years ago. He couldn't begin to imagine it. The creature was enormous. Not a single human here stood taller than the first joint of one of Baal's six legs. This was a Prime Evil, the embodiment of Destruction incarnate. The sheer power and size of Baal were daunting to him. And these three men—and so many others—fought fearlessly.
The Prime Evil danced around, throwing balls of hellfire in every direction and swinging his arms to create blades of hellfire that sizzled through the air. Zoltun Kulle and Tal Rasha were out of sight as Baal danced and spun. But every time the demon lord turned to attack one, the other two attacked the demon lord in turn. The insane laughter actually stopped after a few seconds. It seemed as if Baal had begun to sense he might have met his match in these three. After one particularly well-coordinated attack, Baal's shields appeared to give out for just a second.
"He's been weakened! We must use the soulstone!" Tal Rasha called.
In that split second, Tal Rasha levitated a large chunk of white crystal easily the size of his head into the air above Baal. His staff and Zoltun Kulle's staff both sent out unbelievably powerful beams of energy while their hands projected a shield around the Prime Evil. The unknown mage used his staff to aid the power of the soulstone and create a powerful shield around Baal, trapping him.
Whether Baal had been faking his sudden weakness or he was just now realizing how much danger he was in, he reacted violently to the attack. A bright beam of light shot down from the soulstone through the shield and into Baal. Instead of thrashing at the shield as they had been expecting, the demon lord latched on to that beam of energy from the soulstone and pushed somehow. The unexpected backlash of power shattered the soulstone while Baal cackled maniacally. The shield also sustained a massive backlash, causing all three mages to be blasted backward, but they were all just able to keep their feet.
"What is the strength of man against Hell itself?" Baal laughed mockingly as he opened a portal and fled through it.
"Damn it, all that remains is a shard!" Tal Rasha cursed. "Zoltun, take the others through the valley below. I will teleport to Baal and buy us some time!"
Before either could stop him, Tal Rasha disappeared through a portal of his own. In one fist, he carried a shard only maybe ten inches long and not even three inches in diameter. Compared to the original, it was just a tiny fragment. Pyresong couldn't help noting how similar it was to the three corrupted shards he had encountered. But this fragment was white, instead of a filthy-feeling red color.
Kulle, clearly angry at this development, turned and began running flat out down a winding path. Kulle was muttering some vile curses as they ran. Pyresong could hear some of his angry words as they rushed toward yet more Fallen demons awaiting them.
"That brazen fool has no idea what he is doing!" He snapped at the unknown mage over his shoulder as they ran, "Quickly!"
The path ended abruptly in a small rock cliff. The two of them levitated down almost too fast. Pyresong's host landed hard and was forced to roll back to his feet. Kulle was already ahead of him, analyzing a new wall of hellfire that blocked their path. It was noticeably larger and taller than the previous barriers.
"Baal will overwhelm Tal Rasha if we tarry," Kulle growled angrily. "As appealing as that notion is, we cannot fail in this endeavor."
He was a bit surprised by the obvious animosity this Horadrim was showing for another. But something in the way it was said made him feel like Kulle was only half sincere. There was genuine worry in Kulle's face as he destroyed the hellfire barrier and resumed their run. Moments later, they encountered an even deeper barrier of giant clusters of tentacles that stank of rotting meat and probed for living flesh to consume. While they blasted and burned their way through these disgusting things, demon soldiers beyond were coming to join in the fray. Clearly, Kulle was out of patience. No flashy moves here. He and the unknown mage blasted away anything in their path with frighteningly powerful fire and lightning spells.
Beyond that was another wall of hellfire that was considerably more powerful and deeper than the others. Kulle cursed in a language he didn't need to know to understand just how filthy the expression was. As he pushed his staff harder to dispel this one, more demons attempted to ambush them. Kulle didn't need to explain. This barrier was resisting as if something intelligent was powering it. Pyresong's host began blasting away at the arriving demons with wide arcs of chain lightning while Kulle did his part. In seconds, they were both breathing hard when they continued down the rocky path. Just around the next bend was another enormous wall of hellfire. In front of that wall, a demonic Overseer was whipping its minions into a frenzy. For a few minutes, the two mages were too engrossed in battling them to even bother with the hellfire wall.
The massive Overseer and his dozens of minions were all frenzied and lashing out in every direction with a variety of weapons and even just their own claws and tails. Thankfully there were no magic-wielding entities to further complicate things. The two of them danced around with their fire and lightning in alternating attacks moving at a frantic pace to avoid being overwhelmed. In the end, they had backed into a rock wall where the two of them did the unexpected. Though he could not see the actual movements, Pyresong knew the two of them had joined hands and power. Kulle directed the shared power out in a massive wave of fire that literally blasted every living thing in this section of canyon to pieces, even the massive Overseer. Now he could just barely begin to understand Cain's statement about shared power being exponentially more effective.
He quickly shook off those thoughts for later analysis when his host ran toward the wall of hellfire. This time, it was the unknown mage who got the wall down while Kulle caught his breath.
"Well done," Kulle complimented. "Now, let us reach Tal Rasha and end this!"
Just as Kulle had predicted—or maybe already knew—around the next bend, they found Baal being held within another shield Tal Rasha had manifested.
"Just in time, my friends!" Tal Rasha called, clearly straining to the limits of his power to maintain the shield.
This time, Baal was thrashing at the shield, but still laughing. Seeing the other two arrive, he threatened his laughter stopped.
"I will tear you apart limb from limb!"
In a massive blast of hellfire that went out in a solid ring around him, Baal shattered the shield with his raw explosion of hellish power. All three mages were just barely able to get up shields of their own that prevented them from being thrown around like rag dolls. But many of the soldiers that had joined the fight were ripped apart in that blast. Once more, the only three left to battle Baal were the three mages already forming a triangle around the demon lord.
"Horadrim, do not lose faith! Victory is within our grasp!" Tal Rasha called in a magically enhanced voice meant to project through the canyon.
Only then did Pyresong take note of the numerous other mages and soldiers coming down from the walls of the canyon all around them to assist in the battle. And, just as quickly, he dismissed them. As a helpless passenger, he watched Baal summoning more of those tentacle clusters and slinging balls of hellfire all over the place. One after another, many other mages were overpowered and lost. Tal Rasha was seeing it, too, and couldn't just focus on Baal as his friends were dying.
"Keep fighting the Demon Lord!" he ordered the unknown mage and Kulle. "I will deal with Baal's minions!"
Suddenly, there were three Baals on the battlefield. They had no idea which was the real one. And it actually didn't matter. All three produced huge storms of hellfire balls in every direction. It seemed the demon lord was lashing out entirely at random now. Tal Rasha put up a wide shield around him as he called out.
"Get under the shield! I will protect us from the flames!"
Arrogant and stubborn, Kulle made his own smaller shield and kept attacking. Pyresong's host ducked under Tal Rasha's, but only so he could get an opening to persist in his attacks against what he must have thought was the real Baal in the center. Baal again switched tactics as he began to appear and disappear all over the place. As he popped in and out of existence, the three mages alternated attacks. But, by the time the blasts arrived, Baal was gone again. Frustrated, Tal Rasha made another wide shield for himself and others to take shelter in.
"Everyone, in the shield! It will buy us more time! He must be wearing down!"
Kulle again used his own smaller shield, but with good reason, this time. He was giving Baal an opening to attack. Seeing the mage alone was far too tempting of a target for the Prime Evil to ignore. With more insane, wicked laughter, Baal appeared right behind Kulle and directly in front of Tal Rasha.
"Now!" Kulle called as he spun around to meet the attack.
Between Tal Rasha and Kulle, the unexpected attack on Baal had been so powerful that the demon lord was actually stunned. It was no more than a heartbeat, but that was all these skilled mages needed. A much smaller piece of the original soulstone flew above Baal as the three mages brought their staves up to try again. This time, it worked. Baal's laughter dissolved into screams of rage as the stone absorbed him.
"May this shard be your eternal prison!" Tal Rasha shouted back over the Prime Evil's screams.
As the screams stopped echoing through the canyon, there was an eerie stillness. All eyes were on the yellowish shard that now sat on the sandstone floor. In the almost unbelievable tension of the moment, Pyresong was completely frozen. Then the anticipatory spell was broken, though Pyresong was still mentally stunned by what he had witnessed.
Kulle laughed in relief when both he and Tal Rasha sank to their knees, exhausted. The unknown mage leaned heavily on his staff, almost staggering. Between the three of them sat the soulstone, glowing a threatening yellow. It flared as if angry. Baal was already trying to escape his new prison. Small as it was, none of them would take the chance of him escaping. Despite their exhaustion, they used their combined power to put a tiny shield around the shard, just in case.
"It is done," Tal Rasha finally said, regaining his feet unsteadily.
"Yes," Kulle replied grimly, "but it will not hold. The Prime Evil's spirit is straining at its cage. The shard will not contain him for long."
"Then we must obtain another soulstone!" Tal Rasha snapped, opening a portal.
"Are you mad?" Kulle asked incredulously. "Only an archangel's weapon can cleave the Worldstone! And this sliver will not make it to Arreat!"
As the three of them approached the portal, Tal Rasha calmly glared at Kulle.
"Tyrael! He will have answers. I assure you, Baal will not roam free again. But we can have this conversation later," he finished, throwing a meaningful look at the survivors all around them.
When they crossed through the portal's threshold, Pyresong found himself sinking back into his own body. For a moment, he was disoriented at having control of something physical again. It had been a slightly disturbing feeling riding in someone else's body. At least he'd had the comfort of knowing that no matter what happened, he would live through it. Still... He opened his eyes to find the Curator seated a couple of feet away, watching him intently.
"Tell me, what did you see in there?"
He got a sense of frustration as well as curiosity from the construct. It could not experience the memories as a human would and desperately wanted that knowledge beyond what was written in the scrolls and books. For a moment, he shook his head and tried to put it all together and into words.
"I was inside someone else's body. Not Kulle's. But someone...another Horadrim," he sighed and shook his head, trying to find the words and basically giving up. "It was beyond belief. I partook in the battle against the Demon Lord, Baal. I saw Zoltun Kulle..." he said, as if he still couldn't quite believe it.
Forcing himself to focus, he soon recalled why he had explored those memories in the first place. He had been so in awe of all of it, he had nearly forgotten.
"He spoke with Tal Rasha, saying only an archangel's weapon could damage the Worldstone."
The Curator nodded, appreciating what little knowledge he could glean from this. He seemed to contemplate this information.
"Well, that does make things complicated. The Master seemed to know of only two such weapons gracing Sanctuary with their presence. One was El'druin, a weapon belonging to Tyrael. And neither it nor the angel himself has been seen since he shattered the Worldstone."
He nodded but couldn't help wondering how this thing even knew about all that. Maybe some form of divinational tools somewhere in this library? Did it have the ability to see beyond this space? Given the unbelievable stuff he'd seen so far in this place, he didn't doubt it. And he well knew he'd only seen a tiny fraction of this massive library. A flicker of thought crossed his mind that maybe he could use some of those divinational tools to check in on Cain. Quickly, he shook this off, though.
"The other, however, was called Yl'nira," the Curator continued. "It was bequeathed by an angelic artisan to her child and hidden away by the Ancients. Supposedly, it rests within the Temple of Namari on an island with the name of Bilefen."
He consulted his mental maps of Sanctuary. If he was right, that was just off the southern coast of Aranoch and far east of Westmarch. At best, he thought it might be somewhere west of Kingsport. If he could get himself back to Westmarch with a portal, he should be able to charter a ship from there. He was fairly certain he could remember at least two waypoints in Westmarch well enough to make a portal. The idea that he might even beat Captain Rehm back to port made him grin. The idea amused him, but he was far more concerned with Cain. It had to be close to two months since he last saw his friend. So much could have happened in that time.
"I assume that's where you'll want to go next, yes?"
"Of course," he answered, already reaching into his backpack for a map that would be more accurate than his memories by far.
"Hmm," the Curator was clearly amused by something. "I believe I have one last gift I can offer you. A way to make your journey much shorter."
"I could possibly make it to Westmarch with a portal," he explained his reasoning.
"Yes, but then you would need to sail back down the coast to Bilefen. No, I can send you directly to Bilefen. If you can handle it."
The hint of something challenging in there caught his attention. He couldn't help a grin. He'd never been one to shy away from anything challenging, but it had nothing to do with his pride. It seemed the Curator was being at least somewhat serious, though. As it rose to its feet and hovered once more, he put away his maps and rose as well. Before he could ask, the Curator took him by the arm. A moment later, they flashed back into existence in another room he didn't recognize. The momentary sensation of existing as nothing more than energy and light had been both unsettling and uncomfortable. Despite the dizziness and disorientation, he was easily able to stay on his feet when they arrived. Settling his stomach took a few seconds longer. Instead of sneering or making some kind of snide comment, the Curator smiled approvingly.
"Good," it said. "Now that I have full control of the library, I can teleport you wherever I wish. I will modify this terminus to take you to a location upon Bilefen Island, near the temple."
He eyed the sandy whirlwind in the middle of a circular depression in the floor.
Well, that will certainly make things faster.
Much as he wanted to check in with Cain and tell him all he'd learned, their primary goal was to find a way to destroy those Worldstone shards as fast as possible, before worse could happen. With all the weeks spent at sea and now here in the desert and the library, there was a part of him all but convinced that other shards were already in use somewhere. It really didn't make sense to turn down this opportunity to save themselves weeks, possibly months. Shoving aside his disappointment, he nodded gratefully.
"Thank you."
"You have proven trustworthy enough to come and go at your discretion," the Curator declared, unexpectedly. As if unable to prevent his sneering nature and dry wit for too long, he added, "But should you choose to leave, do it quickly. I abhor long goodbyes. Try not to die before our next meeting, hm?" it chuckled darkly.
Pyresong couldn't help chuckling as well. He almost liked this thing. And, should he ever have the opportunity, he would still like to bring Cain here some day, with the Curator's permission, of course. He nodded deeply in respect and thanks.
"I am in your debt, Curator. Thank you. I do hope we meet again," he said sincerely, offering his hand.
The Curator smirked and turned away to activate the swirling sands into a small storm. Pyresong, taking no insult at his ignored friendly gesture, walked toward the little whirlwind.
"Be warned, teleporting halfway across the world may be...unsettling!" it called, laughing again, just as his boot encountered the edge.
He didn't have a chance to ask. The moment his boot touched the threshold, the thing sucked him in and shattered him. This time, the feeling of being scattered to tiny particles of light energy lasted much, much longer. What was left of his mind felt it was being pulled in a million different directions. In the void of sound and substance that he found himself in, he had the sensation of being pulled, pushed, squeezed, frozen, and burned all at the same time. Eventually, the sensations were too much, and his mind quit trying to understand.
Chapter 9: 08 Bilefen
Chapter Text
Bilefen
Pyresong's booted feet hit wood with a thud. The disorientation was all he knew as he fell to his hands and knees. It took several seconds to even understand that he was whole again, let alone that he had control of a physical body. Once he felt steady enough, he managed to sit back on his knees and focus on not losing what little food he had in his stomach.
That was...an experience, he thought, trying to come to terms with being physical again.
He had no doubts the Curator had thoroughly enjoyed knowing his discomfort, as if it were some kind of practical joke. He would probably a lot more amused once the stomach-flipping nausea wore off. Looking around, he realized the lush swampy area was filled with the sounds of life and pouring rain.
At least it isn't cold rain, he thought ruefully, as the sticky heat of the heavy air made its presence known in his lungs.
He realized he was standing on a little boat dock when he regained his feet on slightly unsteady legs. He wasn't exactly sure what time it was, but it felt like early evening. The heavy clouds made it hard to tell. Yet, it wasn't dark enough for it to be full night. He would have to figure it out when he got somewhere. He turned a full circle, trying to identify which direction he needed to go. The Curator had said he would be near the Temple of Namari. He had never actually been to Bilefen before, so was completely unfamiliar with the place other than knowing it was an island off the south coast and a swampy, jungle-like place. There was a major international shipping port here called Port Justinian. And, so rumor had it, it was also the pirate capital for all of Sanctuary's many waterways. The dock he stood on was small enough to accommodate nothing more than little fishing vessels at best.
Off to his left, he could see more lights through the trees and could hear waves slapping against wood. Directly before him was a well-worn, muddy path that seemed to curve slightly to the north. Beyond that, he could see nothing through the thick foliage. At least it was a well-used and defined path. It seemed a good bet. In seconds, he could hear boisterous voices ahead, what sounded like a bustling village. When he rounded a curve in the path, he came within sight of wooden palisades and gates. There were a couple of bored-looking, rather scruffy guards without uniforms who just nodded as he entered. He gave a mental sigh of relief that they did not try to stop or question him. Though he knew little of Bilefen, he assumed it was like most other places, not overly welcoming to Priests of Rathma.
"Hey, you there! C'mere a moment!" a voice called as he passed through the gates.
Heaving a mental sigh, Pyresong quickly set his expression to its default serene. Directly ahead of him stood a man in front of some kind of sailor's memorial shaped like a ship with dozens of swords sticking out of the dirt. The man stood right under the lanterns that lit up this little spot. His quick visual inspection confirmed it was some kind of village square. Thinking that this was where he would run into trouble with the locals, he let his eyes take in every expression around him. At least there was no immediate hostility he could detect. The man that had called to him eyed him both warily and curiously.
"It's not often a man shows up in the port without even a ship docking," he explained. "You certainly don't look like the rabble coming for work. Or a pirate, for that matter."
He saw no need to respond to the man's obvious attempts to fish for information. He let a slight bit of irritation and impatience enter his expression. It worked, as it usually did with most people who didn't care for necromancers or mages. His unsettling eyes were usually enough prompting in themselves.
"Whoever you are, you're going to want to check in with Talva. He's not a fan of strangers meandering around without his knowledge."
"And where should I find this, Talva?" he asked, sensing he was likely in for a confrontation whether he complied or not. At least going along with this for the moment, he might avoid being banished from the village before he could get his information.
"C'mon, I'll take ya," the man offered.
Though he had a bad feeling about this, he really didn't see it as being a good idea to walk away, either. He had no idea how many other villages there might be on this island, and this looked like his best opportunity to restock as well as ask around about the temple. There were at least twenty people out in the open. Given the multitude of small structures and the much larger shipping docks somewhere beyond the high palisades off to his left, there must be many more people. Being blocked from accessing them or their information would prove counter-productive. He just hoped this Talva wasn't entirely set against Priests of Rathma roaming his village.
The man led him around the little monument and up to a larger building that looked to have been made from the scrapped wood of various shipwrecks. For that matter, most of the village appeared to have been made of various scraps over the years. Here and there, canvas and oilskins were stretched over planks to form a reasonably waterproof roof. Beyond this rough entrance, a couple of seemingly uninterested sailors were standing around talking. They spared a curious glance at the necromancer before returning to their conversation. The man headed more toward the right and up some more planks that opened into a building that appeared a lot less ramshackle than the rest. It had a few flags and banners, a nice wooden desk covered in parchments, and what appeared to be a good solid roof of planks overhead. Various shelves lined the walls with odds and ends and several books.
"Silvertongue's up there," the man pointed. "Be sure to let 'im know Sandro delivered ya, huh? I could use the coin. Haha."
He did not like the sound of that at all. He got the distinct impression he was being sold out. But what was there to do? He knew if he got into a confrontation with the leader of this busy port village, he'd likely get no help at all. If he escaped now, he'd get no help. He could possibly spend weeks trying to find this temple while trying to evade the local authorities. Still, if he could buy this man Sandro off later, that could be useful. He filed that thought away for later while the man seemed to catch on to his cold and calculating glare. Instead of explaining what he meant, Sandro turned and ran off. Well, he was already here, and he could hear voices in the room beyond where the desk was.
He turned his attention back to the room. A ragged group of three men wearing little more than scraps of clothing were cowering before the man behind the desk. The well-dressed man, he assumed, was this Talva Silvertongue. On either side of the desk were two large, rough-looking thugs he most likely used for bodyguards.
"Please, sir...the elder is terribly ill!" one of the three painfully thin men in rags was begging.
The man in the green robes of upper-class quality rubbed his mustache in irritation. "Then go speak to Cadeus!" he snapped at them. "My responsibility is Port Justinian and the goods that go through it. Now, go! I'm done with this!"
He kept his expression carefully neutral while he watched the two thugs escorting the three ragged men away. The three men looked utterly defeated. But he was well aware of how little he knew of this place or its population. He reminded himself it was not his place to interfere.
"Ugh, this village will be the death of me," Silvertongue moaned, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed.
Only then, in the light of a lantern hanging above the chair, did he get a good view of the man. He hadn't yet noticed the new arrival. Lines of worry and stress were clearly visible on his thin face. At best, he couldn't be more than in his mid-thirties. Pyresong suspected he was even younger than that but appeared older due to stress. Still, he gave off the aura of someone used to wealth and authority. Where he gained it was another matter. Out here, pirates ruled the seas. This man looked like no pirate. Visually, he'd fit right in with the nobility or wealthy merchants that gravitated to places like Westmarch.
Hoping not to startle the man too much, he stepped out of the shadow he'd more or less accidentally been hiding in. The man's head shot up and glared at him in clear irritation at being caught in a private moment.
"You there! I make it a point to know every face that steps into my port, and yours I do not recognize," he eyed Pyresong and his armor up and down with no small amount of disdain in his expression. "So what business is it that brings a necromancer to the Bilefen?"
At least he didn't start with "death mage", Pyresong thought, almost hopefully.
"Sandro said I needed to speak with you first. I'm looking for an ancient temple upon this island. Do you know of it?"
The man sighed in disgust. "Ah...now I get it. You're with that wizard, then. Explains your sudden appearance, at least... Can't fathom why you lot are interested in that place. Nothing but death awaits there."
He had the almost overwhelming urge to smirk and remark how that would absolutely not be a problem for a Priest of Rathma. He just barely managed to keep his expression serene and his mouth shut. He had the distinct impression that this one would not appreciate such humor.
"The temple is to the southeast. Easy to find. Good luck getting in, however. The swamp is likely to kill you first. Now, if that's all you're here for, go on. I have enough problems to deal with."
The haughty tone and arrogance rubbed him the wrong way. But if he was going to get off this easy, he'd happily accept the rudeness and dismissal. At least he didn't have to worry at the moment about how to get what he needed while being banished from the village. He bowed politely to the man who had already turned his attention back to the numerous parchments on his desk. He left as silently as he'd arrived, with no small amount of relief.
Back out in the open, he took note of the rather motley bunch of ramshackle buildings. Every one of them appeared to have been built out of either shipwrecks or driftwood. To his right appeared a forge, across the way a tavern, even what looked like a jeweler of sorts selling her wares. Most of them were standing under awnings to avoid the rain with little more than stalls. Various sailors and—by the looks of them—pirates wandered about, some in clusters engrossed in their own conversations. The fact that no one stopped to stare or comment was another good sign. Likely, this place was accustomed to people passing through who were not typically welcomed in more developed cities.
His attention was immediately caught by the small waypoint just a few feet away between himself and the blacksmith's canopied forge. He still had no idea what time it actually was in all the gloom. With all the merchants about, he had to assume it wasn't late enough for closing. Guessing maybe mid afternoon to early evening, he decided he'd go ahead and try his luck at finding the temple. First, he was going to set his mind on that waypoint. If he needed to get back here quickly or get out of trouble somewhere, it would be the closest safe point for him to get to.
Once he was certain he had it fixed in his mind well enough to create a portal to it, he turned his attention to the other exits. There were crude but heavy gates both to the north and to the southeast along the palisades. Aside from the usual buildup of human smells within the village, the sweet scent of rotting wood hung in the air. The rain was light but consistent. It would be a soggy trip. He spotted two more bored-looking guards as he made his way to the southeast gates, no more than a few dozen feet from the ones he'd entered through. Being more on the inside of the gates, they didn't seem to be too careful about who or what they let in and out. At least that was a good indication that they rarely had to defend the gates. When he passed through the gates, they barely even looked up.
A crude bridge of planks just outside the gates crossed over a fetid stream of water. Beyond the planks, he could see a clear trail of mud where no grass would grow from all the years of people walking over it. There was even a relatively well-kept cottage he passed to his left. Unless he was entirely mistaken, this likely belonged to that Silvertongue he'd met. A few minutes past the cottage, he caught sight of a large, scum-coated pond that held a couple of ruined fishing boats on its shores. The rain let up almost completely as the path took a turn to his left around an ancient, twisted tree that grew up on the edge of the pond. Occasionally, he caught the sounds of croaks and calls of various animals. In the rain, it had been hard to hear some of the wildlife. Now, he could distinctly hear the flapping of leathery wings and the hopping of what sounded like frogs the size of dogs or larger.
When the trail straightened out just ahead, he caught sight of two bright blue flames flickering animatedly in their braziers. Obviously, they were magic. They did a fair job of lighting up large, carved stone columns and lintel that made up an arched entrance to something. The blue flames dancing in an invisible wind made the whole area more than a little creepy. Without those braziers marking the entrance, it would have been difficult to tell that there were even walls to either side of it. The whole of the visible edifice was so overgrown it all appeared to be nothing more than solid curtains of vines on either side. Moving closer, he could easily see the moss-covered stones and that the vines nearly covering the entrance had been recently cut down. The small pile of vines on the ground beside him showed they'd been cut with fire, not a blade. Again, he recalled this wizard Silvertongue had mentioned was also looking for the temple. If this was it, he would likely find this wizard somewhere inside the temple complex ahead. He just hoped they wouldn't get in his way.
Beyond the severed veil of vines, he could now see an equally overgrown path. Ancient paving stones were just barely visible under the moss and grass that had grown up over the centuries, possibly even millennia. Lining the left wall of this tunnel-like entrance were five stone statues of what appeared to be knights. It was difficult to tell for certain under the moss that had grown over them, but the stone swords were easily recognizable. There was a very faint magical aura around the statues that he could just detect. Much like the braziers, it was weak and almost undetectable. Most likely, they had been created out of magic rather than being carved. Yet there was still something about them that set him on edge. Listening to his instincts, he stood under the lintel at the entrance, listening, watching, thinking.
At least a full minute later, he spied the subtle clues that had set him on edge. Covered in moss as these statues were, their swords were not. Now that he inspected the closest one still several feet away, he could see those stone swords were chipped. They had been used. Elsewhere, he saw the traces of more magic on them, places that didn't fit. Places where the moss had literally been blasted away by something, though not recently. Finally, he realized that these were no mere statues. They were some kind of guardians.
It not being the first time he'd confronted enemies made of stone, he looked for something that would be a weak point. They had stood their sentry duty for hundreds—possibly thousands—of years. Clearly, they had defended this entrance physically in the past. He could find no runes or magic source that animated them. Part of his mind wondered what they would be guarding against. It was an ancient temple. Temples were where worshipers gathered. It was true he had no idea what was worshiped here. And it was equally true that, as times changed, one deity would go out of favor and their followers be persecuted. Perhaps they were for something like that.
Ultimately, he decided he could be speculating all day and night and likely not find an answer. He hadn't obtained enough information. His impatience had led him to fail to ask questions. The Curator likely knew much more or could at least find the information. Most worshipers that felt the need for protection in their own sanctuary were usually cases of persecution from other humans or even targets for demons. He had sensed nothing demonic about the temple thus far, no taint, no filthy hellish residue. He finally decided on the one course of action that made sense. He hooked his shield on his back and his scythe at his side and dismissed his skeletons.
Warily, he stepped into the tunnel-like entrance. Nothing stirred. He took a few more steps, still nothing. He nodded to himself. These guardians were likely there to guard against people who came armed or were triggered by people with violent intent. Whatever the trigger, he'd passed. Just ahead, the carved stone path took a left. When he rounded the corner, he caught sight of more blue-flame braziers on either side of a short flight of stairs. At the landing of those stairs stood a six-foot wide, intricate seal with three stone slots that looked only very recently emptied. Again, he considered the wizard Silvertongue had mentioned. To the right of this landing, another set of stairs led down into the temple entrance. In the deepest shadows of those stairs, he could see stone doors that were magically sealed.
Before he could head in that direction, though, a whisper of movement in the shadows off to the side had him reflexively swinging around with scythe in hand. A woman he hadn't caught sight of earlier jumped down off a section of wall. Already, he could see the statues of other guardians coming to life with a bright blue glow. Drawing his weapon had likely been the trigger. He swore mentally as he began summoning skeletal warriors. At the same time, he put his back to the wall.
The dark-haired woman in battle mage robes sniffed disdainfully at him and slapped the ground on the landing between them. A darker flash of blue ran across the ground and up the statues. They all froze in mid-stride toward him. Seeing she wasn't about to attack him right after saving him, he quickly hooked his scythe on his belt and dismissed the skeletons. He put his unoccupied hands out to his sides as she did the same.
"What are you doing here?" she snapped at him. "You could have gotten us both killed."
He fixed his expression to serenity and carefully laced his voice with a hefty amount of respect. He bowed deeply, priest to honored mage.
"Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma. You must be the wizardess Talva spoke of. It seems we are both seeking entry into the Temple of Namari."
She smirked at him, though she returned the bow rather more informally, mage to priest. "Jin. You arrived just in time, then. Supposedly, we stand before an altar that summons the temple's guardian, Namari, and I fully intend to awaken her. With the right magical invocations, the altar should come to life and summon Namari."
He couldn't help the mental sigh. Every mage he'd ever met of any discipline, other than Cain, suffered from an overabundance of arrogance. He was glad he'd played the respect angle early, or she likely would have given him much more trouble. He couldn't help noting the deliberate omission of rank, title, or anything else, though he did not mention it. He nodded respectfully, anyway, and stepped back away from the seal. She stepped toward the center of the seal under their feet. He watched closely, though she kept her voice low enough he could not overhear her invocation when she knelt down. Just as she seemed to finish the words, she touched her blue glowing fingertips to the center of the seal. Lines carved in the stone flared a bright blue for a moment before fading away again. Then the wizardess rose to her feet and backed up a few steps.
Now, he could make out the clear image of a young woman's ghostly form rising out of the stones. Her ghostly form was so powerful in itself that she was nearly solid to the sight. The aura of power around her was unmistakable. Yet, she was very young, by the looks of her. She wore robes of a style he did not recognize from any currently known religion. And the staff she bore seemed as plain and simple as her robes.
The ghost eyed them both. "After untold eons, who seeks an audience?"
The wizardess bowed deeply in respect to the ghostly priestess. Pyresong bowed respectfully in a way that was meant to be taken as a priest to a high priestess. The entire language of bows and their proper uses was drilled into him from a very young age. But he didn't need to be told outright that this was no mid-ranking priestess. Whatever she had been in life, she had attained a level of proficiency that practically radiated off of her. The young woman returned the bows respectfully but with no small amount of curiosity and visible suspicion.
"Honored Namari, I am Jin from the great isle of Xiansai. I have traveled the world searching for your ancient texts," the wizardess explained.
The ghost turned to him. "Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma. I seek an angelic weapon said to be hidden within your temple. We need its power to destroy the corrupted shards of the Worldstone before they fall into the clutches of the Burning Hells."
Though her expression never changed, the ghost's eyes bore into him. He felt distinctly he was being weighed and judged. A slight chill ran through him, indicating she had indeed been probing deeply. He lowered his mental and magical shields to let her in. As the silence stretched on for several more seconds, he refused to back down. Beside him, Jin seemed to sense a problem and unconsciously shifted away from him. Pyresong's only concern was that the priestess might find a reason to fault him in some way. He had been in direct contact with the corrupted Worldstone shards. If her questing in his mind and heart would get him what he needed to destroy those vile things, then she was welcome to it. If she refused him...
Namari finally seemed satisfied, and the chill retracted.
"If what you say is true, this is indeed a dark time... But has no one told you? What stands before you is no temple. This is a prison."
Though he never took his eyes off Namari, he noticed Jin seemed just as surprised as himself.
"Sargoth, the despoiler of life, has been imprisoned inside for millennia. My soul was bound to this place to ensure the dark summoner never escaped," the priestess explained.
Namari's eyes were fixed on Pyresong again. For one heartbeat, he thought he saw something in her eyes. Some instinct below conscious level triggered a thought in the back of his mind. He was convinced she wanted release. Her next words confirmed this.
"But eternity is a long time," she told them tiredly. "The power of the nephalem has waned, and his connection to the Burning Hells has only grown stronger. He will free himself in time. And I am bound here, helpless, without the three beacons."
The ghost pointed to the three recently emptied stone holes in the seal below her. Her eyes continued to bore into him.
"Return the beacons and help me eliminate Sargoth before he unleashes untold havoc upon this world." Her gaze shifted to encompass both of them. "Do this, and I will entrust to both of you with what you seek."
She faded into a blue mist and then sank back into the stone seal. Again, he was certain she had been saying more than her words alone conveyed. Why he felt so unsettled about it was something he didn't have time to pin down. She would be far from the first spirit bound to a place to have asked a Priest of Rathma for release. His instincts were screaming at him that there was more going on here. He set it aside for later analysis as he turned his attention back to the three empty holes. He had a feeling those missing beacons were recently removed based on how clean and free of mud and moss the holes were. They were going to be the easy part. Likely some local or another thought they would make nice decorations. This Sargoth, on the other hand...
Beside him, Jin was frowning contemplatively.
"That explains why the altar was so difficult to activate. Three missing beacons..." She seemed to consider this for a moment before turning to actually speak to him. "You know, on my way here, a pirate was trying to sell me some artifacts he likely stole from this temple. That may be a good place to start."
He cocked an eyebrow at her, to show her how amused he was that she even deigned to speak to him. A moment later, she revealed why.
"What do you say?" she asked. "Interested in saving the world?"
Did she not hear a single word I said? he wondered, trying not to laugh outright.
Typical mage arrogance. Their mission was the only one in the world that actually mattered.
"The pirate was just outside the port when I last saw him. Let's try there," she said, brushing past him toward the entrance.
Pyresong knew he was about to have his patience tested with this young wizardess. Since she had not given even a rank to Namari, he began to wonder if she might be an apprentice rather than a fully tested mage. The one thing that crossed his mind and was tossed out again almost instantly was that she was some rogue wizardess. Had she been a rogue, it seemed very unlikely Namari would have entrusted her with this task. Then again, he had no in-depth knowledge of mage or wizard rankings beyond apprentice and master. Maybe Jin was something between the two or beyond the two. And Xiansai was one of the few places he had never visited. Perhaps it was normal in their society to forgo rank or some other status.
By this point, the rain had completely stopped but still dripped drearily from the trees and vines. As he followed her down the path back toward the port and village, he could more clearly hear the slithering of creatures and the occasional flap of leathery wings. Thankfully, she chose to walk ahead of him in silence, not quite ignoring him. He was not really in the mood to deal with her arrogance or attitude. He was already feeling tired. He just wanted to get this over with and get back to Westmarch and Cain, hopefully with good news.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the still-open gates of the port's village. He watched while she marched right up to a man leaning against the palisade just outside. He caught up just as the pirate was answering whatever she had demanded of him...because asking was likely not a concept she was familiar with.
"Beacons?" the elderly pirate echoed in surprise before lowering his voice. "Maybe I know something... For a price, of course."
Jin turned to him, "I have some experience dealing with these pirates...but we should also consult that Silvertongue fellow. You go speak with Talva. He's been in charge of that filthy little port long enough to have at least heard a few useful rumors."
And with that, she dismissed him completely. He walked away, amused to hear her trying to charm her way into the negotiations with the pirate. This time, he did give into a soft laugh. He was willing to put up with almost anything if it got him that angelic weapon. Already, it was wearing on into evening, and he very much wanted to catch Talva before he left for the day. He was amazed to realize he could actually tell the difference in gloomy daylight all around him as the sun was likely setting beyond the thick clouds. And, of course, any excuse to be away from Jin was a welcome one.
"Fetishes are attacking the port!" someone screamed.
Almost any, he amended himself a moment later.
Several more men and women began screaming as they ran in every direction, trying to get to safety. Two men were trying to close the gates to the north before more of the little demons could get in. He was already summoning skeletons and had his scythe and shield ready when he rounded the corner of one ramshackle building to find flames rising into the air. All around him were dozens of these little Flayer demons. He'd never encountered the little things before, but he knew from others that they were vicious. Poisoned knives, poisoned darts, and fire were their typical strategy, along with a hefty dose of battle frenzy that never seemed to cease. And it worked with terrifying efficiency. Already, a handful of the slightly taller Fetish shamans were blasting flames at anything and anyone that looked like it would burn. The others danced around with blades that resembled small carving knives. People were running and screaming everywhere and, in general, just trying to find a place to hide. A mixture of what passed for guards, sailors, and pirates were all battling the demons as best they could. The little things were almost unbelievably fast and clearly in a wild battle frenzy.
He sent his skeletons in all directions chasing after the fearless little things. In the meantime, he targeted the shaman he could get to. Already, it seemed half the village was on fire. But that tough old wet wood didn't ignite easily or burn for long. With any luck, he could get to the gates and help cut the flow of Flayers entering from the north. Unable to get close enough, he set the blades of his scythe's energy to cut down the shamans whenever possible. He had to be extra careful around the others, there were too many people in his way. These little things had no fear and felt no pain as frenzied as they were. His armor was typically enough to stop demon claws or even the occasional human knife or sword, but the poison on the Fetishes' blades and darts could easily kill in minutes with no more than a scratch. This was more a matter of skill than brute force in melee combat.
Carefully, he made his way to the north gate to find the bodies of several men and women writhing in agony from the poison. He had no time to save them. A healing potion could only stave off the worst of the pain and other poison effects for a short while. Anyone who lived in Flayer territory either kept a healer close to hand or carried known antidotes to the poison. Pyresong hadn't been expecting to find himself in Flayer territory, so he had not brought any extra bottles of antidote. At the moment, he had just the one bottle of antidote he had acquired from the healer in the Amber Blades' village. It would not be nearly enough for all these people. For now, he would just have to be careful and hope the village healer survived the attack. There was nothing he could do for these poor people right now other than put an end to the attack.
As two of his skeletons fell to the frenzied attacks of more Fetishes, he replaced them with two larger, sturdier bone golems. The bone golems would also be immune to poison and more effective in killing those little demons. If nothing else, they could stomp the damned things into the mud. Finally, he managed to get the gates closed with the golems. That at least puts a stop to those still trying to get in. Atop the palisades, more men were raining arrows down on those trapped outside. He mentally commanded one of the golems to hold the gates shut since there was no obvious locking bar handy.
He ran toward the building where he knew Silvertongue was likely to be. He could only hope that the man had survived. He fought his way through another shaman and a couple of other Fetish warriors dancing around it as he entered the building, only getting slightly singed on his right arm. When he crossed into the next room, he found a much, much larger shaman killing yet another of Silvertongue's guards. Talva himself was cowering behind his desk in terror.
"Save me! I'll give you anything!" Silvertongue screamed.
Apparently, the dozen or so men in the area had managed to kill the other Fetishes except for one shaman, though they themselves were all now dead for their efforts. Pyresong led the way with his shield to avoid the worst of the flames now aimed his way. The thing apparently expected him to attack from above, as most would. He knew better and listened to his instincts. He dropped to his knees and swiped with his scythe. He was rewarded by the impact and resistance of flesh and bone being severed. Unfortunately, being frenzied as it was, losing a significant portion of its bottom half did little more than anger it. It flailed at him with a blade-tipped spear hidden behind the flames. He felt the tip of the blade glancing off his chest plates as he turned to swipe a backhanded slash with his scythe. He was already committed to the move and could only follow through when his blade hooked the spear's haft and sent the poisoned spear blade right at his face. He had missed his target and nearly taken off his own nose with the tip of the spear. Somehow, he managed to flinch back just in time.
Crippled and dying, the thing went completely berserk flinging itself all over the place with fire and spear. He couldn't find any safe opening for a few seconds as he danced around it. Sensing one of his golems was idle, he called it to him while he kept the thing busy. A minute later, the golem stomped on it until it was still. He set the bone golem to guard the room.
"Are you hurt?" he asked Silvertongue. "Were you poisoned?"
"N-no."
"Where is the antidote kept?" he demanded, letting his anger come through.
He already knew a man like this would hoard such a valuable commodity, if for no other reason than to save his own skin. Startled by the angry demand, Talva reflexively pointed to a chest across the room with a shaking hand. He made his way through the flames still burning around the floor and walls. There, he found a large chest. He lifted the lid enough to see it was filled with black bottles. He shoved a few into his satchel and then closed the lid.
"That's mine!" Silvertongue screamed.
He gave his golem a mental command to take the chest outside and leave it in the open for the others. He swung around and stalked angrily to this petty little man that seemed to think his life was worth so much more than the men and women dying out there in his port.
"You said you would give me anything," he said in a voice rimed with ice, inches away from the cowering man. "That is my reward for saving your people. I can go out there and tell them you kept it to yourself. Or you can look like a hero when I'm gone. Your choice."
As if only now just realizing he was, in fact, in a far more dangerous situation than he had been with the Flayer demons, he cowered further away into the corner behind his desk.
"Take it! Take it!"
"Thank you," Pyresong replied sarcastically, gripping the man by the arm and hauling him to his feet. "Now we will discuss my reward for saving your life."
Silvertongue looked for just a moment like he was about to argue. Catching the necromancer's dangerous expression, he changed his mind quickly.
"Every damn creature on this island ought to be exterminated, if you ask me!" He took a deep breath and seemed to find his composure. "Still, I owe you. I assume you actually want something in exchange, so let's skip to it. Why are you here? You didn't come by at the perfect moment by chance."
"Information," he said flatly once the man had finished babbling. "Three beacons of incredible magical power were taken from the Temple of Namari's entrance. Have you heard of anything like that coming through this port?"
Outside, the sounds of battle had died down to just the panicked cries of the villagers working to put out the flames and save as many as they could from the poison. He dismissed the golem he sensed standing idle outside. Inside this building, the flames had quickly died out in the wet environment. Silvertongue sighed and looked around at the destruction, as if not even really believing what had just occurred on his watch. After a moment of thinking, he nodded.
"A few times," he answered. "But like most things from that temple, misfortune followed those damned relics. We don't let people sell stuff like that inside the gates anymore. But I may have heard a rumor or two..."
He gave Talva another warning look when he sensed the man was about to try negotiating. Silvertongue swallowed a couple of times and again changed his mind on what he was about to say.
At least he has that much survival instincts left in him, Pyresong couldn't help but think, already long out of patience with this man.
"One relic was bought by an explorer years ago. Don't think the man ever made it off the island. The other is in a village to the east, but it sounds like that place is cursed. If you're going there, seek out Cadeus first."
"Thank you," he said, deliberately softening his demeanor. "Now, let's go help your people."
True to his word, he led Silvertongue out into the village square where the chest of antidote was already more than half empty. He made sure everyone knew of Silvertongue's generosity and fast thinking. Many paused to thank the man as he continued passing around the precious bottles. Meanwhile, Pyresong made himself useful helping to check the wounded and dead. Thankfully, none of the dead seemed to be suffering. He had only needed to help release a couple that were reluctant to leave after being killed so unexpectedly. A few of the villagers even asked that he give the rights and say the prayers for the passing of their loved ones. He was most accustomed to this work and never begrudged it, even when it took up precious time.
He had wanted to run right out the gates in search of the one beacon he thought might be recovered relatively easily from the village in the east. But, even if he had, the healers were all busy tending the wounded and easing the suffering of the dying. He knew from his first encounter with Silvertongue, where he'd overheard villagers asking for help, that this Cadeus was a healer. The sound of years in reference to the other had made his heart sink, but he wasn't about to give up.
For a while, he shoved all these thoughts aside to focus on his work and the people who needed him. He even joined the rest in removing the bodies. The Flayer bodies were piled outside the north gate and burned. Many of the human bodies were bundled onto their ships for burial at sea. The locals took care of their own.
By the time the work was finished, he and all the others around him were too tired to even think anymore. Other villagers had put together pots of stew for everyone to eat in between work. Sailors and pirates alike retreated to the illusory safety of their ships moored at the docks. Villagers opened their doors to anyone who didn't have a safe place to sleep after the fires. One woman even gratefully offered him a space by a fire in her shack. Grateful as he was, he couldn't sleep without his skeletal guardian in a place like this, especially one under threat of another Fetish attack. Instead, he found a quiet nook under a canvas meant to cover a woodpile behind a couple of shacks and against the palisade. Exhausted mentally as well as physically, he settled himself with his scythe in his lap to doze for a few hours until sunrise.
***
The next morning, it seemed no one was in any particular hurry to get to the usual business of the day. The Fetish attack had quite thoroughly disrupted the village life. Several buildings needed extensive repairs, and others were still burying their dead. Many more were still wounded, though the antidote had at least ensured their survival of the poisoned blades and darts. Everywhere, people were whispering how strange it was that the Flayer demons had suddenly risen up and attacked a relatively well-defended human settlement this large. For every human they killed, at least five of them had been killed. No one could even guess as to what had driven them to such an attack. They typically targeted individuals who wandered into their territory or the occasional small camps.
He woke with the rest of the village. His first sensation was of feeling downright slimy under his armor. The constant heat and humidity made his skin sticky, and the frequent bouts of rain seemed to only make the slimy feeling worse. He wondered if the sun ever even bothered to come out in this fetid swamp. Why anyone would want to settle in such a miserable place was beyond him. Already, he missed the dry, baking heat of the Shassar Sea. He was in no less danger here from heat exhaustion, he knew. It would just be presented slightly differently here. He stretched thoroughly, unseen behind the shacks, to shake off the aches of exertion from the fights the day before.
Only then did he realize he hadn't seen Jin at all during the attack yesterday. She had been only a handful of yards away when the first cries of Fetish attack rang out. He knew it was not possible she had missed it. Yet, he hadn't seen her during or at any point after the attack. He wandered around the village, briefly accepting thanks from those he had helped and asking about Jin. No one recalled seeing her yesterday or last night, alive or dead. And she certainly hadn't come through the closed and heavily guarded gates this morning, either. Ultimately, he could only hope she hadn't Fallen in the attack. Mage arrogance often leads them to mistakes of overconfidence. She was young and very likely prone to overconfidence.
At least he found information about Cadeus. The man had made his rounds already this morning to check on the people he'd stitched up and healed before leaving right at sunrise. He'd gone through the north gate. Pyresong followed, passing the still-smoldering corpses of the pile of Fetishes he'd helped burn. The muddy path wound north quickly out of sight of the gates in the thick growth. He was not entirely surprised when he walked right into an ambush of yet more Fetishes only about thirty minutes away from Port Justinian. He had been assured that they rarely ever came anywhere near the port. The villagers offered coin as a reward for every set of Fetish ears someone brought back. And they were more than happy to sit on the battlements atop the palisades, firing arrows and bolts at anything that moved in the swamp, even just for sport.
Finishing off the handful that had tried to ambush him—no shamans, thankfully—he took note of the multiple signs all around that there were plenty more waiting to attack.
They are bold. I'll give them that, he thought.
But he knew now they were but one of several threats here in the swamps. Thorned hulks bigger than his golems, ichthid gnawers the size of hunting dogs that spit poison, bog flies the size of seagulls that shot poisoned stingers, and even swarms of blighted flies that could poison you with a single bite like a mosquito were just a few of the lovely denizens of this mucky hell. Over the next two hours, as he slogged his way north and east a bit, toward the village that was said to be Cadeus' destination, he found himself relying more and more on his skeletons to draw out the various creatures brave enough or stupid enough to attack. It didn't take long for him to begin to feel the wearing down of the sticky heat. He slowed his pace a bit, just to hopefully conserve some energy for whatever he would encounter later. Even a few more Fetishes came out of hiding, thinking he would make an easy target by himself. They were quickly disillusioned of that.
He counted himself lucky he'd had yet to feel the poisons or venoms from any of these. As he well knew, his armor was not invulnerable. It was just a matter of time before something nasty got through his defenses. He could only hope it would be something he had antidote, antivenin, or other potions for in his bag. As the thought crossed his mind, he paused to dig some of them out of his backpack and put them into his side satchel with the Flayer antidote he had acquired.
Roughly three hours into his trek, he crossed into a place that made the stench of the swamp seem pleasant by comparison. The world beyond a break in some tall rocks was absolutely covered in fungus. He could tell the canopy above was so thick that virtually no sunlight ever penetrated. Mushroom fans the size of his shield covered many of the visible rocks and ancient roots. Where there wasn't obvious mud, the ground felt spongy like it was its own mat of some kind of fungus. Here, the assault on the sense of smell was like walking into a barn full of rotting flesh in the height of summer. Not entirely unused to such things, he was still taken aback and found himself breathing in short, shallow breaths. He wondered if the very air here was poisoned or if it was just a matter of all the fungus growing around him. He would have to be on his guard for odd symptoms or sensations. Yet another wonderful thing to enhance the underwhelming appeal of this place.
Just a few feet further down the darkened path into this place, and on his left, he spotted an older man in yellow robes. Between his robes and lighter hair, he stood out here like a banner. The muted browns and greens that thoroughly covered every visible surface probably made his own face and hair look like an easily visible target. The man was squatted down near some rocks and appeared to be inspecting the corpses of a handful of enormous larvae and some swamp scavengers. Vaguely, he recalled the gray-haired man moving among the wounded the previous day.
"Are you Cadeus?"
"Aye," the gray-haired man said, not looking up from his work.
"Master Pyresong. Talva Silvertongue said I should speak with you before heading to the nearby village. He seemed to believe it had been cursed."
"Cursed?" the man huffed. "Bah! Nonsense! Fools always claim that what they don't understand is magic. No, some creature is causing the village's suffering. The trick is to find out which one and kill the thing dead."
It took but a moment to place the man's thick accent. Scosglen. Another one far from home. The man wiped his hands and knife on a rag hanging from his belt as he rose to his feet to face him. Pyresong could tell the older man was bordering on exhausted, with dark shadows under his eyes. After all the work in the port the day before, he couldn't help wondering why he was all the way out here. The healer eyed him and his armor speculatively.
"I was about to search along the river to confirm my suspicions, if you'd like to come along."
"I'm looking for a...an object that is said to be in that village," he explained. "If you're headed in that direction, I will follow."
"Good enough. Those villagers will need all the help they can get, maybe most especially from you."
His expression remained serene, not quite sure if the man was insulting him or was sincere in his comment. Whatever got him where he needed to be to get that beacon was fine with him. But he would certainly be happy to be quit of this place. The stink of rot and fungus was a near-constant assault on his senses, the heat made him feel downright slimy, and the incessant squelching made it difficult to move silently. The healer led the way further down the path to the east until it ran into a shallow river that flowed sluggishly over the thick mat of fungus that made up this part of the island's floor.
A few minutes later, he caught the familiar and yet somewhat unfamiliar scent of rotting human flesh. It had all the normal smells of rotting meat, but there was something more acidic about it. Given the overwhelming smells of this area, he couldn't quite be sure if the new scent was even from the same source or even one of the putrid-scented flowers he had discovered here. As they seemed to draw closer to the source, he could tell it almost like a poison or toxin about it, as if the corpse was somehow infected with something. Already his eyes were scanning for its source when Cadeus seemed to spot it first. The body was floating in the water just a few inches away from a patch of reeds that lined the river's edge.
"There, a body! A villager! Gods, they must have floated from up river!" he said, squatting down on the edge of the reeds, not quite daring to get closer.
When Cadeus squatted down to visually inspect it from a distance of a few feet, he noticed movement. Out from the corpse came a giant larva of some kind of creature. He'd never seen its type before, but it was easily the size of a rat. There were others moving around the mass as well. As if they could sense the warm flesh nearby, several broke off from the corpse and began moving in their direction. Cadeus stood up and moved back while he sent his skeletons in to stomp the squishy little things. He couldn't help shuddering mentally at the disgusting sounds they made as they popped and squelched. He very nearly switched to just burning them with fire. When the last one was squished into the mud, he turned back to the healer questioningly. The man's dark expression didn't bode well.
"See that? That's no magic! That's toxin. Something killed these people and injected them with that vile liquid that spawns the larvae. Damn thing's got to be put down!"
"I will help however I can," he assured him before Cadeus got himself more worked up.
"That body...she came from the village just a little further up the river. I can smell more of the toxin nearby. If we follow the trail of corpses, we'll likely find the nest that was disturbed deeper in," the healer explained.
He was torn. He wanted to get to the village and the beacon. But if there was something killing these villagers, his best bet was to end the threat first, as the healer suggested. Besides, he could not bring himself to ignore the threat. He scanned the terrain. Cadeus wasn't wrong. Just a little further up the path of the river, near another patch of reeds, he could just make out the outline of another bloated corpse. He knew the right thing to do was end the threat, and not just for his own chances of obtaining the beacon. He couldn't ignore the need here, even if it wasn't his responsibility.
"Get to the village. I will find what I can," he told Cadeus.
The relief in the man's face was clear. "Thank you. I have some bottles of antitoxin, just in case." He dug a deep green bottle out of his side satchel and handed it over. "Be careful."
"I will," he assured, stashing the bottle in his own satchel at his side.
Cadeus took the path away from the river toward the village. He almost felt like he should follow, to keep the man safe. But his purpose was clear. And the healer hadn't been wrong. A few feet further along the shallow river, he found another bloated corpse swarming with larvae. A few feet beyond that, another; and then another. In a large pool where the water seemed to gather in a sort of pond before flowing away in his direction, he found a mud mound in the center of the pool that absolutely reeked of the toxin. It was almost like an invisible cloud that hovered in the air above the mucky mound. The tangy, acidic scent made his throat itch it was so concentrated here.
Wary, he sent his skeletons ahead of him. Not unexpectedly, the mass of mud began to rise up when they approached. It was a giant Maggot Brood, easily fifteen feet fall and almost as wide. More enormous maggots and larvae clung to its back. He shuddered mentally in revulsion. He kept well away when it began angrily spewing toxin in various directions, mostly at his skeletons. Being immune to such things, they were only slowed by the force of the blast. The stench of rot and toxin was almost overwhelming enough to make him want to gag, even from several feet away where he stood. The cloud of toxin would overwhelm him if he got any closer. And he had no desire to have to find out first-hand how well Cadeus' bottle of antitoxin would work. He could not close the distance safely and cut it to pieces, and his skeletal warriors were little more than irritants to it. The skeletal mage he'd summoned was almost as ineffective as it aimed spirit fire at the creature's face and eyes.
Replacing his skeletal minions with a couple of bone golems, he sent them in to see if they would be any more effective. The thing was just too large and kept spewing toxin or slinging out more larvae to attack. He sensed the few restless dead around him and considered using some bone spirits. However, he didn't want to expend that much energy unless he had to. He knew he was running out of options when he decided to try fire. Things that lived in wet, swampy places usually didn't get along with fire. And he was no fire master. At best, he might be able to...
The thin stream of fire that shot out of his hands was little more than he would have used to light a campfire, but the reaction had him dancing backward in shock. The small flames had actually ignited the toxin in the air, turning into something more akin to a firewall for a second. He was so startled that he nearly lost his footing as he danced backward in the slimy muck. If the toxin was that flammable, he had his solution. He was fairly certain that the rest of the wood and fungus around him couldn't be too flammable given how saturated with water all of it was. Yet, he really didn't have time to consider much in the way of other options. The maggot brood's bulky arms had just smashed one of his golems. The other was in the thing's mouth, being crushed to pieces. Again, he went with his instincts and focused, this time pouring even more energy into the flames. He just hoped he was far enough away now not to set himself on fire.
It was no fireball, just a stream of flames that arced out over the water and landed just a couple feet away from the creature. He'd gotten its attention. Taking a couple of steps closer, he adjusted his angle, desperately hoping to avoid its toxin-spewing lunge at him. The moment the flames hit the mud at the base of the mound, the whole thing went up in an inferno. Again, he backpedaled while the creature spewed toxin that instantly turned into a fan of flames at him. It stopped spewing the toxin, screaming in agony now. Every time it spewed more toxin, it came out as pure flames. The assault on his ears as the thing screamed was such that he nearly lost his focus. But it had been enough. The creature burned like a keg of oil had been thrown on it while it flailed around in the water, trying to find relief. Every time there was a spot that was doused, he lit it again. Carefully trying to avoid its flaming spouts of toxin. Eventually, it lay still, the flames still burning brightly.
Only then did he realize his legs were burning. He was startled to realize the pain felt more like acid than fire. His eyes caught sight of what he was standing in, making him run reflexively. The toxin it had spewed was now a thick, slimy layer on the water. It felt like it was eating right through his clothes and into the flesh! Quickly, he retreated to his left, out of the water, and downed the sour antitoxin. Where the toxin had touched his skin, it quickly began to itch instead of burn. That almost made it worse. He swore he could feel a crawling and wriggling sensation. For a few seconds, he held his breath while trying not to vomit up the antitoxin. The chill feeling of the antitoxin began taking over within seconds. He couldn't help shuddering in disgust. What if...
No, he told himself forcefully. The antitoxin will work, or Cadeus will know what to do.
He refused to let himself imagine millions of tiny larvae eating through his flesh. He shuddered again, and his stomach did a backflip. As if he needed more nightmare fuel at this point... Then, he firmly shoved the thoughts aside.
Now, to get back to his immediate task. He suspected already that someone in the village had the beacon. He looked around for a few minutes before realizing he'd lost the path. It must have wound around and crossed the river at some point further back. He had no intention of walking through that toxin again. With another mental shudder, he walked back the way he had come along the reeds lining the river. Almost all the way back to where he'd left Cadeus earlier, he spotted the path again. Likely, Cadeus was not much more than several minutes ahead. He set out at a careful jog in the squelchy mud. When he rounded a curve in the path that followed the river, he was mildly surprised to spot a waypoint platform. And, just beyond, that was a palisade that must surround the village. The healer was standing just beside the waypoint as if waiting for him. When he slowed to a walk a few feet away, Cadeus' sorrowful expression made him pause.
"Corpses everywhere!" he said, sounding close to tears. "An entire village is lost. W-we're too late to help anyone."
Glancing through the open village gates, he could see for himself. All over the ground were the bodies of men, women, and children. The toxin was present, but not in the concentrations he had smelled along the river. It was more a lingering residue in the air and mud. Nothing moved in that village that he could see or hear, not even animals. He had no idea how far the healer had explored, but his ears had pretty much confirmed what Cadeus was saying. He felt sick at the thought of so much loss of life. He patted the man's shoulder comfortingly.
"I'm going to search for the village elder's home. If fortune is with us, someone will have survived. If you cannot do this, wait here for me," he said gently.
"I...haven't been inside, but the toxin, it's everywhere."
"Wait here, then."
The man seemed to shake himself out of his initial shock. "No, I will come with you. They were my friends. I owe them that much."
"You're a good man, Cadeus, and I'm sure they know you tried."
He looked like he was about to snap at Pyresong but then realized who—or rather what—he was addressing. If anyone would understand the dead and how they thought, it would be a necromancer who worked so closely with them.
"I will do my part. I just hope they're all at peace," Cadeus said more firmly.
"There may be survivors," he repeated hopefully, heading through the gates.
Calling it a village seemed a bit generous, even by Bilefen standards. Port Justinian, at least, had actual buildings. Out here, it was all canvas and oilskin draped over the masts and other wreckage of old ships. Not a single wooden structure existed. What wood they had was either holding up the coverings to keep out the rain or lining the floor under the coverings in an attempt to at least not bed down in the mud itself. There was only one road that stretched from right to left just inside the sturdy gates. He turned to the right and followed the path down one small strip of the village. To his mind, it really wasn't more than a camp. There were likely less than a hundred people living within these palisades. Maybe they hadn't been settled here very long. That almost made it worse. Had they settled the area not knowing the nearby threat?
Hearing no movement or crying, he hooked his scythe on his belt. Some deeper instinct had him deciding to keep his shield ready. His hand glowed softly while he moved from one corpse to the next. No life and no lingering spirits. From tent to tent, he made his way around in a circle. As he came around back toward the entrance along the opposite wall, now moving to the left side of the gates, he began to notice fresher corpses. Curiously, these people had not all died at the same time. None had been dead more than a week, but some had died only a day or two ago. When he moved closer to the other end on this left side, he now noticed some of them had easily recognizable bite marks. It would not surprise him at all if the local wildlife had fed on the corpses. But there was something unsettling about them.
On one of the corpses that looked no more than a day old, he paused to examine the bites more closely. Most of the creatures he'd encountered on the island that had teeth for eating flesh were at least the size of hunting dogs. And the flesh on this one hadn't been ripped the same way he would expect. Often, wild animals and even twisted creatures bit down and then tore at the flesh with claws. Or they would thrash and chomp until it came apart in ragged strips. That's when he realized what was bothering him about these. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as it began to make a twisted sort of sense. He prayed he was wrong. But there were no claw marks on any of them, just bites and torn flesh from those bites. And there wasn't a single living animal anywhere in this little village, despite the open gates. Somehow, this felt all wrong.
Cadeus had moved up beside him, pulling the corpses out of tents and lining them up in the center of the village to prepare for interment. Still inspecting some nearby corpses and their wounds, Pyresong paid little attention for the moment. When the healer approached a tent on the far left end of the village, he heard him gasp. At the same time, a rustling noise in the last and most complete of all the tents caught his ears. The healer backed away while he grabbed his scythe warily.
"Who...who goes there?" an elderly male voice practically wailed from inside the tent.
The mostly bald head of an old man stuck out of the tent flaps. His wide, crazed brown eyes settled on Pyresong. Something about the man's enormous belly and skinny arms made the hairs on his neck stand up all over again. While he couldn't immediately identify the threat, something felt very wrong about this old man.
"A thief! Here to steal the beacon?"
Given everything else he had found here, he hadn't quite forgotten the beacon, though the man's words were still a surprise. Reflexively, he let his sight slip into the magical spectrum. The old man was carrying something powerful even if it wasn't the beacon he was looking for. Before either of them could overcome their shock to answer, the man seemed to double over in pain with a wailing cry. Cadeus tried to run over to help him. Instinctively, Pyresong stopped him with his shield arm extended out to block him. Aside from the visible magic, something about the man felt entirely too threatening to ignore. His instincts were again screaming at him. The old man was crawling forward out of the tent, crying and moaning.
"It doesn't matter!"
The old man wailed and then vomited violently, his whole body convulsing. What came up was a green, writhing mass of maggots and toxin.
"Owens, what has happened here?" Cadeus asked, still trying to push his way around Pyresong's outstretched shield.
"Don't get closer," he hissed at him.
"I can help him!" Cadeus cried back.
"There's magic at work here. Stay back!" he warned.
"Akarat! Why?! Why have you abandoned us?!" Owens screamed, rising to his feet.
He leaned over and vomited up yet more toxin and writhing larvae laced with thousands of wriggling maggots. When the healer again tried to shove his way past, he finally pushed Cadeus back hard enough for him to land on his rump. He turned to face the suffering man. His own gut was twisting sickeningly.
"They're squirming inside..." Owens screamed, clawing at his chest and belly in his madness.
A part of Pyresong was horrified beyond words. His mind had already touched on similar thoughts less than an hour ago. He suppressed a shudder but stood warily between Cadeus and the elder. As he had half expected, a moment later, the old man's face twisted into something like rage, beyond even just madness.
"No, they hunger for your flesh!" he cried, pointing at them. "I feel them..." Owens laughed insanely. "You! Meat...flesh!"
"Stop this! You're not well!" he shouted at Owens, still too horrified to really react.
Behind him, Cadeus struggled back to his feet, desperate to help his friend.
"If they feed...the pain...the pain will end!" the tortured old man cackled.
This time, Pyresong did shudder, mentally, at least. Now he understood the bites on some of the other corpses. He could see the beacon was somewhere on the man. And, despite what Cadeus thought, the only help they could offer was an end to this torment. The man was already broken mentally, and the damage to his body was unimaginable. He sent a trickle of power into his blade.
"Forgive me...but the beacon won't let me die! Only meat...only meat dulls the pain...just like with the others!"
"Then come. I will give you peace. I can send you beyond physical pain," Pyresong promised him gently.
"No! I can—" Cadeus tried again.
He turned his attention away from Owens just long enough to shove the healer back to the ground out of the way. When he turned back, for just one heartbeat, the old man's crazed eyes seemed pleading. Then his face twisted in a maddened rage once more. He lurched hungrily toward the necromancer, not unlike many undead he'd encountered in his travels. His blade sang through the air, releasing two blades of energy that cut right through the soft, rotting, yet somehow still-living, flesh. The man practically exploded with maggots and larvae when his body came apart in multiple pieces. He caught sight of the small stone beacon rolling a few feet away. He then stretched out his hand and lit the remains on fire before the maggots and larvae could get to either of them. The remains went up like a keg of lamp oil. Behind him, Cadeus wept.
"Owens..." the healer groaned. "Oh, Akarat be damned..."
When the larvae and maggots were all dead, he retrieved the glowing stone beacon. It was a stone no more than a few inches around with a blue, glowing sigil carved into the front and back, similar to a coin. Aside from the powerful magical aura, nothing about it seemed threatening. Under other circumstances, he might have even mistaken it for a game piece. He set aside his inspection of the object as Cadeus' soft weeping tugged at something inside of him he could not ignore.
"There was nothing you could have done for him," he told the healer soothingly.
His own stomach was churning, but he refused to let the healer see the horror he was now struggling to contain. The poor man was literally being eaten alive and unable to die. Even some of his worst nightmares from childhood couldn't compare to that reality.
"That thing in your hand... He had it? It radiates powerful magic."
He glanced back down at his hand both curious and more than a little concerned. Though nothing about it felt overtly threatening, there was no mistaking the raw power it exuded. Though he had never seen or felt anything similar that he could recall, he kept his hand shielded, hesitant to even keep holding it. For one heartbeat he wished Jin was present. She would know far more about how to handle such a thing safely.
"Yes, it's one of the beacons from the Temple of Namari. Could it have caused this suffering?"
"No," Cadeus was quick to answer. "The beast you killed did this to him. But that beacon glows with preservation magic. It was meant to ensure something survived. It must have kept him alive with those things eating away at his insides." Cadeus choked back more tears. "What a cruel twist of fate that something so wondrous could have caused him such suffering. Oh, Owens, I'm sorry. I didn't know..."
Pyresong nodded sadly. The horror of something meant to be good being somehow accidentally twisted to cause so much suffering... He could feel the magic radiating off of it, but it wasn't evil. He could even feel it working its regenerative powers on him despite the shielding. The injustice of this situation ate at his soul. Pushing away the horror and gut-twisting disgust he felt in empathy for poor Owens, he shoved the beacon into his side satchel. His sense of urgency multiplied as he considered what damage the other beacons could do.
"Cadeus, this isn't the only beacon. Talva mentioned another. He said it was held by someone who disappeared into the swamps and was never seen again. Another stone could be out there causing even more suffering."
This seemed to shock the healer back out of his grief. He looked around at the bodies littering the village. His aged face hardened with certainty.
"The Fetishes. Those wretched demons have gotten bolder lately—started attacking settlements directly. If their chieftain controls the power of a beacon, you have got to stop them. Their village is to the southeast, near the Kikuras Rapids."
He looked around at this now destroyed fledgling village. Someone had to take care of all of this. Maybe Cadeus could get back to the port for some help. Then, he remembered the attack on Port Justinian just the night before. No, likely no one wanted to leave the supposed safety of the village to come out here. And he couldn't leave this to Cadeus alone.
"Go back to the port. I will take care of this."
When Cadeus looked like he was about to argue, he raised a hand to cut him off.
"I don't know what burial rites they would have wanted, but none of their own have survived to mourn them here. The toxin and larvae may spread like a plague by accident. The best thing I can do is give them the rites and purify the entire village," he explained gently.
The healer thought about this and then nodded slowly. Cadeus gave one last look to this miserable place and then walked out of the gates resolutely. He waited a few more minutes for the healer to get far enough away to be safe. In a place this sodden and mucky, chances of a wildfire were slim. He finished the rounds he'd started, already convinced there were no survivors. He said the last prayers and then set the place ablaze. Likely, it would not burn completely, but enough to ensure no one else would come here. He set alight every tent and every body. Then he closed the gates. He took a moment to burn a symbol of plague warning onto the gates, in the hopes no one would dare cross it any time soon.
This once-fledgling village was now a graveyard.
Knowing it was close to, if not already, midday, he briefly considered food and rest. No, his stomach was still twisting with the horror of what he'd just seen. At least he'd been able to give the man peace. Hopefully, his soul wasn't as maddened as his mind had been at the end. And he hadn't needed him to release his soul to the next world. Poor Owens had gone willingly from what he had sensed after the death. He mentally said another prayer for the poor man as he followed what appeared to be a hunting trail to the south and east.
Hours rolled by in the sticky heat of the swampy island. Even the intermittent bouts of rain did nothing to cool the fetid air. Sweat poured off of him under his armor. Well-defined paths gave way to a few hunting trails or animal paths and eventually to nothing. In parts, the vegetation was so thick that he had to literally cut through it. Knowing to some small extent the creatures that lurked nearby, he realized quickly that would make far too much noise. Instead, he spent yet more precious time finding a way around such clumps. Occasionally, he found himself diverted around small patches of tightly packed trees. By late afternoon, he knew he was well and truly lost. With the incessant, thick cloud cover, there was no good way to really even tell what direction. For the most part, he was guessing and hoping. All he could do was keep following Cadeus' direction to the supposed southeast and hope he found the Fetish village eventually.
When he finally paused for a break and some desperately needed water, he thought he caught the sound of drums in the distance. He'd encountered a few small packs of the Fetish hunters but no shaman so far. Given the distances he'd traveled, it made the fact that they'd attacked the port village in force all that much more surprising. Clearly, they were well away from the human settlements.
He was still heading roughly south and east when the latest burst of rain passed. Now, he was certain he'd heard drums. They were faint and coming from the direction he was headed. At least he knew he was on the right track, despite all the detours. His progress was slow as he slogged through the mud and numerous small bodies of water he had to navigate around. It took another hour before the frenetic beating of the drums became clearer. In the distance, he could now hear the wild screams of the Fetishes and their shamans. It was not unlike his encounter with the Fallen camp he'd seen in the Dark Wood. Even from this distance, he could see ahead that this was much, much bigger. This was clearly a permanent settlement of Flayer demons who had dug in and could not be easily ousted.
From a place behind a large, moss-covered tree, he watched the movements through the open gates closely. To his eyes, there was indeed magic. However, nothing powerful enough to account for the other beacon. All of it was hellishly tainted magic. This didn't appear to be any kind of summoning. What little he could see through the open gates was mostly the movements of shamans dancing around, working the others into a frenzy again. There were easily a couple hundred, based on the size of the village. He couldn't be entirely certain, but it looked like they were readying for another raid on a village. There were no cowardly Fallen, either. These little demons would run right into a blade if it meant getting a shot at their killer with one of their own poisoned blades or darts.
Silently, he moved from tree to tree, getting closer while watching out for any sentries or patrols. So far, it looked like the majority of the population was inside. Carefully, he eyed the crude walls shored up by natural stone formations. Palisades not unlike the ones he'd seen around the Port Justinian, were also found here. Unlike the other villages, these palisades were strung with numerous human and animal bodies in various stages of decay. Getting over the palisades would be difficult, if not impossible. But with that many Fetishes, there was no way he would be able to slip through the gates. Maybe if he waited until after nightfall...
An unexpected movement at the open gates caught his eyes. A raggedy man who looked badly beaten was running. Behind him were a handful of Fetishes. More out of reflex than any conscious thought, he sent his skeletal warriors after the Fetishes as he ran to intercept the fleeing man. To his surprise, the man actually stopped. He stood behind the necromancer while he and his skeletons quickly dealt with the demons.
"Please, help them! They still have Geli and the others!" the man begged. "I-I tried to help, but there's just too many..."
He motioned the man to silence as he dragged him behind a nearby cluster of trees and undergrowth. From this distance, he could watch the still-open gates. Now, he could all too clearly see the bloody bodies of people hanging from posts inside. He half-listened to the activity in the camp while the man continued to babble beside him. Thankfully, it appeared no more Fetishes were following the escaped prisoner.
"How many more survivors?" he asked, never taking his eyes off the gate.
"I don't know. They're sacrificing everyone they captured from the port! Please! My friends—"
He swung around half in surprise and half to silence the hysterical man. "From the port?"
"Yes, my friends are just inside. Save them! I beg of you."
His heart sank. Had he known, he would have gathered a party long before.
"Gods... I didn't know. I will do what I can to save them."
The man was clearly dubious but too relieved to question it. Pyresong turned his attention back to the activity beyond the open gates. He had no idea what he could do against this many Flayers aside from summoning a small army of minions to keep them busy. His curses might affect a handful at a time, blinding or slowing them. The one idea that came to mind was essentially a repeat of what he had done with the Fallen camp. These were already whipped up into a frenzy. Maybe he could distract most or even all of them with a handful of skeletal warriors and mages.
He came out from his cover and ran right up to the mud, wood, and stone walls right behind the gates. The barefoot pirate followed close behind. He very nearly snapped at the man to stay back and out of the way. But he knew there was almost no chance he could pull this off on his own without some kind of help. The screaming fury of all those wound-up Fetishes and shamans scraped at his already raw nerves. Now, he could hear them all too clearly. Someone human was screaming in there, further rousing the screaming little demons. It didn't take much imagination to have a good idea what they were doing. The human screaming rattled him. Had he known those demons had taken living prisoners, he would have been headed this way last night with reinforcements from the village. Now, he couldn't see a way to save them without risking—
The sudden silence was deafening. Other than some human moans and screams scattered throughout the village, it had gone eerily still. The next shaman's voice that boomed out startled even him with its magically magnified volume. Still hidden behind the gate, he listened as pretty much the entire village of screaming Fetishes emptied out through the west gates. It didn't take him long to figure out they were likely headed for Port Justinian again. He could only hope they were still on their guards, ready for another attack. He turned to the wide-eyed escapee. There was no time to form any kind of plans.
"Wait here and watch the gates. Don't try to run. I will send you all back with a portal if I can."
As the last of the Fetishes and shamans emptied out of the village through the other gates, Pyresong waited just a few more seconds, listening intently. There was some movement in the village, but it wasn't much. He couldn't be entirely sure, but it seemed like maybe a score or so Fetishes remained. A woman screamed again, though more in terror than pain. Having no idea how much time he might have, he crept around the open gates. Not ten feet from the gates, a woman was tied to a pole, sobbing. His eyes roamed as much of the village as he could see; no demons in sight, and definitely no obvious magical aura from a beacon. Wherever the beacon was, it wasn't out in the open. The woman opened her mouth to scream when he came lunging out of the shadows at her. He managed to cover her mouth so no more than a squeak escaped. Her wide, terror-filled eyes met his. She realized he was at least human and then nodded. He took his hand away as he moved behind her to cut the ropes tying her to the pole.
"How many?" he whispered.
"I don't know. But if you give me a knife, I'll free the ones I can find."
He slipped her the large knife from his belt. "Free who you can and wait outside the gates. Use this gate to avoid the others. I'll join you as soon as I can to open a portal back to Port Justinian. Hurry!"
She went to the left of the camp as he proceeded to his right. Everywhere were stakes with people tied to them. Most of them had only minor injuries. He counted it a blessing. But, in several places, there were just as many impaled or hung up bodies. Too many to count were hung as examples of how this class of demon got its name. They had been flayed alive. He switched to his necromantically trained vision. Thankfully, there were no lingering souls. More than likely, the shaman kept them out or did something far worse with them. It still sickened him. He knew people who suffered so horrifically at the end very often became vengeful spirits. The sheer loss of life he could see in this one village was beyond sickening.
He forced his attention back to the living. Though there seemed no more Fetishes in the immediate area, it was possible more would show up at any moment. He had to get these people out of here. When he came around another pole, he found another man alive.
"I can't make it out of here. Give me a quick end and save the others," the man told him flatly.
He started to argue before he realized the man's leg was broken. The thick, white bone was sticking out right through the ragged, bloody flesh just below his knee. He started to turn to some of the other freed prisoners.
"Don't tell them!" the man hissed. "I will not slow them down. You can do it, or I can. But it will happen."
He eyed the man again. There was always that fear of the end, even in the most stalwart adventurer. This man showed none. He meant what he'd said. He didn't have time to argue.
"We only need to get you out of the gates," he explained, cutting the ropes. "I'll open a portal back to the port."
Nearly a dozen men and women were making for the gates on the other side of the camp. He tried to flag down some of the men, but none looked in his direction. Changing plans, he summoned a bone golem. He pulled the man up enough the golem could get a careful grip and sent it running toward the gates. He quickly turned his attention to the rest of this side of the village. No more living people he could see. He was about to get around a large wooden structure in the center of the camp when he heard a voice from up atop the woodpile.
"Is someone there?" a man asked in a quavering voice, just above a whisper. "Did Watts get help? Please, get me down from here!"
He looked up at the pre-bonfire structure. It was covered in bodies. There, amid all the other bodies, a man covered in blood strained against the ropes. Though alive, he was badly wounded. There was no easy way he could find to get to the man or his bindings. And he couldn't trust a skeleton or golem for this delicate task. He summoned a sturdy bone golem and used it to lift him high enough. Leaning forward, he stabilized himself with one foot on the woodpile that threatened to fall sideways. Focused on his task, he ignored the man's babbling gratitude. Not wanting to waste time retrieving another knife from his backpack, he carefully used the tip of his scythe. When the last rope around the man's hands gave way, he fell hard onto the wood and rolled off to the ground. When he hopped down and dismissed his golem, Pyresong was relieved to see the skinny, naked man scramble to his feet. He quickly handed him a healing potion off his belt.
"Thank the gods! I thought I was done for. Did anyone else make it out alive?"
Glancing around one last time, he saw no one else that could possibly be alive. He could only pray that they hadn't missed anyone. There was no time to be thorough. He guided the man toward the north gates as quickly as he could, still expecting some demons in the huts all around them to sound the alarm at any second.
"The others are just outside the gates. Do you know where the Fetishes went? Was that all of them? Have you seen their chieftain?"
"No! No...no one sees the chieftain and lives. I heard a rumor from the other captives of the magic he wields...but I never saw it myself. They've been taking people back into the rapids for gods know what purpose. We were about to be next. I...If you're looking for the chieftain, the Kikuras Rapids are where you'll find him."
They were just outside the gate now. The first man he'd seen was now standing in the middle of a group of gathered survivors. A few were seen running off into the swamp. He quickly opened a portal to the waypoint he'd found in Port Justinian near the blacksmith's shop.
"All right, I'll go put an end to this. Warn Talva Silvertongue and the others that the Fetishes are on their way for another attack. Go, quickly!"
He waited just long enough for the last person to pass through the portal before letting it close. He turned back to the village to follow the path the man had indicated. It actually wound around and up to a second tier of huts before turning back to the east. Again, he was struck by how quiet the village was. He crept his way from shadow to shadow, expecting a Fetish sentry or something to raise the alarm at any moment. He was almost afraid of how easy this was. By the looks of this village, there could easily be a few hundred demons housed here.
Beyond the village to the east, he was amazed to find another waypoint platform. Badly neglected and overgrown as it was, he was at least convinced they weren't able to use it, or it wouldn't be in such bad shape. He almost wished he knew of a way to destroy it. At some point in the past, this must have been human populated territory. That likely explained the half-stone, half-wooden walls and some of the other larger structures.
The land rose upward to a well-trodden, muddy path that turned north. He found it was leading into a jungle rather than a swamp. He felt too exposed, but the path beyond that ridge was the only way to go from here. If the man was right, he would find that Fetish chieftain somewhere beyond, and, he hoped, the beacon. He followed along the path as it rounded a curve into the much thicker jungle. His heart sank again as he viewed the terrain below.
In the distance, he could see more wood huts, crude buildings, and bridges. He spied what might be crumbling stone ruins in a couple of places. This wasn't a Fetish village. It was a city. He paused to consider options, though he already knew there really weren't any. He had to find that beacon and get it away from these demons, whatever the dangers. He moved off the path into the thick undergrowth. The best he could hope for was to sneak his way through as many as possible. He had no way of knowing how many of the Flayer demons had gone along with the others. The entire other three quarters or more of their population might be just ahead.
This path was more like a well-traveled road without the wheel ruts. Though there were no paving stones, the trail itself was kept well cleared of vegetation. It was lined with pebbles to keep it from becoming too slippery with mud, at least. More than an hour later, even his slow stalking wore him down. He hadn't encountered or even seen anything yet. No guards, no sentries, no patrols, not even Fetishes themselves. This place seemed to be as empty as the other half of their city. Quickly, he downed some more water from the skin that was as now hot as the air.
This heat is atrocious. How much farther are these rapids in this hellish jungle?
He thought longingly of the deadly cold weather of the Fractured Peaks. He almost couldn't believe there was a time when he hated such conditions. He would give all his gold now just for a cool breeze for five minutes. Still, it didn't matter if the beacon was an hour away or days away. There was no going back right now, anyway.
Another hour later, it was now noticeably darker. He had a feeling the sun was setting. The thick, gloomy cloud cover and intermittent desultory rain had done nothing to improve the miserably sticky heat.
When he rounded another curve in the path, he could see many more huts and even some stone ruins ahead. The land dropped off sharply, and there was even a river in the gap. Bridging the gap was a large Fallen tree that seemed to serve as a bridge for the little demons. On the other side, he could hear Fetishes milling about around their fires and huts, chattering in their squeaky, rapid language. There was no possible cover while he was on that bridge. He knew he would be spotted. And the rushing water beneath was white and foaming threateningly as it flowed over hidden rocks. There was no way he could risk a fight on that tree bridge.
Settling on a plan, he summoned four skeletal warriors and two mages. Taking one more deep breath of hot, fetid air, he sent them running ahead of him into this little section of camp. His hasty plan worked. In the surprise and chaos, he made it across the tree bridge without having to stop and fight. But now, there were easily a dozen Fetishes combating his skeletons and more pouring out of the handful of huts in all directions. Weak as his skeletons were, they were at least immune to the poisoned blades. While the little things hacked away at his skeletons, he blasted them with spirit fire and slashed with his scythe, trying to make as little noise as possible. Despite that, the demon's squealing cries rang out. At least the roaring of the river covered some of it. The last thing he needed was another batch of them to come out from further up the trail. At the far end of this little section, he spotted a shaman who was now dancing around, calling for others. He raced over and tried to silence it as quickly as possible.
In his focus on the howling shaman, he missed the little demon off to his right that was hiding behind some bushes. Even as he cut down the shaman, a poisoned dart stuck him just under his right arm in the narrow gap between the front and back plates. The little demon's aim had been perfect, or just incredibly lucky. Either way, Pyresong knew he was in trouble. Instantly, the pain was excruciating, nearly paralyzing. He clamped his jaws shut on a cry of pain as he dropped his scythe from spasming fingers. Mentally, he sent his remaining minions after the little demon.
The satchel with the antidote was on that side and he couldn't even move his arm. The sensation of being burned with acid from the inside out was almost more than he could handle. His right arm was useless. Every movement was agony. Awkwardly, he dropped his shield and reached around with his left hand to pull the dart out. Then, he tugged the satchel strap until he could reach inside with his left hand. When the pain began to spread throughout his chest, he gagged, choking back screams. His mind already blurring from the pain, he fumbled with a black bottle of antidote. In seconds, the pain was just too much. He barely managed to keep from vomiting up the antidote when the pain flared across his belly. He clamped his teeth shut, forcing it to stay down. Focused on breathing through the pain, he waited for the antidote to take effect. When the pain crept across his chest, reaching almost to his heart, he felt himself stop breathing altogether. Already tingling flashes of light had been closing in around the edges of his vision.
He had never personally experienced the Flayers' poison until now. As he fought to stay conscious, he prayed he never would again. The antidote turned the burning sensation into something more akin to prickles just under the skin. The pain finally began to recede, and his breathing helped to clear the darkness creeping around his narrowed sight. He'd been lucky. Had there been even one more Fetish, he'd be dead now. The pain had been so intense that he'd even lost control of his summoned minions. They had all crumbled to useless dust. As it was, he was shaken, badly, and beyond tired. The nearly unbearable heat alone had drained him. In the aftermath of the physical shock, he was now trembling all over and more than just a little weary. He had to hurry up and finish this somehow.
With awareness returning in increments, he looked around. This little pocket of huts seemed to be a dead end. Off to his right, there was something that looked like a dock and a large raft. Again, he looked all around hopefully. No more path. He was too tired even to think up something vulgar enough to express his frustration. Instead, he heaved a sigh.
He struggled back to his feet, forcing his body to obey, and moved toward this dock. Yes, this was the only way forward. Just around the corner from where the Fallen tree bridged the gap, the river seemed to take a ninety-degree turn and now flowed much more placidly to the northeast. It took a few seconds for him to realize that the wood and stone constructs of the Fetishes somehow tamed the white water he'd seen. It was still a deadly powerful flow and very deep, but it appeared calm enough to navigate with the large raft tied to the dock. He peered as far down the river as he could see. More huts and fires lined either side of the river. He wouldn't exactly be helpless, but he'd be one hell of an easy target.
He struggled to consider any other plan. He was already worn down by the events of the day, and the recent shock of unbelievable pain from the poison had left him downright unsteady. There was nowhere here safe to rest. With the bulk of the Fetishes gone on another raid, he would likely never have a better opportunity than this. Even finding his way back here with a boat would likely be impossible. Besides, a boat would be just as vulnerable as the raft, if not more so. And it was more likely to sink. At least this giant raft of bound tree logs would be very unlikely to sink unless it came apart entirely. Even then, the logs it was made of would float. Not much of a comfort when wearing even light-weight metal armor.
Stepping off the little dock and onto the raft, he tested it. Yes, very buoyant. It would hold him and a couple of bone golems easily. So that's what he did. He gave himself no more time to consider plans or options. Somehow, he would have to make this work. The golems stood on either side of him while he cut the rope anchoring the raft to the dock and picked up a pole lying on the raft.
He needn't have bothered pushing off from the dock. The moment it was cut loose, the raft lurched away from the dock into the fast flowing waters of the river. On edge, he watched every hut and building he passed, expecting one of those little demons to see him and raise the alarm. But they seemed mostly as empty as the rest of the village—no, city, he corrected himself—had been. Fine by him. He needed a few minutes to recover. Not having to walk, run, or fight was almost a pleasant break. But it was getting darker rapidly now. The sun was going down, and soon he wouldn't be able to see to even try to steer this thing. In the deepening gloom, he found it unlikely there would be enough torches along the river to keep him from crashing into rocks.
Thick jungle and rock cliffs rose on either side as the raft picked up speed. He positioned his golems on either side to be between him and any Fetishes that may be lining the river. With the pole, he readied to push away from any rocks he saw ahead. Hoping his luck would hold, he listened carefully for their high-pitched voices. Instead, what he picked up was the sound of water rushing violently over rocks. In the dusky light, he almost didn't see it. Just ahead was not one, but two short falls just a couple of yards apart. He instinctively knelt down to get a better center of gravity as the raft flung itself down both falls. Both his golems stumbled, and one fell over. He quickly dismissed it to summon another. His raft's crashing sound as it skidded and bounced off the rocks at the bottom was apparently the last of his luck. Stuck on a rock wall, he could hear the screams of the little demons coming. Frantically, he pushed the raft off the wall with the pole and back into the river's main flow just as they arrived.
Some of the demons were screaming so loud he could hear them echoing off the canyon walls ahead. A couple of shamans flung fireballs at the raft. Fetish warriors dove into the water to try to board it. He set his golems to stomping and kicking them before they could get on the raft while he focused on guiding it down the center flow. As the river wound its way through the valley, he ran from side to side, pushing off anything he could reach with the pole, hoping not to get stuck again and boarded. By some miracle, his frantic efforts paid off.
When he rounded the next bend, he muttered a vile obscenity...and then a few more filthy expletives for good measure. Some sort of wooden drawbridge had been lowered to block the fast-flowing river. On it, he could see three shamans running back and forth frantically. He nearly fell right into the white water himself when the raft slammed to a sudden halt still several feet away from the drawbridge. The raft was in the dead center of the heaviest flow. On either side, more of the Fetishes were diving into the water to get to him. He set his golems to working on them while he threw spirit fire at the shaman on the bridge.
While reacting defensively, there was no time to come up with a better plan. The shaman bombarded him with fireballs one after another until he was sure the whole raft would soon catch fire. As more and more of the Fetishes boarded the raft, he realized the golems wouldn't be enough. He joined them in kicking, slicing, and even just blasting the Fetishes off the raft. All the while, he was dodging more and more fireballs from the frenzied shaman on the drawbridge. The white water all around him meant that jumping off the raft to even attempt to get to either side would be suicide. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shaman getting more and more panicked.
Then he began to realize why. As more and more of the reinforcements coming up to and onto the raft were being killed, the shaman grew more and more desperate to stop him. In the chaos, he couldn't quite figure out why. But the shaman were even setting their own drawbridge afire at this point. Some part of him snarling in frustration at the whole situation prayed the shamans would blast themselves to pieces.
To his amazement, it actually happened.
One of the panicking shamans literally lit the drawbridge afire. And then the other two panicked even more, sending their own fireballs at one another. As impossible as this seemed, the fireballs were so powerful that they exploded whole chunks of the bridge. One stray fireball landed almost directly in front of the raft, blasting something under the water apart. Whatever he was stuck on gave out, and the raft lurched forward. The sheer force of the water slammed the raft right through the still-burning wreckage of the drawbridge.
The sudden movement had thrown him flat on his back. He quickly rolled to his feet, but the Flayer demons along the sides and coming up behind him were swiftly falling behind. The river opened up beyond this drawbridge into a much wider section, more like a lake. Yet, the flow he was caught in didn't seem to slow at all. In seconds, he was too far away for them to reach.
He nearly laughed in relief. In the chaos, he'd lost the pole. He had no way of steering at all anymore. All he could really do was hang on and hope he got wherever this ended safely. At this point, it was feeling more like a suicide mission.
Even as wide as a small lake, he could see dozens more huts and buildings on both sides. This valley and its Flayer city was enormous. Where he had found the survivors of the raid on Port Justinian was literally just an entrance. He revised his count into the thousands. There was no way the human population could ever hope to dislodge these demons. And, again, he wondered why such a place would have a human population at all. The hot, miserable conditions alone were bad enough for him. And, even if it was on a major shipping lane, this many Flayer demons could easily wipe out the entire human population in a concerted effort. Whatever had driven them to attack the port was likely only just getting started here.
The idea of a Worldstone shard flickered through his mind. It had been at least a couple of months since he'd seen Cain. The Horadric spell only detected shards being used. What if a shard was behind these Fetishes' sudden surge of power? What if they'd only recently gotten their evil little hands on it? It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, he admitted. He had no idea what he would face when it came to the chieftain. Whether it was empowered with a shard or a beacon or both, all he could do was move ahead and hope he lived to find out. And now, he realized just how daunting this task really was. No matter where the raft eventually stopped, he would have to work his way through and around this entire city and surrounding jungle to find that chieftain and its source of power.
A few seconds later, his mind was drawn back to his present, rather helpless situation, when he heard the roaring ahead. That was when he finally realized none of the demons had pursued him beyond a certain point. Off to the sides, he could see several of them in the water headed back in the other direction. His stomach turned into an icy ball of dread when he began to understand why.
Ahead of him, no more than a few dozen yards away, was another much, much bigger waterfall. Beyond that cliff on the horizon, the treetops closest weren't even visible. The nearest ones looked half a mile away. Somewhere in the back of his tired mind, he understood that what he was seeing was a very, very long drop. A drop so far down, even the jungle's treetops didn't come close to the edge of the cliff. And he was racing right toward that edge. He looked to his left and right. No help. As the water pushed him closer swiftly, he knew he had only seconds. If he jumped, he'd be pushed by the raging water right over the edge. And here it was so wide there was no chance he might be able to reach the rocks on either side before going over.
The unexpected chill of complete calm settled over him, as it often did when he knew he was going to die. Pyresong had never understood fully why he reacted that way. He was sometimes even teased about being friends with Death, more so because of this calm, rather than just the typical humor of a necromancer. He tugged on the shield hooked on his back to make sure it was as secure as it could be on its hooks and gripped the scythe in the other hand. Calmly, he dismissed his golems. There was nothing he or they could do now. Whatever happened next would be entirely up to chance.
Feeling serene and not just looking it this time, he stepped to the very back of the raft and waited. Time and his heartbeats slowed down, and his mind sharpened its focus to only what was here and now. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. Still, the wait wasn't long. A few seconds later, he jumped backward away from the raft as it tilted up and over the falls. The tilt had actually given him a few extra feet of air between himself and the raging water.
He could see clearly below him now. More than a hundred feet below him, the waterfall disappeared into a rock crevice lined with wooden platforms and bridges. Just a couple of feet to his right, thick trees and vines raced up at him. With the extra length of his scythe, he reflexively reached out. The first branch he caught nearly tore his arm from his socket. But the tugging motion had served to swing his body closer to the tree and net of gnarled vines. One after another, he slammed onto branches that either rolled out from under him or broke. Somewhere beyond the roar of the giant waterfall, he heard the raft crashing onto the rocks. Stunned, he found himself resting in a fork between two large branches right up against the trunk of a tree. His head and legs hanging down with the bulk of his weight pressing into his breast plates. Below him, chaos erupted as Fetishes came rushing over to see the destruction.
For several seconds, Pyresong just breathed. He was stable enough in this awkward position to not fall. But, hanging as he was, his immediate concern was not losing his scythe or his shield. With all the adrenaline coursing through his system, he wasn't even entirely certain there were no broken bones or other major injuries. Needing to sort that part out before anything else, he put the handle of his scythe between his teeth and shifted on the fork to get one of his legs under him. Nothing broken there. Once he was able to wriggle his way to an upright position, he hooked the scythe back on his belt. Carefully, he removed his shield and propped it securely on a nearby branch. Rotating his shoulders, he found some definite strain on his right side. And there were some pretty deep bruises to his left ribs. But nothing seemed broken. As the adrenaline faded, pain began to creep in almost everywhere. He took the time to analyze it. After all of that, after everything…he was slightly beat up but alive.
He would have laughed had he not been so completely, icy calm.
Below him, the Fetishes were still running about, chattering and squealing about the demolished raft. He knew that within a few minutes, word of his little escapade would reach this section. And he was too exhausted. With the adrenaline wearing off, the physical weariness crept in over top of the aching pains in various places. He had eaten nothing since the night before. He spent the entire day walking in this hellish heat and humidity. And now he had fought his way through the Fetishes' unbelievably large city, before surviving being thrown over giant waterfall. He had to rest. There was just no choice at this point. Whatever was going on below, he hadn't been spotted. He knew if he kept his position here, they would not be able to easily see him amid the thick leaves and vines from above or from below.
He watched and listened as much as he could to the activity below. After several minutes, the activity and voices further increased when word came down from the Fetishes above about his ride down the rapids. Clusters of Fetishes roamed around, looking for any sign of him. By the sounds of it, some of them even went down into the cave that swallowed the waterfall. He could hear their squeaking and babbling echoing up from the shaft. They were looking everywhere but in the trees, it seemed.
For a while, he rested, wary that some of the little demons would eventually figure out where he'd landed. As the night wore on and the activity died down, he risked getting some food and water out of his pack. In the end, he also wound up consuming another healing potion as his body stiffened from the beating it had taken. While trying to remain hidden, he did the best he could to work out the stiffness. He knew he would likely need every bit of his mobility in the climb down that awaited him.
In the latest hours, probably only a couple of hours before dawn, the camp had gone almost completely silent. No more voices, no more drums, no more frenzied dancing or screaming. But the roaring of the falls above and below masked most sounds anyway. From his vantage point, he couldn't really see much more than maybe a few hut rooftops. Even then, there were so many vines everywhere in this jungle that he couldn't be sure. He would have to move to find out for himself whatever lay ahead.
Making sure his shield and scythe were as secure as he could make them, short of tying them to himself, he began the tortuously slow climb down out of the trees. Where there were larger gaps in the branches, he was easily able to use the vines to slide a bit further to the next branch. Still, with every shifting leaf, he expected one of them to spot him and raise the alarm.
Still forty feet or so off the ground, he finally found a break in the trees that gave him a view of what lay ahead. The reason he couldn't really see the rest of this Fetish city was that most of it was underground. A massive crevasse, not unlike the one that swallowed the waterfall, was filled with wooden huts, platforms, and bridges. The bulk of this part of the city was in that crevasse. On the other side of the crevasse was a giant wooden structure—at least by Fetish standards—that looked to be some kind of temple or gathering place. Spanning the two edges of the cliff that went straight down into the earth, who knew how deep, was a single, rickety wooden bridge held together with rope. He would have to cross right over the top of the sleeping village out in the open to get to that temple. This he knew because of what his magical sight could see.
Dead center of that temple's dais and right in front of a human-sized throne, the blue glow of powerful magic radiated from a single point. At the top of a staff planted in the floor to stand above all else sat the beacon. Unlike the hellish, demonic power his eyes detected everywhere else, this was a pure magic, untainted by the Hells these demons originated from. The Fetishes had turned the beacon into the head of a staff. Just behind the staff stood a huge throne made of blood-covered wood and draped with red cloth. More red cloth, likely stained with real blood, was draped all around the walls behind, creating a sort of theater. Without a doubt, this is where the chieftain called them together and ruled over this enormous city.
For several minutes, he just watched from his hidden vantage in the trees. No Fetishes below him on watch or patrol. None were walking around on the paths or bridges. No sign of the chieftain himself. And why would they have sentries or patrols? This was the heart of their city. What could possibly pose a threat here in the center of their own massive city? Who or what would dare?
Pyresong smiled wickedly to himself.
This had seemingly become a suicide mission; there was no going back. And with the entire city appearing to be asleep, there would be no better opportunity. He was somewhat surprised to realize the calm that had settled over him when going over the falls was still with him. At this point, he could only consider it a subconscious sign of how much danger he was still in. At least there had been no taint of a shard that he could detect.
Once back on the muddy ground, he again stretched and twisted himself around to ensure his muscles hadn't stiffened any further. Then he hefted his shield on one arm and scythe in the other. He knew he could easily make it up to the bridge in silence. However, once he was on the bridge, the creaking of its planks and ropes would alert any Fetishes still nearby. He could see none. They had all gone indoors, it seemed. Something in the back of his mind screamed a warning about this. He sat in the shadows beside the bridge, watching again. Something was nagging at him to pay attention, but he could not see beyond his plans to run up, grab the staff, and then run through a portal to escape. It couldn't be any simpler than that. He just had to run across the bridge and get it.
Knowing it couldn't be much longer to sunrise, he had to make his move. The icy calm left no more room for doubts or warning. Taking a deep breath, he broke cover and ran full tilt across the forty-foot bridge. As expected, his boots hitting the planks made little noise, but the creaking and pulling of his weight on the child-sized bridge seemed like a squealing, creaking cacophony to his ears. And, apparently, it wasn't entirely unnoticed by the sleeping village. As he crossed the last few feet onto the more solid planking of the floor of this combined throne room and temple, the largest Fetish he'd ever seen came out from behind the throne.
They've set a trap! he finally realized, now far too late.
The hulking Fetish chieftain stood easily as tall as his shoulders and just as wide. It was riding another demon that seemed a cross between a bull and a lizard. It quickly moved directly between him and the staff. He paused, still several feet away. As he took in these creatures, trying to spot a weak point, he summoned a couple of sturdy bone golems.
"Warm flesh!" the chieftain growled in its demonic voice, startling him. "Strong spirit! With your soul, the Heart Drum will beat fast. Come. Scream to its song!"
The revelation that this thing spoke a human tongue was beyond startling. But worse, he was so engaged with trying to find a way around it to get to the staff, he failed to realize the magic it was using at first. The words and voice were laced with such heavy magic that he actually didn't even feel his arms going slack at his sides. Only when one of his golems collapsed to dust beside him did he finally begin to notice it was exerting power over him. But the calm that had settled on him made him feel distant and separated from his thoughts and emotions. This thing was trying to paralyze him with fear and magic. It almost worked. He let the thing believe it had worked while it stalked closer. He dismissed the second golem. He forced himself to stand perfectly still, watching. One of the larger demon's claws reached for his face.
At the very last instant, he ducked under the thing's claws and swung his scythe sideways, slitting open its belly. It, and the chieftain riding it, fell to the wood planks screaming. He flung open a portal beside the throne. He grabbed the staff at a run and literally dove right through the portal. He slammed it shut behind him before anything could follow him.
With the frantic, literal dive, he found himself landing in the filthy, slippery mud of Port Justinian. Laying face down in the mud a few feet from the blacksmith's shop, he rolled over to find a small crowd of stunned onlookers gathering around him. The icy sensation of impending death fled to be replaced with a giddiness that made him dizzy. Feeling the staff and its beacon in his hand, he laughed at the shocked and confused faces staring down at him. He'd done it! He'd managed to secure the second beacon! At the moment, it just seemed totally impossible, even to himself. Somehow, he had inexplicably survived all of that, relatively unscathed.
Several people backed away when he laughed openly at their surprised expressions. He was rolling in mud like a pig after all that... So much for the dignified, cold master of death image. He couldn't help snickering at that thought. He struggled into a sitting position. It was Cadeus who pushed through the gathering crowd that finally broke him out of his momentary giddy shock. The healer gripped him by the arms and pulled him to his feet.
"Are ya hurt, lad?" Cadeus asked.
He shook his head, struggling to slow his racing heart. "I'm fine. Just...tired."
Cadeus didn't buy it. Reluctantly, Pyresong held still while Cadeus laid a hand on his forehead and delved. He felt the warm tingle right down to his knees. Well, if it satisfied the healer so he could go find somewhere to clean up and sleep, he was welcome to the probing. Instead of relief, Cadeus' expression darkened. He scrutinized the necromancer, at least, as much of him as he could see. Then he looked at the staff and the beacon on the head of the staff. There was an even warmer, almost uncomfortable tingle in his arm where the old man was gripping him firmly.
"Come with me," Cadeus ordered, tugging Pyresong along with him.
"I assure you, I will be all right," he argued, trying to pull away.
The healer was having none of it. He dragged Pyresong all the way across the mostly still-sleeping village like a naughty child. He couldn't help another amused snicker. If nothing else, his image here was destroyed, as if he had ever cared. Cadeus dragged him up to one of the many crude buildings. The giddiness and adrenaline were wearing off, leaving him too tired and aching to even form a coherent argument. And Cadeus didn't actually let go of him until they reached the stairs of the ramshackle building, anyway. The healer fetched a bucket of water from beside the stairs.
"Here, clean up, and then come inside to get some breakfast. That's not a request."
He opened his mouth to argue and then shut it again when the Cadeus disappeared inside. He didn't really have a valid argument anyway. Now that he had the second beacon, he was ready to move on. But he knew too that the Scosglen native was a real healer and not someone that charged outrageous prices for fake potions and remedies. He'd obviously seen something that worried him. And he had to admit, he felt like he'd been through hells in the last day and night. He grinned mentally when he realized he probably looked it, too. On top of that, he'd had little to eat and no sleep. Then he had jumped through a portal and appeared laughing madly while rolling in mud. If that weren't enough to worry the old man, nothing would.
In the end, his body won the argument anyway. He was still sore, tired, and hungry. He examined the staff and quickly decided he was unlikely to break the beacon itself. So he put the head on the ground and stomped it until all the little pieces of wood holding it in place broke away. Then he snapped the staff into several pieces to break its remaining power. He felt the now familiar tingle of the beacon's powerful preservation magic trying to work on him while he scooped the small stone beacon out of the mud. He rinsed it off in the bucket of water and dropped it in his side satchel with the other. Then, as requested, he rinsed as much of the mud off of himself as was feasible. He shook off the excess water, still feeling like a sodden and slimy mess. With a mental sigh, he padded through the still-open door. On the other side of the room, Cadeus was scooping out a couple of bowls of porridge from a cauldron over the fire.
"Take off the armor. You can put it in the corner behind the door."
He nodded tiredly. One way or another, he was going to have to get some rest before he continued. He still hadn't seen or heard from Jin and could only hope she was having at least some luck with the third beacon. For now, there really was little more he could accomplish. Not to mention, the idea of sleeping in a safe place, even on the floor was far more appealing than under another borrowed awning. He quickly unbuckled the various pieces of armor, cringing at how absolutely slimy and filthy he was feeling in his days-old clothing at this point.
He watched out of the corner of his eyes while Cadeus put the bowls on a table nearby. Then the healer added something from a dark blue bottle into one of them. For a moment, he hesitated curiously, watching the old man mix it in. As if reading his mind, Cadeus began explaining.
"You were given a heavy dose of the Fetish poison. The antidote kept you alive, but it's not enough. Your nose is turning purple, and I imagine other parts of you are, too, by now."
"What?"
"I have a stronger form of antidote for just such occasions. Tastes horrible, so I apologize in advance. But you can either eat this bowl of bitter porridge, or I can shove it down your throat," Cadeus threatened with a smile that actually came off fairly wicked.
Having already removed most of his armor, he now tore off his gloves, trying to control his rising panic. The old man was right; his right fingertips were purple, turning to black. Nothing noticeable on his left hand. For a moment, he shuddered. He hadn't felt any different, but the poison was still eating away at him. Only now did he realize he couldn't even feel the very tips of his right fingers. Some distant, horrified thought wondered if the tissue was already dead and need amputation.
"Thank you. I-I didn't even notice," he told the healer, shaken.
"First, we have to neutralize the poison. Then, I can heal the damage. I'm guessing by the shadows under your eyes that you haven't slept. Either that or your nose was broken."
"No, I haven't slept. Did the others make it back? I found survivors in the Fetish city," he explained, still dazed.
"City?" he asked curiously. Then he waved it off. "Never mind that for now. Eat, quickly. In answer to your question, yes, almost two dozen came back into the port yesterday, warning of another Fetish raid. Talva was able to organize everyone in time to stop them from getting in."
He couldn't help making a disgusted face at the awful taste of the bitter goop in the bowl. He did his best to keep shoveling it down, against his tongue's wishes not to. As he finished the last of it, Cadeus took the bowl and handed him a small purple bottle. He downed it quickly, the acrid taste on his tongue after the bitterness nearly made him gag.
"You might want to get your boots off," Cadeus warned.
Almost as soon as he said this, Pyresong felt the room tilting around him. Suddenly, his boots were miles away and getting more distant. He was somehow falling rapidly and floating away upward at the same time. He flung his arms out as if to catch himself but only found air. Cadeus caught him by the shoulders as he fell.
"You're worse than I thought, son," the healer told him, clearly worried now. "Sleep it off. You'll feel better when it's over. If you have to vomit, there's a bucket beside you."
As he was lowered to the floor, he began to feel as if he was being sucked down a violent whirlpool spinning him mercilessly. Closing his eyes did nothing to stop the world spinning around him. He rolled onto his side, unable to stop a groan of misery.
Somewhere far away, he could feel something pulling at his legs and feet. But they were attached to someone else now. He couldn't remember ever feeling so sick or miserable. Even the first time he'd ever drunk to excess and suffered the next morning through his master's merciless lessons, he hadn't felt this absolutely horrible. Now, his body was fighting against him. Cramps in his belly, a fiery burning feeling on his right side, and Cadeus' soft voice muttering profanities rang in his head like a gong.
When the darkness rose up to pull him further down, he happily gave in.
***
His first conscious return to wakefulness was gagging and retching over the bucket. Whether the healer had helped him or he'd managed it himself by reflex, he wasn't sure. He was so miserable he wasn't even sure it was all in the bucket. Nor could he open his eyes to even check.
As the vomiting abated, the pounding of his head was enough to bring his mind to full consciousness. When he finally lay back beside the foul-smelling bucket, the cramps in his belly began to fade. He took a few deep breaths and looked around. Cadeus knelt beside him with a cup of water.
"Here, get it all out."
He forced his body into something of an upright position and took the cup with shaking hands. After rinsing out his mouth, he took a couple of tentative sips. The water tasted of something herbal that soothed his raw and swollen tongue. As it made its way into his now painfully empty stomach, it soothed even more of the layers of pain away. Cadeus gave him a few moments to collect himself. Gradually, he realized he was seated on a pallet in the corner of the room. His now clean clothes were hanging up on ropes that crisscrossed the ceiling.
"Better?" Cadeus asked, eyeing him carefully.
He nodded carefully, still a little dizzy. "I think so. What...how long was I out?"
"Since yesterday morning," Cadeus answered, moving over to a pot cooking over a small fire. "You were much worse than I thought."
"I remember the poison dart, and I thought the antidote worked. What happened?"
"The thorn of the dart was still lodged in the skin of your chest under your right arm. I suspect the tissues were already so badly damaged you couldn't feel it," Cadeus explained, returning with a pot of tea and a couple more cups.
Once again, he shuddered mentally as he processed this. He'd been closer to death than even he had realized yesterday. He relaxed back against the wall with the warm cup of tea cradled in his now chilly hands. At least his right fingers weren't purple and black anymore. Cadeus settled comfortably beside him on the floor with his own cup of tea.
"That thing you came back with, was that the other beacon?"
He nodded, trying to shake off the lethargy he could feel creeping in again. Then his thoughts caught up.
"Have you seen a young wizardess in the port?"
The healer nodded. "A few times. She was looking for you yesterday. I told her you were recovering. I expect she'll be back today. Stories of your surprise return spread around the village before the sun had even risen."
"I hope that means she has good news."
"Well, it won't matter that much today, anyway. You won't be going anywhere for a while yet."
"But I can't—"
"If you can walk to the door, you're welcome to leave. I'm not keeping you here," Cadeus told him a little too mildly.
He frowned, thinking about this. As his sluggish thoughts processed this, he realized he really hadn't felt or moved his legs at all. Flipping the blanket off himself, he finally saw it. There was still a purplish green tint to his skin from below his knees to his feet. His toes were now a deep purple. Startled and more than a little afraid, he reached down to touch his shins. It tingled and burned, but he could feel it. Somehow, he managed to move his foot and toes but he couldn't feel them at all.
"I'm still working on repairing the damage. How you managed to walk at all is beyond me. Sheer stubbornness, I would venture to guess," Cadeus commented, finishing off his cup of tea. "Your type just don't know how to listen to their bodies."
He sighed, both in frustration at the time lost and relief that he would not lose his legs. Then chuckled at Cadeus' remark.
"By 'your type' you mean 'adventure seeker', I hope," he commented darkly.
"Bah, you and the other priests spend too much time dealing with bodies, from what I understand," the old man shot back with a chuckle.
"But the damage can be repaired?" he couldn't help asking fearfully.
Cadeus nodded slowly. "I believe so."
He was relieved by this cautious answer. It was better than a flat-out no. He'd take whatever he could get right now. Despite the momentary fright, he was surprised to find himself yawning heavily. His body suddenly felt a hundred pounds heavier. He shifted to fight off the lethargy
"Don't fight it," Cadeus told him, deftly taking the now-empty teacup from his hands. "This is a lot easier and less painful when you sleep through it."
"You drugged me," he accused, only mildly irritated.
"Aye, and if I didn't, you'd likely be trying to crawl your way out that door," Cadeus told him with a grin to take the sting out of his words. "I will let the young lady know of your recovery. But ye're not leaving until I'm satisfied you won't be back begging me to cut them off in a few days."
Too sleepy to argue at this point, Pyresong just sighed again. He knew the healer meant well and was likely correct about the condition of his legs. Still, the loss of time chafed. He had hoped to at least speak with Jin today to find out how things had gone on her end. Instead, he let thoughts of the beacons drift away as he slid himself back down to a prone position. Satisfied, Cadeus knelt by his feet to resume working.
The last thing he remembered was his feet on fire as he sank into a deep sleep. For one brief moment before mercifully drugged sleep took him, he thought he was walking through the molten floor of the Burning Hells.
***
The next thing Pyresong became aware of was a soft snoring somewhere nearby. Through the cracks in the boards that made up the walls, he could see daylight slanting. Whether it was early morning or late afternoon, he wasn't sure. His mind felt slow and fuzzy as he tried to recall what direction this little shack even faced when he'd entered. He knew he was in Port Justinian, but that was about all he knew for certain. Remembering why he was here, he flipped the blanket off his legs. Yes, he could feel them now, and the discoloration was gone. Careful not to disturb the sleeping healer, he moved around and touched his feet. It seemed the healing had worked. However, it must have taken much out of poor Cadeus.
His clothing still hung from the lines above him, and his armor and backpack were still sitting behind the door. He was already forming a plan of escape when Cadeus' soft snores ceased, and he rolled over to eye his patient.
Some sort of healer's sense, he thought with no small amount of amusement.
This was far from the first time he'd been caught trying to escape a healer's clutches. It never ceased to amaze him how a healer could literally sense when a patient was wanting to leave against their wishes. With a tired groan that turned into a huge yawn, Cadeus sat up.
"I would say good morning, but I'm not even sure what day it is anymore," he admitted.
Cadeus chuckled. "That just means the herbs I gave you worked as intended. You slept through the day, and I gave you more to sleep through the night. Ridding your body of the poison and healing the damage was painful. Be glad you won't remember it."
"I am in your debt."
The healer waved this off as he slid to his knees beside the bunk and inspected Pyresong's feet for himself. He nodded in satisfaction with another yawn.
"You owe me nothing. If anything, this entire village owes you many times over." He yawned widely again. "Time for breakfast."
His own belly growled longingly at the mention of food. Cadeus snorted in amusement as he rose and moved over to the fire.
"You should be fit enough to get out of here once you're fed. It's only a couple hours past sunrise, I'd say. The young lady said you can meet her in the pirate village to the southeast of here when you're back on your feet. She wouldn't say more than that."
He nodded gratefully, yawning as well. Desperate to shake off the lethargy, he quickly rose to his feet, happily noting no lingering pain, just the sort of stiffness that came from staying in one position for too long. Carefully, he stretched every joint and muscle thoroughly as he recovered his clothing from the lines above them. He ran through a sort of internal check that confirmed he was almost completely restored. By the time he finished dressing, the healer had put together a hasty breakfast of porridge with a hefty dose of honey. For a moment, Pyresong eyed him and the bowl warily, trying to keep the amusement out of his expression. Cadeus chuckled.
"I wouldn't resort to such tactics if people like you weren't so pig headed. Eat. There's nothing worse than honey in it."
He laughed softly to show he was only teasing and happily finished off the entire bowl. By the time they finished, Cadeus was yawning tiredly again. That's when it dawned on him; the healer likely hadn't slept the entire time he was being healed—at least two days—being far more concerned with his patient's welfare. Putting aside his impatience to get back to the tasks ahead, he took the empty bowl from the man's unresisting hands and cleaned both for him. In minutes, Cadeus was already nodding off again. He waved at Pyresong while he gathered up his gear and let himself out. He silently dropped a hefty purse where his armor had been stacked behind the door.
On the stairs outside, he quickly put his armor back on, ignoring the curious stares all around him. He consulted his mental map of the area he'd been putting together since he'd arrived. If he was right, the southeast gates should take him near a path leading to the more official pirate village. While Port Justinian itself put on the facade of being run by nobility and sailors, this other smaller village didn't even pretend. Anything illegal from anywhere in the world could be bought or sold in that village from what he'd heard; including people. This was also where the bulk of the non-guild pirates tended to gather. Even Captain Rehm had warned him about that place; neither of them ever expecting he would actually end up on this island.
He reviewed his meager supplies in his backpack one more time. He would definitely be needing to restock soon. But, if all went well, he hoped to be out of here and back in Westmarch in a day or two. As Cadeus had told him, it was still fairly early in the morning. He stopped at another merchant that sold healing potions and bought a couple more to restock those, at least, hoping they would not be needed too soon. Within minutes, he was headed down the mucky path into the mucky swamp once again. Halfway to where he was sure the pirate village was located, he spotted Jin's colorful battle mage robes coming his direction through some trees. How she managed to walk through this mucky hell and still look pristine was a kind of magic he almost envied.
"There you are!" she said, looking irritated. "My negotiations went poorly...but I was able to find out that the pirate leader keeps the relics they've stolen in his hideout. That's where we'll find our beacon. Tell me you were at least able to get the other two."
"Nice to see you, too," he told her sarcastically before he could stop himself.
Her irritation flashed to something he couldn't quite identify before settling on anger. He didn't give her a chance to voice it, though.
"I was able to acquire the other two, yes," he cut her off. "Did the negotiations fail due to demands? Or was it something else?"
Jin huffed angrily anyway. "He won't part with it for any amount. But I've found a way in to get it. Come on, let's go."
Clearly, the wizardess needed his help for some reason and it chafed her to admit it, he realized. Deciding that wounding her pride would likely only make things worse, he gave in and followed her without further questions. He had hoped it was just a matter of money, which he could have resolved quickly and easily enough with what he carried in his backpack. He'd seen enough death and bloodshed around this island already. If he could avoid more, he would at least try.
Jin led him back toward the pirate village and then to their left. A muddy, well-trodden path led down to a rickety, moss-covered bridge across a shallow creek. No one stopped or challenged them as they passed through. Just across the bridge stood the enormous ruins of what had once been a very grand ship. It had apparently been sheared in half at some point. How it had gotten this far up and over the island and into the swamp, he couldn't even begin to imagine. A little off to their left, a movement just beyond the bridge made him wary. The wizardess shuddered.
"Ugh, rotten little fish creatures," she shuddered in clear disgust. "One of the pirates claims this pirate leader, Rhodri, treats these things like pets. Blegh!"
When they approached, a few of the said creatures slithered away and dove into the water with nothing more than a ripple. Then he got a good enough look to realize they were feeding on a fresh corpse. A corpse left out here this visibly was meant to be an example and a warning. Obviously, this pirate was no guild member. He was a real pirate. He followed the wizardess up a flight of curved stairs on their right. So far, he hadn't heard a whisper of sound beyond those feeding creatures. And, if this was some kind of hideout for the pirate leader, it was not well guarded. He couldn't help being suspicious. Something about this felt wrong to him. His instincts were blaring warnings.
At the top of the stairs, they turned left. Just a few feet away on their right was the open doorway that had likely once been the captain's cabin. He eyed every shadow. There was absolutely nothing to indicate any people were around; even the wooden balcony above was abandoned. There were clear signs of frequent use and even habitation here, but not a sound to indicate anyone was here now. Maybe they were out raiding a ship, but he doubted it. A vicious pirate that was willing to leave corpses lying around in the open as an example to others wasn't about to leave his hideout unguarded and unprotected.
"Let's have a look around, shall we?" Jin said, heading right for the doorway.
Reflexively, he grabbed her by the arm to stop her. He fully expected traps or something. She just flashed him an irritated look and pulled away from his weak grip. Then, she stalked right into the room beyond. For one irritated heartbeat, he almost wished there had been a trap. She wasn't just overconfident; she was being downright reckless. The room beyond was spacious and contained one large desk at the opposite end. Still expecting a trap, he searched the floor and walls for tripwires or even magic. Off to his left, there was a soft glow of magic in another area, but nothing immediately in this room.
"Let's take a look at his desk, then," Jin said, seemingly satisfied with herself as no threats presented themselves to the necromancer. "And...it's a mess, of course."
She grumbled further as she sifted through parchments and writing utensils scattered about the large tabletop. He tuned her out while he moved toward one side of the room and then the other to check the smaller areas flanking this main room. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was some kind of trap.
"How can someone be this disorganized and still function?" she complained in disgust. "Whatever. I think I have something here. Apparently, Rhodri locked away the beacon in his private stash. The text mentions some kind of security mechanism."
Having already checked the small storage room to their right, he walked across the room behind her toward their left. Beyond the open doorway, he could see a clear aura of strong magic coming from inside a large, wooden chest locked away behind some kind of steel cage. Neither the cage itself nor the winches and chains on either side gave off the familiar glow of magic. Based on the feel of the magic leaking out of the chest, he was fairly certain the beacon was inside. He'd come to recognize that feeling. To his surprise, it seemed the other two beacons in his satchel also recognized it. He began to feel a sort of vibration or echo from all three. He was so distracted by this for a few seconds that he failed to hear the stealthy steps approaching from just outside the main entrance.
Then, the newcomer cast aside stealth and stomped heavily to get their attention. The tall, black bearded pirate with shaggy hair entered the room to confront Jin. Just beyond the doorway in what he considered to be the treasure room at this point, Pyresong kept back in the shadows. This newcomer was very near to a giant in height, if not width. Pyresong knew he was taller than average, being over six feet tall. And this man was easily eight feet. There was a faint aura of magic about him that almost seemed like some kind of shield. He wondered if maybe the extra height was some kind of illusion. The fact that he confronted a battle mage so brazenly now pretty much confirmed he had some kind of magical protection. It didn't seem he had been noticed yet in the little side room. If Jin could keep him occupied, he could easily get in behind.
"Stealing from a pirate?" the black haired shaggy man said to Jin. "A rather daring way to ensure your death!"
Jin's hands glowed with prepared spells as the man drew his sword. Still unnoticed off to the side, Pyresong waited until he was sure the man's entire focus was on her. As the tall, burly pirate stepped within a couple of feet of him, he finally made his move. Knowing what kind of scum he was dealing with, he had no compunctions about taking the man's head off with one clean swipe of his scythe. However, his careful aim was wasted when Jin first flung a spell that destroyed the man's magical shield. Then she sent a spear of ice right through the pirate's chest. The necromancer's scythe met nothing but air. He quickly regained his balance and turned it into a full spin to face the pirate. He needn't have bothered, though. The impaled pirate landed in the doorway, still alive.
"B-bloody thieves... I hope that cursed thing kills you both!"
"Oh, shut up," Jin told him angrily, sending a blast of icy fog that silenced the pirate forever. "Scum. That was an easier death than he deserved from what I've heard of him," she explained coldly.
And, with that, both he and the pirate were again dismissed while she returned to her perusal of the desk's contents. She continued grumbling about the mess. He just shook his head in silence while she sifted through the random parchments. Since she seemed to be enjoying that activity oh so much, he would just work on the issue of actually getting the beacon out of the chest in the other room. He decided to take out his frustration and impatience on the winches. It took a minute of tinkering to realize that it wasn't just a single mechanism. They were two interlocked winch systems that seemed to lock each other.
"What is that racket?" Jin complained, coming to see what he was doing.
"The beacon is in that chest," he explained, calmly turning one and then the other to test.
"How do you know that?"
He paused to eye her in surprise. "You don't feel that?"
"Feel what?" she shot back irritably.
"I can see it; the magic radiates out from the chest. And the other two beacons in my satchel are resonating with it," he explained, still more surprised than anything.
She eyed him again as if he'd gone mad but ultimately decided to believe him. Briefly, he wondered why it was he could feel them so keenly, and she didn't feel them at all. After a couple of seconds, he chalked it up to likely having something to do with the fact that he had touched them and she had not, or something along those lines. Together, they each took turns on the winches until they managed to get the right order to raise the steel cage a couple of feet. That was all he needed to be able to reach his longer arms under the cage and into the chest. She unlocked it for him with another spell, and it popped right open invitingly. Right on top of a massive amount of gold and jewels sat the beacon. He quickly retrieved it and turned to leave before any of Rhodri's followers might turn up. Now that he had what they needed, he had absolutely no desire to linger a minute longer on this miserable, swampy island. When he realized Jin hadn't followed him, he turned back to see her gaze still fixed on the heavily loaded chest.
He sighed internally, already knowing where this was headed. And it was only fair. They had successfully gotten this far. She deserved whatever she wanted to carry away. He already had a fortune he would likely never spend in his lifetime. He set his shield against his leg to get at the extra purses he kept tucked away in his backpack.
An instant later, he froze, startled, when she said something in an arcane language he could not understand. But there was no misunderstanding what happened next. Turning one way and then another, she began burning the entire structure, her face twisted with rage. Shocked, Pyresong slung his backpack over his shoulder and retrieved his shield. He quickly backed out of the room, nearly tripping over the pirate leader's corpse. Whatever spell she used seemed to cling to the wood like some kind of fiery slime so it would not stop burning. The heat was so intense after only a few seconds that he found himself jumping the rail outside to escape the flames.
He got as far as the bridge and stopped, unable to comprehend what had just happened but definitely concerned about his present temporary companion. She walked right out through the flames sedately a few seconds later to his relief. She strolled down the flaming stairs as if enjoying a light breeze. Her face was now a mask of calm. She eyed him with some amusement.
"There's pirates, and then there's pirate scum like Rhodri. Enough people have died for the gold in that room. Let there be no more," she told him coldly.
He couldn't even begin to understand what had broken in her to cause such a destructive rage. Yet, as a mage, Jin must have a large measure of control; otherwise, she wouldn't have survived as long as she had with her knowledge and power. He nodded in understanding. He'd given in to his own rage under certain circumstances. He would not judge her harshly for this. The fire would eventually consume this hideout, and no more would use it. The gold would likely be buried under the debris and ashes and then sink into the swamp where it would no longer be a temptation to others. Not so long ago, he did something similar on an abandoned farm near Ashwold Cemetery. Her chilly and challenging expression softened when she realized he understood and was not judging her for it.
"Let's return to Namari, then," she said in her usual arrogant tones.
She brushed past him onto the bridge. Now, he couldn't help wondering how much of that arrogance was a facade. Still, he well knew, everyone had their stories. Ambition for power was not always a bad thing, and it was very possible she'd earned that arrogance through trials of her own. They made their way in silence down the paths back toward the Temple of Namari.
He turned his mind to what would come next. Namari had charged them with returning the beacons and then helping to destroy this Sargoth. He couldn't begin to guess what he would face with what little he knew. All he could really do at the moment was conserve as much of his energy as possible. He let his mind wander a bit, still alert for attacks from wildlife and Fetishes but longing for what he now considered home. It had been far too long since he'd last sat by the fire with Cain. He quickly shook off those thoughts when they rounded the outer path to the temple.
"Go ahead and place the beacons," she told him, freezing all the guardians in their places. "I'll cast the spell to summon her."
He eyed the seal and the three holes in the stone. He looked from the sigils on the seal to the runes on the beacons. He wasn't sure if there was a specific order or places to put each. As if reading his mind, Jin answered.
"They are interchangeable but locked to each other. You can just put them in any positions."
He nodded and knelt down to place them one by one. When he was finished, the wizardess again chanted something he couldn't understand but did make him feel the gathering energies in the air around her. When she touched the center of the seal, it flared a bright blue once more. And this time, the three beacons flared blue in response. The priestess' ghost rose up out of the seal, seeming even more solid this time.
"You've returned," Namari said, clearly surprised, "and I can feel the beacons' power flowing through the altar. Well done, both of you."
However, her pleased smile faded quickly as she eyed both of them. "Our opportunity is slipping away from us. If we are going to defeat Sargoth, our moment is at hand."
She turned to the wizardess. "Jin of Xiansai, you must take my place at the altar lest Sargoth break the seal before we are ready. Whatever you sense or feel from beyond those doors must not break out. You must hold. Are you prepared?"
Jin bowed deeply in respect. "It will be my honor." To Pyresong she tossed, "Good luck in there."
Then she reached out and took Namari's outstretched hand. Jin seemed to fall into a trance as her body glowed a bright blue. Only then did the priestess step away from the seal. Whatever was happening to Jin, she seemed completely unaware of them after that. Namari turned to him.
"You are my last hope, Priest. The prison, and my spirit, have weakened over time." She motioned for him to follow as she walked down the stairs to the now unsealed doors. "Sargoth betrayed us. For his terrible crimes, he was imprisoned for all eternity. Or so we believed. When I faced him again, something had changed." She glowed a soft blue while she led them down the dark entrance tunnel. "His rage had grown, granting him terrifying power. I fought with all my strength, everything I had... I failed. You must not."
They exited the tunnel into a large open place that must have once been a courtyard. Despite the millennia of growth, this former temple was still very impressive. Clearly, it had been built with magic that sustained it to this very day. Water cascaded down many of the walls and around various statues that lined the walls. Directly before him was a bridge that crossed into what he believed to be the main front section of the former temple. Namari's ghost gave him a few moments to appreciate the beauty still lingering in this magical place. And it was incredibly beautiful. He wished he had more time to appreciate it.
"Sargoth's prison lies in the depths of the temple, but even here, I can feel his foul magics at work," she said sadly. She turned to face him. "The spirits of my brethren are under his control, now. I am the last. They will rise against us. Persevere, and we will meet ahead."
She faded away before his eyes. He couldn't help a moment of irritation at this; she could have at least explained what he was facing. But he shook it off quickly. Ahead, he could see several braziers burning with blue magical fire, lighting the walls and halls beyond. He summoned some skeletal warriors and mages, not really sure what he was walking into. When he crossed the bridge to the main entrance, he could see the scattered bones. Many skeletons were still clothed in the tattered remains of their ancient robes. Likely, the magic that had preserved this place had done much to preserve them as well. Cautiously, he sent a couple of his skeletal warriors ahead.
He was not entirely surprised when many of the skeletal remains began to shift and rise up. If anything, he was slightly saddened. They had sacrificed their lives and even souls to contain this Sargoth, and now he had control of them in death. With scythe and spirit fire, he blasted and cut them to pieces, hoping that maybe this time they would remain still. Whatever magic bound them to this place clearly made them vulnerable to external control. Though it took several minutes to get through them, they were no real effort. He was relieved when they did not get back up again.
Still, there was no mistaking the countless spirits he could see and feel bound to this place. He could feel dozens, possibly hundreds, more lingering...waiting. Just ahead, in another room with an altar standing at its center, he could see Namari waiting for him patiently. He set aside these thoughts. If all went well, perhaps he could free them when this was done.
"How my soul aches at the sight of this once joyous place, now devoid of life and forgotten," she told him mournfully as he approached.
They both sensed the gathering energies around them at the same time.
"We're not alone. Restless spirits surround us!" Namari said, backing away. "Ready your weapon!"
He huffed, somewhere between a laugh and irritation. As if a necromancer needed a warning where restless spirits were concerned. Turning, he could see the spirits rising up right out of the stones. No skeletons this time. He hooked his scythe on his belt and shield on his back. Namari stared at him incredulously.
"What are you—"
He ignored her questions. For now, his whole body began to glow as he shielded it and opened his mind and spirit to those tortured souls around him. And they were tortured. He could clearly see the dark lines of foul energy that made him shudder mentally. Their spirits were literally tethered forcibly to this place. It was that vile magic that had turned them into these enraged phantoms. Knowing his body was relatively safe for the moment, he ignored it. With scythes of his own spiritual energies, he waited for them to come at him. One by one, he severed the foul black tethers that bound their souls. As each one was released, it wailed in comprehension of its sudden freedom and fled this plane.
When he had released the last one, he returned more fully to his heavy body. He quickly shook off the heaviness, noting several sore spots beneath his armor. A few had definitely been stronger than he had anticipated and had gotten through his shields. At least they weren't serious, but he would not underestimate the power of these spirits again. To his left, Namari reappeared, looking both frustrated and concerned. She made no comment on his choice of tactics, however. Now, she stood beside the magical barrier that led deeper into the temple.
"The barriers that block us also serve to hold back his power. When one is breached, the others bear the strain," she explained. "As Sargoth's bonds weaken, his power to summon demon kind will only grow stronger. Be ready."
And here I thought now would be a good time to take a nap, he thought irritably, but managed to keep his mouth shut.
When Namari lowered the magical barrier, he could clearly see why she had warned him. In the room beyond, they could see three skeletal priests with powerful staves forming a summoning circle in the center of the room. Whatever they were trying to summon from the Hells was likely a lot more powerful than them. He quickly sent his minions ahead of him to distract them and break the summoning. He followed quickly with energy blades to disrupt and destroy the summoning circle on the floor. Then he turned his attention to destroying the priests themselves. The whole thing took no more than a minute.
Seeing he was finished, Namari dropped the barrier blocking the way to the next room. This one was also littered with bones. Yet, this one had an entirely different feel to his spiritual and arcane senses. Switching to his magical sight, he finally understood why. It was unlike any other place he had ever been. The raw power of the sacrifice here had completely cleansed and purified this area. If anything, it felt like many holy places he'd visited that were supposedly blessed by deities. Yes, many had died here, mostly mages and priests. There was no feeling of lingering souls or dark energy to threaten them here.
To his right, beyond another magical barrier, he felt the all too familiar foul energies of something with a direct connection to the Burning Hells. The feeling was vile but very, very powerful. He found Namari standing over the still bones of what appeared to be her own body. The robes long ago rotted away to dust. Her staff, however, was easily recognizable.
"My sacrifice cleansed this one room. I was able to free my brothers and sisters before I chained myself to this place for eternity," she told him, her voice laced with the weight of millennia. "As I said, eternity is a long time." Then, she turned to the solid wall behind her. "I will activate a gateway from here to the cage. Go and do what I could not: end Sargoth."
He nodded to her in silent promise, clearing his mind of all but the fight ahead. She raised her ghostly staff toward what appeared to be a blank section of wall in the center of the magical barrier. He could visibly see her spirit weakening with the use of power. When a portal opened, she faded away from his vision almost completely. For one moment, he worried that perhaps she was not strong enough to maintain it. Whatever was draining her went beyond this one act. It was as if the evil itself in the room beyond was taking its toll. Quickly, he stepped through the portal to confront this Sargoth. The portal behind him closed instantly.
He found himself in a large, empty chamber. On the far wall was a blue shield now laced with the black, writhing energies of Hell that attacked it. Inside the shield stood a mage that he knew had been human once but was now a twisted mass of darkness. It was far more energy than substance. Whatever this Sargoth had done with the power of the Burning Hells that fed him, there was almost nothing human left of him.
"So this is Namari's last hope?" Sargoth asked in a demonic voice filled with amusement. "A pale shade of our kind's former glory. Come, then. Bear witness to my return!"
Eyeing the twisted staff the creature held and the weakening shield that surrounded Sargoth, Pyresong considered various tactics. The shield seemed to be teetering now on the edge of shattering. Clearly, Sargoth was putting all his efforts into the dark energies that ate away at what was left of the blue shield. He approached slowly. As expected, this arrogant creature that stank of the hells was prone to its delusions. He only had to wait in silence for it to continue. His complete lack of visible fear quickly turned the thing to insane raging.
"A hundred thousand gnashing maws await this world!" Sargoth screamed.
Sensing the energies coalescing around a point directly between himself and Sargoth, he backed up several steps, keeping his skeletal minions ready. He watched as a Putrid Desecrator rose out of the summoning circle in the floor. Yes, the shield was definitely weakening if he was able to summon something like that. Feeling like this was almost too easy, he held back his skeleton and sent energy into his scythe. When the thing was still only maybe half risen, he unleashed his power, slicing cleanly through the soft, foul-smelling flesh. Then he smiled mockingly at Sargoth, who was still prodding the shield with his staff.
"Come now. I expect you can do better than that," he taunted.
He had no desire to waste his energy on demons. As Namari had told him, Sargoth was indeed powerful. He was one of the earliest forms of human called nephalem from the days before Inarius had deliberately stunted human potential and power. He wasn't afraid to admit he was intimidated at the thought of fighting Sargoth directly. And he knew already that Sargoth was testing him and trying to wear him down. He needed to get Sargoth to stop toying with him and break the last bit of the shield. Until that shield was down, he knew he couldn't get through to Sargoth directly. And any energy he spent on trying to finish off the shield would just work against him later.
"Marauders of the Ashen Wastes, hear your master's call!" Sargoth screamed, clearly getting more enraged.
This time, it was three demons. Pyresong had never seen demons such as these before, but they were enormous hulks. Each one was easily twelve feet tall and five feet wide. Their muscles bulged and rippled as they rose up out of the summoning circle on the floor. Each one was armed with a giant sword and shield. He didn't even need to switch to his magically enhanced sight to see that these blades were made with toxic components from Hell. One touch on his flesh, and it wouldn't matter if the blow killed him or not. The poisonous magic in them would still rot his flesh. Covering his surge of fear, he danced quickly back away from the three to stay out of reach.
When they were mostly solid, he sent a surge of his own power into the still corpse of the large Desecrator that lay between the three. Though it cost him dearly in terms of energy, the blast had been worth it. The three Marauders were blasted to many gory pieces, flying in every direction. This sent Sargoth into a frenzy, screaming and battering at his shield. Pyresong stood calmly with a taunting smirk, watching, waiting for his opportunity to strike directly. The sudden calm that settled over Sargoth a few seconds later gave him chills that he quickly covered. Demented minds like this thing could swing from one extreme to another. He knew that. But something still felt off about the sudden change. He sensed something tugging at him. He kept his mental and magical shields locked tightly. Still, something flashed through his mind for a split second. Before he could grasp what it was, Sargoth's laughter rang out through the chamber.
"Look at you," the creature taunted in return. "Tired. Weak. Unfit to inherit Sanctuary. The nephalem should have ruled this world. Not you pathetic shadows of our glory. I see your fears, Priest. You cannot hide from me."
He knew it had seen inside him. He had no idea what Sargoth had managed to see, but at least now he knew it would be something he'd faced before. As far as he was concerned, if he could defeat it once, he would do so again. He forced his mind and heart to calm while he awaited whatever trick Sargoth had next.
A few seconds later, he laughed aloud. Of all the things Sargoth could have called from the Burning Hells, it was another Fallen Matron. Unlike the last time he faced one of these, it was out in the open, exposed, and he had the element of surprise. Much as he had with the Desecrator, he sent a vertical blade of energy from his scythe and swiped viciously. Whatever Sargoth thought he had seen, he'd misunderstood it entirely. The Matron, belly and chest slit wide open spilling its guts onto the floor, fell back dead before it even had a chance to raise its club.
Even as he opened his mouth to further enrage the trapped nephalem with more sassy comments, he sensed something had changed. He reflexively rolled to the side instead. The shield was suddenly gone without so much as a whisper of sound. Sargoth was coming right at him, swinging his glowing staff. He slid across the floor in a pool of blood, already rolling to the side again when he instinctively felt the next attack coming. For a few seconds, all he could do was dodge the flurry of magical attacks.
"You have done well," Sargoth told him, going still once the element of surprise was lost. "With these sacrifices, the power of Hell is at my command once more. This world is mine, as was promised! Join me, and I will show you real power."
"Sorry, you're not my type," he replied with another smirk.
He was already sending the mental command to his minions to move in and distract the nephalem from behind. Without even glancing around, Sargoth swung his long staff in a wide arc behind him, taking out every skeleton. Despite having no eyes in the twisted mass of darkness within the hood, he could feel the thing probing him warily. It had clearly sensed something it liked and was reaching for that. Despite his shields, he again felt the power of that gaze trying to bore into his mind and heart. Sargoth, realizing he would not get through this time, turned to rage again.
"You filth will not stand in my way!"
He didn't waste any more energy on summonings. He already knew that nothing he could summon would be anything more than a nuisance to the mage. It wouldn't even be powerful enough to be a distraction. Instead, he dodged a few powerful spells that were flung from the staff while he opened himself up to something altogether different. All around him, the evil of Hell's influence could be felt. Its power was growing within and around Sargoth. But the necromancer had felt something even more powerful than Sargoth and his connection to Hell, waiting patiently to be acknowledged. This time, it was more conscious and controlled than ever before when he took into himself all the spirits of all the dead that still haunted this once great temple. Thousands had sacrificed their lives in this very place to see Sargoth imprisoned, and they were not about to sit around quietly while there was someone who could feel and use their power against Sargoth.
He opened himself to all of them, and they came willingly. After only a couple of seconds, Pyresong felt like his body was straining to hold so much. There were so many different lives, different spirits, and different voices, all screaming for vengeance and justice. Only a Priest of Rathma could have heard their screams as he now did. And only a necromancer could give them what they needed to find peace in death. His body was glowing and now felt like it would explode at any moment with all the energy coursing through him. He released it all in a massive, condensed volley of bone spirits.
What started as a single burst became a raging torrent of bone spirits that would not stop. He was no longer in control; the multitude of spirits was. As they screamed inside of him, he screamed as well, with the pain of releasing of so much raw spiritual power through his hands. With his eyes closed against the agonizing pain, he didn't see the evil mage being flung across the room and slammed into a wall. He didn't need to direct them anyway. The bone spirits knew the target they sought was before them. The very same energy that had threatened to rip him apart from the inside now bore down onto and into the evil nephalem mage, ripping it apart. Despite his efforts to shield himself, Sargoth was helpless against the constant barrage of the most powerful bone spirits seen since the days of Rathma's own generation. In pure terror and pain, Sargoth called out to his master.
"Al'Diabolos! Lend me your strength!"
This seemed to only further enrage the countless spirits now using Pyresong's body as a channel. The already painful flow had left his arms feeling like they were on fire. Somehow, unbelievably, the flood of power increased yet again. Still screaming, he fell to his knees, helpless and unable to stop the torrent. He was certain his arms below the elbows were nothing more than blackened stumps at this point. The familiar, chilling calm he always felt when he faced the prospect of dying settled over him again as he felt his body burning from the inside out.
"Nothing?" Sargoth cried in disbelief. "Only darkness? No!"
Across the room, Sargoth gave one last agonized scream as the angry spirits devoured and destroyed what physical and spiritual body he had left after all these eons. As suddenly as the massive flood of spirits had started, it now ceased. The sudden weight of his own burned-out and battered body left Pyresong senseless. Unable to even really feel it anymore, he fell sideways onto the cold stone floor. He couldn't find the energy left in himself to even breathe. There was no more pain as his unfocused eyes stared at empty darkness, waiting to engulf him in its even colder embrace. His body was literally burned out. His mind recognized the disconnect as shock. He was feeling his body less and less as his soul tried to flee it. He was done. He was ready, as he had been so many times in the past.
And this time, he was...tired.
A white bearded face and laughter slid through his fading consciousness, jolting him back.
Cain! I...I can't...he thought, not willing to abandon his friend.
But his body wouldn't respond. He literally couldn't breathe. He could feel his heart stuttering painfully, fluttering weakly. He couldn't even find his arm to reach for a healing potion. Did he even have arms left after all that? He was too far gone already. The darkness had swallowed him, and he was sinking. Feebly, he struggled against it.
Suddenly, a white, warm glow enveloped his fading thoughts.
"Thank you, my champion," Namari spoke somewhere nearby, sending her energy into him and his badly damaged body.
His heart stuttered and thumped painfully, struggling to find its rhythm again. Blinding pain all through his body nearly shocked him back to unconsciousness. But her warmth and healing power quickly consumed all of it. He blinked several times and gasped ragged breaths when he found his body responding once again to his unconscious demands. He felt a stronger tingling warmth concentrated on his hands, which he was still certain were no more blackened stumps after all that. Gradually, he became aware of the rest of his body as the warm and comforting feeling spread. Somewhere, his consciousness began to reassert control. Still, whatever she was doing to heal him left him paralyzed for the time being. He sank into it gratefully while the throbbing pain in his head also receded with her touch.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he felt her chilly presence backing away from him; the warmth faded and then disconnected. By this point, he was so warm and relaxed that he was nearly asleep. He forcefully reminded himself that this was not over. No matter how close he'd come to burning himself out and destroying his own body, he still had work to do. Cain still needed him. Namari's ghost sat patiently nearby while he focused on his movements to find his arms and push himself back upright. He was amazed to feel he still had hands at all. He almost wanted to take off his gloves and gauntlets to confirm it. And he was still slightly tired, but no more so than he ever was after any other battle.
"I'm sorry, Pyresong, but your task is not finished," she told him sadly. "I have seen what was inside of you and what you face. You were not meant to die so soon. You must destroy the Worldstone shards."
He nodded tiredly, settling himself on the floor with his legs crossed. There was still a bitter taste of disappointment deep inside. He didn't have a death wish, but he'd been so close to letting all of it go. He had never wanted any of this, despite what Rathma had told him. A part of him desperately wanted to return to that emptiness where he was not needed and no one remembered him, but he couldn't even figure out why that place was so familiar to him. The bitterness he felt at not being allowed to escape was tempered by guilt at his own selfish desires and how he'd nearly abandoned his one friend. He knew their quest to destroy those corrupted shards was far more important than his own selfish desires. Whether she read his expression or was somehow still reading his thoughts through their healing connection, he could not know, but she spoke softly to him.
"It is human nature to be selfish, warrior. You have suffered much. And I would have let you go, but for the spark in your heart and soul that cried out to your friend. You do not want to abandon him or your quest. And the gift I provide will ensure your victory."
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, ridding himself of the last of his disappointment. She was right, and he was far from finished with all of this.
"I have seen the memories the shards inflicted upon you," she continued. "I have cleansed their evil taint and influence from your mind. But, be wary, such corruption of the soul is not so easily cleansed."
He nodded gratefully. "Thank you."
"All that I promised you and Jin is yours," she told him, rising to her feet. "Our hope goes with you, Priest."
He, too, rose to his feet and recovered his shield and scythe lying nearby. The priestess opened a portal and motioned him through it. A moment later, he found himself standing back on the altar outside the temple. Jin still stood in a trance, glowing more powerfully than before. Namari touched her, and the spell was broken.
"You're back!" Jin cried happily. "Do you realize how impressive you are? I felt the whole thing."
Tired beyond words and just satisfied that it was over, Pyresong gave her a wan smile. Beside them, Namari's hands moved, and two items materialized. One was a stack of ancient tomes that were magically preserved and radiated a warm aura that he could feel as well as see. Beside it, a dagger that glowed so brilliantly to his magical sight he nearly had to block it out. But he couldn't find the will to do so. The very sight of it soothed his aching soul in a way he could not comprehend. He tentatively reached toward it, feeling its sentience calling to him. The moment his fingers touched the gold and silver hilt, it connected with him. His soul, so cold and tired only minutes ago, suddenly felt renewed and strengthened. Watching the look of wonder spread across his face, Namari smiled.
Yl'nira... the name sang through his mind like the chorus of a song filled with thousands of voices, though he had no idea where from.
Meanwhile, Jin carefully took the small stack of tomes reverently. The wizardess bowed deeply to the priestess, who returned it happily. As they rose, their gazes locked. Something silent passed between them that he was not privy to. Then Jin turned to him, all arrogance gone.
"I owe you a great deal, friend, but I need to take these back to Xiansai right away. If you ever find yourself upon the Great Isle, don't be afraid to seek me out."
He smiled warmly, seeing now the woman under the facade of wizardly arrogance for the first time. Despite his initial impression and her obvious youth, there was far more to her than he had initially suspected. He hoped their paths would cross again one day.
"I won't be. I, too, must return to my duty. Travel safely, Jin."
Jin smiled again, turning her usual sour face into a mask of beauty with no vanity. Then she turned to leave them. Pyresong, unwilling to hide such a wondrous blade as this angelic weapon, opted to tuck it safely in his belt rather than stowing it in his backpack or satchel. He still felt it and its powerful energies keenly. Its Light was just too comforting to smother. It was a balm to his battered soul. Namari turned her attention to the ancient stone doors that she shut, hopefully for the last time. Then, she returned to the center of the seal.
"There is nothing left for you to guard. Will you let me free your soul from this prison?" he offered gently.
"I welcome it, friend. As I said, eternity is a long time, even to an immortal nephalem. Ask Rathma someday when you see him again," she said with a grin.
He grinned back. "I just might."
"The seal of this altar is my anchor. All those forcibly bound to this place by Sargoth have been freed. The rest I freed when I broke the containment spell Jin was holding. You need not worry further for them.”
She paused and stared down at the seal and its glowing beacons for several seconds, almost sadly.
"You have seen the power of the beacons for yourself. They must never fall into the wrong hands again. After you release me, take them with you. Your Horadrim friend, Deckard Cain, should know how to protect them. And removing them will ensure no one ever disturbs this temple again."
"I will see it done," he promised with his hand over his heart and a bow, priest to honored high priestess.
He removed his gauntlets and gloves and tucked them into his belt. Then, he extended his glowing hand toward her. Namari took it willingly. He wasn't entirely surprised by how real and solid it felt to him. She held a power and strength he had never seen before in any spectral entity. Given that she was nephalem, he could only assume it was normal for them. She waited patiently while he sank into himself and then into the realm of spiritual power. It didn't take him long to find the line of blue energy that was her tether to the seal. With a thought, he attacked the resistant, powerful tether. It seemed he could not break through for several seconds as it resisted him and his attempts. Then, he felt the power of the angelic blade intertwining with his own energy. As if eager to help, it wove its power into his to form a blade that finally broke the tether.
"You are stronger than you know, Pyresong," Namari's fading spirit told him as it finally went to its rest.
He returned fully to his own body, no longer feeling its dragging weight. If anything, he felt better than he had in as long as he could remember. He credited it mostly to Namari's healing and cleansing but also to the blade he felt working its way through him. Despite the now pouring rain, he took a deep breath of the swampy, heavy air and blew it out with a laugh. He was alive, probably more alive than he'd been in months, maybe even years. And now he had real hope.
Time to go home, he thought happily, his now bare hand brushing Yl'nira's handle unconsciously.
Chapter 10: 09 Westmarch / Shassar
Chapter Text
Westmarch / Shassar
Once again, Pyresong had lost all sense of time for a while. Of course, Bilefen was considerably further east than Westmarch. Then again, with the incessant, thick cloud cover, he might have had to go all the way back to Port Justinian just to see if the shops were still open to tell him even roughly what time of day it was. And, if he was being honest with himself, he didn't care. Even if it were the middle of the night in Westmarch, he would happily wake up and deal with a grumpy Cain. He was far too excited to wait another second; plus, he was overjoyed to be leaving this mucky little hell.
When he opened the portal in Bilefen to the waypoint south of Wolf Gate in Westmarch, he had actually expected it to be much later than it actually was. He mused to himself that only earlier that morning, he'd woken in Cadeus' shack under the care of a healer. Now, only hours later, that actually felt like days, he was walking through a portal to an early evening city bustling with its usual activity. For one second, he grimaced and regretted not having taken the time to change out of his sweaty clothing and muddy armor when he drew some rather disgusted looks upon his arrival. But the almost giddy feeling of excitement at the thought of being back in the comfort and safety of Cain's workshop overrode all of it. Thoroughly ignoring everyone he passed, he made his way quickly across the sentries on the bridge and up through Rakkis Plaza. For a moment, he was so excited he almost considered pausing to drag Charsi along with him. Seeing the crowd around her workshop, he quickly reconsidered and resumed his hurried pace toward Cain's workshop.
He paused at the threshold of that door and its magical seals and wards. He marveled all over again at how he felt about this place and his friend. Whatever guilt he had experienced earlier was gone now. He wondered how much of it was the blade's healing Light. Then he shook it off. No, his friendship with the kindly old scholar is what made this place feel like home and safety. And he'd been gone for probably two months now. There was no telling how Cain would react to his return. A slight spark of mischievousness led him to knock instead of letting himself in. Cain's grumbling from the other side of the door was a welcome sound, indeed, that warmed his heart.
"Yes, what..." Cain started to ask in irritation before catching sight of Pyresong and freezing in surprise. The old man's scowl turned into a huge smile that pulled at his beard. "Welcome back, friend!" he laughed, dragging him into the workshop by the arm.
"It's good to see you," Pyresong told him warmly, embracing him.
"I didn't...I mean...I just..." Cain fumbled for a minute, pulling away.
"I promised you I would come back, though I don't blame you for doubting me," he assured his friend, pulling away after a few seconds. "And I have got quite the story to tell."
"Such as how you smell like a bog when I sent you into a desert," Cain laughed excitedly. "I can only assume this means you've finally found what we've been looking for!"
He couldn't help a laugh. Oh, yes, he was more than ready for a bath. He felt he might never get the smell of that swamp out of his hair, but it could wait a moment. What couldn't wait was what he'd been so looking forward to for so long. He pulled the angelic blade out of his belt and held it out in both hands.
"Indeed, Cain. Behold: Yl'nira," he said reverently.
The old man's eyes were wide as he took in the sight. "Astonishing! Only once before have I been graced with seeing the craftsmanship of the High Heavens. And it certainly wasn't from this close!" Cain said, his voice little more than an awed whisper.
He couldn't have kept the smile off his face if he had even bothered to try. Cain's reverence and appreciation for the weapon had been worth all of it. He lifted his hands, urging his friend to take it. The elderly Horadrim seemed hesitant at first. Pyresong smiled encouragingly and held it closer. He could practically feel Cain's hands twitching with the need to inspect it for himself. He nearly laughed openly at the old scholar's hesitation.
Cain slowly reached out to cradle it in both hands. The look of wonder and excitement on his face only became greater as he felt the energy of the blade sink in. He could feel its healing Light and warmth spreading through his body, mind, and soul, much as Pyresong had experienced.
"This is indeed and object of holy power. To think an old man like me would ever hold such a thing..."
Cain's eyes flickered to the pedestal in the center of the room, just beyond him. Catching on, Pyresong smiled again and squeezed the elderly scholar's thin shoulder.
"It will work."
The elderly Horadrim seemed to come back to himself from wherever momentary dark place he had wandered off to. "With the dagger as a catalyst, the ritual cannot fail," he agreed. Then, he eyed him closely. "The time had come. Are you ready?"
"Absolutely," he agreed without hesitation.
Cain handed the dagger back to him almost reluctantly. He understood completely. Something this magnificent and hard-won was not easy to let go of. But he had absolute faith in his friend. He knew his duty and would carry it out. He stood in the center of the room right beside the pedestal as Cain worked his way around the room sealing, shielding, and warding it with the most powerful spells he knew, just as he had done before. Holding the blade in both hands, Pyresong knew in his heart that this would not fail. As proof of this to himself, he unhooked his scythe and shield and set them aside. His heart now raced with excitement and anticipation rather than fear. Whatever those shards threw at him, he knew he could easily defeat them with Yl'nira's pure Light and warmth. He could almost sense it responding to his thoughts with a sort of mental caress of assurance. It felt eager to help against the Darkness.
Finally, Cain seemed satisfied with his work. This time, he didn't even bother marking them with a way past the shields. He, too, was so confident that they would not need to trap anything this time that he didn't bother. When he approached the waiting necromancer and the pedestal, he again glowed brightly in Pyresong's magical vision.
Pyresong braced himself, expecting the shards to lash out at him. He was invigorated to feel it was nothing more than a weak tap on his shields. Yl'nira was protecting him! But he watched with some concern while Cain briefly struggled and, in the end, gave up trying to move them. Whatever had happened in that safe, they were much more powerful. He felt Yl'nira instructing him somehow on a subconscious level. Following that almost instinctual instruction, he put his hand on Cain's shoulder. The man sagged gratefully, accepting the extra shielding from Yl'nira. Instead of spending all his energy on combating the shards' assaults, Cain now used that extra strength to levitate the shards onto the top of the pedestal. The three hovered above the surface threateningly of their own power. Cain grunted, almost in frustration, but let them stay.
As with before, he placed himself a little to Cain's left but well within arm's reach, and they clasped hands. Cain's staff began to glow in his right hand as they joined their power. Sensing this, Yl'nira added her own strength to the bond that tied them. Cain chanted as he had previously. After a couple of seconds, he paused to listen to something only he could hear. Pyresong would have felt a moment of sheer dread had he not realized he could hear it, too.
It's Yl'nira! he realized.
The blade was somehow speaking to them without words. Something below conscious thought was urging them and guiding them. The glow of Cain's staff faded away as he nodded to whatever he was hearing or feeling.
"Now then, I believe after all this tribulation, you deserve the honor," Cain told him with a grim smile. "Destroy the shards once and for all."
He then began to feel the flow of energy reversed, now flowing into him from Cain. And from Yl'nira into him as well. In a sort of loop, the power passed through him and into the blade and back again. Yl'nira happily bound it all together, through his hand and into itself. It grew more powerful by the second as it built up to almost painful levels in his left hand. But he had no hesitation. He could feel the dagger guiding his hand as he stepped forward toward the shards now flaring threateningly at them. He was only inches away from them now and completely unafraid. With Yl'nira's Light and power, he didn't even need his anger to combat them. When the immense energy between him and the blade finally crossed the threshold into pain, he released the blade just above the shards.
It hung in the air for only a heartbeat. When he mentally directed Yl'nira to destroy the shards with its power, the explosion of raw energy from both the blade and the shard was even more than he thought possible. He felt a sort of backlash of power from the shards as they shattered. A part of him wondered that he and Cain weren't blasted right through the walls with the sheer force of it! Unexpectedly, a chill clutched at his heart and soul painfully, making him shudder. Then it faded and was replaced quickly with Yl'nira's powerful Light and warmth. When he opened his eyes again, there were not even fragments. Whatever was left of the shards had dissolved or been destroyed by the blade's holy power. The dagger returned to his open left hand happily, practically radiating pride.
For a few seconds, he and Cain just stood in stunned silence. When Cain finally released his grip, he felt a moment of loss. The connection they had shared... It was like separating from a part of himself. But, Yl'nira quickly soothed it away comfortingly. And then the spell of silence was shattered by Cain's overjoyed laugh beside him.
"Ha! Three shards expunged from this world and safe from the clutches of Hell!" he laughed again. "I could practically burst into song!"
There was no way he could wipe the silly smile off his face had he actually tried. Still, Pyresong couldn't help teasing the old man with a horrified groan at the thought.
"Ugh. Please don't... Spare me." Then he, too, burst into laughter. "In truth, I understand the feeling, Cain. This moment has been hard won."
"More so for you, I would venture to guess. And I want to hear everything! But first, go clean up and get comfortable. I will unseal the room and see to our supper."
An excited grin still plastered on his face, he leaned down so Cain could mark him to pass safely through the shields. Then he laid Yl'nira on Cain's desk. Grabbing his shield, scythe, and packs that he'd taken off and set nearby, the practically flew up the stairs three at a time. He could not remember any moment in his life when he'd felt more accomplished or more alive.
Finally, they had won a battle in the endless war against evil!
There was a tickle of warning somewhere in the back of his mind that struggled to remind him of his real purpose, his oaths, and Rathma's warnings. But he was far too excited right now to listen. This was their victory. Whatever the end result of all of this may be someday, right now, this was theirs to enjoy. He shoved aside all of those dark memories. Just for one day, he would enjoy this. He could always tell Cain the rest later.
He quickly removed his armor and sticky clothing and washed himself thoroughly. Despite the strong, herbal, and wood-scented soap, a part of him still felt like the swampy smell clung to his hair. Looking in the mirror, he practically rolled his eyes at himself, realizing he'd forgotten to cut his hair for so long that it now brushed his shoulders. He dug out a thin piece of leather cord and just tied some of it back out of his face for now. He was too excited to tell Cain everything. He could cut his hair later. Downstairs, he could hear Cain moving around and getting the tea kettle going over the fire.
He paused. For several seconds, he stared into the mirror at himself. It wasn't that he didn't recognize something or anything that looked particularly different, even with the longer hair. And it took him nearly a minute to realize why he was staring at himself. Until now, he couldn't identify it because he'd never really felt it in his whole life.
Hope.
He was happy, comfortable, safe, and—for the first time in his life—filled with real hope for the future. Rathma's warnings were not forgotten entirely, but now he felt he had some real hope of avoiding them altogether. And he now had someone to share that with. A tiny, almost undetectable part of his subconscious told him to shy away from the potential crushing loss and failure this would inevitably lead to. But he squashed that thought viciously.
Not now, not tonight.
For this one day, at least, he would embrace these things. If he or Cain died tomorrow, he at least had this to hold on to. Putting aside all this, he heaved a deep and contented sigh. He grabbed his backpack off the bed on his way downstairs, knowing there was still more work to do. But it could wait, at least for a little while. Right now, he had an almost unbelievable set of stories to tell his friend and greatly looked forward to it.
As promised, Cain ensured that supper would arrive shortly. In the meantime, they settled themselves into their chairs with comforting cups of nice, strong tea. Oh, how he had missed that tea! Pyresong struggled, at first, to figure out where to even start his story. He briefly covered what he now considered his uneventful weeks at sea with Rehm. At his questioning glance, Cain shared his story of how they'd met some decade or so ago when the captain thought he was rescuing a helpless old man from a group of real pirates trying to take what little he had in a tavern. He was happy to hear his suspicions of the captain correct. He called himself a pirate and let the near legendary stories about his piracy fly about in every port in the world, but he was a good man and an honest businessman. The captain and Cain had shared more than a few adventures together as the old scholar wandered about the world.
When he got to discussing the Shassar Sea and Fahir, Cain's concern was obvious. At the end of that tale, the old scholar as nearly speechless. He had learned much of this Fahir in his travels in that area, enough to fear even the ruler's ghost. He was very pleased, indeed, when Pyresong could put him at ease with assurances that the tomb would never be disturbed again.
And all that much older stuff that he'd found below the tomb? Cain theorized it was an ancient nephalem vault of some kind. There were a few of them spread throughout the world. What they had become since they were abandoned was anyone's guess. But, if the spirits were there to guard those vaults and Fahir's spirit and Tabri would see the place sealed up forever, then it was good enough for him to rest easier.
Still, there was no disguising the guilt Cain still felt at having sent his friend into all that alone. Pyresong assured him it couldn't have gone any other way. It had to be done, and the gamble had paid off. Even those passing feelings of guilt couldn't bring them down for long. Both stayed up late into the night talking. And there was still the events of Zoltun Kulle's library and Bilefen to cover. And he knew the library was going to be an especially long tale. Cain would want to hear every detail about the place, if nothing else. And he knew Cain understood the dangers of that knowledge and power and would never let that information get out.
But, as excited as both of them were, they were both yawning and struggling to focus. Before one or the other could fall asleep in their chairs, they finally agreed to call it a night and resume in the morning after some more of that delightfully strong tea. He opted to leave Yl'nira in Cain's possession for now. The elderly scholar left it on his desk where it could easily be seen...and felt. As he drifted off to sleep in his own bed, he still wondered at the miracle that had happened that day. Whatever else came next, he at least had this.
He knew he was sworn to uphold the Balance and do what was right for Sanctuary. His talk with Rathma and all those warnings that long-ago night still haunted him. But when he considered the sheer number of lives lost to these three shards... No, he was not wrong. Their victory here felt absolutely right, for his friend and the Balance.
He sank into blissful sleep, still embracing that hope and all the good things he now felt in his life.
***
Despite being up late, Pyresong woke more than an hour before sunrise with a jolt. His heart was racing, and he was breathing as if he'd just sprinted a mile. He was somehow all twisted up in his bedclothes and had the vague impression that something had chased him through his dreams. Though he usually slept lightly and was aware of his surroundings even while he slept, this time had been different. Not feeling in the least vulnerable, he let himself fall into a deep, refreshing sleep. After all, he was in the one place he'd come to feel safe and at home. For a few minutes, he just sat there trying to slow his racing heart while listening to Cain's snoring down below to reassure himself there hadn't been some sort of attack on the workshop.
He had been so deeply asleep that he couldn't quite remember what he'd been dreaming that had left him feeling like this. It was so incredibly rare that he slept this deeply without it being an induced healing sleep; even then, he usually remembered his dreams, if he had any. And this dream or nightmare or whatever it was had an entirely different feeling to it. An unsettling chill crawled across his soul that he couldn't quite pinpoint. In the end, he chalked it up to everything he'd been through these last few weeks. Something of it must have caught up to him in his dreams. He very likely needed some time to meditate.
Wide awake, though still feeling a bit sluggish, he stretched and got out of bed. Careful not to wake Cain down below, he cleaned and dressed himself, again tying some of his hair back away from his face in annoyance. He still had much of his story to tell, and he was just as excited to tell it as the old man was to hear it. And he knew it would be some time before Cain would be awake enough to even listen. Feeling a bit cooped up and restless, he decided to make his way out for a walk. And he knew exactly where he wanted to go. This early in the morning, most of the city still slept. It was too late for the criminals and too early for everyone else. Other than maybe some watch guards and a handful of early morning servants, he was unlikely to encounter anyone at all, let alone someone that would cause him trouble. Besides, he knew about asking for a magistrate now. What did he have to fear?
Absolutely nothing, he realized quite happily with a mental laugh.
Closing the door behind himself silently, he turned to the east. He walked right across the Palace Courtyard—pausing to memorize the waypoint—and kept on going. There was a place he'd visited just once before that had a truly breathtaking view of the sprawling lower city below. And, he suspected, it would have a spectacular view of the sunrise. As expected, he encountered not a single person while he wove his way casually across the city. The sky was just beginning to turn a deep blue to the east when he found his remembered target. Immortal Overlook, they called it, though he couldn't recall why it was named such. The stone railing that lined the little overlook came up to just below his rib cage, a comfortable place to lean on and relax.
His memory had served him well. Far below him, another section of the city still mostly slept. The cityscape sprawled off into the distance, shrouded by wisps of fog. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he probably needed his meditation and time to process everything that had happened in such quick succession. He could just recall his last meditation being at some point on Rehm's ship before they had entered the river some weeks ago now. So much had happened since then.
Right now, he put it all away. For this one tiny space of time, there was just him and this sunrise. He let his mind drift through vague thoughts and a handful of memories, not really settling on any one thing. Relaxed and only distantly aware of people moving about in the city all around him, he soon silenced even those. At the moment, he just appreciated being alive and in this place to see this one sunrise. He memorized every bit of it, from the slowly brightening colors and the wisps of clouds to the simple peace and contentment he'd found. He was happy just to exist in this moment and let all else fade away.
When the sun finally broke the horizon, forcing him to look away at last, he slowly walked back toward Cain's workshop. He was pleased to realize that the enchanting feelings of hope and accomplishment and even contentment he'd felt the night before hadn't left him. At one point, he had even considered it was all just Yl'nira's effect on him. Now, he knew that was not the case. What he felt was real and all his own. And he wasn't about to let go of it.
He paused outside the workshop door, listening for a few seconds. Even as the city around him was swiftly coming alive with its typical morning routine, he strained to hear Cain's snores, reluctant to wake the old man. He needn't have bothered. The elderly scholar was already awake and eagerly enjoying his morning tea. Unlike any other morning, he was totally not his usual grumpy self, being too excited to hear more of his friend's adventure. Pyresong was happy to oblige.
The hours rolled on as the two of them talked; Cain mostly listening, but asking plenty of questions, too. Pyresong was somewhat frustrated with himself at how little he really understood about magic and the workings of the Library. But the detailed descriptions he was able to provide of so very many things satisfied Cain. Cain was even able to explain to him how much of the magic he had encountered actually worked. At least now he could answer some of his own questions about the place.
That was when it finally dawned on Cain that Pyresong was discussing events that had taken place only maybe a couple weeks ago. Up to this point, Pyresong had been so distracted with everything else that he'd entirely forgotten his new skill. The elderly scholar had laughed happily again in astonishment and excitement when his friend told him he had been taught how to make portals. As long as it was a place with a waypoint he'd been to enough times to remember it clearly in his mind, he could go there now. Sadly, until recently, it hadn't occurred to him to memorize waypoints. Still, it opened up a wide range of possibilities for them in their ongoing work.
It was nearing evening by the time he moved on to the events of Bilefen. When Pyresong rolled into the final part of his tale in the Temple of Namari, Cain seemed utterly astonished. The name Sargoth didn't mean anything to him, but the word nephalem certainly did. The very idea that his friend had gone up against an evil nephalem backed by the power of Hell astonished him. He had seen and even touched some of the priest's power and knew it was immense. Though the elderly scholar had some minor understanding of necromancy, even he was amazed by the feat that his friend had pulled off. And Pyresong seemed to think what he had done was no more out of the ordinary than killing another demon! With a mental grin, he wondered at that aspect. The priest really had no idea just how unique he was.
Yet, he sensed there was more and eyed his friend closely. There was something dark underneath he couldn't quite figure out in Pyresong's expression as he spoke. Despite his victory, there was something about it that haunted his friend. He could tell something beyond that battle had happened to the priest in there, something he seemed to still struggle with.
Unable to find the right words, Pyresong shook his head in frustration. He literally could not even describe to himself exactly what had happened other than to say he'd burned himself out, and his body couldn't cope with it all. With no small amount of shame, he confessed to Cain about how he'd so nearly given in, how he'd come so very close to giving it all up and leaving it all behind. He had no doubts that his body had died or was at least dying. His soul just wasn't given enough time to escape. And then Namari's healing had essentially brought him back from the brink of death.
Now understanding that darker, haunted expression from his friend, the old scholar nodded mentally to himself. He knew Pyresong was dedicated and loyal. But the man had been through much. Likely, he'd already survived more than most adventurers three times his own age. And some of it downright horrific. He could not blame anyone who had been through all that. And with the memories he had shared, he could so very clearly understand the man's unspoken desires for peace and release.
Cain quickly assured him the guilt and shame were misplaced. Anyone who'd been through all that he had could easily be forgiven for wanting that rest, that peace, especially one who so thoroughly understood that physical death was really just another beginning. Still, he was very glad Namari hadn't let him. The relief was obvious, if subtle, on Pyresong's face. With no small amount of warm amusement, he even confessed it was Cain's memory that had found that tiny spark and will to live that convinced Namari he shouldn't be allowed to die just yet. The old man was touched and honored by this.
The Horadrim's relief upon hearing of the cleansing of the shards' memories was like a bolt of lightning. Cain was so overjoyed that he was almost babbling. While Pyresong had gone in search of an answer to how to destroy the shards, the elderly scholar had also been hunting desperately for a way to purge the Darkness and memories they had inflicted on his friend, and without much luck, sadly. Now, neither of them would have to worry about it ever again.
It was well into the evening and nearing supper time by the time the discussion of the beacons rolled around. Cain agreed they would be safely stored in his collection in the other room until such time as he could study or even maybe find a way to destroy them. Their powerful preservation magic had been considerably weakened over the millennia, but they were still easily powerful enough to be a threat to humanity in the wrong hands, as the events in Bilefen had proven.
When all had been said and discussed, Pyresong felt as if he'd been purged, not unlike after playing his flute. Sure, there were some nightmarish parts that still haunted him—and likely would for the rest of his life, he knew—but nowhere near to the extent he had expected. Again, he wondered about Yl'nira's presence. But it didn't seem like any external force to him. It really felt this was all his doing and the effects of Cain's friendship on him. He really did not feel the need to analyze it further, either. For now, he was happy enough to embrace it.
With it being so late when he finished his tales. Cain warned that he would likely be doing another Horadric divination to keep searching for shards, probably no later than tomorrow. Until now, he hadn't found any others, thankfully. Today would be a rest day for both of them. Though Pyresong was in much better shape than he usually was after being away, even he agreed a little downtime would be beneficial. They spent the remainder of the evening with Cain recounting some of his many stories of his travel and studies. He thoroughly enjoyed hearing them.
***
Cain's initial attempt at divination the next morning turned up only a very faint trace of something far to the northeast of Westmarch that he was unable to pinpoint. It was most likely another shard, but not one actively being used yet. Once the struggle to pinpoint it had left Cain with a headache, Pyresong called a halt. They could try again another day. For now, they were at loose ends.
After only a couple of days of reading, resting, and generally recovering, Pyresong was surprised to find his mind turning back to his other loose ends. Briefly, he considered going back to Dark Wood to see how they were doing. He quickly tossed that idea out when he found himself thinking of red hair and green eyes. No, Kashya was already a distraction, he knew. And it could not end well for them, even if she was willing to reciprocate at this point. But that fact apparently didn't stop his mind and heart from wondering in that direction repeatedly. With no small amount of frustration, he crushed those thoughts and feelings right out of existence all over again.
That brought him back to Tabri and the Amber Blades. He probably should at least let them know he'd survived his exploration of Kulle's Library. And now that they had the Scepter of Fahir...
He recalled keenly the waypoint in their village. He'd easily gotten from Bilefen to Westmarch. It was a much, much longer distance from here to the Shassar Sea, though. The Curator had said it would get easier with practice. So far, he had encountered no difficulties. While Cain worked his side of things and his own research, he could easily spend a day or two in the Shassar Sea and be back. At this point, even if Cain did find another shard, unless it was somewhere he recalled a waypoint there clearly enough, he would likely have to travel either by sea or land anyway. And he sincerely hoped another shard would not be found in the places that had so recently been decimated by them. When he posed his idea to Cain, the old man reminded him that they had nothing better to go on right now, and he would keep trying to locate another shard.
At least he doesn't seem to be eager to get rid of his restless housemate, Pyresong thought with a grin.
Knowing there was at least some time difference between here and the Shassar Sea, he decided to wait until very late at night, almost morning, to make his journey. At a guess, he estimated it would likely be somewhere in the early morning over there. Westmarch was asleep when he left Cain snoring happily in his own bed and quietly crept out the door. In the road just outside Cain's workshop, he tried the portal directly to the Amber Blades' camp. He was actually quite surprised by how easy it felt. With only a hint of trepidation, he crossed the threshold of the portal.
He found himself instantly baking in the morning sunshine on the other side. His guess at the time difference had definitely been a bit off. Instead of early morning, the sun was well above the buildings. Still, he'd arrived to a warm welcome from the Amber Blades. Hearing of his return, Peth quickly dragged him over to his tent.
After some discussion about what he'd found in the Library and, yes, a warning to never enter there without the Curator's explicit permission—and all the dangers it contained—Peth finally let it go when he agreed to one day discuss with the Curator a visit. For his part, he felt the wealth of knowledge in that library could be a huge benefit to humanity. Yet, he had to remind himself that some of Kulle's research had been downright horrific. And, with the ongoing war against Vataos, the idea that that power and knowledge could fall into the wrong hands so easily horrified him. Besides, even if someone with a good heart like Peth let slip about the Essence of Life and its uses by accident, the world would be forever changed. No, far better for him to make forays into there himself to get whatever information someone might request.
The village had grown in numbers exponentially in the last couple weeks alone. Once word got out that Tabri had the Scepter of Fahir, people actually believed she could make their dreams come true. They flocked to her and began an all-out war against Vataos and his rabid followers. People were abandoning the Sand Scorpions by the score. And they were winning!
He was slightly disappointed that Tabri was out, gathering more people and fighting off packs of Vataos' men, and wouldn't get a chance to see her. Despite her cold, hard exterior, he had seen a warm and powerful woman that truly cared about others and making a better world. Still, there would likely be other times and other visits. Maybe he could even find a way to help them all in between hunting down shards. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he had considered killing Vataos himself.
For now, he was happy to spend a bit of time with Peth and talk about what he'd found. When Peth voiced his very mild complaints about Fahir's Tomb being sealed, Pyresong was more than willing to share the nightmarish descriptions of what he had found down there. The scholar was no coward and had grown up in this hard place. When he explained what was now holding Fahir back from possibly returning to rule over the desert again one day, the scholar heartily agreed. He confessed he had been completely ignorant of Fahir's potential rise to power once more even being a threat.
When Peth mentioned Tabri might even be in that area around the Sereth Outpost, he was happy to join him for a walk to the to check on the progress of sealing the tomb. It was one of the many waypoints he'd encountered that he hadn't thought to memorize well enough to return to. He would rectify that on this little excursion.
They headed out the north gates and made their way up along the Oasis of No Return. Occasionally, he and Peth were forced to pause to kill some scorpions or other things that had crossed their paths, but it was otherwise a relatively pleasant walk. He nearly laughed to himself when he immediately began comparing this oh so much more comfortable deadly heat to the slimy, sticky heat of Bilefen. Truthfully, though, he missed the cold and mild climates of more western terrain. Heat was hard to combat; cold, at least, had some options.
The majority of Sand Scorpions that had been in residence throughout that area had since been run off or joined the Amber Blades. Nowhere was it safe to be a Sand Scorpion when the Amber Blades were patrolling their new and rapidly expanding territory. He was pleased to hear they had already made the oasis that much safer and more livable for their people. When they met with the road that would take them west to the Sereth Outpost, he spotted another waypoint just to the north of their position. Not sure if he would ever actually need it, he diverted them just a little further for a couple of minutes so he could memorize it. When he explained his recently acquired ability to make portals, Peth was excited all over again.
Almost as soon as they resumed their trek west, the sounds of battle rang out nearby. Just ahead, Pyresong sensed the all too familiar energies of hellish minions. He opened a portal back to the Amber Blades' village and told Peth to go. The scholar's protest only lasted long enough for him to ask how well he could fight demons. Shocked, Peth quickly retreated through the open portal.
Meanwhile, he summoned a golem and a couple of skeletal mages as he ran toward the sounds of ongoing battle. He could just make out the almost familiar clicking and twanging above the sounds of demons screeching and yowling. Just around a curve in the road, he spotted a man dancing his way around with two hand crossbows. The man was surrounded by little imps and dog-like demons. Not wasting any time, he dove into the melee with his scythe. Though they were weak and easy to be rid of, it still surprised him to find any demons here at all. He had a brief flash of memory of Valla, a very young Demon Hunter he'd met here. She had told him she was hunting a demon in the area, though he'd seen no evidence of them while he was here. When he sliced through the last imp with a swipe of his scythe, he turned to greet this Demon Hunter.
"You have skill, friend! Not many would jump into a fight against demons with such little hesitation," the man commented, skillfully hooking his little crossbows on his belt. "Well, I appreciate the aid. Normally, my apprentice would have been here to help, but we were separated. My name's Josen."
He happily took the offered hand in lieu of the more formal bows. "Master Pyresong. And I believe I crossed paths with her a couple of weeks ago. Young woman, dark hair, rather...headstrong?" he asked wryly.
Josen laughed. "That's a nice way of phrasing it. Valla has more potential than any recruit I've ever seen, but her anger tends to cause more problems than it solves." Then, he got serious. "I need to find her before trouble does. Where was it you saw her?"
"A place called the Chamber of Wisdom, said she was chasing a demon. I was looking for the Scepter of Fahir."
"So you're the one that destroyed those monsters. Well done," Josen said as his eyebrows shot up in appreciation.
He accepted the compliment with a simple nod. "When was the last time you saw her?"
Josen shook his head, looking frustrated. "I can't be more than an hour behind her now. I found some of her footprints headed for the ruins ahead," he said, pointing to the location, "but places like that are where the undead fester. Not the kind of place that should be explored alone. If you've got time, I could use some experienced help."
He considered for a moment. He wasn't particularly keen on spending too much time away from Westmarch. But he suspected this Valla had gotten in over her head if her own master was trying to catch up with her. And, if what Josen had said was true, they could likely catch up to her before nightfall. Then, she would be his problem to deal with.
"Very well, let's find your apprentice, then," he agreed.
Josen's look of relief actually concerned him that much more. Clearly, the man was more deeply worried about Valla than he'd initially portrayed. Capable as she may have seemed to him, she was still an apprentice, he reminded himself. Overly eager and overconfident apprentices had a tendency to get themselves into trouble, sometimes too serious for their master to even handle. Though he had never taken on an apprentice for more than a few lessons on occasion, he knew that in the demon-hunting profession, their lives literally depended on one another and their skills. It likely made their relationship even closer. Given how young he remembered Valla to be, he could easily see this man feeling like a big brother, if not father, to her.
Over the years, he'd crossed paths with more than a few Demon Hunters. Often, when their goals aligned, he would work with them briefly. He had never had a problem working with the Demon Hunters in general. They were among the few that did not immediately fear or hate a necromancer or their tactics. And he didn't entirely disagree with their sometimes overly eager tactics. Where he preferred to just get the job done and move on—typically feeling like a particularly unwelcome guest in whatever village had needed his help—Demon Hunters often felt the need to play the role of public hero. Many of them suffered from a vanity he just couldn't understand, and sometimes rubbed him the wrong way. But he was more than willing to let them take whatever credit and rewards while he moved on quietly. It was far preferable to his usual alternative of being run out of the village by a handful of disgusted farmers. Some professions just attracted a certain type, as he well knew.
He followed as Josen turned their steps toward where he'd pointed earlier.
"Thank you for this. When we heard of a bounty on demons in Shassar, I thought it would be a good chance for Valla to learn. But she's still impulsive. She lost family to the demons...like we all did. It's understandable. But hatred has to be tempered by discipline. It's a lesson every Demon Hunter has to learn for themselves," Josen explained.
The Demon Hunter's eyes were scanning the sandy path ahead of them. It led them down a path that curved to the east around some rocks and stone columns. Though this was an unfamiliar place for him, he felt the all too familiar stench of more demons. And it was even stronger when they rounded the bend in the road. Josen paused and knelt down to examine something in the grass just off to the side of the path.
"A sealing mark. Valla was definitely here and recently. It hasn't faded yet," Josen explained.
"Get these things off me!" a man's voice screamed just up ahead.
The two of them rounded the rest of the curve at a run. Only a few feet ahead of them on the stone bridge, a man was chained to a column on their left, thrashing madly. Pyresong recognized those as almost exactly the same kind of chains that had trapped him in the Chamber of Wisdom. He sighed mentally with relief when he realized these weren't tightening, as his had. Seeing no immediate threat, Josen approached the bridge cautiously. There was still the overwhelming feeling of demons and hellish energy here. Though, Pyresong could clearly see that this was a human, despite the clinging taint. He shook his head, realizing likely Valla had done it again.
"Well, this seems a tad extreme. Are you all right there, friend?" Josen asked, looking for the source of the chains.
The man thrashed and flailed wildly, despite the Demon Hunter's soothing tone. "That crazy girl tried to kill my brother! You have to save him!"
Even as the man was raving and screaming, his sensitive ears caught the sound of someone whimpering in fright on the other side of the bridge. They were hanging on to the other side of the bridge in a tangle of vines a little further down.
"Help! Please!" the man cried piteously.
Out of sheer reflex, he dropped his shield and scythe and threw himself flat. He grabbed the man's arms just below the wrists.
"I've got—" Pyresong started to say.
"Something's not right about this!" Josen warned, backing away from the thrashing man.
As soon as he gripped the hanging man by the arms, he realized the trap too late. The thing now had him by the arms. It snarled a laugh and smiled up at him wickedly with a mouth full of fangs. Human though it appeared initially, it reeked of demon.
"Demon!"
He threw the warning over his shoulder at Josen as it began pulling him further over the ledge. He tried to shake and twist his arms to pull back from the thing before it dragged him over the lip and into the river raging below. His chest plates were grinding against the stone edge painfully. His initial reach downward had forced him to extend his shoulders over the ledge. Now, as it tugged repeatedly, the rest of him was sliding quickly. The thing in human skin laughed when the Demon Hunter threw himself atop the necromancer to keep him from going over completely. Trapped, he hung there while the thing tugged and twisted with its inhuman strength.
"What noble souls you are!" it cackled. "Noble and naive!"
When it realized it wouldn't be able to pull them both over the edge, it switched to trying to rip and twist his arms off. Pyresong grunted in pain and he let his power flow into his arms in a flood of prepared spirit fire to try to dislodge the damned thing before it twisted his arm right off at the elbow. He let the spirit fire flare from his arms as well as his hands in a small explosion. The trick worked. It snarled in pain when his spirit fire had forced it to let go or be burned further. Josen yanked him back fully onto the bridge with a grip on his plates. He rolled reflexively onto his back. The thing had now sprouted wings and was struggling to fly up to attack. Its wicked feet claws scraped off his rerebrace just inches from his exposed neck.
"The girl is ours!" it shrieked.
He released a spirit fire barrage at the same time Josen was able to get off a few shots with one of his crossbows. The combined attacks shocked the demon back off the side of the bridge. They heard more shrieking before it splashed into the rushing river below. Instantly, the man in the chain trap screamed in rage and horror.
"Are you injured?" Josen asked, eyeing him closely.
He shook his head and accepted the hand up, feeling the definite pain of the strain on his shoulders and elbows.
Still a bit shaken, he asked, "They're after your a-apprentice?"
Josen shook his head in disbelief. "That was news to me, as well. The demon we're hunting, Aeshama, is a master at manipulation. She twists memories, dreams, and thoughts against you."
The frantic man, still struggling against the chains as they returned to him, had fallen to sobbing and babbling. Seeing them approaching, he began to rant and scream almost incoherently at them, even going so far as to try to bite at Josen when he reached for the trap to disarm it.
"My brother! You killed him! You monsters!"
"Brother?" Pyresong echoed, surprised.
The thing had very clearly been a demon in the end, even if it had started off disguising itself as a human. Josen paused and sighed sadly.
"The man's mind is addled. He sees only what the demon wanted him to see. There's nothing we can do for him."
"Well, we can set him free," Pyresong told him dryly.
Josen grinned at the remark and tone. "Fair enough." Then he frowned sadly. "I just pray these sands have mercy on him."
Not likely, he replied silently.
Unable to properly disarm the trap due to the man's raving and flailing, Josen gave up. Having the longer reach anyway, Pyresong gently moved him aside. He flung a thin blade of energy that cut right through the chains near the base of the trap. The moment the chains disappeared, the man fled back down the path toward the Oasis. He was somewhat relieved. With all the Amber Blades patrolling the area, very likely it would be safe enough for the moment. And they might be able to help the poor soul. As they watched him flee, a thought seemed to occur to the Demon Hunter.
"They must know Valla doesn't have the strength to resist them." His steps took on more urgency as he led them across the bridge. "The demons will try to keep her from us, to exploit her weaknesses. We can't let that happen."
On the other side of the bridge was what looked like a large, ancient temple. Much as with the stonework he'd encountered under Fahir's tomb, this darker stone indicated it was much, much older than the surrounding sandstone city was. As soon as they entered the shadowy interior, Josen paused to scrutinize the sand-covered floor. He nodded to himself and practically ran to his right from the main chamber into the adjoining room. Here, there were mummies along the walls. Temple or tomb, it didn't really matter. This place crawled with the undead, just as the Demon Hunter had indicated earlier. Josen hardly paused as he began firing with both crossbows. Pyresong sent some of his skeletal minions ahead to help clear the way. These seemed little more than mindless, shambling undead. But he could still feel the powerful taint of hellish energies all throughout. These undead had only been reanimated very recently.
"I'm seeing signs of a fight," Josen said, rounding a corner. "Valla's tracks lead further in."
"Josen, wait!"
Seeing the unholy glow of something in the next room to their right, Pyresong grabbed Josen by the shoulder to stop him. For a moment, the Demon Hunter looked confused. Pyresong peeked around the corner and then motioned with his scythe for Josen to take a look. Not able to see or sense it the way his present companion could, Josen peered carefully at first. When he realized what the necromancer was seeing as well as sensing just in the other room ahead, his expression tightened with fear.
"A Hell portal..." Josen frantically searched the sandy floor, his expression darkened. "Her trail leads right here; I'm sure of it."
He eyed the fiery rift, and Josen's next words echoed his own thoughts.
"Valla, you wouldn't go inside, would you?" the demon hunter asked, seeming torn as he approached it.
Wicked laughter rang out when a winged demon dropped from the ceiling. Pyresong mentally cursed himself for not having seen its evil presence sooner because of the overpowering glow of the rift. While he jumped back and rolled away to avoid its clawed feet from slicing at him, Josen spun with his crossbow ready.
"Aeshama!" he spat the name as a curse.
With another laugh, the winged demon shoved Josen through the portal. Before he could even recover enough to attack, the Demon Hunter was gone. Aeshama turned to laugh mockingly again.
"Such credulous and pathetic prey!" it crowed. "With this one's death, the child's guilt will be all the sweeter!"
Even as he swung his scythe to fling a blade of energy at the thing, it laughed again mockingly and jumped backward through the portal to escape. Now he had two Demon Hunters to rescue, in Hell of all the lovely places.
Damn it! I have to get through—
"Josen!" Valla's cry behind him had him swinging about in surprise. "The demonic energy is stronger here. Josen, don't go in there!"
Not half a second later, a panicked Valla raced through the door, already firing on his skeletons. He let them go as he raised his shield to stop another bolt from taking him in the face.
"Valla! Stop!"
"You!" She stopped firing when she recognized him. "Tell me what you've done with Josen before I put an arrow through your skull!"
"Valla, stop! Aeshama took Josen! There's no time to argue about this!"
She refused to lower her crossbow while she eyed him suspiciously, her dark eyes blazing hatefully at him. He risked lowering his shield instead.
"How do I know this isn't some sort of lie? Give me a reason to trust you!" she demanded.
He kept his shield ready and dove in verbally before she could change her mind. "I know your name is Valla. We met in the Chamber of Wisdom. You're Josen's apprentice. The two of us came here looking for you, and a demon just pushed him through the portal. Be suspicious if you want, but I'm going to rescue him."
Finally, she lowered her crossbow, giving him a chance to at least turn his back and get to the rift. Before he could get to it, though, she shoved him aside roughly.
"Fine. You can join me. Just don't get in my way," she growled threateningly.
He swore viciously in surprise, trying to stop her. He just managed to grab her arm as they crossed the threshold of the rift so they would not get separated. Just the other side of the portal, she shook him off violently and then froze when she took in her surroundings. Instead of the expected hellscape he had envisioned, they were now standing just outside a village that was ablaze and swarming with demons. The look of wide-eyed horror on her now pale face told him instantly she recognized the village. Stunned, Pyresong was only dimly aware of the sounds of so many screaming people. His magical sight confirmed it was all some sort of illusion, though he couldn't see the truth beyond the illusion. Despite how very real it all felt, his instincts were screaming that it wasn't. Valla broke him out of the momentary mental paralysis a second later.
"What is this? That's impossible..." she said, turning her accusing gaze on him.
Expecting an attack any moment, he was looking out around and behind them. The rift had closed the moment they crossed into this realm. By the feel if it, Pyresong was certain they were in literal Hell at this point. He couldn't imagine any place on Sanctuary feeling so hideously filthy and vile. He repressed a horrified shudder, forcibly reminding himself they were not entirely trapped. At least he hoped they weren't. He could make portals. So far as he knew, they would work here as well as on Sanctuary. He quickly crushed those doubtful thoughts. First, they had to figure out what was going on and find Josen.
Realizing he wasn't even paying attention to her, she turned and ran toward the village. He growled a vile profanity under his breath as he chased her. Just before the gates that led into the burning village, she paused again. Now, her whole body shook visibly when she took in the horrific sights ahead. When her eyes shut tightly to close out the scene before her, he knew this place somehow meant something to her. He gripped her shoulder gently.
"Valla, listen—"
"This is Braylen, my hometown!" She hugged herself as she opened her eyes again. "This is the day that the demons slaughter everyone!"
"Valla! You—"
Lost in her memories, Valla stood shaking her head in denial. Then she caught the sound of screaming again. This time, it called to her.
"Valla! Halissa! Where are you?" a man screamed out somewhere in the smoke ahead.
Trying to keep her from running away, he kept his grip on her shoulder. Despite his efforts, she managed to slip out of his grip and ran full tilt for one of the burning houses. Before he could catch up to her, she darted through the open door of one of the larger, burning homes. He tried to follow in the hopes of getting her out. Between him and the house, a pack of minor demons rounded the corner to block him. He knew they were just there to distract him from Valla. Angry at the distraction and afraid for the young Demon Hunter now trapped in a burning house, he sent his minions to take care of the demons. He was about to push through the raging flames after her when she reappeared in a second storey window and jumped to the ground just around the corner.
"Valla! Wait!"
She ignored him completely as she darted down a blood-drenched alley. Still shaking violently, she stood before a badly injured man. The illusion was bleeding from dozens of shallow wounds that somehow felt all wrong.
"Uncle...is that really you?" she asked.
He wasn't about to let this happen. Far more roughly this time, he gripped her arm and swung her around to face him. He couldn't afford to let her fall into this delusion. She had nearly gotten herself killed once already. For a split second, she looked all the more like a lost and terrified child to him. The fact that he blamed himself for her nearly getting herself killed only made him angrier and afraid.
"Listen to me!" he growled fiercely, shaking her. "None of this is real. Keep your wits about you. Don't give in to the delusion. Who knows what can happen here in the demon's domain."
For a heartbeat, Valla still seemed consumed in her terror. Then she blinked several times and shook her head, visibly trying to clear it rather than in denial. Her panting breathing became slower and deliberate. Seeing that she was trying to reassert her control, he carefully let her go. She still trembled but now seemed to be at least trying to think her way through it.
"You're right. I know that, but it's all so real," she told him in a shaky whisper. "Is she drawing from my memories to torture me? Uncle looks the same as he did back then... He tried to warn us..."
"Valla!" the man said from where he was crouched behind her. "The demons are attacking! Find Halissa and go! I'll get your parents, I promise."
When they spun around, the man was talking to a younger version of Valla that stood before him. Then they both faded away. He had some hope that that alone would be enough for her to realize it was not real. Before he could point this out, Valla spoke again.
"No, he won't..." she said beside him in a hollow voice. "This is when they die!" Her face a mask of terror once more, she turned and shoved right past him. "I can't let that happen again!"
Her unexpected spin and shove had knocked him off balance. He quickly recovered and was only a couple of steps behind when she reached the village center they had passed minutes ago. He knew whatever trauma she had survived, she was now going to have to relive it. As much as he felt for her, he also knew he wasn't going to be able to get her to listen. She kept falling right back into the memories, playing right into the demon's hands. And every time he tried to stop her and bring her back, more demons appeared. They were all very minor, weak demons, little more than mindless beasts and pets to other demons. Yet, any one of them could have easily killed her with her complete inability to even think clearly right now. He danced around her with his skeletons to keep the demons away from her. Once they were all dead, he turned his full attention back to the Demon Hunter.
He watched helplessly as Valla fell deeper into the memories. Now, she was chasing a young couple across the square, screaming.
"Mum! Dad! Don't—"
Before she could finish her warning, a couple of winged demons swooped down out of the smoke and viciously sliced at the running couple with their talons. In the first swipe and spray of blood, he knew they could not have survived. Still, even he had to struggle to keep his focus. He had seen places like this before, in his dreams. The blood and screams were real enough that he very nearly lashed out at the winged creatures reflexively. Instead, he forced himself to focus on Valla, he gripped her shoulder again to try to stop her. This time, her elbow slammed into his cheek, stunning him just long enough to shake off his grip yet again.
"Get off me!" she screamed.
She ran right at the one demon now sitting on the corpses of her parents, feeding on them. At least now she remembered she was armed and took shots at the things with her crossbow. It neatly dodged the multitude of bolts and flew away, shrieking with laughter. Valla fell to her knees amid the gore of her own parents, sobbing. The ghosts of both people rose up before her. At that moment, there was a break in the waves of little demons attacking. He knew this was entirely intentional, to let her fall deeper into the horrific memories.
"Stop..." she cried on her knees while he stood over her. "Please...I couldn't do anything!"
For a moment, the ghosts were still, but then they smiled down at her. "Join us, daughter..."
"They're not your parents!" he warned, standing over her.
As the tears streamed down her face, she shook her head at the ghosts.
"We died trying to find you," the mother's ghost told her accusingly. "You ran so far away."
Needing to prove to her this was just another illusion, he swiped with his scythe, cutting right through the ghosts. The thing behind the illusion fell neatly in two pieces right before Valla. Only now, it was clearly a snake demon, well known for their illusion magics. This seemed to shake her back to some semblance of reality for a second. But the demons weren't going to give her time to hold on to that. The bodies of her parents began to fade and blow away as smoke now that the demon that created the illusion was dead. This only seemed to panic her even more.
"No! No! Please, don't leave me!"
Beneath the screams, he heard the lost child she had been. Struggling and desperate to find a way to get her out of this, he decided to try to take a different approach. Shocking her out of it had gotten him nowhere. He knelt down to force her to meet his eyes.
"Please, Valla, think," he pleaded, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. "It's an illusion. The demon is manipulating you. You can't let it win."
The young woman covered her white face with shaking hands as she struggled to just breathe.
"You don't understand. This is who I am. She's using illusions, but she's showing the truth!" Valla sobbed miserably.
He hooked his scythe and shield for a moment and forced her hands away from her face gently. The hollow look in her eyes pleaded with him to give her something to hold on to. Gods, he wished he could do more! No one deserved this.
"Look carefully," he told her gently, pointing to the empty place where the bodies of her parents had lain. "They're gone. Do you see? They're phantoms. She put them there to break you."
Her violent and angry reaction when she shoved him away and rose to her feet startled him, but at least it was a bit more coherent. He rose as well, ready for another attack; the only question being was if it would be in front of him or behind him at this point. For a second, the look in her eyes threatened immediate violence.
"My parents...my whole village died to these fiends! I swore an oath to never let this happen again, and she killed them right in front of me!" Valla snarled.
"That's better," he told her, all too familiar with the power and focus rage could give when channeled properly. "Use that anger. Do not give in to this. You can fight it."
Wicked laughter again rang out all around them as Aeshama enjoyed the show. Having been so focused on Valla, Pyresong had not noticed the sudden and unnatural silence until now. Even the raging fires all around them made not a sound. He knew it had only been so the Demon Hunter would be entirely focused on the most traumatizing part of this whole illusion. But a part of him still wondered hopefully if maybe it had something to do with Aeshama's limits in creating and maintaining these illusions. He quickly filed it away for later.
For now, he gripped his scythe, ready for anything. His own very carefully controlled rage was roiling just under the surface. Valla was not alone in wanting to do violence here.
"Yes! Such suffering! Yet the nightmare has just begun," Aeshama promised.
"We will find you, demon, and we will end this!" he promised in return.
The village faded away to darkness around them. Valla, standing a few feet away and taking in the new scenery, seemed to come back to herself.
"See? The village is gone! She has total control of this world," he pointed out, struggling against the icy edge he knew was creeping into his voice.
Valla nodded, her expression distant still. "It was so real... I saw the terror on their faces..."
Seeing she was calmer now and possibly at least thinking rationally, he nodded and took her hand in his. He softened his tone again.
"Aeshama's illusions are almost a reality in this place. We have to be strong, Valla. There is no other way to reach Josen."
He almost regretted his words when she flinched as if slapped. But then her expression hardened as she nodded.
"Josen... You're right. He'd find a way to make it through this if I were the one in trouble."
He squeezed her hand again comfortingly. "You're not alone, Valla. We're in this together."
For a moment, the two of them just looked around uncertainly. The terrain of Hell was not something he ever wanted to view in person. There was a sort of soft glow in every direction that made it more visible than he would have liked. They stood on a barren landscape of blackened rock covered in an ashy sort of dirt. Beyond this little hunk of terrain, they were surrounded by inky black water. He shuddered to think of what such poisonous water would do to them or what other monstrosities may live in it. He wondered yet again just how much control of the actual terrain the demon had. He had known it was all an illusion, even without his magical sight. But he couldn't see the truth beyond, either. Everything here radiated such an evil essence and power that it might as well have been a filthy black fog.
Now that he was here, though, he could only see one path that led away from this little place. What he wasn't going to show Valla was his uncertainty here. She needed him to be strong, but his mind was reeling. With Aeshama's control of this place, the demon could easily drop them right into some lava or that black water. They would walk right off a ledge that looked like a path and not know until it was far too late. But he had a feeling Aeshama wanted more. There was something about Valla that made her valuable to the demon. After a moment to consider, Pyresong, still holding her hand, led them down the one path away from this place.
Aeshama's wicked laughter rang out again when she saw they were moving.
"Only despair awaits."
The path they were on began to shift and reshape itself around them. He muttered a filthy obscenity, not even bothering to care if Valla was offended or not. This time, the terrain became a grassy, rocky landscape. Nearby, a swollen river flowed violently over the rocks. Almost as soon as his ears picked up that sound, it began to rain heavily with chilly droplets.
"That sound...a river..." Valla said, clearly struggling to stay focused.
"Does that mean something?" he asked, releasing her hand to grip his scythe again.
Valla began to shake again, and he knew it wasn't just from the cold rain. She hugged herself.
"This freezing wind. The storm. I could never forget. Never."
Her voice was barely above a whisper. After a few seconds, she blinked and seemed to focus her distant gaze. Resolutely, Valla walked down what seemed to be a familiar path. Wary of attacks, he kept close beside her.
"This is the night my sister died," he heard her whisper.
Though his heart twisted painfully, knowing she would have to relive this as well, he kept his expression serene as he nodded. To their right, a little further down, the Demon Hunter spotted a small wooden boat dock and froze. Again, her expression was twisted with fear. He laid a hand gently on her back, making her flinch. But he couldn't risk letting her fall too deeply into the memories again.
"You stopped. What's wrong?" he asked her softly.
Valla's eyes closed tightly for a moment as she swallowed and tried to find the words behind her now silent tears.
"This dock. We passed by it as we ran from Braylen," she explained in a shaky voice, again sounding so much like a lost child. "Halissa and I made camp not far from here. My sister woke up screaming. That's when it all happened."
At least now she was talking and not just reacting in fear and panic. He felt some small spark of hope that would keep her moving and keep her focused.
"It's not real, Valla," he told her soothingly. "Remember that. Don't let this illusion consume you again."
She seemed to struggle and then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Though he wasn't quite ready to say it, he was proud of her efforts. She was trying, he knew. And he well knew he would likely not fare much better if he, himself, were to be confronted with such memories. He liked to think he would see right through the illusion and not be affected. But he was far from immune to suffering, even when it wasn't his own. And reliving suffering would likely only make it that much worse for anyone because they knew what would happen next. He gripped her shoulder again gently as she nodded to herself and opened her eyes.
"There's only one path to Josen. Let's go," she said more firmly.
He followed her when she turned her feet reluctantly toward their left and continued to follow the path. It wound alongside a twisting, flooding river lined with large rocks and cliffs on either side. He had no real idea where this Braylen was, but it felt like maybe somewhere in western Khanduras. Not a single creature approached them as they followed the path. Again, he was certain it was all to ensure Valla fell as deeply as possible into the delusion. To their left, he could see just up ahead where a crude tent manifested. Prepared for another assault, he tried to stop her before she could see it. But he was too late, anyway. A little girl's cries rang out from the tent.
"Valla! The blood! Fire!"
The young Demon Hunter froze for a moment, closing her eyes as more tears leaked through. But this time, she seemed to steel herself against the assault and walked forward slowly toward the tent and the image of the little girl inside.
"Halissa..." she said in a hollow voice, as if speaking to a memory. "No, don't run..."
"She's not real," he reminded her softly. "These are just your memories. The past. Remember that."
Her sudden resurgence of anger caught him a bit off guard, but he was more than willing to accept it if it kept her focused. She swung around on him, her face twisted in rage. He half expected her to lash out at him with a fist. And he would have let her, gladly, if he believed it would help the poor woman. But it seemed she had at least that much control when she didn't actually raise her a hand to him.
"That's easy for you to say!" she hissed. "You don't still hear her crying! Her screaming! It's always there, waiting for me to just close my eyes! You can't understand!"
He struggled a bit to keep his expression serene as he vividly recalled other terrified and pained screams. She was right. It wasn't a sibling's screams that haunted him. No, it was another little girl's screams that still tormented him with its echoes in his nightmares. But he also knew he could not go there right now. Valla needed him to be the one immune to all of this, despite the truth. She needed to believe he could get her through this.
"No, I can't," he admitted sadly. "But you must stay focused. Josen needs you. More than the memory of your little sister does, I assure you. What comes next? We have to move forward."
She seemed to accept his gentle pushing and backed down slightly. She nodded and closed her eyes again. She took a deep, shaky breath.
"We ran from the village. Made camp. But she kept seeing the massacre in her mind." Valla's eyes were vacant as she turned toward the path again. "She woke up and ran screaming. I couldn't..." she coughed to cover something else and shook her head. "Let's just keep moving."
A few steps later, there appeared to be a small wooden bridge that spanned a narrow section of the river. There, Halissa's cries rang out again. He gripped his scythe again, expecting another attack.
"Valla, are you there? The river is so loud! Help me!"
He watched warily, scythe still in hand and debating whether or not to hook it so he could grab Valla if needed. He was glad to see her hesitate before she approached the bridge and the invisible source of that terrified little voice. He hoped that meant she was thinking her way through this and not just reacting. But he still sensed he needed to be ready. Instead, he chose to hook his shield on his back and free up his left arm.
In the middle of the bridge, just as he expected, a dark-haired little girl in a pink dress materialized. Beside him, Valla closed her eyes and tried to focus, but this place was still getting deeper under her skin; he could see it. She wasn't alone. For one heartbeat, he thought it was Alyssa. He shook off that vision violently. Valla was now trying to ignore the image of the little girl falling off the bridge and into the rushing water.
"Valla!"
Unable to bear it, Valla screamed, "Get away from the water!" as she threw herself onto her belly, trying to catch the outstretched hand.
Having expected as much, he grabbed her by her belt, jerking her to a halt. There was no way he was going to let her throw herself in after the girl. Her sudden and violent thrashing nearly sent him off the bridge, instead. As it was, he lost his grip on her when a flash of pain from his elbow made his hand spasm. She quickly twisted away and beyond his grasp. The previous strain to his arms plus this tore at his left elbow painfully. When she was released, Valla bounced off the wooden planks and back to her feet so fast he couldn't react. Thankfully, she only ran a few feet across the bridge and stopped herself. Shaking violently from head to feet, she took a couple of ragged breaths. With clenched fists, she rounded on him again.
"No! She's doing it again! I know it's just an illusion! But how does someone resist watching their sister die?! Tell me! Damn it!"
Ignoring the sharp pains in his left elbow. He hooked his scythe on his belt. With both hands free, yet alert for any attacks, he did the one thing he could. He took her in his arms. Again, she seemed like little more than a child to him. She didn't even stand as high as his shoulders. Her whole body trembled as she clung to him. Like this, she seemed so much smaller. He knew there was an inner strength and an iron core to her that would keep her fighting til the end. But, at this moment, she needed someone else to hold her up. He stoked his cold rage against the demon. No one deserves this kind of torture. For one moment, he wished it was him instead of her.
"I can't answer that for you," he said softly as he stroked her hair comfortingly. "I'm sorry, Valla, I truly am. But that thing is not your sister. It is not Halissa. Do not let the demon win."
The illusion of the little girl continued screaming as the rushing water swept it away. When Valla finally pulled away, he turned his sight to the darkness beyond the illusion, still expecting an attack, even wishing for one. Beside him, she took several slow, calming breaths and tried to stifle her tears. His rage again rose to the surface.
"Aeshama, what is your game? Reveal yourself and end this!"
To his surprise, he actually got an answer. Aeshama's laugh echoed through the darkness beyond the illusion.
"How little you conceive. You will witness what I wish!"
The scene changed slightly as if they had walked further down the river. Here, they spied a rock in the middle of the river draped with Halissa's limp body. The pink dress stood out starkly amid the dark, watery scene. For one brief moment, his own heart stuttered painfully, and his rage evaporated into icy fear. Vividly, he recalled a similar girl in a pink dress lying lifeless on the ground.
Gods, Alyssa...
"How many times will you fail her? How many times will she die?" Aeshama called out.
The sound of the demon's voice broke the spell for him, at least. He struggled to shake off the memory as Valla stepped to the edge of the river. He was thankful the Demon Hunter had been so occupied she hadn't caught sight of his own momentary slip into memories. At this moment, his only concern was Valla trying to throw herself into the river.
"I remember. I found her...just like this... Oh, Halissa..." Valla moaned softly.
His heart twisted painfully again, this time in empathy for her. Then the little girl's pale corpse rose up to stand on the rock. Scythe in hand, he moved up beside Valla.
"You let me go, Valla. You let me slip through your fingers," the little girl accused. "Just like everything else."
He tried to shield the demon hunter when a tendril of power, visible to his magical sight, whipped out at Valla, wrapping itself around her throat. Panicked, he tried to cut through the tendril with the power he added to his scythe blade. Nothing he did could even touch it. Even his thin blade of energy went right through it.
"You let me drown! I trusted you!"
The thing screamed as it raised Valla into the air. Unable to sever the connection, he aimed spirit fire at the little girl. The Demon Hunter struggled as it tightened its grip and strangled her. The demon refused to let go, and it was too far away for him to reach, even with his scythe. He was about to fling a bone spear at it out of sheer desperation when Valla did the unexpected. He felt rather than saw the violent surge of power that exploded all around the young woman, severing the connection. Startled, he took a couple of steps away from her.
"Don't you dare use my sister against me!" Valla screamed, going for her crossbow when she landed nimbly back on the muddy ground. "Don't! You! Dare!"
In a mindless frenzy, Valla fired her crossbows at the thing until it fell back into the water. Realizing what she had done, she collapsed to her knees in the mud in shock. She covered her face with her shaking hands and screamed in wordless horror. He spread his skeletons out around them to guard against attack. He could only imagine what it would feel like if he'd been forced to do the same to Alyssa at some point. He went to his knees. When Valla's hands moved to her hair and gripped it painfully, he realized she really was coming apart. He dropped his scythe to grip her wrists. What could he even say to that?
At his touch, she froze, staring at the ground. After a few seconds to let her breathe, he carefully let her go. Her hands fell limply to the ground. She just sat there, breathing, staring, lost in the horror and grief. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were no longer wide with terror. They were frighteningly hollow.
"I trained to be strong enough," she told him, "so that this would never happen again. I failed them... I saw them all die."
His own heart aching for her, he could sense she was losing the battle inside herself. He pulled her toward him again, hoping his embrace would give her a few seconds of mental refuge to recover. This time, she stopped him gently with a hand on his chest. Her eyes seemed to focus outward again as she gently pushed him away.
"Are you all right?" he asked, eyeing her closely.
Her eyes were still hollow, but she seemed to hear him. She shook her head slowly but met his eyes. Her dark eyes pleaded with him to do something—anything—to make this all go away. Desperately, he wished he could do just that. Yes, he could open a portal and shove her through it. Yet he was certain she was the key to finding Josen. For now, they were trapped here. They had to find Josen. He knew if they didn't, Valla would not survive this. And she would never forgive him for getting her out of here to safety if Josen didn't return.
"No. I'm not. And I won't be until Josen's safe," she told him in a shaky whisper. "I know what you're going to say. These illusions aren't real. And I know that. But Josen is. And I'm going to fail him, too."
"I won't let that happen," he promised her, gently pulling her to her feet. "Aeshama is using what you love against you. She is twisting your memories and emotions to make you suffer."
"It's working," she told him in a still-hollow voice.
The demon's laughter surrounded them, making Pyresong's urge to kill something increase that much more. No, he was not immune to this suffering, and it had even played with his head. Valla was nearly broken, and that demon was winning. He would not let that happen.
"So much regret, and so little control," Aeshama crooned at them sickeningly. "I will savor unraveling your mind over the eons."
At this point, he wasn't sure if she was talking to Valla, or him, or both. For a moment, he struggled to pull back on the rising rage. He could not allow it to cloud his judgment. But it would come. Oh, yes, when he finally found this demon, he would enjoy shredding it. He only regretted the lack of time he would have to make it suffer. A darker part of him smiled at the idea of torturing it in return for all it had inflicted.
"I'm coming for you, Aeshama! End this! Enough games!" he called back.
The demon laughed again, and the illusion faded away to be replaced with the all too real terrain of Hell and its black waters. Beside him, Valla closed her eyes and nodded as if to herself. But he knew she was losing the fight. He had to find something to help her. He had to give her something to hold on to, some kind of hope.
"You're winning, Valla," he told her, struggling to keep the icy edge out of his voice once again. "The illusion is broken."
She shook her head more firmly in denial. "Mum, Dad, my sister. They were my world. Aeshama made them real again just to make me kill them or watch them die." Her eyes were now just sad and tired as she met his. "You know who's next, right? There's only one thing left to use against me."
"Josen," he agreed, keeping his voice calm. "Listen, Valla, whatever is waiting for you, we'll face it together. You are not alone."
She nodded, no longer shaking. She just looked defeated to him. He never doubted there was some tiny spark in her core that he knew would not let her stop now. He had never known a Demon Hunter that would accept defeat even with their dying breath. She would face this, to whatever end. She turned and began stalking away silently, and he followed only a step behind. There really was only one way they could go anyway.
"Josen never abandoned me, even at my worst," he heard her say, as if to herself. "I won't abandon him."
Aeshama laughed again in the darkness. "Guilt and anger cripples you. What could you possibly do?"
Inches in front of them, another fiery portal opened. He quickly gripped her arm to stop her, but it was already too late. They were sucked in and dropped into a very different place, but still clearly in Hell. There was no obvious illusion this time. Now he was uncertain. As the portal closed behind him, they spun around, looking for an attack that did not come.
Has the demon brought us to her lair? he wondered
"I don't believe this is an illusion," he warned.
Catching sight of something ahead, Valla stepped forward. Knowing his skeletons were of little use in all of this and only draining him at his point, he resisted the urge to summon more. He wanted to be ready when they finally confronted this demon. Still looking for an attack from any direction, Pyresong followed more cautiously. Only when he heard Valla gasp did he return to where she was headed.
"This blood, it's human!" Valla told him, kneeling down.
His heart sank as he took in the sight. The wide pool of smeared blood was indeed huge. No one could have lost that much blood and survived. But he refused to believe Josen was already dead. No, this demon had more tricks to play. If Josen were dead, already, they'd be seeing his corpse in that pool of blood just to torment her.
"Wait," he told her. "Let me take a look."
Kneeling down, his hand glowed softly as he reached for the life that had been in that blood. Maybe it wasn't human... Or perhaps it was another illusion. He sighed heavily a second later. He was wrong.
"You're right, it's human. And this isn't an illusion, either."
Both of them jumped back to their feet when heavy footsteps approached. A smiling Josen walked right up. And then another, and another, and another. They formed and then disappeared all around them, blinking in and out of existence.
"No!" Valla screamed. "You're not him!"
One of them laughed and said in Josen's voice, "Recognizing a threat does not make you immune to it."
"Enough of these lies!" Pyresong growled back, unhooking his shield and scythe.
"You've learned nothing I've taught you," Josen accused her.
Valla was completely still now. No shaking, no tears, no screaming. She was shutting down. He took her shoulder and shook her roughly, trying to get her out of it. But she just stared at the place where the last Josen had stood. He could sense as much as see it reappearing here and there. Some kind of teleporting demon cloaked in more illusions.
"Valla...stay with me!"
"No. Not again. I...I can't."
The young Demon Hunter just stared into nothing. The image of Josen laughed and pulled his crossbow. Illusion or not, he wasn't going to risk finding out the hard way if the bolts were an illusion, too. He pulled her behind him and set his skeletons to guarding her back.
"Overconfident, as always!" Josen taunted, taking aim at her.
When the fired bolt met his shield, he knew it was real enough to kill. Behind him, Valla fell to her knees, making him think for one heart-stopping moment she'd been hit. But no, she was collapsing in on herself, helpless and completely defeated. She wrapped her arms around herself and shrunk inward away from everything going on around her.
"So young and immature!" Josen said, taking aim with his crossbow again.
At this point, Pyresong wasn't entirely sure, but he got the feeling it was aiming for him now, rather than her. His primary concern was ensuring they stayed together. There was no way he would chase these damned illusions around and leave her exposed. Keeping his shield up and ready, he nudged her gently with his leg.
"Valla! Watch out!"
"Just leave me alone!" she screamed, curling in on herself.
"You can't even control your own emotions!" another Josen called, firing again. "I can always find a better apprentice!"
This Josen appeared close enough for him to bash with his shield, preventing it from firing. But already he could sense it reappearing behind them. But now, he could feel multiple apparitions simultaneously. There was definitely more than one here. He couldn't block all the bolts. It was just a matter of time before one of them got through.
"You will never be strong enough!" one of them shouted at her.
This one aimed right for her exposed back. Reflexively, he intercepted the fired bolt with his shield again, having to let another bolt skip off his rerebrace. Meanwhile Valla was coming apart. Already, she was clutching her hair and whispering to herself.
"Valla! Fight it!" he urged, desperately. "Think! Do these words sound like they would come from Josen?"
She froze in silence as he danced around her, trying to block the multiple bolts aimed at both of them. He prayed there was more going on inside her than just crumbling. The demons were closing in and getting more brazen by the second. He swung with his scythe in unpredictable directions to try to keep them off balance for even just a couple of precious seconds. He very nearly opened a portal and summoned a golem to carry her through it. He was done with this. While some part of him still hoped to find the real Josen alive somewhere, his main focus now was finding something worth unleashing his tightly controlled rage on.
Then, Valla again did the unexpected.
As if his unspoken prayers had been heard, she screamed with explosive rage. He had to dance back out of her way when she pulled her crossbow and began dancing around him in a firing frenzy. By this point, there were four Josens. They all disappeared in a puff of smoke as she hit them. All but one. This one transformed into a laughing snake demon. He quickly cut it in half with a flung blade of energy even as she fired multiple bolts into its fanged face.
He scanned the area again before turning back to the young woman. What he found in her expression gave him both relief and hope. Valla stood rigid, her face a mask of fury.
"All these illusions, meant to break me by forcing me to kill the things I love," she told him, the cold edge of anger in her voice. "It would have worked if I'd been here alone."
He nodded, relaxing slightly. He hadn't lost her. He smiled gently, proud of her strength and resilience.
"I always try to do everything myself, but it just gets everyone into more trouble," she told him before he could speak. "The truth is: I'm not ready. I can't save Josen by myself."
"I'm with you, Valla. Let's go end this."
"Together," she added, her Demon Hunter-trained eyes now scanning their surroundings.
This time, there was no wicked laughter. A portal simply opened up beside them. He hooked his scythe and took her hand in his, afraid it might suck them in as the last one had and try to separate them. Thankfully, it just sat there invitingly. They crossed through the portal together. He was certain now the demon would try to separate them at some point. Given that Aeshama hadn't laughed or taunted them, he was convinced she understood his threat now. With him present, Valla would not fall so easily. The demon had to have heard every word Valla had just said. He was not about to let the damned thing get Valla alone.
Wherever the real Josen was now, the best thing they could do for him was to find Aeshama. Either they would find and rescue him, or they would avenge him. When they crossed the threshold of the fiery portal, it quickly closed behind them. Here, they found themselves on a large platform with only one exit path away from it over an ocean of lava. But they didn't need it. On a throne just across the platform and directly in front of them, Aeshama sat calmly. The demon took a long, deep breath happily.
"So much anguish," it crooned. "So much suffering! I can taste it coming off of you both. Such forbidden power. It tastes so...good. I will feast upon your broken souls."
He was not surprised in the least when it was Valla who responded this time as the thing rose up from its throne.
"I hate to disappoint you, but I am not broken."
"Death will be your first torment!" Aeshama laughed.
Pyresong, shield and scythe ready, waited for it to make the first move. He knew already suspected the thing on the throne was not the entire threat, nor the prime target. But Valla, with her usual impatience, didn't bother analyzing. To be fair, she could not see the magical auras that told him what was and was not illusion. It might even work in their favor, he considered. Valla could keep it busy while he tried to locate the real one.
"Stand and face your judgment!" she screamed, taking aim with her crossbow.
Before she could fire, the demon disappeared.
More illusions, he thought with a mental grin.
He had played this game before, and easily knew how to win the match. Leaving Valla to keep it occupied, he closed his eyes to focus on his other senses. He needed to find the real one before it could make its move. He knew he wasn't going to see it coming otherwise.
"Guilt still haunts you, child!" it taunted from another location as Valla took aim again.
"I see your illusions for what they are, demon!" Valla raged back. "You can't break us so easily!"
Good girl, he thought proudly, still listening warily.
Now, he could hear the crossbow firing repeatedly in short bursts while the illusions of Aeshama formed, disappeared, and re-formed. After several seconds, wanted to tell the Demon Hunter that it was just trying to wear her down, to save her bolts for the real thing. But he knew she needed this. She needed a target for her rage now.
Meanwhile, he turned this way and that, trying to hear Aeshama or her wings or anything to indicate where the real one was coming from. He felt a needle-sharp touch upon his mind and froze for a moment, reinforcing his mental shields against the prying thing. He knew it could only be Aeshama trying to batter a way into his memories. Now she was after him, to distract him from Valla.
Suddenly, the sound of a massive body hitting the ground a few yards away startled him into opening his eyes. There, he found the same massive lizard demon he'd fought in Wortham. He knew he was afraid of it. Even after wounding it badly enough to send it back to the Hells, it had nearly killed him. His heart thudded painfully in his chest for a moment. He reminded himself it was just an illusion. He wouldn't waste time focusing on or fighting the illusion. But still...
A tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that even an illusion could kill if believed strongly enough.
Valla had no way of discerning the truth here. She was far too vulnerable, even if he wasn't.
"What is that?" Valla said, backing away in fear.
"It's an illusion. A really big one," he told her. "Stay away from the fire!"
Much as he had done before, he sent his skeletons to harass it. And the noise it was making when it stomped and screamed was easily enough to cover the sounds of any other real demon moving. Unlike the last massive lizard, though, this one wasn't mindless. It ignored his harassing skeletons and mages, coming right toward the two of them. He wasn't going to waste his energy fighting it as he had done before. Valla fired over and over again at its face and bulging orange eyes as they backed away. When it lunged with unexpected speed, they dodged in different directions. Instantly, he realized that had been the intent. They were separated by some thirty feet when the lizard demon disappeared.
"This is my domain! And I will have your soul!"
Finally, he heard it, from above them. He hadn't been able to hear her demon wings flapping until now. And he was already too late. Aeshama was in a full dive right for the exposed Demon Hunter. There was no way to get to Valla in time. Reflexively, he fired to some bone spears at her, trying to stop her, but she was too fast. His heart lurched painfully in his chest as he instinctively ran toward Valla.
"Valla! Above!" he called, praying he could stop what he knew was coming next.
He couldn't. His legs fueled by his raw fear, he sped toward the exposed Demon Hunter still trying to catch Aeshama with a bone spear. He was desperate to do anything to stop this, even if it was just grabbing onto Valla's legs to keep the demon from flying back up. He never had a chance. Even in wraith form, he would not have been fast enough. Aeshama swooped down and gripped Valla by her vest without ever slowing the dive. The leathery wings snapped open with a crack, and it sailed back up into the air far above and out of his reach. Valla screamed in surprise as they rose higher. He chased underneath. There was no way he could get to her or stop the demon while it clutched the Demon Hunter. Anything he threw would kill Valla. And, once they were high enough up, dropping her might be just as dangerous. They were surrounded by an ocean of lava. His gut twisted painfully with his helplessness as she chased desperately underneath. They were easily thirty feet up now and climbing.
Please, no... he pleaded to anything that would listen.
When the demon raised a claw to tear the young woman to pieces, Valla overcame her initial shock. With her crossbow, she bashed the demon in the face several times. Aeshama's flight was now faltering and uncontrolled. Pyresong nearly screamed in horrified panic as they raced toward the far edge of the platform.
"No, you won't!" Valla screamed in rage, now unloading her crossbow in its chest.
Gods...no...
His heart nearly stopped altogether when the demon released its grip and fell right out over the lava. He threw down his shield and scythe as he sprinted. Aeshama released the Demon Hunter just before the ledge, still some ten feet above the ground. Adrenaline had slowed time until every detail was terrifyingly clear to him. Valla slammed into the ground at an angle, only a couple of feet from the ledge. Her crossbow flew from numb fingers. His mind was a blur of sheer, mindless panic. He didn't even care if he went over with her. He went into a dive, sliding on his belly, still trying to catch her as she rolled and slid toward the edge. Her momentum carried her right over. By some miracle, he managed to catch her by her belt in one hand. Despite that, his own forward momentum was too much to entirely stop them both.
The sudden pull tore his right shoulder and elbow, making them flare with white hot agony. He screamed reflexively but refused to let go, even reaching with his other hand to make sure he had a good grip. He was still sliding off the ledge with her, but he would not let her go.
With half his own torso hanging off the ledge and sliding quickly over it, he jolted to an unexpected stop that would have made him scream again, had he any breath left to do so. For a heartbeat, he was completely frozen. He couldn't even breathe. They were hanging hundreds of feet up over an ocean of lava, and his mind was frozen in disbelief that he wasn't still falling right toward the lava. His mind was momentarily numbed by shock and pain, and he couldn't comprehend what was happening.
"I've got you!" cried Josen, now laying across his back plates.
Valla seemed to suddenly realize she hadn't died after all. She reflexively twisted herself around to get a grip on the rocky ledge. He clenched his teeth against a scream as her movements made his arm feel like it was literally coming apart. As it was, a groan made its way up through the back of his throat. He quickly turned it into a growl and clung to her with what little control he still had in that arm.
"I've got it," she told him. "Let go."
Behind him, Josen was twisting around and getting a grip on the neck of his plate. Finally able to breathe again, he somehow managed to get his fingers to release their grip on Valla's belt. After a couple of controlled breaths to focus himself, he twisted slightly to offer her his left arm. For a moment, she seemed completely frozen in fear, not wanting to let go of the ledge.
"You can trust us, Valla," he told her through gritted teeth. "We won't let you fall."
White and trembling, she gripped his arm above the elbow with one hand. Pyresong twisted his arm around to grab a fistful of her shirt and hook his fingers under her leather breastplate. She closed her eyes in terror as she moved her other hand to grip his arm just above the gauntlet. She was again hanging precariously from his arm over certain death. No matter how he tried, he could not get his right arm to move or grip any part of her.
"Pull!" he growled to Josen through pain-clenched teeth.
Seeing they had a good grip, Josen pulled quickly, throwing all his body weight behind it. The first pull brought his chest and shoulders back onto the platform. The second dragged him further back, with Valla still clinging desperately over the edge. Pyresong growled and then held his breath when it felt like his left arm was going to snap under the pressure of the third and final tug from Josen. It was ground against the hard rock ledge with all of Valla's body weight. He swore he could feel the bones fracturing anyway. He didn't care. He wasn't letting go. Likely, the only thing that prevented the bones from snapping entirely was the vambrace, which felt horribly thin at the moment.
Once he was far enough back to be stable, Josen climbed over him to get a grip on Valla. He gripped her by her vest and pulled her up onto the solid ground. She sobbed and clung to him as he pulled her back over the ledge and into his arms. Quickly, he rolled them both off of Pyresong.
For a few seconds, all he could do was try to breathe through the pain flaring in his right shoulder and elbow. It felt like the joints had been completely ripped apart. Vaguely, he was aware of a slightly duller throbbing pain in his left forearm. Likely, it had fractured, but was nothing compared to the rest. Some dazed part of his mind was surprised to see his right arm was even still attached.
"Are you real?" he heard Valla ask in a quavering voice, still huddled in her master's arms.
Pyresong couldn't help laughing softly, despite the pain. Confident he would not black out, at least, he finally pushed himself up with his aching left arm. He shuffled himself back a bit from the ledge with shaky legs until he could sit up more safely. Josen helped Valla to her unsteady feet and then turned to help the necromancer. Unable to move his right arm at all, he was already fumbling a potion off his belt awkwardly with his left hand. He waved off Josen's proffered hand and pulled the cork with his teeth. This was going to get painful for a minute. Might as well already be on the ground. Josen knelt down, his brows knit in worry.
"Where are you hurt?"
"I thought you'd show. What took so long?" he asked Josen with a grin, ignoring the question for now. He just hoped the healing potion would at least take the edge off. Real healing could wait until they were out of this awful place.
"It took you two distracting her for me to make any real progress past all those illusions. Still, I'm glad to see you two found each other."
"It's really you!" Valla said in a faint voice, tears rising in her eyes. "You're all right."
Josen caught her as she practically fell into his arms.
"After everything, I-I thought...I thought."
He downed the syrupy, thick, potent potion, trying not to gag at the thickness and vile taste that always seemed to cling to his tongue. Josen was still eyeing him with concern. He motioned with the empty bottle at his right arm now hanging at an awkward angle. There was no time to reply verbally when the tissues began moving back into their proper places. Under his skin, things writhed and moved with white hot flaring pain all over again. He knew it wouldn't be nearly enough to fix all of the damage, but maybe enough to steady him. He felt the popping of his arm sliding back into the socket of his shoulder as an explosion of agony that seemed to ripple through his whole body. He gritted his teeth against a scream and shook his head, trying not to pass out, without much success.
Josen knelt down and steadied him carefully. He retrieved another healing potion from his own belt. By the time Pyresong could even unclench his teeth enough to breathe, Josen was pouring another cloyingly thick potion down his throat. With the still flaring pain in his right arm and shoulder, he already knew the first one wouldn't have been enough. His original hope was that it would be enough until he could at least get out of there and find a healer. The world around him alternated between bursts of pain and threatening darkness. After what felt like hours but was probably only seconds, he unclenched his teeth. When he could finally take a breath, he opened his eyes to try to steady himself again. They knelt on either side of him, carefully holding him upright away from the all too nearby ledge.
Their twin looks of pale-faced relief made him wonder just how bad he must have been. He gave them a nod that he was good. He accepted their help as they hauled him to his feet. Not surprisingly, he was still shaking and sweating. He tenderly moved his right arm. Not completely healed, but at least he could move it. It must have been a lot worse than even he had thought. Valla again threw herself at Josen in a fierce embrace. Wanting to get out of there before worse could happen, he walked away to retrieve his shield and scythe where he'd dropped them.
"Hush now," Josen told her soothingly. "It's all right. I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner."
Then he gently pushed her away and turned to Pyresong, draping an arm over her shoulders. "Besides," Josen continued, "it appears you two had things well in hand. Now we just need to find a way out of here."
"I can take care of that," Pyresong told them, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice.
His arm still twitching and cramping painfully, he tenderly moved to hook his scythe back on his belt. Seeing he was not able to bend his elbow and shoulder enough, Valla quickly took it from him and hooked it. Josen did the same with his shield, much to the necromancer's relief. Hooking it with one hand when everything was working was awkward enough. Now, it would be nearly impossible.
"You've got a portal scroll?" Josen asked.
"Don't need one," he replied tiredly, opening a wide blue portal to the Amber Blades' camp.
Josen cocked an eyebrow at him curiously, but lead Valla through the portal; still not ready to let go of her. On the other side, Pyresong waved off some approaching guards who quickly recognized him. Being that he was part of the tribe now, he was allowed to bring guests, supposedly. And he was fairly certain the two of them needed a few minutes of peace and safety.
Seeing they were in a safe location, Josen turned back to his apprentice, tugging off a bright red hood and scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders. Meanwhile, Pyresong turned to intercept Peth as he was jogging up to the growing crowd of onlookers. He still caught the words behind him. For the moment, Valla and Josen were in their own world.
"It's yours now," Josen said, handing the hood over to Valla.
"But I thought only full Demon Hunters got to wear them." She seemed to consider it for a moment before holding it back out to her master. "I didn't earn it."
"What you faced today was more than any apprentice would be expected to survive. Maybe you're not a full Demon Hunter yet. But you didn't give up, and you didn't give in to anger or fear."
Valla still looked doubtful. "I wouldn't have—"
"Valla," Pyresong cut in, turning to confront her. "You realized you have weaknesses that must be overcome. You've taken the first steps. And now you realize you are not alone, and you don't have to do everything alone."
Josen smiled in approval of his words. Valla stared at the hood in her hands.
"I haven't learned to temper my hatred," she warned, but sadly. "Not really...I don't deserve to wear the hood."
"I'll be the judge of that, thank you," Josen told her, closing his hands over hers and pushing gently back toward her. "Listen, there's a long road ahead of you, Valla, and it's paved with regret and sadness. But you've proven you're ready to start walking it. And I am so proud of you."
"As am I," Pyresong added, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly.
Valla's cheeks flamed red, though she flashed him a shy smile of gratitude. For one second he caught a glimpse of the shy young woman she tried so very hard to cover up. Josen turned to the necromancer, putting out his hand.
"As for you, friend, I am beyond thankful for your assistance. We are going to return to the Dreadlands, but if you ever need the help of the Demon Hunters, we will be at your side."
"It is an honor," he replied with a slight bow of his shoulders and head.
As Josen released his grip, he smiled warmly again. The small crowd that had gathered was staring curiously as he guided Valla to the south gate nearby and out of the village.
"What's all this?" Peth asked as they left.
"You heard him; they're Demon Hunters. They just made the desert a bit more safe," he explained.
"And I suppose you had no part to play in that," Tabri's cold voice came from behind him.
He couldn't help laughing softly as he turned to greet her. "Not a thing," he said with a grin.
"Liar," she threw back, but with a smile. "You're just in time for supper. Come, join me. "
He could practically feel Peth's eyes burning into his back in shock. He again mentally wished the man the best of luck in his amorous endeavors, though he knew Tabri would likely never reciprocate.
"I am honored," he told her sincerely. "But I've been gone a bit longer than I anticipated. I would like to get back to Westmarch."
Tabri nodded, her seductive intent clear in her expression. Pyresong had the sudden feeling he was a mouse that just got caught in a trap with the cat waiting for him to escape. He struggled a bit but did manage to keep the amused grin off his face. He had the distinct impression she had no compunctions about slapping it right off his face. He was not entirely unfamiliar with such games. He'd met a few women that were drawn to what they saw as heroes. He typically won by simply escaping the situation altogether. He had no desire to complicate his life with emotional or sexual entanglements. He was already distracted enough by Kashya, he knew. Despite his best efforts to walk away completely, he could still feel something for the Rogue commander that he just refused to acknowledge.
Tabri offered him a crooked smile as if to assure him it was all just a game to her. "You don't know what you're missing," she said suggestively.
Now more relaxed, as he believed it really was just a harmless game—and that he wasn't about to be gutted on the spot—he grinned in return. He shook her hand in his and smiled warmly.
"I can only imagine," he said meaningfully.
Game over, and knowing people were watching, she stepped back with a wink.
"When you're hungry enough, stop imagining and join us. You're one of us, and we never got to celebrate your victories."
"Perhaps someday," he replied, knowing he'd never let that happen.
"Safe travels, Pyresong."
He nodded to her, opened another portal on the nearby waypoint, and made his escape. As amusing as the encounter had been, he was still sore and very much tired. And he had never been one to really indulge in such lustful games. He always wanted there to be more of a connection, even though he went out of his way to avoid them at all costs. He laughed softly, this time at himself, as he exited the waypoint in the Palace Courtyard. No, he'd definitely made the right decision where Kashya was concerned. He just wished he could convince himself of that and stop letting her creep into his thoughts.
Where it had been well into the evening in the Shassar Sea, Pyresong returned to a bustling late afternoon Westmarch. Wanting to get back to Cain's as quickly as possible, he came out at the Palace Courtyard waypoint. He wove his way through the crowds of people who initially paid him little attention. But he was surprised to hear the excited whispers of a small group as he passed by.
"That's him!"
"Who?"
"That priest!"
Reflexively, he glanced around, almost praying there was someone else nearby fitting that description, even just some random person in robes. No such luck. He struggled to keep his pace slow and steady, a shadow creeping over his mind of the confrontation he could already anticipate. Resolutely ignoring the people who did stop to stare for a few seconds, he made his way down the stairs toward Central Square.
"Sir, Priest! Please! One moment!" a woman called out behind him.
With a mental sigh, he paused on the stairs and turned to face the woman, his expression carefully set to its default serenity.
"Can I help you?"
"You're the one that saved Wortham?" she asked, hesitantly.
"I was there a few months ago when cultists were attacking," he confirmed neutrally, not sure where this was going.
The woman stared for a moment and then shook her head. "No, it was you. I can tell by your eyes. You saved my brother. You saved the whole village!"
Caught off guard and not liking the amount of attention she was drawing to him, he started to back away, but she darted forward and took his hand. He fought the urge to pull away when the tug on his arm flared in his elbow and shoulder painfully.
"Captain Azmir says you rescued those people at Guards Watch in Ashwold, too. Thank you! Thank you so much! I just wish my parents were here to thank you, also."
Having recovered his mental equilibrium, he patted her hand gently with his free one.
"It's quite all right. I'm just glad they're safe now."
To his shock, she pulled back her hands and then threw herself at him in an embrace that momentarily left him stunned. Then, much to his relief, she dislodged herself quickly and walked back to her friends standing nearby, watching curiously. Not quite sure what to make of the strange encounter, he just turned his mind back toward his destination on the quiet street ahead. He just barely managed to cover his hasty retreat with a forcefully sedate pace.
He took a deep, comforting breath, taking in the scent of books and parchment as he walked through the door, happy to be home. Cain, still at his desk with Yl'nira sitting nearby, turned to greet him happily. Already, he was considering another healing potion versus having to go back out and find a healer. After that unexpected encounter, he would rather stay here.
"You're back!" Cain cried, setting aside his quill. "And nearly perfect timing, too."
"Oh? Did you find another shard?" he asked, setting down his bag, shield, and scythe.
He carefully began to remove his armor. At least now he could move his arm a bit more, even if painfully. He could likely get away with not having to go back out there; at least, not with his easily recognizable armor on, anyway.
"I was right. There is a shard to the northeast," Cain explained, moving toward the kettle and fire. "It wasn't actively being used the last time I did the spell. Today, something or someone is planning to use it, I believe. The links have already begun to form, but it's not in use yet. We might just stand a chance to get ahead of them. It's somewhere near Mount Zavain."
Ignoring the occasional painful twinges in his right arm and shoulder, he eyed the various pieces of his armor as he removed them. He was surprised that it needed no more than minor cleaning. After having been through the desert and literal Hell, he'd expected it to be much worse. He thought hard for a minute, trying to recall where Mount Zavain was located. As if reading his expression—which Pyresong suspected was exactly the case—Cain answered a few seconds later.
"It's well east of Mount Arreat but still on the western continent, part of Ivgorod. We should be able to take a ship through the twin seas and then up the river most of the way. Once we reach the foothills of the mountains, it will be quite a climb," Cain told him.
He grinned at the old scholar's enthusiasm. "Sounds like you have it all planned out."
"Ha!" Cain laughed. "Not quite, but Rehm came knocking earlier. Something about owing him a meal."
He smiled at Cain. It did sound like the captain. "Well, I think we could afford to give him a story or two over a supper. Though, I'm surprised... Have I been gone longer than I thought? It can't be more than...three, maybe four weeks since I last saw him."
"The return journey down the river and back south through the Twin Seas is much easier and faster due to the winds at this time of year. You're likely correct. No more than three or four weeks. And he was quite surprised to find you'd already returned ahead of him."
He couldn't help grinning again. "He's not the only one," he admitted.
Cain gave an excited smile. "Fortunately, Captain Rehm doesn't have anything else lined up. He says he will be ready to depart in a couple of days. He's got some business to attend to, first."
He considered for a minute and then shook his head mentally. He wasn't quite ready for the confrontation he knew he was walking into next. Yet, he doubted he ever would be, in all honesty. Despite the renewed hope that Yl'nira and the destruction of three shards had given them, he knew this was far from over. He still hoped what had been told so long ago was wrong or had somehow been averted. And he just couldn't bring himself to dump it all on his friend. For now, he would wait and see where all of this eventually led them.
Besides, they still had no other way to destroy the remaining shards. There could be hundreds of them. And, truth be told, he selfishly wanted to go forward, knowing Cain was safe in his workshop doing more research rather than leading him around the mountains. If his hopes were entirely misplaced, he was not about to allow Cain to follow him where he knew he was going to have to go one day.
"You won't be going with me," he finally said, softly.
"But the shards are gone! I'm familiar with Mount Zavain and the Ivgorod region," Cain objected in clear shock by this flat statement. "You'll need a good guide. And I'm not too old to travel."
"I never said that you were," he agreed, falling back on his soothing tone, "but I'm sure I can find help from a local. Or, any maps you may have."
Cain opened his mouth again with a look of irritation, and Pyresong cut him off.
"I don't know what I'm walking into, true. You're not wrong there. But it's all the more reason I need you here."
The old man's mouth shut in surprise as his eyebrows shot up. Then he frowned darkly. Pyresong just barely managed not to grin at that dark scowl.
"Young man, I was traveling the world before you were even born."
"And I heard you say that before you even opened your mouth," he teased with a grin, trying to lighten the mood.
Cain was in no mood. Pyresong sighed heavily.
"Please, friend, understand, we undertake this journey to destroy the shards together. And with Yl'nira, we have real hope now. But if something goes wrong, I need to know you're here to keep going where I left off. I will take Yl'nira and destroy that evil thing the moment I get the shard. But we still need an alternative. We still need to find other answers. Maybe even outside help. There is no way to tell how many more are out there, waiting to be found."
Cain was quiet, his eyes sad. "You mean in case you don't come back."
He wasn't going to argue that point. His last little "adventures" in both the Shassar Sea and in Bilefen had nearly ended in his death more than once. And, besides, that's exactly what he was referring to here. Selfish as it may seem from the outside, he really did need to know Cain would be here and safe if it came to that. He knew if he was wrong and the fragmented prophecy was correct, he wouldn't be around forever. But he also needed the reassurance of knowing there must be another way to destroy the shards. Just because Cain hadn't found it yet didn't mean to him there wasn't one. He was certain there had to be another option out there somewhere.
"To put it bluntly, yes," he agreed.
It was Cain's turn to sigh heavily. "You're right, of course. I just..."
"I understand, Cain." He gripped the old man's shoulder comfortingly. "If you know of any waypoints I might encounter, I could check in from time to time."
Cain's bushy white brows furrowed thoughtfully for a moment, and then his expression grew hopeful. "I believe there are, but I'll have to consult my maps."
He was relieved that it was over. "While you're doing that, I'll go get cleaned up."
"Where were you?" Cain asked, just now noticing the ashy scuff marks on Pyresong's breast plates. "I thought you were just going to check on Tabri and the others."
His initial chuckle turned to a grunt of pain when his right elbow and shoulder protested lifting even his light armor and shield. He paused for a moment, thinking he might just stuff it all in his bag and unload it again upstairs.
"You're injured," Cain said, his hand glowing a soft gold as he reached for his arm. "It's swollen."
"It took a couple of healing potions, but I believe everything is back in the right places," he admitted, waving off his friend's concern. "Nothing a bit of rest won't take care of, I'm sure."
Cain wouldn't release his grip, and Pyresong felt the telltale tingle of warm healing magic that radiated up his arm from the elbow to the shoulder and down to his wrist. Weak as this healing was, it still brought instant relief from the still-throbbing and occasionally sharp pains.
"I'm no healer, but clearly you did something significant to both your elbow and your shoulder. You'll need another healing potion at the very least. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to see a healer?" he asked again, reaching for a red bottle on a nearby shelf. "What happened?"
"Well, if you must know, I helped a couple of Demon Hunters with a small problem in Hell."
"What?"
Despite his attempt at levity, Cain dropped the bottle in surprise. Pyresong reflexively caught it in his left hand before it could hit the floor. Truth be told, he was still a bit amazed they'd survived, let alone returned safely back to Sanctuary. But he covered this by quickly downing the potion while Cain stared at him in wide-eyed shock. Then, the old man muttered something dark into his beard as he shook his head. Pyresong sighed again with mixed relief at the warmth of the healing potion and the fact that Cain didn't look like he was about to interrogate him regarding his sanity.
"I'm beginning to think I shouldn't be so surprised by anything you do," Cain said. Then, he got serious. "Are you really all right?"
He smiled reassuringly. "Yes, I'm fine. I just need a good night's rest and some time to let this arm heal. Hopefully, that will be enough gossip fodder to last you until I return," he couldn't help teasing.
Cain chuckled again and turned to check the kettle. "Speaking of gossip, with everything else, I forgot to tell you: You shouldn't be having any more issues with the merchants in Westmarch."
Having piled his armor onto the shield and opting to carry it one-handed up the stairs, he paused. He cocked an eyebrow at his friend.
"What did I miss?"
Cain grinned as he scooped out some tea leaves from a canister. "Your name is all over the city. News of your exploits and heroism have spread."
"What?"
He groaned, making a disgusted face. He absolutely did not want to draw attention to himself as a Priest of Rathma. By now, the whole city knew he was staying with Cain, making him a target as well. What they were doing must remain a secret. Even though there were no shards currently housed here, their work was just too important. Cultists could be anywhere. And the last thing he wanted was to be hailed as some kind of hero. He absolutely didn't believe he was any kind of hero, nor would he ever want to be.
"You can thank Vic for some of it. And, of course, Charsi had her hand in it. She visited her sisters while you were away. They send their regards. But news has come from Ashwold and Wortham along with the refugees," Cain told him, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
The old scholar was enjoying this far too much. That glint in his eyes was downright wicked to Pyresong's way of thinking. Biting back some obscenities, he just sighed and shook his head, moving toward the stairs. Part of him was glad to hear he would not have to be so careful within the city at the moment. And, to some small extent, he hoped it would go a long way toward making Priests of Rathma a bit more welcome in Westmarch overall. But he was suddenly very, very glad he was leaving in a couple of days. With any luck, they will have forgotten him by the time he returned from Mount Zavain. Still favoring his right arm, he maneuvered himself and the pile of gear up the stairs carefully and awkwardly.
A couple of hours later, Charsi joined them for supper. She talked with him animatedly about her brief trip to Dark Wood. And she was in no small part proud of her efforts to change the image of at least one necromancer in the public eye. Pyresong didn't have the heart to shoot her down for it. It didn't take him long to change the subject, though.
He had also decided his next action was too long overdue. Taking advantage of the moment, he got Cain to let him in to the adjoining room where the bag of treasure he'd recovered was being kept. He filled a large purse until it almost wouldn't close with precious gems. Her eyes were wide when he dropped it on the table in front of her.
"For my armor's 'little enhancements,'" he told her dryly. "A blacksmith in Wortham by the name of Korrin explained them to me."
He was gratified to see Charsi's face go as red as her hair. "It was nothing. Really."
"Hm, yes, a 'nothing' that just happened to save my life on a few occasions," he said, not able to stop himself from tormenting her slightly.
Charsi squirmed. "Okay, so it was a lot of work. I'm just glad to hear you put it to good use."
Finally, he put her out of her misery with a warm smile. "I am grateful. And if it makes you feel better, you can put some of that toward future expenses. I'm certain I will need repairs, eventually."
Charsi couldn't help herself. "The reinforcements are holding up pretty well, huh?"
"They are, indeed."
Chapter 11: 10 Mount Zavain
Chapter Text
Mount Zavain
Pyresong spent the next day mostly restocking and preparing for his trip. It was a pleasant change to be able to walk the city and visit the shops in and around Rakkis Plaza without being in high alert for an escort out of the city, or worse. Rehm had said he would be ready enough to sail with the morning tide the day after that. He was pleased to feel his arm had fully recovered and no longer pained him as he got the rest of his stuff together. The real hard part was dealing with Cain. The old scholar was more than a little disappointed to be left behind, so he filled every minute of his time with his friend, telling him every detail of what he knew of the area in and around Mount Zavain. Still, there was a lot of mystery surrounding various parts. Some had been clouded in shadow and nightmarish creatures for centuries. Even in his younger years, Cain had never dared brave the mists and nightmares to find out what secrets lay within.
He gratefully accepted the multiple maps and information. Once again, he promised to return, preferably sooner rather than later. But he also knew full well that no matter what was in possession of the shard he was after, it couldn't be good. Even the old Horadrim's more specialized divinational spells could not shed light on what was planning to use the shard. Worse, his vision beyond the coming weeks in that area was entirely clouded, just like the mists of the valley he mentioned. They could only wait and see what they were up against.
While Pyresong seemed in high spirits and took things in stride, Cain could not shake off the feeling that something much worse loomed on the horizon. Much as with before, a part of him was certain his dear friend wasn't coming back.
In a way, he was right.
Captain Rehm and his crew welcomed Pyresong aboard gladly this time. He was surprised to learn from the captain that the unexpected disappearance of the pirate leader Rhodri had left something of a power vacuum that had all manner of non-guild pirates in the south now fighting amongst themselves, all trying to be on the top. When he told the captain what had actually happened to the pirate leader at the hands of a young wizardess, the man just laughed in disbelief and said good riddance.
As they sailed down around the southern coast of Westmarch and then up the eastern coast of Aranoch through the Twin Seas, the days rolled by pleasantly. Pyresong helped with whatever he could when he could, again learning much about sailing and the maintenance of various sea vessels along the way. This time, the river voyage was much shorter as there wasn't much more than an inlet that led to the foothills of the mountains. He parted ways with the captain and his crew when they docked at what seemed to be a major trading hub for the mountains in that region. With the captain's help and a decent amount of gold, he was easily able to find a trading caravan headed right for a village only a day's walk from a settlement called Sentinel's Watch, which he would be passing through on his way up to Mount Zavain.
No one in the caravan seemed particularly pleased with the presence of a Priest of Rathma. Still, that sizable amount of gold paid to the merchant in charge of the caravan ensured he would have a place to ride quietly out of sight most of the time. He kept Yl'nira safely stowed in his backpack so that it would not be detected.
As with anywhere in Sanctuary, from time to time, they ran into wildlife that would attack unexpectedly. He actually looked forward to those times after a while. Being trapped alone in the back of a hot wagon day after day wore thin, quickly. The guards and mercenaries hired to protect the caravan readily accepted his help when the attacks did come, but the creatures and even bandits were few and easily dealt with. He had learned to carry a few books from Cain's collection to keep himself occupied. Even so, as often as not, he found himself simply appreciating what scenery he could see and meditating. He was pleased to note that the sense of hope had not fled. If anything, he was excited about this new journey. With every shard they destroyed and with every day that passed, he grew more hopeful that Rathma's warnings had been averted entirely.
Finally, the day came when the caravan merchants told him they were parting ways. It was only late morning when he hopped off the still rolling cart. Just as the man had indicated, there was a well-worn path leading to a winding trail up the side of the mountain to Sentinel's Watch. Clear tracks from another recent caravan marked the dirt ahead. By the looks of the fresh tracks, they were no more than a day ahead of him at most. He wondered if he might even catch up to them. Blending in with a caravan on his way up the mountain would be far easier than scouting the area by himself. For several hours, he wound his way up the switchback until he could actually see the ocean sparkling faintly in the distance. Slightly winded at this elevation, he stopped to appreciate the vista.
That's when he caught the scent of blood on the wind. On the alert now, he soon heard the sounds of battle ahead. He got his shield and scythe ready as he rounded the corner that hugged a sheer rock wall. Just beyond the next curve, the mountainside opened up into a large valley. Almost immediately, he spotted the corpse of a young man just lying in the road. A large blade wound had nearly cut him in half. A little further from that were more bodies and some overturned carts. He had caught up to the little caravan but too late. Interwoven with the smell of fresh blood was the stink of demonic power hanging heavy even in the wind up here. Now he could hear as well as see the ongoing battle, and the sound easily identified the source of the attack as well as the filthy demonic sense.
Khazra! he thought in surprise, catching sight of them as he ran toward the cluster. Moon Clan, if I'm not mistaken.
Surrounded by at least a half dozen of the large goatmen, a woman in the white and yellow robes of a Veradani monk stood over a fallen soldier wearing an orange uniform. All around her lay the bodies of more people and Khazra. Likely the remains of the caravan that had tried to flee. Knowing he would be too late to save the monk, he ran anyway. He sent his skeletal minions and spirit fire ahead to distract the goatmen, hopefully long enough for him to get to them. It worked, better than he could have thought possible. The moment the Khazra turned to engage his minions, the woman struck seemingly in every direction at once. By the time he caught up to them, there were only two standing Khazra left, and he took one of them with his scythe. Briefly, he turned his attention to the fallen men and women, but it was clearly too late for all of them. There was only one possible thing he could do for any of them now. The woman in yellow robes checked other bodies closest to her.
Offering prayers and rites, he checked the bodies nearest to him and sensed that all but one had gone to their rest. When he got to the eviscerated young woman, her spirit was still trying to cling to the body below it. The monk stopped to watch him curiously when he knelt down. Likely, she was unable to see the spirit he now worked with. The dead mother was trying to get back to her children. The necromancer opened the way for her to pass on into the realm of the dead.
"Your children will see you again some day," he told the spirit, "but your time has ended. You don't have to suffer anymore."
There was silence as he listened. Then he nodded. He spoke soothingly to her, sincerely hoping she would listen. Aside from being too exposed out here, he didn't have time to argue with a traumatized spirit.
"I will tell them if I can. Now go, while you can. Let go of the fear. You can rest."
When the spirit formed into a ball and then faded away, he was more than a little relieved. This place was too open and vulnerable for an extended argument with a stubborn spirit. Now, he could turn his attention to the woman who had so skillfully just taken out the better part of half a dozen armed and angry Khazra while she was unarmed. Glancing around, he also noticed several other Khazra bodies clearly not killed by traditional weapons. Those four were not the only ones she had killed, apparently. Only then did he realize that they were less than a ten-minute walk from the walls of the village. This was far too close.
"A Priest of Rathma." She bowed respectfully, priestess to priest. "And a well-armed one, at that."
Sensing her skill and power, he carefully returned the bow as equal, sensing she had chosen that status bow deliberately. "Master Pyresong."
"Oza. The Khazra have grown aggressive as of late. I would not recommend traveling Mount Zavain alone for the time being."
"I appreciate the warning. How can I help?"
"A good question, but one that's not mine to answer. I was on my way to speak with the target of these attacks: the Sons of Rakkis. Perhaps you wish to join me?"
Seeing no immediate threats and not wanting to frighten the likely already terrorized locals, he dismissed his skeletons, though he kept his shield and scythe ready.
"Lead on," he nodded.
He jogged along only a step behind her while they made the last little trek up to the solid walls of the nearby fort. He was pleased to see that it was at least a defensible position. And guards were posted both outside and inside these eastern gates. If demons, even just Khazra, were already brazen enough to attack people this close to the village, things were likely dire indeed. And he couldn't help feeling that the Khazra were likely connected to his hunt for the shard somehow. It had been weeks since he'd left Westmarch. Much could have happened since then.
There were places all over Sanctuary where Khazra made villages or dens, but usually, they were further away from human settlements. Being of a kind of demon that regularly crossed from Sanctuary into Hell and back again, they were considered a weaker demonic race than some. But, to Pyresong, they were some of the worst. Khazra happily hunted and ate humans whenever possible. They were more violent than even the fallen and a whole lot tougher. Being an average of eight feet tall and heavily muscled, they could be hard to kill. The destructive magic of the shamans only added to the threat, sometimes even enhancing the warriors and berserkers into becoming deadly weapons in themselves. It was not uncommon for a shaman to enhance a Khazra warrior into becoming a blight spreader or even set to explode with ice or fire when the goatman was killed. To add to that, they were as intelligent as most primitive humans and they became a real problem in large numbers.
"We have come to speak with your captain," Oza told the guards, hardly breathing heavy.
In this higher elevation and thinner air, Pyresong was already feeling the strain, but only mildly. He had to remind himself to take that into account when planning ahead. The guard turned to shout at the others and bowed deeply to Oza in respect.
"A monk from the temple! Open the gate!"
Those manning the gates opened it only enough to let them slip through before slamming it shut behind them. The two found themselves walking into chaos as one soldier led them up to a building that seemed to be the center of the fort where everyone was waiting to see what happened next. Panicked people milled around everywhere. Some already sat against walls as if defeated. Healers pushed their way through from person to person, checking on the wounded and offering what healing they could. This was not just a military fort, not anymore. It was a battle zone and refugee camp. The guard led them to the captain standing in a far corner away from others so no one would overhear his discussion with his lieutenant. Pyresong's sensitive ears easily picked up the conversation as they approached.
"The village is lost, Captain. Our defenses will hold no longer," the lieutenant was telling him with barely controlled panic.
"And our men are faring no better!" the captain shot back, frustrated. "We need new options, or we will be forced to abandon our post!"
Just then, the captain caught sight of Oza's yellow robes as they approached.
"Wait," he held up his hand to silence the lieutenant. To the new arrivals, he bowed respectfully. "It appears we have some opportune guests. A Veradani monk. Unbelievable!" He smiled in welcome. "We were hoping the monastery might send us aid, but we'd expected acolytes, not someone of your position. And I welcome you, Priest of Rathma. You are combat experienced?"
Pyresong nodded, making the captain's smile even wider, and then returned the bow. Though he wasn't entirely familiar with the ranks of the Veradani, he did take note of the captain's particular choice of bow to Oza, along with the man's words. Clearly, this Oza was more than she had initially portrayed to him. Though he didn't sense anything of falsehood in her words or actions, he couldn't help wondering why. Some sort of humble mindset, perhaps?
"I am deeply thankful for both of you," the captain told them sincerely.
"Our peoples may have had their differences, Captain," Oza replied with sincere concern. "But, on this mountain, when any one of us suffers, we all share the pain. Tell us of the Khazra. What has happened here?"
For now, he was content to stand back and listen. At the moment, he still had no idea who or what possessed the Worldstone shard. Somehow he knew without a doubt the sudden Khazra attacks had something to do with it. He wasn't willing to discuss his purpose here, yet. Word of the shard did not need to spread to anyone who might want to get their own hands on it. The captain motioned for the lieutenant to explain.
"The nearby village was overrun. We've gathered those we could, but the Khazra have occupied the village. Akarat knows what they're doing to those who survived the attack."
If you don't already know, pray you never learn, Pyresong thought darkly.
"And now the beasts assail our gates. We need your help."
Captain Vereks then stepped in. "With the two of you, the Light may have given us a chance. But the Khazra swarm against us from two separate fronts. We will need to deal with both if we are to survive." He bowed again to Oza to show her he meant no disrespect with his next words. "If the rumors about a single monk being worth a battalion of men hold true, I would prefer you to guard the fort. With your help, we can cut off the Khazra in the village from their reinforcements."
"So we isolate the Khazra in the village. That would allow a small group to clear out the rest. Bold. I like it," Pyresong agreed.
"Bold plans are all we have left," Lieutenant Ralvar said grimly. "If the monk guards us from the north, you and I can fight through the village. But we will need to move quickly; the guards here are barely holding their own."
"I'm ready," he told them.
"As am I," Oza added.
The captain nodded his agreement with the plan and turned back to the maps he had laid out on a nearby table. Pyresong caught sight of the other stacks of parchment on either side. Already lists of the dead covered one parchment. Another contained supplies and desperate pleas for help to surrounding areas that were left unfinished in light of the renewed assaults today that left the man no time to send the missives. Ralvar turned to lead them back out of the building and toward the west gate. Before they had barely exited the doorway, an unexpected explosion nearby startled all of them. An instant later, a call rang out across the yard, causing a renewed panic among the villagers.
"The goatmen are at the gates! To arms!"
Oza was already running ahead of them when she spotted several Khazra warriors just inside the gates. Pyresong dove into the fray beside her, already flinging spirit fire and summoning skeletons to serve as distractions so the other men and soldiers could get in with their swords. By the time the last of the Khazra bodies fell, the lieutenant was already checking the other wounded guards. It was clear something had destroyed the gates in a large destructive wave.
"Parker, what happened?" Ralvar asked.
"They took the others!" Parker told them, trying to stem the flow of blood from a badly wounded leg. "Those damned things emerged from the village so quickly we didn't have time to react. The shaman blew the gates apart with fire, and they just slammed right through it."
"Were any taken alive?" Pyresong broke in to ask, sensing something in the wind he couldn't identify but held a terrifyingly familiar feeling on his arcane senses.
"Yes," Parker answered, pointing out the gates.
Sacrifices, he realized, not food.
"We have no time to be wasting," he told the lieutenant. "They won't be alive for long."
"Get him to the healers," Ralvar shouted to the others, standing to join the necromancer. "You two pull further back and defend the other gate. Use the path to limit the effectiveness of their numbers. Get a barricade in place as soon as possible. We'll be back soon, hopefully with friends."
Impatient to get moving, he forced himself to calm. He knew he didn't have enough knowledge of this area despite Cain's maps to just take off ahead of the lieutenant. And he did understand the need to give orders so people weren't just milling about scared. But he knew, too, that anyone taken alive was only going to be kept alive until the goatmen got enough sacrifices for whatever they were planning. More than likely, the Khazra were using the men as sacrifices to summon something far worse. Something was going on here that made his skin crawl and kicked his sense of urgency into overdrive. But he had no time to consider it. When he was finished, the lieutenant took off at a flat run, expecting him to keep up.
"It's been days since we fled the village. Who knows what we'll find in there." Ralvar tossed over his shoulder, drawing his sword as he ran to the west. "The Khazra have always been a threat in this area, but they've never been this organized before. Something has changed."
The shard, most likely, Pyresong thought grimly.
They rounded a corner in the path that led them to the south. There, it was easy to spot the numerous rooftops of what had likely been a thriving village only days ago. Now, half the houses were burnt-out husks, and the other half that were still standing were likely being used by the Khazra. Just inside the now demolished gates lay a soldier in an orange uniform, face down in a pool of blood. Seeing no goatmen in the immediate area, Ralvar knelt down and gripped the man by the shoulder to flip him over.
"Vaughn!" Ralvar moaned quietly.
"This wound is fresh," he indicated the claw marks across the throat that were still oozing warm blood. He used his power to sense for certain the man was dead and gone to his rest, and prayed quietly. For now, that was all they could do. Whatever feeling he'd noticed earlier was much stronger here, and the source was just ahead somewhere.
"He must have tried to escape. Gods damn it!" Ralvar swore just above a whisper.
"We have to—" the necromancer started.
"Ralvar! Help! I'm pinned under some debris," another man's voice came from their right.
Beside them was a still-smoldering husk of a cottage that had collapsed sideways. Pyresong could just make out the slightly echoing sound of the man's voice. It was eerily similar to many dislocated spirits he had encountered. Even if the man was dead and didn't know it, he wasn't about to leave him. Motioning for Ralvar to guard his back, he dismissed some of his skeletons so he could summon a heavier bone golem.
"We'll get you out," Pyresong told the voice.
"Hurry, I can't hold much longer," the voice called back.
Quickly, he commanded the golem to lift one of the large, intact beams. It wasn't enough; there was still more debris under it. He pulled upward on some lighter debris underneath. There, he found two white hands clinging to the edge of a well. The necromancer was relieved to find that the person was, indeed, alive. Ralvar ducked in under them and gripped the man's wrists. Straining against both the weight and the concentration to keep the golem straining as well, he grunted, trying to keep the debris just a few inches above the other two. He felt his arms shaking and knew he couldn't hold. Twisting himself around, he managed to get the boards on his shoulders where he could hold them just a few seconds longer. He closed his eyes to concentrate on this task while Ralvar hauled the struggling man over the rim of the well and onto the ground. At almost the same instant, he buckled under the weight.
"Watch out!" he just managed to get out before he collapsed under the debris.
The golem, still holding its beam, meant that the debris he had been holding up only partially collapsed onto him. Trying to avoid both injury and getting stuck, he dove forward on his belly as the broken debris pushed him to the ground. Thanks to this instinctive dive, his back plates and faulds took the brunt of the impact. Even before he could assess any other possible injuries, two sets of strong arms gripped his and pulled him free.
"Are you injured?" Ralvar asked.
Struggling to catch his breath, Pyresong shook his head and waved him off. Quickly, he dismissed the golem and let the rest of the heap fall. Meanwhile, he was watching in every direction, expecting Khazra to appear at any moment after all the noise. Already, he had resummoned his skeletal warriors.
"Thank the blessed Light you two arrived," the rescued guard said, stuttering and shaking with fear and exhaustion. "Vaughn, he-he distracted them, and I was able to take shelter, but then it collapsed. I-I thought I was done for."
"Are the others still alive? How many were taken? Where did the Khazra take them?" Pyresong demanded, not giving the man even a second to sink deeper into his shock.
Right now, they didn't have time to cater to the soldier's trauma. He already had a horrible feeling about what was happening here. He needed to get the man out of his mental spiral into shock and thinking clearly. For a second, the man just stared at him blankly. Following his lead, Ralvar yanked the soldier nearly off his feet by his plate armor and shook him.
"What about Weir and the others?" he demanded with a lieutenant's authority.
"F-five," the man finally seemed to come back to reality. "There were five of us. The goatmen were dragging us toward some kind of sacrifice in the town square."
"Then there's a chance they're still alive," Pyresong told Ralvar, his senses detecting something ahead but not the surge of power that would indicate an open rift or active ritual.
"Find a sword and join us, or head back to the post," Ralvar ordered the man. "I don't care which, but don't just stand there."
Just as he was saying this, a man's scream from further into the village was clearly heard by all of them. Ralvar needed no further prompting. Pyresong was already ahead of him as they ran to the source. Just ahead and around a larger building, they entered the village square. His heart stuttered for a second when he instantly recognized the seal that was both on the ground and duplicated in red magic floating in the air above an altar. This was the source of whatever he had felt. Somehow, the sense of it assaulted him, making him nearly shudder.
But there was no time to think about it. Around the bloody seal carved into the ground, three of the four crude crosses now held struggling soldiers. Between them were four Khazra getting ready to haul up a fourth onto another cross on the ground. They were nearly finished with the sacrificial constructions to complete the summoning. Shoving aside the sickening feelings, he sent his skeletons ahead of him and pushed Ralvar aside as he passed.
"I'll deal with the Khazra," he told the lieutenant. "You get them out of there."
Knowing Ralvar would be otherwise occupied and not in his direct line of fire, Pyresong unleashed some spirit fire along with this skeletons to disrupt the beginnings of the ritual. Almost before the goatmen even knew what was happening, he was dancing among them, swinging his scythe and blades of energy right through them. The noise attracted several more Khazra from the nearby buildings. Careful of the men behind him, he flung a few bone spears at newcomers. Those typically went right through two or even three goatmen at a time when neatly lined up like that. It bought him a few more seconds for the lieutenant to free the others.
Ralvar sliced away at the ropes holding the others as quickly as he could while the Pyresong did all he could to buy him enough time. He quickly realized there were a lot more Khazra than the handful he had spotted around the seal. Pyresong backed toward the village center to buy himself some space to work. This was going to get messy.
"Stay behind me!" he ordered as Ralvar and the others looked ready to jump in.
With enough bodies on the ground, his corpse explosion did most of the remaining work. It tore apart most of the still upright goatmen and flung the maimed ones far away to die in the shadows. Still, he held his spells ready in case more came around the buildings. At that point, there had been no time for consideration of the damage he was doing to the remaining buildings. Several of them were now missing chunks of walls and looked ready to collapse. After a few more seconds, it seemed there were no more threats in the immediate area. He turned back toward the soldiers.
The floating red eye symbol in the air and the one on the ground flared briefly as the last of the mutilated Khazra bodies were settling. Whatever goatmen were tied to that ritual were now dead, at least, putting an end to it. Then, the glowing seal in the air faded away completely. The men, including the lieutenant, stared at him in shock. Struggling to catch his breath in the thinner air, Pyresong kept his attention on the nearby buildings for a few seconds longer. He'd just taken out easily thirty Khazra. No small feat for a single man, even a combat mage, and he was just a necromancer. After a few seconds, some of the men seemed to recover from the shock.
"I don't understand," Ralvar said as the symbols faded. "The Khazra are primitive. This kind of magic should be beyond their capabilities."
Catching his breath, Pyresong shook his head. He already knew. While a part of him very much doubted he would find cultists among these men secretly supporting Skarn, he knew he still had to be careful here. He watched them all closely as he explained. He was glad to see nothing more than confusion and surprise in all of them.
"I've seen seals like this one before. This sigil belongs to the Cult of Damnation, and each time I've seen it, they were using it to bring the foul minions of Hell into this world." He turned to one of the rescued men. "Where are the others? Is there another sacrificial altar?"
One of the soldiers shook his head. "We're all that survived here. Vaughn and Krynn tried to escape. I don't think they got very far."
"We found them," the lieutenant confirmed. "Vaughn didn't make it. We're not going to find answers here. We need to get back to the captain. This fight isn't over yet," he assured the men.
The lieutenant led the soldiers away from the now-silent village at a run. Pyresong nodded that he would guard the rear in case more Khazra appeared. But, as he gave them a head start, he couldn't help staring at the red eye symbol on the ground. Aside from the rage it provoked, there was something else, something cold and terrible that almost made him shudder all over again. For a heartbeat, he could hear Skarn's laughter echoing in his mind, just as it had echoed through the village that night in Wortham. Something in his soul writhed darkly.
It's as if it sees through me, he realized.
This time, he did shudder. Before he turned to follow the others, he took a moment to burn it all. He cut apart the wooden crosses with blades of energy and set them ablaze. Unleashing his pent-up fear, he scorched the ground black.
Still, it felt like Skarn's eye was watching him as he ran away.
In just a very few minutes, they were again back at the now barricaded south gate. Ralvar went with his men to get them into the hands of healers, indicating he would follow to the captain as soon as his men were seen to. Pyresong jogged right up the stairs to where he'd last seen Captain Vereks. The man was going over maps when he arrived. His grim expression softened somewhat to something hopeful at seeing him.
"You've returned. Krynn reported back as well. The others?"
"Vaughn fell. The others were taken. It seems the Khazra were sacrificing villagers to create a summoning ritual in the village. It's a kind of magic I've only seen wielded by a specific cult," he mentioned, carefully.
"A summoning? So that's the secret behind the Khazra's seemingly endless onslaught. They can only have come from a den to the north. What do you know?"
Still not sure how much he could divulge of his own priorities here, he just said, "I was there when the same cult nearly destroyed a village in Khanduras. They worship a demon lord by the name of Skarn, who calls himself the Lord of Damnation. Have you ever heard those names here before?"
"No, but there's no time," Vereks replied as the sound of enraged Khazra screams erupted to the north. "Our monk friend has been battling against their main force nearly non-stop since you left. Meet up with her and press the assault, or the goatmen will simply try again. And the next attack, we may not endure."
He nodded to the captain and left. A couple minutes later, he made his way through the shattered wreckage that was the north gates. He could see as well as hear another assault ongoing. Half a dozen guards and soldiers were combating four Khazra. He quickly intervened and ordered them to get back inside and reinforce the gates with anything they could find. Just up ahead, he could hear more clusters of combat going on as goatmen screamed and roared. He put all else out of his mind while he focused on killing as many of the Khazra as he could. For him, it was a bit delicate since he was used to fighting alone. Many of his more effective spells, like bone spears, were out of the question.
It took nearly half an hour to fight his way to the place where he could hear Oza fighting a small mob of them. It seemed as if there was just no end to their numbers. After one rather spectacular flip that ended with her kicking an enraged Khazra in the head so hard it crushed its skull, she caught sight of him approaching.
"Stay back, friend," she warned, kicking another in the ribs so hard he could hear the bone crunching, sending splinters into the demon's heart. "Another attack will be here any moment."
Ignoring her warning with a breathless huff of amusement, he used blades of energy and his scythe itself to cut down a couple more. He was careful to keep out of her way, but he wasn't just going to stand there when he could at least help thin their numbers. Feeling the strain of the high, thin mountain air, he paused to catch his breath when the last one fell. He could already feel the mild throbbing of a headache starting. By this point, he was downright lightheaded. Under these circumstances, he couldn't afford to be. He shook it off quickly.
"Something drove the Khazra into a powerful rage. It was you, wasn't it?" Oza asked, not even breathing particularly heavy.
For one second, he was almost envious of her monk abilities. This thin air was slowing him down. Though he did remind himself there were plenty of other people around here that didn't feel the thinner air, and they weren't trained monks. Obviously he was beginning to feel the drain and his mind was wandering again.
"Possibly," he told her, struggling to slow his breathing. "We rescued some guards that had been taken alive for a summoning ritual. We learned the Khazra are employing the same hellish magic used by cultists of Skarn."
"Skarn? I don't know this name. Is he a demon?"
He considered her closely for a moment. If there was anyone here he was fairly certain he could trust, it would be Oza. He wasn't sure why, but he felt he could trust her to help him, even if only for her own reasons. He had crossed paths with a few monks over the years. Every one of them had struck him as straightforward and trustworthy, among other things. His few conversations with them led him to understand that they protected the Balance in their own way and with their own beliefs. Chaos and Order. They, too, understood the need for balance. His instincts told him she was another he could trust now, and he always trusted his instincts.
"I'm hunting for corrupted Worldstone shards," he explained, watching her reactions closely. "My friend says there's one here on Mount Zavain that is being used. And Skarn has been using his cultists to obtain them. If Khazra are trying to deliver a shard to the Demon Lord, things are about to get much worse. I need your help to put an end to this. And then I will destroy the shard."
For a moment, Oza was visibly stunned by his admission. Then she turned a wary expression on him, backing away slightly, ready to attack if he moved toward her.
"A shard? No, that's not possible. I know precisely where the Worldstone shard you speak of is. It was recovered years ago and is safe within our monastery."
He didn't know enough of the Veradani monks up here to be sure how to convince her with just words. There was one thing he knew would convince her of his intent. He set his shield to lean against his leg and hooked his scythe. He showed her his empty hands and kept them visible. He half expected her to knock him out at any moment. Apparently, she believed without a doubt he was here for that shard and his own darker motivations. Her expression wasn't just dark, it was downright threatening. Given what he had seen of Lethes, he well knew any human could make the wrong choices. He didn't blame her for suspecting him at all. But he needed to convince her. He moved slowly so as not to alarm her further as he retrieved his backpack.
"My friend and I are hunting them, all over the world," he explained. "We destroyed three of them just recently. We have an archangel's blade that will let us destroy this one, too. Please, I need your help."
Oza's dark eyes went wide with wonder when he pulled out the gold and silver dagger. She relaxed unconsciously. He held it out to her in his open palm. She stared at in amazement, very much like what he had probably looked like when he first laid eyes on it. She didn't even reach for it. But then, she didn't really have to. The power radiating off of Yl'nira was like a warm and welcoming beacon. She met his eyes again and nodded as she exhaled in obvious relief. Clearly, she was as wary and afraid of the corrupted shard as he was. He got the sense she had likely encountered it more directly herself, though she carried no visible taint. If she knew where it was, she had probably seen others affected by it at the very least.
"I believe you," she finally told him, shaking off the mesmerizing feel of Yl'nira's presence. "I still believe it's within the monastery. But I share your concerns, and we need to find out more."
She looked around them at the momentarily quiet area.
"I can't go with you right now. The Khazra are in such a rage, I am unable to do more than protect the survivors in Sentinel's Watch. I cannot leave here, but you can. If the Khazra are involved with your hunt for the shard…" she shook her head, as if not entirely believing it. "Investigate the Khazra den; put an end to these attacks while I thin their numbers by the dozen. Do that, and we can discuss things further."
He returned Yl'nira to his backpack with no small amount of relief. Certain now that he'd made the right decision by trusting her with the truth, he bowed once more to her in respect and thanks, priest to high priestess. She seemed amused by this, but there was no more time for talk. Behind them, at the north gates, a new assault was taking place. Somehow, more Khazra had slipped in from another direction. Angered, Khazra screamed as they rushed toward the gates. From this distance, he could see there were at least a score of the goatmen. The soldiers would be overwhelmed in seconds. Oza grabbed his arm to stop him from joining the fight.
"Go!" she pointed away from the fight. "I'll take care of things here!"
He had to trust her. The monk was right; they needed to know for certain what was going on. And, of course, she seemed capable of handling that many. He also knew that while the Khazra out here were blinded with rage and distracted, it would be easier for him to slip in and out of their den. He dismissed his skeletons as he turned his feet to the north. He was able to slip quickly into some undergrowth along the newly created path in the small patch of forest. It would be easy enough for him to follow the demonic taint right to their lair.
Even the tiny bit of noise he made creeping along the path was easily masked by the enraged cries and screaming chants of the Khazra that passed him along the road headed for the fort. With that in mind, he was able to move much more quickly with less stealth. As concerned as he was that Sentinel's Watch would be overwhelmed, he didn't dare try to take on this many; otherwise, he'd have to battle his way all the way to the den. He knew he couldn't hold up to that much and still get through what he needed to do. Hells, half an hour of fighting and he was so dizzy he could barely think. He couldn't afford to have to fight his way through this mess up to the den right now.
An hour later, cutting through the forest, he spotted the entrance to the den. A small crudely built village had grown up around the multi-tiered entrance to a cave. All around were fences made with sharpened stakes. A few of the wooden structures were made of logs tied together with rope. They were the only cover he spotted. Everywhere were groups of enraged Khazra screaming and waving their weapons. Every one of them headed toward the fort. He just prayed the outpost would hold out. With all the noise they were making, it was easy for him to wait and slip into the shadows in between the small parties as they left. Hoping his luck would hold, he managed to get around the last bit of path and up to the cave entrance.
Pyresong had never been in a Khazra den before and had no idea what to expect. From a human standpoint, it would likely be gruesome. But, to his luck, he found it was cluttered all over with more sharpened stakes, and even just piles of logs along the walls that made it easy for him to hide in the shadows. Here and there were fires and torches ahead, but plenty of shadow for him. What struck him as the most awful aspect of this place was the smell. The overwhelming stench of filthy goatmen mixed with demonic essence nearly made him gag.
When another group of Khazra ran toward the opening, he crouched behind one such stack of logs, watching closely. He had no idea how large this cave system was. Already, he'd seen hundreds of Khazra. By the sounds of what was ahead, there were easily hundreds more. When the last raging goatmen passed by seconds later, he peered carefully around the pile of logs. Seeing the way was clear, he crossed the tunnel to a shadow on the other side where he could get a better look. He could hear from the echoes of the screaming Khazra that it opened up into some kind of much larger cavern just beyond this short piece of tunnel.
Still occupied with watching the movements of the Khazra within, his heart froze when something slithered across his mental and arcane senses he did not expect. Despite his shields already being up and reinforced, something had seen him. Something knew he was there.
That feeling again. Like a cold talon dragging along my spine, he thought with a visible shudder. The cultists must be close.
He could not quite believe that he could actually sense them. Yet he was unable to deny that feeling, either. Even if he had only imagined it in the village, there was no mistaking what he had just felt this time. He had not imagined those chilling sensations. Something twisted in his gut, making him feel sick. He quickly shoved all of it aside for later, forcing down the fearful possibilities that threatened to distract him.
He had another opening. He ducked back across the tunnel to another shadow, this time on the right. When he crouched in the shadow, watching for another opening, he spied movement on the left wall just a few feet away from where he'd been standing. A soldier in a filthy, torn uniform was silently tugging against his bonds as he hung on another cross on the wall. He watched for several seconds. Though there was blood on his uniform, he didn't look to have suffered any crippling injuries. Perhaps he was well enough to get out of here on his own. He was torn between wanting to escort the soldier back out and continuing his own stealthy mission.
The decision was taken out of his hands a few seconds later when three Khazra approached the soldier with wicked-looking axes. One of the goatmen pulled back its axe over his head to end the guard. The soldier went perfectly still while he stared down the goatmen fearlessly. What was left of the Khazra's arm flung blood all over the guard when it chopped downward. Pyresong had managed to sever the arm cleanly with his scythe and then followed up with a backswing that flung a blade of energy. He took advantage of their surprise and distraction. The blade of energy went right through all three of the goatmen. They fell to literal pieces on the floor in otherwise silence. The soldier, seeming surprised to be alive, eyed him with mixed amusement and curiosity. He nodded mentally to himself with no small amount of relief when he realized the soldier wasn't in shock, either. He wasted no time on introductions while he cut the ropes.
"Thank you," the guard told him. "Ellis is still alive, further inside. Help me find him."
"Can you fight?" he asked, eyeing the wounded man carefully.
Instead of replying verbally, the guard picked up one of the lighter Khazra axes and started to lead the way further into the cavern. He gripped the soldier by the shoulder and swung him around.
"There's too many. We can't fight them all. If you can handle yourself, go back to Sentinel's Watch. Follow behind a Khazra raiding party, but do not get too close. It seems there are a few minutes between each party. Then you can wait for an opening to get to the gates. Tell Oza I sent you and where I am."
"But—"
"You'll just get in my way. If he's alive, I will find him,” he hissed. “Now go!"
For a heartbeat, the man looked like he was going to argue. "May the Light bless your path," the man whispered, finally turning toward the entrance.
Not in this place it won't, he couldn't help thinking darkly.
Returning to his shadows, he scanned every wall. He saw no more living prisoners as he slipped from one shadow to another. Not knowing which way to go at a juncture, he stopped to listen more closely. The tunnel that went to his right was filled with screaming, raging Khazra and chanting shamans. The echoes made it sound like a downright massive cavern; large enough to hold an entire city. But he knew just how deceiving tunnels and caverns could be. Likely, it was just the main den where the shamans were whipping the warriors into a frenzy.
Straight ahead was quieter. He closed his eyes, letting his other senses extend outward. Being demons, the Khazra gave off their own filthy demonic feeling. Yet, there was something he could only describe as being far darker straight ahead. He wasn't sure how he knew this, but he was certain the cultists were in that direction, even if they didn't have the shard with them. He slipped past the right tunnel and followed around a corner to kneel in a shadow just outside a wider open area.
"I know you're there," a man's voice called. "I feel you, Shard-seeker!"
His heart froze in his chest. Apparently, he could sense them, and they could sense him. Despite the chilling dread this inspired, he shook it off quickly. Breaking cover, he was already summoning a couple of sturdy bone golems while he sent power flowing into this scythe. He was met by nearly a dozen Khazra and at least three cultists. He had no time for thought as he danced around them, leaving bodies in his wake. Once he was sure there were enough corpses, he planned to use corpse explosion to take out the rest.
A flash of orange to his left along the wall flickered through his mind. In that instant, he had to rethink his plan. He wasn't sure if the soldier was alive or dead, but he was far too close to some of the corpses to risk it. Cutting off one more Khazra berserker's legs, he spun around and dived toward the struggling soldier. He planted his shield over the man as he detonated the corpses. Almost before the blast was finished, he rolled away and back to his feet. He quickly finished off a couple of maimed Khazra that were screaming in agony. He could only pray the noise in the other cavern had masked his own movements now.
For a few seconds, he just stood there, facing the tunnel back the way he had come. The screaming, raging Khazra didn't come any closer. This part of the cavern was empty and the far end of it was sealed with a red magical barrier. Quickly, he turned his attention back to the soldier huddled along the wall. He cut through the ropes and removed the soldier's gag, looking for any major wounds. Much as the other, he appeared intact and aware.
"Ellis?"
The man nodded, tearing the pieces of rope off his wrists and ankles with trembling hands.
"I got your friend out of here. I think the way is clear, but be careful. Head back to the fort. Tell Captain Vereks I'm getting to the source of this if I can."
"Yes, sir."
The guard needed no further prompting as he took off running back the way Pyresong had come. Part of him wanted to escort the man out, but there was just no time. He had to go deeper. He knew the cultists were here. And now they knew he was here. This disturbed him more than a little, but he couldn't give them time to regroup or find a defensive position against him.
Approaching the red magic barrier at the other end of the chamber, he could just barely see through it. There were a couple of Skarn's priests guarding the other side. Beyond those two, he thought he could make out other shapes moving slightly. On this side, he found two small pillars with the demon lord's seal on them glowing in red. Flows of vile, hellish-feeling power emanated from the little pillars. They were the anchors holding the barrier in place.
He looked again to the cultists on the other side. He made a show of slamming the barrier with his shield in obvious frustration. In reality, he was testing it. The tingle of magic he felt through his shield informed him it was nothing offensive. Destroying the anchors should be enough. Then, he made himself very visible as he walked away. He quickly returned to a nook where they could not see him. He summoned two blood golems. With a mental command, he sent them running right for the pillars. The cultists, thinking he'd left, were still laughing when the golems kicked over the little pillars. That destroyed the barrier. Then he sent them right in to the attack. As he left his hiding spot to join the fray, he could clearly hear one shouting above the others.
"Warn Dravec at once!"
Seconds later, the last body hit the ground, and he dismissed his golems. He rarely ever used blood golems, typically not needing them. Since he was already bleeding from a number of minor wounds, he figured he might as well. This thin mountain air was tiring him much faster than he liked. What Life force and energy the golems were able to steal from the cultists was supposedly neutral, and it was sent to the summoner. He'd never liked the idea of stealing Life from anything, let alone anything that felt so filthy to his senses. Still, the things he had learned and experienced in Kulle's library had made him rethink many of his perceptions and definitions of Life. And what little Life force the golems did take here wasn't much. It was just enough for him to feel slightly less exhausted. He dismissed them as soon as the way was clear again.
Knowing at least one of the cultists had likely gotten away ahead of him to warn this Dravec, he took to moving from shadow to shadow in silence once more. In a wider chamber just ahead, he could hear an ongoing ritual. One voice rose more powerfully above the others, chanting demonic incantations that made his skin crawl. Then he spoke more clearly in a language Pyresong very much understood, which didn't make it any better at all.
"...by flesh, be born! By blood, find life! Let the damned serve their Lord!"
Peering around the corner, he could just see a man in black and yellow robes that felt like a blatant mockery of the Veradani. He was standing within another of Skarn's bloody sigils painted in fresh blood on the floor of the cave. The aura of hellish energies radiated off of him and into the sigil.
"Our power is nearly spent!" one of the cult priests cried out as the men around the circle were falling unconscious one by one. "The portal will not hold here!"
As he had suspected, the cultists had helped open a Hell rift somewhere in these caves, bringing in yet more Khazra. The man in the black and yellow robes—Pyresong assumed it was this Dravec—reached out with ropes of energy to the last two cultists still upright, one of them being the high priest that had called him out earlier.
"Then your purpose has been served," Dravec said coldly.
He watched while the man sucked them all dry and then dropped their corpses. Filled with their power, Dravec remained in the seal. Whatever else this Dravec was, he clearly outranked all the other cultists, including the high priest he had just murdered. At least he didn't have the shard. Maybe Oza was right and it was still safe somewhere.
"Come out, Shard-seeker. I know you're there."
Again, he was momentarily stunned. It was bad enough the high priest of the Damnation Cult had sensed his presence, but this man?
How? he couldn't help wondering as he stepped out.
He covered his surprise by putting on a bland expression and cocking an eyebrow at the man.
"And you must be the 'Dravec' these cultists keep shouting for," he drawled.
"You will not help Oza. These people are damned. No, you will fail at reaching the shard, and I will have what is mine. The God of Damnation has spoken," Dravec replied calmly.
He covered his surprise at the mention of Oza's name. Clearly, they knew each other somehow. His gut twisted again at the dark possibilities that flitted through his mind. Despite her earlier reaction to his admission, was it possible she was working with Dravec in secret? Or was she, perhaps, after the shard for her own reasons? Either possibility was a serious problem for him now.
"And what is yours, exactly?" he asked, putting on a mask of amusement to cover his surging fears.
Dravec didn't do any of the things he had come to expect from evil, ambitious men. He didn't laugh. He didn't explain. He didn't run away. He just calmly used his right hand, glowing with foul black and red hellish energy, to lift upward, completing the interrupted summoning. With this gesture, a demon began to rise up in the glowing seal. For a second, all he could see was the rising image of a Roiling Horror. Mentally, he swore a filthy expletive. The moment its head was above the rock floor, it began spewing flames. Already, he had summoned several skeletons and a couple of mages to harass it while he poured power into his scythe. By the time it was fully formed, he was ready. In one powerful burst of energy, he spun a full circle with his scythe twice. The first massive blade of energy nearly cut the thing in half; the second finished the job. It didn't even have a chance to scream as it melted back into the still-glowing sigil on the floor.
Dravec was gone. He muttered an obscenity. Dravec used the demon as a distraction to escape somehow. There were no other exits he could see from this chamber. He was disappointed but knew he would be seeing that one again. Eyeing the seal, he gave vent to his anger and gut-twisting fear for just a moment by blasting the sigil until it was a black patch on the floor, no longer filled with the blood it needed to keep glowing.
And still he felt the eye watching him.
Why expend this effort? he wondered. And how does he know Oza?
Right now, none of this was making sense. He'd learned what he needed for the moment...and more. The fact that the cultists could sense him was not only disturbing but downright inconvenient. He had to figure out how they were doing it, or he'd never have the advantage of surprise. Worse, his thoughts began to spiral around the possible explanations.
And then there was Oza to consider very carefully.
Had he made a possibly fatal mistake in trusting her? Was she, even now, working against him and his intent to destroy the shard? Did she want it for her own reasons? The idea that she might have already let the Khazra into the fort to gather more sacrifices turned his blood to ice. He opened the portal to Sentinel's Watch, praying he was wrong.
He struggled to shake off the feeling that he was still being watched, even now. What he didn't realize is that he was still being watched, by Dravec in the shadows.
Already it was dusky evening in Sentinel's Watch when he stepped through the portal in the heart of the fort. He very nearly sighed with relief. They were still holding. A few heads turned his way as he emerged, but he ignored them. The overall sense of panic around here had died down to one of just anticipatory fear for now. He quickly made his way to the north gate, where he suspected Oza was still fighting. There, he found her resting while guards hauled the Khazra bodies out of the way. Listening intently, he was relieved to hear no more screaming and raging Khazra in the distance.
She jumped to her feet with a smile when she saw him coming. His heart already clenching with fear of his own, he gave free reign to the thoughts that swirled in his head. He didn't want to believe it of her. Yet, they had known he was coming. She was the one that sent him there. They had supposedly sensed him. And the man behind all of this knew Oza. His suspicions were dark, but he just couldn't risk having an enemy in front and behind.
"You've returned," she smiled happily, and he was surprised how much he wanted to believe it was real. "The goatmen stormed the barricade a few minutes ago, and then it went quiet. I assume you were successful, then?"
"I need to speak with you," he told her softly, not liking so many stretching ears nearby.
Oza's almost cheerful smile faded instantly. "Of course."
He glanced around at all the people. Too close. The possibility of collateral damage was too high. He headed through the many Khazra bodies and around the corner of the outer wall. She followed silently. Hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake in confronting someone capable of smashing his skull with her fist, he rounded on her at what he hoped was a safe enough distance, scythe and shield still in his hands.
"Who is Dravec?"
"Dravec?" she echoed in clear surprise.
"He was waiting for me...and he knows you are here."
"Dravec...what?"
Oh, how he wanted to believe her confusion and surprise! But he held firm, letting his eyes bore into her. Young though she seemed, she was still a fully trained, high ranking Veradani monk; possibly even close to a master, capable of taking on many Khazra unarmed. More to the point, she knew of the shard and where it was right now. This was not the type of enemy he could afford to have watching his back. Her eyes went even wider as she realized his scythe was starting to glow threateningly.
"I-I haven't seen him in a long time," Oza stuttered in surprise. "We trained together in our youth, but he was exiled."
"And you?" he asked, silencing the voices inside that said he was wrong about this.
She shook her head firmly, her white hair tail lashing when she now got angry. "No! I am a true Veradani monk. Are you certain he was working with the cultists? I just...I can't..."
"He made it quite clear when he summoned a demon to kill me."
"And you believe I helped him."
"Right now, I don't know what to believe," he admitted, still trying to find something in her that would convince him. "You sent me right to him. And he knew I was there."
She stared at him, her anger bleeding away as she began to understand. "You are a Priest of Rathma. You can sense the state of a soul. You can sense when they're corrupted or twisted."
He nodded.
"Touch mine," she told him, holding up her bare hands, palms out.
Wary of a trap as he was, this was something he could do while otherwise unarmed. What most outside the priesthood didn't realize was that a necromancer already in contact with another soul could easily exert control over it. If she let him in and then tried to trap him that way, she was already worse than dead. And the invitation alone almost convinced him she was sincere. Yes, he knew he had the power to trap and torment her soul. That was a sort of power all Priests of Rathma knew about and would never even consider using except in extreme circumstances. Only the ones who had truly forsaken their oaths, such as Lethes, ever found any real need for that kind of power. Yet, he had to know. He had to be certain. He had already revealed Yl'nira to her. If he was wrong about her...
Expecting anything, and he knew he would see it in her dark eyes, first, he stared her down coldly, unblinking as he removed his gloves. She smiled faintly, and her eyes were serene. Slowly, he raised his glowing hands to hers. When their souls touched, he felt only warmth and welcome. If anything, she invited him to go deeper. But he didn't. He was convinced she was what she claimed. Had she been tainted by anything from human hate to demonic influences from Hell, he would have felt it.
As he started to pull away, it was she who dug deeper. Somehow, she found the still aching scars in his soul that Yl'nira and their victory had done so much to heal. He flinched mentally, but he owed her this much after his blatant accusations. She touched him softly with her warmth, as if she caressed the hardened scar tissue. Her expression was sad as she finally pulled back. She smiled gently and knowingly. Pyresong took a deep breath and let it out slowly to release the pent-up tension in his chest.
"Satisfied?" she asked.
"I'm sorry. I just couldn't take the risk. Too much is at stake. And...and there's something... I don't know, but they sensed my presence."
"How?"
"I don't know," he growled in his frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, "At first I thought maybe you had warned them I was coming, and it was all...I don't know...a mind game, or some kind of magic. But I know now you didn't. So I can't explain it."
Oza seemed to consider. "Dravec is a Veradani monk, just like I am, but he is rash and impulsive. He knows our secrets and our abilities, to some extent. But he never learned control, and we all suffered for his recklessness. If he is here, we must uncover his plot. Lives depend on it."
"I know," he practically snarled.
Knowing he was taking out his frustrations on the wrong person, he closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He head was again throbbing mildly from the elevation, and the exertions of the day. He forced himself to calm, falling back heavily on his earliest training. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to solve it standing here. This thin mountain air had exhausted him. He hadn't eaten since before he parted with the caravan that morning. He wasn't afraid to admit, however they were able to sense his presence, and it frightened him deeply.
What if I'm…tainted?
He shook off the thought before it could go further. No, he needed rest and food. He would have plenty of time to think later. Right now, the one thing he could do was find out where that shard was and end its threat.
"Do you think it's safe enough for now?" he asked her while she waited serenely for him to work his way through whatever was bothering him.
"Yes. Whatever you did in there, they seemed to have backed off, at least. We could both use some rest. Come, I know a place. And I have some food to share," she told him, taking his hand in hers comfortingly. "We will figure this out together."
He nodded, tiredly. More than anything, he needed time to think. Despite the fact that he hadn't eaten most of the day, his gut was knotting up. He was convinced about Oza, but something about this whole thing still felt wrong to him. He followed while she led them through the main rooms and courtyard of the outpost, where all the refugees were bunking down wherever they could find space. In a far back corner of the interior of the outpost building, she found a space that was close enough to hear if there was an unexpected attack but far enough from all the ongoing activity to feel more private. There was just enough space in the corner for the both of them. She curled up against one wall comfortably and motioned to the adjacent wall beside her.
With a tired sigh, he set aside his shield and scythe and slid down the wall. He resisted the urge to just rest his arms on his knees with his head down. This thinner air made it hard to focus and harder to ignore the incessant pounding. She was right, though; he needed food, even if he didn't really want it right now. After a second, he shrugged out of the loops of his backpack straps and set it into his lap. Out of her pouch, Oza produced some hard cheese and trail biscuits. He dug out some dried meat and a couple of water skins to share.
For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, thinking their own thoughts. He noted her still, serene expression. He couldn't tell if it was forced or sincere. He nearly laughed at himself mentally at how easily he was distracted right now by such thoughts. She seemed to be thinking about something, possibly related to Dravec. He left her to it as he reorganized his thoughts more calmly.
Maybe it was just because he was tired, but his mind started to wander almost immediately, again. For a moment, he considered hopping back to Westmarch to discuss this new and unsettling development with Cain. He needed the old man's perspective right now. But he quickly threw that idea out. This place was too vulnerable. He couldn't leave them with the threat of another Khazra attack looming. After that, it didn't take long to lose himself in his own dark and swirling thoughts. Too weary and unsettled to fight it too much, he gave in.
For a few minutes, Pyresong just let his mind wander. He was well aware he often picked up subtle, almost subconscious clues to things that he could only bring to the fore when he had time to stop and just think. Right now, his instincts were nagging him in a way he couldn't even understand. Everything about this felt wrong to him, and yet he knew he was absolutely on the right track and in the right place. The contradiction was more than just a little irritating. Every few seconds, he seemed to come back to how they had somehow sensed his presence. If it wasn't Oza and mind games or some kind of magic, then there had to be something. He doubted it was just some Veradani ability. He had felt them, too. And that disturbed him even more. He couldn't shy away from it any longer. He had to figure this out, no matter how sick it made him feel.
Wrapped up in these thoughts, chasing themselves around and around his mind, he didn't notice Oza's attention fixed on him until she'd been watching him contemplatively for at least a couple of minutes. Chewing his tasteless food he cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly.
"You were wounded," she finally said softly, as if working her way through something.
"How so?" he asked curiously.
She shook her head as if uncertain of what she was saying. "I felt it. You were wounded, somehow, inside. But it's been healed. Something very powerful healed wounds that were only on the inside. And...there was something else...older."
Forcing his other thoughts aside for a moment, he thought back over the months. There were few things he could think of that still ached acutely. His most recent experiences with Valla had shown him he was still haunted by his failure to save and protect Alyssa. And, then again, in the Temple of Namari, he'd been forced to confront a part of himself he wasn't proud of. And the priestess had healed...
The thought exploded in his mind as he realized the answer to why he could sense them and they could sense him. He very nearly shuddered as a ball of ice formed in his gut.
"I touched them..." he said, his voice full of horror. "And they touched me."
"Friend, are you all right?"
He came back to himself from those memories with a groan. Now he knew, and he felt all the more ashamed for having thought the worst of Oza.
"I'm sorry," he told her, putting away the rest of his food, appetite completely gone. "I...think I know what happened."
He quickly explained having touched the shards on multiple occasions; the worst being the failed attempt to destroy them in Cain's workshop. Not really understanding the mechanics of the spell, he explained how Cain had had to protect him from the memories. Then, later, when Namari cleansed them from his mind. Apparently, even after being cleansed, there was still something there. And that made him feel downright sick. Had they left something in his soul as well as his mind? Was Namari's warning a result of something she had seen? Had they corrupted him somehow without him even realizing it?
"It does not mean you are tainted, friend," she assured him, squeezing his arm comfortingly. "I felt your soul. You are scarred, yes, but you are whole. I sensed nothing in you that I wouldn't find in any other human that has suffered."
Still horrified by the idea of slow-creeping corruption, Pyresong just nodded. Comforting though her words were, he still felt somehow tainted, marked. He just hoped some sleep would help him put things in perspective. There was no telling how long they would have to rest before another Khazra attack or worse. At this point, they weren't going to accomplish much of anything without some time to rest, anyway, mental and physical.
Heaving a sigh and forcing his thoughts to background noise for now, he pulled a couple of blankets out of his pack. He couldn't help a grin at her amazed expression when he pulled out objects much larger than the tiny backpack itself. He quickly explained the magical properties of the bag. She was delighted and thought it was incredible. Her delight nearly made him grin in echo. At least it gave him something to think about beyond the storm threatening to break in his mind.
First, sleep. Then they could figure out their next moves.
In minutes, she was yawning. He couldn't help echoing her yawn. They spread the blankets over themselves, knowing they were going to sleep upright and ready in case of attack. To his surprise, she moved his shield to his other side by his scythe. Then she scooted closer, right up against his side, and pulled his left arm up to drape it over her shoulders. She curled up tightly against him, her head on his shoulder. Instead of feeling awkward, he was touched by her trust in him, especially after what she had just learned of him. And he was somehow comforted by her presence in a way he couldn't understand. Tiredly, he let it go, not wanting to analyze it too deeply. Leaning against each other, they fell into a light sleep to get what rest they could in the lull.
***
Surprisingly, the entire fort was allowed to sleep through the night. Feeling Oza still snuggled against him, he returned to awareness gradually, making every effort not to disturb her. It still being almost completely dark in their little back corner, and he was pleased to have the time to just think. No, this was not likely a good time for deep meditation, but it could still be put to good use. He struggled to put away the thoughts of being tainted by the shards. And it was a struggle, one that made him still feel a sick twisting fear in his gut. But, ultimately, Namari had cleansed what she could, and there was no more to be done. Maybe after he destroyed this shard, he could find some further purification rituals and rites. Cain mustknow something or, at the very least, a direction he could start on.
Still, he knew he would spend the rest of his life watching out for some kind of influence, some twisting of thoughts that would lead to darker things. He was well aware of how a soul that has suffered can and does find its own way of justifying everything and anything. Maybe one day, when this was over, he could find more answers. Maybe he could find Rathma. Rathma would be able to see the truth, at least, and ensure he didn't become another Lethes or worse.
And then he wondered if it ever would be over. There could be hundreds of shards out there, possibly thousands, calling to others to be used. Not for the first time, he wondered at what he'd gotten himself into. Rathma had told him he was a part of something, or would be, but had no idea what beyond some symbolic dreams involving threats from the Worldstone. If this really did have anything to do with the warnings, he would have a choice to make, one he still had no idea how to make. A part of him still hoped desperately that it would not happen. Maybe by destroying the shards, it could be avoided completely.
But maybe this was just the beginning, and others would have to finish the fight someday. Was this really all there was to it? He just had to find and destroy shards as they were being used? For a moment, he was actually pleased with the idea of having a purpose beyond just being a Priest of Rathma. In truth, though, he wished it wasn't so. When he considered all of the lives that those evil shards had consumed, he sincerely wished it wasn't him. He gave himself this one selfish moment to wish he was back in the Necropolis, ignorant of all that was going on.
Yet, a greater part of him also knew if not him, then who?
Still resting with her head on his shoulder, Oza took a deeper breath and then curled up more tightly against him as if trying to share body heat. Carefully, he used the arm not wrapped around her to shift his blanket over her as well.
He smiled slightly at the idea of Cain and some random adventurer working together on this hunt for shards. The old scholar had worked with dozens of others in his life. And he knew he was just another one of those. But the old man really did have a way of seeing inside people and inspiring them to want to live up to his ideals and expectations. At least, that had been the case with him. In his own mind, he was just another nameless, faceless wanderer, despite the bloody dreams and prophecies. He didn't want to be somebody the world would remember for any reason. Then he met Cain, and the elderly scholar had a way of making him feel like he actually mattered in all of this. For Cain's sake, if nothing else, he wanted to leave behind a better world than he'd found.
So much of him hoped to come and go without the world or anyone ever knowing he had existed at all. And now... He knew he was somewhere around thirty-two years old. His first real friend was an old man who could see right through him and didn't judge him for it. There were times his mentality led him to wonder if he was really just a coward deep inside. Yet, regardless of circumstances and wherever this hunt may end, he was glad to have met the elderly Horadrim. And, if anything, he was glad he could spare the old scholar the suffering he'd seen even just in the last few months. If nothing else, Cain's sense of responsibility as the last surviving Horadrim was something Pyresong could not leave to the old man alone.
That made his mind wander back to the current situation. Khazra running mad by the hundreds sacrificing people. Some exiled monk with a plan to use the shard. Skarn...again. His heart felt like it stuttered as the idea of being irreversibly tainted by the shards crossed his mind yet again. And he forced himself to remember all the things that pointed against it. Namari had cleansed him. Oza had said he wasn't corrupted. And then there was Yl'nira. Would an angelic blade be willing to work with him if he was tainted? No, he couldn't believe that. As afraid of this connection as he was, he was determined to use it against them. As his master had taught him, never throw away or ignore any available tools. Somehow, he would turn it to his advantage.
"Your heart is strong," he heard Oza murmur, startling him slightly.
"Good morning," he said with a grin to her comment.
She smiled and took a deep breath, not quite willing to move from this comfortable position just yet. She wrapped an arm around him. He was content to let her. His free hand around her shoulders encountered her long tail of hair. He couldn't help running it through his fingers, enjoying the silky feel of it.
"Feeling better?" she asked, still not moving.
"Somewhat," he admitted. "I still don't like the connection. But if it's a tool, I will learn how to use it."
She nodded. "And I will help if I can."
He squeezed her gently in appreciation as they both fell to silence again with their own thoughts. He had no idea how long they sat that way, but he treasured it. Despite the dire circumstances, for this tiny window of time, they were both at peace. Not for the first time, he wondered if this is what it's like to have friends, people you could trust and rely on every day and in every circumstance. Some part of him had always wanted to be normal and live a normal life. Likely it was all just because he had never had a choice. And, of course, part of him wanted to shove the thought away as quickly as it formed. Another part of him wanted this with a desperation he hadn't even realized was still lurking under the surface. It was that childish loneliness that had lead to the death of his parents. In the end, logic always won the battle in this arena, and it would again. Logic said he had work to do and could not be tied down by any one or any thing for too long, and it just wasn't fair to the other person.
An image of Kashya's impish smile and mischievous green eyes flashed through his mind. That one he did stuff into a deep dark hole as fast as he saw it.
"What are you thinking about?" Oza asked, still snuggled against him.
"Nothing," he answered reflexively.
Oza laughed softly and sat up to meet his eyes. "And now you're lying. Your heartbeat gives it away."
He offered her an amused grin to take the sting out of his next words. "Nothing I wish to talk about."
Seeming more serious but still lighthearted, she raised her and to caress his face. "You are a good man with a strong heart. Don't doubt yourself so. If evil enters your mind or heart, you will know, and you will fight it."
He took her hand in his own. "It helps that I have good friends to remind me."
"Remember that, or I'll beat it into you," she threatened playfully, making him laugh.
Then she moved away, taking another deep breath and pulling off the blankets. He rolled them up and stuffed them in his backpack. For a few minutes, they listened to the early morning movements of the refugees in the courtyard outside as they began to wake. Since they had no idea what the next several hours would entail, they decided to have a quick breakfast of their current supplies before leaving this peaceful spot. While they were eating, each was contemplating the next move. Finally, Pyresong realized, there really was no next move beyond maybe running around the mountain trying to feel out Dravec and the cultists; and that would be a dangerous endeavor at best, useless at worst. He wondered if maybe he could convince Oza to take him right to the shard and destroy it now. If she didn't trust him in that way, maybe she could take Yl'nira and do it. Once again, he caught her watching him in serene silence as they ate.
"Do you have any ideas?" she asked, as if reading his mind.
He shook his head. "Besides getting to the shard and destroying it... No. But there must be a trail somewhere. Chaos like the kind Dravec and his minions unleashed is...rarely clean."
Oza snorted. "Just follow the trail of Khazra bodies to see that."
Or villager bodies, he thought sadly, but kept it to himself.
It seemed that no matter where he went, no matter what undertaking, no matter what the circumstances, innocent lives were always collateral damage. And he was there to fix the Balance after the damage was done. It seemed no one could ever get ahead far enough to prevent it. This one time, he hoped they just might be able to do that. But before they could even consider going after the shard, they had to ensure the safety of all these people now huddled fearfully within these walls. Despite the shard being the ultimate goal, he knew he would never be able to forgive himself if he let all these people die while he was going after it. If they couldn't put an end to Dravec's plan and the Khazra attacks, this place might not survive. If Oza knew where the shard was, he had at least some idea it was safe for now.
His own dark thoughts were interrupted when Oza's eyes glazed over, and her face suddenly went slack. Then she furrowed her delicate white brows and shook her head. He waited patiently for her to seemingly work through whatever she was thinking. Then, she turned her eyes to the far wall and seemed to drift off.
"You thought of something?" he asked gently to draw her back after a couple of minutes.
"You're not wrong. There's always a trail," she said vaguely. Then, she nodded firmly to herself. "I have an idea."
Putting away the remains of their breakfast, she rose gracefully to her feet. He took a moment longer to put his backpack, gloves, gauntlets, shield, and scythe back on. He could sense the monk was still thinking furiously and not quite ready to discuss whatever occurred to her, so he let her alone.
"Come on," she told him, seeming impatient. "Let's see how things are faring. Then I might have something we can try."
They found Captain Vereks looking as if he'd had almost no sleep, but was at least moving around the fort checking on supplies and making plans. According to his men, the remaining Khazra in the area had retreated all the way back to their den. Obviously, there hadn't been another attack in the night. They were cautiously optimistic. Still, the captain wasn't sending out anything other than short-range patrols for right now. The cooped-up villagers were getting restless, so he started to put them to work with more barricades, repairs, and other tasks. Though he was reluctant to let the two of them wander too far away, he understood they were trying to get to the source of the recent problems and stop them for good.
Pyresong followed her in curious silence while she led them out of the fort and beyond the barricades to the north. When they passed the road that led to the Khazra den and continued northwest, she finally decided to outline her plans.
"Ever since the Zakarum Crusade was defeated, Mount Zavain has been covered in mists. They are a perfect place to hide."
He mentally considered the maps that Cain had gone over with him. "The Misty Valley?"
"Yes."
"I thought that whole area was abandoned, cut off even to prevent whatever is in there from getting out."
She nodded. "Mostly, but that's all the more reason Dravec would want to hide in there. If he's working with cultists and demons, what has he to fear?"
"I see your point."
They left the path that wound off to their right and continued to the east. The day was bright and a bit chilly but otherwise comfortable for walking. The thinner air still made him feel more winded than he would like after only a short while, but he was easily able to keep up with the monk while she led them away from the paths. After a couple of hours, they rounded a stand of rock to get a view of the valley below. The sight of the black mist clinging to the land, slithering across the surfaces reminded him very much of the Dark Wood, only this time seen from above. When they wound their way down closer to the wall of mist that cut off at mysteriously straight lines, she paused with her eyes closed for a moment as if feeling for something. Thrilled to have a few seconds to catch his breath, he waited patiently. After a minute or so, she opened her eyes and nodded to herself. Then, she turned to him with curiosity and amusement in her expression.
"You're not used to the higher elevation?"
He shook his head ruefully. "Not at these elevations, no."
"I will teach you to breathe. It won't take long."
As promised, Oza taught him some breathing techniques that utilized a few different possible strategies. It would take some concentration at first, he knew, but no more than it would to say keep a skeleton summoned. And, if what she said was true, he would suffer far less dizziness as they continued up and around the mountains. While they sat there, they could both hear in the dark mist beyond, creatures that sounded unpleasant at the very least. Before they entered, he went ahead and summoned four skeletal warriors and two mages. Other than saying there were creatures out of nightmares in the mist, she wouldn't really give him more details. But she did say she was hunting a shrine that she knew existed somewhere in the Misty Valley. She seemed unwilling to say more, and he didn't want to press her. At this point, he had no better ideas.
Almost as soon as they crossed into the black mist, day became night. In the world beyond this valley, it was a bright and sunny morning. In here, it was a moonless night with heavy fog. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. He fanned his skeletons out in a circle around them. Oza was on edge but also very focused on whatever it was she was trying to feel out. In minutes, they found their first pack of nightmarish creatures. They were humanoid but too twisted to be anything but demonic. The taint on the land itself was so thick, he couldn't even rely on his keen spiritual or arcane senses to scout ahead. Visibility was limited to no more than ten feet, and his few skeletons made enough noise to sound like an army rattling through. He began to wonder if they wouldn't be better off without them. The noise they made seemed to attract the things out of the mists.
After yet another brief battle with the nightmare creatures, he dismissed all them in frustration. Though the skeletal mages hovered and didn't make any noise, he couldn't help wondering if something about them or their power was also attracting these things. Oza looked at him curiously when he did.
"They're attracting the things with the noise they make," he explained. "We can move more silently."
She seemed to accept this and went back to following whatever internal senses she'd been listening to. For a few minutes, at least, there was a break in the fighting while they stalked silently through the mist. Only a few feet on either side of them, and he could easily hear more of the creatures growling and stomping around. But his theory had proven true. These creatures, so used to darkness, maybe even blindness, were attracted to sound, and very possibly light. As long as they moved in silence, the things did not immediately attack. At least it didn't seem as if the things could sense their body heat or smell their blood as some blind creatures had been known to do.
After what felt to him like at least an hour, they walked right up to a gnarled, dead tree. Just to the left of it, Pyresong got his first sight of the shrine. It was a simple stone pillar with carvings he did not recognize. It glowed faintly gold to his magical vision. Obviously, at one point it had been a very powerful and frequently used shrine. Now, it was just a reminder of a distant past that was fading away in this isolated valley. Oza smiled in satisfaction and leaned in to whisper in his ear.
"Eyes may be deceived, but the land itself always bears the scars of our actions," she explained. "If Dravec is here, we will find him."
He watched in curiosity what would come next while the monk went to her knees before the simple stone altar at the base of the pillar. Hearing more of those creatures nearby, he shifted to her other side protectively. For a few seconds, she was quiet while she settled herself to focus. Then she raised her hands in supplication. In a whisper he could only barely hear three feet away, he called out.
"Zaim, god of mountains, I beseech you. Lend me your sight. Reveal the path once taken, so we may follow."
For nearly a minute, there was nothing but tension in the air all around them. He could feel something vague tingling against his senses. It seemed almost as if the very land itself had gone silent to listen. Even the shuffling monsters a few feet away in the mists sounded as if they had stopped moving. Then Oza began to glow faintly to his eyes, and it wasn't just his magical sight, either. She turned to him, her eyes seeming very far away.
"It is working. Friend, I need you to be my fists while I commune with the mountain. The nightmare creatures will be drawn to my light. Do not let them interfere."
His heart twisted painfully, remembering a time not so long ago when another, a Druid, had asked nearly the same thing. Remembering how it had ended for Hemlir, he almost wanted to stop this. But the gentle glow around Oza told a different story. This was no sacrifice; this was a communion. He could tell by the warm glow of her spirit as it rose up and out of her body before the shrine, she was completely serene right now. Whatever it was that she now joined with had no feeling of Darkness to him, either. All he could do was pray this wasn't another Hemlir and defend her.
Just as she had anticipated, the light of her warm, gentle spirit floating above her body was a beacon. Nightmare creatures came snarling and growling out of the black mists on all sides. They were easy enough to kill and didn't require much energy. But there were too many of him to take on by himself. In seconds, it seemed he had been forced to back up until stood over Oza, only inches from her prone back with his scythe. To guard their flanks, he summoned three bone golems. The strain was noticeable but manageable. In this type of situation, he basically just had to have them lash out at anything that moved. As long as they weren't too close to her or the altar, it would have to be enough.
After only a couple of minutes, he found himself forced to alter his breathing again to compensate for the lack of air up here while he fought. It seemed a total contradiction to his mind that the air could be so impossibly heavy with the black fog, and he felt like there wasn't enough air at the same time. Thanks to Oza's lesson, he just managed to keep the worst of the dizziness at bay, though the fight seemed to go on forever. Finally, it appeared there were no more creatures circling. He wasn't sure if he'd killed them all or the rest had simply run away. Based on what he'd seen so far, they didn't know fear or pain. Cutting off a limb didn't even slow them down.
He glanced over his shoulder to find Oza's spirit still hovering above her body but now facing him. She seemed to be waiting for him. Seeing he was no longer engaged, she extended her ghostly, golden hand. He shifted his scythe to his shield hand and reached back. When she touched him, he could feel the warm strength of her spirit like a heavy and comforting glove on his own. What he heard through her contact nearly made him cold inside. He could hear Dravec's voice in his mind.
"The Khazra are weak and fearful. They will bow before the Lord of Damnation. Eliminate the Sons of Rakkis, and the monastery stands alone against Hell's might."
He couldn't help wondering which monastery it was. She very deliberately hadn't told him where the shard was housed, and there were easily a dozen monasteries in the region that Cain knew about. The closest ones he knew of were the Floating Sky and Sanctified Earth monasteries.
Her hand pulled away, and then she sank back into her body. He was almost disappointed by the loss of that touch, but he shook it off quickly. She took a deep, shuddering breath while she tried to regain herself. He could empathize. Sometimes, the body felt unbelievably heavy after the spirit had been free for a short while. And it was always at least a tiny bit disorienting. Dismissing his golems, he offered his hand as she rose gracefully to her feet.
"The spirit orb is complete," she told him serenely, pointing to a glowing golden ball of light that hovered nearby. "The mountain's memory is long, and it will guide us to Dravec. We follow." Her expression seemed to turn sad when she turned to follow the light. "Hundreds of years ago, Ivgorod fought back the invaders from Westmarch here. This battlefield is the cursed result. The land remembers everything."
He followed a few feet behind her silent steps, wary of further attacks. The glowing ball of golden light seemed not to be attracting anything to it. When they followed its winding path around a cliff and up a small embankment, it led to a slightly elevated rock shelf. There was nothing coming out of the mists at them. He began to wonder if the things were fleeing from the power he could feel radiating off that orb. In the end, he understood he would never really know. This was a whole different world to him. Maybe he could ask Oza more about it someday. For right now, all they could do was follow in silence. She still seemed distant, as if she was listening to something only she could hear. Aside from the need for stealth, he was reluctant to intrude on that seemingly genuine serenity.
After what felt to be another thirty minutes, the orb lit up a small area where there was an ancient stone monolith covered in intricately braided ropes and ancient talismans. He suspected there had once been written prayers and offerings attached to the ropes as well. He had seen shrines like these in other places. He could even still see the spots of wax on the stone altar below the monolith, confirming it had once been a frequented shrine. In addition, he could still make out the faint, somehow comforting glow of magic around it, much as he had with the last altar. It was fading, but still there. The golden ball of light floated right up to the altar and stopped.
"There must be more the gods wish us to see," she whispered to him, going to her knees again. "Guard me while I commune with Zaim once more."
He already had his two golems summoned by the time she closed her eyes. Again, he stood with his back to hers to ensure nothing would get through. This time, with the surrounding rocks on either side of the monolith and altar, he at least didn't have to worry about an attack from that direction. Two golems were much easier to handle than three, and he wanted to conserve as much energy as he could for now.
This time, he actually felt her warm spirit rising up. It was beginning to feel familiar to him in a way that was both comforting and terrifying. Comforting for her warmth and power; terrifying to see her so vulnerable and exposed. This time, only a handful of nightmares were drawn to them, which his golems easily took care of. After a few minutes, he felt her touch him once again. This time, she reached for the exposed skin of his cheek almost playfully, startling him. But it also felt as if she needed a more direct contact than through his gloves. Again, he heard Dravec's voice in his mind, making him feel cold dread in a way he could not describe.
"Then let this sacrifice be the first of many. There is no price I will not pay for his return."
Is he speaking of Skarn? he wondered.
"Yes, my lord! I can hear you now!" Dravec cried out excitedly. "The blood ritual pierced the veil! At long last, tell me what I must do."
Well, that answers that, he thought.
"Oh, Dravec, what bargain did you make?" he heard Oza's heartbroken voice in his mind.
This startled him a bit, only now realizing that when her spirit touched him, he could hear her thoughts. Likely, she had heard his as well. He found he was also touched by her sadness. Exiled monk that Dravec was, she still felt something for her fallen brother, it seemed. Still, he knew her to be true to their goals and would not let that stop her from doing what must be done. Whatever this Zaim was, it wanted her to know. It was showing them both what Dravec had been doing and planning.
He heard her take another deep breath behind him when she returned to her body. The golden orb of light reappeared a few feet to their left. She rose again, this time her distant expression troubled, but said no more as they turned to follow again.
For another hour, they followed the orb through the mists, their footsteps silent. Here and there, they encountered more nightmare creatures, but only a few. The noise they made when killing the things would inevitably attract a few more within hearing distance. Between himself and Oza, though, they were quick and quiet enough to avoid any major pileup of the nightmares coming their way. Though it was difficult to tell in the murky darkness that blanketed this land, it felt as if they followed that hovering light for the rest of the remaining morning.
The light moved on ahead a bit when Oza stopped suddenly. Expecting another attack, he looked to the mists all around. When no threat presented itself and Oza was still silent, he moved closer to whisper in her ear.
"What is it, Oza?"
The monk shook her head for a moment as if confused. But then she stared straight ahead.
"Even darker magic lingers here, just ahead."
When he concentrated and shifted his eyes into the magical spectrum. The overall magical miasma that created the black mist made it difficult for his eyes to detect anything more than a few feet away. But after a few seconds, he saw it and vaguely felt it like a foul breeze on his arcane senses. It was like a darker pit of blackness oozing out from something ahead.
"I sense a trap," he admitted in a whisper, stepping up to be more in front of her now.
An all too familiar energy was detectable just under the overall miasma in this place. Another couple of cautious steps forward, and the first few planks of a bridge came into sight through the mists. As the familiar, yet corrupted, form of energy became more clear, he moved more firmly ahead of her. He motioned for her to stay behind him. Wary more of what was ahead now than what was hiding in the mists around them, he approached the bridge.
"On the bridge," she whispered. "What is it?"
Seeing nothing threatening at first but wanting to shield her if he was wrong, he motioned for her to wait. If there was a trap here on this bridge, he didn't want both of them falling to their deaths. Worse, he was certain there was necromancy at work nearby, and not the type any Priest of Rathma would ever use. It was a filthy feeling kind of necromancy that involved forced sacrifice and tortured reanimations. It was the kind rarely ever seen in Sanctuary but said to be the primary form of necromancy used in the Hells. Given the feel of it, he half expected reanimated demons ahead.
The mists parted for a moment, and he caught a white and yellow flash of robes fluttering in the wind. Another couple of steps closer, and he made out the nearly frozen corpse of a monk lying face down. Just a few feet away beyond the other end of the bridge, he could make out an opening in the rock wall. It looked like some kind of cave. Out here in the cold wind, it was hard to tell, but he suspected the man could not have been dead more than a couple days. At least he could detect no magical or other traps on the bridge itself. He hooked his scythe on his belt and motioned Oza closer. They knelt down on either side of the body. He let his hands glow softly as he checked. Sensing neither life nor spirit, he shook his head. Her sad expression never changed as she rolled the stiff body over carefully.
"I do not know him," she whispered sadly, "but he was a brother. An acolyte."
Each said their own prayers for the dead in silence. Then, Oza went through the man's pockets to find anything that might identify him. Surprisingly, she found a small journal in the folds of his robe. She quietly flipped to the last page. Her eyes grew wide as she read whatever she found. Pyresong waited in silence, knowing she would not keep him in the dark if it was anything relevant to their hunt. Finally, she just shook her head, unable to speak, and handed the journal over pointing to the fine, neat script on the last page.
This mountain is cursed. Why the order thought to send us here
I cannot possibly fathom. What good is tracking an exile through
a land that will most certainly kill him?
We were ordered to avoid entanglements in the monastery, but
that left us with few options for a staging ground. We've been able
to find some small safety in a cavern on the edge of the mists.
It will serve well enough while we continue the search.
The days seem to blend together. Yet still we search. If Master
Vitalya's murderer has hidden on the mountain, he will be found
and brought to justice. Even if what we find is a corpse.
When he looked back up, Oza's head was bowed, and tears rolled silently down her face.
"Master Vitalya," she whispered in her grief.
He reached out to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly. Clearly, this master was a friend to her.
"I'm so sorry, Oza."
She nodded and then seemed to swallow her tears. She wiped them away with her hands, whispering viciously, "A thousand and one curses upon you, Dravec!"
He gave her a moment while she sat there with her hands on her knees trying to find her calm center again. After a minute or so, she reached down and removed the prayer beads. Then she took the journal and beads and stuffed them into a fold in her robes, much as where she had found it on the dead acolyte. She accepted his hand as she rose to her feet. For now, the body's interment would have to wait. At least it didn't appear the nightmares fed on the corpse. Together, they approached the opening of the cave, where they could both clearly feel something even darker than the mists inside.
Silent as their steps were when they entered, something still noticed them. Pyresong caught a blue flash of magic only moments before a dozen skeletons rose up from the floor. His necromantic senses were confirmed. Among the other magics Dravec was using, he'd now also crossed into corrupted necromancy as well. But this was nothing a Priest of Rathma would have ever used. The filthy-feeling magic was fueled by hellish energies.
As if needing something to fight, Oza launched herself into the rising skeletons almost before they finished forming. He dove in beside her, needing nothing more than his naked scythe blade to deal with such weak reanimations. Seeing the rest of the cave cleared, Oza growled darkly for a moment, as if still needing to hit something. Instead, she turned her focus to the shelves and table on the far wall of the cave.
"Search the cave thoroughly. Dravec killed the acolyte outside and left a trap herein. There must be a reason why. And we will find it."
Despite her angry tone, he could tell she was still hurting and maybe even needed to be alone with her grief for a moment. He nodded and turned toward the further table and shuffled through some of the parchments laying atop it while she went over some bookcases on a far wall. Almost immediately, he spotted a map that looked to be hand drawn and fairly recently. It was crude, but some parts were sort of recognizable. Something about it tickled the back of his mind. He had seen something like it somewhere, but he couldn't tease it to the fore. The one thing on this map he had no problem recognizing immediately was the circle with an eye in it, drawn in red over a specific area. He set that aside for now. As he shuffled some more parchments and even a few books, it became clear that this wasn't Dravec's hideout, though he had clearly been here. It seemed, as described in the journal, it was the acolytes who had been hiding here hunting Dravec.
He spun around with his hand on his scythe when a shelf Oza had been investigating gave out and collapsed with a resounding crash. He was both startled and amused at the vile obscenity that escaped her lips in her surprise. Realizing what she'd just said, her cheeks flamed red.
"Not bad. I'll have to remember that one," he teased with a grin.
Realizing she hadn't offended or shocked him, she laughed weakly. He knew she was tightly strung right now, and he felt for her. Anything he could do to ease it was worth it. And it really had been a good expression he hadn't heard in quite some time. While she went back to perusing the books that had fallen to the floor, he eyed the crude map again. Though there were no names, it did seem like vaguely familiar terrain. Acting on a hunch, he unhooked his shield off his back and retrieved his backpack. He pulled out a tightly rolled bundle of maps Cain had given him. Curious, Oza came over to investigate.
"What did you find?"
"Maybe nothing. I'm not certain," he told her, sifting through his maps.
Of the handful of maps Cain had provided of this whole area, most had absolutely no mention of the terrain within the Misty Valley they were in now. It was typically represented by a giant black blob of nothing. But there was one map in particular that Cain had said was copied from a much, much older one. That particular map was only slightly larger than the crude, hand-drawn one he had found. And, yes, there was a structure in roughly the same place the crude one indicated. As far as he could tell, based on the copy of the old map, it was a Zakarum temple.
"Look at this," he pointed on both maps side by side. "Have you heard of a Zakarum chapel around here?"
She seemed intrigued. "No, but it would not surprise me. What is that symbol?"
"That is the symbol the cultists use for Skarn.”
"An eye?"
He nodded, still not ready to talk about how he could feel it watching him sometimes. "If I'm right, and these maps are the same area, this copy of a much older one indicates that should be some kind of Zakarum temple or chapel."
"Much of what the Zakarum built upon the mount has been lost to the mists. And few people are willing to brave the nightmare grounds to find such a place. It would be a perfect place to hide."
"You're right, that's certainly worth a look. The acolytes must have found it while they were hunting Dravec."
"The nightmares are strong there. It is very nearly the center of the old battlefield," she warned.
"Losing faith in me already?" he teased, rolling up his pile of maps to shove back into his bag.
"No, just challenging you to keep up with me," she shot back.
That quick snap back made him feel a bit better. Whatever she was dealing with inside, she had it contained and likely would not allow it to cloud her judgment going forward. Based on what he could make out, their target was maybe an hour east of their current position. But everything here was so distorted in the mists, it was difficult to tell for sure. It might have been a day away for all he really knew. He relied on Oza's estimation.
Once again, they stalked silently through the black mists. Only occasionally, they ran into small pockets of the nightmares shambling about. Having fought together more than a few times now, they fell into a rhythm that worked well together. One went high; the other went low. And then they switched. Back to back to guard each other, they were an effective team. Being far more accustomed to fighting entirely alone or with his summonings, it was a pleasant surprise for him to fight with someone who somehow knew how to stay out of his way. Initially, he had wondered how much he was getting in her way. Yet, she never said anything to him unless it was a warning of an unexpected move that would break their rhythm.
Just as she had warned, the pockets of nightmares became more frequent. Their slow, silent walk had been interrupted several times. What would have taken maybe an hour in broad daylight took them at least two, maybe more. Pyresong was again losing his sense of time in the murk. But he couldn't lose his sense of direction after only a couple of hours. In the same direction they'd been traveling, he could feel the icy touch of the cultists' evil. It only grew stronger as they continued. At this point, he wouldn't even need Oza's help to find the place. He struggled against the feeling that something vile was watching their progress every step of the way.
When the giant, burnt-out husk of a three storey building materialized faintly in the mists, he could still see much of the crumbling stone and wood structure remained intact; a perfect hideout. He motioned for her to stop a moment.
"They're here," he whispered in her ear. "I can feel them."
She nodded and lifted her fists to show she was ready. He motioned for her to follow as he would lead. Ahead, he could hear voices, but not strong enough to make out what they were saying. He inched closer to the open doorway, hoping to either learn something or take them by surprise, or both. The voices stopped suddenly, and he shivered, horrified to feel something evil actually touching something inside of him. It slithered across his nonphysical senses like some kind of vile caress.
"I know you're there, Shard-seeker!" an unfamiliar voice called from within.
There was a mad scramble inside as several others fled the building out through another exit to the south. He ran up through the arched doorway with Oza close behind. A single high priest stood off to their left near a table with several parchments and books spread over it. The cultist waited calmly for the two of them to enter. Catching sight of the bloody seal on the floor made of a demonic eye in a circle, Pyresong paused. For some reason, he did not want to touch that sigil. He sensed Oza tensing just behind him, ready to strike. The priest in red and black smiled wickedly at them as if enjoying his fear and hesitation immensely.
"The flames of Hell leave not even ash!"
The cultist flung his arms around as he shouted, summoning fire throughout the building. He felt Oza flinch and pull back from the doorway, careful not to jostle him when flames erupted just behind them. The floor, the walls, the tables, the bookshelves, even the air itself felt like it was on fire. Expecting more of an attack, Pyresong never took his eyes off the priest. The cultist laughed insanely, knowing he was about to die and not caring in the slightest. He began the summoning for a demon within that already glowing and active sigil.
"Get whatever is on that table," he hissed in a whisper to Oza behind him. "Then get out."
Hesitant as he was, Pyresong knew he had no choice. He had to interrupt the summoning. When he crossed the seal on the floor, he felt the jolt of power as the sigil connected to something in Hell. At the same time, a chill gripped his heart and squeezed painfully. He flung himself across the bloody sigil, scythe first, to try taking out the priest before he could finish the summoning. Despite the cultist's efforts to dodge and keep up the summoning, he had to let go of one or the other. He decided to save his own hide and danced away from the necromancer and the burning table with the parchments and books. He was relieved to see Oza making her move out of the corner of his eye as he spun and slashed again and again at the priest, keeping him occupied and away from her.
The vile priest, seeing the monk doing something on the table that he'd set afire, was distracted for one second, a flash of fear crossing his face. Pyresong's suspicions had been correct. There was something, possibly many somethings they didn't want him or Oza to find. In that moment of distraction, he almost had the damned priest, but the wily cultist was quick to dodge again. Behind him, he could hear the monk's light steps as she ran out of the burning building with whatever she had managed to grab. She coughed heavily a couple of times as she escaped the flames. He just hoped there wasn't a mob of nightmares or cultists waiting for her. He had to finish this, fast. The cultist's eyes were wild and insane as he laughed wickedly.
"You will join me in Hell, Shard-seeker!" he screamed.
The cultists fanned out his hand with yet more flames. Pyresong dodged, but everywhere he moved, there was more flames licking at his skin. He felt himself choking in the smoke, and his eyes stung from the heat. But he wasn't going to let this one get away. Whatever dark and terrifying things had been stirred within him had more than just disturbed him. The idea that these cultists could sense him through whatever the shards had done to him now turned from fear to anger. With no one else to be concerned about, now he could use his energy blades and not worry about accidentally hitting Oza in the smoke. His carefully controlled rage and no small amount of terror of the last day's revelations came to the surface. He embraced it fully. This priest was about to meet his master personally. He was not going to leave this place alive.
First, he slashed several blades of energy to destroy the sigil on the floor and break its power. Now, he didn't have to worry about something being summoned. Meanwhile, the cultists would duck and dodge, disappearing into the thick smoke only to reappear with more bursts of flame. The two of them danced around each other, trying to score a hit. Pyresong was soon swinging in a way the priest could not hope to dodge. He unleashed wide, arcing blades that cut into the walls and beams. Taking out all his frustrations and fears on this one target, he danced back and forth, heedless of the scorching flames searing his own skin. The burning pain only further fueled the rage. Blades of slicing energy flew out from his scythe with every swing. The insane priest just laughed all the harder and set more to burning. He could feel the flames erupting within inches of his exposed skin. He couldn't care less. His only concern now was satisfying his rage by killing this priest at any cost.
Finally, he was able to catch the bastard off balance between leaps, and the blade of energy went right through the cultist's chest. Cultist priest or not, he died like any other creature of flesh. A darker part of Pyresong relished the spray of blood that erupted from the mangled body. Certain the disgusting excuse for a human wouldn't last more than a few seconds—if even that long considering the damage—he turned to flee out the south doors in the same direction Oza had run.
Though the entire fight had only taken no more than a couple of minutes, the already crumbling and burnt-out husk was now an unstable inferno that could not hold. A central beam somewhere high above his head in the vaulted ceiling that had stood for centuries gave out with an enormous crack that jarred his already assaulted senses. Most of the roof and the wall to his right came crashing down around him with flaming debris.
Somewhere in the black mist beyond the doors that were now completely shrouded by smoke, he heard Oza's horrified screaming. Instantly, his mind latched on to visions of the monk overwhelmed by cultists or nightmares. Jolted by her screams, he ignored the scorching heat and falling debris as he ran toward her voice. Something heavy slammed him in the back with enough force to send him flying off his feet. He felt another unexpected impact when something heavy landed on his shoulder, forcing him back down to the ground. His mind reeling, he forced himself to concentrate beyond the burning explosions of pain and went wraith form.
He couldn't even remember resuming material form. One moment, he was on fire, being crushed, and the next, his burning lungs told him he'd made it out somehow. When they filled with cooler air, he choked from the sudden shock. Coughing and dizzy, he rolled to his hands and knees. His heart still stuttered in panic thinking of Oza. She'd been screaming. She needed him. He'd left her out here alone. He tried to get up, but his arms gave out under him. For a few seconds, all he could do was feel the cold grass beneath his face while he struggled to cling to consciousness. Something gripped his legs and tried to drag him away. Heedless of his own danger, he kicked weakly, looking around the mist for her. He had to find her!
"Oza..." he tried to call, coming out as little more than a coughing wheeze.
I have to help her! he thought in near panic, trying to force his body to move.
Suddenly, she was there, right in front of him. She was all feet and fists as she fought off the nightmares that surrounded them. He struggled against darkness encroaching on his vision. He had to sit up at least to defend himself. She needed him!
"Stay down!" she barked.
He had no real idea what condition he was in, but there was a clear feeling of having been burnt and pummeled in several places. Knowing she was at least not hurt badly, he blearily turned his attention to his own condition. The adrenaline flooding his system, combined with his near panic for Oza, had done much to cover his initial pain and injuries. The heat and smoke had seared his lungs, and his eyes blurred and burned. He suspected, at the very least, some bruising on his back and legs. In that few fuzzy seconds of near coherent thought, he was at least certain there were no broken bones. While she finished off the rest of the nightmares, he did the one thing he knew would help both of them. He downed a thick and potent healing potion.
While she began to move away, still fighting off the nightmares, he finally found the strength to get back to his feet unsteadily. He forced his legs to stop shaking and gripped his scythe. But even his attempts to help her fight them off just sent him back to his knees, the world spinning around him. He took a few deep breaths as the healing potion began to clear his head. He struggled back to his feet a second time, slightly more steady as she returned to him. Her eyes were wide, and her face pale.
"I saw it collapsing on you... You were..."
"I'm all right," he assured hoarsely, just now feeling blood trickling from the back of his head and neck down his back. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, checking him over visually. After a few seconds, she seemed to accept that he wasn't going to fall over dead. Clearly, whatever she had seen, though, did nothing to alleviate her concerns.
"Let's get you back to the fort."
"Did you recover anything?"
"Yes, but not here. We need to get you to a healer if you can make it."
"I'm all right, Oza," he assured her tiredly.
She snorted in a very unladylike way that nearly made Pyresong laugh. Instead, it became a pained cough. She was right, though. He felt numerous injuries that would likely need more than a healing potion. And the expected weariness was already creeping over him. The effects of the potion would only hold for so long. He willingly followed her in silence since she seemed to know or sense where they were going. Right now, it was all he could do to keep alert for an attack. After less than half an hour, he caught himself stumbling unsteadily again on shaky legs. Mentally, he growled at himself, struggling to even just keep walking. Quickly, he downed another healing potion and forced himself to focus on something other than his own misery. Having heard his stumbling steps faltering, she waited in patient silence while he drank the second potion. But not without a look that clearly said, "I told you so."
By the time they crossed out of the valley and back into the normal world, it was very late afternoon. Despite the breathing techniques, he was struggling with the uphill climb. His singed lungs didn't burn quite so much as they had earlier but still felt heavy. His head was now a pounding mass of misery. At least he thought it had finally stopped bleeding. He wasn't entirely sure, and checking with his fingers right now would likely only make it bleed more. The burning sensation on several parts of his body only intensified as the adrenaline and potions wore off. They weren't far from the solid, protective walls of the fort. He could rest there. He knew he was going to need a healer.
Just a little farther... he reminded himself over and over again. Maybe I'll even believe it, eventually, he added with a mental laugh.
He was too tired to think about things too deeply. And there was a part of him that instinctively knew he didn't want to confront any of it, ever. But he would, eventually. Whatever had happened today, he would sort it out later, preferably when his head wasn't hurting so much. His mind wandered away on its own while he followed Oza up the winding paths. If anything, his thoughts became vague and fuzzy. At one point, he wasn't even sure anymore where he was or why he was walking. All he knew for certain was that he had to follow Oza. Somehow, he knew if he could just keep up with her, everything would be all right. Just a few more...
He blinked several times when he found himself being held up by the deceptively strong monk. He didn't remember stopping or stumbling, but she'd caught him by the shoulders. Apparently, he was on his knees and didn't remember that, either. She muttered something unpleasant under her breath as she struggled to get a healing potion off his belt and support him at the same time. He couldn't help chuckling at the obscenity she muttered despite the circumstances. For a moment, she looked like she was going to take his head off as she handed him the last bottle of healing potion he had on his belt. Not able to form an argument had he wanted to, he drank it; coughing heavily afterward. The burning sensation had turned into a heaviness that did not bode well. A few seconds later, she helped him back to his feet.
"We're almost there," she told him. "Don't make me carry you."
He chuckled again, this time with less coughing as the healing potion took effect. Though, truthfully, he did not doubt for one second that she could carry him if it came down to it.
"I will try my best."
This time, she tugged his arm around her shoulders and let him lean on her. Unsteady as his legs were, they somehow trekked the last few minutes up to the fort. Pyresong didn't even want to know what kind of mess he looked like at this point. The numerous concerned looks said enough. All he wanted was a place to sit, some food, and a bucket of water to clean up. They were mildly surprised to find that a significant number of the people who had been in the fort the previous day seemed to have gotten brave enough to return to their nearby homes for supplies. A few had packed bags or carts and fled down the mountain. Ignoring the multitude of questions aimed their direction, Oza guided him into the building and back to the little corner they had shared the night before.
"I'll get a healer," she told him, lowering him carefully into the corner.
He couldn't have argued if he'd wanted to. His mind was wandering in and out of dark thoughts. His skull was a pounding drum of misery. Three healing potions and he was still feeling beat up. He was even willing to admit he had probably been a lot worse off than he'd originally thought. Adrenaline had a lot to do with it. With the throbbing pain in his head still strong enough to make him both dizzy and nauseated, he began to remove his armor. As expected, there were more than a few burn marks and plenty of blood. Several patches of skin had blistered and oozed beneath his armor, further adding to the disgusting mess. He was going to be spending quite some time cleaning it. By the time he removed the last of it, and stacked it in a neat pile in another corner, he was no longer even thinking. He just let his mind drift, just trying to stay conscious. He was all too aware of how a head wound could easily lead to a permanent death sleep.
Oza soon returned with a bucket of water, some bandages, and an exhausted healer in tow. Even the healer frowned in surprise at the sight of him. From what little of his clothing he had bothered to look at, they were little more than burnt rags. Many patches of skin had peeled off completely. Despite the healing potions, they were still raw and tender. The healer quickly put a chilly hand to Pyresong's forehead and delved. He shivered slightly as the magic tingled across his whole body for a minute. The tingling quickly turned to the warmth of healing. Feeling it concentrating in patches all over his body, he finally began to realize just how many injuries he must have had. Along with that realization was the momentary embarrassment of realizing he could have saved them both hours of misery by just making a portal to get back here in the first place. The fact that the idea hadn't even crossed his mind was a clear indication of how out of it he really was. All he could do was sigh in relief as the healing took effect.
Oza watched anxiously in concern. He felt the pain in his head receding rapidly, clearing much of the fog and nausea. It wasn't gone completely, but at least now he could think. And the many tender patches of new skin didn't feel as if the chilly air was scorching them anymore. When the warmth retreated, the healer, who looked like he hadn't slept in days, appeared satisfied.
"You have no serious injuries but will be in some discomfort for a while. The healing potions and your natural resilience did much of the work already. Let me see that head wound. You may still need some stitches."
Sore as he still was, Pyresong bent down as far as he could. The healer pulled this way and that on his blood-crusted hair for a few seconds but otherwise seemed satisfied with that as well.
"It is a small gash now and should heal well enough on its own from here."
Relieved, he sat back up from the uncomfortable position. "Thank you."
The healer motioned to the rags and bandages Oza had brought. "If you'll just pass me those, please, I'll get this cleaned up."
"I can take care of it," Oza offered. "You need rest. We may yet need you later."
The healer readily accepted. "Very well, then. Just be sure to get plenty of rest."
He nodded, knowing he had little choice in that matter. After the three healing potions, active healing, and with his still lingering headache, he wasn't going anywhere tonight. The added drain of being healed ensured he could do little more than sleep anyway. First, he wanted to see what they had managed to earn for their efforts. Nothing short of an all-out assault on the fort was going to shift him right now, anyway. As soon as the healer left, he turned his attention back to Oza, sitting patiently beside him.
"You said you recovered some of what was on the—"
The monk shook her head. "No. You need rest, and I need to clean up that wound before it becomes infected. Come."
She motioned him to move closer. Too tired to argue, he bent down again as far as he could so she could get at the back of his head. The strain of aching muscles and recently healed skin made it both painful and difficult. Knowing it would be easier for both of them, he just turned sideways and curled up with his head in her lap. Her deft fingers quickly found the wound and cleaned it gently. He held as still as he could, trying not to flinch with each swipe of the clean, wet cloth. Thankfully, it did not begin bleeding more as she cleaned. There would be no need for an awkward and uncomfortable bandage. He was surprised to find when she was finished, just how comfortable he was, and how reluctant to move. But he desperately felt the need to clean himself up. He was a whole new level of filthy, even for him. When he finally convinced himself to shift in that direction, she gently held him in place right where he was.
"Just rest for now. There will be time later," she told him, running a soothing hand through his hair at the top of his head.
The battered necromancer sighed for a moment in content, willing to let her soothe away the headache for now. Still drifting, not really able to hold on to any particular thought, he struggled to focus. Of course, it was only a matter of seconds before he fighting just to keep himself awake. Behind him, he heard Oza reaching into her robes to recover some parchments she'd managed to salvage from the fire. He almost didn't care at that point he was so sleepy. After a few seconds, her hand on his hair seemed to freeze. He felt her whole body tensing up. That brought him back to full wakefulness.
"What did you find?" he asked.
When she didn't immediately respond, he shifted to get a look at her. She pushed him down again, and just held open a journal for him to read.
Tayev... I miss you endlessly. Why would Zaim take you away
and leave me behind!? How can I go on? The Master tells
me I will find peace in time... But I don't want peace. I want
my brother
She pulled it back and flipped the page to show him another one.
Everything has gone wrong. Gods, I killed him...and the
Worldstone shard, the only thing that could bring you
back, is out of my reach. If the Master would have just let
me have it...
Forgive me, Tayev...
"He's trying to bring back his brother?" Pyresong asked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Despite the headache and fuzzy thoughts, it seemed almost too insane to be believable.
"I-I-I never knew he'd fallen so f-far," Oza stuttered through her tears.
Now, he wasn't going to just lie there. Ignoring her attempts to keep him in place, he sat up and pulled her into his arms.
"He became distant after his brother died in the Tundra of Arreat," she continued, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I wish he'd told me. I could have helped him... I would have—"
"Don't," he cut her off gently. "Don't do that to yourself, Oza. This is not your fault."
He felt her shoulders shudder as she nodded, her face still buried in his shoulder. Trying to push back the tears, she took a couple of deep breaths and then pulled back. She didn't go far, though, as she shifted to lean against him. He left his arm around her shoulders comfortingly.
"You're right," she sighed after a moment. "And yet, some part of me will always bear this guilt."
"We always do," he told her softly.
"I could have stopped him. I could have reached out to him in his pain. Perhaps then, none of this would have happened."
She tossed the journal away into a far corner and reached for a partially burned sheet of parchment. He squeezed her comfortingly. Some part of him ached for her and wished there was more he could offer. All he had was words, and they didn't seem nearly enough. Despite his headache and wandering dark thoughts, he was entirely focused on her now.
"Now is not the time to lose yourself in reflection," he told her gently. "Besides, he made his decisions. Maybe there was nothing anyone could have done to avoid this. Those shards are evil, and they call to the evil that is in all of us. Without the shard's influence, he might still have tried this madness."
"You're right," she seemed to accept sadly and then handed over the partially burnt parchment she had been reading.
Our Lord has made it clear; he will wait no longer. Three shards
have already been destroyed. No more shall be taken from him.
Deliver the bodies to the ritual sites. If we require more, take
them or lay down your own lives. Damnation has come for the
guilty who live upon this mountain, and they will suffer for their
sins.
He sighed heavily as he tossed the parchment and let it drift away from them. It was clear Dravec was no evil mastermind, but he was desperate and willing to do anything to get his brother back. It was not the first time he'd seen this sort of madness. As a Priest of Rathma, he probably saw it more often than anyone. Sometimes, there was just nothing that could be done to save the grieving family member. Sometimes, they just sank too deeply into madness and delusions, not wanting to be saved. The only thing that made this different was the power of the shard. Whatever Skarn had promised Dravec, he knew it would not end well for anyone. More than likely, Dravec had promised the shard in exchange.
Stupid man, he thought, though not with any real anger. He was too tired for that.
Oza was quiet now, seemingly exploring her memories. And he was willing to let her go for the time being. As comfortable as they were, it wasn't long before he was again struggling to stay awake. He rested his head on top of hers, giving her time to think and process. In seconds, he felt his eyelids dropping against his wishes.
"I think...I might know where he is going," she finally told him. Then she sat up to face him, "But you're not going anywhere. Not tonight."
He couldn't help smirking at that. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but were you expecting an argument?"
"Good."
"Yes, because you're not going anywhere, either," he informed her flatly.
Oza's brows furrowed, and she opened her mouth to protest. Pyresong shook his head and put a finger on her mouth to silence her.
"You need rest, just as much as I do. I know you can go days without if needed. And we will stop him, I promise you. But it's not happening tonight. Conserve your energy for the fight ahead."
She still looked frustrated but eventually nodded. "I will go talk to the captain. I have the feeling we will be away for a while. I want to make sure the outpost is ready."
When she turned to leave, he couldn't help a momentary flash of panic. Maybe it was the knock to the head, or maybe just his suspicious nature. But he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to him again. She didn't resist as he hugged her tightly. He could sense she needed his strength now. Despite what she had said, she was still hurting and feeling guilty for whatever she blamed herself for in all of this.
"Don't go after him alone, Oza. I need you. We started this together, and we'll finish it together," he told her softly, unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.
She clung to him for a minute and nodded mutely. He knew his instincts had been right. She had planned to go after Dravec herself. Hopefully, that monk sense of honor would keep her from doing so after this.
"You need a bath, my friend," she told him with an impish grin as she pulled away again.
He laughed softly. "Again, not arguing."
When she rounded the corner with her light steps, he heaved a sigh. He was sore in many places and still needed to get the rest of the blood out of his hair. He was slightly amazed the fire hadn't burned it all right off. Now that it brushed his shoulders, it was downright irritating. But he never seemed to remember to cut it at a convenient time. And, of course, he had no scissors handy right now. Butchering his hair with a sharp hunting knife never worked well for him. At least the burns he'd felt had faded away to mildly warm spots here and there. Now that he took a closer look and could almost think clearly, he was able to assess the damage to his armor more accurately. Once again, he blessed Charsi's amazing talents. Despite a flaming building collapsing on him, there was hardly a dent. And his armor came clean a lot more easily than anticipated.
Though it felt good to be clean and re-dressed again, the throbbing pain had reignited itself in his head from all the movement. Oza reappeared with some hard bread and stew that had been passed around to all the soldiers and refugees as well. Though he knew he should be near starving by now, he was almost too tired and in too much pain. Oza's dark looks told him if he didn't eat, she would shove it down his throat, so he gave in. At least the pounding in his head kept his mind from wandering too deeply into the darker holes. It was hard to even hold on to a single thought for more than a few seconds.
They sat side-by-side, eating in silence for a while. By the time they finished, both were deep in their own thoughts. He was slightly amazed to realize the warm food had actually made him feel a bit better. He had half expected a fight to keep it down, the way he was feeling. And his mind was still dancing around all the things he didn't have the mental wherewithal to deal with calmly right now. After they finished the stew, he opted to just set the bowls aside to be returned later. As soon as he turned to settle back in place against the wall, she pulled on his arm until he was lying with his head in her lap again. When he tried to protest, she used her enhanced strength on his shoulder to keep him there, not quite bruising him with her insistence.
"You're hurting. Let me help."
Still in no mood to argue and actually relieved to have an excuse to make sure she didn't sneak off on him, he gave in. He was amazed to feel the pain sliding away as she massaged his head and played with his hair. After a while, he was so relaxed and comfortable that he dozed off again.
"I don't suppose you have a pair of scissors tucked away in your pockets?" he asked sleepily.
"No. Why?" she asked curiously.
"Mmm, because that feels far too good, and I keep forgetting to cut it," he admitted.
He was gratified to hear her laugh softly. She scooped a handful of his fine, white hair to run her fingers through it, further soothing away his headache.
"It suits you. But if it bothers you, I can put it in a tail like mine."
He chuckled at the mental image. He started to tell her no thanks, but it ended in a yawn. Reaching over, she pulled his backpack closer so he could fish out a couple of blankets. As alert as they were for possible Khazra attacks or worse, they both opted to sleep upright again and get ready. For once, he had no trouble putting away his thoughts in favor of sleep. With her curled up against him, they dozed comfortably.
***
They both managed to sleep through most of the night in peace. Light as his sleep was, Pyresong couldn't stop the dreams that plagued him. They always caught up to him, eventually. He'd long ago learned to live with them, but they had taken on an even darker twist. More recently, he felt like he was being chased. Something was stalking him, watching him in his dreams. No matter where he went and no matter what he did, it was always in the shadows just beyond his sight, watching and waiting like a predator. Even perfectly ordinary dreams of places he'd been in the past had turned dark and threatening.
He never remembered running from whatever it was, mostly because he didn't know which direction to run. But also because there were times he was literally paralyzed with fear. Sometimes the paralysis was so strong, he stood there until he could feel its icy breath literally down the back of his neck. He always woke or pulled himself out of the dreams before he could confront it. He somehow knew he didn't want to confront it. And yet, there was a stubborn part of him that absolutely wanted to destroy the thing for reasons he couldn't understand. He couldn't remember exactly when these dreams had started, but he was fairly certain it hadn't been too long ago. And, more than anything, it was just an annoyance.
Aware of Oza curled up against him, he pulled himself out of the dream and forced himself to keep still. There was an aching stiffness in a few places that made him desperately want to stretch. Carefully, he controlled his breathing until his heart slowed to something more normal. By the feel of it, he'd slept for several hours. It was probably still at least a couple of hours to sunrise. Typically after one of those dreams, he knew he wasn't going back to sleep any time soon. He was reluctant to disturb Oza and briefly felt trapped. But he found her soft, regular breathing to be soothing and decided not to give in. Instead, he turned his mind inward in meditation.
He was surprised to realize that there was nothing demanding his attention at the moment. Usually, when he was plagued with nightmares, there was something crawling around his thoughts that needed to be dealt with, or at least acknowledged. Aside from his connection to the shards that he had already decided would be his weapon, his tool, there were just all the underlying things of the last few months. He was willing to admit it had been a lot, even for him. Most of it was already dealt with as far as he was concerned. Despite all that he'd been through in the last few months, his victory with Cain against the shards still held true. He still had hope. And this shard would be no different, he decided. If they had any luck, he would be destroying it in the next day or two; once they had dealt with Dravec and his plans with Skarn.
He was jolted out of his light meditation when Oza's whole body flinched. She gasped and tensed but didn't pull away. His arm still around her, he held her firmly while she reoriented herself to her surroundings.
"Bad dreams?" he asked gently.
"I'm sorry. I did not mean to wake you."
"I was already awake. Do you want to talk about them?" he offered softly.
She sighed heavily after a few seconds. "No, but thank you."
He was only slightly disappointed when she pulled away from him to stretch, more for the loss of body heat. Until now, he hadn't realized just how cold it was up here. That also got him wondering vaguely what season it even was at that point. He knew it had been late spring when he'd arrived in Wortham some four months ago or so. It had to be at least autumn by now.
But there was a part of him willing to admit her presence in itself was somehow comforting, too. It wasn't just the loss of body heat that disappointed him. He wondered about that. He hadn't really taken the time to analyze whatever it was he felt for Oza. Yet, he could not deny there was definitely something there. For the moment, all he could do was categorize it as the same mysterious thing he had encountered upon meeting Cain: friendship. He grinned mentally at that idea and his near total lack of experience that led him to wonder about it at all.
Shaking off the chill, he followed her example and stretched thoroughly. He was pleased to realize a faint throbbing in the back of his head was the only lingering effect from the previous day. Having no idea what he was about to walk into with the monk, it was good to know he at least wouldn't be slowing her down. It didn't take him long to realize Oza was preoccupied and distant as they ate and prepared for the day ahead. When she finally gave up pretending to eat and just sat staring at her hands, he knew he couldn't ignore it. Much as he hated to pry into another's thoughts, the vague, painful expression tugged at his heart. He took one of her hands in his.
"Where are you right now?" he asked softly.
She started slightly in surprise and then shook her head but didn't immediately take back her hand. She hung on to him a moment longer as if needing an anchor.
"Nowhere I should be right now," she admitted. "Too long since I last meditated. Don't worry, I will be focused on our task."
"You misunderstand me," he told her gently, shaking his head. "Are you all right?"
She hesitated as if she wanted to say something but changed her mind. Instead, she squeezed his hand reassuringly. Then, she began putting away the rest of the food. Given he wasn't one to typically talk about his thoughts with anyone, he wasn't entirely surprised. But he still felt like he wanted to help her somehow. Obviously, she was dealing with much, at least some of it being the death of a friend and the betrayal by one of her own.
"No, I'm not," she finally answered firmly. "And I won't be until I see Dravec brought to justice. Let's get moving. We have to cross the Misty Valley to get to the old shrine. We should reach it before midday if we're lucky."
There was not much more to be said. Maybe once this was over, he could do more for her. They stopped by a healer's tent on the way out to restock his healing potions as they left. By then, the sky was already turning a shade of dark blue in the east. The sun had just broken the horizon when they re-entered the Misty Valley, but it was impossible to tell once they entered the black fog. This time, she led them up the east side of the valley in the opposite direction they had gone previously. Trying to avoid running into more nightmares, they walked in silence. The monk seemed completely focused on their destination and found the nightmares to be little more than an annoyance. Thankfully for both of them, they were few and far between.
A few hours into their walk, Oza led them through the black mist up a winding path to their right that he almost couldn't even see. Without her help, he knew he would never have found this place. At the top of a short rise were several stone monoliths in a wide circle with a central monolith and altar at its base. This place felt ancient and holy to him, despite the mists. Just inside the circle, she froze when the mist parted slightly. Then, she darted forward before Pyresong could even catch sight of what she had seen. As she went to her knees, he finally saw the yellow robes.
"By Ytar!" Oza whispered. "He's an acolyte from the monastery!"
He knelt down beside her, his hand already glowing. It was clear the man was already dead. The huge slash marks across his back already told the story. But these weren't made by nightmares. They held a stronger demonic residue than the nightmares in the mist. What surprised them both was the fact that he was still warm. He couldn't have been dead more than a few minutes.
"What could have brought him all the way out here?" she seemed thoroughly confused and at a loss.
"He's not been dead long. I can see if his spirit will speak with me," he offered gently.
Instantly, Oza shook her head. "No, I will entreat Zaim's favor once more." She closed the acolyte's empty eyes. "If we are still blessed by the gods, perhaps they will grant us clarity."
This was her world, he knew. It was her right to deny him communion with the dead in her own territory. And he sincerely hoped she would get some answers. This had shaken her more than he'd initially thought. Apparently, this was someone she knew, likely from her own monastery. This time, though, she took his hand as she began her prayer to Zaim. He felt the warmth of her spirit as an almost physical sensation through his hand. Without any action on his part, he heard and saw what she did at the same time. Her spirit rose up, and then a golden orb of light drifted up out of the acolyte toward her. She reached for it with her other, spectral hand.
"The demons are everywhere! Form a defensive line! Do not let them into the temple!"
Oza almost pulled back right then. He even felt her physical hand in his, squeezing almost painfully through his gauntlet and glove.
"We cannot hold much longer... I will find Oza, I promise. She will not let us fall!"
This time, she did pull back and sank back into her body. Immediately, she jumped to her feet, her dark eyes wide with near panic. His grip on her hand was likely the only thing that kept her from running off right then.
"Gods, he came to warn me of an attack! I have to get to the temple!" she said frantically.
"Listen to me, Oza," he pulled on her arm to get her attention. "He spoke of demons and in great number. The cultists must have opened a rift to the Burning Hells. It's the only explanation for an assault of that magnitude."
"But I can't leave them—"
"I'm not asking you to," he told her more calmly. "Just point me to where you think I can find them, and I will close the rift. Otherwise, fighting the demons will accomplish nothing. Their onslaught will never cease."
The monk was clearly torn. She wanted to go after Dravec and the cultists as she'd said, and she didn't want to abandon her friend. But she couldn't leave the temple, being overrun with demons. Finally, she seemed to calm herself and took a deep breath.
"We must divide our efforts again. It is the only way we'll survive this. I will return to the monastery to rally the others. Follow that path east, then it will have a north and south option. I believe they are using the old temple to the south. Then, follow the path north. There will be blessed grounds, and then the path continues north directly to the temple."
"Understood. I'll join you at the monastery as soon as I can. Keep them away from the shard, or the world will suffer like never before," he warned.
But she had a warning for him, also. She gripped his arm and met his eyes desperately.
"Dravec has betrayed everything he stood for. The blood of his own people is on his hands. If you face him, show no mercy."
He gave her his wickedest smile of predatory anticipation in return. She didn't seem amused but nodded in satisfaction. Then she turned to run toward the north where he knew their monastery to be. From what he recalled on the maps, it was the Sanctified Earth Monastery. Knowing her and her monk abilities, she would cover in minutes what it would take him hours to traverse. He prayed for her and the rest to hold out long enough for him to find and close that rift.
Now for his own task.
When he found the junction where the east path turned north and south, he felt it again. Just as she had anticipated, they were definitely to the south from here. He didn't even need to see the ancient temple beyond the mists. The cold feeling of dread crawled up his spine and into his gut once more. They were definitely up ahead. This time, he didn't try to push away that chilly sensation, or even try to ignore it. No, this time he would use it. He wrapped that cold dread with icy rage. He extended his senses out beyond himself, following that sickening feeling. Continuing his silent stalking through the dark mist, he felt them. At least a dozen up ahead. Two clusters of six. Every one of those cultists that a shard had touched were his to mark for death now. And there was something much, much bigger and stronger beyond them. He knew it was likely to be a demon they had summoned. He hoped it would be the rift itself.
He struck like a nightmare out of the mist. One by one, he cut down each of the cultists with little more than a whisper. Before they could even see him to identify him, they were dead. Then, he turned his attention to the more powerful source ahead. In the crumbling building beyond, where he felt the strongest feeling of dread, he heard another cultist cry out.
"The Shard-seeker is here! Protect the ritual with your lives!"
He rounded the wall into the main temple. The bulk of the floor was covered with Skarn's sigil, the bloody eye. Where the large stone altar stood was more blood and sigils. Another high priest stood calmly waiting for him. The four cultists kneeling on the floor around the summoning circle moved to attack him. He danced around them with his scythe, leaving corpses in his wake. He turned to meet the high priest's attack. But it never came. The priest, calm and still, spoke from within the sigil that Pyresong did not want to cross. Mentally, he was snarling at himself for his own fear of that sigil. He sensed something about it he did not want to come in contact with, but still had no idea what or why. He would not let his fear stop him now! While the priest spoke, he sent a trickle of energy into his scythe blade to cut him down.
"Your constant interruptions have taxed the Master's great work," the priest told him, coldly. "He wishes to have words with you."
"Tell him I am coming for him, next," he replied, raising his scythe.
An unexpected fiery explosion in the summoning circle forced him to jump back and halt his swing. Between himself and the priest now stood an image of Skarn outlined in fire and blood. He lowered his scythe but kept the flow of power ready.
"I have you now, mortal," Skarn said. "Three shards destroyed, uncontested. No more. You have earned the totality of my ire."
"Then come and get me. If you can," Pyresong told him flippantly with a smirk.
In a single swipe of his scythe, he cut right through the summoning circle on the floor, shattering the image of Skarn.
"No penance for you! Only suffering!" the now-enraged priest screamed.
A second backhanded swipe from his scythe cut the priest in half. The fireball the priest had started to fling at him exploded all about the priest as he fell. He found himself jumping back again as Skarn appeared in those blood-misted flames. Yet, something of it must have touched him as well. He could feel the grip of the hellish powers and blood magic winding around him and inside of him.
"How you thrash against your own salvation. Yet the tide is unleashed!"
Suddenly, Pyresong was unable to move. He was frozen as Skarn assaulted him, taunting him with images and demonic laughter. But it was much more than paralysis. He was blinded with the images Skarn wanted him to see, instead. The horrific images of sacrifice and a never-ending army of demons pouring through the rift unchecked assailed him. The idea of this direct connection to the demon lord made his stomach churn. He pulled his icy rage to the fore to combat it. He refused to give in to the fear and sickening dread in his gut. Instead, he latched on to the images Skarn used to taunt him and show him how powerless he was against the armies of Hell. Whatever those shards had done to him, whatever they left behind, were his power to use now.
Nearby, he heard more cultists approaching, angered by the loss of their high priest and coming to the call of their Lord. No doubt, Skarn was surprised when Pyresong broke the paralysis. Without even having to move, he used the corpses already lying around him to shatter the floor along with destroying the seal it contained. The approaching cultists were torn to shreds by the sheer power of the blast. But it was enough to break the connection to Skarn and the paralysis.
Now he knew. The ritual to open the Hell rift was north of here, at another ancient site. It was likely the holy grounds Oza had mentioned. He had seen Dravec at the site opening the portal to Hell and letting the demons flood through. He'd sacrificed at least half a dozen men and women to open and stabilize the portal, some of them readily available cultists. The blood all over the rocks and altars spoke of many more prior sacrifices. The once beautiful and holy place had been perverted and desecrated with demonic sigils and summoning circles. Likely, that is where the bulk of the cultists were waiting for him, too. Given that the images had come to him from Skarn directly, he doubted Dravec was still there now. He would catch up to the fallen monk. But first, he needed to close that rift before Oza and the others were overwhelmed.
Please let them hold out, he begged silently to anything that would listen.
He was still at a flat run when he entered the demonically tainted area where the rift still stood. While running, he summoned three sturdy bone golems. Thanks to the information given by Skarn, he knew the three altars around it stabilized the portal. Without those altars, it would go unstable within this once holy ground and then collapse shortly after. He knew the men and women on those altars were already dead. The strain of having three golems tugged at him and slowed him down, but he needed their strength and power now. He sent them after the three altars to destroy them and sever the connection.
Meanwhile, he worked his way around the area, killing off cultists by the dozens, venting that pent-up rage. He knew his mad dash had been reckless. Giving in to his rage had been downright stupid. He felt the effects of that stupidity as a dozen minor wounds bled and throbbed all over his body. But the golems had helped. The few remaining cultists that he hadn't cut down now fled in different directions into the Misty Valley.
Not in a hurry to meet your lord, are you? he thought in disgust as he downed a healing potion and dismissed the golems.
He pulled back on the rage and continued his flat-out run through the Misty Valley and to the north where he knew the temple was. More than once, he heard the screams and growls of nightmares trying to follow. Once, when they were close enough to pose a real threat, he growled in frustration and summoned a couple of skeletal mages to distract the things. He wasn't wasting another second on them. He only had the vaguest idea of where the monastery was somewhere beyond the mist-shrouded valley. He might still be hours away. Again, after only a few minutes of running in that general direction, he did not need a path or a map.
He could feel the shard ahead like a sickening beacon.
He was still praying in his head that the monks had been able to hold out. Dravec was way ahead of him, and the demon assault on the monastery had been going on for hours. Even as he exited the confines of the Misty Valley into bright daylight, he could see the monastery and battles going on ahead. Both demon and monk corpses littered the ground leading up the paths and stairs to the monastery's entrance. There was no time to stop and check on the fallen. At the top of the stairs in the arched entrance, a pitched battle was ongoing. Demons were blocking the entrance, not trying to get in! He summoned another bone golem as he headed toward the flight of stone stairs.
His heart skipped a beat when he spotted Oza's yellow robes and her white tail rolling down a few stairs. As she regained her feet, she spotted him running up toward her. He felt a flash of relief as she stood back up. For a heartbeat, he had thought her injured. But she was ready to jump back into the fight. He gripped her by the arm, breathlessly, to stop her for a second. He sent his golem on ahead to continue the battle with the demon assault troopers.
"The rift is closed," he told her breathlessly.
"Good, but they've gotten through our defenses. There's more inside. Come on."
He pulled her back behind him again as he sliced through the air with his empowered scythe three times, sending deadly waves of slicing energy into the entire group. His golem was destroyed along with the demons. Then he ran beside Oza the rest of the way into the temple. Just beyond the arched entrance was a giant statue in the courtyard. They split up and went around it on opposite sides to get to the next battle. There, more demon assault troopers waited with their axes and bows ready in another entrance. Oza leapt into the air and landed in the middle of the group, forcing Pyresong to change tactics quickly and summon more bone golems. The two he had were powerful enough to take on a demon each. There were four more demons pressing the attack on the monk, who was never where they expected her to be. Which, of course, made it impossible for him to do more than use the physical abilities of his scythe. He couldn't risk hitting her with a sweeping blade of energy. It was only a matter of seconds before he was back to back with her, cutting down the score of demons blocking their way. Again, they resumed their fighting tactics from the previous day.
Once the last one was dead, he turned to her, trying to catch his breath. With the techniques she'd taught him. He'd been able to make it this far without passing out. But the strain of the multiple fights and wounds was slowing him down, he knew. He quickly downed another healing potion as she spoke.
"Thank the gods you're here. We've been fighting for our lives. Most of them...they didn't make it. We're so few now."
"I'm so sorry, Oza."
She seemed to shake off her sudden bout of grief. "I was able to warn the masters, and our best men have been guarding the Worldstone shard. We need to join them in the shrine."
At a run, Oza led him through several more rooms to what felt like the furthest section of the monastery. It had an overall feel of disuse, as if it hadn't really been occupied for many years. But Pyresong couldn't miss the sickening feeling of corruption that permeated the place. He was actually ahead of her by the time they reached the shrine room. He didn't even need direction to tell how to get to the shard. It was more than just a feeling now. The sense of the shard's presence was enough that he had to actively fight it. It didn't just call to something dark inside of him, it pulled and demanded he obey. Something in his soul was echoing it, and it terrified him like nothing else. His best weapon against it now was his anger. He summoned every bit of rage he'd ever felt in his life for right now. It wanted him, and it knew it would have him soon.
He knew nothing he fought back with would ever be enough.
When he rounded a corner into the room where the shard had been sealed away, he felt his anger rise a notch as he found the wooden doors had already been shattered. He spotted the shard on a pedestal in the center of the room, glowing a wicked red and black. But he had no time to think about it. Already, the bodies of dozens of demons littered the floor. Several yellow-robed monks were among them. One monk now stood against three demon assault troopers trying to get past him to the shard. He and Oza finished them off, but the last monk fell as well, already fatally wounded.
"Dead... How could he do this?" Oza asked, her voice quivering with grief and anger. "I couldn't save them! This monastery has stood for over five hundred years. Even the Zakarum army could not breach its walls. And now Dravec has brought it low in a day!"
The shard was literally within reach. He just needed to take it and put it in his backpack to shield it. He had to get it away from here and destroy it. He almost regretted not having Yl'nira ready, but there had been no time. Another part of him wanted to take it and use it, even if only to defend this place. That horror alone brought him to a complete mental freeze. And his fear of the thing made him hesitate. He didn't want to take it in his gloved hands. And Oza's tears tugged at something beyond the rage in his heart. It was the monk's needs that won out. He ached for her and wanted to hold her, give her something to ease her hurt. But he couldn't. He struggled to focus. He gripped her by the arms to get her attention.
"Oza! A powerful demon lord has set his forces against this monastery. We cannot grieve now, lest the sacrifices of your people be in vain!"
Her breath caught in her throat, and she coughed to try to clear the tears.
"So many lives lost... A temple in shambles. All for that stone."
"Oza! Please!" he demanded more roughly than he intended. "I need your help! I can't...I can't touch the shard. But I need to get it into my—"
The sudden blast of raw energy knocked them not only off their feet but right off the central dais and away from the pedestal. They both landed hard on the stones several feet away. Dravec had somehow appeared on the other side of the pedestal and flung them across the room. Oza was back on her feet in a heartbeat, running right for Dravec as he grabbed the shard right off the pedestal and made a run for it. Pyresong flung a paralyzing curse at Dravec violently that missed entirely as he shook off the stunning impact. He rolled to his feet to chase after them. Even Oza's enhanced abilities couldn't keep up with Dravec's speed as he fled out of the room. Pyresong barely had a chance to regain his feet before they were through the arched exit on the other side. He was already summoning two more golems as he crossed the room. On the other side, he found Oza just ahead of five more monks that had come from where they had been defending the other door.
"He's headed for the terrace!" one of the monks shouted.
"After the traitor!"
When they exited the buildings into a back courtyard, he saw Dravec leap up onto an altar, already pulling from the all-too-eager power of the shard. Some part of him realized it had found its master and was no longer pulling on him. Oza and the others paused only a few feet away while Dravec raised the shard high in his hands. He called out to them.
"Oza! Turn back! There is no need for you to die!" Dravec shouted.
"You monster!" she screamed back. "You betrayed everyone! The gods will not stand for such an affront!"
"I serve a new god! One who actually listens to prayer! Run home to Ivgorod; only damnation awaits here!"
He could already see it with his magical vision. There was an invisible summoning circle forming on the ground, literally right under the monks. Just as had happened in Cain's workshop, the shard was pulling something from the depths of Hell. Again, Oza was screaming in rage and grief as she launched herself at Dravec on the altar.
"Watch out!" was all he could shout, but he already knew it was too late.
A giant demon of fire and scorched stone rose up out of the ground. It grabbed one of the monks in its giant fiery fist and squeezed him to death. It rose up, bellowing flames across the entire courtyard. All of the monks were immolated in that one second, except for Oza. She was practically on top of Dravec when he fled through an arched exit to the east side of the courtyard. Pyresong was helpless to do anything for the monks as he found himself ducking back through the entrance into the temple to escape the raging flames. His heart beat painfully in fear as he realized he couldn't get to Oza and Dravec. He had to get past that thing or destroy it, and it was enormous. It was easily thirty feet tall and at least ten feet wide.
Damn you, Dravec! he snarled, desperate to get to Oza.
Trying to buy himself some time, he flung a curse at it that had absolutely no effect. There were not enough corpses out in the courtyard to do anything more than irritate it with either corpse lance or corpse explosion. He flung up a bone prison in a desperate attempt to at least slow it down now that it had seen him. None of his summoned minions could even so much as make for a distraction. It could stomp his usual golems like bugs. Even his most powerful golem wouldn't stand taller than the demon's waist. As it broke through the bone prison in only a couple of seconds, he tried another curse that would slow it down instead of blind it. That worked, but he still found himself releasing the curse when he had to go into wraith form to flee a huge pillar of fire it was summoning right beneath him. He just barely managed to escape the summoning circle before returning to physical form. The few restless spirits he sensed would not be nearly enough to destroy this thing as he had Sargoth. Even a bone spear just bounced right off the blackened rocky hide.
Panting and already feeling exhaustion creeping in, Pyresong couldn't find an answer. All he could do was keep dodging the various attacks that even seemed to leave molten patches on the ground where he could not tread again. His only cover was that vile-feeling room where the shard had been housed. As he backed into that room, thinking it might be too big to follow, it began to beat on the building, causing large chunks of stone to fall all around him. He backed up swiftly to the furthest corner away from the thing. His shields would not be enough. There was no obvious weak spot, and the heat radiating off of the thing was such that he couldn't even try to get close enough to use his energy blades from the scythe. Even that one nearly suicidal, all-out attack option was closed to him.
While it battered down the arched entrance, taking huge chunks of stone with it, he realized he was trapped. There was no telling how many more demons were behind him in the rest of the temple, and he had no way to get through this thing to get to Oza. He was going to die in here in this dark corner.
The calm chill of Death's embrace found him yet again.
He had literally one chance. It was something he'd been taught how to use many years ago and had never used since. If he was strong enough, he just might drain it of whatever unholy life force it possessed. The very thought of that spell, a modified curse, sickened him. He never wanted that kind of power. The ability to drain a living being's essence was horrifying enough to him. Worse was the idea of taking that stolen life into himself.
Another idea he'd never even considered followed on the heels of that one. He only needed one hand to use the Borrowed Time spell. He hooked his scythe on his belt and his shield on his back. Either this would work, or he'd be joining his master in a few seconds. The very idea of trying this for the first time on something so enormous would have terrified him. But there was no fear left now. There was only the calm certainty of death; that familiar cold, dark place wrapped in eternal silence.
With one hand, he launched his modified curse that would suck the life out of the demon sending it into himself. It would keep his body alive and repairing itself even in the worst trauma. With the other hand, he touched the spark inside himself that could control fire. He sent that force outside of himself to pull from another source of fire. The demon, trapped and thrashing in the demolished archway, froze as it felt its life force suddenly being drained away. Then it went into a thrashing frenzy as its other source of power, fire, began to drain away as well.
Pyresong felt himself slipping away between the two open channels of power. His sense of self and awareness faded rapidly as he was completely focused on those two spells. Nothing else existed. Between the two power channels, there was no room for thought or feeling, or even body. He felt the demon's thrashing and flames licking his body somewhere far away. He felt the impact of giant chunks of stone all around him, as if it were happening to someone else. Even when the demon reached out with a clawed hand and flung his body across the room, shattering his bones, Pyresong would not let go of those spells.
He began to feel the now-familiar sensation of his body burning from within. It was too much, he knew. He still wouldn't let go. If Oza defeated Dravec and recovered the shard, she would have to face this thing alone. That thought was enough for him to cling to those spells. Of course, it would kill him, but he'd take the demon with him. Oza knew where to find Yl'nira. She could destroy the shard. Seconds ticked by like hours, and all he knew was the flow of those two streams of power building and building inside of him. One keeping his body alive despite all the damage. The other pulled the fire into himself in an ever-increasing ball of energy. Somewhere far away, he heard screaming and knew it was his own.
The flows stopped as suddenly as he had started them. The backlash slapped him back to reality with the unspent power igniting all around him. He wasn't even sure where he was anymore. He couldn't have stopped what happened next if he'd tried. The explosion of unspent fire energy outward from himself shattered the stones around him and blew out a whole section of the wall. He was only dimly aware of reflexively shielding himself and curling up into a ball on his knees with his hands over his head.
It took several seconds of listening to his own ragged breathing to even realize he was somehow still alive. He had been certain his entire body had exploded along with his surroundings. He was so dazed and disoriented, he wondered if it was even really his own body he was hearing. Then it dawned on him, his head throbbed painfully in time with that racing heartbeat. His ragged breathing was little more than shallow pants. He really had survived. But why? How?
He raised his aching head slowly, feeling as if it would either fall off or explode at any moment. The demon corpse that lay on the floor halfway into the room reached all the way to the now-shattered pedestal in the center. He'd done it. It was dead.
And now he felt like he wanted to vomit.
He'd taken the life energy from a demon to keep himself alive. It had worked, but the thought sickened him. His master had assured him life energy from any source was neutral and would affect nothing beyond the intended effect. Yet he just couldn't believe that. He felt more tainted and filthy than ever in this moment.
The distant sound of Oza's scream of rage shocked him back out of his spiraling thoughts. His friend was somewhere out there alone with Dravec and the shard. He had to get to her! The idea that Dravec had summoned another demon to stop her jolted him with adrenaline-fueled terror. His hands still free, he scrambled over the ruins of the temple building. He even clambered over the now dead husk of the demon that was still so hot it burned like an oven. Back in the courtyard, he remembered they had run out of the arched exit to the right. His feet barely touched the ground as he ran. His chest tightened in fear for her until he couldn't breathe at all. But he ran anyway.
He found the path that led up to a rise beyond the main temple grounds. When he reached the top, he caught sight of Oza's yellow robes and Dravec's black ones. They were trading blows so fast his eyes couldn't keep up. He stumbled and tripped over the uneven ground that their fight had decimated. Shattered stones that had likely been altars or shrines littered the ground. He struggled to his feet again. Dravec looked right at him, sensing his presence. Oza used the opportunity the distraction afforded her and kicked the fallen monk so hard he went flying, almost off the far ledge. Then she rushed toward him to finish him.
She never made it.
Even as Pyresong ran toward her across the ruined overlook, Dravec unleashed his power along with the power of the shard in one massive blast that not only hit Oza's body in mid-flight but flung her back across the overlook to the far side. He skid to a stop and changed direction, reflexively. Oza rolled and tumbled like a broken doll.
"Oza, no!"
Dravec disappeared in a flash of black and red light, aided by the shard. He barely even noticed. All he could see was Oza and her broken body. He skidded to his knees beside his friend.
Please, no...
Already, she was coughing and choking on the blood in her lungs. Afraid to even touch her and make things worse, he just sat there for a moment, helpless. Forcing his trembling arms to move, he rolled onto her back to ease her breathing. She looked up at him with dull eyes.
"Oza...please, tell me you are all right," he begged, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest.
He felt the tears stinging his eyes when she reached out to take his hand. He could already see for himself, her chest was caved in. Shards of her ribs had likely pierced most of her organs. His own heart strangled him, stabbing painfully. Ignoring his own pain, he carefully slid his right hand and arm under her shoulders to lift her so he could cradle her. Maybe the monks had some sort of healing ability he didn't know about. He clung to this tiny spark of hope. Finally, she stopped choking and found enough breath to whisper.
"I'm not in the habit of lying to friends..."
He held her as gently as he could. He wanted to hug her, to hold her, to give her his own life. But he knew of nothing that would save her. His whole body shook as he pressed his cheek to the top of her head.
"Please..." he whispered, not even sure who or what he was asking anymore; it all just hurt too much to think about.
She was so dear to him now. He wasn't sure when it happened or how, but the thought of this world without her was a bleak one he didn't want to live in. He knew, even his potions couldn't save her. Nothing could save her from such incredible damage. It didn't stop him from trying. He willed his own life into her, trying to soothe the injustice of this. He tried sending a flood of himself into her, as he had once shared his energy with Cain. He was no healer, but he would do anything to stop this from happening. It wasn't right that he had survived the impossible again and she wouldn't live to see tomorrow.
"No," she whispered, feeling his attempts to give her life energy. "You must...finish this."
That broke the floodgates. He felt his whole body shudder with the sobs that threatened to break out. He couldn't hold the energies. His heart ached and strangled him in his chest, and he couldn't find breath. He knew he couldn't force the longer suffering on her broken body; it was torture.
He had to let her go.
"May Zaim embrace you, my friend," he whispered. "I swear I will deal with Dravec and the shard."
Oza's final sigh was given with a smile of peace she offered to him, to let him know it would be all right. Even as she died, she gave something of herself to him. He didn't deserve this kindness. He couldn't accept it. The tears rolled unchecked down his face as he kissed her forehead. He could feel her powerful spirit leaving the body. He closed his eyes. He couldn't watch her warm, beautiful spirit leaving. He didn't want her to leave. It wasn't fair. He had survived and now this world was deprived of her, instead. He knew she was going to her rest, but he just couldn't bear to watch her go, so he clung to her body.
A few seconds later, the overwhelming sense of vile corruption caressed his naked senses as he held her. He had been so wrapped in his own misery he hadn't even kept his shields up. He heard stealthy footsteps a few feet away. He didn't care. Let Dravec take him, too. It should have been him, not Oza. They needed her, and he had let her die. He pressed his forehead to Oza's, praying for her and wanting to join her. Dravec paused, still a few feet away. Pyresong didn't even bother to look up.
"I told you to run," Dravec sneered. "I told her you would fail, and now the God of Damnation has his sight upon you. And we know you will not stop. So come, Priest of Rathma, come to the Frozen Tundra. Death is waiting for you."
Something that was already fractured inside Pyresong shattered. His sudden move was so unexpected to both of them that Dravec had no chance to dodge or shield himself, not that it would have mattered. Pyresong wasn't using magic.
This was necromancy fueled by raw unbound rage.
This was from his own soul, and he would spend everything he had on destroying the monk. The soul fire burned a terrifyingly powerful green as its energy slammed into the vile monk. Dravec screamed in agony as he was burned alive and flung away by the force of it. But he wasn't about to let the exiled monk get off with an easy death. Something dark reared up inside of Pyresong, and he embraced it. He tore through the shard's attempts to shield Dravec. He gripped Dravec's soul, squeezing and pulling it away from the body. He would shred it to pieces. His blinding rage took over completely while he scorched the man's body with pure soul fire and clawed at the now exposed spirit. He didn't want Dravec dead, though. No, he would see that the fallen monk suffered a lifetime for Oza's death...for all the deaths he'd seen here today. If the burning soul fire wouldn't do that, he would tear the man's soul apart a tiny piece at a time.
But he couldn't let go of Oza.
Remembering her cradled in his right arm shocked him back to reality. He knew Oza and her kind soul with all its warmth would not approve of torture, even against Dravec. He felt his heart shrivel at the thought of what he had almost done. Shocked at his blatant and horrifying misuse of his necromantic abilities, he recoiled, feeling sick and tainted all over again. Dravec's screams ceased when he used the power of the shard to flee. But Pyresong was already spent. The flow of energy was gone. He was too shattered to focus now.
He hugged his friend's broken body as the grief and injustice of her death didn't just eat at him; it made him feel utterly destroyed inside. A part of him was broken, lost forever. The passage of time ceased to mean anything as he shuddered with sobs he couldn't even find the energy to try to stop. He didn't even care anymore that he felt so broken. There was no one left to see. Everyone else here was dead.
He was alone again.
Long after the sun had set, when the icy wind was all that was left to hear, Pyresong finally let her body go. He laid her gently on the ground and kissed her cold forehead one more time. He was so cold inside and out; he felt dead. He was so exhausted, he couldn't even shiver. And now he felt so hollow and empty, he couldn't help wondering what the point was anymore.
What is the point of protecting the world when all the good people in it don't live to see it? he thought bleakly.
But he knew the answer already. There were other good people in this world. Thousands of them, he just hadn't met yet. How many more Ozas were out there sharing their bright, warm souls with the world around them? How many Kashyas and Cains are fighting the overwhelming Darkness? How many Tabris were out there trying to make a better life for others? No, he couldn't give up. Miserable and lonely as he was right now, he knew he wouldn't give up. And underneath all of this, there was still a burning core of anger targeted at Dravec and Skarn. If for no other reason than to lash out at them, he would keep going.
He wanted so much to leave this place, but he couldn't leave Oza, not like this. Somewhere in his garbled memories of the last few hours, he'd noticed how beautiful this place was. This overlook had once been covered in shrines. Now, it was filled with rubble and debris from the battle. Yet, there was still a wondrously expansive view of the world below. He'd completely missed the sunset, which must have been spectacular up here. And he could already imagine the sunrise that would grace this place. Yes, Oza's soul was gone, maybe not even very far away. But he was here now with her body in a place she had loved and lived in most of her short life. He would see that her body rested here peacefully, as well.
Looking around in the darkness, it didn't take him long on that small overlook to find a little bundle of birch trees and an otherwise untouched tiny patch forest in the northwest corner of the overlook. As broken and exhausted as he was, he would see this done. Though he didn't have a shovel in his magically enhanced backpack, he had a large knife on his belt and his scythe. They would have to do. He gave in to exhausted numbness as he dug the hole. Time passed sluggishly around him. Part of him knew this night would never end. And part of him didn't want it to end.
Part of him still wanted to dig this hole for himself.
He still felt numb, and his hands and face were literally numb when the sky to the east took on a bluish tint. The hole was deep enough, he knew. He had to stop. He had to really let her go now. He returned to Oza's body where he had left her on the eastern side. He took off his filthy gloves and gauntlets, not wanting to smear her with them. He couldn't help running his hand over her head and thick white hair still bound neatly in its tail. Briefly, he thought of his own hair and how she'd liked it the way it was. He almost found the energy to smile then. But it froze in his heart, unable to reach his face. To honor her, he decided he would keep it. He hated his longer hair, and it annoyed him to no end. But, for Oza and his memory of her, he would keep it.
He watched this one last sunrise with her. Priest of Rathma that he was, he could have confirmed for himself if her spirit was nearby. He just couldn't find the energy. He thought he might lose his mind if she was still here. He needed her to be gone. He needed to believe she was at peace. She had given everything to this temple and this world. She'd earned her rest, even if the injustice of it made his heart feel fractured. At the very least, she shouldn't have to fight or suffer anymore. Not knowing if she was there and praying she wasn't, he described the sunrise to her. All the beauty he could see before him was worth fighting for. Again he swore to her he would find Dravec and bring him to justice. He would destroy the shard and make Skarn pay.
Somehow, he would find a way to make it happen.
Finally, he let go. With a final kiss to her forehead, he lifted her broken body in his arms and laid her gently in the hole. He had already marked the trees around the grave. Maybe someday, if they rebuilt the temple, others could come here and remember her too. So, very many lives were lost in this fight. Maybe, just maybe, there were a few surviving monks somewhere in the world that would make this place beautiful again, make it a place of peace again, after all this carnage and loss. He found that much hope to cling to as he filled in her grave.
Shaking from physical fatigue now, more than anything emotional, he knew he had to stop. Once he'd finished filling in the grave, he couldn't even find the energy to eat. He fell sideways, unable to stay upright anymore. Laying on the cold ground beside her fresh grave, he let the sun keep him warm while he slept.
***
Sometime that afternoon, he woke, still cold and miserable, but knowing he could not stay there. He had to chase Dravec; he would keep his word to Oza. As he had suspected, the demons were gone once they had what they wanted, and there was no one left to kill. No monks had disturbed him, either. Likely, they were all dead, too. He knew he needed to recover more physically and forced himself to eat the food from his pack that tasted like ashes. He consulted his maps and found a trade road further west that would take him to the Frozen Tundra the fallen monk had mentioned. He just hoped that unexpected attack he'd inflicted had slowed the man down somewhat; though he doubted it when he considered the power of the shard.
He desperately wanted to return to Cain or even Sentinel's Watch to check on the people Oza had protected. But he knew that would only give Dravec a bigger lead. He'd lost enough time. Having rested and eaten, he was out of reasons to stay here, though he didn't want to leave, either. Standing over Oza's grave, he thought of all she'd given willingly and felt ashamed. He hurt, and he knew the hurt would pass. For now, he dug deep and found the strength for a spark of anger. If he accomplished nothing else in this life, he would make Dravec pay for all that he'd taken away from this world in his mad quest. He murmured one last prayer and goodbye for his friend and then resolutely forced himself to leave the overlook.
This temple was so remote and so defensible that he found himself having to retrace his steps through the corridors to even find a way off this mountaintop. He would have to go back the way he'd come to even get out of here. The stink of demons infested this place. They had tainted and stained this once peaceful and holy monastery. He wished he had time to send for help to get someone to at least rid the place of the near-frozen demon corpses and lay the dead monks to rest somewhere. He was fairly certain, given what little he knew of them, that they had a cemetery of sorts somewhere nearby. However, even some monks preferred cremation. He paused in one corridor where there was nothing but monk corpses. Briefly the thought crossed his mind to just purify this place. Burn it all. Then there would be no corpses to worry about.
He just couldn't bring himself to do it.
He needed to conserve his energy for the chase and fight ahead, he knew. Yet, mostly, it was Oza. She had loved this place, called it her home. She believed in it and loved it with all her heart. He couldn't bring himself to destroy something she had cherished. As he knew would be expected of him, he said his prayers for the dead and checked for anyone still lingering. Monks knew how to find peace and rarely hung around. Their bodies were incredible tools that they dug deep inside themselves to perfect, but they were just bodies. In the end, they knew when to let go. And they believed in reincarnation, so they really had no reason to stay anyway. He found no restless spirits here as he finally made his way through the final archway where he'd met up with Oza when he arrived.
He looked around at the mountains in every direction. Yes, there was natural beauty here, and peace. He hoped one day someone would return to make it alive again. He took in the view of the Misty Valley below and its black miasma of fog. It suited his mood right now. And he would have to cross it to get to the western road that eventually led north up to the Frozen Tundra. Now, he finally felt the real stirrings of the kind of anger that gave him the strength to keep going. He would slash and cut and burn his way through the nightmares in that mist to get to where he knew Dravec to be. In fact, he needed to kill something evil now. For one brief moment, he thought he felt Oza's warm spirit pushing him onward. He knew it was just a fancy and shook it off as he walked down the stairs.
He would not fail her.
Chapter 12: 11 Frozen Tundra
Chapter Text
Frozen Tundra
It was well after nightfall when Pyresong finally found the northern road out of the Misty Valley. Already the wind howled around him as he exited the magical black mist of the cursed place. It didn't take him long to find the tracks as near-frozen mud gave way to snow. One man's footprints in the snow; no demons or other followers since the last snow. They had to be Dravec's. He almost thought he saw the faintest traces of the shard's evil taint in those footprints. But he shook himself and focused again. Yes, Dravec could sense him coming. And, with that power, he could easily stay ahead of him. Worse was the idea that he might set an ambush.
In the darkness, he was wary of an attack. The already-chill winds of the mountains he'd come from now bit at every exposed inch of skin. He wasn't certain about the weather up here, but there was not even so much as starlight to guide him right now. Likely, the winds preceded a coming snowstorm. Long before sunrise, he spotted a hollow in a sheltered area along a rock wall where many campers had likely spent the night over the generations. Part of him wanted to rush ahead and beat the potential storm so he didn't lose Dravec's trail. But he also knew the increasingly bitter cold was wearing at him. And he hadn't eaten since hours before he left the temple. He had no idea how many days it would take to even reach the main Frozen Tundra. Right now, he was, at best, on a road used by traders and merchants and still likely a day behind his target.
Knowing he would need all his strength, he gave in to the demands of his body and set up a small camp. Reluctant as he was to draw attention to himself, he knew he was in real danger of dying from exposure to the cold. He had no choice but to light a fire that warmed the hollow and his body. Even it could do nothing for the now cold ball of anger in his stomach. Still, he forced himself to eat. Having had hours to think and let his body guide him to this road, he'd told himself over and over again that the pain would pass. And he knew it would. But, for now, he would use it. He condensed every bit of grief and raging injustice into a tight ball in the pit of his stomach and gripped it tightly. He summoned a skeletal warrior to guard him as he slept as close to the fire as he dared.
***
It was shortly after sunrise when he woke. As he'd expected, there had been a fresh snowfall beyond the hollow. But it was light, and the wind had died down, taking some of the sting out of the journey. Despite the occasional patches of ice on the road, he spent most of his time jogging. Dravec was more likely to walk. And, without a mount, jogging at a steady pace for hours at a time was the best he could do to try to catch up to his quarry. Another day of following the road came and went. On the second day in the snowy wilderness, he'd lost Dravec's trail. He hated it, but he knew it was inevitable. He still believed the exiled monk could not be more than a day ahead. He'd made good progress despite the snow and ice. But monks had their own unique powers and ways of adjusting to conditions that could easily outpace him. All he could do was keep going.
He alternated between jogging, which he could keep up for hours at a time, and walking he knew he could sustain for a day or more. He rose before the sun and stopped only when it was too dangerously dark to keep going. He pushed himself relentlessly, unable and unwilling to let Dravec get even a minute farther ahead of him. He almost wished he could sense the shard now to guide him. As sickening as it would feel, at least he would know something.
The morning of the fifth day, he finally found signs of human settlement. Ancient as some of the ruined structures were, he could see in other places more recent changes. A tree cut down not too long ago, for one. And he found some fresh footprints in the snow. They were far too large and deep to be Dravec's, but he followed them for a bit anyway. Up ahead, he found a traditionally garbed Barbarian man gathering up dried and fallen wood. There was no sign of anyone else nearby as he approached. He hoped this warrior lived in the area and might have seen Dravec or signs of him passing through.
The Barbarian acknowledged him with a nod but didn't stop gathering twigs and branches in his large arms. Of course, Pyresong was accustomed to much worse greetings. Out here, at least, Priests of Rathma weren't immediately turned away. The unforgiving land consumed many lives, and Barbarians were not heartless people. They just didn't expect anyone other than themselves to be strong enough to survive this place. The hardiness of such a place was bred into them. Anyone else was too weak to survive without shelter. And the Barbarians were often willing to share theirs until they could convince the outsider to leave. They didn't even care if the outsider was a Priest of Rathma. They were all too weak to survive for long.
"These frozen wastes extend no welcome to visitors. You'd be better off heading back to where you came from. Arreat belongs to the damned and the dying," the man told him coldly.
A warmer welcome than I expected, he couldn't help thinking dryly.
"I seek a traitor to the monk order: a man in black and yellow robes who consorts with demons. He came to this tundra for a dark purpose, and I'm not leaving until he has paid for his crimes," he explained, levelly.
The man chuckled darkly. "A man like that would stand out like a pear tree in the snow. If he has thrown in his lot with the demons, your quarry likely hides in Sescheron...along with the rest of the hellish monsters plaguing this land."
He ransacked his memories of the maps he'd acquired over the years. Everyone knew about Sescheron, the last holdout of Barbarians that was corrupted and destroyed by Baal and his minions only a few years ago. But he'd never been there. At best, he could place it somewhere to the northeast of his current location. And that was a big maybe. He'd have to see if the maps in his pack could help later. He had no intention of stopping right now for anything. Some subtle sense was telling him he was close. He nodded to the man, eager to get moving, but the Barbarian wasn't finished. If anything, his expression seemed challenging as he rose to his feet, glowering darkly, though Pyresong couldn't figure out why. The answer came a few seconds later.
"The veil between life and death has been torn open in those ruins. Our ancestors' spirits haunt the once-hallowed halls, fighting an endless war. I should warn you to stay away, but I can see the words would be wasted."
"What do you mean?" he asked, not understanding.
The man snorted. "If you're going after the monk into those ruins, you'll see for yourself, Priest."
He didn't like the sound of that at all. And the challenging glare he'd received somehow felt tied to that creeping feeling. If anything, the man's words sounded accusatory. It just didn't make sense right now. But he had no choice. He would follow Dravec anywhere and see him pay for Oza's death at any cost.
"Thank you for the information."
"If you grow tired, the village of Bitter Hearth is to the west of here. They will welcome you. It is small, but there is fire to warm your limbs."
Clearly dismissed, he turned to follow the well-worn path he'd seen up to the northeast. Here and there, he felt the presence of demons, Fallen mostly. He was thankful that he'd not yet encountered any as he jogged along the path. He knew he was likely still almost a day behind Dravec, if not more. He didn't really expect to find any fresh tracks in the recent snow. When the crumbling, ice and snow-covered walls and battlements of Sescheron came into view only a few hours later, he did find some. They were much smaller than most Barbarians, but definitely boots. They were unlikely to be Dravec's, either. Yet they had his curiosity piqued. Who would even come to this place?
A little further ahead, he spotted a crumbling stone bridge. Much of it was still intact, but didn't look at all stable. Despite that, a Barbarian woman was walking along carrying a spear as if she'd been here before. He wasn't far behind her when he saw a spirit materialize in front of her. She paused, not even noticing him coming up to the bridge behind her.
"Your spirit is...fading? By the Ancients..." she said, clearly surprised.
Just as he set foot on the icy bridge to follow in her footsteps, the Barbarian ghost replied to her. He glanced over her shoulder to the necromancer coming up behind her. Pyresong got the distinct impression the ghost was speaking to him more so than her, at first. Before he could figure it out, it became a clear warning.
"There is no peace in death. The demons are coming," it warned in its echoing voice.
Just beside the woman, the ghost of a demon assault trooper appeared.
"Watch out!" he called out a warning reflexively, startling her.
Falling into a flat run, he skidded slightly on the ice. He sent his skeletal minions ahead. Just a few feet away from her on the other side, he caught sight of three more demon ghosts materializing. He had no idea what would happen next, and ghosts typically couldn't do much damage. Yet, something about this felt all wrong. His instincts were screaming warnings at him now. He'd been all over the world and spent his entire life studying death and the dead. He had never once heard of a demon ghost. When they died, demons returned to Hell. Even as he thought this, his skeletons were physically thrown off the bridge when the demons took on solid form. With a vile expletive of surprise, he fell in beside the woman while she used her spear skillfully to kill one and then knock another off the bridge. He did much the same with a swipe of his empowered scythe. The dead demons evaporated. The area clear again, and he stood there, not just puzzled but nearly overwhelmed by what he could now feel and see in this place.
"Well fought, stranger," she told him, eyeing him curiously. "What brings you to these forsaken halls?"
Not really sure what was going on, Pyresong shifted his vision from normal to magic to his necromancy-attuned vision that he would use to see and commune with spirits. There were shades, outlines, and spirits everywhere around them. Screams of agony, battle cries, roaring and grunting of demons. It was all a jumbled mess. For several seconds, Pyresong felt as if he were on an active battlefield. There were no others as clearly defined as the Barbarian man had been, and certainly not as strong as the demons manifesting physically. This place was literally filled with souls, hundreds, maybe thousands just in the small area they were in. He struggled for a moment to focus on her instead of the screaming and shifting of invisible bodies all around him.
"I...I am on the hunt for a traitor," he finally said, shaking off the overwhelming sights and sounds coming from the dead all around him. "One of your tribesmen spoke of the spirits haunting this place, but I did not expect this kind of chaos. The dead do not rest here?"
"It was not always so. This is the price of the Worldstone's destruction," she explained sadly. "My people cannot move on. They fight without end...without hope of redemption."
Pyresong was horrified. He had thought perhaps the man's comment was a bitter exaggeration or something altogether different. But the proof was all around him. He could still hear the ghostly echoes of the dead fighting the dead in the walls beyond. Human and demonic screams and the clashing of weapons was a cacophony he could not entirely tune out. How could this have happened? How did the Priests of Rathma not know about this? There had to be a way to free these people and destroy the demons. Fate could be cruel sometimes, he knew all too well. But this? Literal hell for the dead without actually being in Hell. This was not right. It offended and horrified him on a fundamental level. He knew if he couldn't find a solution, and soon, to help these spirits, he would send to the others for help.
"What a terrible fate. It pains me to hear that," he told her sincerely. "I will do what I can and send for help. This should not be. Did no one send for us?"
"Thank you for your compassion. My name is Navair. And...I don't know, but I doubt it. We've had enough problems of our own with the living and struggling to survive in this broken land. The dead...have not been forgotten. That's why I'm here."
"Master Pyresong. I seek a traitor to the monk order. He hides in these ruins. And neither demons nor ghosts will prevent me from reaching him."
"Then we have similar aims. Death leaks into the world from the heart of Sescheron. My people are broken, and our ancestors suffer. I will see it end. Help me break through the demon army, and I will aid you however I can," she readily agreed.
He nodded, grateful for her help. If what he'd seen a few minutes ago was any indication of the rest of this place, the human ghosts were still battling the demons, but the demons could clearly cross back into the physical realm. If the battle from years ago were still playing out, he would likely need her help.
The icy ball of rage in his gut twisted painfully into heartfelt compassion as she led him into the fortress. All around them, Barbarian ghosts were battling demons of every variety. Baal's minions had been countless. He would watch as the demons overwhelmed the Barbarian ghosts, slaughtering them and hearing their agonized screams. And then the human ghost would fade, only to reappear again moments later. The demon ghosts attacked again. And it just started over and over. He struggled to even hold on to the anger anymore. He wasn't sure how much of this Navair could actually see. But if she'd attuned herself to this place and its warped energies, she could likely see it all as clearly as he did. He prayed she couldn't. The constant battles and screams of the dying mixed with demonic laughter and cries of rage overlapped and echoed each other. His necromancer-trained senses were
nearly overwhelmed. His heart felt like it was freezing in his chest. Part of him literally could not believe such a thing had been allowed to happen. Yet, here he was, walking through it with this brave and proud warrior woman.
He would not allow himself to be distracted, though. Not now. Not when he was this close. He needed to find Dravec and stop whatever he was trying to do. When he'd accomplished that, he would find a way to give these warriors peace at last; end this horrific nightmare. In the meantime...
He had to shut out his trained senses. The only thing that actually mattered were the few demons that actually noticed them and somehow materialized physically. Because of all the battles going on around them, most didn't even notice the two of them. And the few that did, he was more than ready to give vent to his frustration and sickening horror though his scythe. He was trembling slightly with barely contained emotions by the time they crossed the main fortress to some place near the back of the complex.
"The breach into the realm of death is somewhere ahead. Tread carefully," she warned as they approached what had once been a set of giant wooden doors.
He was so preoccupied with killing the few demons that saw them and shutting out the thousands of ghostly sounds that he'd almost missed it. He wasn't just shaking with cold anger but dread. Somewhere ahead of them was the shard, and, he was sure, Dravec. It was a huge, great hall, shrouded in darkness. Some of the pillars on either side were crumbled to pieces, but most still stood. Still, there were dozens of battles going on all around them. In the darkness at the far end of the hall, he felt it keenly. Tuning his eyes to the magical spectrum once more, he could see the evil red glow of Dravec and the shard standing before a huge stone throne. Before he even realized what he was doing, he shoved Navair aside and began a silent run at his target. Scythe already glowing, he channeled all of his pain and rage into it as well.
"Let the shard open the path unto death!" Dravec screamed, holding the shard above himself.
Pyresong swung at Dravec with the empowered scythe a heartbeat later. But he was already too late. Dravec was now as ethereal as the ghosts all around them. The blade of energy he had flung went right through the damned man leaving a clean line in the stones beyond. He all but screamed in frustration while Dravec's ghost laughed at him. Whatever he'd done with the shard, he was untouchable physically. The necromancer very nearly fled his own body to chase him, to get at him. He didn't even care how exposed it left his body. Then, another idea came to mind.
He was just about to go wraith form to try to get at the monk when Navair's battle cry behind him made him hesitate for just a second. He turned back to her just in time to see her take out another demon. By the time he turned back to Dravec, the monk had another ghostly body in his arms, still laughing mockingly at him. Torn between the two targets, he gave in to the rage and went wraith form. To his absolute shock, he was stopped by a powerful ghost that materialized beside him, shoving him aside as if not even seeing him. The unexpected encounter shocked him so completely that he returned to physical form, slamming to the floor.
“You defile the sacred mountain no longer!" the Barbarian ghost cried angrily at Dravec.
The ghost of the monk commanded the ghosts of several demons about him to attack. The Barbarian was quickly overwhelmed. Pyresong rolled back to his feet to go after Dravec again.
"Insolent savages! Your spirits will be purged soon enough!" Dravec laughed
Pyresong snarled a filthy obscenity as several of the demons began to materialize physically around him as well. Unleashing blades of energy on the physical bodies of the demons, he adjusted his aim carefully to avoid hitting Navair when she jumped in to help. Out of the corner of his eyes, he was surprised to see Dravec waiting for him. When the last demon's body fell, he was again ready to go into wraith form. Some of the element of surprise may have been lost, but he wasn't about to give up any opportunity to kill the man.
"So you chose to follow me across the mountains after all," Dravec drawled in clear amusement.
"I am here for that shard...and your life," he replied icily.
Already his skin tingled almost painfully beneath his armor. He had never tried to really use his scythe in wraith form before. Usually, it was a tactic to get away from or right through physical things. At this point, he didn't care. If the scythe didn't work, he would cheerfully rip the man apart with his own ghostly hands a few seconds at a time.
"And yet you will get neither, for we are beyond your reach! Go—"
Pyresong sprung at him in wraith form, scythe blade first, catching the madman off his guard. Yet, a lifetime of monk training had served him well here. He was not only able to jump back out of the way but also to use the power of the shard to slam him backward. Somehow, the blast even disabled the wraith form spell. He flew through the air in his physical body and again slammed to the floor. His head bounced off the stones with an explosion of pain. Seeing stars and thoroughly stunned, he fought to stay conscious.
"Go home! Pray to your impotent gods while you still can. The path to Hell will open, and my brother will return to me. That is all that matters!"
Even as Navair was helping him back to his unsteady feet, he watched the ghost Dravec still carrying the ghostly body of his dead brother fade away through the wall. He ground his teeth in anger and frustration, shaking off the dizziness. Silently, he swore vile oaths as the monk. He knew it had been a long shot. Wraith form never lasted more than a few seconds anyway. Nowhere near long enough for a prolonged battle. And Dravec had just shown him it was practically useless against him and the power of the shard. There had to be a way!
"You are of the flesh?"
The ghost of the Barbarian man who had stopped him earlier now sat on the floor in the same place he had been cut down only seconds before. It was as if he only now realized the spirit he'd slammed into earlier was still attached to something. He silently shoved aside his frustration...for now.
"Yes," he replied as Navair knelt down to help the fallen warrior. "We are."
The Barbarian looked up at him, both hopeful and defeated.
"We have fought for so long. There is no peace, no rest. The demons make sure of that. Is this our eternal fate, Priest of Rathma? Suffering for failing at our sacred duty to protect the Worldstone?"
His anger and frustration evaporated. He couldn't stop the pity he felt for these people from rising to the fore. He could imagine no worse fate than this, other than Hell itself. The sheer injustice of this whole situation made him feel sick. This was all wrong. And he didn't know how to fix it. He knelt beside Navair so he would not be looking down at the proud warrior.
"I don't have the answers you seek," he told the man honestly, "but I will not let this continue. I will send word to others. I will get you all help. I'm sorry. We did not know."
At least, he hoped that was the truth. His order was made up of people from all walks of life who mostly worked independently. But the suffering of the dead warriors here was not something he could imagine any Priest of Rathma just blatantly ignoring. He knew he was far more compassionate than most of his brethren. Even aside from compassion, the Balance between Life and Death in this place wasn't just broken; it was practically obliterated. He was afraid to think of what would happen to anyone that would die in this place, even now. Likely, they too would be trapped here with the others. He could only imagine what the Unformed Land in this area looked like. Something had to be done. But right now, he had other priorities. The Barbarian nodded, sadly, as if he'd heard that before and didn't really believe what he was being told.
"Listen, those demons we just fought serve a man named Dravec, the one you saw. He entered your realm with a shard of the Worldstone. I must stop him. How can I follow?"
"Besides the obvious, you mean?" the Barbarian asked dryly.
He couldn't help a flicker of a grin at the man's tone. At least he wasn't entirely beaten down. He sighed with disappointment as the warrior shook his head and continued.
"Only the dead may walk these lands. You of all people should know that."
He nodded. He scoured his memories. His last trip to the realm of the dead had been facilitated by a portal made with profane necromantic rites and another Worldstone shard. Yet, he refused to give up. This would not end here. He would keep his promise to Oza.
"What about the voice?" Navair asked.
The Barbarian nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, there is a voice we hear...a woman upon the mountain who is not born of Bul-Kathos. Her presence crosses over. It's like a beacon to the weary. But that is all I know."
Navair repeated, her voice distant. "Not a child of Bul-Kathos..." She turned to Pyresong, "There is a pilgrim, a witch, in Bitter Hearth. She was meeting with our chief, last I heard. I don't know what it was about, but maybe we can still catch her. Maybe she knows something."
He considered for a moment. Given what little he'd learned of witches over the years, they did tend to have a strong connection to spirits and the realm of the dead in which they typically resided. More often than not, the ones they communed with were earthbound spirits. Still... Briefly, a memory of his encounter with one that had healed his eyes spun through his head. He was not particularly keen on the idea of working with another witch. Though, he had no other options, really. It was worth at least looking into before he had to go all the way back to Westmarch and have Cain do more digging. He nodded, slowly. The Barbarian struggled to his feet. Navair seemed frustrated by her inability to help even with such a simple thing
"Then let the last of my strength ferry you away from here," the ghost told them. "I ask only one thing: save us from this torment."
"I will do all that is in my power, I swear it," Pyresong swore, bowing low with his hand over his heart in a traditional oath offering.
The ghost motioned to a place a few feet behind them, and a portal opened. With his magical sight and his own abilities, he could tell it was real in a physical sense. Though he was surprised that an earthbound spirit could still do this, he was happy to note that it might give him some options as well. But, for now, he needed answers that he wasn't going to get here.
"A portal?" Navair said in clear surprise. "Thank you, warrior. We will not forget this kindness."
The ghost turned to her. "From you, I ask only that you keep living as the sons and daughters of Bul-Kathos have for generations. Keep our people and our traditions alive."
"I will, I promise."
Navair led the way through the portal, and Pyresong was only a step behind. He found them standing on a waypoint platform on the edge of a small village. Clearly, they were still on the Frozen Tundra. He wondered briefly if this was the village the other Barbarian had mentioned. Here and there, dozens of people went about their lives in the frigid climate, paying almost no attention to them or their arrival.
"We need to speak with the Chieftain as soon as possible," Navair told him. "This way."
He nodded, shaking off the chill that had assaulted him at being back out in the wind. Only now did he begin to realize he was definitely feeling the cold. He could only guess that his earlier emotional state had led him to ignore it, possibly to his detriment. It crossed his mind that he would need to find warmer clothing if he stayed here much longer. For right now, he just got an overview of the village and what may be shops housed in some of the small wooden buildings. Navair walked right up to a near giant of a man standing near a fire blazing in the center of the village. Clearly, it held some kind of significance for them that he could not discern at a glance. Otherwise a blaze burning brightly in the middle of the village made no sense and wasted much fuel.
"Chief Kientarc, is Tassi here?" Navair asked. "I have someone that wishes to meet her."
He bowed respectfully, priest to chieftain. The Barbarian Chieftain eyed the necromancer in open curiosity as he returned the bow.
"Tassi? The witch? What is the matter?" he asked, once the formality was observed.
He was reluctant to spread the news of the shards. But if there was any people he could trust at the moment, it was these tribesmen that had suffered so much with the corruption and destruction of the Worldstone itself; and the clear aftermath. He needed all the help he could get. And, in his mind, it wasn't even a gamble this time. These people would likely do anything to redeem themselves for what they saw as their failure at Baal's hands.
"Master Pyresong," he introduced. "A shard of the Worldstone has returned to Arreat. The man who carries it intends to deliver the shard to a demon lord named Skarn. Now he has taken refuge in the realm of the dead, and I am powerless to stop him."
Kientarc's eyes widened in horror. "By the Ancients! Our people bled, and our mountain was shattered to prevent the Heart of the World from falling into a demon lord's hand. What you speak of cannot be allowed!"
And here I thought I'd just go home and... he thought, his weariness making him snappish.
"Yet, I cannot stop him if I cannot cross into the realm of death," he replied, shoving his irritation into a deep dark hole.
"Navair, take our guest here to Tassi. Her tent is on the other side, on the outskirts of the village. Let us all pray she has answers."
Pyresong nodded his thanks and acknowledgment of the spoken welcome he'd just been given in their village. The Barbarian Chieftain nodded back solemnly. A few minutes' walk across the village and around behind some more wooden cottages, they spotted the rather large and elaborate tent that had been erected recently enough not to have much snow or ice on it. In front of a roaring fire with a cauldron hanging over it, knelt a woman covered in a white and black cape made with feathers. Her unusually dark skin and white face paint clearly marked her as a foreigner. If he had to guess, likely from Hawezar. Her accent confirmed it shortly after.
"Excuse the urgency," he said when she glanced up at him and then turned her attention back to the fire without a word, "but I am in need of your help. You are a witch and commune with spirits, I've been told."
Navair stood a couple of feet away, looking the woman over curiously.
"I am. And what could a Priest of Rathma need from a witch?" she asked in clear amusement.
"My enemy has crossed over into a realm beyond ours, where only spirits may tread. I am told you may know of a way I can follow after him, physically."
The surprise on the witch's face was complete as she stood to face him. Her nearly black eyes bored into him as if examining his sanity. Pyresong kept his expression with its default mask of serenity. He had to admit, a part of him was still very much wary of witches. Their intent could not be easily understood. That much he had learned first hand some years ago. He was not surprised in the least when he felt something tingle across his mental shields, probing gently. When thoroughly blocked, she seemed to back down quickly enough.
"Only spirits?" she finally said, still clearly amused. "You speak of the Unformed Land. I'm sorry, but I'm no witch doctor. I am one of sword and shield, not one who guides others between Life and Death. To even try such a thing would put your soul at risk."
"I've been there physically before, so I know it can be done," he told her, making her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "My previous...door is long since sealed. I need another way. I must reclaim the Worldstone shard that has been taken. The man will deliver it to a demon lord. Risk be damned."
"Your words may be truer than you know," Tassi warned him softly.
Seeing to much as a flicker in his expression, she apparently gave up on testing his sanity and whatever else. Her amused smile returned. Already on edge, Pyresong could already sense there was more going on here with this woman. His suspicions were again confirmed accurate a few seconds later.
"Here I was, sent on a pilgrimage, but unable to fulfill my purpose. Then, the spirits send a priest, who needs the very object I seek without even knowing it. Very well, let us both embrace our destinies."
He didn't like the sound of that. But if there was any hope at all, he had to chase it. Going back to Westmarch right now was not an option. Dravec would be long gone and the shard in Skarn's hands by the time he got back, even with Cain's help and the nearby waypoint. It would take too long; and that was even if Cain had anything in his extensive library that could be of help to him. A growing dread and sense of urgency pushed him. He was close; he knew it. He kept silent while Tassi stared at him for a moment longer. This time, he felt a light touch upon his arcane senses and shields. Again he blocked her without so much as a flicker in his expression. She was probing but not outright testing him...yet. He got the feeling she was contemplating him and his capabilities, measuring him. She finally nodded as if coming to a decision.
"Not far from here is the Cavern of Echoes. Buried within its unnatural ice is one of the Seven Stones: The Iceburn Tear. Acquire it and bring it to me. With its power, Death's fangs may lose some of their bite."
"I know of this place," Navair spoke up helpfully.
He nodded to Navair's comment but never took his eyes off Tassi. If she was the kind of witch he suspected, she would understand his next move. He stepped back a pace and bowed to her, priest to high priestess. Reflexively, she returned the bow, high priestess to priest. Yes, it was as he suspected; she was much, much more than the simple witch pilgrim she portrayed to the tribe. Confused, Navair watched them while Tassi returned to her work with the fire and cauldron. Suspicions confirmed, it was now up to him to fulfill his part before she could fulfill hers. He would keep Tassi's secret...for now. Yet now he knew, Tassi would keep her word or die trying before she would betray a verbal agreement to a fellow priest. He walked back toward the wooden buildings with Navair in tow. When they were back near the village center, he turned back to her.
"Do you have a map, or can you guide me to this Cavern of Echoes?"
Navair shook her head, her short blond hair bobbing around her shoulders. "It is demon-infested territory; none of the tribe will go there. Even before the fall of Sescheron, it was overrun with demons centuries ago. Those who have ventured into the cave never return. Most think the Iceburn Tear is a myth and it is demons that have taken our people."
"I must go," he insisted gently. "If you cannot guide me, do you have a map?"
She shook her head sadly, as if already knowing he was a dead man walking. "Follow the road southeast out of Bitter Hearth. Look for a frozen lake to the north. When you find the lake, there will be a cave on the north end of the lake. There are many ice demons and behemoths on the way there, but none have returned from the Cavern of Echoes to tell what lies within."
"I understand," he assured her, keeping his expression serene.
After all, it wouldn't be the first time he'd taken on what felt like a suicide mission. At least now he was fueled by his anger. Above all, he would see Dravec pay, whatever the cost to himself.
"Friend, I will speak with the Chieftain while you are gone. After what we saw, I cannot let you assault Sescheron alone. When you are ready, I hope my tribe will be fighting beside you."
He couldn't help smiling at her resilience. Only a moment ago, she'd thought him a dead man walking. Now she wanted to rally her people to fight with him.
"Good luck with your talk, Navair. I will return with the Iceburn Tear shortly," he promised.
The Barbarian woman did not quite believe him, or so her dark blue eyes told him. Still, she seemed sincere in her desire to do what she could. He quickly left through the eastern gates to find it little more than a broken path. Where once it had likely been a well-used road, now it was taken over by wild and twisted creatures. Already late into the afternoon, he wasn't surprised to realize he was considerably worn down. He'd survived the cold for only a few days on what little rations he had, and he'd been pushing himself well beyond his normal pace. In his desperation to keep up with Dravec, he'd burned much. He had conserved as much of his personal and spiritual energy as he could. At least he had that in his favor.
It didn't take him long to understand why the Barbarian tribes didn't come this way. Glacial monstrosities, feral yetis, wendigos, and other even more unpleasant things roamed the land. There were clear signs of this having been human-inhabited territory once in the form of crumbling stone buildings and roads. Obviously, it had been abandoned for many years, even before Baal's assault. Layers of ice, some of it even created by the monsters themselves, blanketed everything. Occasionally, he found small forests of ice spikes so large and tall that they almost served as walls.
He dismissed his skeletons almost from the beginning, knowing their limited effectiveness would not help him here. Molten golems seemed to be the only really effective option. Even just two of them was a bit too much of a stretch. Much as it chafed, he kept it to only one. At least he was able to enhance the power to summon and sustain them by drawing on his own abilities with fire. Most of the creatures ran as soon as they came anywhere near the golem, frightened and weakened by the heat they generated around themselves. Others tried attacking him directly, only to meet the blade of his scythe. Some tried to throw giant balls of snow and ice he was easily able to dodge. He returned fire with bone spears and occasional fans of flames.
By the time he found the frozen lake some hours later, the sun was already low in the west. He was exhausted, and he knew it. Even without the hours of physical exertion, the cold ate away at him. It drained him in a way that was ironically similar to the heat of the Shassar Sea, only worse. The cold bit at him and made his body ache. While he paused to consider his options, he realized that he had not yet sensed or seen a single demon. Everything had been twisted, creatures made from magic gone wild at some point in the past. He knew his options for rest and shelter were few. There was no way he could keep a summoned golem to watch over him. It would drain him more than the food and sleep would regenerate. Somehow, he had to find a way to get at least a few hours of rest.
Moving off the path a little to the south and east of the lake, he found an ice-covered rock wall with what appeared to be sporadic holes in the ice. When he moved closer, he could make out many carvings all up and down the rock wall to either side. Inspecting one of the holes in the ice more closely, he realized there were small caves carved into the wall. Most of the entrance to this one had been covered with ice. He sent a flow of energy into his scythe to make it glow while he inched toward the small opening cautiously. The ice around the opening caught and refracted the whitish green light in a way that made him pause to admire the beauty for a moment. His wandering thoughts warned him he was nearing exhausted now. He forced himself to focus as he illuminated the interior just enough to see that it was mostly rock, with very little ice and several bones.
Crypts, he realized.
He stood back to get a better look at the wall overall. There were dozens of these holes going all the way up as far as he could see and in both directions. This had been the resting place of many Barbarians over the centuries. He turned his attention back to the one right in front of him.
Eyeing the flickering shadows beyond, he began to make out carved symbols in the rock. It was beyond ancient, he could feel. A flicker of his trained necromantic senses confirmed that no lingering or restless spirits remained here in this one. The multiple warriors had been interred with full honors and had likely died a warrior's death. Reluctant as he was to disturb the bones, it was at least a safe place to rest out of the constant biting wind. But the wall of ice across most of the entrance made it almost impossible to get in. Still alert for an attack, he let his waning molten golem stand guard behind him. If he took off his backpack, shield, and scythe, he might just fit through the narrow hole in the ice. He sent his shield and backpack in first. Then, he used the scythe to carve away just a bit more ice. Still gripping his scythe, he pushed it in ahead of himself and then exhaled. He just barely managed to slither through by gripping some rocks further in and pulling.
The small, dark space immediately made him claustrophobic, but he pushed it aside. There was no way he was going to be able to cross the lake and take on whatever demons were in the Cavern of Echoes in his condition right now. Already, Navair had indicated it was a suicide mission. He needed to rest and regenerate as much as he could. He dismissed his molten golem still standing guard beyond the entrance. The loss of its light plunged the small space into complete darkness. The unsettlingly familiar sensations conjured up images of a cold, black abyss he somehow knew existed somewhere beyond just his childhood nightmares. These vague memories were gnawing at him already when the complete darkness of the space slammed down on his visual senses. He again sent a trickle of energy into his scythe blade to make it glow softly. His relief was instant. But now he was sitting on cold stone. He began to shiver violently. He knew if he slept now, he would not wake, at least, not within his own body. There was no good vent for a fire, either. The smoke was just as likely to kill him.
Tired and frustrated, he turned to one of the stones nearby. In colder climates, it was not uncommon to take stones from a fire pit to warm a tent. He had never tried warming anything with his innate ability with fire before. For that matter, he had never done any real experimenting since the days when his master deemed him controlled enough not to be a threat with it. He had never bothered to take any kind of training from any fire masters or pyromancers either. What he could or could not do was still mostly a mystery to him. He had no real idea if he could warm the rock without actual flames, but he was about to find out.
He closed his eyes to feel the power of his fire and willed it through his hands and into a couple of larger stones. He felt it flowing, but it seemed nothing was happening. After several minutes in which he felt more drained by the second, he gave up. Tiredly, he considered just blasting them with flames until they warmed, but that would take too much energy and likely burn up what little air there was in this small space. Frustrated, he stopped the flow of energy and sat back. That was when a cold drop of water fell on his cheek. Startled, he looked up at the ceiling only a few inches above his head. It glistened with water now. The thin layer of ice that clung to it was receding right above him.
It is warmer in here! he thought excitedly.
The stones he'd sent his energy into didn't feel any warmer to him, but the heat was obviously there. He had no idea what to make of this, and he was just too tired to care. He repeated the process with a few other rocks and even the solid stone wall behind him. Soon, it was easily warm enough to be survivable, but little more. As the ice clinging to the walls and floor all around him melted, it wasn't long before the small space felt like a sodden mess. He quickly wrapped himself in blankets and then an oilskin over top of that to keep out the rest. Warm enough now to no longer shiver, he pulled out some of his now skimpy food rations. He really should have restocked while he was in the village. He had learned over the weeks that his backpack did somehow keep the objects inside in some form of stasis he couldn't really understand. Even cheese and trail biscuits that had been in there for weeks were without mold.
As he chewed the tasteless food, he also realized the acute ache of Oza's loss had lessened somewhat. He was no less resolved to get Dravec, but at least he didn't feel the tears burning his eyes when he thought of her. He still desperately wished he had time to talk to Cain; and not just about these Seven Stones and this Iceburn Tear. A part of him desperately needed Cain's calm compassion and insight. Now, he could use the elderly scholar's vast knowledge, too. He really had no idea what he was walking into other than a den of demons. But he well knew that any time lost now was just another hour Dravec had to complete his plan and then deliver the shard to Skarn.
Skarn...he thought with a mental snarl of hate.
Much as he blamed Dravec for Oza's death, all of this ultimately led to Skarn. It had begun with the demon lord in Wortham. And now he was here, still chasing that demon. Above all, he wanted Skarn now. So many deaths, so much misery, so much suffering were Skarn's doing. And now he had been inflicted with some kind of connection to the shards. He could sense them, and they could sense him. He was still disturbed by this, but it had served him, too. Right now, he couldn't sense the shard because it had crossed into another realm entirely that was currently out of reach to him. But he would, he knew. The idea still made his skin crawl. Yet it also prodded deeply at the now cold rage he felt deep inside. He harnessed that rage. It was his to control. He would keep it carefully and use it when he met Skarn.
And now he knew it would happen. He would find a way to hunt down and end the demon lord's threat. Rathma's warnings had not been wrong. But there were still his own choices to make. Putting aside his rage, he very nearly reached for that journal. He hadn't touched it in years. Much of the details he had forgotten over time, willingly. Yet there was one thing he would never forget. A twisted mass of overlapping memories and dreams skittered across his tired mind.
An unexpected yawn interrupted his thoughts, and he knew he was getting ahead of himself. At present, with the sun setting in the world beyond this little cave, he needed sleep. He knew the space was far too small to summon a skeletal guardian to watch over his rest. And the hole to get in had been almost too small even for his thin frame. Likely, he would hear anything trying to get in well before it became a real threat. He sent a flood of fire power from his hands into the walls and stones one more time and then set his scythe beside him within easy reach.
His last thought before sleep took him was how much he missed Oza curled up beside him...and how much he wished it was Kashya.
***
Hours later, he woke with a start. The thing that hunted him, stalked him, in his dreams had been waiting for him. Though he didn't always remember his dreams in their entirety, these were too vivid to forget a single moment. After moving from dream to dream with the thing always following him, it had ended the same once again. Paralyzed with fear, he'd stood perfectly still in a shadow, hiding from it. But then there was no more wall. His cover had evaporated to nothing more than shadows, leaving his back exposed. It laughed, sending a cold chill down his neck. When he finally found the strength to confront it, he woke as he spun around.
Even though he slept so lightly as to know it was nothing more than a dream, it still frustrated him. The sense of being hunted had only increased in recent weeks. And the sense that this was more than just the mind's way of dealing with things while he slept seemed less and less likely. He typically didn't have repetitive dreams more than a handful of times. They always changed, even if only some elements remained the same. Alyssa had haunted him for months, but often, it wasn't even in Blackstone. Sometimes, she was murdered right in the heart of Westmarch. Once, even in Cain's own workshop. Worse was the realization that he was the one being stalked, and that infuriated him. He was the hunter. He hunted the shards and the demon lord, and the cultists. Why could he not shake off the feeling that he was the one being hunted now?
Aching with the cold and shivering again now that the heat had dissipated, he reached out with one hand to warm another stone. He was relieved to feel he'd regained most of his energy and strength, but the cold still felt like it was sapping his body. It was still full dark beyond the ice wall at the cave entrance, and he was not particularly inclined to traverse the darkness beyond. He still had to cross the frozen lake with more of those twisted creatures. And then he would deal with whatever was in this Cavern of Echoes.
After a while, the heat finally began to seep in to replace some of the aching cold. He began to wonder how long it would take to adjust to this frozen land. He knew he could adapt to almost any climate. It just seemed to take such a frustratingly long time. And, right now, time was something he didn't have. Dravec was getting further ahead of him by the second.
If it's not already too late.
He shoved that thought aside as fast as it formed. Once he'd stopped shivering, he took inventory of what he still had in his backpack. He had no warmer clothing like coats or even a cloak. And, even if he did have a cloak, it would likely present more problems than it resolved. He knew it would just get in his way or give the creatures something to grab on to. In the end, there really was nothing he could do right now to combat the biting cold. He waited for the first indications of the coming sunrise while he ate and meditated lightly. Right now, he really couldn't afford to think too much. His mind kept coming back to some things he couldn't allow to distract him. He fixed his mind on the one thing he had before him.
Whatever this Iceburn Tear was would get him to Dravec. He had to focus on that.
After what seemed like hours, he could see the shadowy terrain through the small hole in the ice and knew it was time to go. He thanked the long-gone spirits of the crypt for their shelter and carefully squeezed his way back out through the hole. Outside, the icy wind bit at him again. From here, he just had to make his way north to the frozen lake a few minutes away. Luckily, either all the monsters were still asleep, or he'd killed most of them. He was thankful he didn't even have to summon anything to get back to the lake.
By the time he got to the part of the path that led down to the ice-covered lake, the sun was just breaking the horizon. In the long shadows of the ice pillars, he could see indicators of the creatures that lived on and around this solid lake. Clawed footprints, deep gouges in the ice, and even some fur caught on a nearby tree branch told him this area was still mostly creatures, not demons. He realized that his molten golems would be a very bad idea here. They could not cross the lake without melting through the ice. He would have to switch tactics. He knelt down to get a better look at the thick ice. His boots would likely slide a bit in certain places. The thick ice mostly looked scraped up by the claws of so many creatures. With any luck, he just might make it all the way across without having to fight and worry about losing his footing. Carefully, he stepped out and tested the slickness of the ice. It crunched slightly under his boots, making him wince at the obvious noise. But in the howling wind up here, it was little more than a whisper of sound.
Deciding to take his chances, he walked quickly but carefully out into the open. All around himself, he could hear the deep breathing and growling snores of sleeping creatures. None seemed to notice his passing. After only a few minutes, he could spot the one place on the other side of the lake where his magical vision could detect the faint traces of demons passing. He knew somewhere beyond must be the cavern. Navair had warned of demons, and thus far, he'd encountered none in this area. If there were demons, that cave was their lair. And clearly, they came in and out frequently. But, like most creatures in their own lair, they felt safe enough not to have any sentries posted. Still walking quickly, struggling to keep his footing on the slicker parts of the ice, he forgot the cold almost completely in his desperate attempt to cross without attracting any of the creatures he could sense and hear all around him.
All that changed when he got near to the edge of the lake on the north side. Aside from the foul taint of demons coming from that cave, the bitter wind that had assaulted him incessantly seemed to originate from there. He had thought it natural wind from the elevation and climate. But this was no ordinary wind. It clawed and bit at him, getting colder with each step. When he crossed the threshold into the dark cave entrance, he realized he was shivering as much inside as out. This was beyond a magical cold. This was a cold that seeped into the soul beyond the body and spoke of endless night and the annihilation of warmth.
This biting cold is unrelenting, even from here, he thought. This is the power of the Iceburn Tear?
As the thought skittered across his mind, it dredged up a similar memory. The third rune in Zoltun Kulle's library. This was much the same ruinous cold he'd felt reaching inside of him, whispering of a hideous end to all light and warmth. That all too familiar dark place he had dreamt of so many times. It whispered in the back of his mind and soul of his own sense of hopelessness.
And he knew it was right. This was suicide. Even if he found the Iceburn Tear, what would he accomplish? Likely, Dravec had already won, and Skarn had the shard. He was too late. There was no point. He should just turn back now and...
"You are a good man with a strong heart. Don't doubt yourself so. If evil enters your mind or heart, you will know, and you will fight it."
The memory of Oza's gentle words haunted him, lashed him with shame. He'd come here to for her, to give her justice. He wasn't going to stop now. He wasn't going to back down, even if it did mean certain death. He would meet Oza on the other side, and not be overcome with shame at his own weakness, his failure. Somewhere, deep inside, a spark ignited. It was warm with love and light, and it was fueled by rage and hate. He pulled on it, pushing away the cold he now felt to his very core. He'd be damned to Hell before he would give up.
Only then did he realize he was on his knees just inside the cave. He had been literally ready to just lay down and die right there. Taking deep breaths of the frigid air and using the stinging pain in his lungs to help him focus, he stoked that rage. He was amazed to feel the cold receding from his arms and legs. He'd nearly lost all sense of feeling in his limbs as the bitterly painful cold settled into his body. Whatever rebellious spark that raged against the hopelessness had ignited something he could actually feel. He slowly realized he was pulling from the core of his fire ability to warm his own body as well as combat the soul-shattering cold of the magical object. For a moment, he felt absolutely disgusted with himself. He had very nearly succumbed.
Oza. She had saved him.
"Thank you, my friend," he whispered to the darkness.
For one second, he imagined she was with him. But that, too, brought no small amount of shame. She earned her rest. It would be beyond selfish to want her here with him. Yes, he was alone now to finish this fight against Dravec. But he would never allow himself to forget her and the warmth of her spirit.
Having regained control and refocused his mind, he shifted his vision to the magical spectrum. The darkness beyond shimmered like a heat wave from the powerful magic that made this place so long ago. When he moved slowly and focused his mind, he could see here and there things shifting and moving. Given the terrain and what he knew of the various types of demons he'd encountered in his life, he could only guess they were some kind of frost horrors. Rare, but they thrived in an environment like the tundra. There were just the faintest traces of carved stone underneath and around the sheets of ice that blanketed the walls, floor, and ceiling here. Once, there had been humans here before the demons had taken it over. Likely, this place had originally been made by humans, if not nephalem.
He had no idea how far the cavern went on. It felt as if it had a gradual downward slope, deeper into the mountain rock. He made his way through the darkness silently. The lurking demons noticed him almost immediately. He couldn't be certain, but he suspected it was his own heat that attracted them. There were too many to handle alone. He summoned another molten golem to keep them away while he lashed out with blades of energy from his scythe. The golem drained him, but it was enough. Eventually, there were no more demons. Likely they had fled deeper into the many tunnels. He continued his trek without the golem. After what he guessed to be half an hour, the narrow cave opened onto a shelf of ice. The arched entrance had clearly been lovingly carved by human artisans. He began to sense that this had been some sort of temple in the ancient past. It felt holy, yet now tainted by demons. Of course, demons loved to pervert such things. And now it belonged to them.
Cautiously, he stepped out onto the shelf of ice. He had no idea what this enormous area had once been in terms of human manufacture. But the cavern opened up into something he could never even begin to describe. It was shelves, ledges, pillars, and wicked spikes of pure blue ice. There was shimmering light everywhere, refracted through and off of the ice. Here, there was no stone, just an unbelievably large cavern of ice so beautiful even he couldn't imagine such a thing existing. He couldn't even begin to guess where the light came from, either. To his magical sight, it was just everywhere. To his normal vision, it made his heart ache with the glistening beauty here. The ethereal quality of the shimmering ice mesmerized him for a few seconds. He was seeing something no living human had likely ever experienced in his lifetime and lived to tell about it. He couldn't bring himself to entirely disregard the enchanting beauty. He had to remind himself forcefully that it was all tainted. This was a demon nest now.
Seeing no immediate threats, he walked silently out onto the slick ice to see more. The frozen beauty of this place enthralled him. He wasn't given long to appreciate it, though. Above him, in the shadows of the pillars of ice reaching from floor to ceiling, he heard a roar that shook the cavern and reverberated on the ice. He was near the ledge of the ice shelf when the creature dropped down from above, snapping the whole platform of ice right off the wall. It seemed just as surprised as him when the shelf broke off. He had no idea how far down the floor was or even if there was a floor. This enormous cavern might go down for a mile below them.
The sudden flash of memory of having fallen so far once before had him reflexively reaching out with his scythe. He buried the sickle tip in a column of ice that tugged on his shoulder painfully. The sudden change in direction slammed his body into the side of the pillar. The bounce jarred his scythe blade right out of the ice. He landed on the floor a heartbeat later, his head colliding painfully with the solid ice floor and dazing him. The jarring impact also knocked the breath out of him. Momentarily stunned and unable to breathe, he heard the thing roaring as it recovered from the short fall first and came at him. By sheer reflex, he rolled to his right away from the giant, hairy fists that came down to crush him. Right where he had been, the impact on the ice shattered the pillar and left a hole in the floor. Still unable to breathe and struggling to see with all the explosions of light behind his eyes, he managed to summon some skeletons to distract it.
Finally, when he was able to breathe again, he gasped, huge lungs full of bitingly cold air that stabbed at his chest. The unexpected pain in his chest made him cough harshly. Somewhere, his disconnected mind had informed him that he was dealing with a Frozen Behemoth of epic size. At best, he guessed about thirty feet tall and at least ten feet wide. It was built like a shaggy white ape with wicked teeth and claws. Rolling away from its flailing attacks in the small space, the rest of him seemed to catch up. The behemoth knocked out his skeletons as fast as he summoned them. The skeletons, even the mages, did little more than irritate it. The monster's jumping and flailing were knocking down giant pillars and spikes of ice all over the place. In the storm of falling ice, he had no time to consider any kind of strategy. Being on a floor of ice, molten golems weren't even an option. With no time to think, he just reacted. He poured all his energy into his scythe. Much as he had done with Leoric, he gave no more thought to defense as he spun repeatedly, slashing outward with powerful blades of energy at the beast.
It had worked, but the damage was already done. Between the destruction the creature had wrought and now his own blades of energy slicing right through more of the ice pillars, there was no chance this place could remain stable. Even as the behemoth fell to the floor, the entire cavern shook while entire pillars of solid ice and boulders of ice the size of small buildings fell with increasing frequency around him. Briefly, he hoped it would settle. As he covered himself with his shield and dodged to avoid another spear of ice impaling him, he knew his hopes were in vain. He knew the cavern was collapsing in chunks. He would soon be trapped, if not dead. Still acting on reflex, instinct, and pure adrenaline, he switched to his magical vision. He found a way out that lead in the direction of the strongest magical wind he'd sensed. Somehow, he knew he was still headed toward the Iceburn Tear.
Still guided by his magical vision, he detected several more frost horrors ahead. All around him, chunks of ice fell and shattered like bombs. He had his scythe ready when he ran into the cluster of horrors, only to find they were all encased in blocks of solid ice. They were somehow frozen and obviously couldn't escape. Something about that screamed a warning in his mind, but there was just no time. He didn't spare another thought for them as he kept running. There was no cover, not even solid rock or stone walls, just countless sheets of fracturing ice in every direction.
Behind him, he felt the path itself collapsing under the weight of so many impacts. Still running in the direction of the magical wind, he caught sight of carved stone bricks. There was a large set of wooden doors frozen shut a few feet beyond. At least it was out of the ice cavern. Better to be trapped than squished like a bug. He just had to get there without something falling on him—or out from under him—in that last little stretch.
Too late, he felt the ice sheet tilting under him as something massive crashed down only a couple feet behind him. Panicked, he made a desperate leap off the crumbling ice path. His heart stuttered in fear when he felt his boots slip on the slick ice. There wasn't enough forward momentum to make it onto the stones! He landed on his belly a couple feet away from the safely solid stones beyond the ice path. Acting on pure, terrified reflex, he reached out with his scythe to the ice-covered stone bricks just a couple feet away as he began to fall.
For several seconds, the only thing he was aware of was his ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart. He'd managed to bury the tip of his scythe in the ice covering the stones just enough to hold him. He'd instinctively raised his shield over his head while he hung there helplessly. Shaking with adrenaline, he finally lowered the shield. In the remains of the cavern behind him were giant mounds of ice and rock. The path and most everything else that had been attached to the stones above and below were gone. The enormous size of the sheets of ice that had broken loose had even taken several chunks of rock out of the ceiling with them. Nothing could have survived that much destruction. Still struggling to slow his breathing, he found himself almost laughing. A part of his mind just couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that he had actually survived.
It was the pain in his shoulder and the strain of hanging there that finally brought him back to reality. He was very much alive, and this wasn't over. By now, he at least knew there was nothing waiting for him on the ledge above. He had no idea at first how he could pull himself up. With this awkward position, he'd never manage to get his shield hooked on his back, and he didn't want to give it up to the destruction below. He slung it up onto the stones above. Had there been anything waiting for him up there, it couldn't have missed that much noise. But there was only the eerie sounds of settling ice echoing faintly throughout the cavern. It popped and creaked and squealed in ghostly tones that nearly made him shiver.
Ignoring the pain in his right arm and shoulder, he tried gripping the ledge with his left hand. The ice was far too slick to grip, with or without gloves. After a few more seconds to get his mind to focus and his heart to slow to something more normal, he summoned a sturdy bone golem. With mental commands, he had it grip his outstretched left arm and pull him up onto the ledge. As soon as he was lying safely on the ice, he dismissed it. He knew lying on the ice was dangerous and draining his body heat rapidly, but he just couldn't bring himself to move. The adrenaline that had flooded his system had covered a multitude of injuries. His arms and legs still shook too badly for him to even be able to stand had he tried. He began to feel the throbbing pain all over his body from where chunks of ice and shards had hit him. He could feel the blood oozing from a dozen shallow wounds on his face freezing on his skin.
Only once his heart had found a calmer, steady rhythm did he finally roll to his belly and push himself to his knees. In the near-total darkness and silence of this area, even his breathing echoed off the walls back at him. That's when it occurred to him; the biting magical wind was gone. His somewhat scrambled mind couldn't make sense of it or why it even mattered. He was shivering again as the adrenaline backed off. He knew this wasn't over. He took a healing potion off his belt and let it warm him until he could find the focus to use the innate fire he possessed again. He'd lost all sense of time in this underground place, but he could feel the exhaustion creeping in around the edges. After the amount of energy he'd expended on the behemoth, he had known it was coming. But there was no way he could rest now. He was too close.
With his magical vision, he eyed the large, frozen doors across the room. Though the cavern branched off in various directions from here, that was the way he knew he needed to go. The power of the Iceburn Tear was nearly overwhelming to his magical vision. It had to be just beyond those doors. There was a solid sheet of ice sealing the doors. Not even a magical barrier.
It can't be that easy, he thought to himself wearily.
Knowing he now stood on a stone covered in ice, he risked summoning a molten golem. All he had to do was make it walk right up to the doors and stand there. In seconds, the ice had melted away enough that it could push on the doors. He was just rising to his feet when the double doors slammed wide open in his direction, flinging the golem back several feet. He quickly dismissed the golem as it flew through the air right above him, very nearly burning him. Expecting an attack, he stood ready, listening and watching the darkness.
Nothing came out of that room.
Expectantly, he approached the doors and the darkness beyond. He strained his magical vision for anything that would tell him what was beyond. The glow of sheer, raw power coming off the Iceburn Tear blinded his magical vision. Forced to switch back to the normal spectrum, he sent a trickle of energy into his scythe as he raised it above his head to preserve what little night vision he could. Still, there was nothing but solid darkness a couple of feet in every direction. He ears detected nothing beyond his own breathing and still pounding heart.
The sounds he could hear of his own breathing and booted feet took on a different echo as the space opened up into a wide circular chamber. As with the rest of this place, the stone walls and floor were covered in ice. Above him, wickedly sharp and long stalactites of ice caught the faint light of his scythe and refracted it slightly, a shimmering beauty he couldn't quite appreciate in the tension. Still sensing no living animal or demonic thing, he increased the glow significantly. He was greeted by dozens, possibly hundreds, of frozen corpses all standing in blocks of clear ice. Faintly, up ahead, he could see what looked like a solid stone of pure white ice rotating above a pedestal. Through the blocks of clear ice, he could see the looks of horror that had been frozen on the faces of the men and women—and even demons—that had come to claim the Iceburn Tear. Now he understood those trapped frost horrors. Only something as powerful as this could have trapped an ice demon within ice.
And that was not all the Iceburn Tear could do.
He had felt it all this time. Battering away at his mental shields since he'd first entered. Now it was like a battering ram hammering at his mind. His eyes fixed on the rotating object that was about the size of his head. He began to wonder how to get it out of there. He summoned a bone golem, more out of curiosity than any real expectation of success. It couldn't even touch the thing. There was some kind of invisible barrier that it could not cross, and it was only inches away. He dismissed the golem. He tried a molten golem. Though this one began to melt through some of the blocks of ice around it, it too could not touch the Iceburn Tear.
He sighed tiredly. He knew this was too easy. Obviously, many, many others had been here before him. And they had all perished in the attempt. There had to be something, some kind of trick. He reviewed Tassi's words. Nothing of what she'd said gave him any clue how to take it safely. He considered maybe trying to just throw his backpack over it. But even that seemed too easy. He walked up to within reach of the slowly spinning, teardrop-shaped stone. The heat he'd filled himself with still struggled against the cold that didn't just creep into his limbs; it caressed and wrapped itself around his heart. The thing battering away at his mind... He could dimly sense it conveying the inevitability of death and the chill of the grave. Even through his shields, he could feel it.
Pyresong knew it was right.
Death is inevitable, it whispered.
He hadn't even realized he was falling under its spell until it was almost too late. Watching the silently rotating stone of ice, trying to find a way around this puzzle, he'd let the thing in. It felt so familiar to him. It was like returning to Cain's workshop: comforting, safe, and familiar. It beckoned to something inside of him. There was a part of him that knew this feeling intimately. There was something he couldn't quite remember but still knew on an instinctive level.
He had somehow lost himself so deeply, he'd removed his gauntlets and gloves without realizing it. He was in total darkness since he'd hooked his scythe on his belt at some point so he could get his gloves off. Yet, he could still see the Iceburn Tear clearly. It filled his vision, expanding until it was all he could see. It grew larger and clearer until he could see every microscopic crack and divet in the surface. It was pulling him in. Beyond this surface was a world that belonged to the dead and dying; a place where living flesh had no place.
Some spark of sanity somewhere in the back of his mind flared a warning, making him pause. He came back to the moment to realize his bare fingers were only an inch away from touching it. There was no barrier for his naked, living fingers. He shuddered violently in the cold that had gripped him once again inside and out. He almost pulled back, but hesitated instead. There was a battle going on inside of him he had no words for. It was both hopeless and comforting. He wanted to flee from the thing, from the whispers in his mind compelling him toward it. Yet, the familiar, frigid cold of certain death was so comforting to him, he didn't want to leave it. The cold, empty hopelessness won out.
He was going to die. Right now.
His fingertips brushed the rotating stone.
Cold like he'd never felt before surrounded him from within, crushing his heart and soul. The hopelessness of all life pressed in on his thoughts. He was flooded with frigid magic as a block of ice began to form around his physical body. He wasn't just surrounded or filled with the cold, he was becoming the icy silence of dead flesh again.
He would die with his tasks incomplete, like so many other mortals. His hopes shattered and ended right here. His need for vengeance and justice for so many just bled away. Behind his now-closed eyes he watched them all dying one by one. Hundreds. He'd seen hundreds of people die. It wasn't just inevitable; it was utterly pointless to live at all. For all his pathetic struggling to keep living, in the end, he too would die. He would join the hundreds of others he had failed to save.
Was there even a point to any of it? People died every day for no reason at all. Children starved to death within a few feet of food. Women died giving birth to new life. Whole villages were slaughtered by demons. Powerful warriors were brought to their deathbeds by disease. Many couldn't take the horrors of living and ended their own lives.
His vision expanded outward from there. Animals were hunted by predators. Some were killed by humans and left to rot. Entire living forests burned to the ground, killing everything. Rich fields of crops were harvested. Other places had become barren deserts devoid of all life. Frozen wastelands consumed other places. Everything died. From the mightiest of godlike entities to the most insignificant blades of grass crushed under foot, every living thing eventually died. Whether it gave back to the Cycle was entirely irrelevant.
They died.
His breath stopped when the block of ice encased him. His heart stuttered painfully while his mind tore through so many deaths. His life had been filled with deaths. All he knew was death. All there was in the end was death. His frozen lungs didn't even struggle to breathe. He felt his heart slowing. It was steady now, as it awaited the inevitable. The tingling chill of his own coming death took over. He'd felt it so many times before. There was no room for fear in the cold; there never had been. He would feel himself die, and then his spirit would be freed. He would face the hundreds of other spirits he couldn't save. That was his inevitability in death. He would face them and then spend eternity with them. He accepted it. His heart gave one last weak flutter and went still.
He welcomed that cold, empty void again.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the block of ice around him suddenly fell away in pieces. His oxygen-starved lungs inhaled reflexively as his body fell to the icy floor. Again, his heart pounded painfully fast and hard in his chest, as if trying to catch up. This time, the darkness around the edges of his vision was filled with spectacular bursts of light. He struggled against the dizziness. For a moment, he wasn't even sure where he was or why breathing even mattered. Letting his hands glow softly to combat the solid wall of darkness, he gradually began to remember. He hadn't been afraid. He had welcomed death...again.
How... Why am I still alive? he wondered vaguely.
He turned to his side to roll to his feet only to freeze when he realized the Iceburn Tear was now on the floor beside him. It no longer rotated on the pedestal. It sat quietly, waiting for him to take it up again. He looked up again at all the dozens of people frozen in blocks of ice around him. He then began to understand. They were afraid of dying. They feared their own mortality. That was why they sought out the Iceburn Tear in the first place. They could not accept the reality of the pointlessness of living. And it was pointless, he knew. He'd always known. Whether some grand monarch or some lowly beggar, all died, eventually. And, in a hundred years or so, most wouldn't even remember who the dead were or that they ever existed. Accepting the fact that all died eventually and that life was just the beginning of what would define eternity was the key.
The Iceburn Tear wasn't evil. It just made one face the truth they couldn't or didn't want to accept. He'd survived not because of some trick or some magic power. He'd survived simply because of who and what he was. He stared at the inert stone in wonder. What had this told him about himself, and what he had become? Yes, he would fight to the death against the injustices of this world and the next. It was not pointless to fight for those who would make a better world, even for the so very temporary lives of other humans. The human spirit lived on after death, but the world they lived in shaped those souls. The decisions they made defined what would be their eternity after death. He couldn't bring himself to feel ashamed this time at welcoming death. All it had done was show him he was on the right path. Dead or alive, he would keep fighting.
And he would die for it, just not today.
Taking a seated position next to it on the ice-covered floor, he picked up the Iceburn Tear. He had no fear of it now. Yes, it was the very same feeling that always seemed to come over him when he knew he was going to die. He nearly laughed as a tickle of something akin to understanding a deeper meaning flickered through his mind. Then, the Iceburn Tear had his full attention.
I can feel it...so cold, he thought, but felt there was more. I can hear...voices?
Yes, hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of whispering voices. It was like the voices he'd heard as a child before he'd learned to block them out. They were just out of hearing range. This thing very much emulated the powers he'd been born with, the very same abilities all necromancers were trained to use. He knew if he focused, he could hear them more clearly through this stone, just as if he lowered his mental barriers and let the nearby voices in. Yet, he somehow knew these voices were from the Unformed Land and not just earthbound spirits. He had no idea what this thing actually was or what it had been intended to do. Yet it simulated his own necromantic abilities. Maybe someday, he could ask Tassi or even Cain more about it. Right now, his sense of urgency to chase after Dravec had been renewed.
He set the inert stone on the pedestal while he retrieved his gloves and gauntlets. For now, he just stuffed them into his backpack. He was reluctant to put this thing in his bag with Yl'nira. Though it was likely nothing more than a fancy of his tired mind, it just felt wrong. He quickly opened a portal to the waypoint in Bitter Hearth. He didn't even realize he had stopped warming himself with his innate fire. Now, he almost didn't feel the cold at all.
Just a little ways ahead of him, he spotted Navair's blond hair as she knelt by the giant fire in the village center. The few people that were out in the biting cold of the late afternoon suddenly shivered visibly. As if sensing the object, several turned to look right at him. Navair had spun to her feet in surprise as he approached.
"Unbelievable," she said, eyeing him as if she couldn't believe he was still alive. Then he eyed the object he held in his bare hands. "I can feel its cold even over here. If only my people still had the courage you bear. But our wills have become as broken as our home."
Pyresong smiled sadly. "It is not about courage. The warriors who died trying to retrieve this were brave men and women. Some things are just inevitable."
Seeming confused, Navair just nodded. Just then, Tassi came running around the corner of a distant building across the village near where her tent stood. She very nearly skid across the ice in her excitement.
"That cold!" the witch called happily. "Yes, that's it! You have the stone. Please, let me see it!"
Still gripping it in his bare hands, he now wondered about the witch. He'd never entirely understood their motivations and how they were guided by the souls of the dead, or spirits, as they called him. But she had come all the way across the world to this strange and utterly foreign place for this unbelievably powerful object. Obviously, it meant something sacred to this witch priestess, but he could not fathom what. And the power of this object was not to be taken lightly. Many had died seeking its power, likely to stave off death. When the idea of it being used as a weapon slithered across his mind, he didn't shove it aside. Even for only having glimpsed its power, he was not willing to part with it without some reassurance of its potential use. Sensing his hesitation, Tassi paused just beyond arm's reach.
"You know what this can do." He asked her coldly, "What are your plans for it?"
Tassi smiled sadly, now understanding his hesitation. "The Seven Stones are artifacts that my clan has been seeking to reclaim for ages. While I'm not the expert on the spirit world, I know that wielding the Tear gives death much less authority over a mortal's life."
He held up one glowing hand. If she was sincere and she really was what he suspected, she would know what he was asking of her. Without hesitation, she held out her own glowing hand. Navair and the others watching this little display were utterly confused, looking from one to the other. A few hands twitched toward handy weapons as if expecting a battle to break out.
The two of them were in their own world at the moment. As their glowing hands met, he felt her hard soul. Yes, it was cold and hard, but it was the kind of cold passion born of desperation, not some twisted sense of justification for evil. In her turn, she raked his soul harshly as if looking for something he would not give. But it was over in seconds, both satisfied.
"I believe you," he told her, his voice still rimed with icy threat. "But if that ever changes, I will find you and the Tear."
He handed it to her, half expecting to see her frozen in a block of ice as he had been. But no, she clearly knew what she was up against, and she knew its power. Unlike his experience, she just shivered slightly as she communed with it, but then smiled widely.
"I do not doubt it," she told him.
"Now, how does this help me?" he asked.
"Claiming this stone has granted you its boon, and the spirits of the mountain will now be able to sense your presence. Your soul now bridges life and death," she explained, as if expecting some reaction.
In truth, he was not entirely surprised. That had not been the first time he'd faced death or even felt his body dying. Yet, she had no way of knowing that. More to the point, he could feel the difference now. Something had definitely changed in that moment when he'd died under the Iceburn Tear's power. It had taken something from him and put something else in its place. He had no time to analyze this, though.
"My communion with the spirits have provided a path for you to your own destiny. It is the dead that will guide you into their realm, not I," she continued after a moment. "To the north, the Ice Clan Khazra have claimed the graveyard of the Ancients. Take what is precious to them. Present their war banner to the spirits of old, and perhaps, they will grant you permission to walk amongst them."
He cursed silently. Yet another obstacle! But he knew he had no choice. Tassi hadn't lied to him. This thing had bridged the gap. He could feel the subtle differences. He had always possessed the ability to see and communicate with the dead in this world. But now he felt...more. He felt his soul as much as he always had within his body. But it now seemed somehow connected to something bigger, like it could reach out beyond himself. He felt a deeper cold than the one that assaulted his body, not unlike the chill of certain death he'd experienced so many times over. Now, it did not fade so completely. It was a part of him in a way he could not describe, and it was under his control. Even the blazing fire beside him could not entirely banish this chill. He had no time for this introspection and shook it off as Tassi walked across the village back to her tent.
"Did you have any luck with Chieftain Kientarc?" he asked, turning back to Navair.
She shook her head sadly. "No, as I said, we are a broken people. But maybe with this news I can change his mind. Hopefully, I'll be able to meet you in the graveyard with good news."
"How do I get there?"
She opened her mouth to answer and then hesitated. "You've been gone for over a day. You can join me in my cottage to get some rest."
He shook his head. "I can't. I have to catch up to Dravec before the shard falls into Skarn's hands. The only things I need are some food supplies, enough for a couple of days right now."
She seemed to want to argue but also seemed to understand. "Go out the east gates, take the road north. It used to be a human settlement a couple of hours north. But it was overrun some time ago by Khazra and we've never been able to reclaim it."
"Thank you, Navair. Maybe someday your people will recover and reclaim it. Don't give up hope," he told her warmly.
She smiled darkly. "Never."
She guided him to what served as a general shop on the other side of the village. He appreciated the warmth of just being indoors for the first time in days. Once his fingers had thawed enough, he could feel the coins; he bought a few supplies and a healing potion to replace the one he'd used and a few extras. He had no idea how long this would drag on. He wasn't about to spend the night here in the village, even as tired as he was. He had to finish this. His mind was screaming at the delays to get to Dravec, but he felt closer now.
The sun was already hanging low when he found the Khazra village. He'd only encountered a few yetis and ice prowlers on his way here. Most were easily deterred by a molten golem. As he ascended the icy stone stairs to the plateau above, he knew he wasn't going to be that lucky in there. The stairs were far too exposed for stealth. He would have to fight his way up them, drawing attention to himself. Navair had said the altar that held their war banner was literally the heart of this rather sprawling demon village on the cliffs. He had no idea of their numbers. Being this close to a human settlement, they must number at least in the hundreds.
As expected, the first arrows from the sentries on and around the stairs were flying at him even as the sun was setting. He used the blinding glare of the setting sun to his advantage. With their primitive intelligence, they were easily distracted by his skeletons. In the confusion they created, he was able to get in behind several of the goatmen and cut them down using a minimum of his already waning energy. Pushing himself to his limits, he summoned several more skeletal mages that were so weak they were destroyed in a single swing of a Khazra weapon. But their spirit fire flung everywhere was enough to keep the Khazra from focusing on him. While the battle still went on on the stairs, he'd managed to cut his way through a couple of goatmen at the top and then hide behind a cottage in the deepening shadows. He let the last of his skeletons crumble as he squatted in the shadows to wait.
The grunting language of the Khazra meant nothing to him. Yet there was clear anger as a shaman became involved. He didn't need to understand their language to hear a couple of goatmen being blamed for whatever happened. Then they were dragged away, screaming. From his vantage point, he could see nothing. And his one hope was that no one noticed his fresh footprints leading behind the cottage in all the mushy snow and mud that had been trampled thoroughly in the last few minutes. It seemed there was no immediate search for intruders in the village as things died down. Satisfied, he inched his way around behind the buildings in the shadows, closer to the village center.
Finally, he was able to poke his head around the corner of one building to see the unholy altar Navair had warned him about. It was some kind of giant pit dug into the ground. There was one wooden platform that stuck out over the pit. Though he couldn't see down into the pit below from where he stood, he could easily imagine the sharpened stakes and impaled bodies that likely filled the pit. The overwhelming stench of Khazra and their waste that permeated the entire village made it a lot harder to smell the frozen, yet rotting bodies in the pit he was certain were there. But that wasn't his focus now, anyway. His focus was on what was now taking place on this altar.
He'd heard earlier, right after the battle on the stairs, at least two goatmen being hauled away screaming. Now, he could see them all too clearly. One was missing part of a leg, and the other was missing both its eyes. He could only guess that he'd wounded them but not killed them in the brief melee. And the unexpected chaos had likely angered the shaman because these two were now hanging from the crossbeams of the sacrificial altar that rose up out of that pit by some fifteen feet. Above the crossbeams where they hung were carved wooden columns bearing the faces of other demons. He could easily feel the vile power in these totems even from this distance.
The clan's high shaman stood a few feet away as if waiting for something. He found out a few minutes later what that something was. When the last of the daylight evaporated, the high shaman raised his staff and howled in a way that made his ears ache. In response, the whole village began pouring out of the surrounding buildings. Muttering an obscenity, he tried to make himself invisible in the shadows behind the cottage and pray none would come his way.
Most of the Khazra were very much uniform in size and appearance. Each was about eight feet tall and heavily muscled. Scattered throughout the crowd, he spotted the even bigger berserkers. Dozens and dozens of goatmen filled the village center. He knew this probably wasn't even all of them, but it was easily a small army that lived here in this stolen village. He knew he couldn't abandon his task. However, it seemed more daunting than ever. And he still hadn't seen this war banner he needed.
Hiding in the shadows, he watched in fascinated yet disgusted silence while the high shaman chanted and then pointed the head of his staff at the altar with the two Khazra bellowing in terror. The two bound Khazra literally had the life sucked out of them by the shaman. He began to realize he was witnessing some sort of sacrificial punishment on the two survivors. Switching to his magical sight more out of morbid curiosity than anything, he saw a direct line of energy flowing from the altar to something off to his right between a couple more buildings. He suspected some other kind of altar. When the two hanging Khazra were drained of life and hanging limply, the high shaman bellowed again and gave some kind of short speech to which all the gathered Khazra bellowed in return.
Taking advantage of the distraction, he crept through the shadows around behind several more buildings, trying to find this war banner. The goatmen continued chanting and roaring for several minutes before the high shaman called a halt. The ceremony concluded, and all the Khazra began to head back to their buildings for the night. All but those that would likely be night sentries for the village. For a while, all he could do was crouch in the darkness, waiting for things to settle down. Trying to sneak between buildings with so many walking around was asking to get caught. As impatient as he was to get on with things, he knew his best chance lay in waiting until the entire village had settled in to sleep.
With most of the Khazra now indoors and it being fully night now, he was able to begin creeping around behind the buildings again. For once, his white hair and face blended in with the terrain, actually making him less visible. Still, the chances of being spotted were high. He carefully made his way around the village from the south all the way to the northeast exit by the time he spotted his target. It was a stone altar literally dripping with fresh blood; animal, human, and demon by the feel of it. Just to his left, a few feet in front of the altar, stood a cross, which held various patches of skin stitched together and weighted down with a variety of claws and feathers, and possibly some dried, shriveled-up organs. Not unlike the altar, it was a mix of pieces from humans, animals, and demons. It made him sick to even look at it. But he knew this must be the war banner. This was also the area where he'd seen the magical energy from the altar going. He switched his gaze into the magical spectrum to confirm his suspicions.
He was correct. The war banner glowed in his sight with the unholy energies of the recent sacrifice. But, to his surprise, there was a gentle blue glow coming from another stone altar beyond the banner. That was when he realized that atop the altar hung three Barbarian weapons that were once made with magic to work against demons. A halberd, a giant sword, and a battle axe wider than his shoulders hung from pegs on the stone altar.
They must have been stolen from various tribes, he thought to himself. It is not right for them to remain here.
He knew he would finally be giving his magical backpack a real test. Those three weapons alone probably weighed over a hundred pounds. He waited another hour for the telltale snores of the Khazra sleeping to resound through the village from every corner. He had his shield hooked on his back and his scythe on his belt while he crept through the frozen blood with his backpack open in one hand. Silently, expecting a sentry to come stomping by at any moment, he took down the three weapons and slid them into his backpack. A part of him was still enthralled with such useful magic as that backpack. Then there was the banner. He eyed it from behind to see how it was held onto the wooden frame. A second later, the sound of cloven feet stomping on icy mud made him duck back behind the nearby building. While he waited for the sentry to move on, he considered the banner. It was nailed and tied onto a crosspiece of the pole. By the time the sentry was gone, he had only one idea and hoped it would work. He would have to be fast.
He slung his backpack over one shoulder for now and retrieved his scythe off his belt. A trickle of power made it glow, and he knew it would draw unwanted attention. He made one last check of the area as his heart began to pound again. The threat all around him had somehow increased. Some other instinctive sense was screaming at him to get out of there right now. As certain as he could be that the area was clear, he darted out from behind the building, gripped the bottom of the banner with one fist, and used a tiny blade of energy to cut the top of it off the crosspiece in one seamless stroke. He quickly forced aside his disgust, and he wrapped it around his shield arm. Then, he darted back behind the building. To his relief, no immediate cry went up as he did this. And he didn't plan on sticking around for them to discover it. Just a few feet away was an old wooden fence now falling apart with rot. He quickly hooked his scythe and vaulted over it. Despite the crunching snow, he made his way through the thick undergrowth, making way more noise than he would like.
An hour later, he was well east of the Khazra village. If his mental map was correct, he should be just south of the ancient graveyard. Navair had described to him the main altar at the center of the graveyard. It, too, had been mostly overrun with demons, but particularly frost horrors like the ones he'd seen in the Cavern of Echoes. As he made his way slowly north through the trees, he finally spotted the edges of the graveyard. It was a lot more open than he would have liked. What little movement there was seemed to cling to the shadows. The overwhelming essence of demons all over this land made it hard to pick out one type from another. It certainly sounded too subtle to be stomping Khazra warriors, at least.
Deciding to see what awaited him ahead, he summoned a molten golem. Still crouched down the shadows between trees, he watched the frost horrors coming out to attack. None of them could stand more than a couple of seconds in the blazing heat of the golem's presence. It swung back and forth, killing the horrors and burning those that got too close. In only a few minutes, the bulk of the demons were dead or retreating. He waited a couple more minutes, pushing back the exhaustion that was now tugging at him almost painfully. He could not withstand a prolonged battle right now, and he knew it. He needed to make sure the area was clear before he came out. The multitude of skeletons he'd summoned earlier had left him with a throbbing headache. He knew he couldn't summon more than one golem right now without suffering much worse. Much as it grated on him to even think it, he would need to eat and rest soon.
Finally certain there would be no more immediate attacks, he carefully came out of the trees. Cautiously, he made his way deeper into the graveyard. It wasn't long before he spotted the altar. Two smaller carved stone monoliths flanked a multi-tiered stone altar that stood against a much bigger carved monolith in the center. Hearing more movement all around him, he sent the golem in a wide circle around the altar. Nothing came out to attack. Satisfied, he set the disgusting banner at his feet and then pulled his shield off its hooks and then shrugged off his backpack. He dismissed the golem for now to conserve what little energy he had left.
Let us see how Tassi's insight fares.
He respectfully set the weapons in the snow a few feet away from the altar and then replaced his backpack and shield. Then he took up the sickening banner and unfurled it to lay it at the base of the altar. He had intended to use the stolen weapons to hold it in place and keep it from blowing away. The moment the banner lay on the altar, though, he found himself stepping back in surprise, instead. The carvings of the stone monoliths began to light up in bright teal light. Though he sensed nothing overtly evil, he was certain this couldn't be good.
"You bring the standard of our enemy as an offering to our spirits? We are defined by more than violence," a chilling voice spoke with vibrant clarity.
Instantly, the necromancer knew the voice he was hearing was not from the living. It was clearly a ghost that chose to remain invisible. Yet this voice had none of the echoing quality he was used to in the voices of the dead. And the chill it instilled told him he was hearing it in his soul, not his ears, as he had Namari's. As he processed this, the voice continued with obvious disdain for him and his actions.
"We, who gave everything to fulfill our sworn duty. We, who suffered for both Arreat and clan. Show me there is more to you."
Pyresong bowed low to the altar, though he could not see a spirit to go with the voice.
"I mean no disrespect for you or your people. How may I show you what you ask?"
"You bear the weapons of three clans. Reunite my kin with their weapons so their spirits may find rest. Honor their sacrifice."
"Gladly," he accepted.
Tired as he was, this was a task that he was sincerely happy to perform. He rose from his bow and turned to the weapons lying in the snow beside him. He had no idea where to begin. The weapons were covered in symbols he could not hope to decipher, as were the various headstones. But there were a few much larger monoliths around the edges that he suspected indicated tribe sections of the cemetery. He knew he was likely to be here all night trying to figure this out, but this felt more like honoring the dead rather than a task. He took up the giant, heavy sword in both hands.
If what Tassi said was true, he would not only be able to sense the lingering spirits here, but he could also walk among them. His necromantic training would easily reveal any spirits. Yet, for them to see him was often an entirely different matter. He closed his eyes while he shifted the energies in his own soul outward, as if not quite leaving his body. When he opened his eyes, he could easily see the dozens of spirits crowding the area around him. Only a moment ago, they had paid him no mind, as with the soft voices he'd learn to close out in childhood. Now he knew they could see him too, when he projected his own spirit outward slightly. Several of the Barbarian spirits eyed him as warily as any newcomer to a village. Others eyed his presence curiously. And then there were some that just walked away in disgust at the sight of a weak outsider among them.
"I need to find the resting place of the owners of these weapons. I bring them to honor their sacrifice and return them to their rightful places," he told the spirits, still slightly disturbed at how easy it felt to be among them.
"That sword belongs to the Owl," one female spirit answered. "Come."
Still feeling a bit disconnected from reality, he followed her across the graveyard to one of the large monoliths. He could see it now. There was a stylized owl image on the sword and on the stone. It made sense now. He knelt respectfully to place the sword at the base of the stone. Then he bowed deeply and offered a prayer for the dead. He returned and recovered the axe. Now seeing that he was doing as he said, another spirit that seemed more curious than anything stepped forward.
"That belongs to the Shadow Wolf Tribe over there," he pointed to a monolith way off to the right.
Again, he knelt to place the heavy axe at the base of the monolith. He repeated his prayers. When he returned to heft the halberd, no one stepped forward. Now that he knew what to look for, it was not a problem. It took him some twenty minutes going from monolith to monolith to find the Crane Tribe. He repeated his obeisance and prayers. When he returned to the main altar, a large, well-armed Barbarian he suspected had been at the very least a high chieftain, possibly much more, was standing atop the war banner. He bowed in respect again, priest to chieftain, and waited.
"A worthy tribute," the spirit finally conceded. "A warrior's weapon bears a portion of their soul. And without it, we are incomplete. You honor those who came before you. Now, speak, what has brought you to me?"
He rose from the bow. "My enemy has found a way to travel into the realm of the dead with a corrupted shard of the Worldstone. He seeks to deliver it into the hands of Hell. I must follow after him, but the way is sealed to me."
The powerful, proud ghost considered this for several seconds in silence. "Our people have protected the Heart of the World for generations upon generations. We are tied to this land, even in death. Only by receiving the Blessing of the Ancients can you walk the path of the dead."
His heart ached for these people. It wasn't enough that they'd given their lives for generations to protect the Worldstone; even in death, they continued. Those in Sescheron were not alone. He could see it here. So very many spirits all over this cemetery that had died for one reason or another and felt they could not go to rest in peace. How much did the other Priests of Rathma know of this? His master had never mentioned any of this in all the years of his apprenticeship. Was it possible they did not know of the sacrifice and burden of these tribes?
"Take the signet off this grave, warrior." The ghost pointed to a small golden object. "Travel to the Plains of Blood and return my kinsmen to their rest. Bury them with their weapons and display honor and respect. Only then shall Torr and the others guide you to your foe."
"I will see it done. I will do all that I can to find peace for all of your people, living and dead," he swore, his hand over his heart in the traditional method of oath offering.
The ghost nodded his acceptance and then stepped aside so he could retrieve the signet. The disk was made of pure gold in a talisman about the size of his palm. It glowed in his magical sight with warmth and Light. He felt its Light even through his gloved hands. He carefully placed it in his side satchel. He bowed once more to the warrior's spirit and then turned to walk away. The spirits, now able to see him, moved aside to give him room to walk. Acutely aware of all of them in a way he'd never felt before, he still felt somewhat disconnected from himself and his body. Tassi had been right, he did somehow bridge the gap between the living and the dead in a way even most necromancers were unlikely to understand.
In a less crowded area, he opened a portal back to Bitter Hearth. Even the relatively small amount of energy needed to open the portal felt like a strain. He lost his focus for a second and lost the disconnected feeling he had needed for the dead to see him more clearly. As he sank more fully into his body, the full force of the headache hit him again. Now, he understood why he felt disconnected. He had been somewhat separated from his body. It wasn't like his listening to spirits or even any kind of meditation he'd ever experienced. He was both in his body and somewhat projected outside his body. He wasn't even really sure how he'd accomplished it. And with his head pounding mercilessly, he couldn't even really think about it right now. He could study and experiment with it later. At the moment, he was done. There was no choice for him. His body's demands must be met, or he would get no further. While the loss of time chafed his anxiety until his nerves felt raw, he could not ignore the need for rest and food any longer.
Being well into the night, he hadn't expected anyone to be out and about in the village. With any luck, he could find a quiet corner to set up a canvas and a small fire. His body felt heavy and downright clunky as he stepped off the waypoint platform. When his left boot encountered slippery ice under the thin layer of snow, he was unable to stop himself from going to one knee painfully to catch himself. At least he hadn't fallen either flat on his rump or face first. For a couple of seconds, he just sat there, trying to shake off the dizziness and headache. The heavy steps of someone approaching snapped him out of it as he rose unsteadily to his feet. The last thing he needed was for these people to see him as weak.
"Are you wounded?" the Barbarian asked.
He struggled to focus his eyes in the darkness, but he knew that voice. He was just too tired to place it.
"No, just tired. Thank you."
"Your the priest that was asking about the demon monk or whatever. Navair's been talking about you."
"Ull, what's... You're back!" Navair's voice came from just behind the man. "Gods, what happened to you? You look terrible."
He couldn't even think of a snarky remark in return. He was just too exhausted and in too much pain. Instead, he steadied himself and tried to hold on to his serene mask.
"Tassi's ritual worked," he explained, tiredly. "I spoke with an ancient chieftain. He wants me to find and aid a spirit named Torr in the Plains of Blood."
"Torr, but he's..." she shook her head. "Never mind that for now. You need rest. Come with me."
As exhausted as he was, he couldn't even begin to form an argument. He followed her, careful not to stumble or slip again on the ice. She led him to a nearby cottage that must be her home. She waved him over to the fire burning in a small stone fire pit on the far side of the room. He paused to remove his gloves and gauntlets so he could at least feel his fingers again.
"Are you injured?" she asked, moving toward a pot hanging over the fire.
"Nothing serious. It has just been a long day," he replied, warming his hands by the fire.
Navair eyed him critically. "You have a gift for understatement."
He couldn't help laughing softly at that. He was well aware of his standing in the tribe as an outsider despite being a guest. And these strong, proud people would lose faith in him if he showed any weakness. She, apparently, could see right through his facade. Or he looked far worse than he thought. Of course, the last thing he wanted right now was a mirror. Navair scooped out some of whatever was in the pot into a bowl. When he was finished stacking his armor against a wall, he took the bowl in nearly numb hands gratefully.
"Torr is my father. He died five years ago, along with most of our clan. They perished in the Plains of Blood, laying down their lives so the rest of us could live," she explained while he ate the thick and warming stew. "If you are truly able to speak with his spirit, let him know his daughter strives to carry on his heart. Even now."
He took her cold hand in his now warm one. "I will find a way to help all of your people. I have a signet that can send them to their rest. I was charged with this, for now. But I will not forsake the others. Even before Baal's army came, many of your people were bound eternally to this land. I will find a way to set them free, I swear it."
Navair smiled sadly and released his hand so he could finish eating. "I thank you for that. But I have other news. Returning with the Iceburn Tear has proven to Chieftain Kientarc and others that you are not like the other adventurers that have come through here. You are strong, and he has agreed to rally the tribes. He's sent word to the other chieftains. When you move upon Sescheron, we will join you in fighting back for our homeland. My people have suffered, but, even now, we will fulfill our oath to safeguard the Worldstone."
Despite his exhaustion, he was elated by the news. He nodded painfully, now too tired to really form words. Though the food had done much to warm him, his head still pounded in time with his heartbeat. As Navair took the empty bowl from him, he reached for his backpack. She, too, was amazed when he produced a couple of blankets much larger than the pack.
"Magic," was all he could find the energy to say.
Thankfully, she didn't question him further as she moved to her bed on the far side of the little cottage. Knowing that here, at least, he would be safe enough to sleep without a skeletal guardian, he curled up in the blankets beside the fire and was asleep in seconds. This time, he was too exhausted even to dream. Or, if he did, he was grateful not to remember it.
***
It was Navair's stealthy movements that woke him early the next morning. She was shifting around, trying not to wake him, by the sounds of it. Through the windows, he could see the sky was blue, but the sun hadn't quite risen.
"Feeling better?" she asked, eyeing him carefully.
He nodded, stifling a yawn. He was still sore in a few places, but the throbbing headache had gone completely. It would still take him another couple of days to recover his energies fully. But he was more than ready to get going again.
"I don't know much about Priests of Rathma, but you certainly look better."
"We need food and rest, just like anyone else," he told her in amusement. "I used up more than I should have of my own energies, and it takes its toll on the body. Easily recovered."
"Good," she said. "You said you were going to aid Torr's spirit?"
He nodded, stowing his blankets and reaching for his armor. "The Plains of Blood, I was told."
"The Plains of Blood is where our village used to be. It was more like a city in its day. Maybe I could gather some of the tribe to help."
He considered this in silence for a moment. It would be helpful to have a guide. And help from others fighting off demons or creatures would be more than just a welcome addition. He already had a strong suspicion of what lay ahead. Yet, he somehow instinctively knew this was his task alone. Besides, they had enough to handle here with preparations to march on Sescheron; hopefully by tomorrow at the latest. His other instincts were already screaming that he was probably too late. Dravec had disappeared with the shard almost two days ago; likely right into Skarn's clutches.
"You should stay here with the others," he finally told her. "I will return here when it's time to move on, Sescheron. This is my task. Just tell me how to get there."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but Navair knew her place was with her people. And she very much understood personal obligation and honor. She gave him the directions south and to the east. She warned him the place had been populated by nothing but demons since it had been abandoned several years ago. He heaved a mental sigh. He really felt for these people. Despite the oaths that every Barbarian swore to protect the Worldstone, they at least deserved peace in death. Many of them had not failed in their duties or oaths. Yet, because they felt they had, they suffered still. Likely, this whole area was suffering. And with the Worldstone's destruction, they deserved peace more than ever. They had never stood a chance against Baal's armies. And it was Tyrael that had destroyed the Worldstone, not some invader or demon. The injustice, as well as the magnitude of it all gnawed at him.
A couple of hours later, he found himself crossing the bridge over a frozen river that led to what they now called the Plains of Blood. Even from this distance, he could practically smell the corruption and demons that infested the area. So far, he and his skeletal minions hadn't encountered anything more dangerous than some little ice worms and ice prowlers. Here, he could feel the demons; frost horrors, mostly. There were some others that felt much bigger that he couldn't quite identify. Almost as soon as he entered the village outskirts, he found himself dismissing the skeletal warriors in favor of another molten golem. Much as he wanted to conserve his energy, it was the only thing that was really effective against these ice-wielding demons. And it was an effective deterrent. They would run from its heat rather than risk getting burned by the golem to get at him.
It became clear that the battle here had raged across the village. Were it not for the fact that Barbarians weren't known for building large, multi-storied buildings, he would have agreed with Navair's assessment. This clearly developed and heavily populated area had been covered in huts and tents but was easily the size of any sprawling city. All around were the frozen and only slightly decayed bodies of thousands of demons. Spread throughout were the bodies of hundreds of warriors lay equally frozen. There were so many of them! He couldn't hope to bury them all and find Torr and catch up to Dravec. Somehow, he had to find the ones that needed him and focus on them. With the area around him momentarily clear of demons, he dismissed the molten golem and pulled the signet from his side satchel. Maybe it could help him.
He closed his eyes and breathed. Much as he had in the cemetery, he recentered himself at his core and refocused his eyes. When he opened them again, all he saw at first was the same terrain. The signet began to vibrate slightly. He picked up the subtle vibration even through his glove and turned around. There was something close by that needed the signet. He could feel it almost tugging at him. Then, he spotted the target. About ten yards away, against a rock wall, he could very clearly see the spirit of a dead Barbarian standing over his own body. The man was obviously surprised when the outsider began to walk up to him, clearly visible to each other. He put the signet back in his satchel.
"We have to get the elders and the children out of here!" the ghost shouted.
"You already have. They survived and continue to live in a new village. I've come to honor your sacrifice by laying your body to rest and then releasing you," he explained, not unaccustomed to spirits being somewhat trapped in their own minds at the moment of their deaths.
"I-I'm dead, aren't I?"
He nodded.
"I remember the shrieking...the claws. I fell, ensuring the others could escape. Yet I was lucky. The others died not knowing if their sacrifice was worth it. Please, save my fallen kin. Let their spirits know our tribe will live on."
"I will see it done," he promised.
The ghost stepped aside while Pyresong considered the corpse. The Barbarian's axe was still clutched in his frozen fingers. And he had no good way to dig a grave in this frozen earth. With respect to the dead, he carefully worked the axe out of the frozen grip by applying some of his own fire heat to the long dead hands. Then, he summoned a stone golem that would use far less energy than the molten golem. He was silently relieved a few minutes later when it had absolutely no problem digging the shallow hole in the frozen earth needed to bury the body. Once this was done, he lay the axe atop the grave with the appropriate prayers. When finished, he took the signet out of the satchel and turned back to the ghost standing beside him. The signet seemed to pull eagerly in his hand as he held it out to the earthbound spirit.
"Will you accept eternal rest in the land of the dead?"
The ghost looked around at the ruins of the village and all the demon corpses around him as if wanting to do more, even now. The Barbarian heaved a heavy and reluctant sigh.
"Yes."
"The Ancients grant you peace, warrior."
He offered the signet in his open hand, and the ghost reached out. He saw the door open behind the warrior as he touched it. For a moment, he had been certain the man would choose to stay. At least this one he could save. But there were likely thousands more that needed him, too. He would find a way to get word to others. Aside from the obvious Priests of Rathma that knew more about the dead than was typical, there were likely witches and so many others that could help, too. There had to be more than this one signet that would give these fallen warriors peace. Again, he shoved those thoughts aside. He had to find Torr.
Keeping the stone golem with him, he walked further into the village. Both his vision and the signet seemed to know where the greatest need was. It guided him to a tree where three fallen warriors slumped amid dozens of dead demons. Their spirits stood over their bodies, making the motions as if they were still fighting. At the moment, the tree was surrounded by real, living frost horrors and ice prowlers. He sent his golem ahead of him to take out as many as it could. Then, he killed the rest with a few swipes of his scythe. When that was done, the three spirits now confronted him; as if surprised they could see him as well as he saw them.
"A Priest of Rathma? Here?" one of them asked.
The woman in the center seemed to catch on faster. "We lured the foul demons here, but we could not hold. Tell me, did the children live?"
"Yes, your tribe survived and they fight for the future of this mountain. You can rest now, warrior."
He extended the signet in his hand, and each one eagerly touched it. He felt the door again open behind them and watched as they walked through the tree and into it. When they were gone, he kept his word to the ancient chieftain. He hoped the spirits would understand his pressing need to save time when he had the golem dig one larger grave and placed all three bodies into it. He again repeated his prayers, more out of habit than for any real need as he placed the weapons on top of the loose dirt. Afterward, he walked the battlefield again at random, gradually making his way north and east. In the distance, he eventually spotted another ghost standing by its corpse which hung impaled on a tree. The spirit didn't even notice him approaching.
"I've come with the blessing of the Ancients to send you to your rest."
The spirit turned around and eyed him curiously. "From the Ancients?"
"Given to me by an ancient chieftain that has tasked me with seeing to your rest. Your sacrifice was not in vain. The tribe lives on. Will you go?"
The warrior looked hesitant and turned to look at his frozen body.
"I will see to your interment," he promised, holding out the signet. "Your weapon will be with you when I am finished."
The doubt fled from the man's ghostly face as it hardened, eyeing him and his equipment more closely. "You are a warrior. You understand."
He nodded.
"May your blade never rust, your grip never slip, your heart never falter."
"Thank you. Rest in peace, warrior."
Again, the golem dug a hole. Pyresong quickly found the demon spear so deeply embedded in the tree, he had to break it off and then lift the frozen body down. He carefully placed it in the all too shallow hole, and then let the golem fill it in. He placed the halberd he found nearby atop the grave. Everything else was very obviously demon weapons.
It took him nearly an hour to find the next one. By then, the fatigue of battling his way through frost demons combined with the constant need for his stone golem's help was wearing on him. Being partially disconnected from his body in this state, he suspected the biting cold was likely doing its part as well, though he didn't feel it as acutely. He'd managed to successfully shove aside his impatience by this point. He knew that without the help of Torr and the others, he would not be able to continue his chase of Dravec. He could only pray something had delayed the man from his final destination just as he was delayed. But he doubted it.
The next ghost he encountered was clearly an elder. He well knew that the only Barbarians that lived to see old age were those skilled enough to survive the harsh environment of the tundra as well as the many wildlife threats it held. He was not surprised to find the old man's ghost standing amid a literal pile of demon bodies. Much as with the first, he seemed both confused at his present state as well as being confronted by a Priest of Rathma.
"My blade? Where is my blade?"
"I've come to give you rest with the Blessings of the Ancients," he said, holding up the signet for the ghost to see.
"My soul is in my blade. I must have it."
He eyed the bodies of the numerous demons, all frozen together in an enormous pile. Right now, he couldn't even see the man's body in that heap.
"I will find it and see your body buried."
The old man stepped aside as he and the golem began breaking the bodies apart. Carefully and respectfully as possible under the circumstances, he separated many of them before finding a human arm. Now that he knew where to look, he was able to focus his efforts, though it was no less difficult. In the end, he had to expend more energy in the form of heat from his hands to soften the tissues and separate them. He found the man's body in literal pieces. By far the worst of them, he sent his golem off to the side a little bit to dig the grave. Eventually, he found all of the man. The sword he found sticking out of another dead demon. He said the prayers aloud, unnecessary as they seemed, and the man's ghost seemed pleased by this. Again, he offered the elder the signet.
"I will not leave my chieftain. He was fighting against the ice demon's leader. We had to leave him behind to get the children out, or the entire tribe would have fallen before the monsters. Give him peace, and then I will go."
"As you wish."
He again turned an almost full circle, looking for more spirits that needed to be freed. The elder's ghost walked right past him, headed to the east along a path. He seemed impatient, but Pyresong had been headed that way slowly, anyway. Hoping the man was leading him to the chieftain, he followed in silence. He neither saw nor sensed any other spirits as they followed the path a short ways up a stone ramp and into the heart of the village. There, in the large center square of the village, he could see two frozen bodies, both still standing.
"There is Torr, our chieftain, and the demon he fights."
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he shoved the signet into his satchel and took up his scythe. This time, there were many frost horrors. They were coming out of every shadow in every direction. Even with the help of his stone golem knocking them out of the fight, there was no avoiding all injury. Several minutes later, when he felt the many stinging burns of the icy claws that had managed to get around his armor, he knew he had little time to recover. He downed a healing potion while he struggled to get his heaving breath to slow again. He had used much of his energy already and had no idea what still lay ahead for him. At least now he'd found his target. While he fought, the old man's ghost had watched approvingly, and now waited for him beside the frozen bodies of Torr and the much larger demon.
"They fought to a standstill?" he asked the ghost.
"Yes, neither survived the blast of cold that froze them both. But neither are they gone. You will see," the elder told him grimly.
As he gripped the signet, moving closer, it vibrated with such power it was almost a physical sensation. It knew its purpose and yearned to fulfill it now that it was so close to the one it had been sent for. But there was no spirit here that he could see. He couldn't understand. The old man's ghost watched him curiously as if to see what he would do next. Not sure what to do, he extended the signet toward the Barbarian chief that was literally frozen in mid-swing. The signet pulsed once powerfully to his magical vision and then went still. A heartbeat later, he found himself dancing several feet back as the spirits of both Torr and the demon suddenly became visible on either side of him.
"You think you can break me? I am a child of Bul-Kathos, and you will not leave this mountain alive!"
The Barbarian roared, going into a berserk rage against the demon spirit that swung at him. They were still fighting! He had the distinct impression they weren't watching a memory, and it wasn't just the signet that had spawned this. The two had been fighting each other all this time; much as the Barbarians that still existed in Sescheron. Very likely, when they ran out of energy, they returned to those frozen bodies until able to fight again. But this demon's physical body was still there. While the two ghosts raged at each other, they seemed oblivious to the watchers. He shoved the signet in a pocket and then grabbed his scythe. He knew he was vulnerable being half in the realm of the dead right now, so he gave the ongoing battle a wide berth while he worked around the center of the village to get behind the frozen demon. Pouring much of his remaining energy into his scythe, he released three blades of energy into the demon's frozen body in rapid succession. He only really needed one; he found out too late. Instead of coming apart, the demon's giant body shattered instantly. And its ghost faded away before Torr's spirit. He was relieved to realize this one demon might actually stay dead instead of returning like the others in Sescheron.
Torr's ghost seemed confused for a moment, as if expecting the demon's ghost to reappear somewhere behind him.
"I have brought one who brings the Blessings of the Ancients to let us rest at last," the elder's ghost spoke up.
Torr's ghost, as if only now seeing them, looked stunned. "I see you clearly, living one," Torr spoke to him, almost warily. "How have you come to this forsaken place with the Blessings of the Ancients?"
"I was sent by an ancient clan chieftain to see to your rest and the rest of the others who gave their lives to defend your clan and its survivors," he explained, struggling to keep the exhaustion out of his voice.
With a mental command, he sent his stone golem off to the side between two empty buildings to begin digging. Torr looked to the old man's ghost, who nodded that the necromancer had spoken truly. Torr turned back to him.
"Friend of the mountain, you have proven yourself a true ally to the children of Bul-Kathos. Strength has returned to our fractured souls. Others have been given peace. I hear their words from the realm beyond."
"I am sorry for all that your people have suffered in death when they fought so hard to earn their rest. I have vowed to find a way to give them all peace one day, but I come with a request. I need your help."
"First, tell me how fares our people. My daughter..."
"Navair lives," he smiled as he said it, happy to give good news for once. "And, having met you, I can say she carries your heart. Even now, she rallies your people to fight once more. We fight to prevent a corrupted shard of the Worldstone from falling into the hands of the Burning Hells."
"Thank you, warrior. You may not understand the pride I have in my daughter, but your words are a blessing I never thought to hear. It is blessing enough, even without the Ancients' Blessing you carry. But what is this about the Worldstone? It was shattered."
"Yes, and its shards plague our world, even in your own lands. One of them now hides in the realm of the dead. A place I cannot reach without your help and your blessing. And if I cannot reach it soon, Hell will claim the shard for its own."
"My blessing?" Torr repeated, surprised. "You have my blessing a thousandfold, friend. And I thank you for bringing the signet to my people, but I will not accept its release. If you have need, I and all my brothers and sisters still in this realm will aid you. You have already bridged the void between life and death somehow. But...there is more you will need...so the others have said.”
Torr was silent for several seconds as if still listening. Pyresong very nearly lowered his own barriers to see if he could hear what they were saying. Before curiosity could get the better of him, Torr nodded and turned to him again.
"Hold out the signet; it will be the catalyst for our pact."
He held it up in his open palm. Rather than touching it, Torr reached into his hand with his own. He could feel their spiritual hands clasping around the signet together as it pulsed. And yet no door opened for Torr. It was as if his wishes were being honored by the signet. He felt Torr's power flow into him through that signet. It didn't entirely wash away the fatigue, but he felt very much renewed.
When Torr pulled away, he turned his attention back to the golem. The hole was deep enough. He carefully aimed some of the heat of his internal fire into the frozen Barbarian to soften the body enough to remove the axes and move him into the hole. Torr watched in silence while the necromancer offered up his ritual prayers and then lay the man's giant battle axes atop the loosely packed dirt replaced by the golem. Torr nodded his thanks to Pyresong, who bowed low to the chieftain. Then, Torr's spirit roared in a way that echoed through the whole valley around them. For a moment, he was startled by the unbelievably loud call.
"Brothers! Sisters! Heed your chieftain one last time!"
A few seconds later, he found himself surrounded by thousands of spirits. The abandoned city that had once been a Barbarian settlement, was now filling with the spirits of all the warriors through all the ages that had died defending this place. He saw the ghosts of every tribe he could even think to remember; and many he did not recognize at all. Some looked to be from thousands of years ago by the weapons they carried. It was if every fallen warrior still bound to this land by their oaths now gathered to answer Torr's call. He could only see and feel the thousands crowding around him. And he had a sense that there were possibly millions. The task of one day seeing to the rest of so many seemed more daunting than ever in that moment.
But it also filled him with hope for what came next.
"We are one tribe under the oath of the Ancients!" Torr called to all of them. Then he turned to Pyresong, "You, who is of our spirit: protect the Heart of the World at any cost. We go with you to fulfill our oaths in death where we failed in life. Our blessing is yours, but more than that, so too are our blades. We may have failed to protect the Heart of Creation once. But we will not do so again when afforded a second chance."
"You did not fail," he told him sadly. "You could not have won against Baal and his armies. You and your people suffer in death needlessly. I will get the shard and destroy it. And then I will return to see all of you that will accept it be given peace in death."
"We will ensure the way is open for you. The might of Arreat is behind you, warrior."
"I must return to get the others. I will meet you at the gates of Sescheron."
The countless ghosts moved as a single army, flowing away in a massive wave toward the entrance to the now desecrated bastion. Pyresong opened a portal to Bitter Hearth. It was already well into the afternoon, but he would not waste another second. He arrived to find the village in chaos. Every man and woman able to fight was armed and ready.
"Took you long enough, Priest," Chieftain Kientarc called from somewhere in the crowd, making his way across the village center. "We were about to leave without you."
His hopes soared. There were easily a few hundred packed right here into this small village. His initial estimate of twenty to fifty people had him doubting the hasty plan could work. But between these hundreds of warriors handling the demons that would physically manifest and Torr's tens of thousands assaulting the demons that remained incorporeal, this could work. He knew it couldn't fail now. Tired as he still was physically, he was more than ready to take on Sescheron and whatever lay beyond.
"Torr has also gathered the spirits of the dead," he explained to the chieftain, more than ready to share some good news. "They will help guide me into the realm of the dead and will take care of the ghostly demons. You and your people need only fight the ones that take on physical form."
"That is good news, indeed."
He dug the signet out of his side satchel. "Here, this is the Blessing of the Ancients that can give any warrior spirit their rest. When the battle is done, if I do not return, please see that any who are willing will be given peace in death. And send word to any Priest of Rathma, any monastery you can find, anyone able to commune with spirits. Please, tell them of what has happened here. Your people don't deserve this fate."
Kientarc eyed him gratefully. He closed his hand over Pyresong's outstretched one with he signet between them, much as Torr had done, and nodded solemnly. Then he smiled widely again.
"Let us shed demon blood together!"
Navair caught up to him as the chieftain was leading the charge out of the village toward Sescheron. She had Tassi in tow. The witch proudly carried the Iceburn Tear in her hands.
"Did you see my father?" Navair asked.
While the Barbarians were moving out, Pyresong dug Yl'nira out of his backpack to put on his belt. His aching heart and soul swelled happily at the sight and feel of it. More to the point, he was that certain he would put an end to the shard in the next few hours. There was no more room left for doubts or delays. Tassi's eyes went wide as she caught sight of the dagger. He couldn't help answering her wide-eyed look of blatant curiosity with a smirk. She wasn't the only one here with secrets.
"I did," he told Navair, quickly slinging his backpack back in place. "And he is proud of you. You may even see him today in the battle. He refuses his rest until this is done. But Kientarc has the signet. You can free your people when this is over."
Navair's wide dark eyes filled with tears. He couldn't help being startled when she threw herself at him in a fierce embrace. He held her in return for a moment before she pulled away. Gods, it felt so good to give some good news after all the death and suffering he'd seen lately! And he knew it wasn't just Yl'nira's presence lifting his spirits. Quickly, the three of them turned to join the others marching out through the gates.
The march to the walls of Sescheron was a slaughter. With all the surviving tribes in the area having come to Navair and Kientarc's call, it was a small army. There was no fear of the wild and twisted creatures or even the demons as they marched across the tundra. Every few seconds, battle cries rang out as the warriors engaged anything that dared to stand before them. Everywhere was the sound of warriors singing their ancient war songs.
He quickly moved to the front near Kientarc, as did Navair and Tassi. The plan was to basically storm the fortress in a single, concerted assault. Tassi and Navair would make their way to the room way in the back with Pyresong to where the rift between life and death had occurred to help him cross over using the Iceburn Tear. Kientarc and the others would engage any demon that physically manifested. Pyresong assured them there would be thousands of ghosts keeping the ghostly ones too busy to manifest if all went well.
As he'd promised, Torr and too many thousands of warrior ghosts to even begin to count were awaiting them. With his vision still attuned to the dead, Pyresong watched while Torr gave the signal ahead of the living tribes, and the ghosts flooded into the fortress. Just behind Torr's ghostly army, Kientarc gave a fierce battle cry and led the charge. Everywhere the demon ghosts were already being harried by ghostly warriors and overwhelmed. Some of them manifested physically just to evade the ghostly assault. All that did was make them ready targets for Kientarc's people. The two armies flowed through the place, room after room, corridor after corridor. He caught some of the demons manifesting and was more than happy to cut them down with his raw blade. He was trying to conserve his energy for the fight ahead, so he hesitated to summon any minions.
Caught in a surprise group of manifesting demons, he fell behind Tassi and Navair as they neared the room where he'd confronted Dravec. He danced death among the demons with his scythe before most of them could even swing their weapons.
"Tassi, run! The demons will face my steel!"
His heart lurched as he sliced through more demon assault troopers. He reflexively spun to see Navair surrounded in a tight doorway that led to their destination. Even as she used her spear on one, two more materialized behind her. They cut her down before he could even move in that direction. He went cold as his mind screamed against what he was seeing.
Not again!
"For Sescheron!" Navair screamed through her agony, impaling another demon on her spear.
By the time he got to her, Navair's dark blue eyes stared into nothingness. His anger twisted itself around his growing guilt until it was roiling inside of him. He cut down the last of the two demons. Seeing the ghosts all around him engaging the other demons to keep them from manifesting, he knelt beside her. He saw her spirit rise up from her body. Wishing he still held the signet, he instead forced open the door for her.
"Please!" he begged her spirit. "Don't stay here!"
Two more demons manifested a couple feet away, trying to escape the attacks of Torr's army. Kientarc and Ull arrived just in time to cut them down. Pyresong set down his scythe and reached out to Navair's ghost.
"You've seen enough suffering; don't join them. Torr will follow you when this is done. Please!"
"I fight until there is not a single demon left in Sescheron!" she told him and then turned to engage more demons surrounded by other ghosts.
He let the door to the realm of the dead close as he bowed his head sadly.
"Be at peace, sister," Ull said, kneeling beside him.
"Damn it! I couldn't reach her in time," he told them.
Seeing Ull's devastated expression, he didn't have the heart to tell them she still fought. She was trapped here with the others now. Kientarc, seeing the pain in his expression, shook his head, misunderstanding.
"Navair knew what she was doing," Kientarc offered. "From the moment we step foot on the battlefield, we warriors are prepared to die. She fell in battle protecting her home, just like her father. There is no death more noble."
He knew this, but it didn't take away the sting of knowing she should have lived to have children of her own. She should have lived to see her tribe freed of the unending nightmares they lived in death. At the very least, she should have been at peace!
He nodded. He understood. He said the prayers more for the benefit of the other two. If Kientarc kept his word, they would find Navair and set her free when she was ready.
"Go, reclaim the shard and ensure Navair's sacrifice was worth the cost," Ull told him, interrupting his prayers. "I will see that she is buried."
Warriors, both living and dead, were engaged all around him as he made his way to the throne room where he'd found Dravec. There, Tassi awaited him on the dais. Dravec and Skarn. Those were he priorities now. If he survived to do so, he would see they paid for Navair as well as Oza and the hundreds of others that had suffered for this. The guilt of Navair's loss wrapped itself around the cold rage. It all built in him to a point he had to reign it in as he approached Tassi.
"Tassi, are you ready?"
She eyed him closely. "Where is Navair?"
"She didn't make it."
Tassi's eyes softened in sadness. "I see. My people are no strangers to death and sacrifice. Even then, moments like this are still hard to bear. Tell me, Priest of Rathma, is she at peace?"
He shook his head sadly. "She refused to go as long as demons still exist in Sescheron."
Tassi's lips twitched a sad smile. "She is a stubborn woman and will make and even more stubborn spirit."
He couldn't help a flicker of a smile at that. "Indeed."
"This is the place where the shard breached the barrier between life and death. Its effects still linger. Come, we must press forward. Brace yourself; this will be painful."
I welcome it, he couldn't help thinking.
He considered it fair payment for his failure to save Navair, at the very least. Tassi placed the Iceburn Tear on the throne almost exactly where Dravec had used the shard. She raised her arms in supplication. They began to glow a vibrant blue.
"Warriors of old, guide this one who would honor your legacy! Walk with him as he passes through the veil into Mbwiru Eikura!"
The Iceburn Tear rose off the throne and rotated once. When it was in some indefinable way aligned with him, it shot out a beam of icy blue light that hurt like nothing he'd felt before. The burning cold seeped through his body and froze his heart in its icy grip. His soul screamed while his body shattered into icy shards. He couldn't even actually scream. The pain consumed his entire existence until he couldn't even think anymore. The world around him didn't feel real anymore. He didn't feel real anymore.
When he began to regain some awareness beyond the pain, Tassi stared right through him. He looked down at himself as his body faded, yet he could still hear her voice. Her voice now echoed as if she were a dislocated spirit. Despite the circumstances, it echoed around him with warmth and power.
"You have passed into the Unformed Land. While I have never experienced it myself, I do know you must not tarry too long. Your body cannot survive there."
The pain backed off almost as suddenly as it had started. Yet it was not gone entirely. It was an aching pain that radiated through his whole ghostly body. He was no stranger to pain. Instead of pushing it away or ignoring it, he embraced it. The pain was part of his existence now. He would use it. He felt lighter somehow, yet so very cold. He seemed physical, yet not entirely. He took several deep breaths to steady himself as he shook off the memory of the previous agony. He turned to Torr and the handful of warriors the Barbarian chieftain had picked for this specific task.
"You do not fight alone, warrior," Torr assured him, seeing he was ready. "The strength of the mountain is behind you."
Torr led the way up the dais and right through the throne. And then through the walls beyond. Pyresong followed. He knew this place. He'd been in this realm before. It was like a warped mirror of reality. Everything was just a bit faded and wispy. Nothing seemed really solid except himself. Following Torr, he walked right through the stone walls. He realized not even his body was real anymore. He was a part of this place now. The shifting, insubstantial walls, floor, and other objects did not make him sick as they had before. He and his body were too insubstantial for even that. Yet he could feel the place seeping into him, as well. He understood Tassi's warning, then. Stay here too long and the body would forget it was real. Some part of him understood that as long as he felt that aching, incessant pain, he was not quite a part of this place, yet. He could still go back. But the longer he stayed, the harder it would be to return.
Yl'nira sent a wave of warm Light through him as he ran, reassuring him that it would not let that happen to him. In the room beyond the wall were several more ghostly demons. Torr and the other Barbarians broke off to engage them. At the far end of the room, he felt it, like a slap of nearly frozen water. The shard was just ahead. He spotted Dravec waiting patiently for his master in a large circular room. The body of his brother lay on the floor in front of him. Seeing them coming, Dravec used the power of the shard to put up a thick, vile-feeling barrier.
I am not too late!
Frantically, he sought a way to get through the powerful barrier. Whatever else was going on, he knew Dravec had been in the middle of some kind of ritual. Likely to summon Skarn. He tried to cut and slash his way through the barrier. He knew it was the power of the shard fueling that barrier at Dravec's direction. He could feel it. Seeing him blocked, Torr broke off from his ended fight to look at the barrier. He eyed it and the ghostly man beyond.
"We are with you," he assured. "By the call of the Ancients, this door shall open."
Torr raised his hand and put it on the barrier. The others came and added their power to it. Whatever it was they were doing, it worked. He gave it no more thought when a hole opened up large enough for him to jump through. Just as he was rising to his feet on the other side of the barrier, so, too, did Skarn appear from a fiery portal at the far end of the room. Dravec's ritual had worked.
"Lord Skarn, the Shard-seeker approaches!" Dravec shouted fearfully, taking up his brother's ghostly body in his arms.
He froze for a moment at the sight of Skarn. Skarn was so enormous that Dravec stood no higher than the demon lord's knees. Somehow, Dravec had used the power of the shard to open a portal to hell for Skarn. Enormous as the demon's body was, it was real. Somehow, he knew Skarn's body was more real than his was right now. He could take on Dravec, but he would have no chance of harming the demon lord in his current form.
Skarn seemed to sense his hesitation and was greatly amused. Skarn ignored Dravec for the moment to address Pyresong. That's when it finally occurred to him: the demon lord had been waiting for him to get here. A tickling memory of something from the journal now screamed through his mind.
This was supposed to happen.
Had he a physical body at the moment, he knew he would have felt sick. Whatever happened next, this was foreseen. All his hopes, all his prayers, all those very many nights spent alone looking for a way to avoid this for himself and the rest of the world were for nothing. There was no escape.
"The Balance must be maintained. You must choose for Sanctuary..." Rathma's words echoed back at him across the void of years.
"Once more, you indignantly approach, mortal. Prepared to fight with misguided conviction, to defend a flawed and corrupt people. How pitiable you are, our neglected kin. Yet I have seen your worth. And with this: the Heart of Creation, I will see you and your kind freed of Heaven's sin."
Skarn took the shard from the fallen monk. While the demon lord spoke, Pyresong had been watching, shaking off all those memories. He would not let this happen without a fight. To hells with the dreams and prophecies! Dravec would have to wait. Skarn now had the Worldstone shard in his hand, and he could not let him get away with it. He knew he didn't stand a chance, but he wasn't going to give up, either. Maybe Yl'nira could cross the boundaries. Maybe it hadn't been affected by what the Iceburn Tear had done to his body. Dravec's ghost approached the demon lord, carrying his dead brother. Even as Pyresong made his first run at the all-too-solid demon, Skarn sent a blast of power to fling him away. Then he turned its attention on Dravec.
"Abandon your fear, for Terror is in my control. Dravec, come. Be cleansed of Heaven's blight."
When he regained his feet, he hooked his scythe on his belt. If he was to have any chance at harming the demon, he knew it would be with Yl'nira's help. The demon, watching him out of the corner of his eye, put a small barrier around him. As insubstantial as he was, he could not pass through the barrier, even in wraith form. Dismissing him as a threat, Skarn raised Tayev in one fist and Dravec in the other. Pyresong froze in disgusted horror as he realized what Dravec had willingly walked into. Skarn was mashing the ghostly bodies of the two men together into some form of monster of their own. With the power of the corrupted shard mixed in, the thing began to take form.
"Tayev! Nothing will tear us apart again!" Dravec called.
Dravec, you idiot!
He couldn't help cursing mentally at the insane man even as he battered at the shield. As he had expected, Skarn made some twisted, ghostly creature out of the mixture of the two bodies. Its legs and arms were warped and twisted and clearly demonic. Now, one head sprouted above the shoulders as another protruded from the chest. The grotesque creation with clawed hands, spines, and a long tail stumbled and teetered, nearly falling over.
"Embrace your heritage," Skarn told Pyresong. "For soon, this misbegotten world will also be made pure."
Skarn turned and disappeared back through the portal with the shard. He swore violently under his breath at his failure. He had known, and he hadn't been able to prevent it. He knew where this would take him next. All those years of research, all those haunting dreams, all those hopes of it having been averted were meaningless. It had still come to this.
He didn't have much time to think on it, though. The magical shield around him had dropped. Now he was alone with this twisted creature made of both Tayev and Dravec. It stomped unsteadily toward him, still not accustomed to its new body. Clearly, it was Dravec in control. He focused all of his attention on it for now. If he was going to get to Skarn, he had to kill this thing first.
"Oza and Navair will be avenged!" he told Dravec, still holding the angelic blade.
"Brother! What is happening?" a new, panicked voice called out from the thing.
"Fight for your new life with me, brother!" Dravec replied. Then it spoke to Pyresong, "You would have lived longer if you'd just walked away."
It shambled toward him as if it couldn't quite control its movements, yet. He put the angelic blade back in his belt. He knew he didn't have much time. Tayev's confusion over his new body and fighting Dravec would likely only last a few seconds at best. And the thing's wicked spiked tail looked like it could easily impale him if Dravec figured out how to use it. He poured all his available energy into the scythe. He waited, keeping his expression calm but grim. When Dravec was close enough to raise a clawed arm to swipe at him, he made his move. He dropped his shield and gripped his scythe in both hands. He was likely as insubstantial as they were now, but that just meant his attacks could hurt them.
He spun and swiped his scythe this way and that, sending out long, razor-thin blades of energy beyond the physical blade. The physical blade seemed to pass right through the ghostly flesh without harming it. But the blades of energy blasting into and through the malformed thing worked better than he could have ever hoped. The two human ghosts fell apart, the demonic body fading away in an instant. Tayev's confused ghost rolled to the left while Dravec's rolled to the right.
"Brother, no! Tayev, defend yourself! Do not let him hurt you!" Dravec screamed in clear panic.
Ignoring the confused Tayev, Pyresong retrieved his shield and focused on Dravec. If he could just remove Dravec, he could explain to Tayev what had happened and the profanity that had brought him back. Dravec lashed out with his weapon. It was some sort of staff he'd broken into pieces that were now linked together like a whip. He carefully took the hits on his shield while he tried to find an opening to swing his empowered scythe again.
"Dravec, why? I died! What is happening?" the confused Tayev called out.
Still dancing around and away from Pyresong, Dravec tried a new tactic. "Spirits of this desolate realm. Heed my demands and serve the Lord of Hell!"
Torr and the others had stood by to let Pyresong fight his own battle. When the ghosts of several demons began to enter the room, they jumped in against them. More Barbarian warriors came to Torr's call. The room was flooded with demon and human spirits all around them, keeping Pyresong from having to distract his attention from Dravec. He used his opening to fling a blade of energy at Dravec. The monk was too quick. He jumped high in the air, flipping right over the deadly swipe to land beside his brother. He dove right at his brother's confused ghost, with Pyresong only a few steps behind.
To everyone's surprise, Tayev swung his own ghostly weapon...at Dravec. Dravec was so shocked he couldn't even dodge. The staff slammed into his chest and then flung him away.
"You beseech the powers of Hell in my presence?" Tayev screamed. "You are not my brother!"
"Tayev," Dravec groaned, clearly in pain from the blow. "But Skarn promised. I can't lose you, Tayev."
Pyresong's blade went right through the fallen monk at the same time his brother's staff stabbed right through his chest. Dravec's ghost faded away. Tayev's spirit backed away from the necromancer warily, his staff ready. Torr and the others approached, their battles already ended. He hooked his scythe on his belt and put his open hands out at his sides to show he was no threat to the confused monk ghost.
"What has happened?" Tayev asked.
"I will explain as much as I can," Torr told him. Then he turned to Pyresong, "You've been here too long already. You must go."
"And so you survive the ancient evil once again, a spirit awash in fury. Come, it is time to return," Tassi spoke from beyond. "Soul of the living, cross through the veil of eternity. Let the Tear guide you home."
"We will care for Tayev," Torr assured him. "You have fought well, but your battle is not over. Not until the Heart of Creation is returned or destroyed. The spirits who haunt Sescheron may never be at peace. But we will do all we can to heal the breach. May the Ancients guard you on your journey, my friend."
Frustrated and angry, Pyresong turned to where he could clearly see the solid form of the Iceburn Tear rotating in the air. He'd failed, completely. Dravec may be gone, but Skarn still had the shard. His quest for justice may have been partially fulfilled, yet Skarn had taken the shard to Hell with him. And now he'd failed all these warriors that had sacrificed so much for the Worldstone and this shard. The cold rage had all but dissipated to be replaced with the cold certainty of what was ahead. Whatever his final choice in all of this to protect and uphold the Balance, he had to get to Skarn.
"For the survival of Sanctuary, you must decide the right course for all."
The echo of that ancient voice and the memory of that long-ago nighttime visit assaulted him. The Balance. His oath. His instructions from Rathma himself. He had to finish this one way or the other. Compared to that, dying was easy...too easy.
The agony of the Iceburn Tear obliterated the rest of that recollection. The feeling of it burning through his body right to his soul was a penance to him. This was not over. He had always known it would happen this way. All his pathetic attempts to avoid it were meaningless. Now, he had decisions to make. Rathma had warned him. The Balance teetered on his decisions.
As his physical form became more solid, he felt Yl'nira fighting back against the cold with her warmth and promise of Light. On his hands and knees on the cold stone floor, he almost fought the dagger's comfort and promise of help. He didn't deserve it. He was somewhat amazed by her desire to help him, even now. He had failed miserably, but it wasn't over yet. Recovering some of his physical awareness again, he rolled onto his back from where he'd fallen face-first on the floor. Tassi helped him back to his unsteady feet, eyeing him carefully.
"I would welcome you back, but I recognize that look in your eyes. You're leaving—following after the Worldstone shard into the Burning Hells themselves, aren't you?"
"...will die. The choice is yours to..."
He silenced those memories with a mental snarl. Oh, yes, he had known. And now whether or not he chased the shard into Hell wasn't even a choice for him.
"I am. Any other course would spell doom for our world." He found his own voice cold and hollow even to his own ears.
Tassi shook her head sadly. "As I thought. Do not worry, I will see to Navair's last rites. But as soon as things are settled, I intend to follow after you. Hell is not a place to be without allies, even for the strongest of us. I see the shadow of the rift. I can reopen it."
The fact that she could see and reopen the rift was welcome news. He had been all but certain he would have to return to Westmarch and Cain for help. Yet the idea of Tassi—or anyone—following was one he would not agree to. He still had a choice to make, and he would not condemn others with him if it came to that. He shook his head and pulled Yl'nira from his belt to show her. He knew he could trust Tassi and the others watching this exchange. This would at least let them know he wasn't going on a suicide mission, though it very much felt that way to all of them, himself included
"Do not follow me. I must preserve the Balance. I have my allies with me already," he told her firmly. "If you wish to help, hunt for more corrupted shards. Bring them to Deckard Cain in Westmarch. He may also need help finding a way to destroy them beyond using this blade. If you find an answer to that, please send it to Cain as well."
The witch obviously wanted to argue but seemed to know better. She eyed him as if trying to discern if he had any fear, any hesitation. Pyresong didn't blame her. No one wanted to walk through Hells. But it wasn't even that prospect which terrified him now. It was something much worse to him. Yet, he had already known long ago where this would end, if not how. Now that he was here, he knew with the same cold certainty. He'd known from the beginning he would be chasing this demon lord right to its very lair. At least he still had Yl'nira's powerful help. And if he failed... He turned to Kientarc. The chieftain eyed him like a dead man walking.
"Navair will be buried alongside her father. Both of them deserve a place of respect," the chieftain assured him.
"You will find Torr's current grave in the village square on the Plains of Blood. But Navair does not rest. She is here now with the others. And what of yourselves? Sescheron will never be as it was."
"My tribe and I may move on soon. Our charge is no longer to this broken mountain but to each other. I will free as many as are willing with the Ancients' blessing. And I will send word to others for help."
"Will you do me a favor?"
"Of course," Kientarc replied immediately, as if surprised he even felt the need to ask.
He hesitated, wanting to take out the journal to send along. But there was no time to even write a letter to explain what it was and where it came from. He had explained none of it to Cain. He had hoped this day would never come. Foolish as those hopes had been, he had clung to them desperately. Whatever decision he made in the end, he hoped his friend would understand. Maybe someday, he could tell Cain. For now, the journal stayed with him.
"When you send word to others, please send along a letter to Elder Deckard Cain in Westmarch of where I go next. He needs to know, in case I don't come back."
"I will see it done," Kientarc promised, taking something out of a pocket. "This ring belonged to Navair. I feel it could be with no one else. Carry it as you break apart the evil that threatens our world and show them no mercy as Navair would have it. Farewell, friend."
He only barely managed not to flinch at those words. Maintaining the delicate Balance wasn't always about fighting or destroying evil. These poor, broken people couldn't even comprehend such a choice. They had never had one to begin with. They fought and defended this mountain and the Worldstone without question. Regardless of how this would end, he hoped they could forgive him, even if they could never understand.
He accepted the ring and put it in a pocket beneath his breastplate where he kept the locket he'd found on Lucian a lifetime ago, it now felt like. He turned back to Tassi. Instead of reopening the Hell rift, she eyed him critically once again. She raised a glowing hand. The necromancer, knowing he was obligated, just as she had been for him, took off his gauntlet and glove. He let her in and felt her soul touch his. The cold chill of certain death melted away when she reached through him toward the soul of the blade now slightly mingled with his own.
"Hope, warrior. You go forward with hope, not the shame of failure. The spirits are with you. Yl'nira is with you. Listen to them when they call to you. You are not alone."
He was startled to hear Tassi's voice inside of him, but did not break the connection as she seemed to find what she was looking for this time. She squeezed his hand gently in her own as she released the connection. Then, she turned back to where the Hell rift had been opened by Skarn. Returning his glove and gauntlet, he shifted his eyes into the magical spectrum. What she had done was not unlike the method he used to make portals to waypoints.
Hope, she said. Yet I cannot feel it, he thought.
In the end, it didn't matter what he felt. He would have to follow and find a way to preserve the Balance to ensure the continued existence of Sanctuary; all in the demon's own domain. Having been to Hell once before to help a Demon Hunter, he knew his body could at least survive there. He just wondered if his mind could. But there was no more chance for thought. He hefted his shield on his left arm and scythe in his right hand. He stepped through the rift and felt it close behind him.
He was alone again.
Chapter 13: 12 Hell
Chapter Text
Hell
Whatever Pyresong expected upon entering Hell in Skarn's own domain, it was not this. The fiery agony flared instantly through his entire body from within. He gasped and staggered at the sudden assault that even made his lungs feel like they were on fire with every shallow gasp. His scythe fell from his hand when it spasmed reflexively under the unexpected flaring pain all over his body. He had just enough awareness of his surroundings to at least realize he was not immediately under attack by demons. But the pain was almost exactly the opposite of what he'd felt from the Iceburn Tear.
It feels as if my blood is on fire! he realized. Gods, it's like my soul is being drained away!
For a few seconds, he knew he was dead. On his hands and knees, he shook violently, biting back screams. He couldn't even fight back against the pain running through every vein and artery. His blood had been replaced with molten lava that burned worse with every panicked heartbeat. Meanwhile, a feeling of being bled away and fading to nothing was crawling through him underneath the physical pain. What little Light and even hope he had possessed was being sucked right out of him. Something in there, something sinister within himself, laughed. It spoke of the Darkness within destroying all Light forever. All he had to do was embrace it to make the pain stop. He just had to admit what he really was inside.
He couldn't even try to turn back and flee. The portal was gone. He was going to die here or, worse, become a part of this place. His mind numb with shock and reeling, he curled in on himself so tight he couldn't breathe anymore. Anything to make it stop!
Somewhere beyond the pain that was consuming his existence, he heard a tiny voice in his mind. It screamed at him distantly. Tassi had warned him to listen, so he did what it said now. More out of reflex than any conscious thought. He gripped Yl'nira still on his belt. The relief was instant. He could feel it extending its warmth and Light like a shield around his soul. His veins and arteries cooled, and he could breathe again. They still tingled and itched throughout his entire body like the fiery pain was just waiting for him to acknowledge it again. The hideous laughter and whispers from within ceased entirely. The overwhelming sense of being consumed by the vile Darkness began to recede. It was not gone altogether, nor was the feeling of having something slowly drained from him a bit at a time.
As his mind slowly caught up to the fact that the pain was fading and he could breathe again, he finally began to wonder what had just happened. The last time he'd been in Hell it was chasing Aeshama, a demon who manipulated thoughts and memories to create illusions. There had been no pain beyond what would be expected fighting demons. This was something so completely different, he couldn't make sense of it. It was as if this domain in Hell was attacking something inside of him, intentionally. If this was Skarn's domain and he controlled it as had Aeshama hers, then it could make sense. Skarn was trying to slow him down, weaken him. If he'd wanted the necromancer dead, why were there no demons attacking him right now?
Weariness and hopelessness crept in around the edges of his thoughts once more. If Skarn could control this area of Hell so completely that he didn't even need to send his minions to kill Pyresong, what chance did he have? This was suicide. No, it was much worse than suicide. At least dying in Sanctuary meant he could be released to the realm of the dead. Here? No, the demons would never let him get away that easy.
But he still had a choice.
"From the mouth of terror, a light of hope..."
The chill certainty of death had fled at Tassi's gentle touch earlier. Now, he desperately wished for it back. But it had never been under his control to begin with. He could not just summon it now to banish the terror he felt. He eyed the blackened, twisted terrain ahead of him. There were no demons to confront, and he almost wished there were. At least in the chaos of combat, he did not have time to think. Now, the thoughts of so many horrifying possibilities in this place were threatening to engulf him in a bleak torrent of hopelessness.
"...hope of destruction...hope of salvation...justice anew...rebirth of creation..."
Lost in these persistent thoughts and memories, he was startled to hear something that was almost like music. It had vaguely recognizable sounds that somehow felt like words. He paused to listen. He was shocked to realize it wasn't coming through his ears at all. It was inside of him! Still wary of an assault, he struggled to silence his own thoughts. He wondered if he was losing his mind when he realized he could hear his flute. It was tuned in such a way he'd never heard anything like it anywhere else. And, of course, since he knew nothing of real music, it had a sound that came from one place that could not be replicated once played. That source had always been his own soul. For decades, he'd used that flute to purge things he knew were not healthy to hold on to. He deeply regretted not playing for Oza when he'd buried her, but there had been no time. Hearing those long, gentle notes rolling around in his head and heart now was beyond startling. Beyond the notes he felt reverberating in his soul, he could hear the meaning in those notes.
Hope...
You are not alone...
Keep going...
Still gripping Yl'nira in his gloved and shaking hands, he nearly dropped it when he realized the dagger was actually speaking to him! Some warriors, much as the Barbarian tribes of the Frozen Tundra, believed weapons had a soul. Some believed the weapon had its own soul that would help them in battle. Others believed part of their own soul went into the weapon. He had always considered it all silliness, though he respected each culture's beliefs. Now, he began to understand the possible origins of such beliefs. It was telling him that angelic weapons possess a soul made of pure Light. The angelic smiths that created the weapons imbued them not just with magic, but with Light and a sort of sentience. It needed him to understand.
When he stopped focusing on his pain and swirling dark thoughts to listen, he could clearly tell that it wanted to help him now. It already was helping him. But it wanted to help him move on from the hopelessness he now felt. It believed in him, even though he was no angel.
I will not fail you, and I will not let you fail, it told him.
The blade's radiating warmth was so much like what he'd felt with Oza, he felt tears sting his eyes. Not for the first time, he was ashamed of his own weakness. Yes, he was terrified! He knew that whatever lay ahead, he would not even have gotten this far were it not for the cold certainty of his own mortality that had enveloped him earlier. He did not want to be here. He did not want the burden of that choice. But now he was here. He could sit here until the demons found him and tortured him for all eternity, or he could keep going.
Cain, Kashya, Akara, Hemlir, Tabri, Peth, Cadeus, Navair, Tassi, Torr, Kientarc, and Oza. So many others had believed in him, too. He had no right to give up now.
He nodded to himself, and reached out to Yl'nira in the only way he knew how. He sent a heartfelt thanks to the weapon. Gratefully, he slipped the dagger back into his belt, reluctant to let go and not sure if the protection would hold. He couldn't fight with Yl'nira, at least, not the way he needed to with his own weapon. He had to have his scythe. With a now steady hand, he released the dagger's handle. The same sense of his blood burning, but with less intensity, was still there. He was still being drained by this place, but he could go on. And he would go on. He took up his scythe and got back to his feet.
Whereas in Aeshama's realm, there had been a few platforms and paths crisscrossing an ocean of lava, this was very different. Here, it was like some kind of twisted, deranged forest. Most of the trees and vines were blackened like some kind of mockery of the lush greens of Sanctuary. Even the ground wasn't dirt, but a sort of sandy ash. What would have been yellow and green grass in his own world was all gray here. There was absolutely no color here. It was all shades of black and gray in every direction. Still, it was a forest of sorts. There were paths going in different directions. Right now, the only path he needed was forward.
There were no demons, no movement anywhere in the area, not even wind whispering through the corrupted vegetation. Pyresong couldn't throw off the feeling that it was Skarn's doing. As he walked deeper into this demonic forest of death, he realized he could see very well. There was nothing similar to the sun here, but there was a dusky light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. It certainly made things easier. He could likely fall back on his magical vision if he had to. Just as likely, though, the overwhelming evil that permeated this place would make it like trying to see in the Misty Valley. It would be dark and tainted, and hard to discern specific objects. When he approached a fork in the path up ahead, he decided to test this theory. And, it was much as he had suspected. He could rely on his magical vision in total darkness if he had to, but it would be very difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.
A deep, growling voice startled him right out of his thoughts.
"Lord Skarn bids us welcome you..."
It came from directly ahead at the center of the fork in the path. Startled, he paused to look around. He could find nothing. Even shifting back to his normal vision, he could see no demons. A few feet away, a giant, twisted tree began to screech and groan as it turned toward him. A warped face appeared on its trunk. For one heart-stopping moment, his startled mind flickered to the bark-like face of Hemlir during his sacrificial ritual. Then a set of red eyes and a mouth full of wooden fangs opened to speak again, he shook off his terror. The branches were moving and twisting, becoming claws that pulled back to swing at him.
"Your blood...it roils in your veins! It will be ours!" the thing cried.
At least three more of the twisted trees around it began to warp into more demonic entities. More out of habit than any expectation of usefulness, he summoned his skeletal minions and sent a flow of power through his scythe blade. He sent his skeletons to distract the other animated trees while he swiped viciously at the largest one in the center that had spoken to him. In his momentary fright, he'd used more energy than he'd intended. The blade he projected slashed deeply into the bark and blackened wood beneath, making the thing scream in obvious pain.
"That cursed Light will gush from you like the others!"
At the moment, he hadn't really been listening. He slashed again in the same spot and stood back when the damaged tree spewed some kind of sap that bubbled a poisonous green. But then the demon's words struck him.
Others?
"Of whom do you speak, demon?" he demanded.
The thing fell slowly into some of the other twisted trees behind it. He turned to face the threat of the others and was able to sever their trunks with a single slash each. None of them had faces or spoke as the other one had. But he couldn't shake off what it had said so easily. Yl'nira had said he was not alone. He had been certain the dagger was telling him it was with him. Yet, what if others had come here to fight Skarn? Would he find them?
The foul creature is dead, he thought in disgust. Perhaps another of its accursed kin will reveal more.
He looked around him at the forest, nothing else moved at the moment. And the path forked to his left or his right. He had no idea which way to go. Skarn had definitely known he would follow. Otherwise, why the internal assault? Why no demons in this place? There was no telling what traps lay in either direction. And he was certain there would be traps. Skarn had been so certain he would follow that he'd set the stage for his arrival. Pyresong looked closely at the types of trees on each path. They clearly changed to his right. To his left...
The gnarled husks point in this direction. If the answers lie anywhere, they will be in the forest's heart, he thought.
That's when the realization began to set in. His mind only wandered like this with deliberately mundane and even redundant thoughts when he was tired and trying to avoid something. He almost never talked to himself, at least not aloud; now, he very nearly had. He sighed to himself mentally. He was tired both physically and mentally already. He had only been here minutes. How could he possibly do this?
With a mental growl of frustration at himself, he shoved it all aside. It didn't matter. He could openly speak gibberish to convince the demon lord he was losing his mind in this place, and it would only benefit him. He nearly snickered at the idea.
Maybe later...
Following the left path into more of those gnarled trees, he kept his skeletal minions fanned out around him in case of attack. These were no mindless beasts that he was accustomed to fighting. They were stationary trees, but demonic ones that possessed their own intelligence. For what felt like an hour along this path, nothing moved or spoke to him. Again, he was all too aware of the lack of demons. He could feel their taint on everything. He was sure he could even smell their vile musky scent. Normally, this forest was filled with demonkin, mindless or otherwise. But he had specifically been left unmolested beyond that first gnarled tree demon.
There was no doubt in his mind anymore. Whatever game Skarn was playing, he had no intention of killing him any time soon. The demon lord would, at the very least, see him suffer before he died, likely in retribution for destroying the three shards. All he could do was stay alert and wait for the trap to be sprung. Yl'nira echoed his thoughts with its whispering musical encouragement. Occasionally, he could see the twisted corpses of humans, often fused to the trees. Many of the desiccated corpses were wrapped in more gnarled roots, as if they had been squeezed to death. Maybe it was all just Skarn trying to intimidate him. The one demon tree had spoken of others. He could neither see nor sense any souls in this place, tortured or otherwise. Then again, he wondered how much of his own mortal senses he could trust in this place. He had no intentions of getting off the path to get a closer look at the terrain, either. It even occurred to him that this being Skarn's domain, none of it might even be real. It might all be an illusion.
That thought made him pause. Much as this place made him feel a twisting sort of mental and physical nausea, he decided to try focusing on his senses. After a few seconds, it felt like his skin was crawling. They very air of this place felt thick and slimy somehow. He could almost taste the lingering musky scent of animalistic demons in addition to the sulfuric ashy background to it all. Beyond the faint tingling and burning sensation under his skin, he felt like he needed a bath. But his senses were not being deceived. This really was some sort of perverted mirror of a forest on Sanctuary. He forcibly put aside all but the two senses he needed for now; his eyes and his instinctual sense of threat.
Further down the dark path, he spotted something white. It stood out so completely against the background of blacks and grays that he couldn't have missed it. When he rounded a slight bend in the path, it led down into a depression with another giant, gnarled tree dominating a center ring. There, at the base of the enormous tree, he could see it was an almost inhumanly large set of white armor. He eyed the giant tree in the center closely, trying to see if it was another demon. There was no face and no movement. Cautiously, he entered the large depression and approached the armor. Beneath the overgrowth, he could now see the clear outlines of heavy plate armor, edged in gold. Switching to magical vision, he was nearly blinded by its radiance. He gasped as his shaken mind finally understood what it was seeing.
This armor...does not belong in the Burning Hells. It's...angelic!
He heard a faint echo of low, soft notes from Yl'nira that were pure sadness and knew he was right. The thought of angels here in this place made him feel slightly sick. For just a moment, the part of him that was a Priest of Rathma at its core wanted to bury the remains, give it the rites and prayers it deserved. But it was an angel! The whole idea was beyond ridiculous. As far as he knew, angels simply ceased to exist when they died. Still, he struggled with the idea of angels here at all in this horrid place. Though he'd always wondered what they were like, he'd never met an angel. He couldn't imagine why one would even be in this loathsome place. He shook his head sadly as he stood to leave.
"You have entered the realm of the Lord of Damnation," a deep, grating voice spoke above him as he backed away quickly. "Your journey ends here, where no grave awaits you."
This time, there was a violent orange glow from the giant tree as it moved and rearranged its bark and limbs. The mouth and eyes glowed as if molten when it laughed at him.
"I won't be needing one," he told the thing, calmly.
He pulled his skeletons back, hopefully out of reach of it and any other demonic trees, while he sent power into his scythe. The thing made no move to attack. It just laughed at him all the more. It and all the other trees around him were still. This was the trap he'd been waiting for; he knew it. Since no other target presented itself, he vented his fear and frustration into a large blade of energy from his scythe. The orange face disappeared before the blade even reached it. The tree was nearly cut in half, but still stood, oozing a green, poisonous sap.
"There is no escape," he now heard from behind him. "All you do is delay your penance."
He sent another blade of energy at that one. Again, the face disappeared before the strike, leaving the energy blade to damage only an inert tree. It could move from tree to tree. It was trying to wear him down. He had already used much of his energy in the day leading up to coming to Hell. He could feel Yl'nira's warm reassurance, but it was only a matter of time before he was depleted. And there was no way he could rest or sleep in this place. He withheld his next attack while he waited for the voice to come again. He knew such taunting tactics were meant to wear him down mentally as much as anything else. And he was not about to give it the satisfaction. He forced himself to show only his serene expression that he'd perfected over the years. He didn't have to wait long. The glowing face reappeared a few feet away to his right.
"We can sense it...the Light bleeding away from you," it said, as if inhaling a perfume. "In time, your husk will be one with our branches."
He didn't bother with a reply. He was still waiting for an attack that didn't come. He knew there had to be one. He knew the thing was right, too. Despite Yl'nira's protection, he was still being drained. The burning sensation inside of him had faded considerably yet remained. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Every pulse sent tingling, hot pain through every artery. The weakening of his life force and soul had also diminished but tugged at him in a way that made him ache inside. He could not hold out forever in this place.
He waited for the thing to make its move. From here, several paths branched off in different directions. All too aware his time was limited, he decided to force the demon's hand.
"You may move from tree to tree, but you cannot attack me. How pathetic."
Still, it did not attack. The silence and stillness unsettled him more than the mocking laughter and taunting.
Fine, then, time to move on.
Picking the path closest to him, but furthest away from the demonic face in the tree, he started walking up out of the depression on a southeast path. The thing laughed behind him. A moment later, he found out why. Thin, black roots rose up out of the ashy ground at his feet. Even as he slashed at them with his scythe, they wrapped him tightly. They squeezed until he grunted in pain, certain his ribs were going to fracture. He had already decided he wouldn't give it the satisfaction of hearing him scream when suddenly he was flying through the air. He landed hard on his left shoulder, with his shield absorbing much of the impact, and rolled to his feet.
"Our roots extend throughout this forest, each formed of a twisted soul just like yours. We are inescapable," it told him with another dark laugh.
Looking around, now he could see there wasn't just the one that had taunted him. Several of the other trees around this little depression now glowed with wicked laughter of their own. This time, he was ready. He picked the path he'd used to get into here and walked right up it, his skeletons just ahead of him. The skeletons passed untouched. When the roots sprung up at his feet, he lashed out at them with his empowered scythe and skeletons. He tried to jump high over them while his skeletons hacked away at them.
The animated roots caught him anyway in mid air and squeezed him painfully with more force than last time, as if to prove a point. He could almost feel his armor bending, ready to cave in. His knees felt like they were being ground together into dust. He clenched his teeth against a scream, turning it into an angry growl. After a few seconds, the roots finally flung him like a whip back into the center of the depression. The sudden release of pressure was almost as painfully shocking as the squeezing had been. Before he could even process what had happened, he felt himself slammed to the ground on his back. His head bounced off the gray, ashy floor hard enough to see stars. The breath had been knocked out of him. He was so stunned, he couldn't even move for several seconds. Struggling to remain conscious, he rolled to his belly. His scythe lay on the ground a few feet away.
"You are nearly exhausted...your Light but a flicker..." it crooned mockingly. "Do you not see? The roots bind tighter now. We will be as one."
The evil laughter rang in his ears from every direction now. Dozens of those vile, glowing faces mocked him. Fear was pushed aside by anger. When he was finally able to breathe, he pushed himself back to unsteady feet. So far, no broken bones. His steps now fueled by carefully controlled rage that was building inside of him, he picked another random path and readied his scythe. The skeletons he'd summoned earlier had crumbled to dust when he'd nearly been knocked unconscious. They were just draining him further at this point, and they were no help here. He came up with another plan.
He flung a blade of energy in a wide arc at all the trees on either side of the path he'd chosen, and then he ran. The surprise attack and sudden move made no difference. It let him get all the way to the outer edge of the depression before it laughed and sent its roots wrapping around him. This time, his arms were being crushed to his sides, and he could feel his bones creaking. He couldn't help the groan that escaped as the air was crushed out of him. Stubbornly, he refused to give in to the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision. Instead, he focused his mind beyond the pain and tried to go wraith form to escape.
As if sensing this, the demon laughed and squeezed more tightly. His concentration was shattered when his right arm snapped just above the wrist in an explosion of white hot pain. Before he could recover from that, a piece of root came away from the others and hit him across the face so hard he nearly lost consciousness again, further destroying his concentration. And still it squeezed! Any moment now, it would fling him or crush him. Either one was fine with him now. His body couldn't take it anymore.
His thoughts were already spiraling downward into the hopeless darkness from which he knew he would never wake. Somewhere deep beyond this darkness, he heard a frightened trilling note in his soul.
Yl'nira, be with me, he prayed silently, his last thought an embrace.
The explosion of music and Light that filled him expanded outward. The release of pressure nearly shocked him into unconsciousness yet again. But Yl'nira's Light enveloped him, soothing away the pain. Even his broken arm didn't hurt anymore. As he gasped and tried to comprehend what was happening, he almost didn't even feel the impact of his body falling to the ground. When he finally opened his eyes, he realized that he hadn't hit the ground! Yl'nira's power cradled him carefully a few feet above the ashy floor.
"impossible! An archangel...here?"
The demon didn't laugh this time. Yl'nira slid neatly out from his belt and hovered in front of him protectively. He stared at the dagger in awe as his feet gently touched the ground. Then she rotated, gathering power. The explosion of Light nearly blinded him, even without his magical vision. And, yet, it wasn't painful at all. The wave of Light flew outward to every demonic face on every tree, burning them. Whether the demons had fled or she had destroyed them didn't even matter. They were gone. Taking the gloriously beautiful blade by her golden handle, he stared at it in wonder.
Yl'nira...defended me?
Reflexively, he hugged the blade to his chest with both hands, opening himself to it fully. The music he'd heard only distantly before now became clear and wondrous. His wounds were gone, and he was still exhausted in some way he couldn't fathom. But his realization and understanding that he'd been an absolute fool struck him so hard, he felt the tears welling behind his closed eyelids. He could hear her now, really hear her every word spoken directly to his soul. He had been so convinced he was alone. His prayer in that moment of desperation had finally given her the ability to help him as she was meant to. She wasn't just a tool, she was a companion that would fight for him as well as with him.
I'm sorry, he told Yl'nira with his heart.
The warm caress and soft notes in return assured him she had heard and understood.
That draining feeling is gone, he realized with no small amount of wonder. Even the burning in my blood is gone.
He laughed softly both to and at himself as he looked down at the dagger in his hands. He understood now, and he had been such a fool.
I suppose I should have expected that the Light of Heaven would be a powerful tool in this place, he thought. I just never realized it also meant I was not alone anymore.
"What familiar light beckons?"
He very nearly dropped the blade in shock when the female voice called to him through it. But this was not Yl'nira's voice. He knew that. Yl'nira spoke to him in his language of his soul, music. No, this was something else. But the voice had not passed through his ears. It had come from the blade straight into his mind and soul. Struck dumb with surprise, he just stood there, waiting for what, he did not know.
"I sense a presence...angelic, yet not... A mortal? Help me...I beseech you..."
He had no idea what had spoken to him, but he was certain that if it came through Yl'nira, it was no demon. He heard Yl'nira's urgency in the notes she trilled, not unlike when he'd called to her to save him. Reluctant to release his grip, he shifted her to his shield hand for a few seconds as he quickly retrieved his scythe from where it had fallen. Then, he hooked the scythe on his belt and gripped the dagger in his right hand. He turned to take the path he'd been on. Yl'nira whistled inside of him again. He knew she was telling him he was on the wrong path. Shoving all his own thoughts aside, he listened to her guidance and her desperation.
"You shine as a beacon," the female voice told him. "Please, fight on...I am imprisoned in the ruins ahead."
Yl'nira sent a feeling of reassurance through him, and he listened to her notes. Following her instructions, he placed the blade back in his belt and drew his scythe. He could hear Yl'nira reaching out in a language unlike anything he'd ever heard before. It was an almost lyrical, beautiful language sent to the voice that was somewhere ahead of them. He found his heart beating rapidly with a growing sense of urgency that he knew must have come from the dagger. He jogged, but he wanted to sprint. Whatever called to him was of the Light, and Yl'nira was desperate to save it.
With half his attention on Yl'nira's subconscious directions, he followed the mockery of a forest path. Briefly, a flicker of thought ran through his mind at the fact that nothing came out to challenge him. It was as if Skarn had emptied this forest, just for him and his games with the necromancer. He was glad he did not have to fight his way through. Still, knowing Skarn's attention on him was that great made it all the worse. Was this female voice another trap? Was the demon lord using some force of Light as bait for him?
It doesn't matter. I...no, we will save it, he vowed to Yl'nira.
She replied with hard notes of anger and certainty that made him smile grimly.
A few minutes later, he spotted the ruins the voice had spoken of. Rotting, decaying gray brickwork stood like some kind of ancient fortress. But this one was covered in green slime and oozing sacs of decay and putrescence. The smell made him want to gag, but the blade's urgency pushed him on. Sensing something even more vile ahead, he skid slightly to a stop in the putrid slime to peer carefully around a corner into a much larger room.
In the larger room just beyond stood a tall sac of writhing pustules. Fluttering weakly between the cracks were flickering lines of Light. Between him and the writhing mass was a demon of pestilence. Not unlike the decay golems he was familiar with but never used, it could spread blights, disease, infection, and poisons in its wake. With hardly a thought, this demon could destroy the population of an entire village. The thing was laughing as it held up a black object that almost looked like a warped and deranged sort of heart, but with a deep, dark hole in its center that made Pyresong feel like it was sucking something into itself.
The female voice he'd heard inside was now coming through his ears. Her cries were muffled greatly and coming from that tower of writhing pustules. She was crying, weakly in pain. The demon of pestilence laughed all the more at her suffering. His tightly controlled cold rage rose to the surface once more. Yl'nira echoed him with low, dark notes. Already he was looking for a way to attack the thing, almost without thinking of what else may be nearby. When the demon spoke, he snapped out of it and pulled back. He couldn't just run in there and get himself killed.
"Your indignance only makes your suffering sweeter, angel," the demon said, laughing.
Angel! he thought, bordering on panic as the demon lifted the object toward the sac.
"You will never break my spirit!" the angel screamed at him.
He couldn't wait anymore. Whatever else lay in the room beyond, he could not watch this happen! He could hear her agony when the black thing began sucking something right out of her through the pustules. He could feel her pained cries in his own soul like claws. Reacting without really thinking, he sent a blade of energy flying at the demon almost before he'd even broken cover. There was no more time for plans, just his own combat instincts. The blade of energy had been weak, and he hadn't been fully prepared. It did little more than surprise the demon. It spun around, throwing something in his direction that missed only because he'd ducked back behind the piece of wall. Whatever it was splattered against the wall, releasing foul vapors that made him back away from the little bit of cover it had provided.
"A fresh soul?" it laughed mockingly, coming toward him. "The siphon will overflow this day."
Out of reflex, he summoned a pair of golems, one of bone and one of rock, as he backed away from his corner to keep from getting trapped. He struggled to keep them both summoned, knowing he was nearing the end of his reserves at this point. They, at least, kept the demon busy while he poured his remaining power into his blade. Much as on previous occasions, he dropped his shield into the muck and puss at his feet. He spun completely around, unleashing blade after blade of razor-thin power. His growing exhaustion came through in his lack of control as he even cut through his own golems in his desperation to kill the demon before it got to him. He knew one drop of that thing's blight would kill him horrifically.
His combat instincts and desperation served him again. The demon fell in three pieces as the golems crumbled. His chest was heaving, and his head was throbbing. He struggled not to give in to his shaking legs. He clutched Yl'nira briefly out of instinct, and she sent her healing energy into him once more to bolster his reserves. Driven by the angel's screams of agony, he leapt over the putrid remains of the demon, pulling Yl'nira from his belt. He had no idea what that black thing was, but he was going to destroy it to stop the angel's suffering.
He didn't know what to do, but Yl'nira took over anyway. All she needed was his unspoken command to destroy that thing; intent was enough. She pulled away from his outstretched hand and glowed with blinding white Light. She stabbed right into the center of that horrid thing. There was a small explosion of white and black lightning as it came apart. Then the dagger moved toward the still-writhing sac of pustules. She cut away at them with her Light and bare blade. Where her Light touched, they dissolved and oozed away. From within, the angel struggled and fought weakly to escape the putrid prison. He wanted desperately to help her, but he knew touching those pustules with his own body in any way would doom him. Yl'nira returned to him as the angel finally broke through and fell onto the ground in a pathetic heap.
The angel's wings of light fluttered weakly. She shook herself a bit to shake off the last vestiges of decay from her black and gold armor. Out of habit, he moved to help her to her feet, but she floated up off the ground a few inches with the power of her wings. At full height, she towered over him. With her hovering a few inches off the ground, he felt like little more than a child staring up at her. Awed by her beauty and power, he could only stare for several seconds. It hurt him to his core to see such suffering inflicted on something so pure and beautiful. After a few seconds, she seemed to gather enough strength to speak. His heart ached to give her something—anything—to help her. He wanted to strengthen her with his own life essence.
"Thank you, mortal," she finally said, hanging limply from her wings. "I am Verathiel. You have freed me from a millennium of torture for waging war against the Lord of Damnation."
A millennium... Gods above... he thought, unable to even envision such a thing.
He felt a sick and painful twisting in his own soul. He couldn't begin to imagine. Even just the thought of hours here was crushing him. Nothing so good and made of Light should ever have to suffer such torment. The injustice of it writhed inside of him.
"I'm glad you are free now," was all he could think to say.
"There is something different about you," she told him, tiredly. "A familiar brilliance about your form that defiantly pierces the darkness."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"Ah, I understand now," Verathiel said, floating closer. "That blade you carry is Yl'nira, Edge of Temperance. The last vestige of the Martyr. May I share in its strength, for just a moment?"
"Of course," he told her, startled that she even needed to ask.
"Temperance lights the path of Darkness to Terror Eternal..."
For one heartbeat, he was caught between the present and that memory. It was all in the journal Rathma had given him. And another remembered line overlapped that one.
"You will be justice."
He silenced it. Later. He could think or even consult the journal later. Right now, Verathiel needed him and what he could offer. Yl'nira was reaching out to the angel even before he released her. She was so very eager to help, especially one of her own kind. Yet, he felt no jealousy. He loved Yl'nira now. And if she chose another master, so be it.
That was when it hit him with the full force of understanding. In that moment, standing here helping an entity he never thought to encounter in his lifetime, he understood. His decision had already been made. His time to choose was past. The moment he had accepted Yl'nira and bonded with her, he had chosen to stand against Skarn, not join him. A part of him twisted darkly with icy fear. He had known so long ago that he must make the right choice to keep the delicate Balance for Sanctuary. Either way, lives would be lost, but the world had to survive. The other worlds did not matter to him. But the divergent prophecies... Had he chosen correctly? Had he made his decision blindly?
Yet, watching Yl'nira and admiring Verathiel, he couldn't see how this could be wrong. How could accepting the Light and standing against Hell be wrong? Only Rathma understood the Balance in such a way. Rathma's dreams had warned them. But the decision was his alone. Now here he stood, his path was set. He could only pray he was not wrong in this heartfelt decision.
For a moment, Verathiel was silent as she communed with the dagger in a language all their own. He could just faintly hear it, as if Yl'nira wanted him to know. But he couldn't understand the words. In some strange way, he felt like he shouldunderstand them, as if they were somehow a part of him he had forgotten.
The angel appeared to take a breath from the blade with her whole body. Then Verathiel raised the dagger above their heads several feet. He sensed a command being given to the blade in that beautiful language he could not understand. A moment later, Yl'nira spun in a circle, her Light going out in all directions in an enormous wave that destroyed every bit of corruption and putrid growth around it. Every bit of decaying puss, sacs of poison, and sliminess from the walls and floor vanished in that wave. What was left behind was the ashy dirt and gray stones similar to what he'd seen in the forest.
She purified this place, he thought in absolute amazed wonder.
Verathiel, her arms still outstretched to Yl'nira, breathed deeply again. Now her wings of Light floated and flickered animatedly. He could almost, but not quite, hear the conversation going on between the two for a few more seconds before the angel sent the blade back to him.
"See how Hell itself recedes from the pure Light of the High Heavens? Glorious, is it not?"
Still somewhat overawed by all of this, he just nodded with a genuine smile of wonder. He took the blade in his hands once again, surprised she willingly returned to him. Yl'nira caressed and assured him again with warm notes. Verathiel floated closer. He couldn't help feeling as if she was seeing into him, looking for something. He could feel a sort of sadness and curiosity radiating off of her.
"The blade has restored my spirit and my mind. And I see you now as you are, mortal," she told him sadly. "What fate has befallen you that your soul should be in such a state as this?"
"My soul? What of it?" he asked in surprise.
Again, he felt a twisting of cold dread writhing around his heart. He knew his soul was scarred; even Oza had seen that. Yet, he knew it was more than that. He had touched the shards, and they had touched him. They had marked him, and they could sense him. Namari had cleansed the evil they'd inflicted on his mind. Still, their vile influence was not entirely gone. And Verathiel's pity only heightened his fear.
"Mortal, when I look at you, it is as if the Eye of Anu stares back at me. Your soul bears the same scars that have rent eternity asunder," Verathiel explained sadly. "If not for Yl'nira, your spirit would be nearly as depleted as mine."
Pyresong, still gripping the dagger comfortingly in both hands, bowed his head with unaccountable shame...and a sort of elation. The angel was right. His soul had taken a beating. The wounds of Oza's unjust death still gnawed at him. All the suffering he had seen and been unable to prevent over the years. The injustice of it all. But there was more. Something older and deeper that he suspected and just didn't have the strength to confront on his own. Yet, Verathiel had seen no obvious corruption. His greatest fear was that he had been tainted somehow. That he would become the monster someday.
Yl'nira soothed those chilling fears with her warm, strong notes of encouragement. She would never let that happen. She would help him give justice and meaning to all he had been through. She would help him heal those wounds. He would never have to live with that all alone ever again. He sighed sadly as he returned the blade to his belt with a loving, silent thank you for her notes of encouragement and strength.
"I do what I must to stop the evil that I am capable of fighting," he told Verathiel. "I do fear for my soul, but it is not important right now. What matters is that Skarn has a fragment of the Worldstone. He must be stopped before the entire world falls to Hell's corruption."
Verathiel shook her head. "More is at stake than you realize, mortal. The Eye of Anu has the power to alter creation. It was done once before, and the result was your world. If we are to combat a demon wielding such power, cooperation is vital."
"I do not fight alone. I know that now."
He sensed Verathiel's knowing smile in the darkness of that empty hood. He wondered at this. It seemed angels projected whatever they were feeling around them. And then he felt her sadness and anxiety as she continued.
"We must rescue my brethren-in-arms. My lieutenant—Mikayel—his screams echo from somewhere in the Plains of Torment ahead. If anyone will know of Skarn's plan. It is he. Save him."
He closed his eyes for a second in frustration. His body was still recovering; his energies were sorely depleted. Even his soul had been drained in his awful place. Weak mortal that he was, she asked this of him? Yl'nira's humming encouragement took on a new, pleading tone. He gripped her handle again and was shocked to feel her pouring energy and vitality into him. Again, he'd forgotten this angelic blade was far more than just a weapon. Though, it very much surprised him that Yl'nira could do such a thing with a mortal. The fact that an angel had drawn from her power made perfect sense. But him?
Verathiel, clearly still seeing deeply into him, projected amusement, heavily tinged with sadness.
"Listen to Yl'nira. Trust her. She will not let you falter," Verathiel told him. "I am too weak to be of any help. But I can regenerate here and look for others. This place is relatively safe for now, thanks to Yl'nira. Your blade grants its wielder the power to commune through the Light. We will guide you to the best of our ability."
His doubts still weighed heavily on him. He needed to find Skarn, but there was no way he could take on a demon lord alone. He would need the help of the angels. Even as depleted as they felt, they were still far more powerful than he would ever be, angelic blade or not. Ultimately, there was no more time for choices and no room for doubts. If he was going to die in this place, at least he could do some good before he did.
Yl'nira's loving warmth spread through him again. She would not let him die here, she promised. Again, he thanked the blade with all his heart; and reminded her he was just a foolish mortal that didn't understand anything. He sensed both Yl'nira and Verathiel's amusement. Yes, he could tell the angel was seeing right through him and into his thoughts. It felt...uncomfortable, but maybe that's just how angels were. Whatever shame he felt, there was nothing he could do about it now.
Verathiel moved away toward a corner of brickwork to rest. He retrieved his shield from where he'd dropped it not too far away. Just as the angel had said, Yl'nira guided him. He could see sparkles of light where she wanted him to go.
"Temperance lights the path of Darkness to Terror Eternal..." he remembered the line again.
He didn't need those memories anymore. He didn't need the journal. He didn't need the dreams. He didn't need...all of it. His choice was made. He would not deviate now, whatever the outcome for himself. As he had always known and always wanted, he didn't matter. All he wanted was to save as many lives as he could. Readying his shield and scythe, he followed the path. Not very far from where he'd found Verathiel, he could see the path descending sharply to reveal a panoramic hellscape.
The Plains of Torment, she called it. Sounds delightful, he thought dryly.
He wasn't sure what to make of it. Much as the hellish mockery of a forest, this resembled a grassy plains. But everything was shades of ashy gray, even the grass. Dotted throughout the plains stood clusters of gray rock. Bones were scattered everywhere. Giant bones from demons mixed with what looked like animal bones and so very many human bones. It almost felt more like a deranged and hellish sort of ossuary. A brownish fog misted over the landscape. At the moment, he couldn't see any kind of demons moving about. He had no doubts they were there. In this more open area, he would likely have to fight his way every step. He trusted Yl'nira completely. It was himself he couldn't trust. She had done much to renew his vitality and energy, but how long could he really hold out in this place?
While he walked, wary of ambush, he shoved all these thoughts aside. He would fight. That's all he needed to know. He would fight until there was nothing left to give. Then he would rely on Yl'nira to help him fight on. Regardless of what happened here, he would fight. He silenced all thoughts as he fell into his battle instincts. He let the combat necromancer take over. He didn't need to think. He just needed to move forward and be ready for whatever this place would throw at him.
North and then west, he followed Yl'nira's path of sparkling light. Some distant thought wondered at such beauty in a place so dark and twisted. It might have been hours, but his mindless stalking never ceased. Occasionally, he ran into pockets of demons of a wide variety that mostly resembled animals. None of them seemed to possess any real intelligence. Often, a single swipe of his empowered scythe was enough to kill or wound them and send them running away from more pain. He conserved his energy by not summoning any minions that would also make more noise and attract more demons. Much as he had in the Misty Valley, he moved silently to avoid attracting attention. Though he had no doubts, Skarn was watching his every step.
The terrain eventually became steeper, lined with some rock pillars and even walls many feet high. Following along some kind of well-trodden path, he became aware Yl'nira was leading him to something that felt much closer. And her sense of urgency pushed him from a walk to a jog. When he rounded a curve in the path from west to north, he realized he was headed right for a tall rocky wall. The overall essence of evil in Hell made it almost impossible to detect, sense, or pinpoint anything evil, like a waiting demon or even an artifact. He'd already come to realize that some senses here were not going to do him any good, as they did in Sanctuary. But his sense of smell had served him well so far. Earlier, the scent of decay and blight. Now...
That smell...the rank odor of putrefying blood, he realized as his eyes began to make out the entrance to a cave in the wall.
On edge now, he stepped silently across the threshold into the cave. Murky as the outside had been, this was far worse. Almost total darkness engulfed him only a few feet in. Making his scythe glow in here would just make him a target. He tried switching to his magical vision. There was nothing to define any kind of path, but his magical vision easily made out the very slightly brighter glow of Light around another angel. He was only maybe a hundred feet away from it. Its wings had glowed so faintly, he almost hadn't even seen them at first. Switching back to his normal vision to let his eyes adjust, he could see them fluttering around the angel just barely. He approached silently. A few feet beyond the rocky entrance, he could make out that the floor of this large chamber was made of some kind of hellish metal. It was black as wrought iron, and every inch of the floor was laid with these grates. From one wall all the way around to the others, those grates covered a gaping pit that went down for what seemed like miles. Inching right up to the edge of the first grate, he looked down. Far, far below the multitude of grates that made the floor was a pool of lava.
He shuddered mentally at the idea of even so much as a rusty grate dropping him into that lava pit. Yl'nira's gentle chiding and even stronger push helped him regain his focus quickly, though. The angel in the center of this room was only maybe forty feet away now. He switched to his magical vision again. Despite the warm glow of Light coming from the angel, he could now see the profile of something so black, it literally sucked the Light right out of the angel.
A siphon! Am I too late?
His heart lurched as Yl'nira trilled an echo. Knowing he was very likely to make at least some noise on the metal grates, he inched forward carefully. Now, he could see the angel was chained down on some form of table with the siphon hovering above it, still sucking weakly at the remaining Light.
"Mikayel?" he dared to whisper, now only a few feet away.
When he got no response from the angel, his heart and soul ached to think he was too late. Reflexively, he hooked his scythe and drew Yl'nira. He begged the blade to reach out to the silent angel. The dagger sent a tiny tendril of power toward Mikayel that was intercepted by the siphon. He quickly stopped her. He needed her to destroy the siphon. Before he unleashed her Light, he had to know if the angel needed her first.
"Mikayel, do you live? Verathiel sent me to find you," he whispered, now coming alongside the platform to the silent angel.
The empty hood twitched in his direction, and now he could sense the frighteningly weak emotions rolling off the angel. He nearly sighed with relief at that weak motion. He very nearly guided Yl'nira to strengthen him even before the angel spoke.
"You...you're not an illusion. Another trick to torture me?"
The anger, defiance, and fierce hope that rolled powerfully off the angel unexpectedly stunned him for a moment. Yl'nira added to the silent chaos as she struggled to get through to him a warning he couldn't make sense of in the chaos. His own thoughts were overridden by her trilling notes and Mikayel's words.
"No," he heard Mikayel say as he struggled to regain his focus, "an archangel's blessings... How?"
"V-Verathiel...sent me," he whispered again, urgently, struggling to even think beyond the internal cacophony.
Suddenly, Mikayel's entire body spasmed in agony in reaction to something from the siphon.
"It doesn't matter!" the angel screamed. "Help me or kill me! The siphon is draining my spirit. Stealing my Light! Destroy it or end me! Please!"
Pyresong was too shocked to even comprehend. Such words coming from an angelic being... But he had no time to even unleash Yl'nira. The angel's next scream was a clear warning echoed clearly by Yl'nira's screaming warning.
"Flee, mortal! Flee!"
The grates all around him suddenly lit with unholy fire from below. The platform in the center somehow flipped, taking Mikayel and the siphon with it. He was so close, he nearly fell right through the hole. He just managed to throw himself backward in time, landing on his back on the now-hot grates. From his position on the floor looking upward, he could see it coming right for him. The demon that lived in this cave was dropping from above. He gave into his combat instincts as he threw up a shield around his body to reduce the heat while rolling away. The giant demon landed behind him, only a foot away from where he now rolled.
Operating on pure instinct, he slipped Yl'nira into his belt and gripped his scythe as he rolled his feet. Already, the heat was burning his lungs and his eyes. The enormous butcher demon chased him with its cleaver. The blade of the cleaver alone was taller and wider than his entire body! And the thing was unbelievably fast. He had no time to think; he could only react as he dodged the thing's wicked blade again and again. Nothing he could summon would even begin to distract the thing. He flung curses at it that only slowed it down for a heartbeat. There were no corpses here that he could use. Even his bone walls couldn't withstand more than one strike from the powerful demon. He again poured all of his energy into his scythe, preparing to burn it all in one offensive dance. Yl'nira added her own power to his scythe even as he doubted his ability to pull this off.
At her direction, he dropped his shield off his left arm. He took the handle of his scythe in both hands and spun rapidly. By the end of the third pass of his scythe, the combined power had cut the demon in half. Its giant cleaver fell to the grates with a loud clatter that rocked his senses, leaving him disoriented. The demon's body evaporated into a ball of fire. The flames all around him were still coming up through the grates. He could feel himself burning alive all over again. Disoriented, he stumbled, nearly putting his foot through a small hole in the grates.
Mikayel's screams shocked him back to awareness. His pain and disorientation didn't matter. An angel was suffering. He had to do something!
Yl'nira, help me! he begged silently.
The blade's trilling notes of urgency screaming in his soul pulled at him. He gave in to her instructions completely. Forgetting his own searing pain, he let her guide his hands to the handle of the giant cleaver in the floor. The thing made his skin crawl with its unholy energies, but he couldn't think anymore. Yl'nira was in control. She added her strength to his own, and he hefted the enormous weapon many times heavier than himself. Somehow, he was able to turn and slam it down on a mechanism in the floor. There was a flash of red and orange magical energy that triggered the mechanism to flip the table once again. He didn't even wait for it to settle back into place as he mentally flung Yl'nira at the siphon and the angel.
The roaring flames all around that had scorched him, literally burning his skin right off in agonizing layers, suddenly ceased. His hair had already caught fire and burned away. His body in absolute blinding misery, he could only sit there. On his knees, struggling to remain conscious, he watched, mentally numb, while Yl'nira battled the evil siphon. While it tried to pull even more from her, she ground her blade into the black hole of the siphon, fighting back. A small lightning storm enveloped the siphon before it finally shattered. Then the blade went after the black chains that held the angel down.
Help him, he thought desperately to the blade, hoping she would understand.
He knew the angel needed it far more than him. His wounds would be hideously painful when the adrenaline and initial shock wore off. And, despite Yl'nira's earlier assurances, he was certain his body would die soon. Death would be a blessing at this point. But, right now, the angel needed her strength. He just prayed they could save the angel. Whatever happened to him didn't matter. The blade offered herself to the angel as he was too weak to even rise from the table himself. Dimly he felt the surge of energy as she gave of her Light.
Refusing to give in, even in death, some part of him screamed against just sitting there helplessly. Driven by something defiant in his soul, he struggled to get to his feet. He wasn't done fighting! He realized he was almost too badly burned to move. Blisters were popping and tearing under his armor. Blackened skin tore open and bled. For a few seconds, he lost track of everything around him while he snarled wordlessly at his body to obey. Even just moving the muscles of his face was an agony. He embraced it, used it. Let this useless meat suit die. He wasn't finished with this fight!
Finally able to stand unsteadily, he watched the angel rise from the table. He was flooded with relief at the realization they were not too late, though he couldn't even think why it mattered at the moment. When Yl'nira returned to him, he was almost coherent enough to be surprised. He was instantly flooded with soothing, healing warmth from her. The relief from the pain finally began to clear his swirling mind.
Thank you, my friend.
"To think that my salvation would come from mortal hands... I had feared all hope had abandoned me," Mikayel commented.
He felt the angel's amusement and rising hope, so he knew it wasn't meant to be an insult.
"Not yet, it seems," he replied, placing Yl'nira lovingly back on his belt. "Verathiel has also been freed. She is waiting for you."
The angel's amusement turned into something more speculative. Again, he felt the sensation of someone digging through his mind and soul. Flooded with Yl'nira's healing power and love, he didn't even care. Let them look. Yl'nira offered up a soothing melody as the last of his burns faded. He got the sense that she was proud of him in some way.
"There is something...otherworldly about your essence, mortal. And you wield an archangel's weapon with ease."
He just shook his head, not sure what to make of this observation. And, truthfully, he didn't care. He would do whatever he had to do to stop Skarn and destroy the shard. If there was something odd about him, he just hoped it would be one more weapon against the demon lord.
"Perhaps we stand a chance of stopping Skarn's plan," Mikayel mused, pulling back from whatever he'd been digging through inside the necromancer. "Before I was taken here to be tortured by that beast, I bore witness to Skarn's rituals...the construction of great Pits of Anguish that summon forth a demonic army. Such blasphemy cannot be allowed to exist."
Pits of Anguish...sounds lovely, Pyresong couldn't help thinking.
Very faintly, he thought he heard laughter in return and wondered if it was Yl'nira, or Verathiel, or just his own imagination. But his thoughts returned immediately to what Mikayel was saying a second later.
"Can you make it back to Verathiel?" he asked the angel.
"Yes. The pits lie within the depths of Skarn's blackened citadel. Go and bring Skarn's ritual low. May Heaven's Light illumine your path."
Reflexively, Pyresong bowed deeply at the honor of this blessing, coming from an angel, no less. When his hair slipped over his neck and around his face, he was surprised to realize Yl'nira even restored his hair. Then, Mikayel vanished in front of him to rejoin Verathiel. He gripped Yl'nira's handle for a moment, listening to her comforting and encouraging notes. He didn't really need encouragement so much as to just feel her with him. He knew she would guide him where he needed to be. Even if he were afraid at this point, it would make no difference. He was headed for this citadel and Pits of Anguish. He would not stop until he and Yl'nira had nothing left to give. He was far from finished with this fight. Through Yl'nira he could now hear Mikayel's voice as well as Verathiel's from a distance.
"Be on your guard, Blade-Wielder. For you have surely stoked the fire of Skarn's fury."
That just means I'm getting somewhere, he sent back mentally with a dark laugh.
He wasn't sure if they could hear him through Yl'nira, but the sense of pride coming from the blade was clear. Whether it was relayed from the angels or just from Yl'nira, he could not tell. He closed his mental doors again, not sure if that would even do anything against angels. And it was an action born more of habit than any real desire for privacy. Yl'nira, he would never shut out again. She was beginning to feel like a part of himself he'd longed for his whole life without realizing it.
His two victories in rescuing the angels had done much for him. Now he had real hope that this would succeed. He wasn't here on a suicide mission anymore. If he died, he at least would die knowing he'd saved two entities that did not deserve their fate in this place. Humans had a choice, and some just made the wrong choices. Angels shouldn't be here at all. Yet he could understand their desire to continue the Eternal Conflict on any battlefield afforded them. He could not help the sense of awe at their strength and determination. He had no real concept of how their world worked. But the desire to fight evil at any cost was something he very much understood.
He followed Yl'nira's guiding light further west. There, the rock wall to his right ended in a high, sheer cliff. Now, he got a view of the hellscape that few outside of demons would ever know. As the rock wall fell away, he found himself confronted with a vista he almost could not comprehend. Blackened, burnt stone rose for miles, with flowing lava all around. Far, far below, maybe even a mile below, was an ocean of lava. Rising up out of that ocean was what he knew to be the blackened citadel Mikayel had spoken of. Its vastness could swallow the whole of the city of Westmarch with room to spare—palace and all! All around the enormous open spaces, demons flew and flitted about on their wings. The gaping, orange-glowing maw of the citadel's entrance awaited. Just a little ways further to the west on the cliff, he could clearly see the fiery portal that served as the gate to the citadel.
An icy finger of dread crawled its way up his spine just looking at the citadel. Sensing this, Yl'nira blanketed him with love and warmth. She chided him gently with some soft notes. He couldn't help the smile that touched his lips.
I know, my friend. But I am still human, and this place...terrifies me.
She whistled softly again, as if not quite understanding, but accepting. From his deep shadow along the rock wall, he looked around one more time. Again he was struck by the fact that he could walk through this place almost completely uncontested. He knew it had to be Skarn's doing. And as he eyed the Abyssal Gate ahead, he felt the overwhelming sensation that he was walking into a trap. The logical part of him wanted to back off, maybe even find another way. But that was not going to happen. Terrified or not, he would move forward. After several minutes of watching, there were still no guards, sentries, patrols, or even just randomly roaming demonic creatures in this area. Skarn was clearly in control here, even so far away from his fortress.
Certain he would not be attacked, he walked up to and through the huge fiery portal on the edge of the cliff.
On the other side of the portal Pyresong found himself standing on a very similar platform to the one he'd just left. But now a path lay before him. It stretched into the murky mists that wouldn't allow him to see more than maybe forty feet ahead. The ground was a mottled mass of blackened bones and ash cement. On either side of the path were blackened, bony spikes that stretched up ten feet or more. The path—more like a bridge—stretched out over a river of lava, as did many other paths. But he knew already, he didn't need any of the other paths. The moment he exited the portal, he felt it again, and much more keenly. The shard was near. He felt Yl'nira again shielding him with her Light as if to block it out. He would need that sense to guide him to Skarn in this maddeningly complex place. But maybe if he—
"Ah, there you are."
The voice of Skarn inside his mind made his blood turn ice and his heart stab painfully with cold fear. The shard had sensed him! And Skarn had sensed him through the shard. Even Yl'nira wasn't strong enough to silence the demon or stop whatever was happening between him and the shard. That thought made him shudder as Skarn laughed.
"Events have progressed to the point your weapon will finally allow us to converse," Skarn continued.
What?! Not possible!
He could not believe that a demon would be able to use Yl'nira. Her low, angry notes seemed to confirm that. But then how?
"I know what you seek to do, child of Hell," Skarn continued almost soothingly. "Despite your intent, you are welcome in my halls."
The fear that had gripped him now squeezed tight. Pyresong shuddered for a moment in physical reaction to the shock of fear. He struggled to wrestle that surge of fear back under his control. Yl'nira's comforting song and presence helped. He forced his heart to calm as he listened for more. The connection to the shard was his weapon to use, not the demon's! He wrestled the cold fear and dread into cold rage. He had already made his choice. Whatever Skarn's invitations and plans now didn't matter. He would give justice to all those the demon lord had murdered in his quest for power.
"I'm coming for you, Skarn," he said openly.
The mocking laughter rang through his mind and heart again before fading away. Somehow, he could sense that the demon lord was still watching, still listening.
Yes, watch as Death comes for you, demon, he thought, seeing if it would provoke something.
When nothing happened, he refocused his attention on the present and walked silently down the path. He was shaken, yes, but he would not let that stop him now. At the moment, he was wondering how far he might be able to get through the citadel without having to fight. In a place this dark, he felt he could be stealthy enough. But Skarn was in control here. Every demon that infested this place belonged to him. And Skarn knew where he was. Stealthy or not, the demon lord could follow him and send anything he wanted, even if only to slow him down.
At the end of the path, it descended sharply into a large circular room. In the center of the room was a hole that glowed a violent orange from the lava below. Above the hole floated some kind of idol that resembled a demon's head in a vague sort of way. It had only one large eye and no face. Much like the other symbology he'd come to associate with this demon lord, this was one he didn't want to cross. Sensing something threatening about it, he summoned a skeleton to go out into the room ahead of him. To his surprise, the closed eye on the idol not only opened, but it also shot a beam of hellish orange light that destroyed the skeleton instantly. Skeletons weren't the most powerful of summoned minions, so he couldn't tell how strong that beam might be or if it had some other effect, like freezing or fire. This time, he sent a bone golem. It withstood the powerful beam of energy slightly better and wasn't frozen or burned to cinders. Still, it was a strain to keep it from crumbling back into dust even after only a couple of seconds. It had to be some kind of trap or weapon to keep out the unwanted. And, as he inched closer to the entrance, he could see there was likely nowhere in the room he could go to avoid it.
From the path that he was on, there were no other options. Not even a decent bridge below that he could jump to. There were no demons or other traps that he could see from where he stood. Along the walls to his left and to his right were two more paths. Directly across the room was another that angled upward. He focused on Yl'nira's guidance for a moment. He would need to get straight across the room to the path at the opposite end of the room to get closer to his goal. He wasn't entirely surprised. Besides, no matter which path he chose, that thing in the center would find him, likely even inching along the walls. This time, he summoned two bone golems and sent them in opposite directions. The beam from the eye of the idol tracked only one until it crumbled and then switched to the other. As confident as he could be in this plan—which wasn't much at all—he summoned his sturdiest stone golem. Yl'nira sang whispered notes of encouragement. He felt her shield strengthening his own as he prepared to make the run.
He gave the golem a two-second head start. As soon as the beam hit it, he felt the strain of keeping it from being destroyed. While the eye was focused on that, he ran straight for the other side. A little more than halfway across the room, his plan failed miserably. As if it sensed a living target rather than a summoned one, it spun so fast he had no chance to even try to dodge the beam. It slammed him in the back so hard he was thrown forward, almost to the ramp that had been his target.
Instantly, he felt the sensation of burning from the inside out. Only this was much, much worse. It seared right through Yl'nira's shielding into his soul. The shocking pain was so intense that he couldn't even scream at first. He tried to focus beyond the pain and even crawl toward the exit. The pain only intensified with those thoughts of escape. The burns he'd suffered saving Mikayel were nothing compared to this! His entire existence was reduced to this agony. He heard himself screaming, writhing on the floor, unable to escape the gaze of that unholy eye. The pain went on for an eternity, until he was certain he was dead and all that was left of his mind and sanity were burned away. He couldn't even find the thoughts to beg for the release of death or the fact that if he died here, there would be no release in death.
Skarn's laughter found its way into and around the searing pain. Then it stopped. For several seconds, his mind was still so overwhelmed with the memory of the inconceivable pain that he could only lay there heaving shuddering breaths and trying not to vomit. Yl'nira's warmth spread through his body once again, healing the unseen wounds and soothing the pain. But he still couldn't even think. He couldn't move; he could only breathe. Somehow, he was still alive. He couldn't even really comprehend that he was still alive or that he existed at all. Yl'nira spread her Light and music through him more forcefully, healing his pain-ravaged mind. She would not allow him to stay like this. His first thoughtless response was reflexive love and gratitude, unspeakably grateful that he was not alone. Immediately, that was followed by understanding.
Now he had a tasted what awaited him in death, here.
The sound of giant, stomping footsteps and Skarn's laughter ahead of him suffused him with cold rage and defiance. Still unable to really think through the lingering memory of the agony, he let the rage take over. He forced himself up to his unsteady feet to find the demon lord himself standing at the top of the ramp, just beyond a magical barrier. He could almost sense Skarn's amused approval as he stepped defiantly toward the barrier. He knew he was trapped in this room. Without even having to look around, he knew the barriers were in every exit. And he knew the demon lord could turn that idol on him again at any moment. He wasn't going to let his fear of that thing and what it could do stop him. He clutched Yl'nira's handle in his right hand, listening to her telling him how to break the barrier with her blade. Skarn wasn't finished with him yet, obviously. He pulled back on the rage just enough to focus.
"You stand before the Lord of Damnation in the depths of his domain, child. Understand that you are alive because I will it. Because I see what you really are."
"If this is the extent of your hospitality, I am unimpressed," he drawled.
Skarn laughed again. "You have my interest. But do not presume we are equals. You are still unworthy in the eyes of your true kin. Allow me to demonstrate."
The barrier dropped, and Skarn turned his back. Pyresong knew he had no chance of getting to the demon lord before Skarn passed through the portal that appeared. He took the opportunity to at least get far enough away from that awful idol so that it couldn't touch him anymore. Oh, yes, he was afraid of that thing; far more than Skarn even. Yl'nira's tender notes now held something of remorse. He let the blade know he did not blame her for what he had suffered, and she gave him a compassionate caress. While he walked up the ramp toward Skarn's portal, a second one suddenly opened beside it. Skarn's voice now came from inside his mind.
"Behind both of these gateways lies a tortured soul. One the foul spawn of Heaven, one a servant from your world who has strayed from my path and seeks 'redemption'. Grant one their freedom. Decide."
He paused when images formed in the portals. One, a tortured human suffering. The other, a tortured angel suffering. Without a second thought, he turned to the portal that showed the angel. Humans made choices, just as he'd made his own choices. Angels were pure Light and pure goodness. They don't deserve to be in Hell for any reason. He knew this was just another mind game, and he would have to play it out. Yl'nira's approving notes echoed in his soul.
You are biased, he told the blade, teasingly, receiving a low trill that sounded like a laugh.
But he had been entirely serious in his choice. He knew he would not be able to save this angel. Skarn would never let that happen. It was all meant to wear him down in some way. Yet, he was determined to show Skarn no hesitation. Even after what he'd just suffered, he was not about to back down. Seeing his decision made, Skarn laughed once again.
"You would save the beings who nearly burned your world to a cinder? Their fear still drives them against you."
He clung to his vision of angels as he knew them, as he'd always believed them to be. Verathiel and Mikayel. They could have killed him and taken Yl'nira or even abandoned him in this place. But they had not. They fought against evil. They stood with him, a mere mortal. And Pyresong had seen enough evil in humans and in Sanctuary everywhere he went to know that the angels weren't entirely wrong. Sometimes, the worst monsters were the humans because they didn't wear demon skin.
But for every one of those, there were so very many good ones, too. He'd had to remind himself of this not so long ago. Too many names to even list began running through his head. He shook them off. That mortal was here because of choices they had made. The only choice the angel likely had made was to stand against the Darkness and evil of Hell.
He walked up to the portal on the right showing the angel. Though he showed no hesitation, something flickered as a warning in the back of his mind. The fight to maintain the Balance and Rathma's own warning—
Before he could grasp whatever the thought was, Verathiel's voice came from Yl'nira. He knew then she was still watching, still listening.
"Do not let the demon stir your heart. It seeks to corrupt you, to prey upon your weaknesses. Remember your purpose, mortal."
He knew she must have seen something of what had gone on inside of him to feel the need to speak up. But he wasn't afraid or even ashamed. He knew his own choice in all of this was made. He would not change that now, or likely ever. He would do what he felt was right for all of Sanctuary now that he was here. All those years spent trying to avoid this were so much meaningless waste. Whatever others had foreseen, Pyresong knew he was ultimately meaningless in the grand scheme of things. He was just one more mortal in a much larger collection of those who had taken up the fight for the Balance.
Losing faith in this little mortal already? he mused.
He received no reply, nor did he expect one. He knew his purpose. Despite what he'd just survived, he knew his own mortal weaknesses. He knew the weakness of his own heart and soul. He wasn't going to let Skarn's games alter his course. He stepped right through the portal.
Wherever the portal had taken him, he could still sense Skarn and the shard not far away. He knew he was still in the citadel somewhere. He wasn't concerned; Yl'nira would guide him. On the other side of the portal, he found himself in a large room with pillars of blackened flesh and cages where things had been tortured to death. Scattered about the room were pools of blood on the floor, like some kind of deranged fountains and indoor ponds. Even as he took all of this in, Yl'nira trilled a screaming warning. Behind where the portal had closed, a demon the size of a balrog made of spikes of blackened stone and laced with fire and lava roared at him. When the portal closed, it swiped a giant clawed hand at him.
He spun, pulling his scythe off his belt as he turned, but he was still too slow. He just managed to get his shield up in time to avoid it taking his head off. The thing slammed his shield with a giant hand full of searingly hot claws, sending him flying across the room. He felt his body slamming against a pillar. White hot agony exploded in his right arm somewhere just below the shoulder. His scythe flew even farther when it fell from numb fingers. He fell to the floor on that shattered arm, too stunned to even breathe. By the time he regained any awareness beyond the explosions of pain, the thing was nearly on top of him. Reflexively, he raised his shield again to block another attack. Then it proved it wasn't just some mindless creature. It switched from clawed hands to a clawed foot, kicking him squarely in the chest and sending him flying again. His chest plates absorbed most of the impact, keeping his ribs from being shattered by the force of the kick, but he could feel several of them fracturing. The explosions of pain across his torso were so brief, he didn't even have a chance to wonder if he had just imagined them. Yl'nira's warm healing left him with no more pain. Still, he couldn't move his right arm at all. He was flat on his back, exposed. The thing was already running at him for another attack. It leapt into the air, intending to come down on him with all its weight. With no time to think, he used his left hand to fling bone spears at it in rapid succession. Before they'd even hit the thing, he was rolling away again. He heard the resounding thud behind him when the thing landed right where he'd been a moment before. He spun back to his feet, expecting another attack, only to find it lying still on the floor.
He quickly scanned the room, expecting another attack. There was nothing. Taking a couple of deep breaths to help slow his racing heart, he made his way around the demon to where his scythe had gone flying. Yl'nira's healing warmth was working on him rapidly. He felt the bones shift back into place and knit themselves. He wondered at the fact that there was no pain. If only all healing were so easy! Carefully, he lifted his right arm to find the inside of his sleeve and his side drenched in blood. It had snapped clean through the flesh. At least now he could use it, though. He could feel his fingers. Without Yl'nira, he'd have been dead several times over in this awful place. He thanked her once again, receiving another caress as the warmth of the healing energies faded away.
She again began to guide him with sparkles of light on the floor. In his distraction with Skarn's traps, he'd lost time. For that matter, he wasn't sure if he'd been in Hell hours or days. He was also aware that the demon lord was in control here in so many ways. The fact that Skarn had not laughed nor said anything at all about his little fight with this demon made him wonder hopefully if Skarn was beginning to rethink his plan. Skarn didn't want him dead. The demon that attacked him had just been a diversion, or maybe another way to wear him down. And he didn't take Yl'nira's support for granted. He couldn't help feeling that at some point, they might both reach the end of their reserves. How long could he really hold out, even with her?
He shoved it all aside yet again. It didn't matter. Hours or months, he would keep going until they both had nothing left. Yl'nira echoed him with low notes of promise against whatever Skarn would throw at them.
He exited the large room to what he thought of at the moment as the east. There, the path of sparkling light turned almost immediately north. Then he found his target. Much as the Abyssal Gate, he found a small overlook on a cliff. But this one didn't look out over the citadel. This one had a view of a massive pit of blackened spikes and fire with an endless hole in the middle, glowing a threatening orange. The cavernous room beyond it was solid black with lava falls interspersed. The various outer parts of this central, well-like structure held more walls and spikes. Three wicked rings of blackened material altogether made up the outer walls of the Pit of Anguish. Hovering over the glowing orange center was another soul siphon. This one was much, much larger than the ones Yl'nira had destroyed.
A soul siphon... This is exactly as Mikayel feared. The Light of Heaven is being consumed to summon Skarn's army, he now began to understand.
He well knew, angels were so much more powerful than humans that it would take thousands—possibly tens of thousands—of human souls to compare to the power of just one angel. How many angels had he destroyed to create this army already? A distracted and saddened part of his mind prayed it was not many. Yl'nira's mournful echo told him otherwise.
Still wary of another attack, he crept up to the edge of this little overlook to watch when the soul siphon activated something. It spun rapidly and then shot out six beams of black energy so strong that he didn't even need to switch to his magical vision to see them. All around the second ring, sigils lit up an filthy orange that radiated the immense power they'd gotten from the soul siphon. Then the center ring lit up with more of the sigils. While he watched, the center section rotated and rose up, opening a rift. He was forced to duck back into the shadows of the nearby walls when the thing began spewing out winged demons in every direction. He got the distinct impression that Skarn had wanted him to see this.
But why?
Despite his efforts to remain unseen, one of the winged demons spewing out of the rift had noticed him. It was unlike any demon he'd ever encountered before and couldn't name. Whatever it was, it was tall and thin but not quite skeletal. It carried a sickle in one clawed hand and flew on leathery wings. Even as it was flying right toward him, he ducked back against the wall behind him. Reflexively, he drew his scythe and filled it with energy. Hoping his next move would not draw the attention of any other demons, he waited until the thing was almost right on top of him to release his blade of energy. It was small and very concentrated. Though the main body of the skinny demon was only slightly damaged, one wing was shredded. Unable to stay aloft, it fell screaming into the lava ocean far below. He swore viciously under his breath, crouching behind a pillar and against a wall. From here, he couldn't really see. After a few seconds, when it seemed nothing else had noticed the falling demon or heard its screams, he sighed softly in relief. He waited several more tense seconds for the Pit of Anguish to finish spewing out demons. Inching around the pillar, he could see the rift closing.
The siphon has been drained. Nothing remains, he noted
Already he was communing with Yl'nira on how to destroy the thing. She was more than just a little eager. The dark, low, angry notes she sang to him spoke of the need to trust her. She knew what to do and how to help him do it. He listened, not quite understanding what she meant. But, then, he didn't have to understand. He just needed to trust her and let her take control. She would show him. Verathiel's voice coming through the blade in his belt startled him slightly.
"Use Yl'nira's power to purge the evil as I did before. This may be your only chance."
He bit back an irritated mental retort as he focused on Yl'nira instead. Letting her guide his hands, he lifted the blade from his belt and then released her into the air. She knew what to do. He could still sense her tethered to his soul as she floated up and out over the pit. She glowed in beauteous rainbows of gold, silver, and pure Light. Even without his magical vision, he felt his eyes almost burning at the raw power she gathered around herself in a small but very concentrated bubble. He could feel it through him, very much as he had in the workshop destroying the shards. It was a sort of loop of energy that cycled through him into her, building and building.
He very clearly heard her song when she was ready, like some sort of beautiful battle cry. He released her. She flew straight and true to the well-like center of the structure and exploded her energy in all directions. An instant later, the vile structure flew apart, spewing black smoke and fragments of rock. For a heartbeat, he was afraid that maybe she had been damaged in the blast. It had been so unbelievably powerful! Reflexively, he called her back to his hand.
Before the fear could take root, she whispered happy notes to his soul. He couldn't help a smile as he was flooded with relief. She was satisfied with the purification of this Pit of Anguish. He replied happily, proud of her. She came floating out of the smoke right back to his still outstretched hand. An instant before she got back to his hand, he found himself losing all concentration and dancing backward away from the ledge. Fire exploded only a few feet in front of him. It rose up out of the lava ocean beyond sight down below. He just managed to get Yl'nira in his gloved hand protectively when the fire formed an image of Skarn's head.
"Heaven would deny the truth: that Light and Dark were one. Yet I use the Light to create, while they are the destroyers."
Even as startled as he had been, Pyresong smiled defiantly at the image of the demon lord. He knew he'd angered the Skarn with the destruction of the pit. And he'd scored a victory big enough that Skarn forgot to even communicate through the connection with the shard. Was he so surprised by the destruction of the pit? He was more than willing to use it to taunt the demon lord.
"And with the Light we will destroy you, too," he called back, Yl'nira held up proudly.
The image of Skarn didn't laugh this time. It evaporated into a puff of smoke. He had no idea how many of these pits there were. But even destroying one would make a difference. He knew the confrontation with Skarn would happen eventually. Until it did, every little bit he could do to anger the demon lord would make Skarn that much more likely to make mistakes, maybe even leave him an opening he could exploit to destroy the shard and weaken him further.
"As Skarn's power wanes, ours grows," Verathiel told him, exuding a sense of pride in him.
He turned his attention back to Yl'nira's growing impatience. Something had the blade upset, even angry. Her song in his soul practically growled ferociously. Almost before he'd realized what he was doing, he was running to the east. He pulled back on her control of him when he nearly ran right into a couple of winged demons in a corridor. He had startled them enough for him to get the first swing with his scythe, but that had been pure luck. He was no longer running around here alone. Yl'nira's insistence and urgency tugged at his soul almost painfully. When he struggled for control of himself again, he heard that musical conversation between Yl'nira and Verathiel and a much fainter third voice he almost couldn't make out. After a few seconds Verathiel spoke to him directly while Yl'nira tugged at him more forcefully.
"Mortal, Yl'nira has sensed another of my brothers... Andalon! Make haste!"
And I thought a nice afternoon stroll would be a pleasant way to pass the time here, he growled back mentally before he could stop himself.
Slightly ashamed of that remark, he again reminded himself who and what he was dealing with. He was certain Verathiel had heard it. And Yl'nira just prodded him on faster. He slowed to a silent jog to avoid another similar run-in and let himself fall into the battle instincts. He was no less urgent than Verathiel or Yl'nira, but running headlong into a room full of demons would accomplish nothing. He was no angel, despite the weapon he carried. His earlier encounter with the larger demon in Skarn's trap had reminded him of that painfully. Even if Yl'nira could keep him alive during and right after the trauma, the time taken to heal would be wasteful.
Despite his efforts, when he rounded a corner into another room, there were easily a dozen various demons all milling about. He summoned a couple of stone golems to occupy a few of them while he swiped his scythe, releasing energy blades at the others. The hasty attack strategy worked, but only barely. The demons within this citadel were not entirely stupid. Most of them had ignored his golems to go after the necromancer who had summoned them. Still, the flailing golems were able to hit hard enough to send at least a couple of their bodies flying across the room to buy him a few more precious seconds to alter his angle of attack.
When the last demon corpse hit the floor, he could finally see what was in the center of this room. The sweeping waves of emotions and thoughts at what he saw froze him momentarily. A twisted altar of bone and blackened flesh glowed yellow. Around the altar were three pillars made of what looked like demonhide scales and bones. He felt his stomach churning at the sight of the hollow armors impaled on each one.
More tortured angels...so sickening, he thought disgusted and sad.
All around him throughout the room were the chained and impaled empty armors of so many angels. They were set out like some kind of trophies in this unholy temple. Yl'nira whistled sadly, an echo in his soul. He stared for several seconds, noting every one of the hollow armors. He knew from Verathiel and Mikayel that if any life remained in these, their wings would be visible. There was nothing but the hollow armors. Their Light extinguished forever. He wanted to do something, even if it was just prayers. But, Yl'nira prodded him again with high, trilling notes of fear. He shook off his sadness and fell back into Yl'nira's control.
I must reach Andalon before he shares this fate!
Letting Yl'nira take control, he could clearly feel her changing tunes, though her sense of urgency never faltered. He gave in to her completely, trusting her to not only guide him but protect him as he ran.
An entire legion of angels was imprisoned and drained of life. This was how an unknown demon summoned an army. He understood her attempts to explain. And the more Light there is to drain, the more demons he can summon.
It wasn't long before he was again flat-out sprinting down corridors and through rooms. Andalon wasn't just being tortured and drained. He was dying. Yl'nira could feel it. Pyresong didn't waste any time fighting the few demons he encountered. They were fat little things that tried to chase after him. He sent a giant, sweeping blade of energy from his scythe to take out as many as he could, but never slowed his now frantic pace. While the surviving demons ran away in fear of him, he heard another voice through Yl'nira as she established a connection in the angel's musical language.
"That Light...come no closer!" the angel ordered. "We are not alone! Purus is watching!"
He ignored the command, forcing his feet to keep moving against the angel's powerful voice attempting to compel him to stop.
"Andalon? Fear not; Verathiel has sent me to aid you!" he called back.
All around him were so many more of the hollow armors from dead angels, more than he could count. They lay on the floor, hung on the walls, and even sat impaled on bony spikes. This was enough to fuel the cold rage he now called upon. No more sadness came from Yl'nira. She echoed him with dark notes that promised vengeance. Still slashing away at any demons he found with a blade of energy, as much to scare them off as to wound them, he kept running. His chest was burning, but he wouldn't slow. Something had changed in the last few minutes, and he was almost certain he was going to be too late. Yl'nira guided him through a room that opened into a much larger room to the north. There, he spotted the angel, and his own insides twisted painfully at the sight.
Andalon was still alive, but only barely. His wings were fluttering weakly as if in an invisible breeze. Three stone spikes impaled his torso, and another two, one for each arm. A soul siphon was already eating away at him. Before he even crossed the room, he had mentally flung Yl'nira at the soul siphon to destroy it. She flew ahead of him eagerly. Behind him, he felt the surge of power when a fountain of lava rose up out of the floor. He knew Yl'nira could finish the job without him. He spun with his scythe ready. He danced backward reflexively away from the spewing lava. The fountain of lava that seared his skin formed into a mounted demon.
"Let your wailing join the chorus of damned souls!" Purus shouted, his demonic horse screaming an echo.
The thing radiated too much heat for him to get close enough to use his scythe. Running through various options in less than a heartbeat, he decided to try bone spears again. The danger of the spears is that they would go right through the target and beyond, possibly injuring people in the area. So he had always used them very carefully. This time, anything worth keeping alive was behind him. He nearly laughed darkly at the idea that his bone spears would even harm something as powerful as an angel. While Yl'nira attacked the siphon with her white lightning storm, he dodged to one side of the room and flung giant spears of bone into the horse and demon. Still, he had to flee to one side as the demon roared in anger and pain and charged at him. He felt his skin blistering again as the heat of the close pass scorched him. He pushed the pain aside and turned to send more bone spears. A second time, he had to dodge as the horse and rider charged him. This time, he was against a wall. There was a small explosion across the room a moment later when Yl'nira finally managed to destroy the soul siphon. Desperate, he wove spirit fire into those bone spear,s making them as large as possible in one final, panicked volley.
It was just enough. The thing finally melted into a pool of lava with an enraged scream and faded away. He ran back to the ledge that overlooked the pit and the construct that impaled the angel. His heart twisted painfully in his chest until he couldn't breathe. The angel hung there limply on those spikes, though the wings still fluttered slightly.
Go to him. Save him! he all but screamed at Yl'nira.
"Andalon?" he called, uncertainly, desperate for any reaction at all.
Yl'nira needed no further prodding. She shot back in a mix of alternating high and low notes that seemed absolutely frustrated. He couldn't understand why she wasn't already helping him. With his direct command, she was at least able to act now. She flung herself at the angel and into his limp hand. Somehow, the semi-conscious angel found the strength to grip her. She whispered to him of relief while speaking directly to the angel in their language at the same time. He couldn't help wondering what was going on. Finally, the hand that gripped the dagger pulled and shattered the spike impaling that arm. Pyresong's heart soared with hope. They weren't too late!
He watched helplessly from the ledge while the angel broke off the other arm spike. Then Andalon seemed to draw more strength and power from Yl'nira, though it seemed like only the tiniest trickle. The angel groaned in gut-wrenching agony when he shattered the three spikes impaling his torso. Pyresong gasped fearfully, screaming mentally against his own uselessness when Andalon fell almost into the pit of lava below. Somehow, the angel managed to catch himself on the rim of the construct that had imprisoned him. The pained cry as Andalon landed on the rock, right where he'd so recently been impaled, made him clench his fists in frustration at his helplessness.
Still clutching Yl'nira, Andalon lay there for several seconds. Pyresong gave a relieved sigh when the angel finally rose up weakly on his wings and floated the few feet to the ledge. Then Andalon collapsed again just a couple feet away. Yl'nira's frustrated notes grated on him.
"Please, take what you need from Yl'nira," he told the angel as he knelt down beside Andalon. "She wants to help."
The angel struggled for a moment longer before allowing Yl'nira to flood him with Light and strength. He couldn't begin to imagine why Andalon was being so stupidly stubborn. At best he could guess maybe some sort of shock or delirium. Maybe he thought it was another hellish trick? Finally, the angel found enough energy to float upright again. He got back to his own feet when Yl'nira returned to him the moment she was released. Andalon, seeming more aware now, radiated powerful loathing and disgust.
"You...you are demon spawn? Have the days grown so dark that your mongrel kind could provide a ray of hope?"
"Would you prefer to remain imprisoned?" Pyresong snapped back, before he could stop himself.
But he didn't regret it, once he'd thought about it. It wasn't so much an insult to his pride as much as the stark difference between what he thought of angels and what he was learning about them here that bothered him. Verathiel lived up to his ideal, while this Andalon was shattering that concept. Still, he knew he was being unfair. Humans were no different, really, just less powerful and mortal.
"Don't confuse incredulity for ingratitude, mortal," Andalon warned, seeming more sad than disgusted now. "Skarn's evil must be put to an end, and it appears fate has chosen you as its unlikely pawn."
"You're welcome," he replied dryly. Then, he got more serious. "Verathiel and Mikayel are waiting for you. Are you able to get to them?"
"Yes, but the usurper has stolen my lifeblood and used it to birth an unholy army from a twisted womb in the west. It will be guarded by the living war engines of Hell. Only the Light you wield can stop it from issuing forth again," Andalon explained, still radiating no small amount of disgust.
Again he had the feeling something was reaching around inside of him, rummaging through his soul. He stared down Andalon, unflinching. After several seconds, the angel radiated disdain and no small amount of hope he felt keenly.
"Though it tests my faith, I must ask you to resist your many imperfections and deliver us from evil."
Andalon disappeared in a flash of Light, hopefully to wherever Verathiel and Mikayel waited. Pyresong nearly laughed. Oh yes, he understood. Despite their awesome power and pure Light, even angels could be bastards sometimes. He shook his head. It didn't matter. Whatever the angels thought of him didn't matter. He was here for Skarn and the shard. He did not need the praise or approval of an angel to do it. He began this fight, and he would finish it. He did smile widely for a moment when Yl'nira again whispered comforting notes to his soul.
You're right; we will finish it, my friend.
He followed Yl'nira's directions west of where he'd found Andalon, at least to the left of that position. In this place, it was sometimes hard to tell one direction from another. And, really, it didn't matter. He just followed her sparkling path of light. Despite his silent stalking, he still ran into the occasional pack of mindless demonic beasts that were often called pets by some of the greater demons. These were easily killed or scared off with a few swipes of his empowered scythe. Not for the first time, he was amazed at how he no longer even felt tired with Yl'nira's energy flowing through him. He even credited her presence for the still strong hopes he felt. He actually began to believe this could work.
Ahead, the path opened onto something more like a platform than a room. Beyond, he could see more of the gaping abyss of cliffs and lava flows that defined Hell. He could just make out the edge of another Pit of Anguish. At the moment, though, his main focus was on the two massive creatures roaming around the platform between him and the overlook to the pit. He'd heard of living siege engines before but could never have imagined just how massive they actually were. From the shadows, he crouched down to watch them. The only thing he really knew was that they were the prized champions of the rulers of Hell. And now he could see why.
Aside from their sixty-foot stature, they were all muscle. The four feet ended in four talons longer than he was tall that could easily rip through stone. The head was covered with a helmet made of black metal that looked thick enough to punch through a fortress wall. They wore black breastplates that guarded their bulging chests and bellies. As if they needed any more, the hands were covered in black metal gauntlets that ended in three wicked spikes.
He didn't think he could take on one of them by himself, let alone two.
There were only two possible weaknesses, and maybe not even those. The lower body was made up of four enormous legs they used to charge at their targets. Then there were the unbelievably thick necks that were exposed only slightly. He'd never reach the necks, he knew. Even a precisely aimed energy blade from his scythe might not do more than irritate these things. The underside of the back end was nothing more than muscle to help them charge. There weren't even any vital organs he could easily target. They were rumored to be nearly impervious to any form of magic or curses, even from the most powerful mages working in large numbers.
In the end, he could find no way to sneak around them to attack the Pit of Anguish without drawing their attention. Nor could he find a way to defeat them on his own. With time, he might be able to do enough damage to one to kill it. But the other wouldn't even be slowed down by anything he was capable of summoning. His largest stone golem wasn't even as large as one of their feet. If he was unbelievably lucky, he might get them to charge at him and go right over the edge into the ocean of lava below. Yet, he knew that was too unlikely even to really be considered a serious option.
He consulted Yl'nira, who sang softly with excitement to him; eager to be let loose on them. He couldn't help smiling at her eagerness. Given that he really didn't have any other choice, he lifted her out of his belt and let her go.
He watched from the shadows while she made two runs at the beasts. The Light she unleashed was very similar to the energy blades he released from his scythe. One slash of pure white Light from her, and one beast fell nearly cut in half from behind. With a second swipe and the head fell right off the other, landing with a resounding thud on the ground that he could literally feel shaking the floor. He hugged Yl'nira mentally as she returned to his outstretched hand. He waited a few more seconds to make sure there were no other demons or patrols in the area attracted by the noise. When he was convinced nothing had raised the alarm at the death of the two Siegebreaker Assault Beasts, he finally stepped out of his concealing shadows. He walked right up to the ledge that overlooked the pit. It was almost exactly the same as the last one.
Yl'nira sang to him eagerly. He knew what to do this time. Gladly, he pulled the dagger from his belt again and lofted her into the air above him. He watched in awe while she gathered her Light and strength in a powerful bubble around herself. When she was ready a few seconds later, she flew straight and true at the center of the pit, just as she had before. Again there was a giant explosion of Light destroying Darkness that was so inconceivably powerful, he felt almost blinded by it. And, again, Yl'nira rose unscathed out of the smoke toward him. Ready for it this time, he stood proudly wielding Yl'nira when the image Skarn exploded into existence made of fire and smoke.
"Once more, you use Heaven's Light to destroy at their behest," Skarn mocked. "Exactly as they would have purged your world."
He was disappointed that the demon lord wasn't more angry than amused. He had hoped to enrage Skarn into making a mistake somewhere. But he was still very pleased with this latest victory and how much it would weaken or slow down the demon lord's plans. He smiled defiantly up at the image. Yl'nira's encouraging music sang inside of him proudly.
"Your lies fall on deaf ears, demon. One does not raise an army or invade another world for peace," he spoke proudly.
Skarn again evaporated in a puff of smoke without another word.
"Holy wrath well-delivered, mortal." Verathiel's words and sense of pride radiated from Yl'nira. "The last of my lieutenants is near. Find him swiftly, for his spirit has grown dark."
Right behind Verathiel's words, he heard a low warning note from Yl'nira. Of course, he would save any angel he could in this place. But the dagger's warning reverberated in his soul with something dark and terrifying, making him pause. He couldn't understand what she was trying to tell him. He closed his eyes and listened for a few seconds. All he got was a sense of wariness and caution from her that he could not figure out. She wasn't warning him of pending threats in the way he had heard before. This was more of a warning not to go save the angel at all. Still, she guided him back the way they had come only minutes ago. Then she sent him onto a path that he determined for now was north, or as good as.
Here, things were much more open and a lot less like corridors. They were more like bridges and platforms over lava so far below he couldn't even see it through the crisscrossing of other bridges and glowing orange mist. He felt way too exposed. There was really no cover to be found anywhere. Most of the demons he spotted were on other bridges, too far below or too far away to do him any harm. Of course, there was always the possibility of more flying demons. Yet there was not a single creature anywhere within sight. He began to feel as if Skarn had given all of them some kind of orders to leave him alone again. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow being set up. Worse, Yl'nira had gone silent since her earlier warning.
Focused mostly on his trek, he now began to realize that he had no idea how long he'd been here. Part of his mind wanted to say at least a day, maybe more. But his body had made no demands of him since he'd accepted Yl'nira as more than just a weapon. She fed him energy to provide him with the power he needed to fight. She healed him when he was injured. And she apparently kept his body going. The fact that he had no desire for food was far from surprising. With the sulfurous smells and stench of demons combined with the overall miasma of this place, the very idea of food made his stomach churn. He knew he still had some rations, but they weren't much. And the fact that he hadn't slept since the day before the assault on Sescheron made it all the more amazing to him.
With a near-constant flow of amazement and thanks toward Yl'nira, he very nearly missed her warning him again. The notes she produced didn't seem so much frightened to him as cautionary, mistrustful. Yet, she wouldn't tell him more, either. There was something ahead she did not like. Anything that would make such a wondrous weapon and companion so wary must be truly horrifying. She didn't even hesitate at the idea of going after Skarn directly in his own domain. What could possibly make her so reluctant?
Cautiously, he looked ahead for any sign of demons or an attack and found nothing. He switched to his magical vision and could detect no obvious traps, either, not that he really expected there to be any in this place. Not for the first time, he felt as if Skarn was guiding him, almost as much as Yl'nira. Clearly, something she sensed had her on edge. Focusing entirely on what lay ahead, he continued to follow the sparkling path. Still, nothing jumped out at him or even looked in his direction.
"A painful effulgence... Such brilliance only brings my failings to light..."
He couldn't help a shudder at the dark and forlorn tone coming through Yl'nira. This could only be the lieutenant Verathiel had spoken of. Yet, he sensed no urgency from Yl'nira. If anything, mournful reluctance is what she whispered. It was as if she didn't want to find this tormented angel. Pyresong was resolved, however. If there were another angel he could save, he would do so. Yl'nira would not disobey him, though she whistled in warning again, a much higher note. He picked up his pace to more of a run, seeing the path clear of demons. When he finally rounded a corner into a much darker, blackened path, he froze.
Scattered all over the ground were the hollow white and gold armors of so very many dead angels. Dozens of them. Aside from feeling sick at the sight, he was saddened. Yl'nira echoed him, but with a trill of warning as well. Near a cliff edge, not too far away, was another soul siphon, draining the Light out of an angel with red wings that somehow felt all wrong. He didn't waste any more time on thought. He had to save this poor angel! He flung Yl'nira from his belt ahead of him to destroy the soul siphon. Only as she began her attack on the siphon did he notice this angel wasn't chained or impaled or imprisoned in any way. He just sat pathetically on his hands and knees amid the countless remains of his brothers and sisters.
Yl'nira was completely engaged in her fight against the siphon. Something about this one was much harder for her to destroy. When she was finally successful, she fled right back toward him rather than offering herself or her strength to the angel with the terrifying red wings. Confused and shocked, Pyresong took her back without hesitation.
"Run...please...run. I do not wish to harm you, but I can fight him no longer!" the angel begged, still on the ground.
"Shaddox! What has happened to you?" Verathiel's voice asked.
He found himself stepping slowly backward at Yl'nira's forceful insistence despite wanting to somehow help the angel with his struggles. He forced his feet and legs to stop and ignored the dagger for a moment.
"Your bonds are broken, angel. Fight it! Verathiel and the others await you," he urged, feeling the overwhelming despair rolling off the angel.
"There is no freedom in the Lord of Damnation's realm..." Shaddox replied weakly, his arms and legs giving out beneath him.
As Shaddox collapsed entirely to the floor, Pyresong stood frozen in shock. For a few seconds, he struggled against Yl'nira, trying to understand why she wouldn't help the tormented angel. Finally, he got a whispering note of utter sadness.
It's too late, she was trying to tell him.
He refused to believe that. He growled angrily against her urges to flee, he stepped toward Shaddox's prone body. There must be something they could do! Pathetic human that he was, he would not abandon this suffering angel. Hearing him coming, Shaddox flung out a hand that threw him back by several feet.
"Do you not see? He wants you to free us! There can be no victory here."
"No! I refuse to believe that. Let us help you. Please!" he begged, feeling himself held back now as much by Shaddox's power as Yl'nira's control of him.
Shaddox struggled off the ground and back to his feet, seeming too tired to even hover with his wicked red wings.
"We join him, or we bleed away to nothingness."
"No! Better to die than let the corruption of Hell take over. Don't give in now! We can—"
Behind the angel, in the void beyond the cliff edge, a fiery portal opened. Skarn appeared. Pyresong locked his feet in place when Yl'nira's screaming high notes of rage had him wanting to rush the demon and end it now. But he couldn't, not yet. He had an angel to save. He refused to believe it was too late for Shaddox.
"Now you see my truth laid bare," Skarn told him with no small amount of arrogant amusement. "The fate of those who stand against me. Eventually, their suffering gives way to acceptance."
Skarn's mocking laughter rang out as he raised a clawed hand toward Shaddox. The angel screamed in agony while the demon poured hate and corruption into the angel. Reflexively he willed Yl'nira to stop what was happening, to somehow intervene. Instead, she only offered up notes of sadness.
It is too late, she repeated with dark, mournful notes.
His heart rebelled at this. Skarn, still laughing, retreated through his portal. Shaddox now hovered over the ground, as had the other angels. A giant black and silver sword materialized in Shaddox's hands as what was left of his armor and clothing now turned black. The wings themselves also faded from red to black. It was a clear, visual representation of what was now happening within the angel, and it sickened Pyresong.
"The Light you brandish mocks me. I will see it drowned," Shaddox told him in a voice far darker than before.
"Don't do this, angel. Remember what you are," he replied angrily, refusing to accept this injustice.
Part of him couldn't even believe this was happening. An angel corrupted to this degree was unthinkable. Despite all he'd done and survived, the idea of killing an angel, even a corrupted one, was just inconceivable to him. There had to be a way to save Shaddox. Still gripping Yl'nira, pleading with her to save the angel, he retreated even further. Shaddox raised the sword and let loose a storm of black lightning all around himself. Sensing he would get no help from her, he put Yl'nira back on his belt and pulled his scythe. His one hope was to wound or stun the angel long enough to get him to fight back against the corruption. In the background, he sensed and heard Verathiel's pleading to Shaddox as well. It was through Yl'nira in that language he couldn't understand. The dagger apparently must still possess some meager hope if she was allowing them to communicate. He took hope from that, as well.
He could sense more than hear Skarn's laughter somewhere deep in his soul. Pyresong desperately didn't want to give the demon lord the satisfaction of seeing them fight. Yet he had no choice. Shaddox bore down on him time and time again with that enormous sword. Again and again, he dodged. His one attempt to parry with his scythe had nearly left his hand numb with the powerful shock Shaddox hit him with. One swipe from the angel had been so close he felt the familiar tingle of the armor absorbing the black lightning. The blow to his shield had almost knocked him off his feet. Nothing he said would slow the angel down. Curses had no effect, summoned minions were destroyed faster than he could summon them, and his most powerful bone prison was nothing more than dust.
"Yl'nira, please..." he started to say, but she refused to obey.
He didn't know what to do, and he couldn't bring himself to go on the offensive with an angel. He didn't want to die, especially not now. There was real hope of succeeding. He'd damaged Skarn's plans and his sources of power repeatedly. But he just couldn't outlast Shaddox. Shaddox was an angel! He was greatly weakened but still an immortal being with near infinite power compared to his own. Yl'nira had told him repeatedly now that there was nothing she could do to help the angel, either. Whatever passed between Verathiel and Shaddox, he could not understand. And it had no more effect than his own pleas had.
Finally, he was cornered, and there was nowhere left for him to go without jumping off a ledge. His heart thudded painfully instead of the chilling calm of certain death. He cursed Skarn viciously in his mind, the laughter only becoming more real with each obscenity. The demon lord was reveling in this sickening display.
Shaddox closed in on him.
He just couldn't do it. This was still an angel. He was a corrupted angel, but once a being of powerful Light and goodness. He couldn't accept that the angel could not be saved. If there was ever a being in this universe that could come back from Hell's corruption, it was an angel. He did something that went against every combat instinct and everything he'd ever learned to survive a fight. He dropped his shield and scythe.
Shaddox's wicked laughter that had echoed Skarn's all this time suddenly paused. Even Skarn's laughter paused as if in curiosity or amusement. The angel's steps faltered. Yl'nira screamed high notes in his soul in rapid succession, screaming at him to fight. His heart still pounded, and his limbs shook visibly. He just stared at the fallen angel, waiting for what was to come. He was terrified. He would die in this place, and his soul would never escape Skarn's torment of him. Yet he would not accept that an angel couldn't be saved.
The fact that Shaddox faltered and paused even for a heartbeat gave him hope. Only a few feet away now, his sword still ready, Shaddox eyed him warily, as if looking for a trap. He put his shaking, open hands out to his sides in the traditional non-threatening gesture recognized throughout Sanctuary. There would be no spells, no weapon, no defense, and no tricks. He could sense the other angels watching through Yl'nira, through his eyes.
"Go to them," he told Shaddox. "Your brothers and sister can help you. Please, don't give in."
The struggle was visible to him; the angel was teetering, almost fighting back. In the end, Skarn won. With an anguished cry, Shaddox lunged forward, blade first. His adrenaline-fueled awareness of time slowed down. It left Pyresong watching the blade inch closer to his body while he forced himself not to move, not to breathe, not to blink. He tensed slightly, expecting the pain of being impaled that never came.
Yl'nira's scream as she flung herself out of his belt and into the angel's chest was so high it was physically painful. It echoed horribly in his soul. Before he could stop her, she'd flung the angel back to the ground, pinning him to the floor. Reflexively, he ordered her again not to kill the angel.
Shaddox sighed as if relieved. Pyresong's heart twisted painfully. He had been certain the battle inside the angel wasn't won entirely, and now he knew. There was still good in there, just too hurt and too lost to fight back enough to beat the Darkness and the corruption. He fell to his knees beside Shaddox, his heart breaking. Maybe being stopped and trapped by Yl'nira was enough for him to listen now.
"Your success brings about calamity. There is no hope, only the illusion of it," Shaddox told him.
"There is always hope," Pyresong insisted sadly, pleadingly. "Do not give in to despair. Your brethren live. They sent me to bring you back!"
"Yet, I am lost. After all, the damned belong here."
Please, Yl'nira... he pleaded with her silently.
She sent him low, sad notes as the angel began to fade away, leaving not even armor behind. She had not disobeyed by killing him. Shaddox had escaped. Pyresong sat stunned. When the last shadows of the angel were gone, she drifted back to him, trying to console him with soothing harmonics that reverberated in his soul. Despite his hopes, there really was nothing they could do to save the angel. And Yl'nira had done what she had to, to defend and protect her friend. He sighed sadly, understanding, and put her back on his belt. He assured her he wasn't angry, at least, not with her. He was too heartbroken and heartsick over the loss, the failure.
There was a moment of what felt like stunned silence. Then Verathiel spoke sadly through Yl'nira.
"He is gone. His anguished spirit has been smothered by Hell's corruption. Shaddox...we shall remember you."
He nodded sadly to her words. He still felt there had to have been something that could have been done. And he swore vile expletives at Skarn in his head, not even caring if the angels heard or were offended. Yl'nira echoed him eagerly in return. He focused his rage in his mind, hoping the demon lord could hear it through their connection. He also sent along a renewed vow to make the demon lord pay for every bit of suffering he'd inflicted. Verathiel's voice finally silenced his thoughts.
"Despite this tragedy, we must carry on. Fulfill our mission and destroy the last Pit of Anguish."
He forced himself to calm and contained the rage in a cold pit of ice in his gut. He took a deep breath and forced the last of his raw anger and frustration out with it. Then he retrieved his scythe and shield from where he'd dropped them. He gripped Yl'nira in his belt for a moment, just for the comfort of feeling her with him and inside of him. Then he let her know he was ready.
She again provided a sparkling path of light that he thought far too beautiful for this awful place. He wondered what it would look like on a dark night in the forest, an echo of the starry sky above? He was distracted, he knew, letting his mind roam anywhere other than dwelling on what had just happened. He shook it off and focused while Yl'nira guided him a little further to the east. As if feeling his need for distraction, she sang eagerly that they were close. He couldn't help imagining what she would sound like along with his own flute some day. That made her trill happily.
Just as she'd predicted, only a few minutes later, there was another opening in the black rock wall with an overlook that revealed another Pit of Anguish. Standing in the shadows off to the side near a wall to avoid drawing attention to himself, he pulled the dagger from his belt once more. Her eager, happy notes caressed his battered soul yet again. He couldn't help smiling. No matter what events happened before, she always bounced back and looked forward to battling the evil and Darkness. He welcomed her resilience as she shared it with him, even now. She was trying to soothe away the injustice of what he'd just witnessed with a song so beautiful it made him ache in an entirely different way. He let her warmth and Light wash over his soul as he released her into the air above himself.
The fiery slash in the air that opened into a portal was less than five feet away. Pyresong's heart froze in horror when Skarn's clawed hand reached out and engulfed Yl'nira in his grip. He flung commands at her to fight, to flee, to do anything other than let herself be taken. All he got in response were her helpless notes of wailing terror. She was powerless against the force of the shard that the demon lord used to grip her.
"The Blade of Temperance: delivered just as I designed. You have played your part dutifully, mortal," Skarn said mockingly as he stepped out of the portal.
He backed away reflexively, still too much in shock at what was happening to even begin to fight the demon lord. The telltale cold dread of the shard's presence nearly overwhelmed him. His mind and heart screamed in echo to Yl'nira's screaming in his soul. He could only watch helplessly while Skarn wrapped the other hand with the shard in it around Yl'nira. Whatever happened in his closed fists was not unlike what he had done with Tayev and Dravec. But this was much, much worse. He could see the streams of energy from the shard wrapping themselves around Yl'nira's Light, binding and crushing it. He felt a literal sense of crushing inside of him in the very core of his being. He staggered and fell to his knees. Something inside of him writhed in response to that feeling of overwhelming Darkness and corruption crushing his soul.
The demon lord laughed triumphantly and raised Yl'nira above his head. She glowed with evil red and black energy lacing in and out of her once pure Light. His mind was consumed with numbing agony at the sight.
"I could not so much as touch the blade on my own," Skarn told him. "But you were so willing to plunge it into Darkness again and again."
Oh gods... he thought in horror, guilt washing over him in a flood.
As if feeling his horrified guilt, Yl'nira's notes still came through strong and clear, sending him comfort and reassurance. Skarn flung the blade across the void to the mouth of the nearby Pit of Anguish. He was paralyzed with horror when the dagger positioned herself above the pit, just as the soul siphon had. Now, she spun and flailed sending incredibly powerful beams of black energy to the receptors.
"The Light of dying angels pales in comparison to Yl'nira's power. Let the great worm stir in the depths!"
The sound of the blade's holy name being uttered by the filth of a demon lord made him sick. Worse, he was seeing Yl'nira being coerced into providing her energy to fuel the pit. She wailed helplessly inside of him. Unable to withstand it, he screamed openly in maddened denial. He could physically feel her pain and horror tearing through him, stabbing at his heart. The pain in his chest was physical, strangling him. Reflexively, he wrapped his arms around himself and curled into a ball, willing it to stop.
He was only dimly aware of Skarn leaving back through the portal as the Pit of Anguish now blasted black and red vile energy like a volcano. He wouldn't leave her, though. The world outside his body ceased to exist when he turned inward. Inside himself, he still embraced Yl'nira and offered whatever pathetic comfort he could. She wasn't cut off from him, and she didn't give up. Her song now spoke of defiance and encouragement. He had to keep fighting, for himself and for her. She told him what he needed to do and bolstered his courage.
And then she was gone.
He couldn't hear her anymore. The silence inside was deafening and agonizingly familiar in a way he could not even process. Pain riddled his soul and made his heart shrivel. He'd failed. He'd lost Yl'nira. She was literally a part of him, and he'd let her be taken and corrupted and used by a demon lord. He closed his eyes, not even caring if a whole army of demons came out of the Pit of Anguish. Right now, he just needed her; he needed to know she wasn't destroyed. Shaking visibly and struggling to even just breathe, he listened. Beyond the silence, he could just barely sense it. Or maybe he was just so desperate that he imagined it.
No...wait...
He emptied himself of all thought, all emotion. Though the blade was nowhere nearby and she sent no more music to his soul, he could still feel her energy, her Light. Yl'nira was not gone. She had not been destroyed. This was at least some comfort. And he swore he would get her back. He vowed to find a way to undo whatever Skarn had done to her. For now, he would do what she asked of him. If for no other reason than he knew she was right. Skarn, wherever he was, wasn't done with him, though. If that were the case, he would already be dead.
The demon lord's next taunts through the shard connection gave him the resolve he needed to continue. It scorched him with feelings of injustice for Yl'nira. He got back to his feet. He wasn't done fighting, and neither was she. He would teach Skarn to regret not killing him while he'd been sitting there helpless.
"The Lights of Heaven will bleed from your kind. It fuels the engines of war that will birth my army. For the Ends of Days is nigh. When Shadow will devour the Light. Take your place among us, or you too shall be consumed."
Before him yawned the swirling darkness of the mouth of the Pit of Anguish. Unlike the others, this one now swirled like some kind of whirling vortex. He could clearly sense as well as see the visible energies of something massive forming within. But he would not let it.
He hooked his shield on his back. He gave himself no more time to think. The combat necromancer didn't need to think; he only needed to fight. He would do as Yl'nira had bade, and he would do it without fear. Clutching his scythe, he walked back away from the ledge as far as he could go. With a final message to Yl'nira he wasn't sure she could even hear, he gave her hope in return for all she'd given him. Then, he ran as fast as he could toward the ledge and the pit beyond.
He launched himself out into the air.
He flew out for several feet before arching downward. The adrenaline again slowed everything down. He hooked his scythe around one of the bony pillars sticking up out of the side of the pit. The pull swung him entirely around, away from the pit and then back toward it. The swing had slowed him enough to hook a leg around the pillar and slide down onto one of the outer rings. He jumped to the inner ring and teetered over the edge. Black and orange light and heat radiated up at him threateningly. He imagined this was probably what it felt like to stand on the edge of a volcano just before an eruption. He gave a predatory smile he hoped Skarn could sense.
This was far from over.
The breeding pit of Skarn's army. All I have to do is stitch it shut, he thought flippantly.
He'd lost the shard. He'd lost his source of power. He'd lost friends. He'd lost Yl'nira, his dearest friend. He'd lost his most powerful weapon against Hell. He'd lost his connection to the angels. He'd lost all but the one thing that he would not give up until his last breath:
Hope.
He would not lose that. Even now, he moved on with hope. Too many had sacrificed and suffered. He would not give up. As suicidal as the move seemed, he was going down there into the Pit of Anguish as Yl'nira had instructed. And he would destroy whatever he found. If it took him with it, so be it. But he would die with hope in his heart and Yl'nira's light in his soul. If he fell, someone would take up the fight where he left off.
They must.
Briefly, he thought of Cain. This was likely be the most epic story the man had ever heard. And he would hear it. Pyresong refused to believe otherwise at this moment. Somehow, he would find his way back to his friend.
Pyresong slid down the rocky sides of the internal pit walls using his scythe to catch himself to slow down. He still landed hard on the floor and had to roll back to his feet. He couldn't even begin to guess how far he'd fallen. But he knew it was a very long way. He didn't spare a thought for how he would even get out because he sensed he wouldn't need to. Either this worked and Skarn would come after him again, or he would die. Either possibility was irrelevant to him now. He had his task, set by Yl'nira, and he would fulfill it. Whatever came after that didn't matter right now. He fell entirely into his combat instincts, where there was no more room for thought or fear.
This murky place was covered in black, ashy rock and was heavily fogged by steam rising up from the lava so close below. Immediately, he was met with flesh fiends, bile-spewers, and worse. Yl'nira had told him he needed to find a way to the center. Somewhere in the heart of this pit that summoned countless numbers of demons was the core threat. He didn't know what it was any more than she did. But it was something horrific, he was sure. And it would have the archangel blade's stolen power. Not sure what path to even take in this twisting mess of options, he just ran from battle to battle, killing as many as he could. In his dance of death, there was no room for planning beyond the next encounter, the next swing of his scythe, his next step.
At one turn in a twisting walkway, he entered a dead end. A worm-like creature made of some kind of almost metallic scales rose up out of the ground even as he tried to back away. He did not want to waste time and energy on it. Behind him, he felt the pulse of magic as a barrier went up. Any fear he might have had fled when he'd fallen into his pure combat instincts; everything was reflex, and nothing short of a crippling wound was going to so much as slow him down.
As the worm continued to rise up ten and then fifteen feet, he laughed. He was certain now his laugh had an unhinged feeling to it, but he had nothing left to lose anymore. The loss of Yl'nira already frayed his sanity. The combat necromancer didn't need sanity to fight. All he really needed was a target, and now he had one that thought it would play with him.
"You've trapped us together, demon. Not a winning strategy," he told it with a wicked smile.
Out of pure amused curiosity, he waited until it rose to a final height of nearly twenty feet and was at least five feet in diameter. When it opened its maw to spew lava at him, he knew he'd made the right call not summoning any minions. Oh no, this one was all for him. Still laughing, he dodged the liquid lava and slashed it a few times with energy blades from his scythe. The tough, scaly hide protected it well, but it was still injured. He watched when it slid back down onto the floor. When it was gone, he closed his eyes and listened. A few seconds later, he sliced at it several more times before it could get more than a couple of feet out of the ground. He laughed as it became a game to him. He repeated this lethal little game of peek-a-boo until he'd managed to slice off what he considered to be its head.
"You lose."
He laughed again as the barrier disappeared. He turned to go back down the way he'd come and find another path. He picked another path at random that looked like it might be heavily trafficked. It wasn't long before he found the path going down closer to the lava. And now he had to contend with fire-throwing Imps. This time, he summoned some skeletal warriors and mages. They weren't very effective as far as fighting the Imps went, but they served a perfect distraction. Imps were teleporting demons the size of a human toddler. They could disappear and reappear in various locations. And most of them weren't the brightest. They would throw spells at whatever moved that wasn't another Imp and sometimes even at each other. It didn't take much to keep them occupied while he danced around cutting them to pieces with his scythe. The feeling of his scythe cutting through demon flesh made him smile.
Continuing along the path, he ran into a pocket of Fallen. They were the usual mix of red monkey-like Fallen with their little hatchets and even a couple of brutes. He let go of his skeletons in favor of a couple of sturdy stone golems. Down here, this close to the lava, the air was hot and filled with sulfurous fumes. As far as he could tell, they weren't toxic or poisonous outright, but his lungs began to burn. His occasional laughter turned to coughing. Looking around, he found other possible paths but sensed they all more or less converged in the core where he was headed. Likely, they would all come down to the level of the roiling lava. Everywhere he looked, he saw many other demons, including more of the massive Hellbearers that would spew out even more demons, typically assault troopers. Likely, there was no one path safer than any others.
Breathing as shallowly as he could get away with and not get too dizzy, he opted to keep his stone golems out ahead of him to attract whatever he would face. So far, the plan had worked. The variety of demons all seemed to want to rush these two stone golems rather than come right for him. It bought him the few seconds he needed to find a combat strategy that would work.
He wasn't sure if his trek went on minutes or hours or even days. And it didn't matter in the slightest. He wasn't dead yet. Until then, he was fighting. He was able to hold the stone golems well enough that he didn't question it. His bigger problem was combating the heat and dizziness that assaulted him from all the lava and fumes. He was fully relying on his instincts to keep him alive while mostly ignoring the demands of his body.
Up and around and down, he followed the winding paths and platforms, fully taking advantage of the slightly cleaner air higher up. On one such platform, he found a much larger demon waiting for him. Even just one leg was easily bigger around, taller, and heavier than his entire body.
Again, he laughed outright, sending his golems to play with this new toy. The demon was not amused. It spread its enormous wings and flew right at him with two giant swords. Pyresong's laugh cut off abruptly as he spun away, unleashing a razor-thin blade of energy that literally cut the demon's legs off in a single swipe. His follow-up turn cut the entire top part of its head off.
"You will never set foot in our world. Never!" he raged at it.
Again, he felt himself slipping mentally. This time, he didn't bother to reign it in. He would do what must be done and deal with the fallout later if there was even a later to worry about. As winding and convoluted as this path was, he still felt like he was getting closer to the center of wherever this pit originated. One key clue he found were the pulsing, writhing sacs of flesh that looked almost like some kind of creature's fleshy eggs. He sent energy blades sweeping through every single one he found, cutting them open to expose partially formed creatures that died as he watched with dark satisfaction. The literal rivers of demon blood he had shed since arriving here were downright gratifying.
Is this a place where demons are tormented? Or birthed? Or both? he wondered vaguely with another laugh as he hacked through more of the sacs.
Here, as the number of sac clusters increased, the number of demons decreased. Somewhere in his now distant thoughts, he could feel the headache. He'd pushed himself hard, maybe too hard. It didn't matter. What Yl'nira had sent him for was just ahead. He knew he had to be close now. To conserve what he had left, he dismissed the golems. He continued slicing his way through the sacs, destroying as much as he could. Every one he destroyed was one less demon Skarn could have in his army.
At the moment, the path had risen again, bringing him up and away from the worst of the heat and fog. He paused to down a healing potion to at least mitigate some of the damage he was feeling burning in his chest and throat.
Now, there were no more demons, just rivers of blood and clusters of fleshy sacs. Up ahead, he could see through the mist that the path ended in a large, almost circular platform with many, many more sacs. Either he'd been wrong about what path he took, and he would have to go back. Or whatever Yl'nira sent him for was up there. His rapidly beating heart and battle instincts told him he wasn't wrong. Something massive was just ahead. Seeing nothing with his mortal eyes, he switched to magical vision. The overall haze of magic that created this place left him blind. But when he listened, he could now hear something moving beyond the platform. Slicing through one set of sacs and then another, he worked his way up onto the platform, hoping to get a better look.
He didn't have to go far. As if sensing his presence, whatever was shifting around beyond the far edge of the platform stopped. Then he heard the sound of its enormous bulk shifting. Still over forty feet away from the far edge of the platform, he flinched reflexively when a worm demon far larger than the one he'd seen before shattered the rocks on the far end of the platform. The fleshy maw and ring of countless wicked-sharp fangs opened to reveal a mouth easily sixty feet across. The innermost mouth—as he thought of it—was easily ten feet wide. The rest of the body was twenty or more feet in diameter. And, he suspected, probably a half mile or more long. The idea that he could even fight something like this was so ridiculous that he found himself laughing again.
And, yet, that was exactly what he was going to do.
He pushed aside his body's tiredness and pain, trying to find anything that might be a weak point on this monster. The hide and everything outside the fleshy maw were some kind of almost metallic scales. It screamed at him so powerfully, his ears rang, and the hot wind even challenged his stance. This was a beast born of fire; there was no chance he could use that against it. And it was so massive, he couldn't even think of trying to drain it. He flung a curse at its open maw more out of amused curiosity than any real expectation of success. It had no effect. If he got too close, there was every possibility it would swallow him without even noticing.
He laughed insanely at the mental image.
Nothing he could summon would stand more than a few seconds and would only further drain him. He tossed around the idea of bone spirits, but were there enough actual, uncorrupted spirits in a place like this? Maybe, but very likely not. And, even if there were, the sheer amount needed to even hurt this thing would leave him a burnt-out husk with the thing virtually unharmed.
When it finally began to move around spewing fire, he knew he wasn't going to get close enough to the soft flesh of the open maw to do any real damage. So he did the one thing left that made sense. He flung a barrage of bone spears, targeting the soft flesh of the open maw between the rows of wicked fangs. Then he went wraith form to get out of the way of spewing fire aimed right at him.
The thing pulled back, stung by the bone spears. It stopped the flow of flames for a heartbeat, as if it couldn't believe something had actually made it hurt. At least that had done something. But his bone spears were no more than bee stings even in the soft flesh. He laughed again at its obvious surprise.
Another game!
For a while, they played a bizarre form of tag. Unlike the children's game, this one was entirely lethal. One mistimed spell, and he would be cinders. He laughed at the idea that he was playing a game with the thing. He would go wraith form to get away from the spewing flames and then re-materialize to throw more bone spears in the open maw. It would close the maw for a second and then look for him to start the game all over again. He couldn't figure out how it was even looking for him. There were no obvious eyes, ears, or nose. Yet he knew without a doubt it was sensing him.
Somewhere far away, his mind flickered with fear at the idea that the thing was sensing him through the shard. But he got no sense in return. This time, there was no cold dread, at least, not here. He was too occupied to think on it much further. However, the demon sensed him, it wasn't a weak point he could exploit. The back-and-forth bone spears and fire seemed to go on forever. He could feel his body weakening with the constant stress. His chest was heaving, and his head was pounding. Again and again, the thing came at him either with its open maw or its fire breath. Several times, it dove right for him, shattering off pieces of the rocky platform. He knew he wasn't doing any real damage, but he couldn't see a way to do so, either. He needed Yl'nira, and she couldn't help him now.
He was alone in this.
Suddenly, the thing backed up like it was going to dive at him yet again, and he was ready to go wraith form again as soon as it did. But it didn't. It backed up and then slithered below the platform. By this point, he had been pushed back again and again by it, shattering the platform piece by piece. Now, he was standing on one of the narrow paths that was more like a bridge over the lava. He looked around warily.
Then he realized what was happening, where it had gone. The cold chill of what was coming settled over him. He welcomed that icy calm of the inevitable. Adrenaline slowed time as it happened. Whether he ran or not, it was going to get him.
He laughed again.
So much for the prophecies, he thought.
He had done what was asked of him. He had done what he could. He had fought Darkness to the end. He would die without regret.
With time slowed down, he was able to take in every detail. The demon worm rose up with its open maw, but no fire this time. It slammed its bulk into the walkway underneath him, shattering the stones and throwing him into the air. Its aim had been perfect. He was falling right into the massive, gaping mouth of the rising worm. Ready for it, he swung his scythe beneath him in an arc, unleashing a blade of energy right down its throat. If he was going to die in that hellish, fiery beast, he was going to do as much damage as he could.
I'll give you a bellyache you'll never forget! he thought with another laugh.
With his chest still heaving from the earlier exertion, there was no chance to take a deep breath and hold it. The last inhale as he slipped through the open maw seared his lungs. The hot flesh inside the beast scalded his skin, even under the thin plates of armor. His armor heated in seconds to feel like a blacksmith's band of steel in the coals. None of it mattered. The pain belonged to someone else now. The cold calm that settled over him had also brought forth the cold rage he'd been so carefully holding back for so long. He went into a complete, mindless frenzy.
Crossing the threshold into the fleshy maw, he began slicing his scythe in every direction, unleashing blades of energy. Many passed right through the hot flesh of the throat and into other organs. When there was no more room to slash about, he used the naked blade of his scythe to slash and cut open the throat. One slice was almost long enough for him to slither through. He would have laughed at the idea of becoming a maggot eating away at this thing from the inside if he had any air at all.
Gripping the slit open flesh with one gloved hand to stop his downward movement, he felt something beating in the darkness beyond. Without any real thought, he began to focus on using his physical blade to cut away at what he hoped was a beating heart. The heat was already burning the flesh of his body, and no air to breathe. He could feel the deeper darkness closing in around him. But he wasn't finished fighting. Blindly, he sliced and cut and pulled and tore at the beating thing somewhere in the darkness.
The monster's muscles bunched around him, trying to force him deeper; but were thwarted as he held onto his scythe with both hands. Yet his arms were losing strength. The pulsing thing was just on the other side of the fleshy wall. He flung bone spears at it through the layers of molten flesh searing him. Still, it beat frantically, spewing blood into the passage with him. The blood was slightly cooler than the agonizingly hot flesh of the throat, but he still couldn't breathe. Instead, he was drowning. A darker part of his soul relished the feeling of so much demon bloodshed. Any blood other than his own right now was gruesomely satisfying.
He clenched his teeth shut against the desperate need to breathe. Behind his closed eyes, he was now seeing only explosions of light in the tingling darkness. Holding on to some of the flesh in one gloved hand, he pulled back on his scythe to try tearing one more even deeper hole into the beating thing he'd felt. It was too late, though. He was too weak. His scythe slipped out of his swiftly numbing fingers. His thoughts and his body were drifting away. Cold emptiness or not, he was just so tired now.
He had failed.
He felt the last of the air escaping as he unconsciously opened his mouth to breathe. The flood of warm blood in his mouth made him gag and choke reflexively. He wasn't even really aware of his body anymore. He tried to turn inward, away from the sensations of his body, but couldn't find the strength or concentration. His entire existence centered around the hot blood in his mouth and throat and his desperate need for air. Random thoughts flitted through his mind in a jumble that made no sense. He was going back to that blessedly dark, empty place and its eternal, icy silence. As tingling numbness took over, one last thought he sent out with all his heart and soul.
Yl'nira, forgive me. I tried...
Somewhere far away, he thought he heard faint music and was sure it was just another memory flitting through his fading mind. He was so tired now.
A stuttering heartbeat later, he felt his body slammed to the hard ground amid a small lake of blood. Reflexively gagging and vomiting, he tried to force air into his lungs. The creature had somehow expelled him. Now it flopped pathetically on the ground near him before sliding off the ledge and into the ocean of lava nearby. The warmth that tingled through his body was unmistakable. Yl'nira was healing his burnt flesh and his wounds! More than that, she was embracing his mind and soul, healing those deeper scars and pain.
Pyresong couldn't stop the tears that now burned his eyes. She was still out there, and she was with him. She was still protecting him. She was even giving him what energy she could to replace all that he'd used. His heart and soul sang back at her with wordless love and gratitude. There was a flutter of something weak in return that he couldn't make out. He mentally shielded her a moment later out of reflex when Skarn's voice assaulted him once again.
"Most impressive, but can you close a thousand more pits as they yawn open? Can all of humanity? Consider your future."
Feeling filthy in a way he didn't even want to think about, Pyresong laughed darkly this time. He was revived enough to regain his feet steadily as he sent his mental laughter at Skarn.
"There is only one future for me, demon. And I'm coming for you."
"Heaven and Hell waged an eternal war to claim the power I hold. Not even the Prime Evils themselves can contest it."
"I will see you shortly, demon."
Skarn laughed. "Of course, you will. All damned souls are welcome in my domain."
He was happy to let the demon have the last word when he spotted a familiar shape in the blood as it drained away. His scythe. He nearly laughed again. The cold chill of death had fled at feeling Yl'nira's warmth and Light. Yet he still felt no fear. Whatever else happened, Yl'nira was with him. She may be in Skarn's possession, but she was a part of him. She wouldn't let him fail. And he wouldn't let her stay in the demon's possession.
As he took in the paths that he now stood on, he found them deserted. He was in a completely different area somewhere far lower than the platforms he had been on. By the looks of it, even all the other demons feared that massive worm. He felt like he was somehow in its nest or lair. And there were paths going in every direction. Lost and having only one goal in mind at this point, he called out to her.
Yl'nira, guide me, my love. Give me your Light one last time. I'm coming for you.
He knew at this point, Skarn was absolutely right. He couldn't take out another Pit of Anguish like that one. Verathiel had said this was the last one. He could only pray that was the truth. He could roam Hell for eternity, killing demons and never putting a real dent in their numbers. He was cut off from the angels. His one chance was to find the demon lord and finish this while he and Yl'nira still could. When he opened his eyes again, he found the faintest traces of sparkling light going off in one direction. Despite Yl'nira's internal healing, he was mentally and emotionally exhausted. He just wanted this to be over now, to whatever end. Physically and magically, he was fully recovered, thanks to Yl'nira. He didn't know if it would be enough, but he needed to find a way to end this.
Thank you, beloved.
From the worm beast's lair, the path was not only abandoned but short. Not five minutes later, he found himself faced with a blackened wall on a dead end. For a moment, he thought he'd missed something. Yl'nira's guidance had been very faint. A gentle, reassuring song of soft notes, almost impossible to detect, told him he was in the right place. He approached the solid wall, thinking there had to be something. Yl'nira would not lead lead him here, otherwise. He felt the flash of energy as something appeared behind him. He swung around with his scythe in hand and then froze.
"You do not bear this burden alone, mortal," Verathiel told him, radiating warmth and reassurance.
On either side of her were Andalon and Mikayel. All three of them looked much better than he had seen before. His heart was comforted instantly by the sight of them. His hope soared once again. With Yl'nira's presence inside of him and the help of the angels, he knew he could finish this. He would give justice to all those people that had suffered for Skarn's ambition. He would justify the sacrifices of so many. He smiled as he stepped toward the three hovering angels.
"With Yl'nira lost, we feared the worst. I am glad my fears are unfounded," Verathiel told him, exuding joy and pride.
"The mortal lost the archangel's blade, and we are nearly powerless in the heart of Skarn's empire. If anything, your fears are vindicated," Andalon spoke up, radiating disgust and even some fear. "We should never have trusted such a fallible creature."
Verathiel's anger was instant and powerful. "Silence, Andalon! The Pits of Anguish lie dormant by this mortal's hands. Our bickering only benefits the enemy. Without Yl'nira, only our strength can open the gateway to the usurper's throne room. We must work together, for eternity is at stake."
Apparently that was enough to silence Andalon, though the lingering disgust and flaring anger did not diminish at all. He moved further away from the wall as the three angels linked their power. He could see the incredible streams of Light going between them even without his magical vision. It was amazing and beautiful to behold. He soaked in that radiating Light. Yes, he had made the right choice; for himself, for them, for all of Sanctuary. He would see this done with their help. Verathiel looked down at him, radiating pride and encouragement.
"It will take all our strength to open and maintain the portal. When you enter, you will be alone with a deceitful demon lord who commands the power of creation. Can you overcome this challenge, mortal?"
He basked in her Light and felt along his soul for Yl'nira. No, he was not alone. He smiled to the angels. Then some of his earliest lessons came to mind; as if reminding him where it had all really started nearly thirty years ago.
"'A world where Dark rules will burn itself up. A world where Light commands will eventually stagnate.' I will see the Balance preserved, angel. Skarn will not avoid his reckoning. For none elude Death," he promised.
"Then go; we will hold the portal open as long as we can."
He bowed reverently to them and then watched while they forced open a portal in the wall. Unlike Skarn's fiery portals, this one was made of Light that pushed back the Darkness and fire of this place. It radiated beautiful Light in a place so bleak, it just didn't belong. His only wish was that this really would be the end, so they could return to Heaven where they belonged. He stepped through the portal into the lair of the demon lord that had caused so much suffering. And he did it with hope.
Skarn did not seem surprised at all when Pyresong entered his lair through the portal. He must have known the necromancer would find a way. Literally covered in sticky, drying demon blood, he almost found it more fitting than disgusting, for once. Almost. Gripping his tightly controlled cold rage in his gut, he walked confidently across the massive chamber toward where Skarn sat on a throne.
"Gaze upon my strength. The corpse of a Prime, abandoned in Hell to rot. Now bound by my will," Skarn called in typical grand fashion.
He calmly took note of the fact that every exit was now sealed off by red and orange barriers Skarn put up. That was fine by him. He wasn't running from this. He was looking forward to it more than he even wanted to admit right now. But the throne caught his attention for a moment longer. It looked like the open maw of the Lord of Terror himself, but blackened. It looked more like stone, yet it was bound in red and black chains. Dismissing it as some kind of grandiose statue made by Skarn, he put it out of his mind.
Even the dreams, warnings, prophecies, and Rathma's own words didn't matter anymore. He was finally here. His decision had been made long ago. Now, he wondered why he had ever even considered it a hard decision. He almost laughed at his own fears of that looming decision. Standing on the side of the Light was the only path he would have ever chosen. He knew that now. He would see Skarn pay for all the suffering.
Skarn lounged on the throne, looking perfectly at his ease. Hovering just above his right clawed hand was the Worldstone shard. It wasn't nearly as big as he remembered it being in Dravec's hands. He remembered Xul's mention of the one Lethes had being smaller when he shut away in the box. Perhaps they got smaller as they used up their power. If that was the case, this one was weakening quickly. That only further fueled his hopes. Maybe it was weak enough to make no difference in his fight against Skarn. He stopped a little less than halfway to the center of the room. The demon lord saw he had Pyresong's full attention.
"This stone is the key to all mortal souls. Your Light has been bleeding away since you stepped foot in my domain," Skarn said almost smugly.
He doesn't know! Pyresong realized.
The fact that the demon lord didn't know Yl'nira protected him completely once he'd accepted her into his soul came as something of a surprise. He wasn't about to let Skarn know. Now the initial assault he had felt made sense, too. More to the point, he felt Yl'nira nearby. She was still much weaker than she had felt before, but she was here. She was giving him energy and supporting him. As he had suspected, he would not be alone in this fight. Though he couldn't wield her, he could rely on her strength to help him.
"I offer you one last chance at redemption. Be cleansed. Join with us, your true family. Or unending Darkness awaits," the demon lord offered, yet again.
He just barely managed to refrain from laughing outright. Oh, yes, he knew Skarn was cornered and trying to save his own skin. He knew now that he would never have chosen to stand with Skarn. He hefted his scythe, already pouring all the energy he possessed into it. His scythe would get a full test of how much it could actually hold for a change, and he suspected it was a lot more than he'd ever thought himself even capable of. He hadn't even bothered to take his shield off his back. He knew what he was going to do. He gave Skarn his best predatory smile, enjoying this thoroughly.
Whatever the outcome, this moment was his.
"I could say that I am here to preserve the Balance," he told the demon lord with no small amount of amusement. "But let's be honest. I don't like you, and you are not my family."
He heard a weak but reassuring tune coming from Yl'nira in response. She was ready. He watched serenely while Skarn flicked his hand, and the shard disappeared. The demon lord rose from the throne, stomping heavily closer to where he now stood in the center of the chamber, facing him. He was barely as tall as the demon lord's knees! His complete lack of intimidation seemed to only further anger the demon.
"Blind and arrogant!" Skarn raged at him. "Would you kill me and free the Primes? Annihilation alone awaits such hubris!"
His smile widened, paying no heed to the demon lord's deceitful words. Again, he just managed to refrain from outright laughter.
"Come and get me, if you can, demon. I'll even give you the first move," he taunted.
Sick of this mouthy little mortal, Skarn did just that. With a scream of rage that was more rewarding than Pyresong even wanted to admit right now, the demon lord rushed him. He was more than ready. Through his connection with Yl'nira, he held all of his energy and much of hers in his blade, burning to be unleashed. He dodged neatly to the left of Skarn when the demon lord rushed forward almost too fast to see. In his combat mindset, he didn't need to see; he just knew and reacted to those subtle clues. Then he jumped easily over the tail that followed, trying to catch him by surprise. He rolled quickly after that to avoid a follow-up claw swing.
When he spun back to his feet from the roll, he did laugh.
"That's three, and you missed. Now it's my turn, and I don't miss."
Further enraged by the defiant necromancer's icy calm tone, Skarn unleashed red balls of hellfire in every direction. Pyresong paid them no mind. If one of them hit him, he knew he would die, but his attack left no room for defense anyway. With all of his own and Yl'nira's power in his scythe, it screamed and burned in his hands to be let free. Skarn, absorbed with this own attacks, was now putting his claws together to do even more. The demon lord was caught completely off guard when Pyresong ignored the attacks and spun, unleashing all the painfully pent-up energy. It was so powerful and so filled with Yl'nira's even more powerful Light that it cut right through the demon lord's torso. One blade was all he needed. As Skarn fell apart, not quite dead yet, he just had to have the last word.
"Terror beyond your reckoning is unchained..."
He stood back warily, expecting a final attack. Instead, as the demon's body went limp, Yl'nira pulled herself out of wherever the demon lord had been hiding her and flew to him eagerly. His heart ached and nearly broke at the feeling of corruption visibly lacing her aura now. He took her back gladly and embraced her anyway. He would no more abandon her than she had him. He reassured her with love and acceptance.
Perhaps Cain will know what to do, he thought hopefully, placing her back into his belt. He always does.
Gods, how he missed the old scholar right now! But there was no more time to think about it. The angels were still holding the portal, and Verathiel had made it clear it would not hold forever. He needed to find the shard.
Yl'nira whispered in his soul with fearful, trilling notes. He understood. With her protection, he would survive whatever the shard tried to throw at him, but even she was slightly afraid of it now. He shoved aside his revulsion and tried to focus on it. The shard was there, waiting for him, calling to him. And it was on Skarn. He approached the corpse, sensing it really was nothing more than a husk now. He found the shard waiting for him in the demon lord's hand. His skin crawled, and he reeled back away from it. Something inside of him was pulling him toward it as it reached out to him. He knew with its power he could protect all of Sanctuary. He would never have to watch another Oza die for his failures. He would command the powers of Hell.
He shuddered and shoved it all away. He embraced Yl'nira and her warm Light. His heart raced as he struggled to just breathe, focus, silence it. His fear of them had not diminished at all. This one had tasted power and wanted to be used, not by some petty mortal, but by something powerful enough to destroy a demon lord. He felt himself sweating and shaking as he took off his shield to get to his backpack. He fought its every attempt to batter down his mental doors. It had found something it wanted inside of him and fought to reach it. That echo inside of himself reached, yearned for that power. Yl'nira blanketed him, protecting him from all of that.
The backpack was the only safe place to put it. Focusing only on the sound of Yl'nira's beautiful music, he let her take control. He stomped and kicked the enormous clawed fingers off of the shard. Then he carefully shoved Skarn's whole hand into the open backpack and kicked the arm hard enough to dislodge the shard. When he pulled the backpack back off Skarn's arm, the shard was no longer in the hand. Relieved, he sealed the backpack. He was finally able to take a breath in. He glared one last time at Skarn's corpse.
"Good riddance," he told it.
He slung on his backpack and shield and started toward the portal, still glowing with Light just a few dozen feet away. He'd done it! He'd killed the monster that had destroyed and corrupted so much. He'd gained justice and vengeance for all the dead villagers and monks. He'd paid back the suffering he, himself, had endured to get here. All that was left was to destroy the shard. Yl'nira whispered low notes eagerly in response. Her pride in him was clear and eased the ache in his battered heart and soul. With her, he could survive anything, he knew.
The sudden and violent shaking of the room threw him right off his feet. Stunned, he landed hard on his left side. Behind him, the sound of rock shattering had him rolling onto his back to look. His blood turned to ice in his veins, and his heart froze solid.
"By mortal hands, I find anchor in the fires of Hell. From the endless abyss, Terror stalks creation once more."
Diablo's voice rang throughout all of Hell. It was enough to make Pyresong feel like his ears were going to bleed. Shocked beyond all reason or sanity, he fought against the quaking floor and rose to his feet, scythe ready. He couldn't help stepping back unconsciously at the massive Prime Evil before him. The black rock fell away to reveal the ghostly outline of the Lord of Terror in red. It towered more than sixty feet and was still rising. Lava began erupting upwards in pillars all around the ghostly demon. With a massive hand that possessed fingers larger than Pyresong himself, Diablo reached down toward him. He was about to lash out with his scythe reflexively, a part of him knowing it could not even harm the ghostly figure. He was just a mortal. This was a Prime Evil!
Suddenly, a black robed angel appeared between him and the ghostly hand, stopping it with a brilliant burst of Light. Her sword halted Diablo's palm in place.
"Flee, now! Get the shard away from here!" Verathiel screamed.
Seeing her weakening against Diablo, he froze. He couldn't just leave her! When he tried to step forward, Verathiel used her other hand to fling him away with her Light energy. He felt himself helplessly soaring through the air. Even as he flew away, screaming at her, he saw Diablo's ghostly hand come down to crush her into the floor. Then there was the momentary darkness of crossing through the portal. On the other side of the portal, he landed hard on his back but was on his feet in a heartbeat. Andalon and Mikayel had already released the portal. He flung himself at the swiftly closing aperture, desperate to get through. But Mikayel's grip on him jerked him off his feet.
"Verathiel's inside! Open the gate! We have to reach her!" he screamed in a blind panic.
This couldn't be happening! Mikayel threw him to the ground away from where the portal was now no more than a tiny hole in the wall.
"Reckless and impossible!" Mikayel yelled back to him, radiating anger and disgust. "We lack the strength! And doing so would imperil all that she sacrificed herself to save. Verathiel laid down her life to ensure the Lord of Terror did not claim the Heart of Creation."
Powerful grief, unlike anything he had ever experienced, washed over him from Mikayel as the disgust faded away. Devastated, Pyresong sat on his knees, crushed.
What have I done?
"You are unworthy of such sacrifice, mortal," Andalon snarled at him, radiating pure loathing. "She felled countless demons across the field of eternity only to suffer for an eon! You are not fit to question her."
"I know," he replied miserably, not even able to be comforted by Yl'nira's music at this moment. All he could hear were the echoes of Verathiel's agonized screams at the end.
"Andalon!" Mikayel snapped, radiating anger and sorrow. "Remember her words and hold your ire for the enemy. While our mission is over at long last, we remain in the depths of Hell. Discord among allies is of ill benefit."
"As for you, mortal," Mikayel continued, still radiating sorrow but a sternness of command as well. "Verathiel commanded us to ensure you escaped Hell with that shard. While I do not hold you in the same esteem, I will respect her orders. Return the shard to your world and destroy it. We will be watching."
Pyresong closed his eyes, wallowing in grief so profound he couldn't comprehend it for a moment. It was like a physical entity squeezing his chest with a block of ice that burned instead of numbed.
A moment was all he was allowed.
Some still-sane part of him knew they were right. He had to get the shard out of there. He nodded and rose to his feet. Right now, he had no idea how he would live with himself after this. He knew he was not worthy of her sacrifice and never could be. He was just a mortal...half demon. No angel should be sacrificed for a mortal. He wished he had somehow gotten the shard out quicker to avoid this. But what could he have done differently? And did it even matter anymore? He'd recovered the shard but unleashed Diablo. The cost...
What have I done? How could I have been so wrong?
Suddenly, the lines in the journal, Rathma's warnings, and even his own dreams were gone. He couldn't remember any of it. His mind and heart couldn't move beyond Verathiel's screams and how this was all his fault. He had made his decision blindly, arrogantly confident that he was on the right side for the Balance, for everyone.
Rathma had warned him that the right choice for Sanctuary and the Balance wasn't always siding with the Light; even Heaven may have designs against humanity's best interests. How could he have been so selfishly stupid?
The angels were still glaring down at him. He knew they could read his thoughts. He quickly shoved all those memories away. Part of him hoped they could at least understand that this was not what he wanted. If given the choice, he would have spent eternity in Hell with Diablo rather than let Verathiel sacrifice herself. And, now that he had a taste of Hell, he knew what it would be like. But it was done, and he could not change what had happened. All he could do was keep going and destroy the shards. He offered up a prayer for Verathiel. A part of him wanted to pray that she was dead, and not suffering at least.
Andalon huffed a laugh filled with loathing but said nothing. Mikayel seemed less disgusted but still angry. Yet the angel's love for Verathiel would not allow him to go against her wishes. Pyresong thought furiously for a few seconds. He couldn't go back to Westmarch yet. Not now. He needed to be alone. Desperate as he'd been to see Cain, he just couldn't right now. He needed to get his own emotions under control. If he didn't, the shard could so easily manipulate him. It had already found something in him it wanted. It would be too dangerous even to try destroying it. And then there was Yl'nira...
Finally, he settled on a place and opened a portal.
"Do not stray from the Light," Mikayel warned.
He couldn't even find the will to reply.
Chapter 14: 13 Overlook / Westmarch
Chapter Text
Overlook / Westmarch
Pyresong stepped through the portal to the windy, chilly mountains just to the west of the Sanctified Earth Monastery, where he'd met the road that took him north to the Tundra. It was somehow daytime. Being in Hell for so long, he was lost. He had no real idea how time passed in that place. Did it move faster? Slower? Had he been gone a couple of days? Or was it a couple of months?
His heart told him it was a lifetime, while his mind told him only a few days. It didn't even matter to him. He was headed to the one place where he'd felt this kind of grief before. Whether it was something subconscious, or just his desire to feel the cold numbing him from the outside in, he couldn't figure out. And, like everything else right now, it didn't really matter.
He must have chosen wrong. Rathma had warned him so long ago. Skarn had warned him! He hadn't listened. He had blatantly violated his oath to maintain the Balance and even said as much to the demon lord. He was hurt and angry and wanted to give justice to a handful of people instead of thinking of maintaining the Balance and what was right for Sanctuary. How could it have gone so wrong?
Gods... What have I done?
An angel had died because of him. In doing what he—a pathetic, little mortal—had thought was right, he'd shattered the scales and unleashed a Prime Evil. He had broken the Balance in so many ways. He'd failed in a way he didn't even believe was possible. He had never believed that the existence of Sanctuary could depend on a single person's action, a single choice. Part of his mind just could not cope with the sheer magnitude of it all. Somehow, even the fact that he'd survived and escaped Hell didn't even feel real now.
The one thing he clung to in his tired state was Oza. His friend. He missed her. And he wanted to be with her more than ever.
He climbed the stairs to the monastery, not sure what he would find or even what to expect. The place was just as he'd left it. No one had come to clear away the bodies. No one had tried to rebuild. No one had even been here at all that he could see. Under the crushing guilt and grief, he was almost angry about it. But he just couldn't find the energy. The bodies hadn't really decayed at all. If anything, it was colder here than he remembered. Nothing near as cold as the Tundra. And with the wind whistling unchecked through the corridors and buildings, it had frozen all the bodies. Monk and demon, both lay untouched. He wondered if he might have time to find someone to at least take care of that. It was a distant thought, one he couldn't even really hold on to.
It took him a couple of hours, but he finally found the well and, eventually, the bathing facilities. He started a fire under the cauldron after he filled it. He was so cold now that he wondered why he even bothered heating the water; he wasn't sure he would even feel its warmth. When the water was warm enough, he summoned a golem to heft it into the tub in one pour rather than using buckets. He was nearly numb now, just as he'd wanted it.
He'd come to know that when grief struck with such force, it was acute and then faded to a sort of hollow numbness that came with exhaustion of the heart and soul. Even Yl'nira's gentle notes couldn't comfort him now. She couldn't understand just how profoundly he had failed. He didn't deserve comfort, even from her. He stripped off all of his gear and climbed into the hot tub.
He was so weary and so numb, he just clung to this one thing. He felt filthy inside and out while covered in demon blood. Maybe some other warriors thought it a fitting tribute. To him it was just filth and needed to be scrubbed away. Much as he wanted to linger in the hot water, once he felt clean and groomed again, he used the remaining water to clean his armor, shield, and scythe. His clothes, as he had expected, had been little more than burnt and tattered rags. He threw them into the fire under the cauldron. Then, he tried to figure out what to do next. He felt clean now, outside, at least.
There were some things that would never wash away.
Feeling like a ghost in this now abandoned monastery, he roamed the halls. The sun was beginning to set while he let his feet take him wherever they wanted. He couldn't even really think anymore. He was consumed by gnawing emotions just waiting to be acknowledged again. The injustices he'd seen, he couldn't even really process. He knew the suffering to come was a fitting tribute to Verathiel. He deserved to suffer now. He could never make up for her sacrifice. Nothing he ever did in his life would make him worthy of that sacrifice. Destroying the shard would happen, but it just wasn't enough. Not to him.
Eventually, he found himself back on the overlook. As the sun set, the wind died down a bit. The air was still bitingly cold. For the first time in probably a year, he wondered what season it was. He'd gone to Wortham sometime in spring. It had been months since that happened. And that was another lifetime away from where he now stood. His memories of his own life in the Necropolis and monasteries with his master were something that had happened to someone else now. Someone who had once had choices where his life went. Someone who believed in doing the right thing for the Balance. Someone who didn't matter in the grand scheme of things and was more than happy to keep it that way.
He shrugged off his backpack as he sat beside Oza's grave. The grave had been weathered, some. But the weather at these elevations wasn't what he was used to. He still had no idea of how much time had actually passed. With everything not warmed by fire being nearly frozen, there was no way to tell. At best, he suspected it was maybe autumn now, possibly early winter.
He knew Oza wasn't here. She'd gone to her rest. He was certain of it; he had to be. And if she hadn't, if she'd hung around this forlorn and forgotten monastery... His heart couldn't take it. He shoved the thought aside. He refused to believe she was still here. And he was too afraid to check.
"I did it, Oza," he finally managed to whisper. "I killed Dravec. And...and I...I killed Skarn."
Words failed him as his throat closed up. He couldn't fight it. He couldn't stop it. And he didn't want to. The numbness fell away as he wept. He buried his face in his hands. Great as his victory had been, the loss of Verathiel had made it nothing but bitter to him. He couldn't see beyond the loss. And Yl'nira's corruption...she was a part of him now. He couldn't believe the corruption was irreversible. He couldn't save so many. Alyssa, Liene, Oza, Navair, and now Verathiel. They all sort of bunched together in his mind and heart, lashing him with guilt and grief. He wept for them all. The world had been deprived of such beautiful souls. And it was his fault. He'd failed. He could not accept that he would lose Yl'nira too.
How many more were going to die now that he'd unleashed Diablo himself back into the Hells to run free?
Sometime later, when he was too tired to even think anymore, he pulled out several blankets and again slept beside Oza's grave. He was so hollowed out and empty with exhaustion, he didn't even dream.
***
Hours later, when the sky was just beginning to turn blue in the east, he woke shivering. It had been stupid to not even light a fire. Now, he was painfully cold and aching everywhere. Yl'nira whispered to him, offering to soothe it away. He denied her. She needed what strength she had left. For the first time in who knows how long, he even felt hungry. His insides had finally untwisted after days, or possibly weeks, in Hell. Without Yl'nira supporting him, he began to feel the demands of his body again. He dug food out of his pack. Cheese, strips of dried meats, and some trail biscuits. All of it tasted like ashes, but he knew he could no longer rely solely on Yl'nira. He ate as much as he could force down while he watched the sunrise.
He tried to let his thoughts drift meditatively, to get the rest of himself under control. It was all just too much right now. He was much better than he had been the night before, but there was so much hurt and grief to filter through. He just couldn't keep his mind focused on any one thing. It defiantly kept cycling back to the same few things. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd actually meditated. Sometime before he'd gotten to Mount Zavain was all he could guess. And he knew that in this weakened and distracted state, the shard would have no problem finding a way in. The sheer injustice of it all, and the shard's promises... Maybe he could... They are corrupted, and the only purpose they can serve is evil.
Maybe that's what was needed now to balance his mistakes, his choices.
Memories of Cain and his beliefs in goodness and Light flitted through his mind. Memories of Verathiel and the other angels. All those beautiful souls lost, their sacrifices fighting for the Light and what they thought was right and good. All those good people in the world are still out there fighting. He couldn't even envision himself betraying all of them in such a way. He had lived by Rathma's teachings his whole life. He knew to the core of his being that the Balance had to be protected, and he'd still chosen what felt right instead. How had he gotten it so wrong?
It was too late now. He had made his choice. The shard could not fix that. Now, he had to stay the course to the end. And, given what he'd felt inside of him reaching back toward the shard, he didn't dare take the risk of going into this without absolute control over himself and his emotions. He couldn't avoid going back to Cain's workshop forever. The sooner he destroyed the shard, the better.
In the end, he did what he'd wanted to do for Oza when he'd buried her here. He pulled out his flute. He needed purging, he needed cleansing, and he needed something pure. He laid Yl'nira on the ground beside him, reluctant to let her out of his sight since getting her back. As he began, the soft, hesitant notes were soon echoed by the blade. She found a harmony to his own, and the music took flight on the mountain winds.
They went on for hours until the sun was well overhead. Only when he was just too tired emotionally to play anymore, did he stop. He sent a mental caress and thanks to Yl'nira, as much for joining him as for bearing with him. She could not cleanse him, but she would be there to help him. For now, he was calm enough inside to at least think. He meditated for a while longer, just to be sure he really did have a firm grasp on the serenity he needed to move forward. Even so, he still had his doubts. But there was no more need to stay in this place. He felt he could face Cain now, even with his failures. Somehow, he would find a way to rectify his mistake. As he let his eyes roam the vistas below, he knew he would keep fighting.
Diablo was free. His fight had only really just begun.
Before leaving the monastery, Pyresong said one last goodbye to Oza...to Verathiel. Maybe to a lot of things. Something inside of him had gone cold, but it wasn't fear or rage this time. It was more like a part of him had died with them. He chalked it up to fallout from all he'd been through. Yet he knew that every minute he delayed destroying the shard was dangerous. It may be safe in his backpack at the moment, but there were demons and humans all over Sanctuary that must know Skarn had fallen by now. They would be hunting for him and the shard he carried. And, even more than the other three, he wanted this thing destroyed at any cost. It had taken so very many precious lives.
In full armor, he opened the portal to the Palace Courtyard in Westmarch. It was still early afternoon, and the city was bustling. He ignored the multitude of heads turning toward him as he passed through the crowds. At this point, he just wanted to get to his destination and finish this. Nothing else mattered.
Outside the door of Cain's workshop, he paused. He wanted so desperately to feel the comfort of coming home. But it wasn't there. If anything, he felt like he was walking into another battle. He knew he would not hold anything back with Cain, and he must let his friend know of his failures and Diablo's release. He paused to dig inside himself. He was so mentally and emotionally worn out, he wondered if he had the strength. Yet, he knew he must. In his desire to stop one evil, he'd unleashed something far worse. It was his fault. And now he had to live with those choices, those consequences.
Instead of searching for the warmth and comfort of homecoming, he decided to embrace the cold. Right now, that was likely the only way he would get through this. And delay was not an option. Yl'nira whispered softly in his soul. She would be there to help and support him.
I never doubted it, beloved, he reassured her.
When he finally let himself in, he was surprised to find Charsi kneeling beside Cain's rocking chair. At this time of day, she was usually drowning in work at her forge. He couldn't quite process why she would be here now.
"You're alive!" Cain shouted, jumping up from his chair like a man half his age.
"I told you!" Charsi, called as Cain ran across the room.
"We were beginning to fear the worst!" Cain told him, taking his hand and then pulling him into an embrace.
"We got word yesterday from the Barbarian Tribes that you'd chased the shard right into Hell," Charsi explained almost cheerfully.
When Cain pulled back, his smile faded instantly. Already he could see in Pyresong's expression, something was horribly wrong. The priest looked terrible, as if he had aged a decade in the couple of months he'd been gone. But there was something more, something deeper. Something had hurt his friend so deeply... But who wouldn't be scarred? The man had gone through literal Hell and survived. No one came out of that unscathed or unchanged. He just hoped he could help his friend recover now that he was here.
"Did you… Were you able to get it?"
He nodded sadly. "Yes, but it came at a terrible cost. Diablo's soul has been freed within the Burning Hells."
Cain stumbled backwards a step in shock, his face going nearly as pale as his hair. Charsi was quick to catch and steady him. The horror on Cain's face made his heart squeeze painfully.
"Diablo... No, no... It was done! The Lord of Terror was dealt with!"
"I'm sorry..." he whispered, unable to meet his friends' eyes.
The shame... This was so much worse than he could have envisioned. He should have warned his friend of what little he knew a long time ago. His heart squeezed painfully. Cain, still reeling in shock, didn't even notice.
"This is a catastrophic turn of events! I had hoped we'd averted the End of Days...but this..."
Yl'nira shared every bit of his guilt and suffering. She whistled a song of hope in his soul. She would not let him give up. He sent a calming and reassuring message back. This was far from over. He wouldn't let it be over, and neither would Yl'nira.
"It is not over yet, Cain," he said, surprised at how cold and calm his voice was. "What I saw was only a spirit. Diablo has not taken form. There is still time to prepare."
Cain shook his head sadly now. "I've been too complacent. A fool! I should have foreseen this outcome!"
"Damn it, Cain! This was not your fault! It was mine!" he snapped.
Seeing Cain's utter shock at his outburst, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself back to his emotionless facade. Still, he wasn't about to let his friend blame himself for something he had no part in. This mess was entirely his fault. Cain would learn soon enough. He would have to tell the scholar everything; if for no other reason than to get his help trying to fix what he had broken.
"I didn't believe Skarn when he told me. And I let Diablo loose. This was not your doing," he added more calmly.
Taken aback by the outburst, Cain realized that his friend was suffering more than ever. He hadn't intended to make it worse. But such an emotional outburst from Pyresong was so completely out of character, it had shocked him out of his own self-flagellation. Whatever he thought, whatever culpability he felt, was absolutely nothing compared to what his friend was feeling right now. Cain shook his head at him. There was no point in arguing right now. It was done. They would find a way to fix it. Putting aside his own feelings, he focused on helping his friend.
"Still, it seems not all hope has left us," Cain said, forcing a smile. "At least you were able to wrest the shard from Hell's grasp!"
He winced visibly and couldn't meet his friend's eyes, making Cain even more concerned.
"Come, we must destroy it while we are still able!" Cain said, with forced exuberance. "Unsheath Yl'nira and let us banish this corrupted shard from our world! We have still won a great victory."
His face twisted with outright heartbreak, shocking Cain.
"Yl'nira...she..."
He couldn't bring himself to say it. She was so very precious to him now. He struggled with the idea that it was permanent. Maybe Charsi or Cain could help her. Yl'nira trilled sadly but hopefully, in echo to his thoughts. Only one piece of good news could he offer in all of this, and it paled in comparison to the damage he must reveal. Diablo...and now this...
He pulled Yl'nira from his belt and held it with both open hands so they could see. Charsi's gasp confirmed the corruption was visible at this point to anyone with the ability to see or sense magic. The red and black lines of the corruption laced in and around her Light like an infection.
"Hell's corruption is overtaking the blade..." Cain said, horrified.
"Skarn...took her," Pyresong explained, fighting back the choking tears. "He used the shard on her."
Charsi's gaze shot right to him. She seemed surprised by the way he referred to the angelic weapon. He ignored the blacksmith's look of surprise. Now was not the time to explain. Now, Cain, too, seemed more sad than horrified. Maybe he did understand somewhat.
"Look at it. The Light has almost entirely faded from the archangel's weapon."
Yl'nira gave him some low, sad notes. He had sensed she knew she was losing the battle against the corruption. Yet she, too, had clung to any hope provided them. She wasn't ready to give up. And he wouldn't let her, either.
"Can anything be done?" he asked them, refusing to give up even a sliver of hope.
"I-I do not know. Charsi? Blades are your expertise."
Pyresong clung to this hope, but only until Charsi spoke. Then he was utterly crushed, though he would not let them see it.
"Tempering an archangel's blade is beyond even the Horadric Malus' power. Even our best efforts can barely understand such strength...much less reforge it."
Yl'nira whispered something to him he did not expect. She spoke of the wielder's Light being the source of her power. It was not something that could be reforged once broken. With nothing more than musical notes, he'd understood and prayed he could be strong enough for her in return. There had to be someone out there who could understand and help. He would not give up on her. He allowed none of this to show in his expression.
As if having come to a decision, Yl'nira became far more insistent. He closed his eyes to listen more closely to her weakening voice.
"Yet, Yl'nira is the only hope we have of destroying the shard," Cain told Charsi. "If Diablo returns to life and acquires the shard...I'm not certain anything could stop him. Oh, Tyrael...if only you were here to guide us!"
I will not fail you, Yl'nira sang to Pyresong with forceful insistence. Let us finish what we began together.
Both Cain and Charsi fell silent as they realized he had tuned them out. He now gripped the blade and the handle with both of his bare hands. The lines of pain and fear on his face smoothed away. He did not open his eyes as he spoke next.
"We must use her as she is."
"Whoa, wait. The results could be catastrophic," Charsi cut in. "We don't know what destroying the shard with a blade corrupted by the shard will do!"
He was serene now inside and out as he opened his eyes. Yl'nira had believed in him, and now he would believe in her.
"She says she can do it. There's not much time left. We must."
Charsi opened her mouth to argue, and this time, he cut her off.
"Besides, it's no worse a fate than what Diablo would unleash upon us."
His voice was so cold, so certain. Yet, Cain seemed uncertain. Charsi turned to the old man for support. Cain looked from one to the other. He wanted to trust the priest's judgment at the moment. But the man was clearly suffering much. Still, he sensed there was something here that his friend needed. The old man considered that maybe his friend needed this victory, needed to destroy that shard, to even begin to cope with what had happened to him. And Cain prayed he had not been corrupted by the shard or even Hell itself. He could sense no obvious corruption or darkness, but there was always... No, he would not doubt this man. He could clearly commune with Yl'nira in a way they couldn't understand. They had to trust him and the blade.
Pyresong waited in serene silence. He knew if Cain wouldn't let him, he'd do it anyway. Yl'nira was right. They needed to finish this while they still could, while she still could. And he would not doubt Yl'nira's strength or courage now. She could take all she needed from him. If it cost him his life, so be it. Though a part of him knew full well she would never do that to him.
"I..." Cain sighed heavily. "We must," he told Charsi.
"Believe in Yl'nira. She will not fail us," he urged them both.
Charsi looked like she still wanted to argue, but she was clearly outnumbered. She just shook her head. Pyresong nodded. As long as she didn't try to stop him, it was enough.
"Cain, shield the room, just as we did before. Everything you've got. As powerful as you can make it," he instructed.
The elderly scholar nodded. Charsi was motioned back away near the desk to be outside the protective bubble of shields. Pyresong watched with his magical vision, but not really seeing much of anything. He remained inside what would soon be a bubble of protection, standing beside the pedestal. He set his shield and scythe against the base of the pedestal and then shrugged off his backpack. He kept Yl'nira in his other hand. She continued to sing softly to him, giving him assurances he did not need but appreciated.
Something deep inside of him had reared up, and the cold chill of certain death had settled over him yet again. He didn't know why, and he really didn't care. It was just one more buffer. He didn't just look calm or feel calm. He was dead inside right now, and that was how he wanted it. He intended to leave no room for the shard to grasp anything within him. If it tried, it would slide right off the ice that rimed his heart now.
The only warmth he needed was Yl'nira's Light and music in his soul.
He gripped that chill of certain death tightly. Yl'nira would not fail him, he knew. But so many other things could go wrong. Very likely he had picked up on something subconsciously that left him certain how this would end. He still didn't care. He just wanted this finished. He stopped thinking altogether, and just spoke with Yl'nira as he watched Cain.
When Cain was finally finished, Pyresong nodded. He could see so much more now with his magical vision than he ever had before. His distant thoughts wondered why. But then he shook it off. It didn't matter. All that mattered now was Yl'nira and the shard. They would finish this. And then he would find a way to cleanse her of the corruption. He knew Cain would help, even if Charsi couldn't. Somehow, he would find a way to make her Light pure again.
"You will need your ward to get through the shields," Cain told him, stepping closer.
He stepped back, out of reach, and shook his head.
"Not this time, my friend."
Cain went pale again as he began to sense and see what was going on inside the priest. His certainty about using Yl'nira was based on something he didn't even want to contemplate. His blood froze even just hearing that icy, hollow tone in his friend's normally warm, deep voice.
"No..."
He offered Cain a sad yet grim smile. He understood the old man more clearly than he even wanted to admit right now under the circumstances. There was so much Cain just didn't know. And he should never have to know. This was all his fault. What was done was done. He knew beyond any doubt that the old Horadrim would help him find a way to make it right. But first, the shard needed to be destroyed. If something did go wrong, he needed to know the old man was safe and would continue the fight. Yes, Cain was more than just a friend now. Selfish as it seemed, this was a risk he was not willing to let the elderly scholar take with him.
"Cain, understand, I trust Yl'nira. I believe in her. But if something does go wrong, I cannot be let out of the shield."
Cain searched Pyresong's eyes. No, there was no doubt nor fear behind them. Only cold resolve. Something more had happened. So much more he could sense. And there was something regarding this shard, specifically. The old man's mind swirled frantically with terrified thoughts he didn't want to contemplate.
"But..."
"I know, my friend, and I'm not giving up," Pyresong assured him, his voice still hollow and cold even to his own ears. "But we cannot take the chance both of us are trapped in here. Please, think of what is still ahead for us. Someone must survive to keep fighting. I hope it will be both of us. But, if not..."
Cain nodded sadly. His gut twisted painfully. Pyresong could see the agonizing decision the elderly Horadrim faced but would not back down on this. He could not. He trusted the old scholar to make the right decision. He smiled comfortingly as Cain walked over to his desk, just outside the shields.
Turning back to his task, he was satisfied to realize his heartbeat was slow and steady. The calm chill he'd always associated with certain death had pushed out all other thoughts and considerations now. His soul sang beside Yl'nira's in harmony. In this, they were one. Unwilling to let go of Yl'nira, he switched hands. Then he set the backpack on the floor beside the pedestal and opened it. He hesitated only for a heartbeat before reaching into the bag. Yl'nira promised him she would protect him from it, despite her own fears. She wove her shielding around his as his hand glowed brightly. He trusted her completely, even if he could not trust himself.
He felt the shard come to his hand inside the bag. Its filthy, violent feelings brushed his thoughts somewhere far, far beyond him right now. At the moment, he had the music; there was no need for thoughts. It clawed at something dark inside of him that he knew existed but would not give power to. He had this one task, this one focus. Nothing else existed. The sensations of his body fell away as he used Yl'nira's power to levitate the shard over the pedestal. He took two steps back, toward the opposite wall from Charsi and Cain. Cain must have felt or sensed something from the shards. He reinforced the shields with more power from his golden, glowing hands.
He held on to Yl'nira for a few more seconds, basking in her Light and music. Then he released her. She hovered out over the levitating shard above the pedestal and did as she had done before. She drew strength and power from him, from the Light, from Heaven itself, in a bubble around her. He watched, still in awe of the beauty of this simple act. After a few seconds, he could sense she was ready. He sent her at the shard a few inches below her blade tip. The shard fought back viciously. The initial touch of the blade on its crystals was so incredibly bright, it was blinding, even to mortal eyes. To him, it was so painfully blinding that he reflexively blocked some of the light with his right arm, unwilling to take his sight off Yl'nira, even if it burned out his eyes completely. He willed all his strength into her as she fought back against the Darkness and corruption of the shard lashing out at her.
Then the world exploded in front of him.
There was a momentary feeling of pure, raw agony and the sense of his flesh burning right off the whole front of his body. Before he could even process that, he felt the impact of his head slamming into the shields behind him. Yl'nira's screaming reverberated in his soul, shattering and destroying him. The last thing he felt was his entire being, physical and non, flying into a million pieces.
Finally, the nightmare was over for him.
Across the room, Charsi screamed in horrified shock. Cain dove through the shields toward his fallen friend. His heart had stuttered painfully watching Pyresong blasted right off his feet by the explosion. The priest lay on his right side, unmoving. This time, it wasn't just the shard. Both Yl'nira and the shard had exploded. He fell to his knees beside the unconscious man, horrified by the blood pouring out of his friend. There were tiny holes all over his body and armor, and one particularly deep gash in the priest's neck now literally spewed blood. In shock, Cain's hand glowed with what little healing power he possessed as he covered the wound reflexively.
"Cain! I'm trapped out here!" Charsi screamed.
Cain flung his other hand out and dropped the shields as fast as he could. "Get a healer!"
Charsi didn't need to look any closer to see the pool of blood forming around Pyresong's prone body. She fled out the door, not even stopping to close it.
Shaking, Cain looked for other wounds while he held his hand against the neck wound, doing little more than slowing it down. There were so many! From knees to neck, his friend was riddled with tiny holes. He had no idea how deep they ran, but they had cut through his armor like it was wet parchment! He'd seen the blade explode, along with the shard. But he couldn't figure out if it was just blade fragments or a combination of both that had pierced his friend. He could hardly think at all right now. There would be time for that later, he hoped.
"Hang on, my friend. Help is coming," he said in a shaky voice.
Getting no response, he gently shook him. All he got was a low gurgling as the man's pierced throat became filled with blood. Quickly, reached down with his free hand to the priest's belt. He fumbled a healing potion off of it and pulled the cork with his teeth. Still keeping most of his focus on slowing the flow of blood from the gushing neck wound, he tried to force his other hand to stop shaking enough to pour the potent healing potion into the man's slack mouth. He knew from previous experiences that even if a potion that went into the lungs, it wouldn't drown him. It would more immediately repair the damage to the throat and lungs.
Please... he begged silently. Not him.
As seconds turned to minutes, the pool of blood only expanded. His racing, panicked thoughts became nothing more than background noise. His chest ached, and his heart twisted painfully inside him. The sting of tears made the world blurry. He fought against the rising grief that threatened to engulf him. His mind was a senseless babble of begging. This man, who felt like a son to him. He couldn't... Gods, he couldn't live through that again!
"If not him, then who?" a mocking voice from the past tormented Cain.
Blocking out all thought now beyond what his hands were doing, he forced as much healing energy as he could summon into Pyresong. Little by little, he trickled healing potions into him, one after another until there were no more within reach. The man's breathing no longer gurgled; it rattled and bubbled weakly. He could feel the man's heartbeat under his left hand against the neck wound slowing. Fluttering now.
No, no, no, no...
Suddenly, he was being shoved aside. A burly man in healer's robes laid both hands on the priest and flooded him with healing light.
"You said it was glass and metal?" he asked Charsi, standing breathlessly in the doorway.
"Yes," she said, her eyes flickering to Cain.
"I sense no fragments," he healer told them. "But many wounds. Deep. He's...he's lost too much blood."
"Please..." Cain begged.
"I'm trying, damn it!" Byron snapped. "Get the purple bottle off my belt. Pour that down his throat as quick as you can. I don't care if he drowns in it."
With blood-covered shaking hands, Cain struggled with the slippery bottle. Charsi, slightly more gently, shoved him aside and took the bottle. Feeling helpless, Cain sat miserably watching. They waited in tense, fearful silence. Minutes ticked by like hours.
"He is... It's enough, I think," he healer finally said a few minutes later in a faint voice. "The body is strong. His energy is enough to complete the healing."
An eternity after it had begun, the healer finally sat back. Nearly falling over with exhaustion. Charsi supported him gently.
"He should survive. But he will need healing sleep for a few days. I used much of his energy to supplement my own. Another minute, and even I would not have been able to help him."
"Thank you," Cain whispered, choked with tears.
Byron turned to Charsi. "You said glass and metal fragments. Yet, I found no fragments. And there's no sign of an explosion in here."
Cain's frazzled mind snapped back into functioning.
"A thousand gold, and this never happened," he told the healer.
Charsi's head whipped around in shock. Even the near legendary healer, Byron, accustomed to working with some of the city's elite, was stunned to silence. He was often given orders to keep silent on things, but that amount of gold was beyond even what the nobility paid him for his services! Cain wasn't backing down. He had no time to think of anything to tell the healer. He was just glad Charsi had said something so vague. But word of the shard and its destruction from right here in Westmarch could not leave this shop. Otherwise, any other shards they found would be in jeopardy if stored here.
"Your word, now, and the money will be delivered tomorrow. You know who I am. So you know my word is good," Cain pushed.
"Agreed," Byron finally found the words to speak. "Charsi can tell you where to find me."
Tiredly, the healer let Charsi help him to his feet and out the door. The man's robes were covered in blood from the knees down where he'd been kneeling next to Pyresong. Cain and Charsi are no better. The pool of blood on the floor was unbelievable. Cain couldn't even process it. He'd seen such blood before, but this...
Charsi was already beginning to unbuckle the pieces of armor and set them aside. She shook her head sadly at realizing the holes went all the way through. Cuisses, faulds, rerebraces, belt, all of the layers of articulating breastplates...everything except his gauntlets had been shredded, and those had only been spared because he wasn't wearing them at the time. Already, she knew she would be making him a new set. Still, the sight of so much damage to his armor had her shuddering all over again at the idea of what it had done to his body. The clothing underneath was just as shredded and completely saturated with blood.
While she was working on getting him out of his armor and clothes, Cain retrieved some buckets of water and rags. Together, they stripped and cleaned Pyresong. Then, Charsi hefted him into her arms. Feeling how cold the priest's skin was, Cain couldn't help delving into the man's body to check for himself. No, he sensed no more wounds. But he wasn't going to believe his friend had recovered until the man woke up and said so himself.
As Charsi hefted the naked man in her arms to carry him upstairs, she was amazed just how light he felt. With all the tight layers of muscle, he didn't look like a skeleton. Yet, there was something almost insubstantial about him right now. To her, he weighed no more than a child, though his body was easily longer than hers and awkward to carry.
"Put him in my bed," Cain said, stopping her before she crossed the room.
"But you can't get upstairs easily. And he said Pyresong would sleep for a few days."
"Stairs. Exactly why I need him down here."
Then, Charsi's muddled mind understood. She was not the only one who wanted to watch over their unconscious friend. Cain pulled back the layers of blankets, and she settled Pyresong on the bed. They covered him with several layers, frightened of how cold he felt to the touch. Charsi moved to pull a rocking chair over to the bed, and Cain waved her off.
"There should still be time. Can you get to the market and buy another bed for me before they close?"
"Sure thing. I'll just need to change real quick."
"I'll get the money," he told her, stepping around the sticky pool of blood on the floor.
"Don't bother. We'll settle later," Charsi told him, already halfway out the door.
Alone and feeling a bit lost, Cain sat on the edge of the bed beside his friend. He took the man's icy hand in his own and tried to warm it, to no avail. Now maybe he could think. Now he could process. The events of the last hour or so had shaken him to his core. The last time the priest had been unconscious like this, he'd been wounded terribly inside. This time... He couldn't be sure yet.
The physical wounds were healed, but he had sensed even before then that something had changed in Pyresong. The man always seemed so resilient to him. He'd suffered so much since they'd joined forces. And he'd seen the man broken. Yet, he always came back. But this? Where had the fragments gone? There were no signs of the fragments that had ripped through his armor and flesh. Inside of him, they had just disappeared entirely, or so the healer had said. And Cain had found none on the floor or anywhere else. He'd expected the crystalline fragments of the corrupted shard to dissolve and disappear as they had with the others. But what about Yl'nira?
His mind froze on that thought. He had never been the one to have all the answers, but he had always relied on his many books to give him those answers. Now? He could only speculate that a weapon that felt like metal but was made of Light must have behaved the same way. It dissolved into the Light it was made of.
He prayed that was the case because he didn't know what to think anymore. Their one hope of destroying the shards was lost to them. The only solace he could find was that the blade had kept its promise and fulfilled its purpose; the shard was destroyed. Now he was back to the beginning. He'd gone over his research again and again. He had still found nothing else that would help. He'd hit a dead end, even before word had come from the Barbarian tribes in the Frozen Tundra around Mount Arreat that the priest had chased the shard and Skarn into Hell itself. When that news arrived, all else had been forgotten. A part of him knew instantly that he would never see his friend again. And, if he did, the man would never be the same. No one walked through Hell and returned the same. If they weren't shattered mentally from the start, they usually crumbled gradually.
Was Pyresong strong enough to survive?
Gods, he wanted to believe it! But he'd seen too much, known too many in his life. Even the one man he'd fought beside in the battle against the Prime Evils had not left without his scars. Knowing he survived and still lived sane gave Cain some comfort. Maybe it was time to call upon his old friend now. He knew full well Master Xul was tied up with hunting Lethes. Maybe he could...
No, Xul's priorities were clear. Until Lethes was stopped and brought to justice, he could not leave the hunt. But he was the only one Cain could think of that might be able to help Pyresong now; and even that was a faint hope. They were so very different from one another. Xul probably wouldn't even consider the death of a fellow priest as anything to be concerned over. The man wasn't anywhere near as callous as some priests Cain had met; but he was very stereotypical. Very likely in Xul's mind Pyresong had simply served his purpose and was just not needed by the Balance anymore.
In the end, he didn't know what to do. He was beyond exhausted and still covered in sticky, drying blood. Knowing it would be a long while before his friend would wake, he left the man's side and turned his focus on the mess. Just looking at that much blood and knowing it had come from the friend now sleeping in his bed made his gut clench. He shuffled back across the floor and picked up the rag that had been discarded. Little by little, he washed the blood away. The stain remained. He wished he'd thought to have Charsi buy a rug. He wasn't sure how much of the sight of that he could stand. Yet, it would have to wait.
Absorbed in his task, he lost track of time. It felt like the more blood he scrubbed away, the more there was to clean. He let his mind roam while his hands worked. His memories only seemed to spiral into darker and darker places he couldn't quite stop entirely. It seemed like hours before Charsi returned.
"Let me get that. You go clean up and change," she told him, hefting him to his feet with ridiculous ease. "I'll make some tea."
Cain didn't argue. He didn't have the mental capacity or energy left to argue. True to her word, the blacksmith filled and set the kettle over the fire. Then she returned to the task of cleaning up where Cain had left off. Cain busied himself changing and cleaning up in the adjoining room. When he was finished, Charsi immediately sent him to his rocking chair now positioned by the bedside. For a while, Cain just sat there numbly, not even able to think as he watched the steady, reassuring rise and fall of Pyresong's chest.
***
Cain hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep until a knock on the door the next morning startled him awake. It was Everen with his breakfast. Cain threw off the blanket Charsi must have covered him with before she left. He rose painfully to his feet, aching all over. Despite the now clean and dry floor, the boards were still visibly stained. He shuddered as he came around the bed and opened the door. He stopped the boy from entering and just accepted the hot bowl of whatever it was. With no appetite at all, he quickly set it on a nearby shelf after closing the door.
He sat himself on the edge of the bed beside Pyresong. There was no change. The man's forehead was downright icy. Even the hand he dug out from under the blankets was freezing to the touch. He was just thankful his friend had slept peacefully. He had absolutely expected night terrors. Still, it was probably just too soon to tell. Right now, he was in a healing sleep, which was often too deep even for dreams. The body demanded complete rest to recover.
Not for the first time, he wished he'd waited. He should have made the priest wait while they studied the blade to see if there was a way to reverse the corruption. Still, he had seriously doubted it was possible; even Charsi had said as much. When he had seen the devastation on Pyresong's face as he'd told them of Diablo, he'd been desperate to find something good for his friend to hold on to. He'd thought destroying a shard would lift the man's spirits, even if it didn't entirely justify the cost. But learning of the corruption of the angelic weapon had only made things worse for his friend. He shouldn't have given in! Yet, he'd felt the necromancer needed that. He needed to finish the fight so he could begin to heal from whatever he'd been through.
As the minutes ticked by, Cain struggled to put away these thoughts. He would just have to assess the damage and do what he could to help his friend heal when he finally awoke. For now, the best thing he could do was go over everything he'd been researching for months to see if there was another answer. Eventually, he returned the icy hand back under the blankets and turned his attention back to his desk. His heart wasn't in it, though. And he needed some tea. He set the kettle over the fire and felt awkward sitting in what he considered to be Pyresong's fireside chair.
He never made it to his desk. As if compelled, he returned with a book and his tea to the chair beside the bed. Though nothing had changed with the priest, he couldn't bring himself to leave the man's side. Somewhere in his weary mind, Cain recalled Pyresong's crippling loneliness. Before having gone to actual Hell, the man's definition of hell was being all alone in a black abyss for all eternity. The man himself probably didn't even realize it. It was something he'd buried deep, even in childhood.
Cain found himself again watching the slow rise and fall of his friend's chest under the blankets. His tea had long since gone cold, and he hadn't even flipped a page yet. With a frustrated snap, he closed the book and dropped it on the floor. He wasn't going to get any work done this morning, and he might as well just admit it. He knew this couldn't go on indefinitely. But, for right now, he just couldn't focus. He knew he wasn't likely to be able to focus until he knew his friend was all right again.
"Which might be never," a nasty voice from his memories taunted again.
Cain angrily silenced the voice. He refused to believe that. So many times in his life, he had survived on nearly impossible hopes. He would cling to them now, as he always had. He remembered the time he'd been hanging in a cage waiting to die when Tristram fell to the Darkness at the last. He remembered being tormented and tortured by the demonic form of Griswold, once his dear friend and town blacksmith, then corrupted and twisted into a demon. He was the only survivor of that once proud town. Hanging in that cage, he'd had no reason to believe he would survive. And then a Priest of Rathma had braved the Khazra and Griswold-demon to save him.
"I can't remember if I ever told you the story of my rescue from Tristram," he started, speaking to his friend's sleeping form. "It was nothing short of a miracle. And it was where I first met a Priest of Rathma in person who was willing to talk to me for any length of time. He was no great hero out of legend either when we met. But he saved the world, much as you have."
Cain wasn't entirely sure why he did it. He was certain Pyresong would likely neither hear nor recall any of it. But it somehow felt right to him. Talking to his friend freely was difficult at first. The silence disturbed him. But after a while, he could hear the priest's dry and sometimes even snarky retorts clearly in his mind. For hours, he talked to his friend, telling whatever stories came to mind. From his own experiences, to all the things he'd learned over the decades out of books. He let his mind take him wherever it wanted.
The steady stream of stories was interrupted by Charsi's knock on the door later that morning. He wasn't surprised to learn she had taken Pyresong's armor and burned the clothing. She was planning on a new set for the priest, of course, one even better than the now destroyed set. But, really, she had come to check on Cain. He assured her he was fine. As a matter of fact, talking to Pyresong had made him feel much better. It was a lot harder to fall into dark thoughts of tomorrow when yesterday was still being shared. She told him the new bed and wool mattress would be arriving later that day, so he could at least get some quality sleep. She, too, found herself fixated with the massive bloodstain on the wood floor and offered to bring a rug or something to cover it up.
Reassured that the old man was going to be okay, she finally left him to get back to her work. She took the heavy purse of gold with her to deliver to Byron, the healer, when she left. Cain resumed telling his stories, if for no other reason than to let his friend know he was not alone.
***
On the morning of the third day, Cain woke in his new and wonderfully more comfortable bed feeling excited. He'd gotten essentially no research work done in the last two days, but he didn't worry over that now. He spent his days reading to or talking to Pyresong. Today, the priest should finally begin to wake from his healing sleep. The rocking chair now sat between the two beds that he'd had to move shelves and such to accommodate. He'd had no intentions of leaving the man alone one minute longer than was necessary. He even told Everen to bring enough food for two this evening. He was that certain.
The day wore on, and Pyresong's chest rose and fell steadily. But his eyelids didn't so much as flutter. His skin and hair, bleached to pure white decades ago by the necromantic magics he'd wielded his whole life, had taken on an almost transparent look on the first day. Now he looked physically recovered and healthy again, though Cain still thought him far too lean sometimes. He knew the man worked his body hard and was almost pure muscle. But he'd always seemed just a little too thin, especially for being a warrior. Cain was fairly certain the priest didn't eat much while he was away. To be fair, he could understand. There had been many a time his own appetite had suffered while traveling through the horrors he'd seen.
Cain had more or less run out of anecdotes at the moment. So, he chose to read from another book. Every few minutes, he found himself glancing up, expecting the man's eyes to flutter while he dreamt. Or maybe even a facial twitch. Hells, he'd even be happy if the man suffered night terrors; literally anything but just laying there breathing. On more than one occasion, Cain had taken his friend's hand in his own. He was still disturbed by how cold it was. Again, he used magic to delve into the younger man's body but found absolutely nothing wrong. By the end of the day, he just had to accept that maybe the healing sleep would just be a bit longer than was usual. After all, there had been catastrophic damage.
On the fourth day, Charsi stopped by yet again. She had been coming by daily to check on Cain as much, if not more so, than Pyresong. She thought of the old man like a grandfather; much as she saw Akara as her grandmother. With no biological family of her own, she adopted almost anyone that would let her. She hadn't been close enough to the priest to really think of him as a brother, though. She almost felt guilty about that, now. But the priest had been so closed off to her, it was impossible. To her, it seemed as if Pyresong radiated an aloof loneliness he was too afraid to break out of. Some of his more snarky remarks almost felt aimed at reminding her to keep her distance. But, Cain, she knew, had taken the younger man under his wing. She had seen the absolute devastation on his face when he'd read the letter from Chieftain Kientarc. He'd practically crumbled thinking the priest was dead or worse, trapped in Hell.
She tried to convince herself that her fears and Cain's were unfounded. After all, Cain had outlived many of the companions he'd called friends and always recovered from the loss. Still, she sensed something completely different here, and not just about their new friend. Cain, she was certain, felt something much deeper than the casual working friendship he had with other adventurers. She couldn't help wondering if it was the same for Pyresong. She hoped that was the case. She had never met a Priest of Rathma who was anything other than detached or downright cold. He just seemed somehow lonely to her, more than cold.
By the morning of the fifth day, Cain was certain something was wrong. His delving and healing abilities could barely be considered even amateurish. He borrowed Everen to go and fetch Byron. The burly, dark-haired man was clearly concerned when he had been summoned for the same person he had healed only a few days prior. But, upon seeing the priest sleeping peacefully, he became confused. Per Cain's request, he delved deeply and thoroughly. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the priest, physically. He was just sleeping.
Cain refused to accept it. It was too long.
So the healer delved again. He went all the way down through the layers of the physical to touch the man's energies. Though he was no expert on magical energies or necromancers in general, those energies, too, felt normal as far as he could tell. There was no sort of infection or curses or attack upon the body or anything it housed. Frustrated by Cain's pestering insistence, Byron shook his head.
"Look, I don't know anything about him. What damage was done to his body has been healed. And, sometimes, they just choose not to wake," he snapped to silence Cain's arguments.
Cain paused at this. Then he felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. Now that it was shoved in his face, he could identify the fear and anxiety that had plagued him all these days.
"You understand?" the healer prompted more gently, seeing Cain's reaction to this theory.
Cain nodded slowly. Yes, he very much understood. And wished he didn't. He'd been avoiding it and dancing around it for days. But some part of him deep inside knew that was the most likely explanation. Pyresong had given up. After whatever he'd been through in Hell, he was done.
"Some people can still recover," Byron explained, more gently. "But after three days beyond the healing sleep, without food or water, the body will begin to suffer. Right now, he's fine because most of the last five days have been regenerative healing sleep fueled by his own reserves. But he will begin to decline over the next day or two. The best we can do is healing potions to stave it off for a little while longer and hope for the best. I can provide some if you wish."
Cain nodded again, too numb to speak. He knew what he had to do first, though. And he didn't like it any more this time than the last time. At least this time, he knew his friend would forgive him for the violation. He fetched some gold out of a nearby satchel and took the four bottles of healing potions Byron had on him. But the healer wasn't letting him off that easy.
"Elder, I know this can be difficult, but sometimes they make the choice. Give him a few more days," he said softly. "But, when it's clear he's made his decision, it's best to let him go. I can arrange to have him moved to another location to keep him comfortable. Or I can arrange for some herbals that will be quicker."
Cain just nodded again, not trusting his voice. The healer let himself out. Cain sat in the chair numbly for a while. Much as he wanted to jump right ahead, he couldn't afford to be interrupted in what he had to do next.
It wasn't long before Charsi made her expected appearance around the time she would take a break for dinner. Now she, too, was worried, but not about Pyresong. Clearly the elderly Horadrim was wrestling with more than even he let on to her. Cain told her about Byron's visit and what they had discussed. Yet, he struggled both to accept and deny the facts. He wanted to put those thoughts back into the deepest, darkest hole in his mind he could find and bury them forever. He knew he couldn't. And he wasn't about to tell her what he was going to do next.
As with before, when he was inside Pyresong's memories and consciousness, the necromancer was in control. If the man had been so badly damaged by his experiences, there was no telling what Cain would find. And, he knew also, the priest could pull him into it. It was risky, to say the least. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to believe his friend would intentionally harm him, either. He just had to know, though. He couldn't keep the priest's body alive if he didn't want to live anymore. He wouldn't do that, even to this dear man. He'd seen cases where it was kinder to let them die than live with the horrors they'd seen and survived. Til the day he died, he would never forget his failed attempts to help poor Farnham. Still, he believed Pyresong could come back, that he would recover in time.
"And you know I wouldn't give up that easily," he heard the priest say.
Cain couldn't even find the ability to smile at hearing that voice in his mind. He was too terrified and too saddened. Steeling himself mentally for whatever he would find inside his friend, he pulled Pyresong's icy hand out from under the covers once again.
"So cold...like a corpse..." another voice from the past taunted him.
“You let us go...” another voice reminded him, painfully.
He silenced the memories and voices viciously again. He couldn't find the strength to be angry at them. Maybe he deserved them...and all of this. No, he denied fervently. Their world wasn't like that. There was no cosmic balance for his own misdeeds. And, if there was, he would hate himself for the rest of his life for dragging Pyresong into them.
Then he silenced all thought. This wasn't about him, anyway. He reached forward until his face was nearly on the priest's scarred chest, listening to the slow, steady heartbeat. He placed his other hand on the man's forehead. With one last calming breath, he closed his eyes and shifted his focus away from his own body. There he found...
Nothing.
The shock was so complete, Cain snapped back into his own body with a gasp. There was nothing! No, he must have done something wrong. He could feel the life energies and even that massive well of arcane power within his friend. He must have been distracted. Focusing more intently this time, he let himself fall deeper into a trance and then shifted his consciousness outward with slow, deliberate effort into his friend again.
Nothing.
No, that cannot be! he cried to the empty darkness.
Maybe Pyresong had retreated deeper within himself. Cain pushed harder.
Nothing.
He spread himself out, feeling, reaching for any spark of consciousness.
Nothing.
Despite the arcane energies and even life energies flowing through this body, there was nothing in there to keep it alive. No thoughts. No dreams. No memories. Not even traces of a fragmented or broken mind. There was literally nothing. Cain felt sick when he returned to his own body. Something was keeping his friend alive, but it wasn't consciousness.
His soul!
Feeling like a fool, Cain repositioned his hands on Pyresong's chest. He switched to an entirely different type of spell he hadn't needed in a very long time. Not arcane magic and not mind magic, this was something only priests and priestesses usually found useful, but he'd learned it anyway. He could feel the soul in others and their aspects. A blackened soul had its own feel. Someone faithful to the Light had a different feel. And every soul was differently balanced. But no living person would be without one.
Nothing.
Cain sat back, horrified now. Had they really been too late? His heart hadn't stopped before the healer arrived. The pulse had been weak but was still there. Even Byron had confirmed it. Had Pyresong fled his body anyway?
For a while, he just sat there numb with shock. The man had sacrificed so much, had suffered so much, had fought so hard... But, it was impossible! A living body without a mind or soul didn't make sense. He couldn't be both alive and dead. In his life, he'd seen people catatonic. Yet there was always still something there, even if it was a damaged soul and a fragmented mind. There was always something.
Here, there was absolutely nothing.
Still reeling from the shock, Cain found himself talking out loud to Pyresong again, almost babbling. He held the man's cold hand in both of his own as if to convey to him some warmth, some life beyond this mockery. He ran his mind over every bit of research he'd ever done in his entire life. Had this happened before? He was sure of it. Someone had to have the answer somewhere! He just wasn't sure if it was in his collection. No, if the priest really did still live, his time was limited now. He would begin to suffer the effects of the prolonged sleep, and soon.
A vague plan forming in his mind, Cain tucked Pyresong's hand back under the covers and ran to his desk. The beautiful carvings and exquisite craftsmanship stabbed at his heart painfully now. His friend had chosen well. He never would have bought something so nice for himself. And it was not just beautiful; it was incredibly useful and practical, with all the different drawers, cubbies, and shelves. He knew that his friend was extremely logical and practical by nature. But his gentle heart and soul were drawn to beauty, and his generosity outweighed even his practical side. Cain knew he would cherish that desk for the rest of his life. Right now, though, it was just one more painful reminder of the person that now lay dying in a bed across the room.
Anger overrode the pain. He would not let this happen! He was glad now he had unthinkingly bought the healing potions. He would need them, he knew. He was not going to give up on Pyresong until the man woke up and told him to let go. He would be damned if he'd just sit here and watch it happen. He scribbled two letters frantically, struggling to keep his hand from shaking. Reluctant as he was to leave his friend's side, he quickly folded them up and sealed one with wax and magic. Then took his satchel and staff and left the workshop.
His first stop was a courier's post near the western docks. Many, many messages came and went in that place, often in large bundles from one city to another. Not this time. One courier, one letter, and one destination. With a heavy purse hastily filled with gold if he left right now; and the promise of platinum when he returned with the reply. The young man practically flew out the door. Satisfied, Cain quickly made his way to Rakkis Plaza, his shuffling steps frantic now. He could see Charsi was distractedly working on something but could tell her heart wasn't in it. When she caught sight of him headed her way, she left it sitting in the coals as she ran to meet him.
"He's awake?" she smiled excitedly.
"No, and he won't. I-I need you to take this to Akara, please. There's no time."
Charsi paled. "What's happened?"
"I'll explain when you get back. But I can't leave him alone, not now. And I...I need help. Can you go tonight?"
"I'll close up right now," she promised, looking worried.
When he turned to leave, she caught him by the arm. "Are you all right?"
Cain didn't know what to say. He saw her anxious expression and felt bad for worrying her. He pulled her in for a reassuring hug.
"I hope so," was all he could offer her right now.
Charsi prayed for him as she hurriedly put away everything for the night and closed up. The few customers that tried to come by were swiftly turned away with an uncharacteristically snappish comment. She finally left the rest to her apprentices. Using her amulet, gifted by Akara, she opened the portal to the Eastgate Monastery right there in Rakkis Plaza. In seconds, she was racing through the Outer Cloisters.
Cain ransacked his book cases. There had to be something! He cursed his frazzled old brain. He wracked his mind for any mention of anything similar that he might have in his library. But he just couldn't remember anything related to such a case. Books littered the floor when Charsi returned with Akara. He had even turned Everen away, feeling too sick even to consider food.
When Charsi got no response to her first knock, she flung open the door to find Cain struggling to his feet amid piles of books on the floor. Behind her stood the one person Cain hoped could give him answers before it was too late. And behind the priestess in the purple and lilac robes, was Commander Kashya. Cain mentally berated himself. He hadn't even thought of Kashya! She was the one person in this world other than himself he knew Pyresong felt something for. When he had been inside the priest's mind, he'd seen it clearly, though the man denied it, even to himself. The unfathomable magic of love, even one not acknowledged, had been known to work miracles. Though he would never have divulged those secret feelings Pyresong still held for the woman, he prayed Kashya would at least be willing to try.
"Thank you for coming," Cain said, carefully stepping over the piles of books.
"Your letter was nearly unreadable, my friend. What has happened?" Akara asked, her face wrinkled with worry.
Cain took the priestess' hands in his own and moved them all inside so he could close the door. Kashya's surprised gasp not quite confirmed his suspicion about her feelings for the priest. He wasn't sure if they had diminished over time. Yet there was obviously something there. She covered them quickly.
"I can't explain everything right now," Cain told them as they gathered around Pyresong's bed. "He went after another shard. When we tried to destroy it with an angelic weapon, he was...wounded. It's been more than five days since his healing sleep started. Physically, there's nothing wrong. But he won't wake."
Akara turned from her inspection of the priest to Cain. "There's more."
Cain had hoped not to say it before she could find her own information, but she knew him too well. He sighed as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Beside him, Kashya laid a hand on Pyresong's head. She flinched visibly when she felt just how cold he was. Cain thought furiously for several seconds. While he fully trusted the people in this room, it was still difficult to make them understand. Finally, he found the words.
"First, I have to explain something prior,” he started hesitantly. “He came in contact with three shards when we first tried to destroy them. They inflicted memories on him. I had to delve into his mind to bind and shield the memories, or he would not have survived."
"How?" Kashya asked, pale and looking a bit shaken.
Cain shook his head. "It's a Horadric spell of the mind. Not used for hundreds of years. And the healers who practiced it were bound by oaths of secrecy and silence. Those magically binding oaths no longer exist, so I learned it and locked away the spell so no one could ever use it."
Akara and Kashya's relief was visible. They could easily understand the implications of such power; and the potential misuse. Kashya dug Pyresong's right hand out from under the blanket and held it in both of hers, much as Cain had done his left hand many times over the last few days. Cain steeled himself and then forced himself to focus. Akara waited patiently, serenely.
"The archangel's blade we used to destroy the other three was corrupted by a fourth shard before we even tried to destroy it. When he used it to destroy this fourth shard, both the blade and the shard exploded. Destroying the shards makes them...evaporate?” Cain rubbed his forehead in frustration. “I don't know, exactly, but there are no physical fragments left. I can only assume it was the angelic blade... When it exploded, he was..." Cain paused, closing his eyes against the terrible memory.
"It shattered and blasted him with fragments. And he was bleeding out," Charsi explained, putting a comforting arm around the old man's bony shoulder. "Cain managed to keep him alive until I could get a healer. But the damage...the fragments ripped right through his armor like it was nothing. I've never seen anything like it. By the time Byron got to him, he was nearly dead, and there were no fragments."
Cain jumped in again, still shuddering at the memories and implications. "He should have woken a couple of days ago, but he hasn't. Byron suggested he might not want to wake up. But I couldn't just let him go, not until I could talk to him myself. I tried the Horadric delving spell again, but there was...there was nothing."
"I see," Akara said softly, almost sadly.
"I can't find his consciousness, his thoughts, or memories," Cain continued, frustrated. "Even his soul! There's nothing there! But he lives, and...I don't know what to do. Can you help him?"
Akara frowned, contemplating the priest. Cain saw the intent, hopeful gaze from Kashya. After a few seconds, Akara met Kashya's questioning gaze, and something passed between them. Then Kashya bowed her head to put his icy hand to her cheek for a few seconds. When she let go, she turned to Charsi and motioned gently toward the door. Only when they were gone did Akara speak again.
"Deckard, my dear friend, what are you not telling me?"
The Horadrim knew he was cornered. He had no choice but to tell her the truth and everything that went with it. He covered his face miserably for a moment. Akara's gentle tugging on his hands forced him to meet her penetrating gaze. She clasped his hands comfortingly in her own. Cain took a shuddering breath.
"He chased the shard into Hell. He won, but I-I don't know how much damage he suffered. He's so resilient, but... Anyone who's been there... By the Heavens, I shouldn't have listened to him! He insisted Yl'nira could do it. And I let him!"
"You know better than anyone that blaming yourself will do nothing. He made his decision. Now we need to know if this sleep is also his decision, or...something else."
He nodded miserably.
"You love him?" she asked softly.
Cain wanted to bury his face again, but her warm, firm grip wouldn't let him. "He's...different. He's...like a son to me," he finally admitted. "You've seen him. He's not like other Priests of Rathma. I've shared his memories. I know it's not my place to tell his story, but he...he never had a choice."
Akara frowned, not sure what to make of that. The Great Eye had shown her some things about the necromancer that had made little sense at the time. None of it had been relevant to their work in the Dark Wood, so she had disregarded it. She had seen no reason to pry further once she had confirmed his true intent. Still, her friend was right. He was just not like any other Priest of Rathma she had ever encountered. He felt far more connected to the living world than other necromancers, for one thing. And there was an unusual presence about him she had never felt before; a hint of something both ancient and powerful. At the time she could only describe it to herself as a sense of purpose, or even destiny. Yet, none of that felt right, either. If anything, she considered him an intriguing bundle of contradictions and nothing more.
Her expression was serene once more as she set aside all these other curious thoughts. She turned her eyes back to Cain.
"And what will you do if he's decided?"
Cain felt the stinging tears and clenching in his throat. He swallowed a couple of times and tried to keep his composure. After a few seconds, he met her eyes. In a way, he had unconsciously wrestled with himself over this for days. He already knew his answer; he just didn't want to say it. It felt like condemning his friend without even trying.
"I will let him go."
Satisfied but aching for her friend, Akara pulled Cain into an embrace. "We will be here for you, my friend."
"I know," he pulled back. "But please. Can you find him? Can you reach him?"
"I don't know," Akara admitted. "I will try to see what the Great Eye shows me."
"Thank you, my friend."
The priestess pulled back the blankets and laid a hand on Pyresong's chest. In her other hand, she clasped her amulet. It was a sacred image of the Sightless Eye, passed down through generations of High Priestesses, of which Akara was, at the moment, the last. For several minutes, she just frowned silently. Cain, not sure what she would find, but certain she could give him more answers, waited as patiently as he could. While he refused to believe his friend had given up, he knew he would have to accept he had if that's what she found.
After what felt like an hour to him, the priestess seemed to come out of her trance. He couldn't find the words to even ask as she sat down tiredly in the available rocking chair. Instead, he rushed to get her a cup of tea. When he turned back, he was shocked all over again to see Akara looking almost dazed.
"I don't know how much is really mine to tell," she explained, as he sorted through all she'd learned.
It was far more than she had expected. This man was not what he appeared at all. She had doubts even Pyresong himself knew the full extent. Despite Cain sharing the man's memories, she was fairly certain even Cain could not guess at the truth of it all. From the distant past to the distant future, this unassuming priest was at the heart of so much. Events she could not comprehend were taking place around him, and the repercussions rippled through time...forward and backward.
"Anything at all to...to give an old man insight is appreciated."
Akara nodded, believing him. Then, she shook it all off and struggled to focus. The rest of what would happen was not relevant right now. Besides, she had only seen brief glimpses that were beyond her comprehension. All futures were nothing more than speculation and possibilities. If Pyresong never woke up and died here in this room, those visions would be meaningless anyway. All she needed to do was to answer Cain's immediate question.
"You cannot find him because he does not want to be found right now."
The priestess absorbed herself in her cup of tea for a few seconds, trying to find a way that would give her friend hope, but not cross the boundaries of what was the priest's most surprising story to tell. It was possibly the most difficult thing she'd ever had to sort out in terms of what to explain and how. It had nothing to do with the man's privacy so much as the events that had surrounded him his whole life. Most of what she had seen, she didn't really understand herself. Some of it was absolutely impossible. At least, so she would have thought, until a few years ago when another man had gone to Hell and returned to tell the tale. But even those events paled in comparison to the rest of it all. She wished she had more time to meditate on all this before she had to speak. But Cain needed to understand only one thing right now. She would just have to keep with that.
"From what the Great Eye showed me, he has much to tell. Even before all this, he had found a way for his soul to bridge the gap between the living world and the Unformed Land in a way no other Priest of Rathma likely ever has," she explained. "He's there, now. Don't misunderstand me. He is very much in both worlds. He has not let go. But you can feel it in the chill of his body. He's more in the Unformed Land than here, right now."
Cain didn't like the sounds of this, but he waited for her to say more.
"Yl'nira wasn't just a weapon or a tool. An angelic weapon is possessed of a soul of Light all on its own. When his own soul was already badly damaged and weakened, he took Yl'nira into himself. He accepted her and bonded with her. In return, she gave him strength and her Light. She literally became a part of his soul," she explained. "When the blade was destroyed, and her Light taken from his own soul, it was...shattered. His soul is in fragments now."
Cain bowed his head sadly. A part of him just couldn't comprehend and was horrified. He knew from his years spent with Master Xul the delicate nature of a soul. The idea that Pyresong's very soul had been damaged...and now shattered? Maybe it was crueler to try to hang on to him.
"He still fights, my friend,” she assured him gently. “You were right. But even the Great Eye cannot tell me who or what will win."
That rocked him back on his heels for a moment. His mind swirled with possibilities, almost none of them good. It had bonded with Pyresong's soul, and then it had been corrupted by the shard.
"Has he been corrupted?" he finally asked after the silence had stretched on for several seconds.
Akara shook her head uncertainly. "I don't know. But his soul has been shattered to pieces. It is up to him to find a way to heal himself. If he cannot, then he will suffer, even in death."
The idea made Cain feel sick again, even more than if he'd learned his friend had given up. Letting someone go to their well-earned rest was one thing. Learning they would spend eternity suffering was far worse to him. He nodded, at a loss.
"What should I do?"
"Be with him. Believe in him. He may, even now, know that we are here, concerned about him. Knowing that may give him the strength to fight all the harder to find a way back to us," Akara assured him.
The priestess indicated a satchel with several more healing potions she had brought. "You will need to keep his body alive. I'm sure Byron already told you?"
Cain nodded.
"You are able to delve well enough to see the physical damage. A steady supply of healing potions will help with the physical damage. But if it goes on for too long..."
"And how long is too long?" Cain asked miserably.
"My friend, you will know," Akara assured him gently.
She held his hand comfortingly in her own while they sat in silence for a bit longer. There was so much more she wanted to say. Yet there was so much she still needed to sort through. Cain did not need to know the rest until or unless Pyresong made his way back to them. Then, maybe. Right now, she just wanted time to meditate and consider the later consequences and ramifications of all she had learned here today. While Pyresong had been a focal point, much of it would one day involve the Sisters and herself. There were warnings in there she could not ignore. She had choices to make.
She set them aside for now and finished her tea. With a final squeeze, she released Cain's chilly hand.
"We should let Charsi and Kashya know."
"Kashya...does she still...have feelings for him?" Cain asked carefully, his face burning.
He could not help feeling as if he was crossing a personal boundary. Yet he was too desperate not to at least try. The priestess cocked a downright chilly eyebrow at him. He knew full well it wasn't any of his business, but he wasn't about to back down if there was any hope at all for his friend.
"I'm not trying to pry," Cain told her hastily. "But love has been known to do what no healing potion ever could."
Akara, now beginning to understand, seemed to wrestle with something. In the end, she just shook her head. It was not her place to say, for either of them, some of what she had seen. She had had her fireside talks with the woman she considered her daughter already. She knew where Kashya's heart was, and it had only grown more fierce. What little she had seen of Pyresong's own heart made her wish all the more for Kashya to find someone—anyone—else. But love was a force no one could control.
The two left together, and walked down the street to the Wolf City tavern that was the most likely place the other two had gone. There, they found Kashya and Charsi sitting at a table in the corner talking. Neither of them appeared very animated. Both jumped to their feet when the pair of Elders arrived. Kashya, for her part, looked anxious for answers. Akara told her nothing for now since they would have plenty of time to talk later. Charsi had eyes only for Cain at the moment.
"Go, spend time with him," was all Akara told Kashya.
Awash with relief, Kashya flew out the tavern door. Akara explained what little she could of the angelic weapon to Charsi; though much of it still did not make sense to her. Charsi seemed to grasp it well enough, so she left it at that. For a while, they just sat, drinking their tea and thinking individual thoughts, no one really wanting to talk despite the reunion.
Kashya let herself into Cain's workshop and home. She'd seen the massive bloodstain still on the floor. She knew people didn't survive losing that much blood. Not for the first time since she'd arrived, she sent out a silent prayer of thanks to Great Eye for watching over him. Part of her hated herself for this. She had always prided herself on being strong-willed, resilient, independent, and practical in any circumstance. But her feelings for Pyresong had become something too completely out of her control. She didn't even know who to turn to. She had broken down and turned to Akara for guidance, only to be reminded that no one could control the force known as love.
And she did. She loved him.
For all she had done to deny or crush those feelings out of existence, she couldn't. They always came back to torment her. She felt absolutely foolish pining over a man she could never have. Despite her best efforts to convince herself otherwise, she was certain he felt something, too. The one long and tender kiss they had shared...
Standing beside the bed, Kashya felt a tear slip out of her eye and brushed it away harshly. She was not here for herself. She was here for him. She knew, immediately, when Akara had spoken to her in the tavern, that she was being asked to try to pull him back from wherever he had gone. And she was more than willing to fight for him.
Her eyes never left the priest's sleeping form as she sat on the edge of the bed. Again, she dug a frigid hand out from under the blankets and held it in both of her own. She put his cold hand to her cheek, thinking to give him her warmth and strength. Her other hand moved to caress his forehead and hair, much as she had done when he was recovering in the battle camp's healing tent. His hair was much longer now. Even back then, she had found it delightfully thin and silky. She relished the feeling of it running through her calloused fingers. It easily reached his shoulders now. She lifted his head gently to pull some out and run it through her fingers more thoroughly.
At first, she didn't know what to say, and her throat was too choked with unshed tears to even try. She wasn't even sure if they were for herself or him or Charsi or Cain or.... She struggled for a while, silently running her hands through his fine, silky hair. After much silent cursing at herself—and him—for this whole ridiculous emotionally snarled up mess, she took a deep breath and found her focus. Eventually, she managed to swallow her tears with some effort.
"Lazy outlander, you need to wake up. You're starting to ruin my image of you outlanders again," she started to tease, but found her heart hurt too much to continue.
She wanted to shake him awake, to warm him with her own body, to cry, to scream, to do anything but sit here feeling so helpless. No, she would never be with him the way she wanted, but she had learned to be content with just knowing he was out there fighting. That knowledge didn't make it any better, no matter what she told herself. Like some kind of moon-eyed little girl with her first crush, she wanted to follow him wherever he went until he gave in and let her. The image of herself as a cat following him around nearly made her laugh, but it came out more of an aborted sob. Gods what a stupid, stupid mess!
Since she couldn't open her mouth without either choking or fumbling, she decided to change tactics. To hell with dignity and pride. They were alone here. She pulled back the blankets and lay her head against his bare chest, just to see what it felt like. She just wanted to listen to his strong, slow heartbeat. For a while she was lost to that comforting sound and the smell of him right there with her, so very close. Despite the terrifying cold of his skin, he was still alive. She closed her eyes to let herself get lost in those impossible, childish dreams for just a few seconds.
"I don't know where you are," she whispered, "but you must come back. I need you. I need to know you're all right."
She clamped her teeth against everything else she wanted to say. Begging. Really? What had this stupid male done to scramble her brains so thoroughly that she was all but willing to beg him to come back for all of them. She huffed a laugh at herself. She couldn't even properly lie to herself at the moment.
She hadn't had any real expectations with her attempts to wake him. Miracles were something that happened to other people. In her world, people just died. They didn't hang out between the living and the dead like this. It seemed so wrong for such a strong warrior to just fade away in a bed. Yet, a part of her knew that's exactly how this would end. She prayed to the Great Eye—to anythingof the Light that would listen—that it wouldn't end like this. Not for him. But, another part of her knew already.
And if he had woken or at least given her some indication he was still fighting right now, she would never be able to let him go after. She couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh or cry at how foolish and downright pathetic she felt over all of this. Instead, she quit thinking entirely.
For a while, she just lay there listening to his strong, steady heartbeat in her ear. He was so terrifyingly cold, like a corpse. Gods, how she wanted to give him her warmth and her strength! But she didn't know how. And if Cain and Akara couldn't reach him, she had no hope of doing so. She'd felt it in the kiss and saw it in his eyes when he said goodbye. He had closed himself off to her. The tears stung her eyes, and this time, she let them. Somehow, it was just all wrong to her.
He wasn't supposed to be so human. She wasn't supposed to want him. They weren't supposed to be together. He wasn't supposed to be here like this, helpless and empty. She wasn't supposed to give a damn if he lived or died. It was all snarled up and wrong, and she couldn't help feeling as if he was somehow to blame for this whole stupid mess inside of her. Why couldn't he have just...
After a few minutes, she finally managed to wrestle her emotions back within her control. She wiped her tears off his chest and covered him back up. She leaned down to his kiss his chilly forehead. Then she pressed her warm cheek to his cold one to whisper in his ear.
"You're friends are waiting for you. We love you. We will help you heal the wounds. Just come back to us."
She listened to his slow, steady breathing. She let it and his strong, steady heartbeat reassure her yet again. She would not believe he had given up. And now it was in Cain's hands to see that he survived long enough to wake up. Briefly, she entertained the thought of staying here for a few days. But she knew that would only likely make things worse for herself. Just as she had let go of him before and walked back into her own life, she would do so again. Unlike him, her Sisters needed her.
She caressed his forehead and ran her hands through the longer hair, reveling in the silky feel of it for a few more seconds. Finally, she found the strength to let him go again. Resolutely, she returned to the tavern. She was grateful for the time they had given her, and she knew Akara would tell her what she could later. The two of them left through a portal Akara opened to the monastery. Charsi offered to stay a while longer, but Cain waved her off. He wanted to be alone now. Though Akara had not told him nearly as much as he'd hoped, he still did have hope.
***
The man who had once called himself Pyresong was in his own private hell.
He knew this place. It was buried deep inside of him, and it had reared its darkness to torment him many times since earliest childhood. He was alone, floating in a black abyss. No people, no animals, no friends, not even a ghostly whisper to talk to. And it was so bitterly cold! He had no body that he could see or feel, but the cold seeped in anyway. The cold and the loneliness ate away at him until he was sure he would become it.
He knew he was broken. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he was certain a part of him had been destroyed utterly. It would never come back. It was the best part of what he had once been. Now he had been here so long that he couldn't remember why he was here anymore. He couldn't even remember who he was. Days...months...years...it was all the same in this void. Eternity had a whole new definition in this place.
He knew that definition by feel. He had been here before.
Every so often, something in the distance flashed brightly, and he would almost remember something. He always ran deeper into the abyss to get away. Other times, he was afraid of the pain in those warm lights and ran from the suffering. He didn't know why he was afraid or how he knew it was pain.
The pain burned most brightly of all. Sometimes, it even chased him. Yes, the dark loneliness was his hell, but it was also his salvation. The light and pain were more than he could bear alone. And he knew on a fundamental level that he was more alone now than he'd ever been before. Something had been taken from him by the Darkness. He had begun to embrace the numbing cold. It hurt less than the lights...the memories.
Again, he became aware of a faint yellow light in the distance. It flitted around like a firefly. He willed it away, wishing he could close his eyes. Yet he had no eyes in this place. It was all just frigid darkness everywhere. When the flicker of light became a golden orb, he knew it was more horrifying agony come to chase him, to torment him. He didn't even know where the pain came from or why it existed. Somehow, he just knew he had to get away from it before it caught him. The cold, empty darkness was better, safer. He just wanted to fade away and let it take him. He didn't want to exist at all anymore. Anything to make the light go away.
When the orb wouldn't go away, he fled deeper into the abyss.
Suddenly, there was a warm glow on all sides. No matter which way he turned, there was a pulsating green wall of light closing in on him. Somehow, he knew that specific color, that warm light, and it terrified him more than any other light he had ever seen in this place. With nowhere to run, he curled in on himself.
No! It couldn't catch him! He couldn't let it happen! Not again!
He was crushing inward on himself, trying to escape the light, clinging to a darkness that was rapidly fading. He was paralyzed with terror when the cold was shattered and warmth began to replace it. In his panic and desperation to escape both the glow and the golden orb that chased him, he very nearly found the will to escape this forsaken place completely. He knew there was a world beyond this void. But he was too afraid. At least here, the dark, empty loneliness was unchanging. Out there, horrors beyond his imagining awaited him. Frozen with fear and indecision, he finally heard the first real sound in...eternity.
"You're friends are waiting for you. We love you. We will help you heal the wounds. Just come back to us."
"I've got you!" another voice rang even clearer.
The orb had caught him! He felt powerful golden tendrils of energy wrapping around him, pulling him toward an even bigger blueish light that expanded to encompass his entire vision. The warmth spread through him as he fought wildly to escape. He couldn't do this again! He thrashed in every direction at once in absolute panic.
"You're not making this very easy, you know."
"Let me go! Leave me!" he screamed back.
As suddenly as the warmth and light had entangled him, it stopped. But now he was somewhere. It had taken him from the abyss. The bitter cold was gone. His protection was gone. The safety of the abyss was gone. He knew he was somewhere, but he refused to remember where. It hurt too much. And he knew the voice of the one who had grabbed him. They had stripped him naked of his precious safety and thrown him here to suffer. He curled in on himself, surprised to find that he did have a body now.
No, no, no, no...not again! Why can't they just leave me alone? he thought miserably.
"Because we love you."
Now, removed from the bitter cold and darkness that had become his existence, he felt the warmth engulfing him again. The powerful warmth spread across his exposed back and wrapped its arms around him, embracing him. He knew that warmth, that strength. He knew its power. He felt his ghostly body spasming with sobs he couldn't hold back. He tried to will himself back to that blessedly empty place, and his body would not obey.
On his knees in the grass, he curled into a ball with his arms over his head. He prayed for it to end, but it just wouldn't go away. The warmth clung to him, seeped deeper, trying to reach a place inside of him that he didn't want to exist anymore. A voice right beside his ear whispered to him.
"I can help you, if you will let me."
"Oza," he sobbed. "I can't... I can't do it..."
"Alone? No. But you are not alone, and you know it."
He began to relax in her grip, too miserable to fight anymore. He could almost remember now why he was here. He didn't want to. It was all wrong. She pulled his head and shoulders into her lap. In this ghostly form, there weren't even tears to wipe away. She caressed his head with her warm hands and ran her fingers through his hair as she had once done in life. Lost, needing an anchor against the tide of memories threatening to sweep him away, he rolled over and wrapped his arms around her waist. He buried his face in her belly. He didn't want to be here. But he couldn't let her go, not again. She sat with him in serene silence while he tried to forget all over again.
Gradually, his sobbing and shaking slowed to shudders. She continued to run her hands through his hair comfortingly.
"Will you let me help you?"
He nodded, utterly defeated. He couldn't bring himself to deny her. Not now. She pulled him away from her and sat him up so she could wrap an arm around his shoulders. Gods, he'd never thought to feel her warmth again!
"I'm already dead. I can't do any more," he finally told her.
"You're not dead yet. And if you choose to do so, you still can. But not like this."
"What do you mean?"
"Your soul has been fragmented. Yl'nira was a part of you. When she was destroyed, all those pieces came apart."
Yes, he remembered. His entire ghostly body spasmed with color all over again as she held him tightly. That was what he'd lost, what had been taken from him. Yl'nira...his Light...his strength...his love...it was all gone. He didn't want to remember her at all. It was too painful. He was alone again.
Oza smacked him on the head, not harshly though.
"You lost something, yes. Your loss was great, yes, perhaps greater than any living person has ever survived. But you are not alone. Would you deny me and my love?"
Pyresong felt like he'd been slapped and flinched away from her entirely. He twisted sideways, trying to get out of her grip. He had to go back!
"Oh, no, you're not escaping back into that hell again. I won't let you. You don't deserve that!" she told him, keeping her unbreakable grip on his shoulders.
Realizing there was no escape, he went limp. For several seconds all he could remember was clinging to her cold body wishing it was himself instead of her that had died. It was all wrong.
"I could never deny you," he told her miserably.
"There, now we have a foundation to start with."
For a while, he sat in silence, struggling against the memories. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to feel them anymore. Yet, he was here now. Oza wasn't going to let him flee again.
"What do you mean?" he finally asked, not really wanting to know.
"Just what I said. Your soul is fragmented. If we do not fix it, you will suffer like this for eternity. And eternity is a long time, my friend."
His ghostly form flinched again at those words, making her tighten her grip again.
Those words... He knew them, but he could not remember where he'd heard them.
"You suffer, and you don't even know why," she told him, more gently.
"I deserve it."
"Oh? Why? Name just one reason," she challenged.
But he couldn't remember any. He didn't want to. He just knew there was pain and failure involved. He had made mistakes on an epic scale that would doom everyone. And the guilt...he knew he wasn't worthy. Yet he couldn't bring himself to remember why or what he was supposed to be unworthy of. Not now, and hopefully not ever.
"Oh, my poor friend," Oza whispered, laying her head on his shoulder. "Why do you do this to yourself?"
He didn't have an answer, so he just sat there.
"You did not fail. You have doomed no one. The injustice of it all is like a disease you cannot heal. You must face it. So we can help you purge the infection."
Injustice... the word tore through him, dredging up a flood of memories.
For a while, he was consumed with the faces of so many dead. He couldn't remember the names or circumstances, but he knew they were all dead. Hundreds, possibly thousands of lives were cut short that he could not save. But he hadn't killed them. Somehow, he knew he had failed them all. Yet he had not been the one to kill them. He gave them all...something. And it was still not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. He had failed them. They deserved better.
Better what? he wondered reflexively, instantly wishing to take back the stray thought.
But it didn't just evaporate as he had hoped. It clung to him, made him think. By tiny increments he began to remember places, people, events. He had been a person once. His life had intersected with others that had marked him. Oza ran her hand soothingly through his hair. He found himself again with his head in her lap, this time looking away. At least now he was thinking. Not running. Not hiding. And he still danced around and away from them. The fragmented memories teased and terrified him.
"Do you know whose voice you heard when I caught you?" she finally asked.
"Kashya," he whispered, aching all over.
Yes, he wanted to remember Kashya. She was so beautiful, so strong. How could he ever forget her? Why had he tried to forget her?
"Good. Do you know who brought her to try to reach you?" she questioned before he could run from that chain of thought.
"Cain."
He had no idea how he knew. Vague memories of the old man's voice in the void drifted to the surface. He was certain Cain was there, somewhere nearby. The old man's presence was comforting, safe. Would he ever be truly safe anywhere ever again after what he had done?
"Do you doubt their love for you?" Oza cut in again.
"No," his answer was immediate but weak.
And that made it all the worse. He knew they loved him in some way. But what had he given them in return?
"Then why would you prefer to forget them?" she persisted gently.
The pain swelled inside of him as he drew upon those memories. He had doomed them all. And he didn't want to live in a world where he would watch them die as punishment for his mistakes. Oza batted him on the head again, not quite as gently.
"Focus!" she snapped, not unkindly. "Why would you leave us all behind? Why would you not fight for us?"
"You're already dead," he couldn't help saying, miserably.
"And how did you fail me?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
"Exactly. You didn't. What you did do was chase down an evil man under impossible circumstances to give me justice. Then you chased a shard into Burning Hells, determined to put an end to the demon lord behind it all, to give us all justice."
He shuddered again, remembering that, too, now. He had gone to Hell. He had been there, physically. He had felt it. He belonged there.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Are you really? Why? Would you rather Skarn had kept the shard and fulfilled his plans? Do you honestly believe aiding Skarn and his plans was the best outcome for us all? Would you rather the angels died in their suffering without ever being freed or knowing hope?"
Taken aback by her barrage of questions, he paused.
"No," he finally admitted.
"See? You blame yourself for what you alone see as a failure. You run from the love that gives you the strength to keep fighting. No one blames you, my friend. Not even Verathiel."
He jolted upright and tried to flee at that name. His whole ghostly body flashed through a spectrum of colors. Pain and guilt scorched him at the sound of her name. The very sound of it was a lash searing into his consciousness. Oza wrapped her powerful arms around him again from behind, refusing to let him escape. A beautiful being of pure Light, an angel, had sacrificed her immortal existence for him, a mongrel mortal. It wasn't right. It should never have happened! He fought and twisted in her relentless grip. He couldn't do this!
"So that is the core of it," Oza whispered in his ear, refusing to let him go.
Realizing he was never going to be able to break her grip, he buried his face in his hands.
"Please...just..."
"No," Oza insisted. "You are not going back to that hell or the real one."
"Is she...did Diablo..."
"I do not know, love," Oza told him sadly, rocking him soothingly now. "They do not come to the Unformed Land, and we do not venture into Hell."
He sobbed again, this time holding on to Oza's arms around his chest. Clutching her like an anchor. He couldn't do this.
"You are wrong, Pyresong. You are stronger than you know."
Gods...Namari... He remembered her now, too.
But Verathiel overrode all else. For a while, the grief and misery consumed all. Oza held him while he delved deeper into the pain, the injustice that had shattered his heart. Yl'nira may have shattered his soul, but the loss of Oza, compounded by Verathiel's sacrifice, had nearly destroyed his heart. He did not doubt Verathiel's love or her pride in him; he'd felt it from her directly. But she was gone to the Darkness now. And he couldn't save her any more than he had saved Alyssa, or Liene, or Hemlir, or Navair...
"Korrin, Pauli, Azmir, Wortham, Ashwold, Flavie, Isolde, Indry, Akara, Valla, Josen, Peth, Tabri, Port Justinian, Silvertongue, Cadeus, Rehm...Cain, Kashya..." she whispered to him. "Need I go on? Can you even name half the people whose lives you saved just in the past year?"
He shuddered, still clinging to the agony, but shook his head.
"And that is nothing compared to the thousands you saved walking the world for twelve years before that, and you know it. You have fought for the Balance. To you, the Balance is Justice. Sometimes, you think in terms of vengeance, yes; you are human. You are not without your own Darkness. But, in the end, you always come back to justice, to the Balance. Not because of what you were taught, but because it is who you are."
His shudders subsided as he settled to a cool blue color when he began to think again beyond the consuming pain. He leaned back into her warm embrace. He knew she was right. She was always right. But she didn't know. She viewed things through a filter of love and warmth he could never have.
This time, her hand came up off his chest to smack him in the nose.
"Stop that!" she admonished. "You only think that because you won't embrace them; you are too afraid. Tell me about Cain. Who is he to you?"
He'd asked himself that question before and never really had a good answer. Friend, absolutely. But...
"Say it," she demanded.
"I...I mean... But he's not... Really, it's just—"
"It's just that you won't allow yourself to admit it. Yet he loves you, exactly the same way. Would you deny his love?"
"No, but—"
"There is no 'but', my friend. Either he is, or he isn't. What is he to you?"
"Father."
"There? The universe didn't suddenly implode, now, did it?"
He couldn't help huffing a soft laugh. She had a way of making him feel so...foolish. And he knew she was right. Still, he had no right to think of Cain or anyone that way, not after what he had done to his own parents so long ago. And he still could not understand why the old man cared about him at all. By now, Cain knew more than enough to see the truth.
"Are you unworthy of his love, his sacrifice?" she persisted
"I...I-I'd like to think not."
"Then why would you be unworthy of Verathiel's sacrifice?" Oza asked, not giving him a chance to recover, feeling his pain writhing inside of him again.
"She's an angel! I'm just...human. Heaven needs her. Sanctuary needs her."
"And the world doesn't need you or anything you've done for it? Do I have to start naming names again?" Oza sighed.
"No, but it's still so...wrong."
"In a perfect world, no one would ever have to sacrifice their lives for another. This is not a perfect world, my love. But you do more than most to try to make it better. Accept that, and you will begin to heal."
He could actually feel the pieces coming together. She was right. The memories were trickling back in. He could feel the fragments trying to come together. It was his own fear of the pain that had kept him so broken. Worse, he still felt he somehow deserved to be in that dark, frigid void. Yet, Oza wasn't wrong in that he knew and cherished those he had met that made life worth protecting, worth fighting for.
He pulled her arms off his chest so he could turn around and embrace her more fully. For a while, she let him sit there, clinging to her, sorting through so many memories. He buried his face in her strong, supporting shoulder. She, too, could feel the jagged pieces of his soul settling back into place. There were still enormous cracks and huge black voids he would not touch. But it was a start. And some things would never heal, as she well knew. At least the other memories had not surfaced yet. It was far too soon for that.
Finally, he found the strength to pull back and sit up for himself. She had no more fear of him running back into the void now. The suffering was still acute and likely would be for some time. But he was beginning to think for himself now. He was almost ready to get back to the fight. But she still couldn't help wondering if he would, if that was really what he wanted in all of this.
He dug ever deeper into his memories, finding those thick scars in his soul and using them to bind the pieces together. So very many pieces...and so much he couldn't grasp. There was a part of him in each memory, each fragment that he knew was his own hope. His own need to hold on to just one thing that made no sense, but gave him strength to keep going.
After a while, he seemed to pull back from that deep delving. So much of it would just take time to come together. Even now, there were some things he did not want to face. And others he would never forget. They were there, and they always would be. Gradually, a new thought floated to the surface.
"You said I'm not dead," he finally spoke. "What happened to me? My body, I mean?"
"Out there? I have no idea. I felt you enter our realm, fully. I felt your pain. I hunted you down. I found you like this in there and knew I couldn't leave you."
He sifted and dug through his memories. He shuddered, and his mind fled from mention of the shards. There was something horrible there, about the shards. They had done something to him he could not remember. Something he could not bring himself to acknowledge. But that was the last thing he remembered. Yl'nira and the shard had both shattered. She was screaming a warning and apology to him. Then he'd woken in the abyss.
"This isn't the first time you've crossed into the land of the dead. This is just the first time you've done it fully and without your body," she explained. "At least, so far as I know."
"So, my body still lives?"
"Yes. Look more closely behind you. It's weak and fading, but you'll see it."
At first, he didn't. He relaxed and pushed away the memories for a moment so he could focus. She was right; there was...something. A sparkling trail, similar to what Yl'nira had used to guide him in Hell. His grief for the loss of Yl'nira engulfed him; white light flashed through his ghostly body. It was bad enough that an angel had sacrificed her very life for him. But then, Yl'nira...
He felt Oza's warm hands gripping his face to force him to look at her.
"No, my friend. You are not alone. Remember. You have lost a part of yourself but not your whole self. Yl'nira died doing exactly what she wanted to do. She served her purpose to destroy evil, to fight the Darkness. You let her gain justice for herself by destroying the thing that had corrupted her. Take solace in that."
He shuddered one more time but understood the wisdom of her words. He took her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. The world had lost such a beautiful soul when Dravec killed her. It wasn't fair.
"Stubborn, so stubborn..." she muttered, but not pulling away.
"I love you, Oza."
"I know," she sighed, satisfied to hear him admit it finally.
After a while, he let her go again but took her hands in his, basking in that warmth. So much felt entirely out of place. And yet, he felt he was exactly where he needed to be. He found his internal balance. A tiny part of him whispered something he didn't want to hear. He had done something horribly wrong. He had broken... He shook it off. He couldn't go there.
"What do I do now?" he finally asked.
"What do you want to do?"
"You act like I have a choice," he laughed softly.
"But you do. You can follow the tether back to your body before it's dead. Or you can remain here. Whichever one you choose, your loved ones will be there to help you."
"How long have I been here?"
"Time is different here. It might be a few hours or a few years. The fact that your body still lives means it would most likely be days."
"Is Kashya keeping me alive?"
"I don't know, my friend. But she was close. At least at one point, close enough to penetrate your shields."
"Shields?"
Oza nodded. "You've blocked them all out. You've separated yourself from the living world. I don't know what is happening out there. But someone is likely keeping you alive. Your friends have not given up on you. But you don't have to go back. If your journey has ended, stay with me."
His whole ghostly body flashed with pain again. He didn't want to leave her. But Cain...and Kashya had been there, calling him back. He ached at the thought of Kashya especially. He loved her. He knew that. But he also knew he could never be what she deserved, especially not now. He was so damaged, so broken. She needed someone to be strong enough to match her. He had loved her enough to let her go.
"That is also your choice, my love," Oza told him gently.
After a few more seconds, she sighed and pulled back.
"You don't want to give up now. You want to go back and keep fighting. I will be here when it is your time. And I hope that time is still many years away. As I said, time is different here. I might see you tomorrow, and you'll be an old man."
"But..."
"You loved her enough to let her go. Can you love me enough to let me go?"
Pyresong winced visibly. She was right. And she was calling him on it. He cupped her face as he kissed her forehead. Yes, he loved her, deeply. But not in the way he loved Kashya. If anything, his love for Oza had only grown since her passing. He loved her as he had loved Yl'nira; someone that was both a part of him and entirely independent. It didn't make sense, and he had no real experience or even words to put it all together. He just knew that he loved her.
"Go, fight your battles. I will be here waiting for you," she assured him.
He hugged her to him fiercely one more time. "Thank you, love."
"See? The universe didn't implode that time, either," she told him impishly.
This time, he did laugh. Gods, it felt so good to laugh again! As he rose to his feet, she became a golden orb once more and faded away into the distance. Turning, he focused on the sparkling trail that led away from this ghostly image of the monastery overlook in the realm of the dead, where places were only as far as a thought. A moment later, he was in Cain's workshop. It was fuzzy and insubstantial as everything else he'd seen here. But there was a distinct glow from a spot near where he remembered Cain's bed to be. He reached for it slowly, not quite sure what to do.
***
Six days. A week. Two weeks. Time had ceased to mean anything to Cain. His only schedule now was delving into Pyresong with his meager healing energies to see how much damage there was. He'd gone from giving his friend a spoonful of healing potion twice a day, to whole bottles every few hours. His constant chatter and reading only ceased when he was forced to sleep, and he begrudged even that. Byron had returned, insisting that it was time to let the priest go. He'd made his decision. If there was anyone equipped to make an informed decision on something like that, it was a Priest of Rathma. Cain chased Byron out the door with his staff glowing threateningly. Even Charsi had tried to convince him to let go; and met almost the same reaction. Charsi he could forgive, though; he must. As he had expected, by the third week, Akara had sent a letter at Charsi's insistence. She had seen nothing new. The priest was still blocking everyone and everything out. But he hadn't let go, either. She put the decision in his own hands.
Cain refused to give up.
He found himself sitting in the rocking chair beside the bed with another book. His research had resumed. Now that Yl'nira was gone, he must find another answer to how to destroy the shards. He knew there would be more shards. And gathering them into a single place only made them harder to destroy. He couldn't lock them up individually all over the world. Sooner or later, something would get to them. Of course, he hadn't bothered to look for more shards yet. For all he knew, a dozen more had been uncovered and were in the hands of evil entities right now. But until Pyresong either gave up or came back, he couldn't hunt them down anyway. The friend he'd reached out to for help with the priest had not yet replied. Truthfully, he had no idea where in the world the mage was, either. He'd sent the courier on a hunt in the hopes the letter would reach him in time. Now? That didn't seem very likely. But, maybe once he did reply, the two of them could work together to find and hunt down the shards.
His stomach dropped, making him feel sick for a moment. He had already given up, he realized. Already, he was making plans to continue the hunt without Pyresong's help. Gods, he couldn't do this anymore...
Those thoughts were still chasing themselves around his head when he dozed off with the book in his lap. He had no idea what time it was. The general gloom he'd lived in since this started told him if it was day or night only by the light through the far window above his desk. The fire he only kept going for the tea, and most of the time, not even then. There had still been daylight filtering through the window when he'd fallen asleep. He shuddered briefly with a chill since he'd forgotten his blanket, and the fire had died down almost completely. It had been cold and rainy the last couple of days; perfect weather to suit his mood. He sighed heavily as he carefully closed the book that had been left abandoned in his lap. The chill breeze was even worse this time. A gust of icy air, likely from the door nearby, made him shiver all over. He would have to do something about that.
Then the chill moved to his other side, closer to the wall and bed.
Cain froze, his heart stuttering painfully. That was no chill wind! For one second, he was certain there was a presence there, moving right through him. Turning slowly, not daring to hope, he saw the faint mist and glow that disappeared into his friend's chest. He practically threw himself onto the edge of the bed, his hands already glowing with his gold aura. He closed his eyes as he sank down.
They were there, this time!
He could see them. So many memories and emotions. So many jagged fragments! There was a darkness, too. He still didn't know what had happened while his friend was away. But he pulled back quickly. Now he knew he would learn all, in time. The tiny sliver of raw suffering he'd seen from Pyresong clung to him as he returned to his own body. There would be time for that later. At least now he knew the priest would wake and he would have the opportunity to help him heal those unseen wounds.
The elation in his own spirit won out. Cain laughed and cried and dug the man's hand out from under the blanket to feel the rising temperature for himself. Then he remembered it had been hours since he'd last given the priest a healing potion. He delved with his healing magic... Pyresong was so very weak right now. He suspected the man had even lost some weight, as well. He had done his best to prevent it, but it was impossible to avoid completely. At least, now he knew his friend would recover. That's all Cain needed to know right now. Soon the necromancer would wake, and they could begin healing...physically as well as everything else. He poured the thick, powerful healing potion a little at a time into the priest's mouth, desperately wanting him to wake up. He half hoped the horrid taste would jolt the man awake.
It didn't.
Afterward, he returned to his chair, the younger man's hand still in his own. Hours passed by, and Cain could not keep himself awake anymore. He cursed his own weakness as his eyes kept closing on their own. He tried telling more stories to keep himself awake, but kept drifting off into snores.
The feeling of something in his lap squeezing his hand startled Cain awake. Pyresong was dreaming now! His hand twitched, and his eyes fluttered. The Horadrim shifted his aching body off the rocking chair and onto the edge of the bed. He couldn't wait any longer. He caressed the priest's forehead and hair, something he'd done thousands of times these past few weeks.
"I'm here, son. I'm with you," he said softly.
Pyresong seemed to lean into his touch with a groan.
"That's it, my boy. It's time to wake up."
The faintly glowing blue seals on his eyes flashed when he bolted upright, nearly bashing the old man with his forehead. When the dizziness caught up to him, he nearly fell sideways out of the bed. Cain caught him by the shoulders and held him steady. He couldn't let go, not right now. For several seconds, Pyresong shuddered and struggled to slow his breathing.
"Cain...I...ugh... What happened?"
Cain couldn't help a laugh to release the tension. "I should be asking you that! How do you feel?"
Pyresong frowned, thinking about this. "Horrible. Weak. Like I've...been sick."
"Close enough," Cain told him. "Can you sit up on your own for a moment?"
He nodded slowly, the room still tilting at crazy angles. Carefully, he shifted back a bit so he would fall onto the bed instead of off of it if he blacked out. He struggled to just focus on his breathing for a few seconds. Slowly, the tingling darkness backed away. Cain hurriedly grabbed a wad of blankets and some pillows off of his own bed and stuffed them behind him. He leaned back gratefully. Before he sat back down in the rocking chair, Cain handed him another potent healing potion.
"Take that for now. What do you remember?"
The sadness on Pyresong's face gouged deep lines of hurt that made Cain instantly regret asking. Of course, he had to know. He needed to know where to start to even begin to help his friend.
"Yl'nira...she's gone," he said softly after a few seconds.
"And she nearly took you with her," Cain told him gently.
"What do you mean?"
"Yl'nira's soul bonded with yours. We didn't know enough about how angelic weapons work. We should never have let you use it as you did. When she was destroyed, she nearly took you with her. Do you remember anything after that?"
His mind was all blurry and filled mostly with vague thoughts. Some things he could remember clearly, but there was so much more that was jumbled and didn't even make sense. He closed his eyes as he dug deep. Yl'nira exploded, and he'd heard her screaming high notes at him; an apology...and a warning. And then he'd woken up here, feeling like this. Though the healing potion was helping to clear his head, he still felt so very weak. He just couldn't bring it all into focus right now.
"Nothing," he finally confessed, more than a little concerned with Cain's worried expression. He couldn't help wondering if he had done something. The shard had been destroyed, right?
Cain sighed. "Maybe someday you'll remember. When Yl'nira was destroyed, its destruction shattered your soul."
"Shattered...my soul?"
For a few seconds, he literally could not comprehend what Cain was telling him. His soul...shattered? Was that even possible? Pyresong dug even deeper inside himself. No, there was nothing he could remember. For a moment, he was overcome with sadness at the loss of his dear friend, Yl'nira. Literally, a part of himself that belonged entirely to her was gone. But...it didn't hurt as acutely as he'd expected. He shook his head; he was not ready to deal with the fallout just yet. Maybe he was just too tired.
Seeing his friend was trying, and struggling to process, Cain proceeded gently. After all this, he did not doubt the man's resilience, but there was still so much he just didn't know. What little he had seen of the priest's reaction gave him hope, though.
"Your body has slept for over three weeks. You were in the Unformed Land."
"What?!"
Realm of the dead? he thought, numb with shock. Gods... How?
Cain nodded sadly. "I'd almost given up hope. When I couldn't wake you and I couldn't reach you, I asked Akara for help. She said you didn't want to be found but were still fighting. So I...waited."
A flicker of memory floated to the surface. Something about the Iceburn Tear. He couldn't hold on to it right now in his shock.
"Weeks..." Pyresong echoed, still not able to really process.
No wonder I feel so horrible.
"You will need time to recover," Cain assured him, patting his shoulder. "But at least you're back now. I suppose that means you've got time to tell me what actually happened while you were away."
Pyresong just shook his head. Yes, there were many things he would share willingly with Cain. But there was still so much he never wanted to speak of to anyone, ever. And he was too rattled right now. And somehow tired...and...starving.
As if sensing the younger man needed time to process everything, Cain shuffled over to the fire to stoke it and get some tea going. For a while, the necromancer's jumbled thoughts just chased themselves around his head. Yes, he remembered everything from Mount Zavain to his return from Hell. There seemed no gaps, but things seemed...faded somehow. He'd purged much on the Overlook with Yl'nira and his flute before returning to Westmarch. He'd known even when he did it, he had been in no mental or emotional shape to take on the shard, but some part of him terrified by the shards just wanted it over, right that very minute. And Yl'nira...she had insisted they finish it while she was still able to fight. He could not have denied her even if he had wanted to.
So many memories. So much hurt, grief, and guilt. It was all there but dimmed somehow. He clearly still felt the guilt and injustice of all that had happened. Yet it wasn't anywhere near as raw as it had been. Had something happened to him in those three weeks? Had Yl'nira somehow healed him even as she shattered him? She had healed him after the Pit of Anguish, and not just physically. He remembered that.
Round and round his thoughts spun until he just began to shut them all out. Cain was chattering at him from across the room while he made tea and he'd heard almost none of it. He still didn't understand what exactly had happened, but he could easily sense the older man's elation...and fading pain.
Weeks... Gods, it must have been torture for him, he thought, guilt welling painfully.
He decided he would make it up to his friend, starting with the detailed retelling of all that had happened. When Cain finally returned with some dry bread and a cup of tea, he accepted them distractedly. He quickly freed up one hand to reach out to the man he now considered a father to him.
"I'm so sorry. I don't remember where I've been. But I'll gladly tell you everything I do remember."
The elderly scholar smiled warmly. "When you're ready, my friend. For now, eat what you can. You will need to regain your strength."
Cain patted his hand comfortingly. He ate the bread slowly and carefully, suspecting that after so long without food, his stomach would not likely be happy with him. The first few bites made his insides twist painfully. But he managed to keep it down with the warm comfort of the tea. In the meantime, Cain filled him in on his research, not that anything had really changed.
When he was finished with the bread, Pyresong dove into his story, more than willing to share it all at this moment. He owed it to his friend and so much more. And, still, a part of him knew it would never be enough to repay the man who had done so much for him. And nothing would ever make up for his failures and mistakes. But, maybe Cain could help him somehow make it all right.
The old Horadrim always knew what to do.
Hours later, when the sky turned blue beyond the window across the room, Pyresong's yawns put a halt to further discussion. He had barely even gotten into the events of Mount Zavain. Both were amused by the fact that he could still be tired after three weeks of sleep. But Cain was not unfamiliar with such things and assured him he would regain his stamina and strength in time. For now, he needed to send word to the others that the priest had returned. Cain was fairly certain the younger man would sleep through most of the morning, so he shuffled out to Charsi's shop to give her the good news.
By the time Pyresong woke up, it was nearing midday and dinner time. He'd had enough nightmares for one day, as far as he was concerned. Mentally tired, though, he knew this was likely only the beginning of the fallout he would have to deal with after all he'd been through. He was disappointed to learn Cain still had not found another way to destroy the shards, but remained hopeful. After everything he had been through, after everything he had done, he was almost amazed to realize he still had hope. It almost didn't make sense to him. It felt almost entirely irrational at that moment, but he couldn't deny he still had it. He was pulled out of those musings when Cain mentioned he'd called in another friend that would, he hoped, eventually respond to aid them in their search for an answer.
By the end of the day, Pyresong was determined to get out of the bed, so Cain called in Charsi's help. Together, they managed to get him up and moving. The dizziness assaulted him repeatedly, but he was determined to recover as fast as possible, if for no other reason than to make Cain stop worrying about him. It wasn't until Charsi had closed the door and steadied him as he tried to stand that he saw the giant bloodstain on the floor. Neither Cain nor Charsi had thought to cover it up with all their other distractions. Focused on forcing his shaking legs to support him as much as possible while he dressed, he filed it away for later.
It wasn't until the next day when he was finally able to move about on his own—albeit shakily, and not much more than shuffling from one side of the room to the other—that he finally asked Cain about the blood stain. And, for that matter, where was his armor? It certainly wasn't in his backpack, and he had a distinct feeling it never made it up the stairs, either. C
ain, looking decades older for a moment, motioned for him to take his usual rocking chair by the fire. He confessed that Charsi had taken what was left of his armor. He hadn't bothered to ask if she was repairing it or not. Given what little he'd learned from her, repair was unlikely. He finally described the damage that had been done and how they'd nearly lost him. Pyresong was a bit shaken and remembered none of it. Being up and about now, though, did much to scrub away Cain's fears from that incident. The priest did what he could to ease his friend's hurt and raise his spirits.
As for the armor... Pyresong had no doubts that Charsi was already secretly hard at work on a new set. Probably something even better and more expensive than the last. He wanted to groan at the idea of what she might come up with. But, well, if it made her happy. After all, his armor was a super light set he had gathered over the years a piece at a time. He wondered that it didn't make him look like some kind of adventuring scavenger sometimes, much to his amusement. Unlike Master Xul and many others who went out of their way to look the part of a necromancer, he had never bothered. As long as whatever Charsi came up with was light and articulated enough to allow him to move quickly and easily, he would use it.
By the end of a week, he'd mostly recovered as far as the others could see. There was still a lingering weakness he refused to acknowledge. Even while carefully traversing the stairs, he went out of his way to cover how shaky his legs sometimes were. The weight he'd lost had been minor, and he knew it could easily be built back up in time.
He spent the early days recounting everything Cain; from the minute he arrived in Mount Zavain all the way through his return to Westmarch. He was disturbed to realize how many minute and meaningless details had faded or were forgotten entirely. Cain assured him it was likely nothing more than a side-effect of his prolonged sleep or something similar. It had taken several days to get through all of it since he had provided no abbreviated versions with Cain. And there were times Cain himself called a halt to the flow of the necromancer's words, seeing he needed time to recover.
It no longer surprised Pyresong that the old scholar could see right through him, no matter how delicately or even straightforward he told his story. Cain comforted his friend when he could, and he was grateful for that. But he knew there was nothing that could change what had been done. Though Cain's understanding and compassion did much to ease the guilt and aching he still felt in his heart, it was still all his fault. In the end, he just couldn't bring himself to tell Cain about Rathma's warnings or the journal. He had known from the beginning, it was his own burden to bear, as was his epic mistake. Cain blamed himself enough in all of this, too much.
As the second week rolled by, Pyresong spent most of his time exercising his body to try to recover the lost strength; though, he still did not feel up to walking much about the city. His mind and heart had calmed considerably, but he also sensed there was something fundamentally different about him now. Part of him wondered if he would ever get back some semblance of what he'd lost. The days rolling by helped, somewhat, in feeling so disconnected from the rest of humanity. He had to remind himself more than once that as a Priest of Rathma, he never really had fit in with other people at the best of times. Still, he even sensed he would not have the same perspective as his own brothers and sisters in the Necropolis. And he was in no hurry to find out. He would answer to them for forsaking his oath, some day. Right now, he was determined to do what he could to rectify the mistakes. His confession could wait.
At some point early in the third week of his recovery, he was feeling well enough to consider a trip to check up on the people of Mount Zavain, or even the tribes of the Frozen Tundra. A part of him desperately wanted to see the Sanctified Earth Monastery cared for. And there was a deeper need to see Torr and the others given their rest. He was torn in both directions. Yet, some sense he couldn't quite figure out, kept him waiting here with Cain while he continued trying to build his stamina.
Charsi eventually dropped by with his new armor. In all the time she had spent visiting them, she kept the conversation away from her work. She had not said a word about his old armor or even mentioned she was working on a new set at any point. But he knew her and knew she would be working hard to surprise him. He absolutely did not want to ruin that for her by prodding. He was somewhat surprised to realize just how much he appreciated her, and not just for her skills. Her seemingly boundless enthusiasm was somehow infectious.
Unlike his other gear, this was completely matching. It was an entire, signature set he would never have dreamed of owning in his lifetime. She had gone through and kept every quality he valued. It was super light but strong enough to turn a claw or sword. It was dark and non-reflective enough not to catch the light. It articulated in all the right places. The leather belts and buckles that held them on were even lightly reinforced with finely woven metals as thin as threads. And the entire set, all nineteen pieces, radiated with powerful magic enchantments. This was the height of her ability when allowed to run wild. Every single piece could work on its own, but together, they were unbelievably powerful. It was dark, overall, with decorations that resembled various bones and plenty of skulls. It screamed "necromancer" on every inch of it. Pyresong almost winced at the sight of it. If he ever needed to look intimidating, he now had an easy way to do so.
As she unveiled the set on Cain's workshop floor, Pyresong forced his expression to a dark scowl while she explained every piece and how they worked together. After several minutes, her anxiety was clear on her face when his expression never changed. Finally, he could torture her no more. His face cracked a grin as he wrapped her in a sincere embrace, laughing at her nervous glances.
Charsi knew he was different from just about any other warrior she had ever worked with. And, at various times during the designing phase, she had serious doubts about how he would receive such a gift. He was so modest. And, in many ways, so practical, she had questioned whether he would even be willing to openly wear a matching set that advertised his skills so blatantly. There were some pieces he had clearly never included in his previous armor. She guessed it was likely because of his preference for stealth and maneuverability. So she had carefully redesigned and customized several parts just for him. The polyens, couters, and pauldrons had definitely been problematic. And she still wasn't entirely sure he would use them. So she had designed every piece to sit individually, or link together without getting in the way of each other.
Her shock at his sudden change of expression wore off quickly as she returned the embrace much less awkwardly. He seemed almost as excited to try it out as she had been to make it, much to her relief. Then he whispered something in her ear that startled her far more than the embrace even had.
"Thank you for watching out for Cain while I was away. You're a good friend, Charsi," he whispered warmly.
For a few seconds, she was too shocked to respond. He quickly took advantage of that. He pulled back with an amused grin.
"You know, I'll never be able to fully repay you for that incredible set. Will you settle for me putting it to good use?"
Charsi laughed. "I think I can handle that."
"I will strive to be worthy of its power. And worthy of wearing armor made by the legendary Charsi," he teased warmly.
She snorted in amusement at that. And then let him get to admiring the pieces on his own. It wasn't long before Cain tuned them both out, going back to his desk. He wasn't afraid to admit, he'd been almost as anxious as Charsi for a minute there. Pyresong was not like others he had met. He had known plenty of adventurers and warriors that would name their armor or weapons grand names. And some would rather die than lose them. Some even declared them legendary pieces through their grand deeds. Then they would pass them down to other worthy heroes. Charsi had even shown him some legendary named pieces.
But the priest had never seen things that way. He didn't see himself as a hero, and his equipment was just equipment. He knew now that Pyresong could never really understand how entire religions had been started with less heroic deeds than he'd committed. Or how a piece of equipment he wore so casually could actually be the source of legends hundreds of years after his passing. The priest's humble mindset saw other warriors as the heroes, but never himself. Cain knew his written tales of the man's deeds would someday fall into the right hands, and the world would know. But, for right now, the last thing the younger man wanted was to be hailed as a hero in the streets. And Cain felt no end of pride in the man, even if he couldn't understand it.
Eventually, as with any man cooped up in one place too long, Pyresong began to feel the need for something to do again. Books were something he was imminently comfortable with, and he would spend endless hours indulging in that love. Of course, he offered to help Cain in his research in whatever way he could. Still, after roughly a year with all these ancient tomes Cain could read that he couldn't, he was convinced the answer wasn't within these walls. He prodded the old scholar here and there that it was about time they started looking for another shard, if nothing else. He got the sense that the elderly Horadrim was waiting for something. Equally, he got the feeling Cain was reluctant to send him after another shard. He'd told the old man everything that he felt relevant, even revisited some things that still haunted him, assuring his friend that he really was recovering, if not entirely recovered. And Cain still looked worried, as if expecting...something.
After a week or so of this prodding, Cain caved in, and Pyresong watched with interest while the old man carefully performed the divination ritual once again. With all the time on their hands, the old scholar had taken to treating the necromancer almost as a pupil. He knew Pyresong could see various types of magic and even manipulate the energies. For a simple Priest of Rathma, he actually had an amazing amount of untrained ability he couldn't even see in himself. Maybe it was just because he was feeling restless and needed a distraction, but Pyresong was more than willing to learn. Practicing this new knowledge at least gave him something to do of an afternoon. The fact that he could grasp concepts and learn various simple tasks in less than a day left Cain shaking his head at that untapped potential. Cain still wondered at the fact that his friend really had absolutely no concept of just how powerful he really was. Yet, he also knew full well that Pyresong would never take a deeper interest in any magic that didn't immediately serve some useful purpose.
When the ritual was done, Cain seemed absolutely relieved that no shards had been found. Pyresong couldn't deny his own bit of relief. He didn't feel as weak anymore, but certainly not up to his usual standards. He knew, deep down, what they both actually feared was that Diablo was making moves to acquire shards; no mere demon lord, this time. After that ritual, he finally began to really understand his restlessness. Both of them were watching, waiting for signs of the Prime Evil's return to power. And neither wanted to see it, not really, not yet. But, still, the necromancer knew there had to be an answer out there somewhere. There had to be another way to destroy the shards. He couldn't understand Cain's new reluctance to leave the books of his workshop to find something else.
"You're right," Cain finally admitted one afternoon, after yet more prodding. "Likely, the answer is not here. But I cannot leave right now. I've sent word to a friend that will eventually find me here. If I leave the workshop for any extended period, I may miss them."
Pyresong nodded as he digested this, somewhat relieved to know that it wasn't just the old man's concern for him keeping them from moving forward. It crossed his mind to ask if Cain had any places in mind that he could search, instead. He was fairly certain there weren't any further answers to be found in Kulle's library. But maybe there was somewhere else he could go. As if reading his mind, Cain answered with a grin.
"You would not know what to look for. And, for all your skill at reading even magical tomes, you cannot understand most of them. Don't be so disappointed, friend," Cain assured him. "We will wait a bit longer. He is bound to reply."
"What about Jin? Xiansai?"
Cain considered this carefully for a moment. "I have contacts there, myself. If you would like to reach out to her, we can send her a letter today."
"I'll do that. She knew what I was working on when we parted ways months ago. Maybe she even started her own research on the subject," he offered hopefully, taking up some parchment and a quill off Cain's desk.
A few minutes later, he shoved the two sealed letters in his side satchel and headed out the door, while Cain turned back to his books with a heavy sigh. Pyresong paused just outside Cain's door. Beyond the sheltering walls of the quiet workshop, the city practically roared with activity to his ears. He remembered a time not so long ago when he appreciated the simple ability to walk these streets with other people. He had been cooped up for far too long, and he knew it. But he always did it to himself, too. Just like his days in the monasteries, he would close himself away for so long, he nearly forgot what it was like to deal with other living people. A part of him had always craved such human interaction but ran from it, too. He was almost always disappointed by it, as people inevitably either feared or disliked Priests of Rathma. Sooner or later, they would all shun him to one degree or another.
Now?
Now, all their lives just seemed so small to him. He couldn't understand why. He mused on that lightly as he walked. It wasn't the first time he'd sensed it, either, since he'd woken up. He had been one of them, once. His entire egocentric little world was about him and his experiences. However, his needs never outweighed the needs of those he encountered. No matter how battered and tired, if a village was plagued by the undead or demons, he would be there to uphold the Balance. So, it was not like he had some sort of selfish streak. But his perspective on the size of the world had changed. He had been all over Sanctuary, even before going to Hell. But now, it just seemed people's lives, so precious and valuable even to him, were so...petty.
And, yet, there was a greater part of him that still wanted to fight for it. The same woman who would loathe him for being a necromancer was another precious life in the existence of Sanctuary that teetered so precariously on the edge of the yawning pit that was the Burning Hells. He could only guess that it was that perspective that had changed. The world certainly hadn't changed. It was just how much more fragile it all seemed to him now. And there was so much beauty, even in the fragility he now saw. Demons roamed Sanctuary openly in some places. He'd always fought to send them back to their pits. But there was always more to replace them.
A part of him desperately wanted to find and speak with Rathma. He still couldn't bring himself to even mention all of it to Cain. He suspected Cain knew more than he was letting on, though not everything. Sometimes, he felt that Rathma might be the only other person who could help him put all of it into perspective. He wanted someone to help him understand all of this. Yet, he knew he wouldn't seek out Rathma or any of the others, not yet, at least. His shame over having caused so much devastation by violating his oath was too great. First, he would do what he could to try to restore the Balance.
Now that he'd met angels, he finally understood why there were none fighting for Sanctuary. They mostly loathed humans and this entire world. They would likely sit by and watch it fall to Hell's embrace with a satisfied nod. They could not get past the fact that humans had a choice. Even one human making the wrong choices just convinced them further that Sanctuary as a whole was tainted by evil and would eventually fall to Darkness, eventually. And a part of Pyresong knew they were right. So often, the Balance was pushed by Darkness and evil to the breaking point, most often by humans. And it was always the good people that suffered and died for it, while the evil ones just grew more powerful off that suffering and death. He realized that, too, had changed in him. More than ever, he wanted to fight for the good ones that could not defend themselves. Even one Oza in a population of thousands was enough to convince him it was worth fighting the overwhelming number of Dravecs.
Oza...
Gods, he missed her! The injustice of her loss still ate away at him, but no longer in the bitterly painful way it had. That was something else he'd noticed. Whatever had happened to him while his body slept, he now felt a renewed urge to fight for her and everyone out there like her. If he wouldn't stand up, then who would? He no longer considered his loss of hope or sanity while in Hell something to be ashamed of, either. And he knew Yl'nira had done much to heal those wounds, as well. He'd coped with those circumstances in the only way he could at the time, and that was to keep fighting. He knew now he would die fighting. From the stupidest thug on the streets trying to rob someone to the legions of Hell itself, he would fight against injustice and evil. There was no other choice for him. And there never would be anything more for him. He'd started this fight and unleashed the Lord of Terror. He would see it finished. Nothing else mattered.
He sighed heavily as he rounded the corner near the western docks where Cain was a regular with the couriers. He'd had more than enough time to sort things out these last few weeks. And he knew his own mind and heart. Nothing had really changed for him. He just had a larger view of most things. It didn't even change how he lived his life from one day to the next. Why should he dwell on it now?
Too much time on my hands, he mused silently to himself.
But he did remind himself he needed to get out more. He had everything he needed, minus some food supplies. He had never been able to go back to Sentinel's Watch or even Bitter Hearth to give them an update. He felt unaccountably guilty for that. It had been months at this point. He'd learned that his time in Hell had done more than warp his perception of time. It really was late winter and moving into spring soon. It had been late spring when he'd walked into Wortham. His experiences of the past year made them feel like it was a lifetime ago he had seen the signs in the sky.
He entered the courier shop and dug into his purse. Sending letters as far as Xiansai was not cheap. A few minutes later, he left, hoping they would one day reach that faraway destination. It would be nice to hear from Jin, even if she couldn't help. Then again, he hadn't checked on Tabri or the Amber Blades for several months, either. Of all the places he could use his time revisiting right now, the Shassar Sea in general seemed the least productive. After all, Tabri was engaged in an all-out war against Vataos and the Sand Scorpions. He was not particularly up to that kind of conflict right now, if he could avoid it. Right now, he did not want to see humans fighting humans. Something about it still disturbed him, as if they should all be fighting together against the greater forces at play in their world.
His mind was set on Sentinel's Watch. Very likely Sescheron would be a deeply involved situation he would not have time for. At least with the Sanctified Earth Monastery cleansing, he could easily alert others and pass that task to another. He doubted if anyone had even crossed the Misty Valley yet to see what had become of the Sanctified Earth Monastery. He'd been there only about six weeks ago, and the place had still been littered with corpses of both demons and monks. Someone needed to know and go cleanse the place. If it had to be him doing the cleansing in between other tasks, so be it. There was a waypoint close enough to return to Westmarch regularly to check in with Cain.
"Oy, you there!" a voice called behind him as he retraced his steps back toward Cain's workshop.
He fixed his expression to its customary serene out of reflex. "Can I help you?"
"You're the priest staying with Elder Cain, right?" the young man, shook his hair out of his face to get a better look.
"I am."
"Oh, good. Only I got a couple came in on a ship this morning. Save me a trip, would you?"
He accepted the two neatly folded pieces of parchment and shoved them in his side satchel without looking. Hopefully, one of these was the reply Cain had been waiting for. Maybe he could get the old man moving in another direction and making plans to look somewhere else. Clearly, the answer wasn't in his workshop. But he never doubted there were answers out there somewhere the old man could find. He refused to let that hope die until everything had been explored, and, most likely, not even then. He well understood the need for secrecy in their studies and plans, but now it was time to seek outside help. A bit more excited, he picked up his pace as he wove through the people in the streets.
"Welcome back," Cain called distractedly from his desk.
"You have a couple of letters," Pyresong told him, fishing them out of his satchel.
He tossed them on the desk in front of Cain as he turned to remove his purse and satchel to set them by the stairs.
"Ah! It's about time!" Cain said, excitedly opening one. "But this one's for you, my friend."
Pyresong paused, curious. A letter? For him? He took the neatly folded and sealed parchment from Cain's hands. Cain's eyes twinkled with curiosity. He couldn't help grinning at that. The old man was nosy, but in a good way. The Horadrim left his opened and set aside for a minute while Pyresong flipped his over. He didn't recognize the sharply angular handwriting, and there was no other name on the outside, just his own. Briefly he thought to torment the old man by setting it aside and pretending not to be interested. But his own curiosity was gnawing away at him. Carefully, he broke the blank wax seal and unfolded it.
"I would hope it contains some good news, for a change," Cain said, still eyeing him closely. "But, knowing our luck, I have little faith in that."
Master Pyresong,
I write with the utmost urgency. The people of Mount Zavain
need your help once more.
The black mists born from the Zakarum's vile crusades have
spread across Zavain, and nightmares pour from within.
Somehow, you and Oza were able to fight back a demonic
incursion together. I know that with your help, we can stop
this horror here and now.
Please, come to Mount Zavain and offer us your expertise once
more, I beg of you.
—Shura of the Veradani
For a few seconds, Pyresong had been buried in the memories. His hunt for Dravec had taken him through the Misty Valley on multiple occasions. He sifted through his memories, trying to figure out if they had done something somewhere along the way that would have caused the mist to somehow spread. But he could think of nothing. Maybe it was the Hell rift Dravec had opened. Or something the cultists had done with their rituals. Whatever it was, he knew he couldn't just let this go unchecked. Six weeks ago he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary when he had been at the Sanctified Earth Monastery. Though, if he was honest with himself, he hadn't noticed much of anything at all of his surroundings. He prayed he wasn't too late. Shaking his head, he handed over the letter to Cain.
"I have to return to Mount Zavain."
"What?" Cain went silent as he read it. "Do you know this 'Shura'?"
He was already turning toward the stairs to gather his things.
"No," he called down as he ascended the stairs. "I didn't think there were any survivors from that monastery. Maybe there were others still helping Sentinel's watch when I left. I know there are several other monasteries elsewhere in the mountains, but the Sanctified Earth Monastery had been left untouched. I was last there the day before I returned to Westmarch with the shard. It's nearly impossible to get through the Misty Valley, for most people. I was just considering going to check in again at Sentinel's Watch and send word to another monastery to at least cleanse the place."
He was already upstairs, putting on his new armor. Cain, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to his own letter. Pyresong didn't have time to ask. His hands danced around swiftly as he hurried to put on his new armor. Again, he blessed Charsi's amazing talents. It was almost ridiculously easy to get it all into place, even if some of it was just a tiny bit too large on him right now.
As soon as he was ready, he returned downstairs. There were still some bottles of healing potion Cain had bought while he slept. He borrowed those rather than have to make two stops. He had been down to almost nothing in terms of food supplies by the time he left Hell. He planned to make his first stop Sentinel's Watch. If he couldn't get what he needed there, maybe they had rebuilt the village next door. It would still be faster than walking across Westmarch to get them.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Cain finally managed to ask softly.
Still running through his inventory and plans, Pyresong paused. Yes, he was as sure as he could be under the circumstances, at least physically. But that's not what Cain was asking, and he knew it. He turned to the old man he'd come to think of as a father. He chose to answer the unspoken question.
"I think so," he admitted carefully. "But it doesn't matter what I think. If Oza's brothers and sisters need me, I'm going."
Cain sighed heavily. "That's what I thought."
Pyresong embraced him, understanding the deeper reluctance.
"I will heal, friend. I promise." Then he pulled back. "But what about your own letter?"
"Good news. A friend is coming to our aid," Cain told him. "But we need more. I'm going to see what favor I can curry among Westmarch's leaders. It's been too quiet for too long already. The forces of Hell are moving, and we don't know where. They must not ignore the coming threat."
Pyresong gave an exaggerated wince. "Truth be told, I'd rather face those nightmares again than the rulers of this city," he said to add some levity to the moment. "Good luck, Cain. You may need it more than I."
Cain laughed; his friend was not wrong. "May the Light bless both our journeys. Go, and be safe, my friend."
Knowing that was a promise he could no longer keep, he just said, "You too."
Cain watched anxiously while the necromancer left the workshop to find a convenient place to open a portal. In here was far too shielded for a portal. He almost wanted to walk with him, but he knew he would just slow the younger man down. More to the point, he didn't like letting Pyresong out of his sight. He knew it was foolishness, but he had hoped his friend would have more time to heal physically as well as emotionally. Despite his tearless recounting of the events on Mount Zavain, Cain had seen right through the priest's facade. He had no idea who this Oza was to his friend, but she had been precious to him. He'd suffered deeply over her loss, even now. The loss of Verathiel had devastated the younger man. He was still downright tormented by the loss of the angel. Such grief from a Priest of Rathma was almost inconceivable. And it just highlighted all the more how very different Pyresong really was.
He prayed Pyresong really was as ready to get back to the fight as he portrayed. He would just have to wait for his friend to come back. He'd nearly lost him, several times over, in the last few months. He knew Pyresong's sanity had been strained to the breaking point in Hell.
And then he'd nearly died right here in the one place he should have been safe.
The man had suffered a shattered soul and spent time in the Unformed Land, even if he didn't remember it. He always came back, though. He had to take comfort in that. He had to hold on to the hope that the priest was strong enough to come back yet again.
Finally, Cain shook off the dark thoughts and deep sadness. He mentally shifted himself again. He had finally heard back from his friend. It was weeks too late to do anything for Pyresong, but the letter had given him hope for help in other areas. At least there was that to look forward to, for now. If only he could work his magic on those ignorant rulers. But he knew full well the court mages would see it and condemn him for it. No, Pyresong was not wrong. Facing the rulers of Westmarch was going to be a battle all its own, one he did not look forward to.
He could feel time ticking away.
Chapter 15: 14 Mount Zavain Nightmare
Chapter Text
Mount Zavain / Nightmare
Pyresong found a conveniently out-of-the-way alley just down the street from Cain's workshop and hurriedly opened a portal with Sentinel's Watch waypoint fixed in his mind. He stepped through to a sunny but frigid mid-morning. The sun was working its way overhead, and the shadows were short. The fort wasn't exactly abandoned, but there were very few guards and soldiers standing around and no villagers. He took this as a good sign they had taken to rebuilding what Dravec and the Khazra had destroyed and defiled. He made his way down the southern stairs and into the courtyard surrounded by high stone walls. Immediately, he spied a group of Veradani acolytes and monks sitting tiredly in a circle on the flagstone floor.
"You!" one of them called, struggling tiredly to his feet. "You're the priest that fought beside Oza at the Sanctified Earth Temple. Thank the gods you've arrived!"
Now that he got a better look, he realized these men and women weren't just tired. Many of them were injured as well. He immediately regretted his lack of supplies. He unhooked his shield and slung off his backpack anyway, reaching for some bandages.
"You're wounded. What happened here? Tell me everything."
The monks waved him off.
"A healer has been sent for. Save your supplies," one of them told him.
He reluctantly returned his backpack to its usual place under his shield. "I was sent a letter from a monk by the name of Shura. He mentioned he'd taken refuge here at Sentinel's Watch. Do you know where I can find him?"
The one who had spoken earlier that had struggled to his feet, now swooned. Pyresong caught him by the arms, careful to avoid a multitude of other injuries, and lowered him to the ground just as a healer came running up. He backed off for a moment to let her do her work. Another monk, bleeding from a ragged wound across his arm and chest, answered instead.
"After the temple fell, a thick, choking darkness spread up out of the valley. It had been contained in the valley for centuries. We don't know what made it suddenly start spreading. Nightmarish demons festered like a plague. Without Oza and the help of the monks from the Floating Sky Monastery, our acolytes could not hold on."
Pyresong's stomach churned painfully. Oza was lost, and they felt her absence keenly. And it was nothing they had done that would account for this sudden change. It had to be something Dravec and Skarn had stirred up. Yet, he felt unaccountably guilty. He should have sent word or done something. At the very least, he should have checked back at Sentinel's Watch. He still didn't fully understand how they knew Oza was dead. He had to assume there had been others here in communication at the time. Or maybe just some kind of monk insight. Still, he could not shake the feeling that he should have or could have done something so much sooner, despite knowing he could not have. The guilt writhed inside of him anyway.
"The Children of Rakkis offered us a place with them," another monk added, "but it has not been easy. Old hatreds linger, even if no one speaks of them. Shura was working with their Captain... Vereks, I believe his name is."
He knew. Oza had told him some of what had happened here and the uneasy alliance that had taken hold over the centuries. Monks still blamed the Zakarum for the atrocities committed in these mountains. And the Zakarum still greatly distrusted the powerful, often serene monks. Another monk, a few feet away, who had been following the conversation, spoke up.
"Last I saw, Vereks and Shura were up there arguing in the fort. Start there."
"Thank you," he told them, turning back to the building he'd just exited.
Back inside the shadowy interior, he didn't have to look far. Vereks was walking with some of his men, giving orders for how to secure and protect the village and the fort. Clearly, he wasn't going to lose them again, not even to nightmares. Pyresong knew the man still carried the heavy burden of guilt for the numerous villagers that had fallen to the Khazra.
"Captain Vereks."
The man stopped in mid-sentence in clear surprise. Then he smiled broadly, with his hand out in friendly welcome, instead of the more formal bows. He was not at all insulted. If anything, the friendlier greeting eased some of his concerns regarding his neglect after the fall of the Sanctified Earth Monastery.
"You're back! The Barbarians sent word through here that you'd gone to Hell..." Vereks told him, as if not quite believing his own eyes at the sight of him.
"I did, but that's another story," Pyresong told him, shaking his hand. "I came to ask you about a monk named Shura. But, from the looks of things, you could use some help."
"Astute as ever," Vereks drawled. Then, he got serious. "The black fog is spreading, nightmares are tearing my men to shreds, and the acolytes we've taken in are more uneasy than arach in a grease pit. I could use more than just some help; I could use and army."
The tired captain sighed heavily, taking his helmet off and ruffling his hair. He couldn't miss the telltale shadows under the man's eyes.
"Instead, I've got you," Vereks continued, with no small amount of amusement. "And, honestly, you're more reliable. Your monk friend, Shura, is out there fighting the nightmares. We've been trying to send reinforcements, but we're under attack on all sides. I must protect the village...or evacuate soon. I cannot spare anymore men."
Behind them, from the front entrance, there was the sound of raised voices. A young woman in full soldier uniform stumbled breathlessly up the stairs to them. Both the captain and the necromancer quickly took note of the blood splatters on her armor. Between the wiry fur and the blood smearing her sword, Pyresong could already guess where it had come from. Vereks put his helmet back on and caught her as she stumbled, trying to catch her breath.
"Slow down," the Captain told her, "just breathe. That's better. Now, report. What is it, soldier?"
The woman nodded that she was okay, and he let go of her. She stood straight, still shaking and pale, but quickly regained her composure.
"Our reinforcements are pinned down by Khazra. The monks are cut off in the valley, and the fog is growing thicker," she told them in a steady but breathless voice.
Vereks' face darkened with worry. And he'd already told Pyresong he had no more men to spare.
"Khazra again. Thank you, Ada. You did well."
"Captain, I'm headed that way to find Shura," he told the captain, knowing the man was likely about to head into battle himself if no one else was available. "Ada, can you guide me back there?"
The woman nodded resolutely. Vereks' relief was clear on his face.
"Thank you, Pyresong. We owe you much. Out there, you'll find Shura fighting somewhere."
Ada, still breathless, led him out of the north gates and down the path. It didn't take long to locate the others. Ahead, he could hear Khazra screaming excitedly as they surrounded a small group of soldiers and a single standing monk. He drew his scythe as he quickly passed the breathless woman who was struggling to get her sword out. She was just too tired, he could tell.
"Stay here," he threw over his shoulder. “Cover our backs.”
"Make these goats bleat their last!" one of the surrounded guards shouted.
Already another monk had fallen, and his brother stood over him protectively while the guards helped to form a defensive circle. But they were badly outnumbered. Nearly a dozen Khazra warriors and a berserker were forming up around them. Pyresong already had a sturdy bone golem running ahead of him into the fray. Clearly enraged already, the golem's unexpected presence ignited the goatmen into a frenzy. He quickly took out a couple of the smaller ones and got the attention of the berserker. It was many times larger than the usual Khazra warriors and much faster. Even the three men together likely couldn't survive that. He ducked and dodged, throwing spirit fire at its face to further enrage it. When it finally swung at him with all its might, he had the opening he needed to get his scythe in and rip through its chest. Then, he turned his full attention to the others. One of the soldiers had already fallen to a Khazra axe to lie beside the monk. He would not allow another to fall.
A couple minutes later, he again felt the elevation's thinner air getting to him. Not for the first time, he thanked Oza's breathing lessons as he fell into his dance. The remaining soldier checked on his fallen friend, shaking his head to the monk sadly. Neither of the two that had gone down survived. All the others in this company that had been sent from the fort were obviously dead. Then, the soldier turned his attention to the newcomer.
"Damn thankful you arrived, Priest. The Khazra struck right at us, just as we were growing ragged. Miserable beasts."
"Have they been quiet until now?" he asked, catching his breath.
"After whatever you and Oza did shortly before the monastery fell, yes. But the fog seems to affect everything. It's spreading slowly, but calling to everything of Darkness," the guard explained.
"Are there any others out there?"
"Shura and a group of our combined forces headed further into the mists. We were supposed to reinforce them, but these mangy creatures ambushed us. I can only assume the other groups were ambushed as well."
The monk who had been standing back silently grunted with pain. Looking unsteady, he shook his head to fight off dizziness, likely from blood loss.
"Damn these foul things. They split us all from the others...tore into us..."
The soldier wiped his blade and sheathed it to help support the monk on his unsteady feet. The monk pulled back, as if not wanting to be touched by the soldier. Again, he took note of the reaction. Vereks had not been exaggerating. The way he had seen Oza fighting for these people, had had not expected this level of animosity.
"Are you well enough to hold on?" he asked, eyeing the two survivors. "Captain Vereks is trying to find more reinforcements to send your way."
"I'll see them back to Sentinel's Watch," Ada volunteered. "Keep following that path. You should be able to find the others."
He eyed the small, ragged group one more time. He really didn't want to leave them, not in this condition. But he had to keep going. He had to find Shura and figure out what to do about this mist before it consumed them all. He looked back toward the walls of the fort still within sight. Then he glanced toward where he knew the Khazra den to be located. It was quiet, for the moment.
"We'll make do," the soldier assured him, "but the other men are deeper in the mists. There are far more nightmares. Help them, please."
He would just have to trust them and Ada and pray there were no more Khazra ambushes. He nodded.
"Go with the Light's blessing," the male guard called to him as he left.
He hoped the Light would be with them. They wouldn't survive another Khazra attack, he knew. Worse, the fort had so few defenders, he didn't think they would hold out against an all-out assault. He could only pray that the previous battles against the Khazra months before had left them too decimated to be any real threat to either the fort or the village. There was nothing he could do about it right now. He would have to trust the captain to see to their defenses.
He turned his mind ahead to the northern path Ada had pointed out. Where once it was close to a half day's walk to get to the Misty Valley, now the black fog was only a mile or so away from Sentinel's Watch and the village. The black mist covered everything now. Aside from the nightmare creatures that came with it, there were plenty of places where sheer cliffs would appear out of nowhere to the unwary traveler.
He jogged as carefully and silently as he could, supremely pleased Charsi had copied his modifications for stealth. Much as he had with his earlier armor, she had carefully padded specific places in the articulating plates to ensure they would not scrape or rattle together. Even with the new additions he had never previously bothered with, she had carefully ensured he would have complete mobility; as he had found out with the brief battle against the Khazra. With that, he was able to traverse the mists in near silence, thankfully avoiding many of the creatures he could hear just beyond his visual range in the black fog. Winding his way up the path Ada had indicated, he was careful not to leave it so as not to get lost. At least following the path, he was unlikely to stumble right off a cliff.
Eventually, his sensitive ears picked up the sounds of battle ahead. Several men and women were fighting nightmares just off to his left. He finally deviated from the path carefully to follow the sounds. The nightmare monsters screamed, as did the wounded men. He chafed at having to watch his step to avoid running right into a rock or cliff, but the fog would not let him see more than ten feet in any direction. And it only seemed to grow thicker.
"Keep fighting!" one man bellowed. "We're not beaten yet!"
Only a few feet away now, he sent power into his scythe and summoned half a dozen skeletal warriors. As difficult as it was to see in the murk, his skeletons could at least tell the difference between a human and a monster, so he let them run free in the fray. They were weak and not likely to do much damage against these things, but they would at least serve as a distraction so the soldiers and monks could finish them.
"What the—" one soldier started in surprise as a skeleton got between him and a nightmare.
"Fight on! The skeletons will aid you!" he called, unleashing a blade of energy to slice into a couple of nearby monsters.
For a few minutes, there was only the battle. He ran from one twisted nightmare to another, cutting them down almost as fast as they appeared. There stood a nearly solid wall of darkness only a few feet away. It had the same, vile feel as the murky fog of the Misty Valley, but so much more concentrated. Unable to see clearly in the dense mist, he didn't dare use corpse explosion or even corpse lance for fear of hitting one of the soldiers or monks. After what felt like half an hour of constant battle, he turned to find there were no more nightmares coming out of the black wall. Somehow, they had managed to hold them back or kill them all. His chest heaving, he took in the men and women staring around in wide-eyed shock as if expecting another assault at any moment.
"We lost another!" wailed a woman nearby, just beyond sight off to his left. "Oh, Zaim, embrace your fallen son!"
His heart twisted in empathy for her, but he turned his attention to the wounded. Thankfully, it looked like they were well-supplied when sent out. Many were already taking healing potions to stop or slow the bleeding. Others were getting out bandages. He turned his attention to the dead. There wasn't much time, but given the darkness all around and the suddenness of their deaths, he wanted to be sure. This place did not need more restless spirits. Satisfied, none of the fallen soldiers lingered, he turned his attention to the acolyte that wept bitterly over her fallen brother. She held the body to herself as if afraid he would take it from her. Clearly, she was in shock and falling swiftly deeper into it. Keeping his expression serene, he let his glowing hand pass over the man's body as he said the prayers, as much to calm her as for the dead. He knew the monk was gone.
"The nightmares are endless," she cried angrily now, "born from an old hatred that still seethes in the dark!"
He heard another monk's stealthy steps approaching her through the mist. The newcomer knelt down to comfort her. Her wails simmered down to soft cries, filled with venom as she turned to this other monk.
"The Children of Rakkis...it is not their fault, but their fathers' fathers." Then she turned to Pyresong. "See how we bleed to mend the wounds they inflicted?"
"They are still fighting beside you, friend," he reminded her gently. "They suffer this darkness, too."
That seemed to get through to her. The other monk patted her on the shoulder again. Pyresong turned his attention to this one as he, too, left the other to her grief.
"Can you tell me where to find Shura? I must find him before this worsens."
The older monk nodded. "To the west. If you move quickly, you will reach him. But be warned, he fights like a bull wisent whose calf has been stolen. Where he is, the mists will be at their thickest...and it is unlikely he will leave easily."
He nodded thanks for the information but was more than a little surprised, too. He'd never known a monk that was anything less than a valiant fighter. To have another monk basically say this Shura was impressive, and stubborn even to them was a bit unexpected. But, then, he'd come to realize that other monks had clearly revered Oza and her skill. Some had revered her with the same esteem as many of the Veradani masters. He smiled inside, thinking again of his lost friend. But he kept his expression neutral. And glanced around at the other survivors.
"You cannot hold back the darkness alone out here. Return to Sentinel's Watch. I will see to Shura's safety," he promised. Then he turned to the soldiers. "Get yourselves and the wounded back to Captain Vereks. He will need your help securing the village if this mist continues to spread. Be ready."
He quickly opened a portal for them, right into the fort. None of the soldiers offered an argument. He held his impatience in check until they carried the last of the wounded and dead through. He dismissed all of his skeletons, again opting for stealth. The wall of darkness just to the north of them where the battle had been taking place had not moved. It just no longer spewed nightmares. When he again found the path he'd taken north, he realized he was going to have to cross right into that wall to follow the path west. His mental map was definitely skewed at this point. The areas that he could remember clearly were now covered in the same mist he'd only previously seen in the Misty Valley. Carefully, he crossed the even blacker wall of mist, not sure what to expect.
He felt nothing beyond the usual Darkness that permeated the fog. But his visual range was now no more than a couple of feet. He couldn't even try to jog in this murk. He had a hard time even really staying on the frequently curving path as it wound its way around rocks and altars he couldn't even see. It was essentially the same as the Misty Valley, only much, much thicker. Even just a couple of feet away, sometimes, he could hear the nightmare creatures shuffling and moving around, but could not see them at all.
It might have been minutes or hours he crept through this thicker miasma of dark fog. His ears acutely aware of every sound, he finally caught the faint screams of more nightmares and the shouts of a monk fighting them. Hoping he was still on a path and not about to run into a rock wall or even right off a cliff, he sent a trickle of energy into his scythe. A couple minutes later, he was beside the monk and cutting down the large horde of nightmares two and three at a time. The monk—more than likely this Shura he was looking for—was clearly at the least a full monk and knew where to stay out of Pyresong's way. When there were no more creatures to fight, the monk stepped back away from the necromancer to eye him.
"A life of adventure has served you well. I now see why Oza spoke so highly of you to the others," Shura told him approvingly.
To conceal the stab of pain at being so reminded of Oza's loss, he bowed formally, priest to high priest, suspecting he may actually be a master or at least some higher rank since it was he who had sent for help from faraway Westmarch. He was not entirely surprised by the sudden surge of pain in his heart, though. Now that he had a few seconds to do more than just fight, the memories here began to haunt him. He quickly shoved them aside.
"Any praise from Oza, I will gladly accept. You're Shura, yes?"
The monk nodded and bowed, priest to priest. He was a bit surprised with the honor of being treated as equal here. After all, he could easily tell this Shura was far from being just an acolyte, though he appeared to be at least in his late thirties, if not forties. Then again, Oza had done much the same.
"Captain Vereks is worried for your safety," he continued. "We should head back to the Watch and discuss strategy."
Shura sighed and shook his head, clearly frustrated. "As good of a man as Vereks is, he and the Children of Rakkis do not have the interest of Zavain at heart. The Zakarum unleashed this terror, and again it falls to my people to clean up their mess."
"How do you know it was they? Dravec and the cultists were the ones that summoned the Khazra out of their den and opened the Hell rifts."
"I called for you because you can be trusted," Shura continued. "You have proven it with deeds and Oza's trust. I need you to help me, to save Esil, Kavash, and the others. They are still in the monastery, now threatened by the blackened mists. It has spread."
Finally, someone has come to cleanse the monastery, he thought with relief.
This fact made Pyresong feel much better about having abandoned it and these people for so long. He knew it was foolish to hold himself so accountable. But he still felt that, for Oza's memory, he should have sent word or done something to see to the monastery's care. Yet, the idea that the dark mist was spreading into the temple and anywhere near Oza's grave struck a dark chord within him. He would not let those nightmares disturb her rest. His grip on the handle of his scythe tightened, unconsciously to a painful degree, even thinking about it.
"If we wait, they die, but you and I can save them!" Shura urged. "A mantra given by the great Patriarch Sladyan can help us. But I cannot do it alone. Only the power of my ancestors can disperse the fog that chokes these mountains. Will you help me?"
Reining in his emotions and shoving aside his distractions, he refocused on Shura. "What is your plan?"
"Within the fallen temple is a statue of Sladyan. We must reach it," Shura said, turning to lead them down the path east to the north road.
He fixed the waypoint west of the temple in his mind and opened a portal, making Shura pause. The monk looked grateful and wasted no time questioning. They found the western path just as dark and murky as where they had come from. Pyresong led the way east and up the path toward the temple grounds where he remembered the statue stood. Following his lead and stealth, Shura whispered more about what he knew.
"Ever since the shard was stolen by that traitor, Dravec, the mists have continued to spread."
"He has paid for his crimes," he whispered back.
"Good. Only Sladyan stopped the mists before. With his death, Ivgorod was saved."
They emerged from the mists along the western path to the temple into almost blinding daylight. The mists had not extended up to the temple yet. He guessed it was only because the temple was elevated so much higher. But, given what he'd seen, it was likely only a matter of time. Now safely out of the black mists, Shura began to jog. He followed closely behind.
"The statue just ahead was erected in Sladyan's honor. The secret is hidden there. I know it!"
They emerged into the silence of the courtyard with the statue. Already, it seemed the demon and monk corpses had been removed from here. He was pleased to know that a place Oza loved so much would at least be cleansed, if not re-inhabited. He would have to find out more about their plans later and warn them of her burial location if they hadn't found it already. Thankfully, no nightmares or other creatures stirred nearby enough to pose a direct threat to the temple for now. Shura walked around and up to the front of the statue.
"Zaim's power is at its strongest here, near the summit. The mountain's memory is long, and it will reveal to us truths lost to history."
Pyresong felt his heart clench once again. Too many memories overlapped here. He spoke before he even realized what he was saying.
"Hauntingly familiar words. Oza spoke them to me once before..."
Shura paused and turned back to him as if sensing something. The monk's hard expression softened as he realized what that something was. Grief. Pyresong kicked himself mentally. This was no time to get lost in the memories. He needed to focus and stay focused if they were going to, hopefully, stop this mist from disturbing her rest. Yet, she felt so painfully close right now. Seeing he had smoothed his face and put away whatever he was feeling, Shura smirked.
"Well, I am certain she never tried something like this. Eons past, the gods created the land. Man was formed from earth, then fire, wind, and water."
He forced his expression to remain neutral. He knew the monk respected Oza and had not meant any slight to her. And he had absolutely no time to indulge in his emotions, especially if he was going to keep working with this monk. He didn't exactly dislike the man but did wonder if his time would be better spent elsewhere. He had to remind himself that Oza would have helped her brothers and sisters without question. He would do the same to honor her memory.
"Do what you're going to. But if it doesn't work, we're returning to Sentinel's Watch. Understood?" he warned the monk.
"If we fail, we will need far more aid than Sentinel's Watch can provide," Shura replied, a hard edge to his voice. "When the vision takes hold, I will see what you see, hear what you hear. Together, we must uncover the power that will destroy the mists once and for all."
"What?" he blurted in surprise.
"This is why I needed you. Through Oza, you were blessed by Zaim. I need that connection now." Shura turned to the statue and raised his arms in supplication. "Zaim! Show your children that which we have forgotten!"
The monk gave him no chance to recover from this surprising bit of information or what it might even mean for him. He had a flash of memory of Oza's warm spirit and her touch while she was separated from her body. He quickly shook it off, though. For a heartbeat, he felt he had been deliberately tricked into coming here. Still, he was already here. What did they have to lose by at least trying whatever Shura had in mind?
Shura's tone was so completely different; he could not have crossed this with memories of Oza. Where Oza had been pleading humbly, Shura demanded. The monk bowed deeply to the statue, and then his whole body glowed a bright, vibrant yellow. Chanting something under his breath, Shura reached toward the statue, sending tendrils of energy into the large carved prayer beads that hung around its neck. Each one began to glow brightly, the same vibrant yellow as Shura. The last comparison Pyresong's mind made was how Oza's spirit had been golden and far more powerful.
Unexpectedly, he felt himself falling through darkness as if falling asleep. Before he could shake off that sensation, he found himself standing in the bright light of day. He was on a smooth stone staircase he did not recognize that led up to a large mandala carved into the stones. All over the mandala, monks were fighting men in full armor with swords. Reflexively, he looked down at himself to realize he was still wearing his armor and holding his scythe. He was as solid as his surroundings. For a second, he thought he had just somehow been teleported. Shura's voice in his mind startled him.
"I cannot tell if you are reliving someone's actions or if the vision is permitting yours. Help my people fight back!"
Confused and uncertain, he climbed the few remaining stairs and joined in the fight against the armored men. Something about this felt entirely wrong. But he was here, now, and Shura had to know what he was doing. By the looks of the armor, which changed over centuries, he was somewhere in the past. The monks' attire hadn't really changed at all. One by one, he moved around the monks to cut down the soldiers, at least thinking that this was just a vision of the past. The fact that these monks had held out so long against armed and armored foes was a testament to their skill. Praying he hadn't actually gone to the past through whatever Shura had done, he followed Shura's directions.
When the battle was over, one of the monks actually turned to him as if he was one of them. Obviously, he wasn't seeing through someone else's eyes as he had in Kulle's library. He was actually in control of his own body. The whole thing was confusing and somewhat disorienting.
"Go! We will guard this path!"
Shura, now sounding very uncertain, seemed to agree. "You must keep going. Take the path to the south."
Thoroughly not liking any of this, he did as he was bid. He followed the trail south to find many more badly injured and even dead monks. If he was really in the past and not just a vision, what would come of his actions? He shook it off. He had never heard of even so-called gods transporting people through time. Still, it felt...odd, almost too real. The monks treated him like he was one of their own. Though, he still had all of his own gear and weapon. He almost wanted to test his summoning just to see what would happen, but he didn't have the chance. Just ahead, a large stone brick plaza with another mandala carved in the center came into view. There, he spied several monks facing off with a giant hulk of a man covered head to toe in ornate silver armor. Flanking him were more soldiers in gold and blue armor that clearly denoted a very high rank.
"Ignorant savages!" the largest one shouted. "Zakarum's light has come to save you from yourselves. If you would only let go of your pride."
No one seemed to notice him as he approached. With a coordinated attack, four of the monks tried to take on the hulk. Pyresong winced when the armored hulk blocked a couple with his shield and swung his mace viciously in retaliation. He just barely missed the other two, who were forced to fall back with blinding speed.
"Bring your 'Patriarch' before me," the hulk continued, "and we will end this. Submit to Rakkis' rule, or we will paint this mountain red, and he will rule the bloody muck."
Then, the hulk turned and led his soldiers away from the decorated courtyard. Pyresong approached some of the downed monks uncertainly. While the greater part of him knew this was the past and there was nothing he could do to change it, part of him was still angered by it all. He had met a few monks over the years. Every one of them a master of their body and a supreme fighter. Yet they were also a very peaceful people in so many ways. Many would go out of their way to avoid unnecessary confrontation of any kind and would defend an innocent or helpless person to the death. They understood and upheld the Balance in their own way. To his knowledge, they had never posed a threat to any country or even a single city.
"We will never...give in..." one of the monks said around the blood in his mouth. "Never! He knows the—" his words failed as he coughed up blood painfully.
He resisted the urge to reach for a healing potion. These people were centuries dead. Another monk, a female, regained her feet and looked to the others sternly.
"We must have faith! The gods will not abandon us in our hour of need. Patriarch Sladyan will know what to do. Gather the wounded. We have to leave this place."
"Do you see now the atrocities Vereks and his ilk remain ignorant to?" Shura said angrily. "This is but one foul moment among thousands."
"This was centuries ago," he reminded. "Vereks and his men weren't among these."
Shura snorted at this but said nothing more. He sensed a vaguely familiar warmth as an orb formed a few feet away in the center of the courtyard. Just as the one that had guided he and Oza, this one glowed a soft, warm gold. Shura said nothing while he approached it. None of these monks seemed to have even noticed him while they gathered up their wounded. This orb didn't move to guide him further, as he expected. He sensed something just under the range of conscious thought and followed its direction. He hooked his scythe on his belt and reached for the orb. When his gloved fingertips entered the warm glow, it flashed brightly.
This time, he found himself in a temple courtyard. There were dozens of armored men surrounding a handful of monks. He was somewhere off to one side but had a very clear view.
"You heard Lord Martanos!" one of the soldiers shouted. "Offer no mercy to the wicked!"
That seemed like all the soldiers needed. They closed in on the few standing monks and slaughtered them mercilessly before he could even unhook his scythe. All over this courtyard were dozens of monk bodies and a few soldiers. The long blades, shields, and armor of the soldiers often defeated many of the monks' powerful moves. Unarmed and unarmored, it was a pure one-sided slaughter. He watched helplessly while the monks were hacked to literal pieces in a matter of seconds.
"Gods...I'm going to be sick... Please, I don't want to see any more of this," Shura begged him.
Pyresong gave in to his darker instincts. This was the past, a memory from these mountains. Nothing he would do here would change what happened. But it would make him feel better. He cut down every last one of the soldiers, venting his growing rage. Despite the bloodshed, it had done little to calm him. He was still angry with Shura for even dragging him into this as he had. He had to remind himself that if it put an end to the mist and Darkness, it was worth exploring, for the sake of all the innocent people now in danger of being overcome by the mist and killed by the nightmares it spawned.
"Over here..." a weak voice called to his right.
Turning, he spotted a monk struggling on his hands and knees. The blade wounds across his back told him all he needed to know. The monk would not survive but a few more minutes. He hooked his scythe and ran to the monk beckoning him.
"Martanos' madness corrupts his men. They have become uncaring monsters..." he coughed, struggling to breathe.
He gently took the monk by the shoulders and eased him upright on his knees. His usual prayers came to his lips as he again forcefully reminded himself this was hundreds of years ago. Either the man was at peace, or he wasn't, and nothing he said or did here would change that now. Still, the man's suffering tugged at something inside of him he had never possessed the strength to ignore.
"They cloak themselves in the lie of the faith," the monk continued weakly. "To think they call us 'heretics'..." He coughed again. "You have to reach the Patriarch. Help him escape however you can. Please, he's all we have left."
The man coughed one more time and then blacked out. Pyresong gently eased his body to the ground. Though he still lived, it wouldn't be for very long. He sent up a silent prayer anyway. No, it wouldn't make a difference now. But, just maybe, Zaim would hear it anyway.
The brutal slaughter of so many unarmed men surrounded him. The overwhelming scent of so much fresh blood made this whole thing all too real. Shura wasn't the only one feeling sick. He knew incidents like these riddled the history of Sanctuary. Again he was reminded, by this alone, why the angels thought humans more demon than angel. Humans fought and murdered each other for no better reason than differences of opinion, greed, and sometimes just because they enjoyed it. In some ways, humans really were no better than the demons, except humans had a choice.
Still shifting the poor, unconscious monk to the ground while praying silently, he was startled slightly when Shura's voice broke into his swirling thoughts.
"This isn't like we were told. Sladyan is supposed to save Zavain, to stop Rakkis' advance. You have to get to him quickly!" Shura told him, an edge of confusion and panic in his voice.
"Damn it, Shura!" Pyresong snapped. "It's just a memory! Nothing that happens here will change anything. Remember that, or end this ritual. Now!"
He was already so sucked in by this memory and how absolutely real it felt, that he was losing his grip. He couldn't afford Shura to fall in with him. One of them had to keep perspective, and he knew it wasn't going to be him, not if this went on much longer. When Shura remained silent, he could only hope he'd gotten through to the monk. He was still shaking slightly with barely contained rage when he forced himself to his feet. Before he had a chance to really regain his own perspective, a scream to his right had him running reflexively in that direction.
Up some crude stone stairs carved in the stone path, he could see more monks. This time, they were confronted by a demon. He didn't even need his magically enhanced vision to see the filthy energies of Hell coming from the twisted man. It was the same silver armored hulk he'd seen before. But this time, his body had been twisted to show the half-demon body underneath the armor. Several dead monks littered the ground around him, some of them in pieces. One of the older monks was using his body and visible yellow energies as a shield to protect the other standing monks.
"Flee, brothers! I will hold him here!"
The others behind the shielding monk grabbed up as many of the wounded as they could. Though they gave no indication they could see or sense him, every single one of them seemed to move around him as they fled down the narrow path. There, they would soon find the numerous corpses of yet more of their people.
"Look at yourself, Martanos! Your zeal has opened your heart to Chaos!"
Martanos pulled back with his shield. "I am the hand of Zakarum, and I will tear the heresy from you!"
The half-demon thing surged forward with his shield, bashing Sladyan's powerful energy shield into shattering. When the monk fell back, nearly off a cliff edge, Pyresong was already in motion. His glowing scythe blade screamed through the air, letting loose a blade of energy almost too powerful for him to believe it had come from him. All it did was make the demon's mace miss its target. Martanos barely stumbled back a couple of steps. He quickly positioned himself between the monk and the monster. Martanos recovered quickly and was now targeting him instead. Again, sent a flood of energy into his scythe, fueled by his anger at the injustice of it all, and flung it at Martanos. This time, the demon-man at least fell backwards. Behind him, Sladyan rose and gripped him by the arm, pulling him toward the path.
"That man has given in to a demon within his soul. We cannot win against such forbidden strength. Not as we are." He pushed Pyresong roughly ahead of him. "Go! Move with Vaiyu's wind!"
He ran, keeping a close ear on the man behind him. As they crossed a narrow stone bridge just before the courtyard ahead, he heard Sladyan stop. He felt as much as saw the monk concentrating his power. He turned to watch while the elderly monk slammed his hand full of such power as to be almost unbelievable down onto the bridge, shattering it. Then Sladyan stumbled toward him, nearly exhausted. Catching sight of numerous shallow wounds on the man, he again resisted the urge to reach for a healing potion. He caught Sladyan gently by the shoulders to support him while he caught his breath. Still, his hand twitched toward a healing potion on his belt.
Memory. Not real, he told himself firmly, almost missing Sladyan's next words.
"A broken bridge will only delay his rage,” Sladyan said breathlesslessly. “Martanos has become a demon. His soul burns with profane fury."
The elderly monk seemed to consider something. Then he scrubbed his face tiredly. When he faced Pyresong again, his face was twisted with anger.
"His armies will not cease until Ivgorod lies in ash. The Zakarum's crusade must end here, even if it costs our lives. We make for the temple. It is our last bastion of hope."
There was a heartfelt desperation in those words that almost had Pyresong wanting to follow, to do something. He was again torn between the memory and reality. Before he could even form a mental reply, Sladyan was running off in another direction, away from him. Already, he sensed something behind those words. Shura didn't give him a chance to analyze it further.
"Did you see that? The Zakarum zealot gave in to demonic power," Shura said, excitedly. "I knew they were the source of this madness."
Oh yes, he had definitely seen it and felt it. But the look in Sladyan's eyes told another story, too. There was a slightly hysterical edge to the man's words. Something sparked behind the old monk's eyes. Clearly, he had something in mind when he'd said them, and the monk himself didn't like it. Though, at the moment, he wasn't sure what it could possibly be. The Sahptev faith believed in one thousand and one gods between Chaos and Order. Was it possible...
Pyresong didn't know what to think. He was trapped there until Zaim or Shura let him out. All he could do was move forward to see what Zaim wanted them to see. While he was struggling to recall as much as he could about the Sahptev beliefs, he felt the faintly familiar warmth of another golden spirit orb beside him.
Reluctant as he was to go any deeper or further into this memory...vision...delusion...whatever the hells it was at this point, he knew he had to finish it. If for no other reason than he wanted to be out of here. But, truthfully, he hoped for a real answer to the question of the black mist. If there was any chance Shura was right, and the answer was here in the past, he had to try. Besides, he trusted this Zaim; more so than he trusted Shura at the moment. Oza had trusted and believed in Zaim. He'd touched her warm soul—more than once—and knew no Darkness there. If she trusted Zaim to guide her, he would do the same now.
His fingertips brushed the golden orb. This time, it felt like it was enveloping him in its warm light. The world around him faded away. He found himself standing on another path in bright daylight. All around him were dozens of altars and shrines. He turned a full circle, trying to get his bearings.
"Gods, I've never seen the Silent Monastery like this before. My entire life, it's been lost to the mists," Shura commented in awe.
His ear caught the sound of fighting to the north. He didn't wait for Shura's guidance to start running in that direction. His battle instincts were already taking over. All of this was just too real to remain entirely detached from the situation. The fight was just above him, up a flight of carved stone stairs.
"We make our stand here!" a monk shouted. "We shall be Patriarch Sladyan's shield!"
When he topped the stairs to find another intricate stone mandala, he also found a small handful of monks, again holding off at least a dozen of the heavily armed and armored soldiers. He already had his scythe drawn, ready to jump into the fray, when a black mist descended on the open area, making everyone pause.
"No! This mist... This power is forbidden!" a monk screamed.
Pyresong skid to a stop, still several yards away. A heartbeat later, the other monks were all screaming in agony when their bodies began to warp and twist into something entirely inhuman. Terrified, the soldiers backed away from the monks. Then they tried to flee in his direction. It was already too late. He could see the mist changing all of them, monk and soldier alike. They screamed and writhed in horrific pain as their bodies twisted into the same kinds of nightmares he'd seen all over the Misty Valley. For a moment, he shuddered, wondering if he would become one of them. Again, he had to reassert his perspective that he was not actually a part of this.
Even as he backed away, the newly created nightmares started stalking toward him, snarling and growling. Giving in to instinct, he used his scythe and skeletons to cut them all down. Somewhere beyond this combat, he heard Shura's shocked comment.
"The mists turned them into abominations... All of them..."
When one of the numerous nightmares closing in around him managed to swipe a claw across his forehead, he shielded himself and used corpse explosion to end it quickly. His heart pounded as he realized whatever this was, it was real enough to hurt him. Blood dripped freely down from the multiple shallow gashes he hadn't even noticed until now. He fought the instinct to take a healing potion. Briefly, his mind flickered through thoughts of poison or worse. Again, he shook it off. He couldn't waste what little he had, and there was no telling if any of it carried over to his physical body. Again, it was just too real. The fight for his own life here left him no time to think further on why he was even here. As he took slow, calming breaths, Shura spoke again.
"Keep pushing through the vision!" Shura demanded. "We are close to the moment of truth! I know it!"
Pyresong bit back a vile retort along the lines of something anatomically impossible aimed at the monk and forced himself to calm. Whether the injuries had been some kind of warning or it was just sheer bad luck, he decided to ignore it. This place was just too real. He was falling deeper into it. It was getting harder and harder to remind himself his body really was elsewhere and this was not the present. Shura's voice in his head was at least something to keep him connected to his own reality.
Instead of the brilliant daylight he had been in only minutes before, the world was blanketed in the even darker gloom he'd found emanating in the Misty Valley while hunting for Shura. Already it was darker than a moonless night and compounded by the black mist making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. But he didn't really need to see so much as hear. With his skeletons destroyed by the corpse explosion, he was left free to creep forward in silence. The path led east to a stone-paved courtyard. All around him, he could hear more of the nightmares shuffling about and grunting or howling.
He felt a surge of power to his left and followed it. There, he found four monks standing before a set of large wooden doors. Together, they formed an energy shield in front of the doors, as if trying to seal something inside. Nightmares, drawn to their light, quickly closed in from the rest of the courtyard. He had no real idea what was going on, so he turned to guard the monks by destroying the nightmares as they came. Behind him, he felt as much as heard the energy shield being shattered by something much more powerful inside the building. The force was such that he found himself thrown to the ground, as were the four monks.
Reacting on reflex, he rolled out of the way when more nightmares dove into the fray after him. He made a broad sweep of his scythe right over the heads of the downed monks to take out a few more nightmares pouring through the open doors while he regained his feet. Even as he turned to meet another attack, the monks on the ground screamed and began to warp into more nightmares. Surrounded on all sides, he wasn't thinking at all anymore. He cut them all down in his desperate attempts not to be completely overwhelmed.
"They could not seal the Darkness... Their blind hatred doomed us all."
Behind him, something even bigger came out of the deeper darkness beyond the doors. Still acting on pure combat reflexes, he ducked. It did no good. The swipe of a giant appendage against his shield was enough to send him rolling painfully to the right of the courtyard. Not even bothering to rise, Pyresong set off all the numerous corpses littering the ground around the thing. This time, he used his physical shield to cover himself from the enormous blast.
Being so completely engaged now, he spun to his feet, ready for more of them to come at him through the doors. It took him a couple of seconds to find there were no more nightmares here or coming through the doors. All of them were now flopping around on the ground, decimated by the explosion. Their warped and now maimed bodies writhed and growled on the gore-covered stones. Shura's voice startled him again.
"One of the monks survived! Speak to him, quickly!"
Until that moment, he hadn't even noticed the one dying monk that now sat propped against a column nearby. It was a miracle the corpse explosion hadn't killed him, too. He couldn't fathom how or why the monk hadn't been twisted into a nightmare, like the others. Again, he tried to shake off the fact that this felt so completely real. He could feel the cuts and bruises left by the nightmares all over his body. He was covered in slimy and sticky gore. The scent of blood was overwhelming.
He struggled to focus for even just one second beyond all that as he approached the one surviving monk. The fatally injured monk reached toward him desperately with a shaking hand as he approached. Angry and still in combat mindset, he wasn't ready to talk so much as continue the fight. But he didn't know what to fight now, other than maybe punching Shura for dragging him into this.
"We could not stop him... Gods forgive us!" the monk cried miserably.
"Stop who? Martanos?" he snapped. "What has happened?"
"Haven't...seen Martanos," the monk gagged in pain.
His anger fled when his compassion again took over. For a moment, he was ashamed of shouting at the poor man. He knelt beside the suffering monk, setting his scythe on the ground beside him. He let the monk take his hand for something to hold on to while he rallied against the pain of his many, fatal wounds. He forced himself to wait patiently until the man could speak again or passed out from the pain. Again, the prayers came reflexively. This time, he didn't bother reminding himself that this was the past. He added another prayer to Zaim for this poor suffering man. After a few seconds, the monk seemed to recover slightly.
"The Patriarch was meditating in the monastery as the black mist erupted. We tried to reach him, but there is no way forward. We failed him!"
The man choked on more blood. Pyresong reached around behind his shoulders to support him when he sagged. He gently tried to soothe the monk in these last moments.
"Hmph, we know that we survive this. Useless vision... Quickly, what is beyond the door?"
Vision, he reminded himself, silently this time. It's only a vision.
Yet he still gripped the suffering man gently, unable to just ignore the desperation and need of this passing soul. He whispered soothingly to the monk in his arms until the man seemed to lose consciousness but was still breathing shallowly.
"We need to—"
Shut up! Pyresong snarled at Shura in his mind, slamming his mental doors in the hopes one or the other would work to silence the bastard for a moment.
Apparently, it did. A few more seconds ticked by while he sat with the dying monk. He struggled to keep his grip on what was real and what wasn't. He desperately needed those few seconds. He slowed his breathing until he could focus again. By the time he opened his eyes again, the monk had given one last gurgling breath and then ceased breathing altogether. His forced calm was just that, forced. But it was working. He opened his mental doors a crack. Shura was still blessedly silent.
More than ready to finish this and get out of here, he took up his scythe and turned toward the doors and the absolute impenetrable darkness pouring out of them. When he approached the threshold, a voice came out of the darkness beyond; one he recognized. It filled the building, the courtyard, and even the mountains all around them. It rang in his head like a massive bell, jarring him into freezing right there in the open doorway.
"I bear the burden... May the gods...forgive me..."
Then the darkness reached through the open doors and snatched him up like a doll.
He felt himself falling for a moment before he felt almost slammed back into his body. He was blinded by the sunlight in his eyes from almost directly above. He reflexively flinched and twitched violently, completely disoriented. He was laying on the wooden boards that formed a sort of platform around the central statue where he and Shura had been standing. And, by the feel of it, his initial landing earlier had not been a gentle one. That thought was lost a heartbeat later when he realized what that last piece of vision was.
That was Sladyan's voice! he realized.
"That's enough! I've seen the mantra used to seal away the Darkness. Its power flows through me," Shura told him, a few feet away from where he still stood before the statue.
Pyresong struggled for a moment to put away the urge to punch the monk in the face. He quickly regained his feet, noting he no longer felt the oozing blood and throbbing pain from his injuries within the vision. Shura swung around on him, clearly angry as well.
"Damn the Zakarum! They invaded our land, calling it their 'divine right'," he sneered. "They use their faith to legitimize the horrors they unleash. Even a vulture has more respect. We will never see eye to eye."
"Shura, I heard Sladyan through that doorway. He was the one begging for forgiveness!"
Shura shook his head and slashed a negating hand at those words.
"In Ivgorod, there are three patriarchs and matriarchs of order and three of chaos. One serves as the bridge between them. In his time, that was Sladyan's role. Even in his last moments, the man sought peace."
"Things are not what they seem," he warned. "You're seeing what you want to see."
"We must honor him," Shura said, waving away the necromancer's words. "Put down the Darkness he sought to contain. The mantra the vision has granted me is the key to our salvation. Help me one last time."
Pyresong was certain that things were not what Shura believed. He knew Sladyan, in his desperation, had caused the mists. He had no real idea how it was done, but his heart told him that was the truth of the matter. He also knew if he confronted Shura, he would not believe it until he could see if for himself. The arguing would not help the situation. Considering all those innocent people beyond the Misty Valley now threatened by the same mist, he couldn't find it in himself to stubbornly stand his ground with this monk and let this opportunity to maybe stop the mist slip away.
As long as he can put an end to the mists, does it matter what he believes? he questioned himself.
He already knew the answer. And he knew he was just looking for a way to get out of dealing with Shura further. This was not his world, not his people. Maybe when this was over, he could find a way to help these people in their uneasy alliance with each other. It all seemed so wrong to him, especially now. With the threat of Diablo rising, the whole idea of two people fighting against each other over something that happened hundreds of years ago just seemed so petty and ridiculous to him. It angered and frustrated him and made him sad when he recalled Oza's own sincere words.
"Our peoples may have had their differences, Captain. But, on this mountain, when any one of us suffers, we all share the pain."
"You're sure you can stop the mists from spreading?" he finally asked.
"Of course," Shura told him confidently. "I have seen where they emanate from in the Misty Valley."
He still didn't like Shura or his attitude and arrogance, or his clinging to myths even in the face of evidence. But none of that mattered. He had to at least try to stop the mists before they got into the Sanctified Earth Monastery or Sentinel's Watch, claiming yet more innocent lives. Holding back a frustrated sigh, he motioned for the monk to lead on. Shura headed back for the western path that they had used to get into the monastery.
Right on the edge of that path where the courtyard exited, Pyresong couldn't help pausing and looking toward the north and east where he knew Oza to be buried. Silently, he promised to return when he had the time. He knew she would want him to do this for everyone, not just her own brothers and sisters. For her, he would put up with even Shura. Though, if the opportunity to punch the monk ever came up...
"Look at this temple. First the Zakarum, then the Burning Hells," Shura commented sadly, beside him.
"This monastery has stood for over five hundred years! Even the Zakarum army could not breach its walls!"
The memory of Oza's heartbroken words rose up to prod him painfully again. He would come back, he knew. He would see this place after it was cleansed, at the very least. Maybe he could do more later. He couldn't even really understand why he felt so attached to Oza or this place. He knew she was gone. But here, she didn't feel so far away from him. Somehow, he knew she was not actually here; she had gone to her rest. He was more certain of it now than ever before, even though he had never actually checked with his necromantic abilities. Something in his heart told him she just was not here, or on the overlook. Yet, he couldn't shake off the feeling that she was somehow with him when he was here, in a way he couldn't even make sense of.
Knowing the monk was watching, he kept his face utterly devoid of emotion as he spun on his heel and headed down the western path. A part of him wanted to ask if they'd found Oza's grave yet. But now was not the time. Whatever else happened, he would see her grave was not disturbed. If anything, he considered adding a shrine when this was over.
Shura led them back down into the Misty Valley. Instead of quietly moving through the mists as they had done before, the monk boldly walked right into the first cluster of nightmares that crossed his path. He began kicking, punching, and beating them to death while Pyresong cut down others.
"Cursed wretches, doomed by your vile crusade. A just end," Shura growled when it was over.
"Some of the nightmares were your own people," he reminded the monk in irritation.
Again, Shura opted to ignore his words. But he did at least stop going out of his way to find fights. For that alone, Pyresong was willing to keep his peace. Shura led them wherever he was headed in blessed silence. Within minutes of leaving the path, Pyresong had lost all sense of direction in the murk. As with the other areas blanketed with the even thicker miasma of the black mist, neither could see more than a few feet in any direction. He wondered how the monk even knew where they were headed since there also seemed to be no clear trail. But when he focused his arcane senses, he could almost feel a blacker hole in the darkness, as if it was spewing out the evil mist. After what felt like a couple of hours, the monk motioned for him to come up alongside him.
Shura whispered, "We are nearly there."
He pointed to the rock wall that was now on their left and within arm's reach. They tangled with one more small bunch of the nightmares before Shura indicated a large crack in the rock wall. Without a doubt, he could now feel the more concentrated demonic power oozing out of the place. Whereas the overall evil of the mist made it difficult to tell what type of magic or what origins, this he could not have mistaken. Faint as it was from here, there was a hellish taint in the air he would never be able to forget for the rest of his life. Wherever the source of the mist was, here in Sanctuary, it most definitely originated in the Hells. He had no idea what had stirred it up after so many centuries, but it was clearly spewing out more mist now. It blanketed the land and looked like a black vortex in the wall.
"I will hold the way open for you," Shura explained. "My brothers and sisters should still be inside."
"For me?" Pyresong echoed in surprise. "Wait. Your brothers... You said they were in the monastery."
He didn't even bother to conceal his anger at realizing he had somehow been tricked again.
"Yes, you. You have Zaim's blessing, and someone has to hold open the way. And you didn't ask which monastery," the monk finished smugly.
Not for the first time, he resisted the urge to punch the monk. There would be time for that later. Shura gave him no more time to question or consider anyway. The monk raised his hands, and his whole body glowed with harsh, yellow light. He was half convinced that Shura would get himself killed by the nightmares doing that with no one to guard his back. Some darker part of him smiled at the thought. Then he shook it off. He put those thoughts aside, too, as the black vortex suddenly reversed and became a black hole heavily laced with Shura's yellow energies. He could see Shura straining to force open this magical door.
"It will take you to the monastery at the source," Shura grated through teeth clenched tightly from the strain. "This is but one entrance. It resists the Light. Go, quickly!"
Almost as soon as he stepped through the portal, he felt the pushing sensation Shura had mentioned. But something also pulled at him, hard. He was so caught by surprise, he was disoriented when his feet finally landed on a vaguely familiar path. For a heartbeat, he tried to figure out what had just happened and that contradictory tugging and pulling sensation he'd felt. It was as if something had forcibly grabbed his entire body...from the inside. But it did not feel a part of this Darkness at all.
Then his eyes and mind caught up to where he was standing.
He had seen these places in his visions from Zaim. But this was no vision. The monk crawling toward him in the dirt, leaving behind a trail of blood, was all too real. He knelt to help the man while he was already reaching for a healing potion on his belt. But then he could see it was far too late. There was no healing potion he knew of that could repair this much damage. Only a healer might, and even that was very unlikely. One of the man's legs had been severed at the thigh and dragged behind him limply on a flap of skin. There were deep, ragged cuts made from the claws of nightmares all over his back and chest. For a moment he couldn't believe the monk was even still alive at all.
"Someone from outside?" the monk asked, unable to lift his head anymore. "Please, you have to help us..."
He put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "Focus on your heart. As it slows, the pain will fade. You will be free of it soon. What is your name?"
The monk seemed to calm at this. "Esil. Shura sent us...to find the source." The man took a slow, ragged breath. "The blacks mists are at their strongest here. The nightmares...unceasing..."
"How many of you are there?" he asked, as gently as he could, while silently cursing Shura.
"Kavash and the others are somewhere ahead. I don't know how many still live." He paused to take another gurgling breath. "Please...save them..."
"I will put an end to this Darkness," he promised. "Just listen to your heart. Feel the numbness spreading. It doesn't hurt anymore."
"Do not... give in...to your Darkness..."
The monk's last words were little more than a whisper, but something about them disturbed Pyresong. As a Priest of Rathma, he was accustomed to the last words of some dying people not even being directed at the living. Yet, he felt these were indeed aimed at him. He repressed a shudder he could not explain. He quickly shoved it aside to focus on the man who needed him. He kept whispering softly. After the monk had stopped breathing, he waited another several seconds until he saw the soul rise up from the body. Immediately, he felt the hesitation.
"You have done your part. Go to your rest. I will find your brothers and sisters."
The spirit sat above the body for a few more seconds, as if waiting or listening, but said nothing further to him. Just when he was sure he would have to open the door, it finally began to condense into a chilly light and fade away. He offered up his prayers, this time to Zaim. If he really did have the god's blessings, he hoped it was listening.
Carefully, he banked his rising cold anger. Shura had tricked him into going into that vision. He had sent these monks in here with no clear idea of what the mist was or where it came from. He sent his own brothers and sisters into the heart of the nightmares with no way to effectively stop it. Oh yes, Shura had a lot to answer for. He carefully filed it all away for later. Right now, he needed to get to the heart of this and stop this before it spread into the village and Sentinel's Watch.
He followed the hauntingly familiar path blanketed in thick darkness. As expected, it wasn't long before he encountered more nightmares. He cut them down as he headed toward the monastery. There weren't many, but it was enough to slow him down. He summoned a couple of bone golems to assist. A few minutes later, he entered a courtyard where he immediately spotted at least four fallen monks. Two were still fighting with a thing that looked like some kind of reaper demon.
The two monks leapt high into the air, attempting to hit it from two different directions at once. The necromancer already knew he was too late, even as he raced toward the thing. The tall, black-robed figure wielded a scythe that glowed with blue fire. One touch of it would slice right through the flesh, ignoring it completely, to cut at the source of power or soul. It barely grazed the two monks, but it was more than enough. Their bodies fell to the ground like thrown dolls while their now dislocated spirits drifted in a white haze. The bodies were unharmed but now bereft of their souls.
Shouting to get the reaper's attention, he threw spirit fire ahead of himself. He was too late to save the monks from death, but at least he could spare their souls further damage. The demonic reaper's scythe met his own with painfully bright sparks. He twisted his roughly to try to pull the demon's scythe out of the thing's grasp, to no avail. He very nearly lost his own scythe when it reversed the move on him and tugged. He turned the unexpected movement into a forward dive and roll. He spun to his feet with spirit fire ready. It laughed as it jumped back away from him to better size him up.
"Resists no longer..." it crooned. "Revel in what is forbidden."
It disappeared for an instant. He was already entirely lost in his combat instincts and felt it coming around behind him. He spun around to face it and tried to find an opening. He flung a few blades from his scythe and a couple of bone spears, testing it.
"We rise from the Darkness! Chaos unleashed!"
He danced away as it retaliated again with its much larger scythe, laughing at him. He kept up with his scythe and parries but was forced to dance backward and around the courtyard. It was just too fast to find a good opening. It gave him the impression it wasn't really wanting to kill him, just to toy with him for some reason. While he was busy parrying and dodging, he felt around himself. There were a few restless spirits, but not many. Most of them were little more than faded echoes of the souls they had been. When he rolled away from another sweep of the reaper's scythe, he pulled them to himself and then unleashed them in a small volley of bone spirits. The thing laughed again as it sliced through the skull-shaped balls of light. Then it just disappeared with another wicked laugh.
For several seconds, he let his senses roam in every direction. Reaper-type entities had abilities many others, even most demons, did not, such as going invisible to move around. Often, they could go right through solid objects. Stone walls were no obstacle for them. He stood warily for several more seconds. Still, he could not find it. He had no doubts it was still nearby, but it had fled for the moment.
The only other sound his ears detected was the ragged breathing of another badly wounded monk near the base of a statue to his left. Certain he was not about to be attacked, he hooked his scythe and ran to the man. Unlike the others, this one had been beaten and stabbed, likely by nightmares. Gently, he slid an arm beneath the man's shoulders to elevate him. He lifted the monk slightly so he could breathe a little easier. This one would not survive, either.
"Esil found help? Thank the gods..."
"Are you Kavash?" he asked gently.
The monk nodded and coughed up blood that ran down his chin to join the rest on his already saturated robes. He held him carefully by the shoulders, cradling him in one arm. The monk seemed to rally his strength as he reached up to grip Pyresong by the other arm.
"There is still a chance! Please, listen, there is no time."
"Calm, friend. I will listen. Just breathe slowly," he told the man. "Soon, the pain will fade."
Kavash nodded and focused on his slow, shallow breathing for a few seconds. He could hear the rattle as his lungs filled. But now, the monk was calmer and more focused. The monk pointed up to the statue above them.
"You carry Zaim's blessing. Now must use Ytar's blessing. The globe once burned with Ytar's light. They can, again. The Darkness suppresses our spirits...my brothers and sisters."
The statue held its arms above it's head as if wielding a globe as a weapon. Pyresong looked back down from the statue to the monk as the man choked and spat more blood.
"How? What do I need to do?"
"Free our brethren from their nightmares. Burn away the darkness with your Light..."
The monk seemed to be fading in an out of consciousness, but still struggling to speak. He wasn't even entirely sure the monk was coherent enough to explain. He shoved aside those thoughts and focused on easing this one's passing. It was all he could really do.
"Yes, listen to your heart slowing. The pain is gone now," he soothed, not sure if the monk was even hearing him at this point.
"Show me the Light..." Kavash pleaded.
He didn't know what to do. The magical aura around the statue was clear to him. But he didn't know how to do what the monk was asking. The monk again struggled to raise a hand, pointing at the globe on the statue, unable to breathe around the blood. Pyresong cursed himself silently, wracking his mind. He didn't know enough about their culture and their beliefs. In a vague way he understood Ytar represented light and the sun. He didn't know how to do what the poor monk was asking. He wracked his mind, trying to figure it out, if for no other reason than to ease the monk's passing. The monk eventually settled, this time the strength fleeing from him as his eyes fixed widely on something the necromancer couldn't see. Pyresong again started to whisper soothingly when the monk found the strength to whisper again. He was still fighting his release.
"Do not let the Darkness consume our souls. Touch the flame and burn away our sins," Kavash whispered.
Like an electric shock up his spine, Pyresong suddenly didknow what to do. He couldn't explain it if he had wanted to, but he knew. He freed one hand to aim it at the globe in the statue and sent a stream of fire at it. The trickle of fire energy was all it needed. The globe flared brightly with light, suddenly banishing the dark mist all around them. For a few seconds he was blinded not only by the light from the globe on the statue, but by the even brighter light of the sun bathing the courtyard.
"Ytar's blessing..." Kavash whispered, his lips twitching with a faint smile.
Having what he wanted, Kavash ceased fighting and went willingly. He felt the door opening as the spirit fled quickly. The man had been terrified of being trapped here in the hellish Darkness to becoming one of the nightmares. Pyresong was relieved.
He gently laid the monk back on the stones at the base of the statue. He looked around the now brightly lit courtyard. He didn't know or care anything about Ytar's blessings. Nor did he care about Zaim's blessings or any other supposed gods' blessings. At this point, all he wanted to do was end this nightmare...and punch Shura. This should never have happened. All these monks, dead because Shura had been so sure of himself and his plans. Whatever Shura had seen in that vision, he was here alone now with no idea what was at the heart of the mists. So much for the vision granting Shura some knowledge of ending this. If he obtained it, he hadn't shared it.
He flung a few more obscenities at Shura in his mind before forcing himself back to calm. He was here. He would find a way to end this. Then he would punch Shura. He stalked through the courtyard and into the darker wall of mist through monastery doors beyond. Instantly, it was darker again. He silently made his way down some stone stairs to where it ended in what looked like a balcony. The crumbling stone railing had fallen away in many places. Not sure of how stable the remaining floor was, he stayed well back from the collapsing edge.
Sensing something vile beyond the edge of the balcony down below, he switched to magical vision. Though the black mist obscured much, this vile structure stood out like a beacon, radiating its own filthy Darkness. He shifted his focus to somewhere between the magic and the normal visual range. He mentally recoiled when he could finally see it.
A tower of flesh and bone... he thought, disgusted.
All around him, he could hear the shuffling of more nightmares, dozens of them. But he also sensed something to his right along the wall. Another source of Light. Amid the piles of debris and dirt, he found another one of those statues. He turned his feet in that direction and sent a flicker of flame toward the powerful globe. Instantly, it flared to life. Every single nightmare within this now lighted area screamed in agony and died right where they stood. Now, he could clearly see a set of stone stairs leading down to where he'd seen the pillar of perverted flesh. His magical vision showed him another statue of Ytar in a nook down there. He sent more flames to ignite it. Again, dozens of the nightmares screamed and died.
He waited just long enough to make sure they had all died before descending the stairs. Where he found the sickening pillar, there remained a bubble of deep shadow. He could hear the nightmare creatures growling ferociously, but unable to get at him standing in the lighted area. He sent a wave of energy into his blade. This filthy-feeling pillar radiated hellish energies and reminded him keenly of fleshy altars he had seen in Hell. He should be able to destroy it the same way. When he unleashed the blade of energy, he prayed to Zaim, Ytar, and anything else of the Light that would listen to add their strength to his. The blade he flung was thick and white hot as it cut through the darkness and the fleshy pillar. Immediately, it began to rot and crumble, releasing a putrid stench into the air.
The darkness was banished so thoroughly that only now could he see he wasn't even inside a monastery building. That thing had made the very air so thick and heavy, it felt like a cave. Now, he could see he was in another terraced courtyard. With the clear light of late afternoon shining down on him and the mist completely banished here, he could see there was so much more to this place. To the east, wooden walkways wound around pillars of natural rock that connected several more buildings. There was no other path from where he was, so he doubled back up the stairs to try the east path.
The man-made works of art and the wooden paths were made to be one with the natural terrain. The beauty here was breathtaking. The wooden walkways flowed around the red sandstone pillars like rivers. Many of the pillars were carved beautifully into various natural shapes. Others had nooks carved into them where statues, shrines, and altars rested. Here, it was so high up that the valley floor below was obscured with white clouds. The monks had created something that was both one with the land and apart from any natural wonder ever found.
He wished Oza was here to see it.
The paths ahead were clear of any nightmares. Apparently, they could not survive in the daylight. He had found his weapon. But there was no way to be sure there were more of the statues. As he traversed the wooden walkways around and even through some of the natural, moss-covered stone columns, he did find more of them. Statues of Zaim, Ytar, Vaiyu, and others he didn't recognize were scattered all over. Some carved into the stone pillars, and others stood within carved nooks in the pillars. He lit up every one of Ytar's that he could find.
He meandered around the stone columns on the wooden planks, wincing at every creak. It didn't take him long to spot another patch of black mist up ahead. He eyed the various paths and finally found a way into it. Again, he encountered a few nightmares. These were easily dislodged and thrown off the walkways with a bone golem walking ahead of him. Every time a nightmare managed to take his golem with it, he just dismissed it and summoned another. But there always seemed more nightmares to confront. And he could not find another intact statue of Ytar to banish them all. Many of the nooks no longer held statues. The few that he did find had been badly damaged.
Wandering aimlessly was getting him nowhere. The platforms and paths often came to dead ends with various shrines. He'd retraced his steps nearly a dozen times at this point. It was just too dark in the mist to see more than a few feet in any direction. At least, as he traversed them now, he was able to clear them of nightmares. But where was the monastery? He knew the heart of this hellish magic was around here somewhere. In this murk, he could be here for days looking. Not for the first time, he wanted to curse Shura for dragging him into this.
By now, some two hours or so later, he was so lost he likely couldn't even find his way back out of the mist, let alone forward to the monastery buildings. Frustrated, he dismissed his useless golem. Given that he hadn't encountered any more nightmares for some time, it was very likely he was walking in circles now. For a few minutes, he tried to follow the paths back the way he thought he had come, but to no avail. He knew he was wasting his time. He tried to think like a monk and consider the organic flow of the paths. Still, he found himself walking in circles. At least he wasn't having to fight his way through now. But he wasn't getting anywhere, either. He tried his magic vision; still just a blanket fog of evil that he could not penetrate more than a few feet. On other paths, he could hear nightmares still moving around. Obviously, there were other paths he had not yet found or cleared. But they were too far away to even try jumping across. There must be another way.
Pyresong knew he was getting too frustrated to think clearly. And whether it was the fog disorienting him or something else entirely, he wasn't sure. This whole thing felt wrong. He couldn't help feeling as though something empowering the mist was deliberately confusing him, trying to keep him away. He had to find the source. But how?
He quit trying.
Instead, he sat down on a walkway he knew he'd cleared probably hours ago at this point and forced himself to relax. He needed to think. Still wary of attack, he didn't turn completely inward as he would with meditation. He slowed his heartbeat and breathing. He let his senses extend outward around him. There was so much evil, so many nightmares, even demonic entities; it was like being in Hell all over again. But that's not what was bothering him, not really. He knew what it was, and he just didn't enjoy feeling like the plaything of gods. Yet he was here; he had been brought into this. He would finish it. If for no other reason than to save those people Oza had fought to protect. He would find a way to save Sentinel's Watch and everyone else in the surrounding mountains from this mist.
Calmed, relaxed, and receptive, he opened himself up. He had no idea how all of this worked. It was a world wholly alien to him. But, if what the monks had told him was true, he had the blessings of their gods, through Oza or whatever means. And now he would use it.
"Zaim, guide me as you once did your child Oza. Help me to end this Darkness," he pleaded softly.
Not sure what, if anything, might happen, he waited. Time was measured now in slow, regular heartbeats. He was surprised to feel a warmth rising from within himself. Very much as he had extended his senses outward, this warmth and Light now extended outward from him. He watched in absolute fascination when wispy golden light first surrounded him and then moved to coalesce into a ball in front of him. It was almost exactly as the orb had been for him in the visions and to guide Oza before that.
From his seated position, he bowed low to the orb in thanks. Then he rose to his feet and followed. This time, it wasn't long before he ran into more paths patrolled by nightmares. Again, he sent a golem ahead of himself to knock them off the walkways. His heart still slow and steady, he followed the orb to a platform that ended on the flattened top of one of the stone pillars. The orb then drifted out and over an abyss into darkness. Despite the heavy air pressing down on him, he knew that was a void out ahead of him. He couldn't begin to imagine how far down it extended.
Puzzled, he looked around again. There was no walkway or platform or stairs or anything else he could see to indicate how to cross the gap to wherever it was leading him. He dismissed his golem and hooked his scythe and shield to approach the edge more closely, thinking there might be a ladder or something lower down he needed to get to.
There was nothing but darkness and mist.
The orb waited patiently somewhere ahead and below. It was less than even a distant candle flame in this murk, but he could sense it. Looking around to either side, he began to realize this pillar had been sheared off flat to hold a giant winch and pulley system. He had noticed the fat rope above his head that extended out over the darkness in the direction the orb had gone. If there was a sort of elevator platform, it wasn't on this side. He looked to the orb waiting patiently in the darkness, his heart sinking with realization. Part of him wanted to swear viciously as he began to understand. He had to get across using the thick, ancient rope over his head. That rotted, old rope was his path.
If you wanted to test my faith, you are definitely on the right track, he told Zaim mentally, actually hoping the god wasn't listening for once.
He wasn't afraid of heights, at least, no more so than anyone else would be. And it wasn't even the fall or crunch at the end that bothered him. No, his fears were more centered around failure. He did not want to risk failing in this endeavor over something so seemingly stupid. He told himself again, he'd asked for Zaim's guidance. He wasn't going to reject it now. While he had no real faith in anything that called itself a god anymore, he did have faith in Oza. And Oza had trusted Zaim.
He eyed the dry, fraying rope. There was absolutely no way he was going to see through the mist to the bottom or to the other end and what lay ahead. The nearly forty-five degree angle meant that whatever awaited him was somewhere lower down, at least. He might be able to slide down the rope using his shield. But if there were any seriously frayed portions, even that wouldn't work. He'd be trapped out there over the abyss. He jumped up the couple of feet he needed to reach the eight-inch thick rope. He held on to it for a few seconds to test it and his grip. It held his weight easily, at least. He half hoped it would just snap, and he would have to find another way. No such luck. Still, there was no way he was going to be able to maintain a grip on it with his gloves and gauntlets on.
He checked one more time to be sure, and the orb was still waiting patiently. Then he sighed heavily, nearly a growl. There really was no other way. He removed his gloves and gauntlets and tucked them into his belt. Nowadays, there was easily enough room to spare there. Cain hadn't been wrong, he'd lost some of his muscle mass along with some of his stamina. At the moment, he was grateful for every pound he'd lost. Yet, he couldn't help questioning if he really did have the stamina to make it all the way over to whatever was on the other end of this stupid rope.
Faith, right? he thought darkly with amusement.
Again, he jumped up to grab the rope in both bare hands. It was just coarse enough that he could keep a good grip as it dug into the flesh of his palms slightly. After one more deep breath, he swung himself out over the ledge. Hand over hand, he started to make his way across. His fears about the fraying rope made themselves known only about twenty feet away from the ledge he'd just left. His left hand swung up to grip the rope and encountered several loose strands that came off in his grasp in a clump. His rhythm broken, he hung by his right hand for a stuttering heartbeat, feeling the extra strain quickly. Already, his arms were trembling from the effort. His breath caught in his throat as a moment of panic washed over him. Recovering quickly, he gripped the rope above his head with both hands again. Forcing down the panic, he inched forward to the frayed section. When he found it, he probed carefully to find the one part that would give him enough grip.
Again, he pushed away everything but this one task. Hand over hand, breathing in time with the rhythm of his hands and arms, he started forward again. The orb was closer now, or at least brighter. But he barely glanced at it. He found a second, and then a third frayed section. He looked ahead, considering how far he'd come or how close the orb was. His breath and his movements were all that existed now. There was no more room for fear or doubts. His hands were already burning and bleeding, and his arms began to cramp. The blood made his grip slick, so he had to slow down to make sure every handhold was solid.
By the time he became aware of something under him again, he was sweating as well as trembling with the strain. When he'd first started across, he hadn't been certain he could have done this even before losing so much stamina and weight. He nearly laughed with relief in the darkness to see something solid beneath him, finally. When he got a couple more feet further along to be sure of solid ground, he dropped onto the stones a few feet below. Feeling something solid under him again, he was awash with relief.
The demons gave him no time to enjoy it. From beyond the darkness nearby, he heard the squeals of several demons rushing right toward him. His hands were bloody and slick; his scythe seemed like a bad idea. He threw a curse with one hand to slow them down and then followed that with some bone spears from his other hand. Whatever the little things were, they exploded in blue flames as his bone spears touched them. He put his back to the giant wooden beams of the pulley system to avoid being pushed back off the ledge. Weak as they were, there were easily enough of these demons to overwhelm him. He summoned some skeletons to help thin their numbers. As the demons exploded, they took out his skeletons faster than he could summon them.
Something tugged at his attention, despite the frantic battle. He ignored it. More demons were spawning right in front of him. They didn't even need a summoning circle or a rift! It was as if the black mist itself was spawning these damned things. He began blasting away with spirit fire, but it only slowed them down. They continued exploding getting closer and closer as more of them began to materialize out of the mist. It was only a matter of seconds before he would be overwhelmed.
Ytar's blessing!
He had no idea where the idea came from, but he suddenly began throwing real fire. Over his shoulder, somewhere to his left, he felt an echo of something he didn't have time to figure out. With his right hand, he fanned flames at the demons, forcing them to back off. With his left hand, he sent another stream of fire toward the echoing feeling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the golden orb dive into the flames and draw them away. A second later, another globe in a much larger statue of Ytar flared to life. The Light instantly banished the demons, but only in a small radius. Somewhere further off to his left, he heard several nightmares scream as they, too, were destroyed.
Unlike some of the other places, the darkness and mist here weren't banished entirely. There was a large area of light in a bubble around the statue, but not actual daylight. When he looked around, he could see another wall of darkness beyond the edges of the statue he'd just lit up. The golden orb hovered right next to the statue, clearly waiting for him. It was guiding him to that darker patch of evil he could sense. Quickly, he took a healing potion to heal his hands. Once that was done, he scrubbed as much dried blood off as he could. Within that blacker pit of darkness, he could hear the creatures moving restlessly, wanting to get at him.
Once his gloves and gauntlets were back on, he moved toward the orb. It moved ahead of him into the darkness, where it illuminated another statue of Ytar. Not wanting to fight his way through whatever nightmares or demons hid unseen in the darkness beyond, he swiftly set it alight. He found himself stepping back in disgust. Nearby was another flesh and bone pillar. The beginnings of understanding tickled his mind. Somehow, these pillars were what actually produced the darkness and mist. Ytar's Light alone could not destroy them.
As the last of the demons and nightmares clustered in that corner melted away, he sent a blade of energy from his scythe at the pillar. This one was resistant. It didn't immediately cut through the filthy thing. He waited to see if it would somehow retaliate. It did nothing to fight back. Putting more of his energy into his blade, he swung the scythe several times in rapid succession, unleashing multiple blades of energy. Finally, the thing seemed to weaken and release its grip on the world. As it toppled over slowly, reluctantly, Pyresong was nearly blinded for a second. He could now see daylight in all directions. Even with Ytar's Light, it had been dark and murky beyond the small bubbles.
Now he knew he just had to find the other pillars and destroy them. With any luck, these pillars of Darkness and evil that Sladyan had somehow summoned would be the end of the mist. Yet, he couldn't help feeling it couldn't possibly be that simple or that easy.
Now that he was able to see in clear daylight, he shuddered slightly. This was the entrance to the Silent Monastery. This was where the earlier visions had ended, thanks to Shura. Turning east, he could clearly see the large, stone-paved courtyard just a little further ahead. And, on the north end of that, the giant wood double doors where the darkness had swallowed him. The same place where he'd heard Sladyan's voice begging for forgiveness. More of those fleshy, blackened pillars must be inside.
Expecting an attack, he approached the double doors. The evil aura radiated out from them, but was unable to take hold out here in the late afternoon daylight. Despite the darkness seething beyond, he spied no obvious magical barrier in the entrance itself. He summoned a sturdier bone golem to go ahead of him to push open the doors. Still on high alert, he felt the gathering energies behind him only a heartbeat before the reaper demon appeared. Dismissing the golem, he ducked reflexively and rolled to his right. The scythe outlined in blue flames missed him by inches.
"I am the Guardian of the Ancient Nightmare. The Master demands that you proceed no further. I answer the Nightmare's call."
"Then you can tell him I am coming for him, next," he retorted calmly.
"Join us! The Master appreciates your nightmares and will share them with others," it crooned darkly, making something itch in the back of his mind. "So much terror..."
Shutting out the sensations of terror creeping in around the edges of his thoughts, he laughed. This seemed to have the effect of surprising the demon, exactly as he'd intended. It hovered warily. But it bought him the precious few seconds he needed. He just hoped it was enough. The slaughter that had happened in this area had left some restless spirits from both sides, yearning for vengeance. Weak as they were after all this time, they came to his call now. Trying to keep it from being obvious to a reaper demon by shielding himself inside and out, the necromancer let them flow into himself. When he was ready, he stopped laughing and offered the reaper his best predatory smile.
As if sensing something was coming, the demon faded visibly. Like all reaper demons, they could go invisible. But, visible or otherwise, the spirits the necromancer pulled into himself could find it. In one giant blast, with dozens more than last time, he dropped his shields and unleashed his bone spirits. The thing had moved to the doors as if it intended to flee inside to its master. The blast of dozens of bone spirits slamming into it all at once not only destroyed it, sending it back to Hell, but blew the doors wide open. He reached out around himself again, just to be sure. He could sense no others of its type nearby in the immediate area. Hopefully, that had been the only one.
The darkness was like a solid wall of evil in the doorway. Now they stood open invitingly. Beyond the doors, nothing was visible to him. Cautiously, expecting a trap or some other obstacle, he crossed the threshold. Here, there was no solid darkness as it appeared from the outside. In here, it was black as a moonless night, with only a faint haze of the black mist. He wondered briefly if he had been wrong about the pillars.
Now that he could see beyond the entrance, he realized he was entering a city-sized temple complex. Everything he had seen up until now was literally just an entrance. Much as with the Sanctified Earth Monastery, just beyond this main entrance was a towering statue in a giant courtyard. In the distance beyond this courtyard, he could make out the vague and shadowy outlines of a complex of buildings and towers that even filled the chasms around it. This temple complex was larger than many cities he had visited. The unnatural darkness of purely demonic power permeated this place, making his skin crawl. He had to remind himself that it was no worse than he'd felt or seen in Hell.
His first thought was of the statue. He didn't recognize it any more than he did the one of Sladyan at the Sanctified Earth Monastery. But this had a purely wicked feel about it. All around it, dead monks sat in rings. He switched to his magical sight, and was disturbed to find out that not only were three of the monks somehow feeding the statue, but that every single monk here was animated undead. He could see the evil necromantic magic that kept them animated in the auras around their bodies. But this was no magic ever used by Priests of Rathma. This was more like one would expect to see around a lazar, something tortuously and forcibly created. There were equally filthy lines of energy flowing from three of those monks and into the statue in a symbiotic relationship. The statue itself radiated the aura of Hell.
What is this profanity? Some form of ritual? he wondered, eyeing the whole setup carefully.
Still inches from the open doors behind him, he watched and waited. Nothing moved. Had they not sensed him? He was fairly certain he was beyond the reach of the statue's arms. Yet, he had not forgotten the painful lesson he'd learned from the statues in Fahir's tomb, either. Truthfully, he had no idea what to expect. The source of power for that thing was clearly the three undead monks. Acting on a hunch, he summoned half a dozen skeletal minions. He sent them into the center circles carefully avoiding touching any of the seated monks.
Three of the skeletal warriors were crushed to dust by the arm of the statue coming down on them in the first seconds. The loud boom of the stone arms slamming into the floor made him flinch as it echoed through the complex. Any chance he had of stealth was now long gone. Worse, the energy between the monks and the statue intensified. He reflexively summoned more skeletal warriors outside the circle as he watched. The statue now sent tendrils of its unholy power to dozens of other monks sitting around the circle.
Ignoring the statue, he focused on the dozens of undead. Weak reanimations as they were, enough of them could overwhelm him. And these were no ordinary, shambling undead. They ran at him with the same speed and power they had possessed as trained monks in life. He danced around with his scythe, cutting down as many as he could and flinging blades of energy to keep them off of him, but it was no use. His skeletons crumbled faster than he could summon them. Even his stone golem was smashed to pieces in seconds. He shielded himself with his own energy as strongly as he could, but they still knocked him around. He had to find a way to sever the connection to the statue. Sensing they were trying to close him in and surround him, he backed up instinctively toward the still-open doors to the outer courtyard.
He just barely managed to retreat into the sunlit courtyard. He nearly sighed with relief to realize they could not follow him beyond the wall of darkness that ended in the doorway. Battered and bruised in many places, he counted himself lucky to have no broken bones. And, though he couldn't see through the wall of darkness, he could hear them gathering. Even the ones he'd managed to cut down had continued coming after him in pieces. Their soft tissues cut easily, but the remaining animated parts were fed by the energy of the statue and kept coming after him.
Trying to clear his head, he quickly downed another healing potion. Somehow, he had to get through them and sever the connection with the three monks feeding the damned thing. While he caught his breath and considered, he ran through various scenarios. There was only one that made sense. He would have to be faster than the undead monks. That would be difficult under any circumstances. They spent their entire lifetimes perfecting and enhancing their bodies well beyond normal human limits. Clearly they had very similar abilities in undeath. But as long as that statue was gaining power from the three, he would not be able to get through or even actually stop the other undead from attacking.
Walking back up to the wall of darkness in the open doorway, he calmed his racing heart and readied himself. He took a deep breath and then went wraith form. It never lasted more than a few seconds at a time, and he knew he couldn't make it all the way to even his first target. The one advantage beyond that of speed was that while in that insubstantial form, the numerous undead monks couldn't touch him. He sped through their rotting bodies, clearly visible to them in this ghostly form. To his luck, whatever was controlling them seemed somehow confused. They did not immediately follow him as he raced toward the three monks he'd targeted. That confusion ended when he had to regain his material form halfway across the room. They all turned to chase him, but he was back in wraith form a heartbeat later. He sensed more than heard them stop again, confused.
By then, he'd reached his first target: a tall monk on the right of the statue. He materialized again long enough to cut two times with his empowered scythe, leaving it in three pieces. The first of the horde of undead monks was nearly on top of him when he went into wraith form again and raced to the next monk, feeding the statue. Already the statue was turning to strike at him. Again, he cut the feeding monk to pieces. Both of those had ceased giving the wicked statue their power, now.
He was still too slow. The other undead monks were on top of him, even as the statue rotated again to target him with its powerful arms. One of the monks kicked him across the back so hard he felt himself flying right off his feet. Before he could land, though, he was back in wraith form. He targeted the third monk, still feeding the statue. Like the others, it didn't even move to defend itself. Apparently, it couldn't.
The rest of the undead monks could and did. One of them swept his legs out from under him so painfully he wondered if they weren't broken. The energy shield around his body did little to soften the blows. It was never meant for this kind of assault. He tried to roll away and retake his wraith form, but the blows were raining down on him from all directions, stunning him and shattering his concentration. He covered his head with his shield and began blasting bone spears blindly. He'd already lost his scythe in the melee. As his shield was pulled away from his head, he knew it was over. Just one of those crushing blows to the head and he would be—
The bodies all unexpectedly fell around and on top of him in a crushing pile. This time, they were truly dead. The filthy-feeling necromantic energies evaporated. The shattering statue only a few feet away rained rocks the size of boulders onto the bodies already crushing him. By some twist of fate, he was shielded from the damage those devastating boulders would have inflicted. He nearly laughed, but he couldn't. Now, he was pinned under a mass of rotting flesh that felt half frozen. And he couldn't breathe! There was too much weight and pressure on his chest. He tried heaving them off of himself, but there were too many. Already the dizziness from the blows and the lack of oxygen had left him feeling dizzy. Shaking off the sensations of being buried alive, he forced his mind to focus. He only needed one second...
A few feet away, he again came out of wraith form. He was back near the doors he'd come through. For a few seconds, he lay on the ground, heaving lungs full of air and shaking off the feeling of being buried alive. Gradually, the dizziness was replaced with weariness. He was exhausted, and he knew it. His head was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. And now there were dozens of other places where the powerful monks' fists and feet had hit him over and over again. As the adrenaline faded slightly, he took his last healing potion. He had only brought the three with him when he'd left Westmarch, and he hadn't had a chance to buy any other supplies. There was no chance he would be able to restock, either. He was near the heart of the Darkness. He could feel the demonic source beyond the double doors on the other side of this inner courtyard.
Carefully, he checked himself over physically. Yes, he was exhausted and battered, but at least there were no broken bones. There really was no alternative for him right now, either. It had taken him so many hours to get here; he was certain Shura no longer held the gate open. The monk had been straining to get it open, even for the few seconds it took for him to get into this place. Pyresong sat there on his knees until his heart had at least slowed down. This was all the rest he could afford himself. Once he was certain his legs would not tremble, he rose and located his scythe on the floor near the pile of bodies. He wasn't sure what he would face in the room beyond, but it was just another demon. He would send it back to Hell with all the others.
He wished he was surprised when the doors opened for him invitingly. He could already sense this thing was afraid of him. He hoped to use that against it. It was not the first time he'd been invited to change sides. That seemed to be the typical thing demons did when they feared him. This one would be no different, he was certain. Whether it was Sladyan himself or something the Patriarch had summoned, it wanted him to join them so save its own skin. If he could use that, it might give him one chance to get close enough to do real damage.
While he walked up the stairs into the next large room, he again paused to imagine the beauty and serenity that once existed here. He wondered if it could ever be such again. Of course, he wondered the same for the Sanctified Earth Monastery. Oza was apparently well known throughout several of the monasteries in the region. But, somehow, he knew the Sanctified Earth Monastery was her home. Some part of him wanted to see it alive and cared for again.
Focus, he told himself, realizing he was drifting again.
Whether it was the exhaustion or something else, he wasn't sure. But he knew he was struggling now. He was both meandering in his thoughts, and using them to keep something much worse at bay. In the shadows of his mind, he felt things creeping in, stirring darkly. Whatever was ahead was already trying to break through his mental barriers. He pasted on a predatory smile as he crested the stairs. Standing against the far wall opposite him, a giant black and blue glowing demon easily the size of Skarn waited for him.
"Welcome, child." It paused to take a deep breath. "Ah, you reek of fear and suffering. So many glorious nightmares you carry within yourself."
Zaim... Ytar... if I really do have your blessings, be with me now, he prayed silently, refusing to show the demon anything of the fearful images writhing around his heart, chilling it painfully.
"You have seen the forbidden. You've tasted its power. Bring us your nightmares. Join me in the Darkness," the demon crooned.
"I'll be happy to share them with you. After all, I am your nightmare, demon," he quipped.
Angered that his attempts at seduction and intimidation had failed, the demon launched itself at him. Pyresong had been ready, expecting the sudden change in temperament. His blade just barely glowed with concentrated power sung through the air. Being as tired as he was, he was just a little too slow. He managed to cut off one of its clawed hands just above the wrist and missed the other entirely. The still-attached, clawed right hand hit his shield with enough force to send him flying through the air.
Apparently, it wasn't the physical attack that mattered here. When he rolled to his feet, he found himself in a small, circular courtyard shrouded in nearly solid black mist. Even as he spun around looking for a threat, the twisted voice he had recognized before came out of the darkness.
"Who are you to befoul this sacred place?"
He backed away from the voice in the darkness. "I'm not the one that befouls it, Sladyan."
"I have given all to save my people! Would you not have done the same?"
The tingling sensation that itched at his soul again manifested itself into a golden orb. It shifted to his left, to reveal a statue of Ytar. The voice was closer now.
"You saved your people, Sladyan, by sacrificing them," Pyresong replied calmly, hooking his scythe on his belt.
Sladyan's scream of rage gave him just enough warning to dance away from the wicked claws that came at him through the darkness. He was surprised to feel another of Ytar's statues behind him.
"Return to the Light, Sladyan!"
He sent a trickle of fire into the statue closest. The bubble of light around the statue only extended a few feet. And he doubted it would be enough to keep the demonically twisted patriarch at bay for long.
"Your people still suffer and die, even now, for this. Embrace Ytar's Light!"
This time, Sladyan made not a sound when he lashed out. Pyresong wasn't quite quick enough to avoid it. The claws missed his arm but gouged into the exposed flesh between his front and back plates. Its long talons hooked on his front plates and flung him away into the darkness away from the statue and its light. Ignoring the pain, he rolled toward another echo of Light he felt. He sent another trickle of fire into a second statue. It flared to light, forcing a growling Sladyan away.
"The gods have chosen you... Unthinkable!"
He hadn't even had a chance to regain his feet before the demon's huge foot slammed him on the other side, sending him rolling back into darkness. His back plates took the brunt of it, but still left him breathless for a few seconds.
"I shattered my very soul to reject hatred! My people will live!"
Not even thinking anymore, he let his combat instincts take over. He didn't need to see to sense Sladyan coming, and he'd already lost his scythe when it went flying off the hook on his belt. He flung spirit fire as he backed away, struggling to get to his feet.
"Your people live!" he finally managed to say. "They live and they suffer for this Darkness. You can end it, Sladyan!"
Again, he didn't have to see to feel it. The statue of Ytar practically lit itself with the tiniest flicker of his fire. Sladyan screamed in pain again. The courtyard, fully revealed by Ytar's light, showed no sign of the demonic Sladyan, yet he could still hear the voice fading away.
"Even the most forbidden technique has failed us..."
"I'm sorry, Sladyan. Darkness is never the answer," he said sadly.
Even as he said it, he was reminded all over again of the choices he had made and where it had landed him. For one heartbeat, he wanted to take back those words. Who the hells was he to judge after what he had done? For several seconds, he stood frozen in that little courtyard. Despite the light and supposed victory, he was cold and tired inside.
The wicked laughter of the nightmare demon sounded all around him...and inside of him. Only now did Pyresong's exhausted mind catch up. He hadn't been magically transported. He was in a vision, a nightmare, created by the demon, most likely to torment Sladyan. He was too tired to even think of an expletive. His body was still somewhere in that room with the demon. Closing his eyes, he concentrated. Yes, he could feel its clawed hand around his neck. Sladyan and the statues weren't real. It was just a distraction. And he had fallen for it completely.
The cold certainty of the inevitable slowed his heart. When he opened his eyes, he was on his knees. Just as he had felt, the thing's giant clawed hand closed more tightly around his neck, not quite choking him. It wanted more than a quick death. It wanted to play with its new toy. He smiled up at it icily. The demon leaned toward him and breathed deeply as if inhaling a fragrant bouquet. Some detached part of his mind knew all the things that lurked beneath this icy facade were about to be exposed. He didn't care, as long as he could find a way to kill it.
"You've been to Hell. I smell the Lord of Terror on you."
"And you think you can do better than that?" he asked with obvious amusement lacing his frigid tone.
The demon laughed again. He offered no resistance as it lifted him by his neck up off the ground. Painful as the position was, he wasn't giving it the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. But, while it was distracted, he forced the throbbing in his head back to try to focus on his one chance. He gripped the handle of his scythe, hanging limply at his side as if forgotten. He poured all of his remaining power into it. At this range, he couldn't miss.
That one remaining chance was nearly shattered and lost a second later when it slammed him up against a pillar. The force had slammed the back of his head into the stone, making him see stars. By some minor miracle, he'd managed to keep his grip on his scythe. The demon carefully controlled that force so it would not be hard enough to kill or damage his new toy just yet.
"So defiant. So...brave. My Master will enjoy having you back in his clutches," it told him. "Let us see what your nightmares taste like."
The one intact hand had shifted. It splayed across his chest. The fingers reaching literally from shoulders to waist. It now pinned him to the pillar, crushing his breastplates. It leaned in with its massive bulk until he felt like the plates would shatter his rib cage. Despite the pain, he smiled even more. It paused, waiting patiently while he weakened, unable to breathe through the pressure. Despite his slowed heartbeat, bursts of light danced around the edges of his vision quickly when he could no longer take a breath. His hand was so far away it belonged to someone else, but he refused to let go of his scythe or the power it now held. The darkness was closing in rapidly. He let his head drop while he prepared to unleash the energy in his scythe.
With its bloody stump where the left hand had been, the demon lifted his drooping head until he was forced to stare it in the eyes. Caught and trapped by the demon's power, he sank into an abyss.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard his scythe clatter to the ground.
Helpless and alone, Pyresong ran through the streets. He was back in Westmarch. The city was ablaze and overrun with demons. Cain was dead. Charsi was dead. Everyone was dead. He was alone again. The demons had followed him. They'd found the shards and taken them. Now they chased him. They would take him back to Hell to give to Diablo. He couldn't let that happen. Not again!
He skidded around a familiar corner and ducked into a small, dark alley. The sound of running claws on the stone road passed him by, and he kept going. But he could not feel relieved, not now. Probably not ever. They would find him, eventually. They always did. The shards told the demons where to find him. He had defied them, even destroyed some. They would never let him stop paying for that.
The familiar soft laughter behind him gripped his heart with icy fear. His lungs froze, unable to breathe. There was no wall behind him anymore. Chilling fear danced up and down his arteries. There was no cover anywhere. Raw terror crept over his body, paralyzing him. There was only darkness in every direction. Westmarch was gone. Sanctuary was gone. Hell was gone. Now he was utterly alone...except for the thing that hunted him. He felt it like an icy caress down his spine. Its chilly breath raised the hairs on his neck. It wouldn't kill him, though. That would be far too easy. It wanted to make him beg for the mercy of death for all eternity. And, even then, he would not be safe from it.
Sweating and shaking with terror, he closed his eyes. He couldn't think anymore. The fear consumed him, leaving not even a shred of sanity. It had finally caught up to him. And he was at its mercy. He reached inside himself, trying to find anything to break the paralysis. A dream. A memory. Hope. Anything!
But they were all dead.
It was all gone. He had done worse than failed them. They had trusted him, and he had betrayed them all. Now, all that was left was himself. He couldn't even find a spark of courage or defiance. It had torn it all away from him time and time again.
Knowing he was trapped and helpless, it finally touched him. The icy hand that now gripped his shoulder felt as if it had frozen right through his clothes. It burned his skin with frost until he was certain it would shatter in that soul-crushing grip. He was so paralyzed with fear, he couldn't even scream through the pain. And this wasn't even the beginning of what it would do to him. He felt the hard floor all but shattering his knees as he collapsed to the cobbles.
Oh, yes, he would bow before it. It always made him bow first. But he couldn't look at it. It had him completely. Whatever pain it inflicted on his body or soul, he dared not look it in the eyes. He dare not confront it. He clenched his eyes shut as he bowed his head and shoulders. It leaned down to laugh in his face with its icy breath.
"See me. Know me. Embrace me," it whispered in his ears and in his damaged soul.
Gods, he didn't want to! This was the thing that had killed everyone he loved. Destroyed his every dream, every cherished memory. It crushed his soul with suffering again and again. It dangled hope in front of him, to sadistically destroy it over and over. He couldn't do this anymore. Not again. Even in death, he could not escape this horror. He shook violently, uncontrollably now that the paralysis was gone. Reflexively he hugged himself, willing it to just go away. It didn't need to paralyze him anymore. He was already crippled by the horror and fear. It knew he had nowhere left to run.
"Yes... I know..." it whispered, inches from his face, making him shudder. "You know me. Now see me."
Defeated, Pyresong opened his eyes.
He stared up at himself...at what he knew the shards had turned him into. He was the worst monster of all. He was the kind that wore human skin. He smiled, he laughed, he reveled in the suffering of others; especially those who thought him one of their friends or loved ones. The betrayal on their faces was exquisite agony he cherished. He used his necromantic powers, enhanced by the shards, to trap souls and drag the innocent to Hell to bow before his Master. The dead were his to command now, fully. Why bother with restless and vengeful spirits when such beautiful, powerful souls as Oza's were his to command? His to torment.
"Please..." he begged, not even sure what he was begging for anymore through the mind-numbing terror.
"Please..." he mocked back at himself. "'Please' what, you pathetic sac of meat?"
"Please, stop," he begged, tears burning down his cheeks.
"You knew you had power. Real power! And you threw it away! You tried to destroy it," he laughed wickedly. "I was there the whole time! You can destroy the shards. But you can't destroy me."
He hung his head again. It was right. It was inside of him. Just because no one else had seen it didn't mean it wasn't there, that it wasn't real. The thing knelt down and leaned in to whisper in his ear again, the icy breath freezing his skin.
"I am you."
Something inside of him shattered at those words.
Whatever had been left of his sanity was destroyed. He gave in to the one thing he had left. Rage. There was no room for love, or happiness, or hope. The rage consumed it all. He would destroy this thing!
He wasn't about to let those sharp edges of his shattered mind and soul cut him to pieces. Not this time. He would not accept this! He would destroy this thing, even if it meant destroying the rest of himself. With a scream of mingled horror and defiance, he aimed those shattered pieces of himself outward like shrapnel. He let the Light in his soul explode outward in every direction. The fragments tore through his evil mirror and then beyond, to shred the Darkness itself.
Then he pulled the Light back to himself in a bubble, just as Yl'nira had shown him. It was a shield now. No! He didn't need protecting. He needed to destroy, to kill. He condensed the Light further, shaping it. He felt the scythe of Light coalesce in his hand until he could grip it tightly. Then he lashed out at the Darkness, trying to reform and smother him again. He tore through it with pure Light.
The demon's dying scream hit his ears as he felt his body slamming to the stone floor. The nightmare vision faded. Able to breathe again, all he could see was spectacular explosions of color piercing the darkness that had taken over his vision. Too weak to move, he listened to his heart stutter and struggle to find its rhythm again. Gradually, the darkness receded until all he could feel was the stabbing pain in his head.
Unsure of where he was or what was happening with the nightmare demon, he risked cracking open his eyes to slits. The agonizing pain from the setting sun impaled him through his eyes. It was too much. His reeling mind and body couldn't cope with the searing pain.
The darkness won again.
***
He was so painfully cold. He couldn't feel his arms or legs anymore. Every breath stung his lungs. His dry throat felt like each intake of breath was scraping it with shards of glass. He coughed and tried to swallow, only to cough again. The coughing flared a painful stabbing in his head. He needed water. He vaguely remembered that his last attempt to open his eyes had sent him spiraling into unconsciousness. Beyond his eyelids, it was dark, though. He cracked them open slightly. Fuzzy dots wavered above him. Carefully, he blinked.
Stars...
For a while, he let the beauty of the night sky wash over him. So may points of light in the darkness, just like souls. A few flared brightly, shining their brilliance on so many others. Clouds may darken them. Yet, they always came back strong and bright. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just looked up at the stars, just appreciated their beauty. How long since that terrifying night when the stars went out? But they were so beautiful now, he didn't want to remember that night.
So many beautiful things in this world... Beautiful lives... Beautiful souls...
He felt himself fading away again. He was fine with that. He was so very tired, and it hurt too much to fight right now. He was tired of fighting. All he ever did was fight and somehow make things worse. He couldn't remember why the were worse. His thoughts were vague and fuzzy. He couldn't even remember why he was so tired now. He just knew it had something to do with the stars going out, a world blanketed in eternal darkness with no stars. So many memories. So much pain. So much...
Some distant thought tried to scream a warning at him. He was just too tired to listen. He was too cold. He just wanted to go back to sleep now. The stars became fuzzy and unfocused. Despite wanting to sleep, he tried to hold on to them, their sparkling beauty. His eyelids darkened them anyway.
The flash of golden light beyond his closed eyelids made him wince with the pain that flared in his head. He tried to turn away, but it followed.
"Oh, my poor friend... Why do you do this to yourself?"
His whole body flinched with the shock of it. He opened his eyes out of pure surprise and then slammed them shut again when the pain of that golden light in his eyes stabbed at him. He knew Oza had never said those words to him, but that was her voice! He could never mistake her voice. Painful as it was, he turned to the golden orb, his eyes still tightly shut.
"Oza?" he whispered.
Please don't be here, he begged silently.
"Accept the strength of Zaim. Embrace Ytar's Light."
That one sounded like the whisper of thousands of voices in a beautiful chorus. It was definitely not Oza. But it was warm and comforting in a way he could not understand right now. Nor did he try. In some distant and detached way, he knew his body was dying. Only with this would he survive. No chill certainty of death buffered him this time. He was just tired and cold. But he didn't want to die. He wasn't sure why. He just knew he didn't want to, yet. There was something he needed to do. Someone still needed him... And there was something they needed him to do. To do it, he had to accept their strength and Light. But he couldn't find the energy to even whisper now.
Yes, I will do what you ask.
Apparently, that accepting thought was enough. The golden light spread through him. Tingling pain in his arms and legs told him just how cold he had been. Strength returned to his body and he found he could really breathe again now. He hadn't realized how shallow his breathing was until then. Now, he welcomed the icy mountain air that shocked and stabbed his lungs. Gradually, the pain in his head faded away.
Eventually, he was able to open his eyes fully again. Now, lying on his side, his first sight was the charred corpse of the nightmare demon he'd killed, resting only a few feet away. Feeling the strength returning, he forced himself upright, still pondering the demon.
I did that? How?
He couldn't comprehend how he'd done it. He'd been in the grip of his nightmare. He remembered imagining a blade of Light, but he knew that he couldn't do that in reality. It had only happened in his mind. And the demon wasn't cut; it was burned. Even the fires of Hell couldn't burn most demons. This thing looked like it had been through an inferno. Blackened cinders were all that remained.
He coughed again, realizing his throat was still painfully dry. He shivered as he stretched and reached around to shrug off his backpack. It was frigid up here. His mind a bit clearer, he began to realize that after he had lost consciousness, he'd nearly died of hypothermia. He finally managed to get his hand into the backpack to retrieve a water skin.
Survive all that just to die of exposure, he shook his head at himself.
He wasn't sure what time it was anymore. Probably late. He'd been here most of a day and at least part of a night. There was no chance Shura had managed to hold open the portal this long. And he wasn't about to retrace his steps. Aside from the long climb up the rope he'd traversed earlier, he would be lost in those walkways again in minutes, even without the black fog. No, it made the most sense to just open a portal and get back to Sentinel's Watch as quickly as possible. Maybe someone could be sent to find the monk. Besides, he was fairly certain, but still needed the reassurance, that the fog had truly ended. He could not risk leaving those people unprotected if he was wrong. He had no idea if there were more of those fleshy pillars out there.
He shook off the lingering stiffness as he retrieved his stuff. He took one last look around the visible complex. The sense of silent watchers all around him was unmistakable. He bowed deeply and reverently to the gods and spirits of this place. They had helped him end the fog, yes. And he had one more task to complete for them, true. But he owed them his life. They could have left him to die here with all the others, but they hadn't. He still didn't like thinking of himself as a pawn of various entities that liked to call themselves gods. He still didn't like being in debt to anyone or anything. So he had negotiated. He would discharge this one last duty and call it even.
The portal to Sentinel's Watch opened into the courtyard of the sleeping fort. A handful of guards on sentry duty immediately came running to challenge him. He put his arms out at his sides, palm out to show he was not a threat. It only took a moment for someone to recognize him. They had already received runners from the Misty Valley and other places where the fog had literally evaporated right around sunset. Pyresong sighed with relief. He had pretty much expected it, but the knots in his gut would not believe it until he had either heard or seen it for himself. He wasn't sure if there were dozens or possibly hundreds more of those fleshy pillars out there generating the fog, independent of what he had found at the Silent Monastery. For once in his life, he was happy to be entirely wrong. Hopefully, if there were any more of those vile, hellish pillars of flesh, they had been destroyed when the demon powering them was killed
No one had yet seen Shura, and several of the monks were worried about him. Truthfully, his only indication that the monk still lived was the fact that he'd been tasked with something regarding him. Given the source of the task, he had no doubts Shura had survived. He assured all of them that Shura was alive and out there somewhere. He left a message for Shura to meet him at the Sanctified Earth Monastery, earning him some surprised looks. Then he quickly restocked his provisions from what he could buy at the fort and opened another portal.
Yet again, he found himself walking the western path up to the Sanctified Earth Monastery. The path was turning familiar under his boots. He let his mind wander somewhat, knowing the vast majority of demons and nightmares were likely already dead. If he was being honest with himself—and he almost always was—he was not looking forward to this next task at all. Despite his anger and mistrust toward Shura, they had accomplished what many considered impossible. Overall, though, Pyresong's help from the gods of this place had not come freely. They had given him his price, and he would pay it gladly, for the results were well worth it.
But, Shura...time will tell.
It didn't take him long to get back into the monastery courtyard with the statue of Sladyan. The three entrances and the courtyard itself were cleared of both demon and monk corpses, just as he'd seen earlier. When he traversed deeper, heading for the overlook that had become his sanctuary from the rest of the world, he found them. There were still hundreds of demon corpses and dozens of acolytes and monks, frozen forever in death. They had barely even begun to rot due to the unmitigated cold up here. And now it was winter.
He didn't need to wonder any longer what would happen or when. He knew. Shura had cleared just enough to convince him it was already underway. And he couldn't even be angry with the monk for it, now. He understood the events around all this in a whole new light.
Silently, he passed through the darkened halls, the painfully familiar rooms. This time, he approached the overlook with a completely different perspective. Oh, yes, this was still very much an emotional refuge for him. But this time, he hadn't come to purge or unburden himself. He'd come with a purpose and a task.
When he reached the overlook, he sat beside Oza's grave in the chill darkness for a while, just appreciating the beauty of the night sky. There was no need for talk. The silence up here was peacefu; to him. He felt as serene inside as he looked on the outside. It was a rare balance for him, and he just let it be. Tomorrow, he could face the conflicts ahead...and even the ones behind. For tonight, she shared his peace with Oza.
The cold seeped in quickly, despite no real wind tonight. It wasn't long before he returned to the interior of the buildings to find some stockpiled firewood. He carried it back out and up to the overlook. The battle between Oza and Dravec had decimated the small overlook. Not a single shrine or altar was left standing. And, in the very center, was a twenty-foot wide depression of earth where it looked like a massive corpse explosion had blown the earth and rock apart. It was just deep enough and far enough away from the trees to make a perfect fire pit and refuge from the wind. When the gentle breeze did stir, it mostly whispered through the trees and over his head while in the depression. He piled the wood carefully to ensure it would burn through the night and not much more. He left an extra pile nearby. He was safe here, he knew. Maybe not forever, but for right now, he was completely safe.
While he settled beside the fire with his blankets, he let his mind drift off meditatively. For the first time in many years, he just listened to the music in the flames again instead of the thoughts that roiled within the confines of his heart. His mind told him he'd been up and active for at least two days. The visions he had experienced, in addition to everything else, made it feel like it was much longer than a single day. Still, he wasn't sleepy, not yet. Physically, he was tired, but only slightly. He let his mind roam where it would, flowing with the music in the fire. It wandered in and out of dark holes and memories. Yet, nothing could disturb the peace he now felt. And he didn't even question why, right now.
All that would come later, he knew.
When the sky began to turn a dark blue in the east, he reached for his backpack. He smiled to himself when he realized it was always the sunrise he seemed to find in this place, rather than sunsets. It was like some kind of vague symbolism he couldn't really make sense of. Nor did he really want to right now. He had other things in mind. He wanted to hear more music. He pulled his flute case out of his backpack. Given how peaceful he felt, he wondered what it would be this time.
Then he realized it didn't matter. Nothing tormented him at this moment. Right now, he just wanted to appreciate the beauty of the sunrise and hear the music of the peace he felt inside. It wouldn't last; it never did. But that didn't matter, either. He had it right now. This time, he didn't close his eyes as he played. He watched the sunrise and let it fill him with light.
Some time shortly after the sun broke the horizon, Pyresong's sensitive ears caught the stealthy steps of Shura approaching. His music was not something he shared with others, though Oza might have been the one exception if she still lived. He let the last note trail off into the mountain winds as the monk approached. He set his flute aside on the velvet beside him.
"They told me you have a message for me," Shura said, standing a few feet away.
Still feeling serene, he rose to his feet with a nod. "I do."
"We did it, friend! We banished the mist," he said excitedly. "We beat those Zakarum bastards!"
He shook his head sadly. Shura eyed him curiously. The monk would understand soon enough. The temporary power he now held shifted within him, guiding him. He held out his bare right hand, palm up. The white and golden orb that coalesced in his palm took the shape of a damaged prayer bead. Then it went dark, leaving behind the solid object.
"What is this? A prayer bead?" the monk asked in clear confusion.
"Indeed. Taken from the ancient nightmare within the monastery's depth. Examine it yourself."
Shura was stunned as he reached for it. "This bead belonged to Sladyan. I-I don't understand. Are you implying a Patriarch is responsible for the nightmare that plagues his own people?"
"I imply nothing. You're holding the evidence in your own hand. Sladyan fought back the Zakarum's Light using a forbidden Shadow. His broken soul annihilated your people and scarred the land itself," he explained.
"Impossible!" Shura growled.
"Zaim and Ytar also have a message for you. And a task."
"What?!"
"You sent your brothers and sisters to die, not even knowing what they were up against. You tricked me into helping because of my...tenuous connection to Zaim. Because you could not obtain the blessings for yourself."
"But...but look what we accomplished! I-It wasn't for nothing!"
"You could have asked me. You could have asked them," he replied serenely. "Yet, you did not. And the help of the gods, even benevolent ones, is not free."
"W-what am I supposed to do?"
He extended his bare hands. "Accept them. Embrace their message or leave the order. It is your choice."
Shura's face went slack with shock and then twisted with rage. "How dare you!"
"Not I," he corrected, still serene. "They sent me to give you this message. You accept of your own free will. Or you decline of your own free will. Bear in mind, there are consequences to all decisions in life. You must now live with yours."
"B-but all we did was—"
He lowered his hands to turn away. Shura jumped.
"Wait! No, I serve the gods! I will not be challenged by you, death mage!"
"There is no challenge here. Only a message. It is not mine to know."
Clearly angered and frustrated, Shura shoved the bead into a fold in his robes. Pyresong held his hands out again. When the monk clasped hands angrily, the warmth and Light of Zaim and Ytar's presence and message flooded through him. It moved in a steady flow into the monk's hands and up his arms. He watched as Shura's dark eyes widened with shock and then glazed over with whatever he was seeing. There was a moment when the man shuddered violently. And then the warmth and light spread across his whole body. It left Pyresong feeling a bit empty, but in a way that brought some relief. He didn't like being the plaything of gods. At least this part was over for him.
He caught Shura as the man collapsed, catatonic. He had no idea what the full scope of the message was, but he knew he would have to guard the helpless man's body while he lived through it. Zaim's long, long memory combined with Ytar's revealing light of truth was going to be, at the very least, painful for Shura. He knew that much. He carefully lay the monk on a blanket and bundled him up warmly near the fire. He would do what he could for the man when he woke. But, for now, the only thing he could do was wait.
He built up the fire a bit more as a chill breeze began to hum softly through the mountains. This task complete, he took a few minutes to clean and store his flute. Knowing it could be minutes or even days before Shura would emerge from the visions, he turned to his next task.
Never getting far enough away from Shura that he couldn't at least hear if the monk woke, he began gathering up the bodies of the demons all over the temple. The cleansing was long overdue. He piled them all together in the badly damaged courtyard where Dravec had summoned that enormous fire demon. It was heavy work. With a couple of ropes he'd found, he made a sort harness and then tied a leg or arm to drag the frozen corpses. Many of the demons were larger and heavier than himself by a considerable amount. Assault trooper demons were built even sturdier than Khazra. In some cases, he found them too large for even the harness with his meager strength. And, for this task, he could not summon or ask for help.
This was his price for what he asked of the gods.
Not all of it was for help with banishing the mist, either. While he'd been communing with Zaim and Ytar after the battle, he'd asked for one more thing. And he was willing to pay almost any price to see that it was achieved. He counted himself lucky to have gotten off with this one task. It would have to be completed with his own hands and no others. He agreed readily.
Mentally marking the locations of the ones he would have to cut into smaller pieces to move, he returned to the already growing pile in the courtyard. It was nearing midday and the work, though gruesome, had left him starving and physically exhausted already. He eyed the large pile of bodies and determined it would be enough to start with. He needed to get his scythe and a large hunting knife. And he wanted to check on Shura, anyway. He felt for the direction of the wind and was satisfied that coming from the east, it would not blow across the overlook. The scent of burning demon flesh was far worse than even human flesh. He very much wanted to be able to regain some strength and energy by at least eating. He lit the pile of bodies, sending flames from his hands. He walked a complete circle around the pile in the courtyard. When he was satisfied that it would keep burning at least for a while on its own, he turned his steps back toward the overlook.
Those flames danced to a music he did not want to hear, ever.
His campfire had burned down considerably in the hours he'd been working. Shura's eyes were now closed as if sleeping. He knew better. He'd been there enough times to know. He threw some more wood on the fire, shivering slightly in the chill breeze as the sweat began to cool on his skin. He dug some of his newly acquired rations out of his backpack. The dried meat had a seasoning from this region he didn't recognize, but he enjoyed it thoroughly. He marveled that this didn't even really feel like a task. As thoroughly exhausting as the work was, it felt much less like a chore and more like a favor. The gods knew he'd intended to see this done one way or another. Doing this part for himself was not entirely unexpected or unwelcome.
While his hands were busy, he had plenty of time to think. The serenity that always seemed to seep into him from this place had been an unexpected bonus. Sooner or later, he would confront the things he had to deal with for the rest of his life and the world beyond this quiet place. For now, he was content in mind and soul to just work through it all alone with this serenity. Maybe some day he could share some of it with Cain. He knew this heavy work would also help him rebuild some of the stamina he'd lost while asleep for all those weeks. Asleep...that was the only way he could really think of it. He still remembered nothing and was content to leave it at that. There were still so many other things he needed to think his way through.
Feeling rested and fed, he checked on Shura one more time. Part of him was very curious, indeed. But, much as his own experiences, he knew Shura's message would be between himself and the gods. It was time for him to get back to his work.
Shura would wake, eventually; or he would not.
***
Another two days passed. Pyresong was achingly tired but only stopped for a couple of meals a day and some sleep. Shura hadn't so much as shifted from where he lay beside the fire. He was nearly finished clearing the complex of demon corpses. It actually hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd feared. The place was large, but nothing on the scale of some of the other monastery complexes he had seen in his life. He walked the halls and rooms one last time to ensure he'd gotten every last one. The peace and serenity he'd felt since before even arriving here still held. Maybe he was just too physically tired to feel anything anymore. Perhaps it was another blessing of Zaim and Ytar. Whatever it was, it was nice to be able to visit Oza's grave and not feel completely broken for a change.
Not for the first time, he shook his head at himself mentally. In the end, he was no better than any other grieving friend. He still clung to Oza's memory and her love for this place. For all his experience as a Master Necromancer, he really was no harder or colder than any other human. While he knew other Priests of Rathma, his master included, grew such callouses as to be completely unbothered by such minor things as the death of a loved one, he had never managed it. Of course, besides his parents, he'd never lost a loved one, either, until Oza. Now, he understood the grieving friends and family in a whole new light. He, at least, had the comfort of knowing Oza rested peacefully, though he still had not bothered to check for himself. There was something vague in the back of his mind about the overlook itself that made him feel certain she was not there.
Satisfied that the place was now clear of demon corpses, he checked the fire in the courtyard one last time. It would likely need another night and possibly part of the next day to finish burning the rest of the corpses. Then he could begin clearing away the ashes. Already, he had located some brooms and buckets for tomorrow. He returned to the fire on the overlook to find Shura sitting up, still wrapped in the blankets Pyresong had covered him with. He approached uncertainly and took his usual seat on another blanket nearby, eyeing the monk curiously. The man had aged visibly, and he looked exhausted.
Shura nodded to acknowledge his presence but stared tiredly into the fire otherwise occupied by his thoughts. He dug out some more rations and offered them to the monk. Shura ignored him.
"You haven't eaten for days. You need to regain your strength. Take it," he urged gently.
The monk sighed and pulled the prayer bead out of the folds of his robe. He threw it angrily into the fire but did ultimately accept the food. Seeing that Shura wasn't ready to talk, he kept to himself. As the sun began to set a short while later, he got up to get some more firewood. When he returned, he found Shura standing by Oza's grave. He had no idea what was transpiring inside the man. He settled again by the fire, watching the sunset.
It was full dark by the time Shura returned to his place by the fire. The haunted look had left him, Pyresong was relieved to note. He was certain the man would recover from whatever the gods had shown him. Yet, he would never be the same. Then again, no one touched by entities calling themselves gods ever really was after an experience of that magnitude. With some amusement, he wondered what it said about himself that, after all of that, he still had no faith in things that called themselves gods. Apparently, Shura had accepted whatever the message was and would carry out the tasks he'd been given, of which the necromancer had only a suspicion.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Pyresong occasionally looking up at the stars and sometimes just listening to the fire. Shura stared solely into the fire, barely even seeming to breathe. He was almost eerily still. Giving him his space, Pyresong went back to watching the stars.
"I was so completely wrong," Shura finally said softly, pulling him out of his thoughts.
"He was human, as we all are."
Pyresong replied still staring at the sky. He sighed and turned his attention to the monk.
"Old hatreds do not die easily,” he continued gently. “Those who suffer can spread suffering to their kin as much as their foes. Evil like this is not something that is vanquished with a spell. It will take work. Every day."
Shura nodded. "I saw the Children of Rakkis as an enemy who took from us what was ours. And, in some ways, that is still true. But I could not see the guilt my people shared.” He bowed his head, as if in shame. “We will never stop hating each other, will we?"
"Do not let grief blind you to the truth. The people of Sentinel's Watch welcomed you in your hour of need. They stood side-by-side with you in battle. It may not be the end of your struggles, but it is at least a start."
Shura grinned, much more like the man Pyresong remembered. "You're awfully insightful for a sell-sword, you know that? It's kind of infuriating."
They both chuckled at this. Shura offered a more sincere smile.
"Thank you, friend. It may not have proceeded exactly as I foresaw, but my friends can rest easier knowing we've saved Zavain from further suffering."
"What will you do now?" he asked, unable to completely stifle his curiosity.
"I have accepted my tasks. I will do what I can in my lifetime to heal the land and its people," the monk told him.
He nodded happily. "I need to get back to Westmarch. I've cleared the demons. It is up to you to see to your people from here."
Shura reached across the short distance and gripped his hand firmly. "I understand now what Oza saw in you, why she spoke so highly of you to the others. Do not worry, her rest will not be disturbed, and I will see her shrine built."
"Thank you. You will see her again," he assured.
"I know," Shura smiled sadly and let go of his hand. Then he smirked again. "And, while I'm on the subject of letting go of anger and hate, you can punch me now."
Pyresong laughed outright at that. He couldn't help it. He understood more fully now than ever before. Oh, yes, he had wanted to punch the monk, wearing gauntlets and all. But he was well past that now. Having been given the understanding that Shura's actions had been driven more by grief and hate than arrogance had made all the difference to him. It was really no different than why he himself was here now.
"They showed you that, did they?" he couldn't help asking with a grin.
Shura chuckled. "They didn't have to. I would have felt the same. I am sorry for manipulating you and the others. Pure arrogance."
"Not entirely," he corrected, gently. "Some envy, maybe. But a large portion was grief. And that I understand, better than most, now. We've both learned lessons here, as Zaim and Ytar wanted."
Shura nodded. The monk was quiet for a while, staring into the fire. He did much the same. Eventually, the monk pulled himself out of his own thoughts and sighed sadly.
"There are so few of us left. I cannot promise we will be able to return here."
"In time, perhaps," Pyresong told him hopefully. "No one really knows what comes tomorrow."
Shura snorted. "Rathma certainly didn't when he sent you out of the monastery."
His head whipped around in shock. As far as he knew, the only one other than himself and Rathma who knew of that long-ago conversation was maybe Cain. And he wasn't even entirely sure Cain knew about the dreams or the journal. Cain's rifling through his memories had been random, hunting for a Darkness that would have had nothing to do with that night, a lifetime ago.
"How..."
Shura chuckled again. "Sometimes, I think prophecy is just another way of torturing us mortals. Things are happening, friend, and not all of them are bad. There is a reason we were given the power by the gods to end the Darkness here at this time. Do not lose hope."
He frowned thoughtfully. "How much do you know?"
"More than I would like. But those events are not related to what I must do next. I have seen what I need to see to prepare my people and our brothers and sisters in the Children of Rakkis. When the time comes, we will be ready to stand together."
Still surprised but also a bit relieved, Pyresong let it go. If there was more he needed to know, he would know. Despite what he had told Cain, he had still been in turmoil over it all. He had had days now to work through much of what had tormented him. Calmly and logically, he slogged his way through the guilt, terror, shame, and even betrayal. He had made his decisions, set his course, and was truly ready now to move forward.
He didn't believe things were planned out ahead by greater powers. The greatest powers he knew were angels and demons. Light and Chaos. Neither one could predict the future with any more accuracy or clarity than the seers of the ancient past had. He believed for himself that every decision affected the future. And those decisions were not predetermined by anything. No one person could affect the fate of the entire world. Not even his decision to kill Skarn and release a Prime Evil by accident. He would live with the consequences of that decision for the rest of his life, regardless of how long or short it was. But he would not be alone in fighting back against Diablo or what Cain called the End of Days. Prophecies or not, he would hold on to hope until there was nothing left to fight for.
And he had decided Cain did not need those burdens. The old scholar held too much weight of responsibility already that should never have been his alone to bear.
Lost in his somewhat dark thoughts, he sat for a while longer before the heavy work of the last few days caught up with him. He was stifling a yawn when Shura decided to go off and meditate. Still certain they were alone and safe up here, he rolled himself up in his own blankets and fell into a peaceful sleep.
***
Shortly before sunrise, he woke to find Shura already hard at work with removing and providing the burial rites for the monks left to rot in the monastery. The fire in the already demonically damaged courtyard where he'd burned the bodies had died down. With a broom and a couple of buckets, he removed the unholy ashes. He took them down the eastern path and away from this sacred ground. There were other places out there in the valley that needed cleansing. But that task would have to fall to others. Maybe even just the elements themselves would cleanse them over time.
It was nearing midday by the time he finished, and it was the first time all day he'd caught sight of Shura by the fire on the overlook. Monk training or not, the man looked physically tired already. But, he also still looked far older and even possibly wiser than the impulsive man Pyresong had met only a few days ago. A serenity clung to him, now, much as it had himself.
Ashes also clung to him, making him feel itchy and filthy. But he was beginning to feel as if he'd been away from Westmarch too long for some reason. It tickled his mind and heart with a growing anxiety. Having learned to trust his instincts over the decades, he wasn't about to ignore them now. He had had ample time to work through everything he needed to deal with for now. He was more than ready to get back to Cain and whatever lay ahead for them.
He cleaned himself up with a bucket of water as he hurriedly prepared to leave. Shura sat peacefully waiting for him by the fire. Only when he was redressed and armored again did he take a seat beside Shura. He dug out his remaining provisions from the bottomless depths of his backpack.
"I can leave you what I've got. It should last you a few more days," Pyresong explained.
"You need to get back to the fight. I understand."
"Fight?" he echoed, wondering if Shura had seen something.
Shura waved him off with a grin. "Go, do what you need to do. I hope our paths will cross again. But, as you said, no one knows what will come tomorrow. Know that you are welcome among the Veradani and any of our monasteries any time you wish."
"I am honored."
"No, you are blessed, fortunately, for both of us," Shura quipped.
He couldn't help a soft laugh at that. "I'll be stopping by Sentinel's Watch before I leave to check in with Captain Vereks. Do you have any messages?"
Shura shook his head and then bowed low from where he sat. "Be well, my friend."
He returned the deep bow with one of his own. This was no longer a formality; it was cherished friends parting for perhaps the last time.
"Be well, my friend," he echoed sincerely.
He was not entirely sure why he felt like he needed his armor and weapon to return to Westmarch. Something in his screaming instincts demanded he be ready. Something was happening. He forced himself to shove aside the rising anxiety for a few more minutes while he opened a portal to Sentinel's Watch, as he'd promised. Almost immediately, he was greeted by a much happier and well-rested Captain Vereks. The Captain skipped the bow and again clasped hands like friends.
"Welcome back, friend! I'd heard you stopped by the other night, but things were still chaotic. The nightmare hordes are gone, and my men are returning home," Vereks told him happily. "I'll just skip the formalities. Thank you for whatever you and your monk friend did out there."
"The nightmare is over, for now. But as long as hatred exists, it can return. This mountain has seen too much bloodshed. The nightmares are a result of atrocities committed by the Zakarum and the misguided desperation of the Ivgorodi."
For a moment, Vereks looked ashamed.
"Neither side is without culpability in this," Pyresong assured him. "You and your people are not to blame for what happened generations ago, just as Shura and the others cannot be blamed. But if you work together now and going forward, such a nightmare can be easily avoided in the future."
Vereks smiled warmly. "Well said. When the cult attacked us, Oza and the acolytes stepped forward to help us hold on and rebuild. Wouldn't be right if we weren't there for them."
"Shura and the others have been through a lot. They've had to learn the hard way that good people can be capable of terrible things when pressed."
"Had my fill of terrible lately," the Captain said with a grimace. "But I understand. As any former Zakarumite and only a fool or a nut would be proud of something like the crusades or the madness in the East. But we keep living, and we make amends."
He nodded with a sincere smile for the captain. He had never doubted Vereks' heart. The man was too courageous not to confront the truth and too compassionate to deny those in need. He and Shura would make a good start at repairing the damage here.
"The acolytes are welcome to stay here as long as they need us," the captain told him.
"Shura will be back soon. He's interring the monks at the Sanctified Earth Monastery if anyone is looking for him," he explained. Then he couldn't help a grin. "Speak with him when he returns. You'll be...surprised at what he has to share."
"I don't doubt it. You're welcome to stay, too..." Vereks paused to eye the necromancer as he grinned again. "But, by the looks of you, I'm guessing you have other pursuits ahead of you. Thank you again, friend. We are in your debt."
"If you ever need help, you can send word to Elder Deckard Cain in Westmarch."
"Safe travels, Pyresong."
"Be well, Captain."
Chapter 16: 15 Westmarch / Astral Plane
Chapter Text
Westmarch / Astral Plane
Still aching physically from the days of hard labor at the Sanctified Earth Monastery, Pyresong's return to Westmarch gave him at least some sense of relief. The city itself obviously wasn't under attack. He stepped down off the Palace Courtyard waypoint, glancing in all directions. He could only guess that his anxiety to return must somehow be related to the fact that he'd had an unexpected trip and had been out of touch with Cain for a few days. Clearly, nothing had changed with the city as far as he could see. Cain had said he was going to talk to the city rulers. But if they were doing anything to prepare for the threat ahead, he couldn't see it.
Still, his instincts were screaming at him. Even as he paused to look around, they continued blaring warnings at him. If anything, the anxiety had only increased upon returning. He forced his expression to remain serene and kept his pace to a calm, steady walk as he exited the Palace Courtyard. He tried to think his way through these unexpected sensations while he made his way back to the workshop. After the calm serenity of the last few days, these sensations were almost a shock. It was almost the same feeling he had walking into a battle. Yet there was no imminent threat here.
Perhaps the threat was more subtle. The feeling that something was stirring somewhere nearby twisted darkly inside of him. His heart stuttered and his gut clenched. Even as he approached the familiar safety of Cain's workshop and home, he felt something was horribly wrong. He practically ran the last half block to the door, convinced the threat was there, waiting for him.
When he opened the door, Cain was at his customary place at his desk, piled higher than ever with books, scrolls, and parchments. Instead of relief, he now felt as tight as a bowstring.
"There you are! Welcome back," Cain greeted happily, rising from his desk to embrace him.
"Did you find the shard?" he was surprised to hear himself ask.
Caught by surprise, Cain paused. "No. Why?"
His sigh of frustration was just shy of a growl, despite his relief to find Cain and the workshop unmolested. He took a deep breath and forced it all back down as he ran his hand through his hair. Cain's concern was clear, making him pull back again on his anxiety. Clearly, there was no threat here. He forced out a slow, deep breath. He just shook his head to Cain's concerned scrutiny, at a loss. Feeling almost foolish, he turned away while he reached to take off his shield and scythe.
"I don't know. Just...something...a feeling."
"That cold dread you described? Here?" Cain asked, clearly concerned.
He shook his head again, setting his shield and scythe aside.
"No. Just since last night... A feeling that something is stirring. But I don't know where. Hells, I don't even know how I know!"
He let out another long, slow breath, forcing his heart to calm. Cain eyed him speculatively. He turned his attention to his armor and removed it. Feeling both foolish and guilty for worrying Cain, he wrestled all of it back under his control. Still, there was a reluctance to remove his armor, as if something was going to happen any moment.
"Last night, you say?" Cain asked after a few seconds.
Pyresong, already removing parts of his armor to return it to his backpack, nodded. He was starting to feel a bit of forced calm. He was about ready to start mentally chastising himself for his overreaction to whatever he had felt that triggered all of this.
"Yes. But... It's so vague. I literally didn't even realize until I said it that it's been that long. I only consciously felt something was happening a few hours ago," he explained more calmly.
Frustrated when he realized his hands were visibly trembling, he gave up on his armor buckles and sat heavily in a chair by the dining table. Recalling his nightmare all too vividly at the moment, he felt a sick twisting in his gut. Various partial thoughts and feelings raced through his mind. He scrubbed his face, trying to keep it all contained. He began to realize there was something much deeper and darker going on in the back of his mind. He looked to his friend helplessly, terror clear behind his eyes.
"What's happening to me?"
"Oh no," Cain said, catching on. "Don't start thinking like that. You are not corrupted."
"But—"
"I did the divination this morning. There was nothing I could find."
"And yet you can't deny I have a connection to the shards," he persisted.
Cain sighed heavily as he pulled out the other chair to sit in front of his friend. He took Pyresong's chilly hands in his own comfortingly.
"No, we cannot deny that. And I'm sorry I ever dragged you into this. I sorely underestimated them...repeatedly."
Seeing his friend's distress, he shoved aside his fears for a moment and dug deep to produce a wry grin. He squeezed Cain's hands in return. While he knew he wasn't about to tell Cain the real reason he had shown up in Wortham that night, he still couldn't let the old man blame himself, especially for this.
"You're not alone in that, friend."
For a heartbeat, he almost asked about the memories and what Cain had seen. In all this time, Cain had never mentioned knowing about the journal or anything else. At this point, if Cain had seen those memories, he hadn't just stifled his curiosity; he'd strangled it out of existence. No, Pyresong was convinced at this point. Cain did not know about Rathma's dreams or his own, and obviously nothing regarding any prophecies. He quickly came up with something to reassure the elderly scholar. The words were on the tip of his tongue when Cain interrupted his thoughts.
Cain shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't believe you've been corrupted. Yl'nira would not have accepted you if you were. You believed in her once; believe now."
Still saddened by the loss of Yl'nira and the part of himself that belonged to her, Pyresong nodded sadly. But, deep inside, a darker voice he'd come to know was his own nightmare whispered mockingly.
"She was corrupted, too. Don't forget that," it mocked.
He couldn't help the wince that voice produced. Cain eyed him searchingly.
"Are you all right?"
He forced his expression back to the default serene. He squeezed Cain's hands comfortingly and nodded. Then he moved to finish what he'd started by taking off all his gear. He was still absolutely certain something was happening somewhere, right now. But if the elderly Horadrim couldn't see it, what could they do about it?
Wait...and pray.
He knew they would just have to wait for now. Frustrating and terrifying as this was for him, there was no other recourse. Hopping around the world from waypoint to waypoint to see if he could sense a shard would be a pointless endeavor.
"So, Mount Zavain," Cain said, clearly trying to distract his friend from his dark thoughts. "Tell me everything! Spare no detail!"
He couldn't help the grin that produced. "Do I ever?"
"Not that I'm aware of. I only wish you had the time to write it all out for me."
Having discussed this numerous times in recent weeks, he cocked an amused eyebrow at the old scholar.
"And what, exactly, would you do with them?"
Cain chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Add them to my grand tales of heroes through the ages!"
He made a sour face at that, which was not entirely exaggerated.
"I thought you were trying to get me to write them down, not make me run away from the idea."
Cain laughed again, knowing his friend all too well. "Ah, well, maybe some day the world will get to know."
"Never sounds like a good time for that," he shot back with a grin.
Despite their many hours talking over the events in Hell, Cain had been unable to convince him that he had not actually violated his oath. In his own mind, Pyresong knew he had made a massive mistake and betrayed his oaths. He had absolutely no desire for anyone to find out, yet. He would answer for his crimes one day. First, he would do all he could to try to rectify those mistakes. In the meantime, Cain was convinced he was some sort of hero. And it seemed absolutely nothing he said would sway the elderly Horadrim.
Finished storing his gear in his backpack, he set it by the stairs. Knowing him and his habits well enough by now, Cain was already working on a comforting pot of tea. He moved to the chair by the fire. Heaving a tired sigh, he lowered himself into the all too comfortable rocking chair.
"Long story short: Forbidden magics and old hatreds spawned vile evils and nearly tore the soul of two peoples apart. But, for now, it seems there is finally a peace upon the mountain."
Cain shook his head sadly. "A familiar tale. Still, it is good they have found some form of peace. We will need all the allies we can get in times like this. I'm glad to see you had better luck than I did."
"Commander Kaya and the knights were unwilling to listen?"
Cain huffed almost bitterly. "I was refused an audience outright! The king's ear has been poisoned by the nobility, and even knights are finding themselves upon shaky ground. Westmarch is in denial that the world is falling to ruin."
The old man heaved a sigh of his own. "Whatever happens next, the powers of this world are unprepared for it. Yet, we are not without allies. My friend will be arriving tomorrow on a ship."
He was happy to see the old man's spirits lift as he continued. "His name is Karshun. He is an accomplished mage from Xiansai. I met his teacher in far-off Kurast when we were on the trail of the Prime Evil Mephisto. And...well, I suspect he'll be a great help to us both."
"That is certainly good news," he agreed, forcing himself to relax and let go of the anxiety for now, if for no other reason than there was nothing they could do about it.
Cain nodded. As if sensing Pyresong's mind slipping back toward those dark thoughts, he waved away whatever else he was going to say. Though he was genuinely excited to talk about Karshun's amazing capabilities and dedication, the necromancer obviously needed something to talk about right now to get him out of those shadowy places his mind wanted to wander in to.
"Now, tell me about Mount Zavain," he demanded eagerly.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent mostly with Pyresong's recounting of events. More than once, Cain looked shocked. His expression was both grim and sad at learning the truth behind the nightmare creatures plaguing the valley. Cain had been among the Veradani monks more than once in his life and was well aware of their beliefs. To find one had gone so far to protect his people...madness. But learning of the gods' blessings was something he could further use to encourage the priest not to feel tainted or corrupted by the shards. Even Pyresong had to admit Zaim and Ytar were of the Light and would never have given him their blessings had he been corrupted.
He couldn't shake the feeling, though. His connection to the corrupted shards was undeniable. His nightmare had plagued him for months, now. It was just this one incident that had brought it to the fore of his mind to acknowledge that...thing's existence. Part of him was still absolutely certain there was a shard in use somewhere right now. But he was as helpless to find it at this moment as he had been this morning.
His recounting of his nightmare to Cain, brought into clarity by the demon, only really furthered his suspicions about being tainted, if not outright corrupted. Cain disagreed adamantly. Pyresong let it go. Arguing would do neither of them any good. As long as Cain was aware and watching him, he would trust the old man. He had to. There was no one else he could trust, not even himself.
"If evil enters your mind or heart, you will know, and you will fight it," Oza's memory told him yet again.
But how will I know? he asked her.
She had no answer for him. He realized his thoughts had wandered again when Cain eyed him patiently. He quickly shook it off and explained what he'd been doing in the three days leading up to his return. Cain was ecstatic to hear they had yet more allies wary and on the alert, preparing themselves for the coming conflict. However it would play out, at least others were on the alert now, too. Hopefully, they would all have time to prepare.
Again it struck him, powerfully this time. He almost wanted to mention the prophecy and Rathma's long-ago visit; if only just to see if Cain somehow knew anything about it. In the end, he decided not to, yet again. He just couldn't. In his mind, the prophecy had nothing to do with their friendship. And he absolutely did not want to taint it with all that now. He had already accepted that there were some elements of his life where he had been given no choice. Despite the path his life had taken that had led him to intersect with the elderly Horadrim's own path, he refused to believe their relationship had been somehow destined. This was genuine, and he would not taint it.
It was wearing on into evening when Pyresong wound down his tale. Still physically tired from all the work, he was soon stifling yawns right alongside the old man; who had apparently slept little the last couple of days. He looked forward to sleeping in his own bed again after days in the cold, rough terrain. He bid Cain good night and headed up to bed, feeling more than a little disturbed by the anxiety still clawing at him.
***
That night, his dreams were plagued with fears. Something was happening, and he was helpless to stop it. Dreams of the shards and their influence over him tormented him. No matter where he went, they were with him. His evil echo that had given in to the will of the shards was with him. He was no longer paralyzed by the fear. He knew what was stalking him, now. He knew it was slowly trying to wear him down bit by bit. That knowledge alone gave him power of a sorts over it. But it didn't stop the dreams. With what little control he did have over his dreams, he flitted from one to another.
He was still mentally and emotionally exhausted by the time he gave up on sleep altogether. He had worked his way around and through much of the fallout while cleansing the monastery. Yet, there were some things he hadn't seriously confronted and still didn't want to. Still, his tormented dreams showed him many of these things. He really wasn't surprised. He had known it would catch up to him, eventually. It always did. For a few minutes, he lay in bed, staring through the darkness, desperately wanting to return to the overlook and the peace he'd experienced there.
But that was a foolish idea. He was needed here. He could not hide from their hunt for the shards any more than he could hide from himself. Still hours before dawn, he threw off the blankets and switched to meditation. At least, after that, he felt calmer, more serene. He'd managed to put things away, even if he couldn't really deal with them in any meaningful way right now.
By the time he heard Cain banging around with the tea kettle, he was more than ready to escape all those thoughts. Cain's mage friend would arrive today. With any luck, they would have some answers soon. That gnawing feeling of helplessness and anxiety would hopefully be dispelled one way or the other.
"Good morning," Cain called cheerfully from his desk.
"Good morning," Pyresong called reflexively.
As if hearing something he didn't like, Cain turned from his work at his desk to eye his friend more closely. His busy brows furrowed at whatever he saw.
"Rough night, I take it?"
He grinned ruefully at his friend's concern. "Nothing I didn't expect. I will be fine."
Cain wasn't buying it, but he knew when to let something go. It was the priest's turn to change the subject.
"So whatever happened to the grumpy morning Cain I used to know and love?" he teased.
Cain furrowed his bushy white brows thoughtfully for a second and then laughed. The unexpected look surprise on his face nearly made Pyresong laugh.
"You know...I don't think I've woken up aching that badly since you returned from Bilefen with Yl'nira, now that you mention it."
"Oh?"
Cain thought for a moment longer and then nodded to himself. "Definitely. She must have done something."
Surprised by this revelation, he was quite happy. He had hoped to ease the old man's pain somehow, and had never found an answer. Of course, he had never had much time to invest in that research, either. Not for the first time, he sent a silent thanks to the spirit of Yl'nira for all she'd done for them.
"Well, I'm glad it helped," he said warmly.
"You and me both, friend. Now, some tea to clear away the fog of sleep," Cain replied with a yawn.
He couldn't help an echoing yawn of his own. Then rubbed his eyes and shook it off.
"Do you have any idea when Karshun will be arriving?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. I was going to ask if you'd mind meeting him for me at the western docks. But..."
He waved off his concerns. "I'm fine. I will be happy to. If the weather's nice enough, I can catch up on some reading while I wait."
"'Nice' is questionable. Though probably a fair amount warmer than where you just came from."
"Indeed."
Cain yawned again, patiently waiting for the tea to be ready. Pyresong lost himself in thought, still struggling against the clawing anxiety running its talons across his soul. It just would not let go. He needed something to focus on. He was fairly certain he still had a book or two from Cain's collection stashed in his backpack. During his weeks of recovery, he had ransacked these shelves repeatedly. He made a mental note to run upstairs and grab it after breakfast. For a while, they were quiet while they enjoyed their tea.
A few minutes later, he realized he hadn't touched the books in his backpack since he'd been in the caravan to Mount Zavain. And now he realized, too, he couldn't even remember which ones they were. His frustration over this almost got the better of him. He'd noticed that issue since he'd woken up. All the important memories of everything that had happened to him over the years were there, but so many inconsequential little things had faded away. He couldn't really describe it other than that they had just mysteriously vanished.
For several minutes, he sat there with his tea, struggling to remember the details of the trip to Mount Zavain. He remembered the voyage and even the caravan trip as something that happened. But the faces and events were faded. For probably the hundredth time, he explored all those earlier memories, as if expecting something would finally resurface to become clear to him again. They still hadn't changed. Still faded, still dulled, and some things gone entirely.
At least this gave him something to focus on besides his sense of urgency and anxiety. He shook off his frustration and gave in to his curiosity as he excused himself to go get the backpack from upstairs. Cain eyed him openly with concern but said nothing. When he returned a few seconds later, Cain was still eyeing him. Pyresong waved him off as he resumed his seat in the rocking chair and reached into his backpack. Yes, the books were there. Yet, even the look and feel of them sparked no memories. For a few seconds, he just sat there staring at the book, flipping through the pages. He was mildly disturbed as well as annoyed when he realized he absolutely did not remember anything of what he'd read. The torn piece of parchment he found between pages confirmed he had read a significant portion of this one book during his caravan ride.
"What is it, Pyresong?" Cain finally broke into his thoughts softly.
He hadn't realized the old scholar was still scrutinizing him. For that matter, he hadn't realized he was actually scowling until Cain broke into his thoughts. With a sigh he shook himself out of his deep dive through his memories. He set his backpack beside the chair as he held up the book for Cain to see. He grinned slightly and shook his head to let his friend know nothing was really wrong.
"I remember none of it," he finally confessed, sorry he'd concerned his friend again. "I remember—vaguely now—that I read this book while riding in a wagon on the caravan. But I remember none of it."
"Ah," Cain said, clearly relieved. "Another one of those."
He nodded. They had discussed it in detail during the weeks of his recovery. Cain really had no answer for him. However, he did offer a few theories. He offered to go inside his friend's mind to see what he could find. But Pyresong realized quickly after his initial panic over it that all the things he'd forgotten were essentially meaningless. There was no need to work to recover them. He remembered his training, and Rathma's teachings through his master. He remembered every village he had ever helped in his wanderings. He even remembered the faces of all those he'd met or lost over the years. Some, like Alyssa, still burned inside him, though more dully. They seemed to be all there. But it did concern him in some way he couldn't quite describe, that he'd lost something of himself. He hadn't deliberately blocked anything out; he knew that much. They had just been pushed back or lost somehow.
And, at the time, the whole idea of Cain accidentally stumbling across those memories of Rathma, the journal, or the prophecies horrified him. Though he carried a sense of guilt over not sharing all that with Cain, he still did not want to go there. Yes, Cain could help him fix what he had broken. But... No. Nothing he ever did in his entire life from here on out would set right what he had done, the choices he had made. Even Cain could not help him make it right. Why burden the elderly Horadrim with that? He had enough to deal with focusing on the whole End of Days aspect of what Pyresong had triggered.
Before he could dive back into those lost memories or otherwise get himself wrapped up in things again, Everen arrived with their breakfast. Pyresong, still consumed with the disconcerting feeling something was happening combined with his renewed fears of what else he may have lost, found he didn't have much appetite. Still, he knew Cain was watching him again, so he made an effort to at least look like he was eating.
Afterward, he decided he needed to get out. Cain's watching him was not entirely unwelcome or unpleasant, but he needed time to think. And when Everen arrived, he'd noticed it was a sunny, if chilly, day outside. With the wind coming off the water from the west, it was the perfect time to find a place near the docks to enjoy some sunshine and fresh ocean air. He shoved the book back in his backpack and slung it over one shoulder as he left. He could still feel Cain's worried eyes on him when he left.
He let his mind drift a bit as he meandered through the light morning crowds. He actually began to wonder if Cain had the right idea. Maybe it was time to start keeping a journal again or something to track some of these lost memories over time. Maybe it was some sort of side-effect of what had happened to him when his soul shattered and nothing more sinister. Though, now that he knew about his nightmare, he wondered if it wasn't something much darker. As if some part of himself was being devoured and destroyed by something within. The idea made his stomach flip in a way that had him regretting eating at all.
He liked to think it would all come back to him in time, as Cain had said. But this morning was irrefutable proof that that was not happening, at least not yet. He had even meditated on some events that he could vaguely recall having happened, but details were still lost. One example was the day he had come to Westmarch for the first time. He still had those fuzzy memories of being escorted out of the city, but he could no longer remember the merchant that had lead to the incident. The memories simply refused to become clear again. And it bothered him.
Yet everything he and Cain had discussed in recent weeks was still crystal clear. The new skills he had learned from his friend since waking were still clear. As far as he could tell, he had lost none of the newer memories. He even retained the meaningless details of recent weeks, like the texture of the new rug they had bought to cover the stain on the workshop floor or the slightly off scent of the new candles Cain had purchased. It was just odd, and oddly frustrating that so much else would not come back despite the passage of time.
He was pulled out of these thoughts suddenly when his sensitive ears picked up the sound of shouts and even screams ahead. Out of pure reflex, he began running in that direction. The sounds were leading him right to the western docks. A handful of sailors and dock workers nearly ran him down in their panic to escape.
"Stay the hells away from that ship!" one of them shouted.
He caught sight of Captain Rehm just a little further ahead, practically hugging a wall to get out of the flow of panicking people. Already slinging off his backpack to retrieve his scythe, he paused against the wall where the captain stood. The constant jostling and pushing nearly made him pull out his shield in frustration.
"Rehm, what's happened?"
The captain was pale and wide-eyed. Catching sight of him, a look of relief flooded his features.
"We just disembarked the Black Bower, and the guards all but shut the docks down. Apparently, a few sea beasts made it aboard. Some outlander with a staff said he was going to deal with them. My men—"
More screams came from the docks. Leaving Rehm, he turned to push his way through the mass of fleeing people, keeping his scythe carefully up and out of the way. Even some of the city watch and dock guards jostled him in their attempts to flee. Ahead, his magical sight caught a couple of flashes. A second later, he spotted a silver-haired mage flinging spells at various creatures on the deck of Rehm's ship. But there were so many that the mage couldn't get past the plank and onto the ship itself. He sent some spirit fire ahead of himself to aid the mage while he summoned skeletons to distract the creatures.
"At least someone in this city isn't paralyzed by fear," the mage called, acknowledging his help. "Let's find the source. You go left. I'll go right."
He wasn't about to argue. There were at least a dozen more of the tentacled, clawed creatures moving around the deck of the ship and right toward them. He led with his scythe and had his skeletons push through further to distract the creatures. He'd never seen anything like them before. Some looked like a sort of crab but at least the size of a dog. The ones with tentacles clearly resembled some form of enormous octopus. They all bore some vile magical residue. These things were not natural. To his magical vision, they were very much like the twisted wolves and porcupines he'd encountered elsewhere in Sanctuary. Something had created or warped these creatures.
One of the octopus things flung out multiple tentacles in his direction. He managed to cut off a couple of them, but another slipped past his guard and wrapped itself around his leg just below the knee. The electric shock he felt from the thing nearly jolted him right off his feet. He quickly shielded his body as he cut the thing's appendage off and kept going. Not wanting to damage the Black Bower with blades of energy, he waded in carefully to cut at them with his bare scythe. With his now half-dozen skeletons keeping many of the creatures occupied, he was quickly able to finish off the rest.
He turned to the other side of the long deck to see the mage blasting away at the last one ones his side. He ignored the blood oozing down his leg for a moment while he turned to meet the mage. He already had a suspicion this was likely Cain's friend.
"Did you ensure all the beasts were dead?" the mage asked, looking around behind the necromancer, who was dismissing his remaining skeletons.
Despite the grating, arrogant tone, he couldn't help a wry smile. "Yes, I've done this sort of thing before."
The man snorted derisively. Pyresong was not surprised in the least. Oh, yes, he'd dealt with arrogant mages enough to know the type. He was only slightly disappointed to realize this one would be no different.
"There you are!" Cain's voice rang out on the docks not far away. "I'd heard a commotion and knew one of the two of you would be involved."
Karshun smiled widely as Pyresong laughed softly. The mage quickly dismissed him to approach his old friend. Cain laughed happily, warming Pyresong's heart. It was good to see his friend in a state other than worried for a change.
"Ha! You've gone gray, young man!" Cain called out happily to his friend.
"Not nearly as gray as I should, Elder. At least I still have my hair!" Karshun replied
Cain laughed heartily at the verbal jab while the two held each other for a moment. Pyresong approached, a few feet behind Karshun. Cain turned to him, seeing him favoring one leg slightly. A flash of worry furrowed Cain's busy brows for a moment. His smile was back in an instant as if it never happened, when Pyresong waved off his concern. He was not about to ruin this reunion for the old man. His leg could wait.
"Welcome to Westmarch, my friend. And not a moment too soon. How was your journey?" Cain asked cheerfully.
"Uneventful. Unlike theirs," the mage said dryly, pointing over his shoulder at Rehm's ship.
Cain chuckled, then he motioned for Pyresong to come closer. "By way of introductions: this is Karshun, formerly of the Yshari Sanctum. He has spent much of his life studying the cults of the Great Evils and vowed to do everything in his power to prevent Diablo's return."
Pyresong bowed formally, priest to honored mage. "It's nice to make your acquaintance. We could use your help."
"That is apparent," Karshun drawled at him, instead of returning the bow.
The mage eyed him critically, but with no small amount of surprise as well. He did not return the bow, a clear insult that Cain frowned at. Nor did he offer his hand in a less formal and more friendly gesture. Pyresong chose to ignore the insults. Before either could say anything, Karshun's arrogant tones returned.
"Since the threat is at bay, you should see what the sailors know. Maybe alert the guards. Then you can join us. I'll prepare a divination in Cain's workshop."
Pyresong, already having expected the arrogance and dismissal, had his serene mask in place but very nearly grinned at Cain. Yep, he knew this type all too well. Karshun, having dismissed him as irrelevant, now turned back toward Cain. Cain again looked like he was about to say something to the mage when Pyresong shook his head behind Karshun's back. Seeing this over Karshun's shoulders, Cain relaxed his expression. If the priest didn't want to acknowledge the insults, he wouldn't either. He smiled warmly to the scholar and nodded back toward the road to let Cain know they should get moving and he would be fine. The old man took the hint and led Karshun away.
Knowing he was likely going to have to deal with at least one city guard, he took a moment to clean and stow his scythe back in his backpack while they walked away. Then he knelt down to check his leg. So far, he had felt no venom or poison in the wound, but it would still be a good idea to check. As expected, there were a few deep gashes, but nothing deep enough to need stitches, and no indication of anything in the wounds. It seemed the worst weapon those creatures had was their electric shock. And, as he'd found out first hand, that was bad enough. Relieved, he pushed his trouser leg back down just as Rehm approached.
"Thank you again, friend," Rehm greeted warmly. "Come, I have healing potions in my cabin. Do you need an antidote?"
He shook the captain's hand warmly and followed him back to the ship.
"It is minor, and I don't feel any venom. Do you know anything about those creatures? Any idea how those monsters got aboard your ship?"
Rehm led them to his cabin and dug through a small chest. He produced a small healing potion, not willing to accept no as an answer. With a mental shrug, Pyresong finally accepted. He had planned to have Cain check it out later to be sure. But if he could avoid it and it would make Rehm feel better, he would accept. While he downed the vile-tasting liquid, Rehm explained what he could.
"We found some bodies floating north of the gulf. It wasn't right, leaving them there. So we brought them aboard for burial. The monsters must have ridden in their..." Rehm shuddered visibly. "Ugh... Just glad you put them down."
"As am I."
"I'll have to let the watch commander know. And let them alert other captains in the area."
"Those creatures were made with magic. They weren't natural," he warned. "How far out were you?"
Rehm shrugged. "Found them yesterday, a few hours from Westmarch. Not far from Stormpoint. I was on my way back from a business trip in Khanduras."
"I'll talk to the watch commander," he assured. "You've got some cleanup to do. Are your men all right?"
"They were already on the docks when the creatures...came out." He shuddered again. "Thank you, friend. I owe you one."
Leg healed and having obtained what information he could, Pyresong shook hands again as Rehm looked more relieved than ever. Likely, he was overjoyed by not having to deal with the city watch. As with anyone that accepted the given name of pirate, he didn't like drawing official attention to himself or his crew. He considered teasing Rehm about who was owed drinks this time, but the man appeared to have other things on his mind.
Pyresong returned to the only slightly more controlled chaos of the docks. It didn't take him long to locate the woman he was looking for. She was just now marching up with some of her men through the milling sailors and dockworkers.
"Commander Kaya," he called a few feet away to get her attention in all the noise.
He bowed to her, priest to honored knight, respectfully, while she eyed him coldly. Though he hadn't met her personally before. He'd heard enough about her in his time in Westmarch to know she was another resident that was less than pleased with the idea of a Priest of Rathma wandering the city unchecked, making people nervous. He knew, too, that she had worked hard to prove herself in a male-dominated field. Tales of her courage and prowess flew about the city. Unlike those born to wealth and power, she had fought her way to the position of Commander. And she had the driving ambition to climb higher. But, she also knew enough of the political side to play by the rules of the nobility. If the nobility didn't like necromancers, neither did she. Yet, she was presently unable to do anything about him or his presence in the city due to the tales of his supposed heroism in Khanduras. More than a few refugees had come this way, seeking shelter with family members living in and around the capitol city.
His expression serene in response to her cold glare and lack of a return bow, he again chose to ignore the insult. Truthfully, he didn't give a damn what the city thought of him, as long as they didn't try to exile him again. He quickly gave her the news.
"I've just come from the docks. There were monsters aboard the Black Bower. They attacked a few sailors and dock workers before we stopped them. They were spawned with magic. They were carried inside the bodies he picked up in the gulf, north of here."
"Black Bower, you say?" her expression having changed to one of concern. "Is Rehm all right?"
"He and his crew appear unscathed. But you may want to warn other captains if they find more bodies in the gulf. He said he wasn't far from Stormpoint."
"Stormpoint?" the commander frowned. "We've..." Then she remembered who she was talking to and clamped her teeth on whatever she'd been about to say. "It sounds like you have it more or less under control. I'll double the patrols on the docks, just in case."
She turned and motioned to her men to head toward the docks ahead of her. Assuming he was dismissed, he nodded and turned to leave. She put a hand on his arm and gave him a look, making him pause curiously. He waited patiently while the men in their clattering armor moved away. When they were gone, her cold expression softened.
"I appreciate what you can Elder Cain are doing...trying to do, rather," Kaya told him. "Tell the Elder I'm still trying. But nobody's listening."
Surprised by this sudden change, he nodded. "I will let him know."
"I'd appreciate it if you kept this incident quiet. This city hates a panic."
There might be a good reason to panic, he thought darkly, but he just gave her another nod.
Commander Kaya quickly fixed her cold expression back in place as she dismissed him and continued her trek toward the docks. Cain had been right about this commander. She was a tough woman, but she was still just a watch commander. It was good to know at least someone in Westmarch was taking Cain's warning seriously. He wished her the best of luck but had no real faith in the nobility or wealthy of the city. As long as the gold and the wine flowed, no one here cared what happened to the rest of the world.
He wanted to give Cain and Karshun a bit more time to themselves to catch up. Cain had already explained the mage would be staying with them in the now extra bed downstairs. Instead of making his way right back to the workshop, he opted to take a bit of a walk and restock some of his supplies. He hadn't bothered to restock while in Sentinel's Watch since he knew he was coming back here. More to the point, he had been absolutely certain something was already happening, and he would neither need nor have time to resupply yesterday.
It had been several months at this point since word of his deeds in Ashwold and Wortham had circulated. So far, these last few weeks, he hadn't been recognized as anything other than another Priest of Rathma. Of course, he had hardly left the workshop during his recovery. Many people still chose to ignore him rather than deal with a necromancer. But there were a few he suspected would give him at least a little trouble. Now that the rumors had died down, things had definitely been less problematic for him.
His first stop was an apothecary he had seen near Rakkis Plaza. Often, they were well-stocked with the basic and even more powerful healing potions he needed. This one, unlike many other merchants in the city, treated him like any other customer. The woman happily offered him a fair price for the various potions she had available. When he spied a small collection of vials of stamina potions, he paused. Rare was it that he ever saw them anymore. He bought one to tuck away in his backpack, wincing inside at the hefty price. It turned out this shopkeeper knew of a brewer that could actually make them. Because they were so expensive, they rarely sold, but this place always kept a few on hand, just in case.
After this, he headed around to the west side of the city again to buy some dried meats, cheeses, and trail biscuits. Now that he was certain there wouldn't be any problem with spoilage, he added a handful of apples to the list. He made a mental note to refill his water skins, too. That was when he realized he was preparing for a journey. He paused his meandering walk through the alleys to consider this. Somehow, he knew he was leaving. Maybe not today, but he would be very soon.
From somewhere deep inside, a shadow lurking in his soul reminded him. He knew a shard was already in use. Despite whatever Cain's Horadric divinational ritual had told them, he knew for absolute certainty. Suddenly, the idea of hopping around the world from waypoint to waypoint didn't sound like such an outlandish idea. If he could be this certain, chances were high that he would sense it once he was within some undefined range.
Is it calling to me?
He already knew the answer to that. The chill air of the shadows in this alley had nothing to do with his visible shiver. Truthfully, he couldn't be certain, and yet a part of him was already convinced. And that worried him almost as much as the fact that he could sense them at all. He would definitely be on his guard. Much as when he'd first learned he could sense the shards, he would not throw away any tool he could use against them. If the damned things were going to call to him, he would use that to find them and destroy them. For now, he would keep this information to himself, though. The last thing he needed was to worry Cain further.
He knew having Karshun around was likely to make his talks with Cain a lot less frequent and a lot less detailed. But he couldn't bring himself to be too disappointed in that. They needed help, and he had prodded the old Horadrim mercilessly the last couple of weeks. Now, he was absolutely certain a shard was in use somewhere. If Cain couldn't find it, maybe this Karshun could. He hoped so. He knew his eagerness to find and destroy more was at least partially driven by his desire to maintain the Balance. But there was a deeper, darker part of him that needed to confront his terror of them. The first three had inflicted him with horrific memories that had nearly shattered his mind. The fourth one had led him to Hell and destroyed the angelic blade that had become a part of his soul. The loss of Yl'nira had shattered his own soul in the process. Oh, yes, he was terrified of the corrupted shards, maybe more so now than ever before.
Knowing he was going to need to deal with Karshun's typical mage arrogance, he again settled his mind and fixed the serene mask in place. The mage had already outright insulted and snubbed him. He could not yet be certain if it had anything to do with the fact that he was a Priest of Rathma or if it was related to something else altogether, possibly something more personal. But he did know it would bother Cain to no end if he let the insult show. Much as with Jin, he would put up with it to get what they needed. Besides, Cain saw Karshun as a dear friend at the very least. The last thing he wanted was for the elderly scholar to feel like he had to be some kind of go-between to keep the peace between two people he considered friends. And he knew Cain was by far the best judge of character he had ever met. He strongly suspected there was much more to Karshun than just his skill and magely arrogance. For Cain's sake, he hoped the two of them could quickly move past professional insults and disagreements. He couldn't see ever actually counting such an arrogant mage as a friend, but perhaps professional acquaintances.
Rounding the corner to bring Cain's workshop door within view, he sensed something new radiating from it. He refocused his eyes in the magical spectrum. Karshun had clearly added some new shielding of his own. He could easily make out the seals and sigils, though they were invisible to normal, mortal eyes. Beyond that, though, he could feel an aura of something entirely unfamiliar radiating through the door. It was powerful, too. From his magical perspective, it was like a lighthouse. No wonder they had added additional shielding. If he could see and feel it this strongly a block away, what must it be like inside the workshop? Uncertain of what he was walking into, he quickly shielded himself to keep out any unexpected influences.
When he cracked open the door, he was amazed to see that a strange construct had replaced the pedestal. It initially reminded him of some kind of orrery. There were several concentric rings at various angles looping around a center crystalline stone so dark blue it was almost black. He had to switch from his magical vision because it nearly blinded him the moment he saw it. The energies it radiated were immense and made his eyes itch somehow, like he was looking at it in the wrong spectrum even when he was using normal vision. Despite its four-foot diameter on the outermost metal rings, it had an almost ethereal quality to it.
"Ah, exquisite timing as always, my friend," Cain called from the other side of the room near his desk. "We have Karshun's Astral Anchor set up. We were just discussing using it, and we'll need your help."
"My help?" he echoed in surprise, shrugging off his backpack to set near the stairs.
Instead of Cain answering, Karshun stepped toward him, again eyeing him critically and with something he couldn't quite identify. Disgust? No, it was deeper than that, but not quite loathing or hate. He was more amused than surprised by this, though he never let his expression so much as flicker. And, shielded as he was, he at least knew the mage couldn't delve any deeper than the surface expressions. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that the man was intensely looking for something deeper. He wasn't about to let the mage go rummaging about, friend of Cain's or not. Just as the silence was growing tense, Karshun smirked, almost sneering.
"If the stars have aligned above you as I suspect, we are fated to serve one another," Karshun told him, with no small amount of acid in his voice. "I will need your help to hunt for the shards."
Behind him, Cain shifted and looked almost uncomfortable. Pyresong kept his expression serene as he returned his attention back to the mage.
"How so?"
"Cain tells me you can sense the shards." There was more than a hint of challenge in the statement.
Now he understood Cain's shuffling and pleading look. Cain understood Pyresong's fear of the shards and his connection to them better than anyone. He also knew very well the priest's desire for privacy. He had already come to determine that it would be a tool he could use in the fight against the shards, regardless of how much it disturbed him. He felt no anger toward the old scholar for disclosing that information. If they couldn't trust Karshun, who could they trust? He nodded to Karshun but also sent a look at Cain to let him know he was not bothered by the disclosure. Cain's relief was instant and very visible.
"I can," he admitted. "What did you have in mind?"
"You will come with me as we peer through the stars and relate what we see."
"Are we traversing the Astral Plane physically or incorporeal form?" Pyresong asked
Though he gave absolutely no indication of it on his face, he was gratified to see the Karshun's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline at this direct question. Cain's grin was a bonus. The scholar had stopped underestimating his friend a while ago. But, as with every other mage the necromancer had ever dealt with, Karshun assumed all others were ignorant of their oh-so-special arcane knowledge. He was not ignorant of the many other forms of magic out there. In his days living in the monasteries as well as roaming Sanctuary, he'd studied many other magics, if for no other reason than to assess their threat level. Though he didn't practice in them as they served no practical use to him, he knew enough to understand the mechanics. Given that this construct was an Astral Anchor, it wasn't some great leap of logic to figure out what Karshun was hinting at. And the Astral Plane really wasn't all that different to him than, say, the Unformed Land. It was just accessed more easily by mortals.
"Physically," Karshun answered, once he'd gotten over his shock.
"Very well, give me a few minutes to prepare," he replied, grabbing his backpack and heading up the stairs.
"There's no time to waste," Karshun called, irritated.
He paused on the stairs, if for no other reason than to enjoy being able to look down on the mage even further. Petty, but he was human, and this man rubbed him the wrong way. He carefully kept his voice devoid of any emotion, wary of creating a conflict now of all times.
"You are correct. A shard is already in use, and we need to find it. But if we're going anywhere physically, I will need to be ready for anything. I'm going to get my armor on, and then we will go."
Karshun opened his mouth again to argue, clearly annoyed. It was Cain that stopped him this time.
"He's absolutely right, friend," Cain told the mage. "You don't know what you may encounter."
He nodded to Cain gratefully and then resumed his trek up the stairs. A few minutes later, he returned to find Karshun waiting impatiently by the Astral Anchor. He couldn't help but grin internally at the mage's impatience and irritation. He had no desire to create conflict, especially while they would be dependent on each other for survival in this little endeavor. Still, he couldn't resist tweaking the man's nose when the opportunity arose. In truth, though, he wasn't going anywhere physically that might involve the shard or anything other threats without his armor and weapon at the very least. It was a simple matter of practicality and common sense. As a mage, Karshun probably couldn't understand his warrior's perspective.
"You are only to observe, touch nothing," Karshun warned, as if to a child.
He nodded in agreement, ignoring the clear insult. Again, he saw Cain's eyebrows furrow as if he wanted to say something. Pyresong flicked his friend a look as Karshun turned toward the Astral Anchor. Again, he shook his head at Cain to let him know he did not need defending. Cain's return look was still dark. Over Karshun's shoulder, he gave him a brief, warm smile to let him know it was appreciated but not necessary while Karshun opened the rift to the Astral Plane.
He stepped closer to the rift when indicated and Karshun gripped his shoulder, dragging them both through the portal. For a second, he eyed the blue swirling portal, appreciating its arcane beauty. He had never actually visited the Astral Plane, physically or otherwise, and didn't know quite what to expect. The rift carried them into a blue-tinted image of a fortress somewhere. Not unlike his first encounter with the Unformed Land when he went after King Leoric, things were insubstantial. At least here they were not constantly shifting making him dizzy. This time, he had no need to refocus his eyes in the magical spectrum. Beside him, Karshun gasped.
"I rarely divine with such clarity," the mage admitted, forgetting his arrogance in his surprise. "I don't know where this is, but it's happening right now."
Somewhere ahead, Pyresong's ears caught the faint, almost echoing quality of a battle going on. The echoing sounds were eerily similar to places where ghostly memories had been imprinted. Karshun led the way down the stairs and into a great hall where they found a ten-foot statue of a king. They also found several small groups of ghostly men and women fighting.
"Cultists," Pyresong warned, clearly recognizing the feeling of their demonic taint.
Karshun indicated for him to go to the right of the statue while he moved to the left.
"Look around us. Search for details. The architecture, the armor of the soldiers...similar to the guards in Westmarch. Where are we?"
Pyresong himself didn't recognize this place, but Karshun was right. It almost looked like a fortress somewhere in Westmarch. But there were slight differences to the armor. As he approached one group of combatants, he tried to make out the emblems on a soldier's armor. Before he could, though, he was assaulted with a familiar sensation that made him shudder, inside as much as outside. He slammed his shields in place, but it did no good. He had already known it wouldn't help. Not against this. Reflexively, he grabbed his scythe off his belt. Before he could warn Karshun, another sensation swept across his arcane senses. He cursed under his breath at the dual assault. He felt a flood of vile energies condensing in a courtyard just to their right. He quickly moved toward the stairs that led to the courtyard.
"Where are you going?" Karshun asked in irritation.
"The shard is here. And something is coming. Be wary."
When he approached the stairs that led out beyond the hall, he could clearly see the fiery portal. Purple as it appeared to his vision on the Astral Plane, he knew it was a Hell rift. A high priestess and some of her cultist followers exited the rift. He knew she did not have the shard. Even on the Astral Plane, its vile-feeling aura was clear to him, just not right here. But this was so much stronger than even the three shards combined. Wherever it was, this shard was massive. Knowing he could do nothing to affect reality from here, he reined in his desire to cut down all the cultists he could see, the high priestess most especially. He paused on the stairs while the priestess approached only a few feet away.
At the same time she was exiting the rift, another invisible assault slammed into his non-physical senses. The raw power of this shard made him shudder again, losing his focus on her for a second when it tugged at something inside of him that echoed back. At least, she did not have it.
"The Lord of Terror has heard your promises. He will not forget them," the priestess called to all the cultists battling in the hall. "Take Stormpoint, find shard, and you will join me at His side!"
"Stormpoint!" he called, turning back to the hall and Karshun approaching.
He raced back down the stairs to meet up with Karshun heading his way. He found the mage eyeing him in clear surprise and no small amount of suspicion. His instincts were screaming at him, and the shard's assault was downright disorienting as something inside of him shifted yet again. He had to close his eyes against the swirling things spinning around inside of him. Some part of him was screaming at him to get to the shard. He needed to find it. He needed to get to it right now. It needed him to—
"There is an odd aura about you," Karshun told him warily. "What have you—"
"Hold! I know not how...but we are being watched from beyond the veil," the priestess called to the other two near her as she closed the portal.
Pyresong froze with a startled gasp. He could actually sense her actively searching for him! He couldn't even begin to explain how he knew. But there was no doubt in his mind that hewas the one she was sensing. Karshun was right beside him now. Reflexively, he gripped the mage by the arm, knowing they had to get away from their current position. Karshun roughly pulled back away from him in irritation, not understanding. At the same time, the priestess aimed her staff in their direction.
Pyresong had no chance to react or even grab his shield off his back. Whatever she'd flung at him missed by inches, searing his armor him with its crackling power. It was a direct hit on Karshun. The man grunted with shock and pain as he doubled over. Pyresong caught him by the shoulders to keep him from falling to the ground. Turning the gasp of pain into a growl, Karshun looked like he was about to retaliate with his own staff. He didn't give Karshun a chance. He hooked his scythe on his belt and grabbed the man by the back of his robes, and dragged him away from the stairs and out of the priestess' firing range. Instead of retaliating, Karshun aimed his staff at a wall and spoke through pain-clenched teeth.
"Through the portal!"
He slung the mage through the portal ahead of him. He just managed to get through as the priestess fired with unerring accuracy at him a second time, again missing by inches. This time the searing pain scorched across his back and left shoulder. There was no doubt, now. Even if she couldn't see him, she could sense him. He didn't even have a chance to figure out what it might be. He just knew he had to get them away from this place.
He felt the rift closing as Karshun struggled to his feet. For a moment, Pyresong was too dizzy and disoriented to even offer a hand. It took several seconds for his brain to catch up to his visual senses when he found himself standing in a blue and purple reflection of the night sky. His mind was telling him he should be falling through the void. He shook it off quickly, though when Karshun gasped in shock beside him.
"She...sundered our astral connection. How?" the mage asked in disbelief.
Pyresong caught him by the shoulders as the mage doubled over in pain again. Karshun turned his groan of pain into a growl and shook him off.
"We...need to get back...before our souls split from our bodies."
Too badly shaken at this point to speak, Pyresong just nodded and moved to support him from the side to give him room. This time, the mage didn't immediately shake him off. Karshun seemed to struggle to focus beyond the pain. Then he turned a coldly suspicious eyes on him. Something akin to shock flickered through the mage's expression.
"Not even a practiced Taan mage could see through my projections. Something about your soul shines like a beacon here."
Instead of replying verbally with his confusion, Pyresong found himself shuddering visibly when the sense of vile energies swept over him again.
"Whatever rock you hide beneath, I will find you!"
The priestess' voice rang through the Astral Plane. All around them, the ghostly purple images of cultists began to form. He had to let go of the mage to retrieve his scythe and shield.
"Make the portal, now! I'll hold them off!"
He never paused to doubt if what he was doing would even affect these ghostly figures. If they had come, they could very likely do them both harm. He fell into his combat instincts as he danced with his scythe around Karshun to keep them away. The bodies of the cultists faded away as he cut them down. In a few seconds, he felt the portal opening. He didn't wait for the mage to speak as he shoved Karshun through it with his elbow to keep his grip on his shield and scythe. He backed through the portal even as more cultists were appearing all around them. Karshun closed the portal the instant the necromancer crossed the threshold. Again, they were in another nebulous, starry part of the Astral Plane, nowhere near Cain's workshop.
"No! Not far enough!" Karshun growled angrily, still struggling to cope with the pain of whatever had hit him. "We can't be trapped here."
Seeing Karshun's struggling, he hooked his scythe and reached for one of the healing potions on his belt. Instead, he wound up cursing under his breath when he felt it yet again. He quickly gripped his scythe again and prayed Karshun could hold out.
"All Creation is Diablo's claim!" the priestess called out.
Already, he was again dancing around the ghostly cultists, cutting them down as they formed before they could even fight back.
"Then why doesn't he have it yet?" Karshun mocked the priestess.
As engaged as he was, Pyresong couldn't help grinning at that. Having recovered from the initial shocks of the situation, the defiant and flippant thoughts he always found in his battle mindset had been thinking along the same lines. But there was no time to speak. There were so many forming cultists now that he couldn't cut them down fast enough. Here there was no residue of ancient bone dust for him to even summon a skeleton. At best, he might be able to summon a blood golem with his own, but there was just no time.
One of the priests threw a spell that was a giant ghostly fist. Ghostly or not, it certainly felt solid when it impacted his shield hard enough to send him flying into a couple of other cultists waiting with ghostly swords drawn. One of those swords found its way into the back of his left thigh around the edge of his faulds. He kicked his way back to his feet, dislodging the blade and ignoring the other stinging blows. The second he felt the portal open, he spun a full circle, releasing a weak but effective energy blade, and then dove through an opening in the ghostly bodies to escape.
"We can't let them follow!" Karshun warned.
Pyresong hit him at a flat run with his shield arm extended outward like a net. He dragged them both through the portal. Karshun stumbled unsteadily. He found himself supporting the mage again while Karshun closed the portal. But they were still not in Cain's workshop! Whatever the mage was doing, he could only hope it was getting them closer. He already knew the priestess had found them yet again. He could feel it. He could feel all of them. The chill of terror gripping his heart already had him dancing around the shadowy figures of cultists as they formed, cutting them down viciously to combat his rising fear.
"I have an army of lives to spend!" she told them.
"So spend them," Karshun shot back, already working to open another rift.
Something hit Pyresong in the back hard enough to send him sprawling. As he tried to roll to his feet, several more cultists dove in at him. Despite his shields, the blows raining down on him were stunningly painful. A ghostly knife glanced off his ribs between the front and back plates, leaving a gaping wound. Then they all dove in on him at once, getting in each others' way. He had a momentary flash of being in nearly the same circumstance with the undead monks not long ago. He thrashed and slashed as he tried to get out of the melee.
"I have a tear to the Astral Anchor!" Karshun called.
"Go!" Pyresong shouted, afraid they would both be trapped.
With a growl of frustration, Karshun used his free hand to blast away some of the cultists holding the necromancer down. Pyresong knew it was too late for him. He just hoped Karshun would get out of there.
“Get out of here!” he shouted again.
He never stopped thrashing and cutting, but he could feel it. Something much bigger and more powerful was being summoned only a few feet away. A shadowy figure of a giant lizard demon very much like the one he'd killed in Wortham was forming. Instead of staying ethereal like the cultists, it began to solidify.
Finally able to fight his way back his feet with the mage's intervention, he cut down the few cultists within reach and ran toward Karshun. At this point, he intended to use his momentum to tackle the mage and carry them both to the portal. Karshun already had his staff raised toward the giant demon. It raised a clawed paw to swipe at the mage. Pyresong jumped right into its path, aiming for Karshun. The lizard demon's paw struck him in the back hard enough to send him flying through the air and right through the portal. He was just far enough away from Karshun that he couldn't get a grip on the mage as he sailed past.
An instant later, he felt the bone-jarring impact of his body slamming the floor of Cain's workshop. Not thinking at all anymore, he bounced right back to his feet, headed for the rift.
"Karshun!"
Just as he was about to jump right back through the rift to rescue the mage, he was slammed back to the ground by the weight of Karshun landing on him through the portal. Almost before he could process this, the lizard demon's giant head came right through the rift. He rolled over to shield Karshun from the flames he knew were coming. Despite his pain, Karshun was still in control, though. He slammed the portal shut, decapitating the creature. The demon's head evaporated.
His chest still heaving, Pyresong rolled away from the mage. Karshun had lost consciousness. He rolled to his knees, looking for Cain reflexively. He nearly sighed with relief at spotting the old man unharmed. He quickly unhooked his strongest healing potion from his belt as Cain approached.
"He's injured. He needs a healer," Pyresong told him, pouring the potion into Karshun's unresisting mouth.
Karshun seemed to finally begin to recover somewhat. He shook himself back from the edge of unconsciousness when the healing potion began to take effect. He was deathly pale and covered in sweat, though his face was cold to the touch.
"He's not the only one," Cain commented, eyeing him and the numerous bleeding wounds.
"I'm...all right, for now," Karshun told them, struggling to sit up.
He supported the mage carefully, not sure to what extent the man was injured. He'd felt the energy of the powerful blast when the priestess had fired at him, but Karshun showed no visible burns on his clothing. Likely, the energy impact had done internal damage rather than external. And that could be much worse.
As if not wanting to be touched by him, Karshun shook off his support. He moved back to let Cain help Karshun to his feet. Only then did he begin to feel the extent of his own injuries. Tiredly, he unhooked another potent potion from his belt, if for no other reason than to stop the immediate bleeding until he could tend the wounds properly. Feeling its warmth spreading through him, he got to his feet, waving off Cain's offer of help.
"By the highest Heavens! That was quite the return trip. What happened? What did you see?"
"There's a Worldstone shard at Stormpoint," Pyresong explained.
"It's been invaded by an army of Diablo's cultists," Karshun told Cain. Then he turned to Pyresong his dark eyes blazing. "Find it before they do. Nothing else matters."
Cain threw Pyresong an apologetic look. "You were right, friend."
He waved this off. "I'll get my backpack and head for the docks. Get him to a healer."
"But you're hurt—"
"No time," he told him, already halfway up the stairs. "I have what I need in my bag. I have to catch Captain Rehm while he's still in port. Go."
He was back downstairs and hooking his shield and scythe before the two men were even out the door. Much as he wanted to help see them to a healer, he knew his priority here.
"Be safe," Cain called.
"You too," he threw over his shoulder, already running for the docks.
As luck would have it, the Black Bower was just getting ready to head back out with the evening tide. He caught Rehm on the deck. The captain's worried look told him pretty much what he needed to know about how he must appear right now. A tiny part of his mind was irritated by the fact that he had likely drawn a lot of attention to himself running through the city in full armor and covered in bloody wounds. Though there hadn't been the usual gore from fighting with his scythe, he had taken quite a beating and was bleeding from multiple shallow wounds. With any luck, he could deal with them while they sailed.
"I need to get to Stormpoint as quickly as you can. Two thousand gold."
"For you, friend, it's free. Is the old man all right?" Rehm asked, pale-faced.
"He's fine. I'll explain on the way. How long?"
"We were just about to leave in a few hours. Stormpoint is only a few hours away with this wind and not really out of our way. But I'm not sticking around after I drop you off. Others are saying nothing has come in or out of there in two days. I don't know what's happened there, but it's not safe," the captain explained, guiding them toward his cabin.
"That's fine," he assured. "I owe you a favor."
Rehm laughed and winked. "At this point, you owe me several, but who's keeping count? Go on. Take my cabin. I'll send someone to help you tend those wounds while I get us out of here."
"Thank you," Pyresong said gratefully.
He stripped off his gear and bloody clothing as quickly as he could. As promised, a member of the crew knocked on the door a few minutes later. The man's eyes were wide and curious as he eyed the numerous stab and slash wounds. He couldn't really remember how he'd acquired most of them. The fights had just been too frantic. The man was good and had the deeper ones stitched up in no time. He was grateful for the salve the man rubbed into the massive bruises that had begun to form on his back in spectacular colors. Just for good measure, he took another healing potion and dropped some gold in Rehm's chest. Once he was cleaned up and redressed, he quickly cleaned up what he could of his armor and joined the rest of the men on the deck.
He could already feel the anxiety building again. This time there was a pulling sensation that would not allow him to turn his attention away for anything.
The shard was waiting for him.
Chapter 17: 16 Stormpoint
Chapter Text
Stormpoint
Just as Rehm had promised, it was only a few hours later when the walls of the fortress on Stormpoint's islands rose into view on the distant horizon. From this distance, the fire and debris were clear. Even miles south of the islands, pillars of smoke rose high into the sky. Whatever this place had looked like when Rehm passed through yesterday, it was all changed now. The billowing smoke of several giant fires was clear on the horizon. As they drew closer, the devastation only became more obvious. Where the city-sized maze of docks had once stood on the south end of the island, there was now just wreckage. The pale gray rocky cliffs were completely obscured by the destruction. From this distance, all they could be certain of was that the main fortress walls still stood. Even then, Pyresong doubted they were entirely intact.
Despite what little he had seen on the Astral Plane, this attack was much, much bigger. He knew this island and its fortress had stood for hundreds of years. Many other countries had tried at some point to take this cluster of islands from Westmarch and failed over the centuries. The high priestess was not exaggerating. They must have had an entire army of cultists to have done even what little destruction he could see from this side of the islands.
"Wreckage, everywhere...and blood on the wind," Pyresong told the Captain standing beside him. "I hope there's still time to do something."
Rehm called to the men to drop anchor. Despite how far away they still were, he was not about to risk his ship or his crew, even for Pyresong.
"I can give you my personal boat to get you there, but I won't risk any of my men," Rehm told him, clearly expecting an argument.
He handed over a purse half-filled with gold. He had seen this coming. More to the point, he agreed. This was likely to be a one-way trip, even for him.
"I would expect nothing less from you, Captain," he replied with a grin. "For the boat."
Knowing he'd likely never see the boat again, Rehm was practical enough to accept the coin to buy another one. But his relief that he wouldn't have to argue over someone to row it was clear. Still, he hesitated.
"I can wait..."
"No, you need to get your men out of here as quickly as possible. I'll see you back in Westmarch, eventually."
"You'll conquer that fortress by yourself, no doubt," Rehm teased.
"I just might," he replied with another grin. "Safe voyage, Captain."
"Same to you, friend."
It didn't take them long to get him and the boat into the water. The men were more than a little eager to be away from this place. Even this far out, they could see debris spreading across the surface of the water.
He rowed the little two-man boat frantically toward the shore as the sun was already low in the west. He hoped to sneak in under the cover of darkness. As he approached the southern tip island, he began to realize that much of the debris in the water wasn't just blackened wood but blackened bodies. Whatever had happened here hadn't just destroyed the docks and piers but all the ships anchored in the area as well. Shortly after the sun had set fully, he was finally able to spot a small stretch of white sand beach that was just clear enough to slip through in the darkness.
Already, he could hear people not much farther up the beach screaming. He slipped silently around some rocks in that direction, feeling as much as seeing the glow of unholy magic. The filthy red tinges to the magic told him it was the pure cultists' magic of Hell. Peering around some rocks, he found an enormous seal painted in blood on the beach. The five-pointed star that was the Lord of Terror's trademark held five bound and writhing prisoners. The cult priest was already screaming his vile chants to summon something. He sent a flow of power into his scythe to stop him. But he was too late. Before he could even move out of his concealing shadow, the priest finished his summoning.
"Dread herald of Diablo! Take your throne above us!"
The entire seal flashed a violent red, sucking the life and souls right out of the poor prisoners. Pyresong watched helplessly as a massive demon began to come up out of the summoning seal. It was covered in what looked like black and red fur. Horns similar to Diablo's stuck out on either side of its head. The body was easily many times larger than the priest that had summoned it. It was large enough to cover most of Rakkis plaza with its bulk. And it was taller than most cathedrals he had seen. Its four enormous, clawed feet tore deep gouges several feet into the sand as it sprouted two giant, leathery wings. Now, he began to understand at least some of the destruction he'd seen. Something that massive could easily account for the destruction of the docks all by itself. And this was likely but one summoning of several.
"Let terror bloom in the garden of flesh!" the Terror cultist priest screamed happily. "The Great One will sniff out the Heart of Creation. We will seize it together!"
They don't have the shard yet! he thought with relief. Maybe there was still a chance.
He ducked back behind the rocks when a red lightning storm surrounded the giant monster. It screamed and raged happily as it took to the skies. Having seen enough and knowing the massive demon had flown away for now, Pyresong finally gave in to his urge to kill the cultist that had summoned the thing. He knew giving in to his anger was never a wise move, but he'd seen enough. And he nearly regretted that emotional decision this time as well. The moment the cultist priest saw him coming, he laughed and sent a group of other cultists watching nearby to intercept him.
"Deal with the straggler!" the priest commanded the dozens of others.
Changing directions, he turned to intercept the others. He danced through the ranks of other cultists, cutting them down satisfyingly with his naked scythe as well as blades of energy. The priest was his target, but the man was well shielded with hellish energy. Besides, he had to cut through all these others to get to him. Unlike on the Astral Plane, here he could summon help. With a couple of bone golems, he decimated them in minutes.
"You're not one of the militia or their whelps. Interesting..." the priest commented, completely unafraid of him.
Then he opened a fiery portal and disappeared through it, leaving all the other lesser cultists to die. Unlike so many other cultists Pyresong had encountered, these had no fear of him or of dying. Not a one of them fled. He regretted the loss of time, but he knew every cultist he killed now would be one less he'd have to deal with later. He dismissed his golems as the last body fell to the now blood-drenched sands.
There are hordes of them...enough to trip over the shard! he thought, only now beginning to understand just how large and coordinated this attack had been.
He had never been to Stormpoint before. Even in the darkness, the devastation was clear. He could feel the shard, too. It was nowhere near as strong as it had felt on the Astral Plane, but he could still feel it clearly. It was definitely calling to something in him, tugging him toward it. Putting aside the gut-twisting fear and loathing, he focused on his path. He was on the south side of the island. Based on what he could feel, it was somewhere far to the north. It took him several minutes in the darkness to find a winding stone stairway that led up from the beach to the cliffs that overlooked what had once been the docks. Careful of the slippery stairs, he gave in to his sense of urgency and was nearly running.
Atop the cliffs, the demonic and hellish energies were nearly overwhelming to his senses. He tightened his shields. He needed them at this point to filter out the sickening evil that now permeated this whole area. He had already come to realize that no shield he could ever use would ever entirely block out his sense of the shard. Much as that disturbed him, he would use it now. He needed to get to that shard before these cultists. If it calling to him would help with that, he would use it. But he also needed his arcane senses to follow this to its source. It was a careful balance he struggled to maintain.
Another foul ritual, he thought. Even the air here is unsettling. I feel the anguish in their wake.
His heart twisted painfully at the thought of so very many lives cut short. This entire island was under siege by the Terror Cultists. Thousands upon thousands of lives destroyed. The Balance here wasn't even teetering, it was already broken. Part of him berated himself. He had known yesterday! Yesterday! If he'd only pushed Cain harder...
But, no, that was not true. And that was not fair to his friend. He was the one with the connection to the shards. He had known, but he didn't know where. Without Karshun's help, they wouldn't even have learned this much. He had no idea how Cain's ritual had failed to detect this. The shard was already in use. He knew that much. Even though the cultists were actively hunting for it, he knew it was already being used somehow. It just wasn't in the cultists' hands. Someone else here had it. It was likely that usage that had brought the cultists here as much as it had alerted Pyresong.
Then why is it calling to me? he wondered.
His sense of it being actively used was as familiar as when he had destroyed Skarn. Given the sentience of the shards he had encountered thus far, they didn't call to him when they were already being used by something or someone willing. He could only guess that whatever had it was unwilling, possibly even fighting against it. Underneath all of this was the sickening realization that his sense of the shards had become so much keener. He couldn't really describe it, except to consider the sense as being somehow more clear, more focused. He did not even want to think of why that might be.
While his mind turned this over, he followed the path from the cliff inland. Almost immediately, he had to let those other thoughts go. He was confronted several times by more of those twisted crabs and octopus creatures. Wary of their electric shocks, he summoned some skeletons to keep the various creatures occupied while he cut them down from a safe distance. After a few minutes, the path forked north and east. Again, he paused to feel his way with his magical senses and vision. He knew the shard was to the north, but there was something hellish to his right. If his suspicions were correct, it was very likely a Hell rift. And a rift would just keep pouring out reinforcements until he stopped it. He was frustrated and desperate to get to the shard before the cultists. Yet, if there was going to be any chance of saving the residents of this island, he had to close the rift. Leaving it open was just leaving his back exposed to attack.
Forcibly shoving down his impatience and frustration, he turned to the right. The path to the east quickly went from bare stone and mud to beautifully carved stone bricks. As he had suspected, in the distance, he could see magic pouring out of a rift. The magic reached out across the land, twisting normal creatures and even insects into more of those creatures he'd already fought. At least it wasn't a rift to let demons pour through into Sanctuary. He spent easily the next twenty minutes fighting his way through creatures in the narrow path. Ahead, he could just make out a crypt and some kind of shrine beyond that. The magical rift must be anchored to that shrine.
From behind the crypt, a young man's voice cried out as he fought his way through more creatures. Unable to get to him at that second, he sent his skeletons ahead to assist. At the top of the landing, he finally managed to clear out the last of the twisted creatures. The soldier was on his knees, swaying. The man's face bled freely from a long, ragged wound that cut from forehead to cheek. Where his left eye had been was a bleeding socket. Having set his skeletons to guard them, he hooked his scythe and dropped his shield to the ground beside him. Assessing the damage, he reached for a healing potion and his backpack.
"You're one of the fortress guards? Tell me what happened here."
The young man accepted the healing potion gratefully while he dug out some bandages. He knew it wasn't much, but at least it might be enough to get the man back to safety and in the hands of a healer. The man held still, trying not to wince while Pyresong swiftly wrapped his face and head.
"They hit the shores with a bigger force than I ever saw in my life. I...I had to hide," the man admitted, shame clear in his voice. "They were taking captives...drowning people...cutting their throats and pushing them under..."
He was only surprised in the sense of there even existing this many cultists. Most of the time, cultists hid in the shadows and were little more than a couple dozen dabblers. Until he encountered the Damnation Cultists, he had never seen anything so organized. The idea that they had come here with a virtual army of Terror Cultists was disturbing, at the very least. How had they become so organized so quickly? It had only been a couple of months since Diablo had been freed in Hell. Sensing the man's rising shock and bordering on hysteria, he pitched his voice to speak soothingly.
"No one can be expected to win alone against the armies of Hell. There is no shame in your actions," he assured.
"They'll have made it to the fortress by now. Even more of them are crawling out of those portals. I came here to stop it, but I don't know how."
He finished off tying the bandages that were already soaking through with blood. At least now he knew it was a multi-functional rift. Despite the hellish energies fueling it, it wasn't tied directly to hell, it seemed.
"You're no coward, friend. You're right. If I disrupt the ritual and seal the rift, it will cut off their reinforcements."
He left the soldier sitting against the stone sarcophagus and retrieved his shield and scythe. He eyed the shrine a little ways away. There was always something used as an anchor for the rift. Cultists and demons just loved perverting anything they could while drawing from and corrupting the power within. He switched to his magical vision.
There you are.
He sent a flow of power into his scythe. It was a stone anchor, so it would be difficult to damage. Still, he was fairly certain a blade of energy concentrated enough would damage the sigil at least, much as he had once done with the stone constructs in Kulle's library. His first blade severed the flow of power to the rift, sealing it. Apparently, a priest was nearby, monitoring it. He and half a dozen more cultists appeared in a flash of red light behind him.
"The shard is ours, faithless one," the priest told him. "Spare yourself the agony of watching His fist close around it."
"You're the one that won't live to see it. Luckily for you, I don't have time to do more than end you quickly," he replied coldly.
Already sensing the energies gathering around them, he ducked and flung his blade of energy with one hand and used his shield hand to blast them with spirit fire. In the confusion and brilliant light of the spirit fire, he followed with his naked blade. He thoroughly enjoyed feeling it tear through flesh and bone. He regretted giving them such an easy out after all the carnage and destruction he had seen here already.
"Are they gone?" the soldier asked shakily as silence descended.
"I've only dealt with these. It won't be safe here for long. Tell me, what's the quickest path to the fortress?"
The soldier rose unsteadily, leaning on the sarcophagus. He gestured off into the darkness.
"It's westaways, up the ridge. There's a shanty town setup for those who can't service in the guard. Husbands, wives, children. The cult would have gone that way, too."
"Can you make it to the shore? It might be safer there."
The sound of voices coming up the path in the direction he'd used to get here caught his sensitive ears. He didn't wait for the soldier's reply.
"I hear more of them. Get out of here! Quickly!"
He motioned to a walkway off to the south where the guard could at least hide, if not escape. He turned to meet the cultists now running toward him down the path. There were only four of them this time, and none of them appeared to be priests. He finished off the last one quickly and then turned to see if the soldier had escaped or was just hiding. Behind him, the movement of the stone lid of the sarcophagus startled him enough to jump back from it with a filthy obscenity. Instead of the expected undead monster, a small blond head popped up out of the sarcophagus, looking around at all the bodies.
"Did you...kill them? All of them?"
Seeing that it was just a kid, Pyresong sighed and recovered his energy from his blade. The young boy looked to be no more than ten or twelve years old as he stood up to climb out of the stone structure.
"Not that I mind," the kid said casually. "They really deserved it." Hopping down onto the stones, he smiled up at Pyresong's scowl. "I was going to get them if you hadn't. Thanks for saving me the trouble. Wait, you're not from here," the kid told him, eyeing him in wide-eyed wonder. "Too much fancy armor. Who in the watery hells are you?"
Irritated that his scowl and eyes hadn't intimidated the kid, he shook his head angrily. "I should be asking you that. What are you doing sneaking around on a battlefield? You're old enough to see how dangerous this is."
Even his tone had done nothing to this kid. The boy just laughed.
"Calm down, old-timer. I can take care of myself. I just didn't want to fight five crazies at once, is all." He looked around at all the bodies. "I heard them cutting on the soldiers earlier. Bunch of mad sods. The one time we get visitors, and it's a cult," the kid continued with a shudder.
He let his expression go cold as he cocked an eyebrow at the kid. This seemed to have no more effect than anger on the brat.
"I'm going after them. Head down to the shore and avoid anyone you see," he instructed, turning to walk away.
"Or!" the kid cut in before he could turn away. "Or, how about this? We work together."
"Absolutely not."
"Hear me out!" he pushed on, a frantic edge to his voice. "You're looking for a shortcut to the fortress, and I know every shortcut there is. Help me help some people and—"
"No," he growled. "Go somewhere safe. Tell me everything, and I'll look for them."
Though he had a soft spot for children, he was about ready to shake this one. Scowling, cold looks, and even growling threateningly didn't deter this kid. Was he stupid or just desperate?
"You're not listening to me!" the boy went from pleading to angry. "They took...captives. We have to pay them back. If you don't help me, I'll do it myself."
Damn... I should... Pyresong swore in his head, frustrated.
He knew this type. And they all ended up the same. The kid meant what he said. He would eventually get himself into a situation he couldn't get out of. He could already envision the cultists cutting the boy to pieces and sighed mentally. And there was something more; he could sense it. The kid wasn't telling him something, and the boy was desperate. He scowled at the blond boy coldly again, hoping to scare him off. The kid just stared right back defiantly. He enjoyed kids in part because they didn't fear and loathe necromancers to the degree of most adults. But this was the first time he found that very fact working against him.
"What captives? What are they after?" he growled, still hoping to scare the kid off.
"I overheard them askin' about some treasure called the 'Heart of Creation'. That's stupid. We don't even have real houses here. Follow me."
Startled by the sudden shift, he reflexively grabbed the boy by the arm to stop him before he could get away.
"You stay behind me."
The boy smiled up at him triumphantly. "See? I knew you would help me!"
He just barely resisted the urge to smack the brat and sighed in frustration openly this time. But the boy was right. He'd just been easily manipulated by a child. Still, the boy was also right in that he needed to get to the fortress as fast as possible if this kid knew a way to get there faster without having to cut his way through an army of cultists, all the better. And any life he could save along the way...
Too many lost already, he thought, remembering the hundreds of bodies he'd seen.
"Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma," he introduced, still letting a cold edge cling to his voice. "Tell me what you know."
"Esmund, a nobody to you," he shot back with a cheeky grin. "When they get an answer they don't like, they just say 'blood leads the way', and then they start cutting, all slow..."
Esmund's already pale skin went sallow as he shuddered again, the horror of what he'd seen clear on his face. Pyresong couldn't help feeling for the kid. But he also knew now, this was no mere child, not anymore. After what he'd suffered in this attack, he'd never be an innocent child again. He felt his expression soften unconsciously.
"Who is it you know that they've taken?"
The boy was startled for a moment by the direct question. Esmund swallowed, forcing down his emotions. Then his face turned hard.
"My sister...Fern. She's...she's been gone a couple of days, all right? I'm not sure if...if..."
Unable to maintain the cold facade now that it clearly hadn't worked, he put a comforting hand on the boy's thin shoulder. "I will do what I can."
"Just help me hurt them," the boy insisted angrily. "I know you can. I'm just a kid."
He took the hunting knife off his belt, praying he would not regret this. At least this one looked like he might be willing to listen to instructions and not run off into battle or some such stupid thing. He handed the boy the large knife.
"Carry this, but only use it to defend yourself if necessary. Stay behind me. Do you know what a Priest of Rathma is?"
Esmund shook his head. He summoned a skeletal warrior, a skeletal mage, and a bone golem. The boy's eyes grew wide with wonder rather than fear. He quickly dismissed them, wanting to conserve energy for the fighting ahead.
"I am a necromancer. I summon things to aid me when I fight. Do not run from them. And I don't ask you to stay behind me just to protect you. I have other spells that will kill you if you're in the way. Do you understand?"
Esmund nodded solemnly.
Good enough, he thought
Praying he wasn't making a huge mistake, he turned his attention back down the path in the direction he had arrived. Memories of Alyssa flashed through his mind, and he stuffed them into a dark hole. Just as with Alyssa, every footstep from Esmund sounded like a thunderclap on the carved stones. After a few seconds, though, he could hear the boy start to emulate his steps by walking on his toes rather than heels first. He nearly chuckled at that and actually did grin in the darkness. The kid was quick. By the sounds of it, he was accustomed to sneaking in his own, childish way.
He didn't have much time to think about it, though. Almost as soon as their feet returned to the part of the path that wasn't carved stones, more twisted creatures came out of the darkness. He quickly summoned a skeleton to stand guard over the boy while he sent blades of energy into the darkness where he'd heard the noise. Thankfully, the things died easily enough with little effort expended.
Esmund led them north, away from the cliffs along the beach and then down a flight of stone brick stairs covered in moss. It didn't take long with the boy's guidance. Now, getting a better look at the devastation, he was almost glad he had the boy with him. In this maze of wreckage, he might never have found his way to the fortress. He paused at the top of the stairs that led down. In the darkness below, he could just make out the ruins of what looked to be a dockside shanty town. Though he couldn't see them, he could easily hear lots of movement at the bottom of the stairs. Something—several somethings—slithered across the boards down below. According to his ears, they were larger than a human. He knelt down beside Esmund to whisper in his ears.
"Wait here until I clear them."
The boy nodded, and he left him with a skeletal guardian. As he crept down the stairs, the moon began to come out from between clouds. He crouched down into the shadows of the walls along the stairs. A few feet away, he spotted another magically twisted creature that resembled a cross between an eel and a fish. It very much reminded him of the snake demons he'd seen in Hell. Some of them even carried weapons, likely picked off the corpses of the people they'd killed. He watched their dark, slimy skin glisten in the moonlight as they slithered back and forth across the mossy and now slime-covered boards. He couldn't gauge their intelligence, but he didn't see anything with his magical vision that would warn him of mages or shamans.
While he watched, he listened. There were dozens of them scattered all over the ruins of the shanty town. They slithered aimlessly, not like an organized patrol. From what little he could see, the terrain was uneven, sometimes rocky, and very wet. Above all, this one space was narrow. He was glad he'd left Esmund above for now. When the fight started, it was very likely they would come flocking to the noise. Having the narrow spaces to slow them down just might be the key to clearing them without being overwhelmed. Despite the overall feeling of vile magics, he lowered his shields just enough to extend his senses around the immediate area. Satisfied there were no more cultists or ongoing rituals, he finalized his plans.
He waited a few more heartbeats for the closest one to slither away from the base of the stairs. He was literally only inches away from it when it passed by. These things apparently had no sense of smell as well as poor vision, if they couldn't detect him at this range. Their sense of hearing was obviously acute, as he found out seconds later. When the body of the first one hit the boards with a thud, the dozens of others he'd heard all came his direction. Positioning himself in a tight space where no more than two at a time could get to him, and there was nothing but the stairs behind him, he began cutting them down with his physical blade as they came. As the corpses piled up, he backed away slowly, leaving more. When he was all the way back to the foot of the stairs and they were all bunched up ahead of him over and around the dozens of corpses, he shielded himself and ignited all of the corpses at once. The explosion was a blast of thunder that echoed off the nearby cliffs. But it worked. With a minimum of energy usage, he'd attracted and killed almost everything in the shanty town.
He paused to listen for a few more seconds to ensure there were no more coming their way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Esmund had come halfway down the stairs, shaking and wide-eyed. Fairly confident there weren't more of those things headed their way, he relaxed slightly. Struggling to slow his breathing again, he waved him down.
"I thought..."
"It's all right. I just used corpse explosion to kill the rest of them quickly. That is why you stay behind me. Understand?"
Esmund nodded, recovering from his momentary panic. "That way."
He followed Esmund's directions through the slippery remains of the monsters he'd killed. The place was an absolute maze of wood and stone walkways going in every direction. Every single structure looked to have collapsed. Either it was burned to rubble or somehow blasted apart. He knew without the boy's guidance, he'd have been lost in this maze within minutes. A couple of times, he paused to check some human corpses. Though he very much knew from experience the chances of anyone surviving this level of devastation were almost nonexistent, there was always a part of him that still hoped. Here, the cultists had swept through and then left magically twisted creatures and even demons in their wake to finish off any survivors. No, he had little hope of survivors in this shanty town. It was nearly impossible to defend and left few places to take cover. He only hoped the more defensible fortress would fare better. The boy watched in wide-eyed fascination while his hands glowed, moving them quickly over the corpses he did find that weren't already obviously dead or floating in the water.
"Just making sure they're at peace," he explained.
Esmund nodded sadly. Briefly, Pyresong wondered how many of the corpses they'd seen so far were people the boy had known. Probably many of them. Toward the west, in the direction they were headed, he spotted the faint glow from the embers of a fire burned down. Expecting more cultists, he motioned for Esmund to stay further behind while he checked it out. When he approached, it became clear it was the leftovers of some kind of camp. All around the shelter, more bodies were scattered about. One of them, in a blood-soaked tunic, raised a knife at him from where he sat near the fire.
"Don't come any closer," the young man warned weakly.
"Taylor!" Esmund whispered, running forward to push past Pyresong. "Tay... I found someone that can help us."
He already had a healing potion out as he knelt down to see the young man. Then he saw the full extent of the gaping wounds. They were too late. Nothing short of a healer, and maybe not even that, would save him. Esmund knelt beside his friend.
"They shackled...most everybody. Went...north," Taylor told Esmund, ignoring Pyresong. With the last of his strength, he gripped Esmund's dirty tunic in one bloody hand. "Listen... Esmund...run... Don't fight."
Esmund nodded silently, unable to speak. He wept quietly as his friend took a few more breaths and then stopped. Pyresong whispered his prayers and watched as Taylor's spirit rose up and then fled through the open door to the next world. He put a comforting hand on the boy's shaking shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Esmund," he said gently, unable to stop his compassion from taking over. "If it's what you want...I will help you find Fern. We'll pay them back."
Esmund nodded and then vigorously rubbed away his tears, only managing to smear more blood on his face. He took a few deep breaths to get himself under control. Pyresong gave him that time as he stuffed his sense of urgency into a dark corner for a minute. He needed this kid to guide him, yes. But his sense of compassion couldn't see this as just that. He needed to get this child to safety, and he prayed they could find Fern dead or alive, if for no other reason than to give this boy the closure he would need.
"To the north, that's near the-the Planks," Esmund told him in a voice thick with barely controlled tears. "There's a cave not far off that should get us closer to the keep."
"Look for a cave. Got it."
"You can go on ahead. I'll catch up," Esmund told him.
"I'm not leaving you here. There might be more monsters."
"I need to take care of their rites. I-I know you don't have time, but there's nobody else. I'll catch up to you."
The necromancer shook his head sadly. The fact that this child even knew such rites well enough to do them himself spoke of the boy's experience already in life. It saddened him. But he wasn't about to leave Esmund there alone. He knew the boy wouldn't budge until this was seen to. Though he'd never been here before, he knew enough from other places. Some local customs were unique to such places; but were all really just variations of others he already knew.
"I will help," he assured softly. "Show me."
Esmund nodded gratefully; then he moved to arrange the corpse. He listened closely while the boy spoke.
"Look no more on day or night. Drift in the sea evermore. The pull of waters warm and bright; Light's merry home, Light's open door."
He made a sign of the waves across Taylor's forehead and then closed his eyes. Then he moved to the next corpse nearby. Pyresong did the same, finding himself confronted with a little girl that had been no more than a toddler. Likely, this Taylor was her father. Then he found others, half covered under canvas. That's when he began to realize. This had been a multi-family home, not just a camp, and these corpses were all that was left. He stoked his cold rage. One by one, they worked their way through all of the corpses in this little space. When it was done, Esmund had no more tears. His anger had burned them away.
"They took us in after our parents died," the boy explained. "We'll make these bastards pay."
Proud of the boy's resilience, Pyresong squeezed his shoulder. But this was all they could offer the dead right now. Hopefully, there would be time to see to more after this was over. Esmund resolutely turned his steps away from this place and headed north.
"Behind me, Esmund," he reminded gently, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately.
Esmund sighed but obeyed. He whispered directions that led them through an absolute maze of broken shacks and even some broken walkways. In the darkness on the slippery planks, it was slow going for a while. Inevitably, they encountered yet more of those fishy eel monsters and other things. The boy did his best to stay back out of the way, making things easier for him. It seemed to take hours before they finally made it to the area he had called the Planks. The terrain was really no different than before, but the walkways were at least a little less treacherous. There were a bit more crumbling stone foundations between the endless rotting wood planks.
Spying another cluster of those eel monsters gathered around some stone pillars, he motioned for Esmund to wait again while he moved ahead. When the last slimy bodies fell to the stone floor, a quavering voice came from above. Startled, he looked up to find a man in a yellow, hooded robe atop some crumbling stone walls.
"You're not a cultist. Are you a friend?" the man asked, hesitantly.
"Posho!" Esmund whispered nearby.
"Is your name Posho? I have Esmund with me."
"Thank the Ancients!" the man whispered back.
Esmund came out of where he'd been hiding in a nook nearby. Pyresong hooked his shield and scythe for a moment to help the man climb down from his precarious position. Seeing the old man was wounded in one arm and leg, he offered him a healing potion that was accepted gratefully.
"Where did they take others?" Esmund asked, fidgeting impatiently.
The old man made a face at the taste of the potion but sighed in relief when the warmth of healing spread to his limbs. He turned to the necromancer, eyes wide with terror.
"The cult took over the Planks. I've been moving from one hiding spot to another, trying to find other survivors. They torture people...read our entrails...draw maps in our blood..."
"Posho! Where's Fern?" Esmund demanded.
Already knowing what was happening here, Pyresong motioned for Esmund to be silent a moment. He knew shock when he saw it. Likely the old man wasn't even hearing Esmund's questions right now.
"I don't know what they're after," Posho continued in a vague, faint voice, "but the keep won't hold. That monster they have could fly over the highest walls of the continent. I need to get away from here. I need to keep moving. They won't catch me and read my entrails. If... If..."
"It's all right," Pyresong told him soothingly. "I've cleared the path to the Shanties. If you can get to the south cliffs and beach, it might be safer there. Do you know where Fern and the others are being held?"
"Fern?" the man asked, seeming to shake off his shock for a moment. "I-I don't know for sure. Somewhere north of here. But I found this yesterday."
He pulled what looked like a bronze talisman out of the sleeve pocket on his robe. Esmund snatched the talisman out of the old man's hands. Poshso seemed to only just now notice the boy's presence. He fell to his knees to hug the boy.
"You're alive! Thank the Ancients!"
Seeing the man was a bit more coherent now, he tried again. "Make your way back to the Shanties. It should be safer there."
The man let go of a squirming Esmund and jumped back to his feet. His frantic eyes and voice pierced the too quiet night.
"No! You can't leave me out here! There's an unholy altar up there! They're...oh gods... They're..."
He tried to calm the man before he got himself worked up any further. There was no time for the hysterics, and no way he would sacrifice another half a night going back. He had already lost too much time. He looked around, half-expecting something to come toward them from all the noise. Maybe there was somewhere here where the old man could hide safely, at least until daylight. Before he could suggest it, Esmund spoke up.
"I'll take him," Esmund offered. "If it's like the one where I found you, it'll be the shrine just to the north. Follow that path. You can't miss the shrine."
"They carve out the entrails to read like a map!" Posho wailed.
Esmund reached up and grabbed the man's robes and jerked downward, hard. "Posho, listen to me! I'm going to get you out of here. But he has to go save them. Now shut up before you get us all killed."
The old man blinked a few times, as if confused, but nodded slowly. Satisfied, Esmund let him go. Pyresong resisted a grin. Yes, he knew people in shock often didn't think at all, let alone clearly. Posho's behavior came as no surprise. But with Esmund, he was proud of the boy in a way he couldn't quite understand.
"The cave is right near that altar. I'll catch up with you as soon as I can," Esmund told him, fearlessly.
He didn't like the idea of being separated from the boy, but taking along an old man clearly still in shock over recent events wasn't an option. Leaving him here would likely be a death sentence. He was torn, but the boy had survived this long. And Esmund could likely retrace their steps through the areas he had cleared without an issue. He had to get to that shard. He knew if he didn't get that shard, nothing else here would matter in the long term.
If Diablo got that shard, they were all damned.
Reluctantly, he nodded. "Go. Be safe. I will find them."
"Wait, take this with you." Esmund handed over the talisman he'd gotten from Posho. "If you find Fern..."
Esmund made a face and then shook his head. He seemed to change his mind about whatever he was about to say. Pyresong waited patiently while the boy worked through whatever it was.
"Just tell her I'll catch up," he finally said, firmly.
He wanted to ruffle the kid's hair affectionately as he often did with kids. But this was no boy, not really, not anymore. He offered his hand, as he would any man. Esmund smiled at that and shook it firmly. He watched for a few seconds while Esmund took the old man's hand and began leading him back the way they had come. Then, he turned to follow the north path that Esmund had indicated.
A few minutes later, he was mildly surprised to find a clear and well-used waypoint just to his left atop a short flight of stone stairs. He paused a moment to memorize it for possible later use. As he turned back toward the path, the distinct sound of slithering had him pausing to listen more closely. There were more of those eel monsters, but that was not all. He could sense the hellish energies of another ritual not far ahead. Esmund and Posho had said the altar was to the north, but he was clearly feeling this to the east of his current position...maybe a little northeast. It was a vile, thickening miasma that radiated filthy energies he could not ignore. Even if it wasn't the altar, it was definitely another profane ritual, likely holding open another rift by the feel of it.
He inched his way through the shadows, silently cutting down some more monsters as they crossed his path. For now, he would have to ignore the others as long as they didn't notice him. It wasn't very long before switching to magical vision revealed two cultists ahead blocking his path. The whole area beyond was well lit by dozens of torches. The darkness of night had been banished so they could do their sickening work. One cultist he could likely sneak up on and kill silently enough not to raise a cry. Two and he was either going to have to use magic, like scythe blades that would attract attention; or summonings. Either option would alert any others to his presence. They were just far enough apart that he couldn't likely take both their heads off with the same swing.
Beyond them, he could make out more chanting. Though one voice rose above the others, there was easily a score involved in the ritual. The ritual and likely rift beyond was a wall of magic his vision could not easily penetrate. And there was no good cover between himself and the pair of cultists guarding the entrance to that area. He would just have to take his chances. On the slippery boards, running wasn't really an option. He reinforced his magical shields and summoned a few skeletal minions. He was halfway down the short and narrow walkway when one of them finally noticed him. He was almost close enough to lash out and silence them. But he hadn't expected to be that lucky, anyway.
"We didn't get everyone. Tell Akinees," one of them ordered.
The first one was cut down with a blade of energy as he turned to run. His return stroke killed the other. Already, there were at least half a dozen more headed his way. Rather than pushing forward, he decided to stay in the small space to reduce the effectiveness of their numbers. Again, he noted the fact that these cultists were not like Skarn's. These had no fear of him or of dying. The immediate threat dealt with, he moved into the lighted area beyond.
Ahead, he could clearly see an altar with an unholy book on it. A giant circular walkway formed a half circle of planking on a separate path around the large central shrine behind the altar. Whatever this shrine had been before, it was now covered in blood and had many elements of Hell protruding all over it, like disgusting growths. Writhing masses and blackened bones, much as what he'd seen in Hell, warped whatever shape the shrine had been in before. As ever, cultists and hellish influences just loved perverting holy shrines to their own use.
"Ha! This one's blood will paint volumes!" Akinees called out.
He recognized this priest standing at the altar. It was the same one he'd encountered on the beach. Akinees put up a filthy-feeling shield around the altar with the book.
"Protect it with your lives!" Akinees ordered.
A dozen of the many cultists nearby scrambled out of this main area and onto the circular walkway hidden in the shadows beyond. Satisfied, Akinees fled through a small portal while several other cultists moved in on Pyresong. Even more of others moved away from the fray and onto that other circular path beyond. Unsure if any of these were mages, he sent his skeletal minions in a fan around him while he danced around cutting them down. In between kills, he switched to his magical vision again to analyze the shield around the altar. For a second, he saw the lines of energy going out from the altar to something in the darkness beyond the light of the numerous torches. He had seen at least three strong ropes of energy coming from that darkened circular path beyond. The central area around the altar was now cleared of living cultists.
There was no sign of a rift here. Eyeing the setup, he couldn't begin to make out what it was all about or what it was for. Maybe he had interrupted whatever they were planning, and they hadn't managed to open the rift yet. The book on the altar seemed to be the key to something they were doing. Like anything else these cultists erected, he would destroy it gladly. His first attempt to penetrate the shield around the book did nothing. Of course, it couldn't possibly be that easy. Whatever was anchoring the shield had to be related to those flows of power. He followed one of those lines of power off his right.
His stomach churned as he caught sight of what he knew was an anchor for the shield. It was a warped mass of tainted and perverted human flesh. Now he knew what had become of the innocent people that had been dragged here. He was just thankful he sensed no souls in that mass. Of course, there were a few cultists protecting it. Shockingly, they completely disregarded his presence in favor of maintaining the shield around the mass. He almost couldn't believe it. They would rather die than stop what they were doing. It was disturbing to think they would rather die than even fight back for their own lives.
His anger, having been carefully banked, he used now to lash out at all three of the cultists, protecting the mass. With a single blade of energy, he cut right through them in a wide fan. Hearing more cultists coming up behind him, he repeated the move, putting all his pent-up anger into that blade. He made it thin as a razor. When he turned back to the writhing, bloody mass, it was now exposed. This he would purify. Again he poured his rage into his hands and unleashed a stream of fire at the thing. It burned quickly and he saw the line of energy to the altar weaken. In seconds, the mass was too badly damaged to sustain whatever it had been created for and collapsed. The line of energy disappeared.
Already more cultists were moving in his direction from other shadows. He had no idea where they were coming from and didn't care. The more he killed now, the better. The narrow walkways worked to his advantage. One after another, he cut them down, mostly with his physical scythe at this point. After what he had seen of this place, he wanted to feel them suffering and dying on his blade.
He worked his way through the darkness, following his line of sight from the altar to find another mass. Again, he quickly killed the cultists shielding it and then burned the mass to purify it. Apparently all of the cultists with any magical ability had been set to shielding these fleshy constructs to keep the ritual going. And, as with the others, they had no fear of death. None even attempted to stop him from killing them. Apparently, they would rather die than fail, which he was happy to oblige. Briefly, there was a flicker of something darker in him wanting to use that against them to make them suffer longer. He knew where that came from and shoved it back into its dark hole. Something about their perspective of preferring death to failure made him even sicker about all of this. But he didn't have time to analyze it, either.
Altogether, he found four of the masses and destroyed them, along with at least two score of the cultists. Something in the back of his mind felt this was just too easy. The high priest, Akinees, had fled, unlike all these others. But none of these cultists had been mindless. They had accepted their orders and not deviated from them in the slightest. He couldn't help questioning why. If there was no rift, what had been the purpose of this whole thing?
He approached the altar with the still open book warily. He could neither see nor sense a summoning circle. But this place was clearly flooded with the magic and energies directly linked to Hell. Cautious, he reinforced his shields against both magic and physical attack. He then double-checked his mental shields, even though they could do nothing to filter out his sense of tugging from the shard. Hoping to possibly glean some understanding of what they were planning, he scanned the open pages. With no small amount of disgust and loathing, he began to read the words clearly written in human blood.
When the moon is nowhere in sight, bind them and take them
to the ocean and let their lifeblood commingle with the brine.
Before they drown, fill your belly with seawater and the issue
of their wounds. You will not find it pleasant, but one does not
ascend Terror's throne in calm and certitude.
The fear He wishes for others, He wishes for you. Keep it in your
heart and you will join me in the depths and breathe them
clear as mountain air. As you read, thus Akinees bids you.
Thus, you are commanded.
Terror. That is why they would rather die. They're more afraid of their master than they are of dying, he realized.
Thoroughly disgusted, he reached inside to his source of fire. Like those shield anchors, he would burn this loathsome book and its instructions to nothing with white-hot fire. A stealthy sound in the shadows beyond the torches where he'd cut down the first of the gathered cultists made him pause. He listened for a heartbeat longer. Expecting an attack, he already had his hand on his scythe. Then, he recognized the not-quite-stealthy footsteps. Shaking off his disgust at what he'd read, he grinned. He looked back up at the wooden path.
"I hear you sneaking around, Esmund. You need to work on that."
"Why? You always distract them anyway," Esmund shot back cheekily as he approached. "I found some other survivors. They'll take care of Posho. Did you find anyone?"
More than anything, he was glad he had already destroyed those fleshy anchors. He moved to block the boy's view of the book and its clear message. If he didn't know already, he certainly didn't need to learn about it here and now. The boy was doing well, and he just might survive this mentally. But the less he knew, the better. Besides, he wasn't sure if the book itself might harm the boy. He had heard horror stories of other innocents harmed by just reading some materials. Cain even had a few in his locked room. He motioned Esmund to keep back away from the altar.
"I didn't find anyone alive," he admitted, carefully.
Esmund's grief was clear on his face as he looked around at the carnage of this place. It tugged at something in him, twisting in his chest almost painfully.
"They killed so many of us...these butchers..." Esmund whispered as if in disbelief.
"Listen...I'll get them, all right?" he assured the boy.
"I'm glad she's not here," the boy said sadly, "but I still need to find her."
Given the things Pyresong had destroyed, he wasn't entirely certain Fern wasn't among the bodies used to create them. But he didn't have the heart to tell Esmund that. Not now. He dug into his side satchel and handed the talisman back to the boy. Much as he needed Esmund's help to get to the keep quickly, he could not completely ignore those heartbroken words or the fact that he was still just a child in so many ways. He knelt down so the boy could be at eye level, not staring up at him.
"If you don't want to go any further, you don't have to," he told Esmund gently. "Where's your shortcut?"
"I'm coming with you," Esmund said firmly after a second.
He used the broken leather thong still wound around the talisman to tie it around his neck and tucked it under his shirt. Then he grinned mischievously at Pyresong.
"Besides, if I don't, you'll probably drown. We need to destroy the shrine first."
"All right, then, together," he affirmed, proud of the boy's resilience and courage. "Stand back over there," he indicated a spot several feet away.
First, he returned to his initial desire to burn the book. His flames burned white as he annihilated the thing. It flashed violently once in a filthy-feeling blast that made him glad he'd kept his shields strong and Esmund well away from it. He kept going until there was nothing more than a fistful of unrecognizable charred ash. Then kicked over the stone altar it stood on. He pulled his scythe and turned to the hellish shrine. Large as it was, it was still mostly made of various flesh and similar materials from Hell. These he was able to easily cut through with a couple of blades of energy. He moved back as the whole shrine collapsed into pieces that mostly dissolved back into nothing when they returned to Hell. A considerable amount of damaged planking collapsed beneath it as well, creating a large hole that revealed the black waters below. Thankfully for Esmund, nothing of what remained resembled human flesh enough to further traumatize him. Pyresong didn't doubt the boy's resilience. Yet, he knew all too well that even that could only get someone so far. The boy had seen enough carnage already.
"Nice work," Esmund commented, coming up beside him. "They can't hide from us anymore."
The boy fearlessly walked right up to the gaping hole where the shrine had been. Pyresong resisted the urge to pull Esmund back from the edge, unsure how much of that wood was rotted and unstable. Still, he couldn't help glancing down in the direction the boy was looking. It went down about twenty feet and ended in gently rolling black waves. There was a forest of wood pylons in every direction. Pyresong could see no obvious cave. Suddenly, the boy's recent comment about drowning began to make sense.
"What are you doing? Where's the cave?" he asked, not liking where his suspicions were going.
"Down there. Just hold your breath and kick your legs," Esmund said with a grin, as if sensing his trepidation. "Don't panic. The sea knows."
"It knows what? That I'm wearing an extra forty pounds of armor?"
Esmund laughed. Biting back a vile expletive, Pyresong looked down at the gently rolling water. He had no idea how deep it went, but he suspected it wasn't shallow enough for his liking. He was not afraid of water, even black waters. He was a good swimmer, once. But he still hadn't fully recovered from the weeks he'd spent asleep. On top of all of that, it was likely nearing sunrise, and he had been up for a full day and night. The kid had a lot more energy and stamina than he did right now. He was teetering on trying to find another way when Esmund took the decision out of his hands by jumping off the broken planks and into the black waters below. An even more filthy obscenity escaped his lips. With a mental snarl of frustration, he gave in. He hooked his shield on his back and hoped for the best. He kept the scythe in his hand, knowing the hook on his belt wouldn't hold once he hit the water.
Seeing the boy's head break the water a second later, he moved a bit off to the right and jumped in feet first. As soon as he hit the water, he tugged on his shield to make sure it was secure and hooked his scythe. Silently, he let loose several profanities he had learned from Rehm's crew as he struggled toward the surface. It took him a lot longer than he would have liked to get back to the surface, and it was more than a little difficult to stay above the water. He blessed Charsi yet again for making his gear so incredibly light. For half a second, he wondered if there was something that would make swimming easier that she could add. But Esmund was already swimming away. He followed, trying to keep up. After a couple of minutes, the boy stopped beside a pylon clearly marked by someone's knife at some point.
"Down here," Esmund told him. "At the base, there's a rock shelf and an opening. I know it's dark. Just follow me."
"Wait," he called softly before the boy could get away.
He wasn't about to lose Esmund in the murk. He knew with having already struggled to swim on the surface, that the dive would be the easy part. If he lost sight of Esmund or got disoriented, he would not make it to the surface again. Before Esmund could dive, he came up with the one idea that even remotely made sense. He could only hope there weren't more of those monsters nearby that would be attracted to the light. He pulled all his energy to the surface, right on the edge of unleashing a spell, making his whole body glow.
"Woah..." Esmund said, wide-eyed again with wonder.
"Go, quickly. I can't keep this up for long."
He took one more deep breath and then went downward. The boy swam like an otter. Pyresong struggled to keep up. The current was almost nonexistent here, and the dive was easier than he felt comfortable with, given how much he was wearing. He already began to feel the gentle burning in his lungs and the need for air when Esmund found the opening and pulled himself through. He followed, only a few inches behind. Instead of swimming, the boy pulled himself along the tunnel using the rough rocks. Pyresong was so much taller, he was able to get a foothold below and push himself rather than pull in the small space. He could already feel the air escaping as he resisted the urge to breathe. He knew he didn't have but a few more seconds.
Suddenly, the boy disappeared upward, and all he could see was Esmund's boots. And then those disappeared too. The darkness edging his vision tingled with faint explosions of light as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Reflexively, he reached up to try to find the boy, nearly panicked. Instead, he felt his hand being gripped by two smaller ones when Esmund pulled him to the surface. The surprise of it had him choking on seawater. Thankfully, he had been so startled that he had lost his concentration rather than unleashing the prepared spell, spirit fire. Somehow, he managed to grip the ledge with his other hand as he coughed up the little bit of water he had ingested.
"I gotcha," Esmund whispered, still gripping his other hand and leaning back with all his weight to keep him from falling back in.
Finally able to take a breath, he shook off the dizziness. The saltwater that had gone up his nose had momentarily stunned him. Now he could smell it, though. Sensing the danger, he took his hand back from Esmund and stifled his coughs. He pulled himself up out of the water quickly, already listening beyond the sound of running water for any approaching threats. The echoes of water bouncing off of distant walls gave him a sense of how very large this place was. Freed from holding up the necromancer, the boy reached over to a crate where he kept torches and strikers.
"Don't," Pyresong hissed, still trying to muffle his coughs.
"Ugh, it really stinks in here right now," Esmund whispered, nearly gagging. "Blood? I've never smelled so much all at once."
"I h-have," Pyresong whispered darkly between muffled coughs. "K-keep quiet. No l-lights. They're here s-s-somewhere."
He quickly downed a bit of healing potion to help clear his burning throat. If any of the water had gotten into his lungs, the healing potion would have cleared it. As it was, he was able to stop coughing and breathe clearly again after only a few seconds.
"But how?" Esmund whispered back, more confused than afraid. "These are old sewers from the original fortress and city. It sank below the waves a long time ago."
"I don't know, but keep out of sight. Stay well behind me," he ordered, unhooking his shield and scythe.
"How are you going to see?"
"I have magical site," he whispered back, thankful for the running water he could hear masking their voices. "I can see magical auras, especially around the cultists because of their connection to Hell. Which way?"
"Up the stairs to your left," Esmund whispered. "Then it winds around up to a...a...I don't know what to call it. But if you follow that tunnel and stay on the main...uh, biggest one, it opens up. Then we'll need to go down."
He made his way through the total darkness carefully until his boot encountered the stairs Esmund had warned him about. He felt more than heard Esmund shuffling along behind him. Still keeping his eyes attuned to the magical spectrum, he could feel the evil ahead literally oozing from above. There were more sickening rituals ongoing further in the tunnels. He carefully and silently took the steps one at a time. He didn't have to rely on his magical vision for long. Just to his left, at the top of the stairs, he could make out the tunnel lit with torches. Switching to normal vision again, he caught sight of five cultists sitting in a pentagram, Diablo's trademark sigil.
It didn't look like a summoning circle as far as he could tell. But they all sat motionless as if waiting for something. If any of these had been in contact with a shard at any point, they would have sensed him. So far as he had detected, none of the cultists he had yet encountered had been in contact with any shard. Whatever was going on here, they still had not found it.
Knowing the noise he was about to make would very likely bring more cultists running, he knelt down in the shadows just beyond the torches. With a precision blade of energy swiped at that level and from that angle, he was able to kill all five of them before they could raise the alarm.
"Bastards. You'll all pay," he heard Esmund whisper behind him.
He nodded silent agreement. From that point on, the path was absolutely lined with mutilated bodies. Many had been eviscerated and lay amid their own entrails on both sides of the tunnel. There was a virtual river of blood pouring in their direction down the path. For as far as he could see stretching up and through the lighted path, nothing but bodies. For a few seconds, he considered sending Esmund back. The poor boy had seen enough. But then how would he find this shortcut to the fortress? He knew he would be lost in the maze of tunnels within minutes. He really had no choice from here.
Sickened by the fact that the boy would have to see all this, Pyresong gave up on stealth. He was too angry at this point. He cheerfully embraced that carefully leashed rage. He was going to kill every cultist he encountered in this tunnel. There was easily enough light to see ahead. He could even sense the hellfire beyond the wider chamber Esmund had warned him of. Disgusted by the sheer amount of carnage he saw in this one tunnel alone, he motioned again for Esmund to stay several feet away from him as he dove in. One after another, he cut down the cultists. He killed dozens of them with his bare blade. Their agonized screams and groans were more than a little satisfying. He couldn't help the frigid smile as he danced through them all.
Whatever was up ahead likely already knew they were there. When Hellfire was involved, it was almost guaranteed to be a demon. At least, its size would be limited to whatever size the chamber would be. And, sadly, finding restless spirits in this place for something like his bone spirits spell would be no difficulty. As he neared the stairs that led up to that chamber, he pulled back on his rage just enough to keep from rushing blindly ahead. Still snarling mentally, ready to kill more of them, he approached the foot of the stairs where he sensed the hellfire.
Behind him, he heard Esmund gasp and let out a quickly strangled cry. He spun around, expecting an attack. Instead, he found the boy picking up a necklace out of the small river of blood flowing back down the tunnel they had just traversed.
"No, no, no..." Esmund moaned softly.
The rage evaporated. He knew that tone. It was the sound of horrified heartbreak he had heard many times in his life. His heart sank. Clutching the bloody necklace, Esmund began frantically checking the bodies all around him.
"Ferns?" he asked gently.
"I told her to get away," Esmund whispered back in panic. "She had to... I can't find her. I told her..."
He had been afraid something like this would happen. In the chaos of combat, he had all but forgotten that Esmund's own sister might very well be among the bodies here. Heartless as it felt to him, the boy was now the only one who could get him out of here, preferably into the fortress. They didn't have time to check all the small bodies that lined the caverns, and there were many, many smaller ones mixed in. The numerous child bodies mixed in with all the others had only further fueled his rage. He already knew what had become of Fern. He hated himself for what he had to do next.
Lying in any form or for any reason did not sit well with him. Doing so now to force to boy to keep helping him nearly made him feel sick. But there was absolutely no time for this, and the danger was so close now, he couldn't afford to let the boy out of his sight. He gripped the back of Esmund's tunic and pulled him roughly back to his feet. Then he took him by his quaking shoulders, forcing the boy to look at him. Esmund's shoulders shook violently, but he would not give into the tears. He knelt down so Esmund wouldn't have to look up at him.
"Listen to me, Esmund," he said soothingly. "You don't see her here. It's just a necklace, just like the talisman. Maybe she lost it while running. We don't know. You can't stop now."
This seemed to get through to Esmund. Again his dark blue eyes roamed the multiple bodies before coming back to Pyresong's. The hope in them stabbed at him painfully. Silently he swore he would find a way to reach Fern's spirit to give this poor child peace when this was over.
"She's so small. She... She can't even..." the boy whispered, his expression begging him to give him any kind of hope.
"That's right. She may have hidden somewhere. We have to keep looking for her," he agreed, shoving aside the twisting feelings of guilt in his gut.
Esmund gulped a couple of times and took a deep breath. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"There is nothing to be sorry for," he assured him. "But I need you to stay in the tunnel. There's something worse than cultists ahead."
Still struggling against the tears, Esmund just nodded. He'd hated lying to the boy. The kid's wide-eyed look of raw hope felt like a knife twisting inside of him painfully. But the sheer amount of carnage here told him that if the girl had been here, she was not likely to have survived. Part of him prayed he was wrong. Yet, he'd seen too much already to have any real hope. Now, he needed to stop wasting time and get to that fortress. He needed to see if any surviving soldiers could help. And he needed to track down the shard. He could feel it as he moved north. He could feel that the sensation of the shard's direction had changed slightly. It was getting closer, stronger. Still whispering to him, tugging at him. Shoving it aside, he refocused on this. Seeing Esmund would obey, he walked up the far stairs toward the wider chamber. The sight that greeted him made him pause with something akin to shock.
Unbelievable...look at all of them...
He didn't even bother covering his expression of shock and disbelief. The chamber floor was covered in piles and piles of bodies. Hundreds of them. Men, women, and children. The population of an entire village was right there in that one room. The handful of cultists present met his wrath as he cut through them. This sight had angered and sickened him to a point where he no longer even felt the weariness of earlier. He needed to feel his scythe gutting them and tearing them apart as he vented his anger. Since none of them appeared to be mages, he was perfectly fine leaving them moaning in agony on the floor. No quick end for them. He was glad there was no demon, but there was still the wall of hellfire to deal with. As the last cultists fell, he heard Esmund's horrified gasp from the stairs behind. He spun around, too late to stop the boy from seeing this. Though, he hadn't really considered a good way to avoid it either.
"No, no, no! How... Why would they do this?" Esmund whispered in horror.
Before he could say anything, he felt the gathering energies behind him, and a familiar voice rang through the chamber.
"They are more in death than they ever were in life," Akinees mocked.
Whatever the cultist priest's plan had been, Pyresong wasn't going to let him use Esmund. He positioned himself between Akinees and the boy. Just for good measure, he summoned a blood golem to guard the boy. Akinees teleported himself into the center of the chamber. He used that against him by sweeping with a wide blade of energy. Akinees laughed mockingly as he disappeared to teleport again and again to avoid the necromancer's blades. He deliberately gave the cultist the impression he was too slow for a few seconds, using weak blades of energy. On the fourth one, he poured his rage into it, making it a white hot, razor-edged blade. This time, he sent it to the feeling of coalescing power to his right before Akinees even finished teleporting.
That one was successful, but not as much as he had hoped. The cultist priest was able to get enough shielding for the strike not to kill him, but it did slit his belly and chest open to the bone. Akinees' shields were fully formed now. He knew he wasn't getting through again so easily. Much as he wanted to, he didn't have time to chase this cultist around. He had to protect Esmund and get to the fortress. He just hoped the wound was enough to get rid of the damned man.
"I will not succumb! I promised it would be His!" Akinees screamed. "May the depths claim you!"
Pyresong watched, happy for the first time ever in his life to see a fiery portal to Hell opened.
"My blood...leads the way to the Heart..." Akinees moaned, staggering toward the portal, his intestines sliding out around his fingers.
Just as he passed through the open portal, the wall of hellfire disappeared. Instead of closing, the portal collapsed violently. The explosion knocked Pyresong right off his feet to fall among the numerous bodies on the floor. Worse, the whole cave system began to rumble around them. The shaking of the floor alone nearly knocked him off his feet again. Above them, chunks of stone and brick began falling.
"It's collapsing!" Esmund screamed, running to help him to his feet. "We need to go, now!"
"Wait! Take my shield! Hold it over your head."
The moment the boy had the shield, he was running. He led them out of this room and down an unlit tunnel that was as large as a great hall in a palace. Stones and ancient, crumbling brickwork rained down all around them. Even the smallest of the pieces was likely to kill him if it hit his head. He blindly followed Esmund through the halls with his arms over his head, praying they encountered nothing else. Less than a minute later, they hit a dead end in a giant, gaping cavern. The sharp ledge went straight down about forty feet. The rumbling was growing much worse by this point; it felt like the walls themselves were about to collapse.
"Down!" Esmund called, throwing the shield back to him.
Pyresong hooked it on his back, not able to take the time to secure it further as another brick brushed his shoulder painfully hard. Back the way they had just come, it sounded like that earlier chamber was now caving in on itself. At this point, they couldn't stay here no matter what happened. Esmund climbed down the slippery rocks like a squirrel.
"Trust me!" Esmund called up. "We need to get to where the water's flowing fastest!"
Having no time to consider options, he followed carefully. His longer frame and gloved hands made it a much more treacherous climb. There were no good handholds, and he was fairly certain he was going to lose his grip with the shaking. He moved a bit to his right of the boy just in case. A couple seconds later, he was glad he did. A powerful tremor and the sound of something collapsing much further away shook him right off the cliff. It was only maybe twenty feet, but the impact was hard and on more loose rocks. He felt something in his left ankle give as he landed, making him bite back a scream. Shocked by the sudden pain, his knees buckled. He landed on his back, the full impact mostly absorbed by his shield.
"Pyre—"
"I'm all right! Keep—"
The next tremor shook Esmund off the cliff. Still on his back, Pyresong swung his body around to catch the boy. The brutal impact on his chest plates was still enough to stun him with pain. But there was no time to recover. A wall of water suddenly washed them away. Reflexively, he wrapped his longer arms around the boy's chest as best he could. Somehow, despite the force of the raging water, he'd managed to curl his lengthier frame around Esmund to protect him. The boy's arms wrapped around his, gripping them in terror. Pyresong tucked his head as far as he could beneath his small pauldrons. He felt them bouncing off of rocks with bone-jarring impacts. At one point, he thought his right leg under the greave was going to shatter at the force of one impact.
There wasn't even time for a prayer as they were thrown around. The water forced itself up his nose and down his throat. There hadn't been enough time to even take a breath before they'd been swept away. His lungs burned, and he felt his limbs weakening. Slamming sideways into another rock, he very nearly lost his concentration and his grip on Esmund. Explosions of pain jarred him on all sides as the tingling numbness began to spread through his limbs. He held on more fiercely, determined not to let Esmund go.
The watery ride seemed to go on forever. He slammed into one solid object after another, unable to even count them or his heartbeats anymore. His scrambled, panicked thoughts became vague and fuzzy. Desperately, he tried to keep his grip on the boy's body, unable to think beyond the explosions of pain and the burning in his lungs. The feeling in his arms disappeared entirely after one vicious impact that left him reeling. He was spiraling in a mental whirlpool that was dragging him away from his body entirely. He was only vaguely aware of Esmund being ripped from his swiftly numbing arms. He screamed mentally against losing Esmund as he was swiftly falling into an ever blacker darkness.
Then it was over, just as suddenly as it started. There was an explosion of light and pain as he was slammed belly-down onto a rock. The violent impact forced his mouth open and the water out of his throat and nose. The another wave of water shoved him off the rock. He was rolled violently across rough rocks several times before coming to a stop as the water receded. The sensation of falling into death fled as he gagged and vomited up salty water. He rolled to his hands and knees, looking around frantically. His first and only thought was for Esmund. The pale boy lay still and silent a few feet away. Still gagging and choking, he crawled over to Esmund sprawled on the rocks. He rolled the boy over toward him.
He wasn't breathing.
Reacting instinctively, he flipped the boy over onto his belly and pushed on his back a few times. Water flowed out of Esmund's mouth and nose, but nothing happened. Struggling to breathe around the water in his own chest, he fought back the dizziness. His mind was consumed with the panicked need to get the boy breathing again.
"Buh-breathe...Es-Esmund," he managed to cough out.
Reflexively, he pulled the boy up to his chest, hanging him almost upside down. He squeezed the boy's stomach again and again. Nothing. He had lived with healers. He had studied their knowledge for years. Why could he remember none of it now? In his scrambled mind he struggled to find a way. There had to be a way to get him breathing again. He couldn't just let this boy die!
"D-damn it! Breathe!" he coughed out painfully, nearing panic.
He squeezed again, harder, afraid he might break the boy's ribs. He shook Esmund until he swore he could feel the boy's teeth rattling.
Please... he begged silently, only dimly aware he was even doing so.
Esmund's sudden coughing and gagging shook the boy's whole thin body. Pyresong held him nearly upside down still with an arm around his belly as the boy flailed blindly for a moment, still choking and not fully conscious. With his other hand, he reached down for a healing potion on his belt. They had all been shattered. Esmund's gurgling attempts to breathe had him wrestling his shield off his back one-handed to get to his backpack. He switched arms, holding the boy, afraid to even let go for a second. He fought to get the other strap off. His racing heart nearly stopped completely with icy fear when Esmund went limp again in his grip. Not wasting anymore time to find out if the boy was even still breathing, he pulled his most potent healing potion out of his bag. He knew for a certainty a second later that Esmund wasn't breathing again when he tipped the boy's head back on his shoulder and poured the potion into his slack mouth. His shaking hand just barely managed to keep the upended bottle in place.
"Breathe for me, Esmund," he begged in the boy's ear, his throat too tight to be more than a whisper.
Please...just...don't do this to me.
As he had hoped, the potion made it down the boy's throat and into his lungs. Where it encountered the water, it cleared the lungs of fluid. Esmund began to gurgle again, struggling to take a breath. He gave it a few seconds to work and then poured some more. After about a minute of this, he could see Esmund swallowing reflexively. When the unconscious boy began to breathe on his own, he was flooded with relief that made him even dizzier than the watery ride. He rested his forehead on the boy's shoulder just to listen to the comforting sound of Esmund's rattling breathing. The tears that stung his eyes had nothing to do with the salt water that had earlier blinded him. For a few seconds all he could do was blink away the tears and try to focus.
Thank you, he thought to whatever may have been watching over them.
He pulled himself together quickly, though. Little by little, he fed the remaining potent potion to the boy until the bottle was empty. He had no way of knowing right now what other injuries Esmund might have. Seeing the boy's right arm moving slightly of its own accord, he realized that it had been badly broken and was now knitting itself back together. For that mercy alone he was grateful the boy was unconscious, still. Once he was absolutely certain Esmund would continue breathing on his own, he gently lay him down. As far as he could see, there were no other external injuries and no blood. He sighed in relief and let him alone to recover. Once the boy was awake, they could assess any other injuries more accurately. He was well-stocked with more potions if needed.
Until now, the panic-fueled adrenaline flooding his system had done much to cover his own injuries. Bruises covered his body, especially his legs. His back, somehow still protected by his shield, had likely saved his life—both their lives. He remembered his left ankle. He was disturbed to realize that, despite sitting on it, he couldn't even feel it now. Likely, it had been broken in the initial fall off the cliff, and now the broken bones had shredded the softer tissues and even the nerves. He shifted to the side and straightened his legs to get a better look. As expected, his left foot sat an entirely unnatural angle. He dug out another of his most potent healing potions. Never had he been so grateful for them as he was now. He took a moment to watch Esmund breathing normally again. Then he glanced around one more time just to be sure nothing was going to come out of the shadows to attack them. He knew this was going to be distractingly painful, at the very least.
As expected, within seconds of downing the vile tasting liquid, the warmth spread itself across his body, concentrating into heat on the many gashes and bruises. When it reached his ankle he clenched his teeth against a scream while the warmth intensified to white hot heat. He gripped his leg above the knee and rode it out as best it could. It took a lot longer than he would have liked. He mentally laughed at the thought of passing out from lack of oxygen here when he hadn't even done that while drowning. Still, the healing potion did much to help clear his head and dizziness as well. When he finally started breathing again, at least he wasn't choking and coughing on seawater anymore. Despite the potency of that particular potion, he knew his ankle was not fully healed. At least it looked to be in the right position now.
After a couple more seconds to unclench his teeth, he downed another potent potion. The second wave again concentrated into heat in a few areas that made him realize he had likely suffered at least a few fractures elsewhere. But, of course, the white-hot sensations from his left ankle pretty much overrode everything else for a while again. Again he wrapped his hands around his thigh and gripped, just for something to hold on to while the potion worked. The sound of movement in front of him forced his eyes back open while the last of the pain faded to comforting warmth in his foot.
Esmund's wide blue eyes stared back at him as he scrambled to his hands and knees.
"Welcome back," he couldn't help saying with a relieved grin.
"You're hurt?"
"I will mend," he assured the boy soothingly.
Esmund looked around in a near panic. He reflexively did the same, looking for whatever threat had startled the boy. Only then, did Pyresong realize the significance of the fact that he even couldsee their surroundings. Above them was open sky. They were clearly in some kind of giant tidal cave. It was raining heavily, too. He had been so preoccupied, he hadn't even noticed the lighter gloom of this place. At least they were out of the caverns. All around was the debris from various ships, shacks, shipping crates, and other stuff he couldn't even begin to identify in the mud and darkness. Thankfully, there were at least no monsters. Likely, the wave had washed them all away.
To his surprise, Esmund groaned and curled up in a ball of misery, burying his face in his knobby knees.
"What is it, Esmund?" he asked gently.
"We're nowhere near the keep entrance," the boy moaned miserably. "Damn it. I...I didn't... I'm sorry. I'm useless."
"No, you're not," he insisted, weariness replacing the previous adrenaline-fueled fear. "That wasn't your fault, and you've gotten us this far. How far off are we?"
"We're in the ship graveyard. The barbican traverse is a few minutes west of us," he replied, his voice muffled by his knees. "We're all the way on the other side of the damn island."
Pyresong sighed, tiredly. He knew morning couldn't be far off at this point. Right now, he was just glad that Esmund was even alive. He didn't think even Esmund knew how close he'd come to dying. And, honestly, he was glad for that, too. The boy had been through enough.
"We'll find a way," he assured, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice.
His heart twisted again painfully when he got no reaction out of Esmund. He gripped Esmund by the shoulder comfortingly. Instead of looking up, the boy shook him off and curled up even tighter. There was a flash of irritation just under the surface. He did not have time for this kind of emotional coddling. Reflexively he spoke again, wishing a moment later he hadn't.
"You can't give up now, Esmund. We still have to find Fern."
He hated himself just that much more for lying yet again, especially when the boy flinched away from him further. But they'd lost enough time already. He was fairly certain Fern was back in that cavern where they'd found Akinees. There had been no time to even look at all the hundreds of bodies. Yet he couldn't see how one little girl had somehow managed to escape the cultists when so many others hadn't. It was impossible in his mind. He still got no further reaction out of Esmund.
While he waited for the warm feeling of active healing to fade from his ankle and foot, he gave Esmund a couple of minutes. That was all they really had. Since using the boy's sister as motivation hadn't worked, he came up with another plan. He took the time to remove the shattered pieces of bottles on his belt hooks and replace them with new healing potions. Then he shrugged the backpack back on. He nearly shuddered as he took in the sight of his shield. The clear dents in the reinforced magical materials Charsi had used made him realize he had not been exaggerating when he thought the shield had saved their lives. Dents like that spoke of shattered bones had it not been there. He hooked it on his back again and looked around for his scythe. It was too much to hope for, he knew. And he was right. He couldn't see it anywhere. It had likely fallen off his belt the moment he fell off the side of the cliff. He would just have to figure something out. Despite feeling vulnerable without it, he was by no means helpless.
Time to test out his ankle. He levered himself up onto his right leg, balancing carefully. Then, he slowly began to put pressure on the left one. There were a couple of slight twinges that told him it wasn't fully healed. But, for now, it would have to be enough. He could at least walk and fight if needed. And if it got worse later, he would just have to take another healing potion. Even if he found a healer right now, he couldn't afford the drain it would cause or the sleepiness. The lack of sleep and food combined with the multiple draining shocks and healing potions was almost too much already. He had to keep going and find that shard before the Terror Cult did.
Now, the real painful part. It was time to deal with Esmund. Compared to healing his broken ankle, this wold be downright agonizing. There were few times in his life when he felt like a truly heartless bastard. This was one of them.
"It's okay, Esmund," he said soothingly, ignoring the feeling of his own heart shriveling. "I understand. And I asked far too much of you. I'll find a way out, and then I'll see if I can send somebody to rescue you. I'll find Fern."
He hated the manipulation almost as much as he hated the lying...maybe more so. Above all, he hated himself for doing it. But he needed the boy to help him find a way out. And he'd be damned before he would leave the boy here to wallow in his misery until something came along and killed him. As he had expected, the combined insult and reminder of his sister had the boy leaping to his feet, furious.
"You're not leaving me behind!"
"If you can't handle it. I understand," he continued soothingly. "You're just a kid—"
"I am not a kid!"
"As you wish, but—"
"No! I'm getting us out of here!"
Pyresong lashed himself brutally on a mental level. Those wide, angry blue eyes would likely haunt him for years to come. But he had to get the boy out of here. He changed his expression to one of obvious doubt to further provoke Esmund. It had worked. The boy glared up at him defiantly. He gave Esmund a reluctant nod and started looking around again.
"Any ideas?"
"One more shortcut," Esmund said, suddenly grinning. "But you're not going to like it."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, more than a little suspicious.
"That big ship over there," he pointed to a more recent wreckage that was still relatively intact. "It carried explosive cargo. We blast a hole in the keep wall. Then we don't have to go through the army to get there."
He agreed with Esmund's assessment; he didn't like it. Still, it was as good a plan as any. And it might even work. Right now, he was too tired and emotionally beaten up to think of anything better. He followed the boy around a large rock to see a giant hole in the side of the ship, clearly the cause of the sinking. It definitely didn't look like it had impacted rocks. If anything, it looked to have been hit by ballistas. Feeling vulnerable without his weapon, he scanned the ship and the cave in general warily. Still no natural sea monsters. At least there were none of the magically warped creatures he had seen, either. He couldn't resist double-checking in the magical spectrum just to be sure, though. The faint glow of magic a few feet away in the mud had him pausing to take a closer look.
Not possible... he thought in disbelief at the familiar glow. By Rathma! It is!
His scythe, thoroughly coated with mud, was lying there waiting for him. He had been unable to see it from where he'd sat because of all the mud making it blend in with the floor. He just couldn't quite believe it. He'd been so completely certain it was lost way back down the tunnels that he had barely even really looked. He sent out a prayer of thanks to anything of the Light that might be listening as he scooped up out of the mud. He shook off as much as he could and hoped to find some water later to clean it off with.
"Ha! The tides are with us!" Esmund said happily, seeing the find.
"They are, indeed," Pyresong agreed with a grin.
The boy led them through the hole in the side of the wrecked ship. He was tempted to call him back, not sure what they would find. As if reading his thoughts, Esmund paused just inside.
"No one loots down here. They're too scared."
"But not you?" he couldn't resist teasing.
Esmund shrugged. "There's all kinds of sea creatures, they say. And ghosts. I come to look around, but there are usually too many sea monsters to get at anything good. Others say people get trapped here and never come back out."
"I see."
Given how open these caverns were, he didn't quite believe that they were trapped. It was a relief to know that if Esmund knew a way in, he must know a way out. So he'd been right about still needing the boy. Still, manipulating Esmund did not sit well. He was fairly certain the tide was out right now since so much of these tidal caves were above water. And that massive wave of water had gotten out of here somehow. He believed that during high tide, this place was likely flooded. He could easily see how this place could become a death trap as well. If they were going to find a way out, it would be while the tide was at its lowest.
Pitched back into darkness inside the ships' shattered hull, Pyresong let his hands glow softly with prepared spirit fire. Again, Esmund turned around wide-eyed in amazement.
"That is so—"
He didn't have a chance to call out a warning. In the darkness just beyond the boy, he caught sight of movement. Reflexively, he threw the spirit fire with his left hand and yanked Esmund behind him with the other. It was another one of those octopus-looking creatures that he had seen on Rehm's ship. The spirit fire startled it long enough for him to get his scythe and then cut it down. The glow of his scythe was somewhat dulled by the mud still coating it when he turned a full circle to see if there were any more creatures nesting in this place. Behind him, Esmund scrambled to his feet, shaking visibly.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, still not taking his eyes off of the numerous fallen crates and other rotting cargo.
"N-no. I'm sorry."
Listening intently in the darkness, he could hear no other movement. Likely, this one creature had called this wrecked ship home and nothing else. Relieved, he finally turned back to the boy. He smiled slightly to let the boy know he wasn't angry.
"What are we looking for?"
"They usually pack them in a crate. They're magic explosives."
Esmund described the symbol they were looking for. Despite his relative certainty that there were no more monsters in here, he was reluctant to let the boy out of his sight. Most of the cargo had been dumped about randomly since it initially sank. Much of it was actually in fair condition despite so much time in and out of the water. With his magical vision, he could detect the faint glow of magic around everything in the hold. Very likely, the bulk of the valuable cargo had been set with magical preservation spells. His magical sight alone wasn't going to reveal the location of this crate of explosives. Finally, after a few minutes of fruitless visual searching, he gave in and let Esmund squeeze himself through some of the cracks to check the cargo containers he could reach in the darkness beyond.
He was itching now with the feel of the shard so much closer. The dread had begun to twist itself up with his sense of urgency. He needed to get out of here—right now—and find a way to get to the keep to see what was going on. He had been so completely removed from the battle for so long, he had no idea if the keep was even holding anymore. Worse, he still didn't know for sure where the shard was. He just knew that it was still here, and the cultists hadn't found it, or they wouldn't still be on the island. As the minutes ticked by, checking crates and chests and kicking over piles of other goods, his heart beat faster with anxiety.
"Found it! It's over here!" Esmund finally cried happily. "I can't quite see..."
By this point, Esmund had squeezed himself over the top of a pile of fallen cargo and was several feet away. He cursed under his breath as he realized he wasn't going to be able to get to him. Even if he could successfully climb the pile of stuff, he would never fit through the narrow opening at the top. He reached up with his glowing scythe to see if maybe he could move something without collapsing the whole pile.
"Hold up the light...yeah, just a little more this way," Esmund called.
He climbed a smelly pile of wet rugs to inch a bit closer with his glowing scythe.
"This is it! I've just gotta get the lid off. Hang on... I'm...I'm sorry. I..I lost your knife."
"What? I'm not worried about the damned knife," he snapped impatiently, still holding the scythe up in an awkward position.
"I need it to pry the lid open," Esmund said miserably somewhere in the darkness beyond.
"Hold on a moment," he replied, carefully pulling back on his angry tone.
He hooked the scythe and retrieved his backpack. He always kept a few knives handy for different purposes since they were more likely to break than any weapon he would ever carry. He pulled out another large hunting knife. While he did that, he paused to force his sense of urgency and mingled dread back into a dark hole. The kid really was trying to help. But if he didn't have this explosive in the next couple of minutes, he was going to just go find the front gates and try to fight his way through. He climbed the pile of cargo again with his glowing scythe and held the knife out into the dark hole.
"Here, take this."
As the knife left his gloved hand, Esmund remained unusually quiet. Again, he regretted snapping at the kid. He was about to apologize a few seconds later when he heard the boy straining to wiggle and push the knife to get the lid off of something. It didn't sound like Esmund was having any luck. He was about to call a halt and try another plan. Again, he forced himself to keep quiet and pull back on his growing anxiety. Esmund was right. If they were as close as he said to the outer walls of the keep, this might really be his best shot at getting through in a way that would not require him to fight an entire army of cultists to get there. After a few more seconds, he heard the tortured creaking of nails separating from wood. There was a faint glow of blue magic in the space beyond as Esmund cried triumphantly.
"Got it!"
He moved back to give the boy room to slither through the small spaces. A pale hand holding a glowing blue orb the size of a grapefruit came through. Before he could reach up for it, the rest of Esmund appeared. He nimbly twisted himself around. He slithered and slid down the pile of wet carpets, smiling happily.
"Here is your shortcut, sir," Esmund said proudly. "Just as I promised. That's enough to make a real mess."
He couldn't help smiling at Esmund again as he took it. He wasn't sure how to use it yet, so he stashed it in his side satchel for now. Then he ruffled Esmund's hair just to annoy him. The mercurial nature of kids and how well they could bounce back from disappointment and even despondency was another thing he had always appreciated.
"You did good, Esmund," he said warmly. "Now, let's get out of here."
Happily, Esmund pointed toward a section of the caves that was becoming more visible rapidly as daylight crept over the land. Despite the still falling rain, clearly, the sun was now well above the horizon. Again, he ensured Esmund was well behind him as they wound their way around until he could clearly see a section of rocks that could easily be scaled at their shallow angle. It was just enough that someone could get in or out, but definitely no well-worn path. As they scaled it, the familiar stench of cultists' magic touched his senses again. He motioned Esmund to get closer.
"More cultists nearby," he whispered, his ears now picking up voices on the wind. "Wait here."
The scream of terror he heard from a man a moment later told him just how close they really were. From this direction and climbing the rocks at a forty-five degree angle, he couldn't risk falling by getting his scythe ready. As silently as he could, he finished climbing up and over the ledge. Luckily, the still lightly falling rain covered his stealthy movements enough not to attract their attention. Maybe ten feet away, another cultist priest had caught what looked like a sailor in a magical grip. He had his back to Pyresong.
"The fortress is ours. It's only a matter of time. Let yourself go," the cultist priest crooned sickeningly.
The sailor struggled and thrashed violently in the grip of the priest's filthy magic, trying to break free. If he had survived this long, the sailor likely knew what was coming next.
"I offer a king's ransom in blood. Show me they who have touched the Heart!" the priest demanded.
Now able to stand upright, Pyresong grabbed his scythe off his belt, not even wanting to make noise pulling his shield off his back. Even as he sent a trickle of energy into his scythe, he knew was too late, though. The priest slit the man's belly open to let the entrails spill on the ground.
"Yes... A man in a...cage of steel...with...a beast at his side..."
The vile priest was still laughing victoriously when Pyresong cut him down. The sailor that the cultist had slit open, fell to the ground in his own entrails, still alive. He spoke the prayers softly as he ended it quickly for him. Already the man was too far gone in shock to have even noticed. He turned around to find Esmund's head just peering out around the rocks a few feet away. He sighed mentally. He knew he couldn't shield the boy from the horrors he'd seen. And, at this point, this was just one more. He walked back Esmund staring up at him wide blue eyes.
"I'm sorry, Esmund, but not all wounds can be healed. Sometimes it's kinder to end it quickly," he explained.
Esmund blinked a few times and then nodded. "I know. I just..."
He put a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "No one likes it. Not even a Priest of Rathma."
"He's at peace though, right?"
"Yes. I can say that much. He did let go immediately."
"Well, that's all right then," Esmund said, recovering quickly.
"What do you know about 'a man cage of steel'?" he asked hopefully.
"'Cage of steel'?" he echoed, thinking. "That could mean the old prison. It's on another small island north of the keep. Fern and I used to sneak in there. The only official way in is through the keep. Come on."
"Behind me, Esmund," he repeated, with an amused grin.
"Oh, yeah, right," the boy said sheepishly, pointing to the west.
Esmund had been right. They were now just slightly south and east of the fortress walls. It had finally stopped raining but was still heavily overcast. The sixty-foot fortress walls loomed over them as they approached a few minutes later. Thankfully, they encountered nothing else along the way. This little patch of land had been virtually forgotten over the years and had nothing more than some tall sand grasses. But, being so close to the keep, they didn't need a path. When they approached the closest section of wall, he noted happily that he may be creating a breach, but it looked like none of the other cultists were around or likely to use it behind him. He dug into his satchel for the explosive, still not quite sure how it would work.
"That's going to get you into the barbican traverse. Once you're inside the walls, just keep heading north," Esmund told him.
"You're not coming with me?" he couldn't help asking, startled.
The boy shook his head. "The real fighting for you will be in there. There's going to be soldiers up there that want your help. And I need to keep looking for Fern."
"Are you sure you don't want to come with me? I can protect more than one person at a time," Pyresong told him.
He was more than a little surprised to realize just how much he didn't want to boy to leave. Again, he wrestled with himself. His priority was the shard, and it sounded like the prison lined up just right with his sense of the shard and its location. He was heading right toward it. He also knew Esmund was right. The bulk of the cultists were likely in that keep. Taking the boy into that was downright stupid. Yet, they had come this far and didn't want to let Esmund walk into whatever dangers he might encounter alone. For that matter, he didn't want to abandon the boy after having come so far with him. Guilt over his manipulation still writhed in his heart.
"I have to keep looking for Fern," Esmund insisted, pulling the borrowed knife out of his belt to hand back, "and I know I'm just slowing you down. You're slowing me down, too. But if you find her first..."
He motioned for the boy to keep the blade, praying the kid would never actually need it. He kept his expression absolutely void of emotion. He hated himself now more than ever for giving Esmund such false hopes about his sister. He swore to himself that when this was over, he would find the boy and do what he could to help. But, right now, there was just no time.
"If I find her first, then the Balance will see her protected," he assured, offering his hand to shake, man to man.
"Good enough." Esmund smiled up at him, shaking his hand. "Just stick it on the wall and twist the top half to the right. Then run, fast."
"Understood."
Esmund turned to run off toward the south. Pyresong couldn't help a soft chuckle.
"Step lightly, Esmund! Remember," he called. "Good luck."
The boy waved over his shoulder and switched to running on his toes. Pyresong sent up a prayer for the boy. That was all he could do for now. He turned his full attention to the fight ahead. He had been up a full day and night, taken a beating on multiple occasions, and nearly drained himself of what energy he possessed. And the real fight was still ahead. The one thing he knew for certain was that the keep hadn't fallen to the Terror Cultists...not yet. Hoping there was still time to prevent that, he stuck the orb on the wall beside him and then twisted. He ran back and away around another corner of the keep wall. If this thing was powerful enough to get through the keep wall...
The blast was nearly silent, but he felt the magical burst batter his shields for a moment. Then, the sound of many falling stones and heavy chunks of mortar filled the air. When he moved around the corner to the new ten-foot hole in the giant wall, he was again glad he'd run as Esmund had instructed. The falling debris alone could have easily killed him with its weight. As it was, he had to climb over much of it to get to the new entrance. When he clambered over the piles of debris, he spotted three well-armed soldiers waiting for him. All around the rest of the large yard were the bodies of other soldiers and many cultists. He stood and put his empty hands out to his sides, palm up.
"You're no soldier," one of them challenged, not accepting the non-threatening posture. "Who are you?"
"I'm here to help. I'm a combat necromancer, fighting the Terror Cultists. What are you doing all the way out here?"
"You broke our wall!" one of them protested.
The first one that had spoken waved the other to silence and then motioned for Pyresong to come through. He waved his sword at a couple of the men to guard the hole.
"Never mind the wall. We will guard it. Most of the fighting has passed us already. We're spotting for fliers. Running reports back to the commander. Occasionally getting our feet lopped off at the ankles."
"Tell me how to get to the prison, and I'll help you with the demons and cultists. I've already taken care of a few."
"Honest?" the soldier laughed. "Sure. We'll take anybody who's offerin'. There's only one way to the prison, and we keep it good and sealed up. You want to head to the parapets—the bridge there is northwest."
"Thank you. Keep your sword sharp. You can still win this battle," he told them firmly.
He took off at a flat run up the nearby stairs to the north. Despite being a veritable labyrinth of corridors below, up here, it was a clear view ahead. The land and fortress rose steadily toward the north. He kept with the well-maintained paths that led west and north in a consistent direction. It was several minutes before he ran into the first few demons. There was a cluster of Fanged Fodders that he was easily able to cut down with a few swipes of his scythe. Around the corner from there, he found the wide bridge that crossed into the main keep fortress complex. All along it, were soldiers lined up to defend it. He hooked his scythe back on his belt but kept his shield ready in the hopes he would be able to explain and have them let him pass.
He never even got a chance to try.
The massive, winged demon he had seen summoned on the beach so many hours ago came swooping down out of the cloudy sky with an ear-splitting scream of rage. Caught off guard, Pyresong grabbed his scythe and poured power into it. Several of the men lining the bridge screamed as they raised their swords in its direction. He could see they never stood a chance. Had the beast landed, they still would not have had a chance of stopping it. The thing was massive enough that its bulk alone would have collapsed that entire stone bridge. As it was, the demon just glided slowly over them on its enormous, leathery wings, blasting red lightning from his screaming maw. Every last one of the soldiers was blasted right off the bridge to land on the stones far below. Then it flew off. He hadn't even had a chance to try to get its attention.
There's nothing I can do to stop that monster, he thought, daunted by the sheer size of the demon.
Then he shook it off. He had to get moving before the cult managed to take over the entire keep. He ran across the bridge, not liking how open it was. On the other side, still very much exposed and waiting for the massive demon to return, he nearly ran headlong into another group of demons. More Fanged Fodders and Harbingers; even some larger Castigators. These were the type of demons that were big and looked tough but were usually pure, almost mindless melee fighters. He could easily kill them by avoiding their hammer, axe, and mace swings and then use energy blades from his scythe to cut them down. Occasionally, when they were lined up well enough, he'd throw a bone spear that took out two or three at a time. Despite being easy to kill, enough of them would become a real problem. To watch his back, he used the blood flowing from his numerous minor wounds to summon a blood golem. They weren't the sturdiest of golems, but they could keep stupider demons occupied. And what damage they could do also stole energy and life force to feed to the necromancer. With any luck, he would be able to to use that to keep going. He was wearing down rapidly.
He pushed both his impatience and his weariness to the background as he fell into his pure combat instincts. Steadily, he made his way to the north, killing off what demons he encountered. Though he still didn't like it, as he had hoped, the energies his golem stole and fed to him kept him from wearing down any more than he had to. Some time later, he began to feel the sickening sensation of more unholy rituals. That was likely the rift from where the demons poured out of. Having finished off another demon patrol, he turned toward the path to the north. As expected, he could see another altar made of hellish materials and sacrificial human flesh.
He crouched down in the now short shadows of a wall to watch. The cultist priest manning this rift was alone, but there were easily a dozen humanoid demons just hanging around the area to guard him and it. Switching to magical vision, he found the rift anchor just a little off to the left of the priest. Even if he hadn't intended to close the rift to slow them, he would have to cross this area to get any further north. The only other option was to go back and find a way down into the halls and continue there. That would be a far worse maze than even what he'd found up here. There was just no time.
He dismissed the blood golem to summon two stone golems. The strain of having two, after all he'd been through in the last day, tugged at him, but there were just too many demons to fight. He had to focus on taking out the priest and the rift anchor. The two golems should be able to keep the demons on either side busy long enough.
He ran to the base of the shrine and altar, already flinging a bone spear at the priest. It was strong enough to go right through the priest, taking him out of the fight. Then he kicked over the flimsy, perverted altar while he sent more power into his scythe to shred the fleshy shrine in a single move. Even as it was collapsing along with the rift, his stone golems engaged with the demons gathering around them. Seeing nothing coming at him, Pyresong made a run for the closest northern exit to his left. By the time the demons even realized he was running right past them, he was already long gone. He let the demons finish off his golems as he ran headlong through a narrow opening that would at least ensure he wouldn't have to fight more than one thing at a time.
When he rounded the corner into another rooftop courtyard a few minutes later, he found only a handful of cultists. These were totally unprepared as he cut them down with blades of energy, not even breaking his stride. Ahead, he could see two large double doors sitting wide open. He knew at this point he was standing over the main fortress buildings. Before he even reached the base of the stairs that led up to the doors, he paused to summon more help. He was closing in on the main keep and the great hall where he'd seen the battle on the Astral Plane. His instincts were screaming at him. He tried to catch his breath as he listened to them.
Too many bodies. Have they already claimed this place?
The raging, screaming voices beyond the doors told him it was not lost, yet. Soldiers and cultists were still fighting pitched battles in the main entrance hall. Flooded with relief as he was, there was no time to really plan anything. He made his way quietly up the stairs at a flat run. Just inside the doors, he targeted the first group of cultists he found. There were several fights going on in small clusters. The soldiers were badly outnumbered and there were likely plenty more rifts open somewhere for them to keep coming. He summoned as many skeletal warriors and mages as he could handle and scattered them throughout the hall. He set them to target anything that held that hellish taint he was now so familiar with. They were extremely weak summonings, since it was far more than he would usually keep. But they could at least help distract the cultists long enough for the soldiers to get in a few swings here and there.
"Fight on! The skeletons will aid you!" he roared out when some of the soldiers started backing away from his minions.
Across the room, a priestess laughed maniacally. He had his target.
"You were told to hand over the shard! Akinees was very clear!" she screamed to all the men fighting and dying around her. "As you writhe in the Dark Lord's maw, remember your pride!"
At least they haven't found the shard yet.
He crossed the room at a run, sending an energy blade just ahead of him. The priestess laughed insanely again as she flung away his feeble attempts to intervene. He dodged to his right and raised his shield when she aimed her wicked staff at him. Whether it was the damage done to his shield limiting the effectiveness or her spell was just that powerful, he couldn't be sure. But the overwhelming jolt of the evil red energy slammed him hard while the priestess continued laughing.
The unexpected shock of all that magical power dancing along every nerve stopped him in his tracks. Despite his armor absorbing what it could, it stung and burned all over his body. Then the little red lightning storm scooped him right off his feet and into the air like an agonizing net. His scythe fell from his grasp while his whole body began to spasm painfully. Still deep into his combat mindset, he reflexively used the empty hand to send a series of bone spears at her blindly.
The spell holding him was suddenly broken. Unable to stop himself from falling, he turned it into a roll and was back on his feet in less than a second. The priestess was down. He took up his scythe and ran around the room, finishing off what cultists he could.
"Where's the commander?" he shouted to one group.
"Great hall!" one of them called back, pointing with his sword.
Seeing there were few enough cultists now for the remaining soldiers to handle them, he dismissed his skeletons. Again, he resumed his run in the direction the soldiers had indicated. More cultists and soldiers were battling in small clusters all over the place. He paused only to cut down the cultists in his direct path but spared no further thoughts for the others. His sense of urgency had risen to a near panic when he'd come through those double doors. Knowing the cultists still had not found the shard had at least given him some hope. The keep hadn't fallen, the shard wasn't theirs yet, and he was not too late.
Just ahead, he found a dozen soldiers guarding a set of closed gates. He flung his hands out to his sides as they came forward with their weapons.
"I'm here to help," he told them breathlessly. "I'm a combat necromancer."
"How did you get up here?"
"I need to speak with your commander. I know where the cult is headed, and I can help stop them."
"You're not the first to say that. I'm not going to believe—"
He ignored whatever the soldier was about to say next when he heard several more cultists making a rush for the gates behind him. He managed to cut down several with a blade of energy as he spun around to engage them.
"Stay behind me!" he ordered the soldiers when they tried to get into the fight.
He danced around the score of cultists, cutting them down as quickly as he could with his scythe and flinging a few bone spears with his shield hand. When there were enough bodies, he detonated the corpses, blasting the others away from him. Many only paused long enough to shake off the disorientation before flinging themselves at him again. Again, he cut his way through a few and then set off a corpse explosion for a second time. This time, there was no more to challenge him. He turned back to the handful of guards at the gates.
"I need to speak with the commander!" he demanded again.
The wide-eyed soldiers recovered quickly, and several started talking all at once. Most of it was aimed at one person who looked downright haggard.
“He might be the edge we need. Let him in.”
“We might still have a chance.”
"Let him through. We need all the help we can get."
“You know Commander Kenton would—“
The soldier who appeared to be in charge waved his sword violently to silence the others.
"Thank you," Pyresong couldn't help saying dryly, to the others.
One man glared at him angrily over the sarcastic tone. Pyresong almost felt a bit guilty, but he didn't have time or patience for more discussion. He understood these men had a job to do. And, after everything he'd been through in the last few hours alone, he looked like he'd been through a slaughterhouse. Not the dignified fighter one would expect. But then, these people had been fighting nonstop for nearly three full days now. None of them had shiny, clean armor, either.
"Fine. I'm convinced. I'll take you to Kenton," the challenger offered. To his men, "No one else comes in or out until I get back. I don't care if Akarat himself shows up!"
"Yes, sir!" the others replied.
When they passed through the gates, he was relieved to be greeted with virtual silence by comparison. The people within these walls were running errands and holding their ground, not actively fighting for every inch of floor. He shook what gore he could off his blade and hung it at his side, still carrying his shield. People, likely survivors from the rest of the fortress, milled about miserably in pockets all over the great hall. Across the hall, on the far side near an exit to the battlements, they found the commander.
"Commander, another one offering to help," the soldier called.
Another one? he thought, recalling the soldier's earlier words.
The commander eyed him critically, his dark brows furrowing. Then he smiled widely as he liked what he saw. This was clearly a man who had not risen through the ranks by way of money. He was combat experienced and knew what he was looking at. Not minding the gore in the least, he put out a gauntlet-covered hand to shake. Happy to dispense with the formality of bows, Pyresong stepped forward to accept the far less formal greeting.
"Commander Kenton. My other men tell me you've been busy. They say you slew a priestess."
Still catching his breath, he nodded. "Master Pyresong. Yes, and several others. I've managed to close some of the Hell rifts, bringing in the demons and reinforcements."
"We owe you more than I can repay. They've been ripping us out like weeds," the commander said grimly. "That beast of theirs owns the skies...and on the wall, everywhere we look, it's Hell's mouth wide open and grinning. Whatever you have for me, I hope it's a lot."
"I need to get into the prison. If they find what they're looking for there, this will get far worse," Pyresong warned.
"Again with the prison?" Kenton questioned, confused. "You're the second savior of Stormpoint asking after it today."
"Who's the first?" he asked, suspiciously, a tingling anxiety creeping into his thoughts.
"Calls himself Zatham. Cut down a half-dozen cultists in the halls without breaking a sweat. He should be up on the parapets now. We'd be lucky to have you two working together."
Something in Pyresong's gut twisted. He knew there were men and women all over Sanctuary that were out there fighting this or that battle, to make themselves out to be heroes. Many just wanted to carve a name for themselves in the pages of history. He'd been forced to work beside some of these heroic types over the years. Just as his master had taught him, never reject a tool. Anyone with skill willing to fight beside a Priest of Rathma was a tool to be used in his eyes. But this was no ordinary fight, like clearing out a demon nest. This involved the Worldstone shard, which he could feel so much closer now. And if this Zatham knew about the shard and knew it was in the prison, he was more of a threat than a help right now.
Even as he was turning those thoughts over in his mind, more soldiers came running up with reports. The commander motioned toward somewhere behind him and to his left as Pyresong stepped back to let the other men approach. He returned the nod and headed the direction the commander had indicated.
Not sure what he was dealing with when it came to this Zatham, he carefully kept every bit of his thoughts out of his expression. He kept his wariness in check as he walked up the stairs and out onto the parapets. In his experience, people were not always what they seemed. Intent here was going to be everything. He could only think of one valid reason anyone would have for wanting to get to or find that shard, and it wasn't good.
It was pouring near freezing rain again, and this time compounded by a thick fog. There was a handful of soldiers armed with crossbows and even mounted ballistae watching the skies in every direction. Off to his left, he spotted a large, slightly more sheltered guardhouse. Beyond the pillars supporting the roof above the guardhouse, he could see a man standing on the edge of an overlook beside another soldier watching for the flying demon. This one did not wear a uniform.
The tall, thin man was dressed in heavy blue cloth and leather faulds so faded they were now gray and nearly white around the edges. From this angle, all he could see was the faded leather hood, watching something out beyond the overlook. The long, faded leather faulds stretched to his ankles where they brushed against very well-worn black boots. Around his chest and back were much newer-looking reddish brown leather breast and back plates that were so short they didn't really cover more than the chest and shoulder blades. Impractical as it looked to some, Pyresong understood. When one needed flexibility over protection, they chose this style, especially if they couldn't get articulating plates like he now wore. In his right hand, Zatham still clutched a long, thin-bladed sword. He got no sense of magic off of Zatham, but he quickly realized it had more to do with shielding than lack of magical ability.
That only concerned him more.
If Zatham was with the cultists, the taint of demons or Hell would be all over him as it was with all the cultists. But if they chose to shield themselves, he likely wouldn't be able to sense it unless this man had a direct connection to the shard already. Despite his lack of magical aura, Pyresong couldn't help feeling there was definitely magic there. The man was too lightly armored for heavy combat. His greatest concession to protection being his light gauntlets that only covered the wrist and back of his hands.
Knight mage? he wondered briefly as he approached.
The man's hood shifted slightly in Pyresong's direction. Knowing there was no way the man could have heard his stealthy footsteps approaching in the wind and rain, he was even more on edge now.
"Are you Zatham?" he asked carefully.
The man's hood bowed slightly with a nod, but he did not initially turn around. He seemed to return to scanning the skies and fog beyond the overlook.
"I hear that you have turned the battle in ways these people could not. That makes us the same," Zatham said almost too softly for him to hear over the rain.
Though he'd been all over the Sanctuary and met people from places he'd never been, Pyresong's sensitive ears could not place the odd accent. It was unlike anything he'd ever heard. That only made him more wary, despite the words. Though he kept his hand off his scythe, the hand he kept hidden behind his shield tingled with ready spells.
He kept a safe distance, prepared for anything when Zatham finally turned to face him. The one thing he had not been prepared for now stared back at him. He was stunned to see Zatham wore a blue strip of cloth over his eyes; a blindfold. The black lines of some kind of intricate tattoo lined the right side of Zatham's face; from lips back across to the cheek that was mostly covered with the faded leather hood. Mostly, he noticed how young Zatham was. By the looks of it, he was maybe in his mid to late twenties. But the lines of hardship had left their mark. In some ways, he looked much older.
He's blind... How could he—
His thoughts were interrupted when Zatham nodded, as if reading his mind but gave him no time to consider further.
"Let us fix our purpose against the fanatics," Zatham offered with an unexpected intensity. "They seek this fortress and the prison below it, by air and by sea, and I cannot guard both. If we are two, there may be a sliver of hope."
Not buying it, he let icy suspicion creep into his expression and voice. "What's your stake in all this? You're clearly not from here."
Zatham smiled slightly. "No, I am not. You have looked into the eyes of these fanatics, yes? They wallow in sin, like animals in mud."
Religious zealot, he thought, slightly disappointed, but not entirely.
At least he could rely on a zealot with a target to keep the carnage to that one target...for now. If this man was skillful enough to survive the coming battles, he would use him. But if things got out of hand, Pyresong knew full well he would put a stop to it. These soldiers and survivors had suffered enough. They didn't need a religious zealot tearing their lives apart while they're picking up the pieces. He focused carefully on Zatham, weighing everything and not bothering to hide his scrutiny.
"They are guilty. They are stained. But a just death will cleanse the filth from their souls," Zatham finished.
Knowing Zatham was right in the fact that they had to work together on two fronts, he nodded reluctantly. He still didn't trust Zatham. Religious zealot with a target or not, the man must know about the shard if he knew the cultists were trying to get to the prison. And he was not about to let anyone he didn't trust completely get anywhere near that prison alone. Before he could suggest a plan, the flying demon roared somewhere in the fog nearby. Zatham turned back to his view beyond the overlook calmly.
"This terror...once again," Zatham said flatly.
He could detect no fear in the man's voice. That monstrously massive demon even frightened him to some extent. Zatham's hood turned his direction for a second.
"I will distract it. My charge is the air, yours is the sea. Go, swiftly!"
That, at least solved the problem of keeping Zatham away from the prison for now. Before he could say more, Zatham flung his left hand out, creating a sort of tear in the air that widened into some kind of portal. Then he leapt right off the overlook into it. He had absolutely no idea where that would come out, but he certainly didn't feel like Zatham was fleeing to a waypoint. The only other time he'd seen portals open to anything other than waypoints were Hell rifts. And his magical vision told him this was absolutely nothing related to Hell.
At least, it had given him some insight to this Zatham. He still couldn't identify the magical energies. They were unlike anything he'd seen before. But in that brief flash, while the portal was open, Pyresong got a glimpse of Zatham's power, and it was strong. Maybe his distraction with the demon wasn't suicidal after all. More to the point, he hoped he would not have to test Zatham's capabilities directly. He knew if the man went after the shard himself, confronting him would be problematic at the very least. He never did like mage's tricks; and he was somewhat convinced this new stranger was very likely some form of knight mage.
Setting Zatham and any potential confrontations aside as a problem for later—hopefully never—he turned back toward the great hall. He needed to get to the prison, especially while Zatham was otherwise occupied. He found Commander Kenton in a pocket of soldiers in tightly controlled chaos. He waited while the man finished barking orders at the others before approaching.
"It...looks like it's headed toward the prison. We're lucky," Kenton commented.
"Not as lucky as you think," he warned the commander darkly. "What the cultists are after is in that prison. Zatham is going to try to keep it busy for now. While it's distracted, you and your men should be safe enough. I need to get to the prison before the cultists."
Commander Kenton shook his head. "Evil festers down there. We wouldn't have sealed it shut this long, otherwise. I hope you know what you're doing."
Do I ever? he wondered, tiredly with a mental laugh.
"You, take him to the elevator," he pointed toward a nearby handful of soldiers.
He nodded gratefully. He had half expected more of a fight. This commander apparently was willing to accept help even from a Priest of Rathma. Either he was more desperate than he appeared, or he was more practical than most. Either way, Pyresong was glad he wouldn't have to find another way into the prison.
He knew the prison complex was on another island very close by; but he hadn't had a chance to consider how to even get there. If there was some kind of system from up here to get down there, he hoped it would be much faster than the cultists likely trying to use other means. Even then, from what he understood of the prison complex thus far, it was a mass of stone brick walls that rose many feet straight up from cliffs battered by the sea. The storm that was ongoing had whipped the waves into a frenzy down there. Trying to get over by water would likely batter a ship apart on the rocks. Then, if there were any survivors, they would have to climb the rocks around to something like an entrance, if there were any other entrances. Then he remembered, places like these islands always had sewers and other tunnels somewhere.
He was relieved when the men led him to the far north end of the great hall and through a short maze of corridors, every one of them lined with ready soldiers. Now that word had reached the commander that the cultists were after something in that prison, he began to focus on defending the way to it. The soldiers moved at a jog as they made their way to a darkened corridor where two more large double doors were barred. He stood back while they hefted the locking bar out of the way and pushed them open. Rain poured the moment the doors were opened. Beyond them, he could see two more soldiers with their swords drawn, ready to fight off whatever came through.
"Commander Kenton sent us," one explained. "The priest needs to get through to the prison."
One of the men on the large stone balcony just outside the doors eyed the necromancer warily and then eyed his fellow soldiers as if looking for coercion. Accustomed to such, Pyresong put his hands out and stood back. There was a brief discussion before one of the platform guards motioned for the others to stand down. While that was going on, he had gotten a good look at what lay beyond.
There were absolutely massive systems of pulleys and winches lined with wooden platforms and walkways. Now he understood what they had been referring to when they said elevator. The soldiers escorting him led him down some wooden stairs to another slightly lower platform. There, he boarded a much smaller platform where the boards were reinforced with metal bands and rivets. It hung from metal-reinforced ropes thicker than he was wide. There were two ropes, one on each side of the platform to keep it stable. There was still the problem with the wind, so he knew he would have to hang on.
Once he'd boarded the platform, he motioned to the others that he was ready. One of them hollered up to some others above. There was an unpleasantly disconcerting grinding sound as the men began struggling with the winches to get them moving. As far as he knew, this thing hadn't been used in at least a few years. All he could do was pray it had been well-maintained enough not to drop him into the rocks or sea far below. He struggled to control his shivering as the icy rain found its way under his armor, thoroughly soaking his clothing once again. Still, he was somewhat grateful that it would wash off the worst of the gore he'd acquired fighting the cultists and demons earlier.
The elevator platform swung smoothly out over the water with only the slightest sway. Luckily, the wind was clawing at him and the little elevator platform at an angle that did not make him feel like he was one some kind of child's tree swing. Intent on whatever lay ahead, he summoned a couple of skeletons as he eyed the fog. A couple minutes later, the prison complex began to emerge from the thick white mists. Very much like his trip over the water, there was another set of massive wood and steel reinforced platforms that led away from where the elevator stopped.
Directly ahead of him was a large wooden pier set with docks. He assumed it was how they got supply ships. He hopped off quickly, happy to note nothing immediately came out to attack him. Had the cultists made it this far, he would not be alone now. There would likely be traps or demons lurking for anyone trying to follow behind.
He extended his senses forward and around him out of habit and then shuddered and pulled back. Already, the previously faint calling of the shard had become an urgent tugging. It wanted him. It needed him, for some reason. It waited for him. Worse was the sense that something inside of him was urging him toward it.
Viciously, he shoved those sickening, gut-twisting sensations aside. He paused to examine the ramps and paths. The shard was very close now. It was a struggle to keep out its influence as much as possible. He knew he couldn't block it out completely. What had happened in Hell had proven that much. But he could at least ignore it calling to him, trying to seduce him. Refocusing himself, he weakened his shields just enough to get a sense of what lay beyond this landing platform. Instantly, he slammed them back in place.
This shard was absolutely enormous by comparison to the others he'd dealt with. The others he had encountered were no more than tiny slivers. He had no map of the complex ahead, but he didn't really need one now. He would easily be able to find his way to the shard based on what he could sense. Yet the whole complex was infected with its evil and corruption. To his magical vision, every wall was tainted. Anything with enough power to taint an entire prison complex and seep into the stones so thoroughly must be enormous.
Of course, evil is never sealed away with any permanence, he thought sadly. This place... It's massive. They could have locked an entire army up.
He dismissed his skeletons as he traversed the wooden piers into the main courtyard of the prison. He had no concerns over the noise they made. The rain easily covered most of it. He was just too drained already. There was no movement in the courtyard as he passed through it and into another arched entrance. The main doors were wide open. In the darkness beyond the threshold of the doors, he paused. He could feel as well as hear evil, shard-tainted things moving around. The sound of metal scraping across rock could be heard even over the sound of the pouring rain behind him. The overall vile sensations emanating from the stones were enough to blind his magical vision. He carefully probed with his other, necromantic senses. There were undead here. He didn't need to smell or hear it to know it they were there; and there were many.
Only one other time in his life had Pyresong been in a prison, and that had been with his master many years ago. All larger prisons, no matter how well they treated their prisoners, had issues with either the undead or restless spirits or both. His master had been called in to help with both. As a child, he had learned painfully that people were executed in these places. Just as often, they killed themselves or each other. Some were sent to these places just because they were insane. But all of them suffered to one degree or another. Some died with unfinished business, and others were just too full of rage to leave. Many, many souls clung to the last place they had known in life, becoming enraged phantoms. This place had stood for centuries and had all those usual problems. And now all of this was now further powered by the shard that had completely overrun this city-sized prison.
Wary, he let a trickle of power into his scythe blade to let it glow faintly in the absolute darkness. Nothing came out to challenge him, initially. He had no idea what the circumstances of the prison closure had been. Very likely, many had been left here to die. And, equally likely, the shard was now using their corpses in some way. On top of that, the shard could easily summon demons to protect itself. Silently, he made his way through the entrance. Beyond, he could hear more scraping and movement. The shard was almost straight ahead. It seemed all of the rest of the complex connected to a main runway of corridors and rooms. He would not have to go wing to wing to find the shard, to his relief.
Crossing the entrance, he entered another central room. Here, there were corridors off to the left and the right. In those shadows on either side, he finally spotted the source of the metal scraping sound. A corrupted, undead human in a round cage meant to hang from a chain was dragging its cage across the floor. It screamed at him as it used its hands and feet to scramble towards him. Shuddering mentally, he swiped with a blade of energy that cut through the corpse inside. As it fell to pieces, it went silent. But there were plenty more ahead that he could hear. Again he pushed back the feelings of weariness. There was nothing he could do about it right now, anyway.
Beyond this was an even larger room with multiple corridors on either wall. These were clearly still barred with gates of wrought iron and locks. At least he wouldn't have to worry about attacks from them. Scattered throughout these central chambers, shambled the corrupted undead that had likely once been soldiers and guards. Whether it was the light from his scythe or they had detected the warmth of living flesh, they all began shambling toward him at once. He backed away to the large entrance he had passed to limit how many could come at him at once. Still trying to conserve energy, he used a combination of energy blades and corpse explosions to stop them.
He stepped carefully through the slippery pile of body parts and entrails in the entrance and continued to another room to the north. This one was much bigger than the previous rooms and far more open. There were a few undead and even a couple more of those undead in cages. The sound of them scraping their cages across the rocks scraped his already raw nerves to the fraying point. This time, he had to summon a couple of skeletal warriors to keep the multitude off of him. He was happily surprised to note that these undead were weak enough reanimations that even his skeletons could handle them on their own. Skeletal minions still drained him, but nowhere near to the extent a golem or some other spells would. He was happy to let them do the fighting for a moment.
Once the room was clear, he made his way north again and down a short set of stairs. The sense of the shard now growing stronger with every step. This one had a presence about it he could not entirely ignore. It wasn't just sentient; it was almost intelligent. The room beyond these stairs was another cavernous central area where corridors of cells emptied out. Again, there were several undead that had likely once been guards manning this area. He let the skeletons take them out. In the middle of the room was some sort of giant pit. He had no idea what function it would have served when this place was populated, but it had more iron bars lining it on every side. He carefully went around it to his right. Briefly, he glanced down through the bars to see that it went down too far to even see a bottom. For a moment, he wondered where it actually went. Then he tossed that thought aside. He knew his mind was wandering because he was tired. It always did. And with a shard pulling on him this strongly, he could not afford to let his thoughts wander too far.
On this side of the room, he found a place where there were large, reinforced wooden doors rather than just iron gates or a portcullis. Strangely, there were four undead attacking the closed doors. He didn't take the time to think about it. They were just another obstacle on his way further north toward the shard. He sent his skeletons after them and waited a few seconds for them to finish. Certain none of the undead over there would come back to attack from behind, he turned his attention to the large, open entrance to the north. No more undead between here and there, though he could hear some shuffling along the other wall on the opposite side of the room. He called his skeletons back to him in case they needed to intercept those other undead he could hear but not see at the moment.
A few steps later, he spun back around to where his skeletons had killed the undead seconds before. The doors rattled for a moment and then cracked open. A blond head peeked between the doors. When she spotted the skeletons a few feet away, she gave a frightened squeak and ducked back inside. He heard a sturdy latch and bolt being pushed into place again on the other side. For a few seconds, Pyresong could only stand there staring at the doors and questioning his sanity.
It can't be... he thought numbly.
That blond head and face were a smaller version of Esmund! He would have sworn it was Esmund had it not been for her size. The girl couldn't be more than eight years old...if that. He set his skeletons to guarding him as he approached the door silently. His heart raced, despite being numb with disbelief. His mind reeled and spun trying to recall her name in his utter shock.
"Fern?" he asked through the doors.
"Are you a person?" the girl's terrified voice came back after a few seconds.
Struggling to shake off the shock, he hooked his scythe on his belt and let his hands glow instead so as to appear less threatening.
"Hello?" she called.
"Do you know Esmund?" he called through the doors.
"H-he's my brother."
He nearly laughed. This was so completely impossible that he couldn't wrap his mind around it. He had been absolutely certain the girl's corpse was somewhere back in those tunnels Esmund had led him through. He couldn't even think what to say as the girl wrestled with the bolt and latch. Then she cracked the doors again. She stared up at him in wide-eyed terror but seemed to gather her courage.
"Where's my brother?" she demanded. "What did you do with him?"
He knelt down so as not to appear more intimidating. He shook his head, still reeling from the shock of it.
"He's looking for you,” he told her softly. “He helped me get into the keep. He wanted me to tell you he's sorry."
"He didn't get killed and ate?" Fern said in relief, tears coming to her eyes that she clearly struggled not to give in to. "He's safe? He said he wasn't going to let a bunch of hedgepigs take our home." She scraped the tears off her face angrily with dirty hands. "Then he... I had to run for a long time. And I hid here...but there's so many monsters. I'm not supposed to fight unless they catch me.” She eyed him hopefully. “Can you help me? You could distract the monsters, maybe?"
This time, he did laugh softly. Based on her height, she couldn't be more than eight years old, and he suspected even younger. He'd never asked Esmund, so he wasn't sure. But child or not, she was just as courageous as her brother. Feeling completely derailed mentally, he massaged his forehead for a few seconds and took a deep breath to recenter himself. He still couldn't believe it. And she was far from safe. There was no telling where Esmund had gotten to, either. Reuniting them would be a trial. But right now, he had to focus on the shard. If it was anything like obtaining the others, he was still in for a hell of a fight. He had no idea how the child had managed to get in here. And with all the monsters, demons, and cultists running around the islands, nowhere but the great hall of the keep itself was safe. He knew he couldn't leave her here or let her try to escape on her own. Somehow, he would have to manage, just as he had with Esmund.
Briefly, thoughts of previous failures flitted through his mind. Alyssa... And Esmund had very nearly died while in his care. For one heartbeat, he didn't want to take the risk. But Fern had survived this long. He couldn't just abandon her now. As he recovered his mental equilibrium, she stared at him intently with her deep blue eyes. He could see the courage and fierceness there. And there really was no choice.
"I don't know where Esmund is," he finally confessed softly, "but I'm sure he's safe. I'll get you to him. There's something I have to do, first. Just stay behind me, all right?"
Her big blue eyes flitted to the skeletons standing behind him. They were just visible beyond the light of his hands. If she was afraid of them or him, she hid it well.
"My name is Pyresong. I'm a Priest of Rathma. These skeletons aid me. They will not harm you, but I may have them guard you. Stay close to them. Understand?"
Fern girl eyed him suspiciously one more time and then nodded slowly. Still not quite believing this was even really happening, he rose to his feet and shifted the power in his hands to his scythe. The physical and mental weariness had faded somewhat with the unexpected shock. Now, he was hyper alert to every threat. Yet he was just too close now to go all the way back and then return. He turned his senses forward toward the open exit to the north.
Another sound behind them caught his ears that sent him reflexively running back toward the south. Somewhere back the way he had come, he heard a scream that tore through his heart.
"Get off me, you bastard!"
"Esmund!" Pyresong shouted, his heart racing in panic.
"Esmund!" Fern echoed behind him
His heart stuttered when he realized he'd nearly forgotten her. He sent a mental command to the skeletal warriors to stay with her as he quickly outdistanced her. When he got into the previous room, he found the boy fending off a couple of shambling undead with a torch and the knife he'd been given. He dove in with his scythe, not daring to use an energy blade as he cut them down. While he was doing this, Esmund ducked around a couple of undead and ran toward his sister still catching up to them. Expecting more, Pyresong swung around, but the area was clear once again. How he'd missed these, he had no idea. He struggled to slow his breathing from the panic as he turned to the two children.
"You're alive!" Esmund cried, on his knees clinging to Fern. "You're okay!"
Fern pulled back from the embrace to glare at him angrily. She punched him in the shoulder as the tears started to flow. Struggling to slow his racing heart, Pyresong kept watch around them. He set his skeletons in a wide circle between the children and the shadows beyond.
"You said I would get killed and ate! You screamed at me...said I was useless! You pushed me! You always tell me what to do! I hate you!" Fern cried angrily, punching him in the chest.
Esmund took her gently by the arms to stop her hitting him repeatedly. "Hey...look. The monsters don't care who they hurt. They don't care that you're little and you can't do anything to them. I couldn't let you go with me. I'm sorry."
Still angry, Fern scrubbed away the tears. "I don't forgive you. I'm not going to, ever!"
The boy nodded. Clearly, he could accept that, as long as she was alive to hate him. Pyresong could empathize. And now he had not one, but two children to protect. Plus, he still had to get that shard from whatever was using it. This was getting worse by the minute. Esmund rose to his feet and turned to Pyresong, draping an arm protectively over Fern's shoulders.
"I...I can't thank you enough, Pyresong."
He sighed and shook his head. He'd been wrong about Fern. And, yet, it still had felt wrong to give the boy false hopes and even use it to manipulate him. He couldn't accept the boy's thanks, not now.
"I didn't believe she was alive," he confessed. "I was using you, and I'm sorry."
Esmund laughed, much to his surprise. "You think you're the first adult to use me? That's all you old-timers ever do." He put his hand out to shake. "Even?"
He couldn't help grinning. He shook the boy's hand with a relieved sigh.
"Even," he agreed readily. "Now, unless you know where I can find 'a man in a cage of steel', the best thing you two can do is stay out of trouble."
He really didn't like it. But with whatever he had to fight ahead that possessed the shard, he couldn't take them along with him. He'd been lucky to survive some of what the previous shards had thrown at him. And now, he had to fight whatever possessed the shard, get the shard into his backpack, and run straight to Westmarch with it before the cultists even knew it was gone. By now, the cultists were crawling all over this place to find a way into the prison, from rat burrows and tidal caves to the great hall and elevator. Likely, there was no safe way out of there for these two. His one idea was for them to hide where Fern had been for the last two days and then come back for them before he left.
"That's the warden!" Fern broke into his thoughts, excitedly. "His room had a big steel cage in it. I can show you! We need to help him, Esmund!"
Esmund looked hesitant, but Pyresong didn't give him a chance to answer.
"Absolutely not."
Wrong answer, he realized too late when Esmund glared up at him.
"Don't treat us like babies. Let us pay you back. Besides, she can't swim. We're not getting out of here without you."
He shook his head adamantly. "I can come back for you when I have what I need. I can make a portal for us to get out of here. You two need to hide. Fern knows where."
"I almost got killed there, too. Nothing's safe," Fern told him.
His gut twisted again, but he knew she was right. And, based on the look in his eyes, Esmund was likely to follow him closely anyway, if for no other reason than the fact that the necromancer was the only way he could keep his sister safe now. He was also the only safe way for them to get out of here. He struggled with the idea of just making a portal right now and sending them to where he'd found the waypoint in the Planks near the shanties. But then he remembered all the monsters he'd killed there. Very likely at least some type of monsters had moved back in since he'd pass through—what?—almost a day ago now. And it was just as likely crawling with cultists again. He'd been so preoccupied in the keep, he'd forgotten to ask if there was a waypoint in there anywhere. Now it was too late.
He wrestled his fears to the background and prayed silently he wasn't making an even bigger mistake. The idea of shoving them through a portal to Westmarch or anywhere but here crossed his mind. But then how would he find them after? Again, names and places flitted through his mind, but he stuffed them into the deep, dark crack in his soul. He had hope. He would cling to it, now. One way or another, he would get these two to safety.
"All right. But you stay behind me? Right Esmund?" he cocked an eyebrow at the boy.
Esmund grinned and snapped off a salute. "Right, sir!"
Pyresong shook his head with a grin at the boy's cheekiness, but he very much appreciated it right now. Esmund had just gotten his sister back...alive, against all odds. He wasn't about to lead her into danger. He had to have faith in that, at least.
"Which way?"
"That way," Fern pointed immediately. "It's just a little ways past where you found me."
He set his skeletons to guarding their rear while he walked back the way they had just come. As they came back to the room where he'd found Fern hiding, the undead from the other side of the room were now much closer. He left his skeletons with the children while he cut them down quickly. Once they would no longer pose a threat to Fern and Esmund by coming up from behind, he led them to the arched exit to the north. There, he found something he hadn't expected.
Behind them were all the main prison halls and buildings. From here on northward, it was the warden's office and primary living quarters for the soldiers and guards stationed at the prison. This was separated by a giant crevasse. It was easily eighty feet wide, like a giant slit in the rocks open to the sky. He hadn't even realized he was moving steadily upward from the courtyard where he'd entered originally only a few feet above the waves. The icy rain had stopped, though fog still lingered thickly. The ground on either side of a small, stone and wood bridge fell away for at least ten storeys. The bottom was completely blanketed with fog, making it uncertain. All around out here was the sound of crashing waves. Even with that, it would likely be a deadly fall.
He admired the effectiveness of it. Had there ever been some kind of mass breakout or riot, the soldiers and guards could hold out in this farthest building indefinitely just by pulling up the drawbridge. And the elevator system on the other end would ensure easily that no one got away in that direction. This was, by far, the most defensible and effective prison he had ever seen. And it had stood unchallenged for hundreds of years, until now. He paused to eye the area beyond the bridge. The thick fog made it difficult. And anything in the enclosed areas beyond was completely shrouded in darkness. He could neither see nor hear into those shadows. The miasma of corruption from the shard so very close now made it impossible to use his magical vision. This close to the source, he fully expected demons. Seeing he'd paused, Fern approached.
"The warden's office is up there," she pointed across the bridge. "Straight through. He was always nice to me. But...something happened."
The shard is what happened to him, he thought darkly.
"Keep a safe distance," he said instead. "Stay on this side of the bridge until I say."
They nodded. He crept quietly across the bridge, still disturbed by the fact that he couldn't clearly hear anything ahead due to all the noise of the ocean so far below. But it came as no surprise when he approached the darkened areas that were covered with roofs to find a handful of demons. Clearly, the shard had summoned at least some to protect itself. Probably early on. These weak demons and undead soldiers and guards were easily dealt with. He looked to the other side of the bridge for a moment and was comforted by the fact that his skeletons hadn't had cause to move away from the children. He took another look around, deeper in. There, he found a set of stairs going up into the main building. Based on senses alone, he was fairly certain that was the warden's office. He walked the entire small area out here to make sure there was nothing left that could harm the children and then returned to the bridge and cliff. He motioned them across. They followed him through the room to the foot of the stairs beyond.
"That's the warden's office," Fern pointed up the stairs. "It's right there."
"You two stay right here. Find a place to hide. And if you see anything that scares you, run to me," he instructed, his eyes boring into the both of them. “No running off.”
He knew whatever he faced in the room beyond was likely to be as enormous and powerful as the shard he felt. Having the kids with him was a distraction already, and he could not afford it. But he was here now, and he'd beaten the cultists to it. All he had to do now was survive whatever lay ahead, take the shard, and get all three of them out of there safely. He gave one last mental command to his skeletons to follow and guard the kids wherever they hid. Then, he was completely focused on the fight ahead.
He ascended the stairs into the darkness. This room was large and mostly empty. A huge wooden desk and chair sat along the opposite wall from the stairs. On either side of the room were doors that he knew likely led to the kitchens, living quarters, and other stuff. But the warden apparently liked to operate in full view of his men. No private office for this one. Hearing movement across the room, he let his scythe glow a little brighter. In the middle of the floor, the light from his scythe blade illuminated a large, decorative steel grate that was radiating magic. It had been beautifully crafted to cover a natural pit that had formed in the rock at some point. And the magic ensured no one could just walk over it and fall right through by accident. It was easily thirty feet in diameter. Pyresong was amazed to note that the corruption of the shard seemed to have somehow not affected the magic of that barrier or its ornately beautiful construction. He mentally growled at himself. His mind was wandering again. He just could not afford that now. It was far too dangerous.
Then, he heard the shuffling movement ahead again. He let his scythe glow just a tiny bit brighter. So far, he had seen no shard, large or small. And nothing had come out to challenge him since the demons in the room where the children now hid. Now his eyes instinctively sought out those shuffling sounds deep in the shadows along the opposite wall. Something twisted with sickeningly vile corruption was unfolding itself against the far wall. As it got to its feet, he could easily see it had once been human. Now, it was a mass of spikes and spines. The hide that was blackened with corruption still held some gray patches that more closely resembled undead skin. But this was no undead.
He's twisted...inside and out. How long has he been like this? he couldn't help thinking with no small amount of both revulsion and pity.
A part of him ruled by his compassion couldn't help feeling sorry for the warden. If he had been kind to Fern and Esmund, he had likely been a good man overall. He knew that this one had fought the corruption...and still was. That was the most likely reason the shard called to him so strongly. It wanted a willing possessor. He shuddered mentally in horror. Unlike the other shards, this was an example of what Cain had warned him about way back in the beginning.
"Objects like that can take even an ordinary man's thoughts and twist them up until it gets what it wants or drives him mad," he heard Cain's voice repeat.
And all Pyresong could do now was end his misery. He knew that, by now, after probably years, the corruption had taken hold of the man's soul as well as his mind and body. He was likely condemning the man to Hell. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He said a silent prayer for the man beneath the monster as he readied himself.
"The Heart!" the thing cried, stumbling forward toward him. "It beats! I held it. Cradled it. Warm..."
He shuddered mentally again. There was enough human left in the thing to speak. In some ways, that made it worse.
"It is mine! Mine! Mine!" it screamed, no longer lurching but running.
He stepped to the left and released a blade of energy, hoping to end this quickly. To his surprise, power from the shard had shielded the thing. The damage had been minimal. When it stopped to turn toward him, it smiled through distorted lips.
"The deeps...have raised me up!"
When it came at him again, he was ready. This time, he formed the blade into a razor edge, aiming for the legs. That one cut right through the toughened flesh. It landed on the stone floor, thrashing in rage, making him feel sick. He readied his blade to end it quickly, shielded or not.
"I hear them!" it screamed. "They hiss and snarl, and I hear them all!"
He swiped his scythe again, aiming for the neck. The shield and hide were just too thick to penetrate easily. Realizing it was about to die, it screamed with something other than rage.
"Don't leave me down here!"
Gods...
Pyresong was shaken. But he could hear the human behind that twisted voice begging him to end it. The scythe wasn't working. He flung a curse at it to blind it and stop it from trying to crawl toward him. Then he reached out. Always there were restless spirits in a place like this. And the longer it had served as a prison, the more there were. He called to them. Most didn't even hesitate. He flung the bone spirits at the warden until it stopped moving entirely. Still feeling like he wanted to vomit, he sent another prayer out for the man's soul. If there was any justice in this universe... The man had fought the corruption, even to this very day. No one deserved to go to Hell for such an accident of fate.
Trembling with the pent-up emotions as well as the tugging exhaustion, he forced himself to calm. The shard was battering away at him, trying to gain a foothold. And something inside of him was reaching toward it. He didn't need to listen to it to know. It wanted him. Now that he'd killed the warden it was using for a puppet, it needed him. It knew he could get it out of this place where it had been trapped for so long. He could hear it trying to find him, make him listen. He wanted to listen. It knew he wanted to listen. He was just too afraid, it crooned at him. But he didn't need to be afraid. He wouldn't end up like the warden. It would—
Pyresong struggled for a few seconds to close out everything, even his own thoughts. He needed a center, a focus. He gripped his scythe and took a deep, slow breath. He had to find that thing on the warden's body. If he couldn't focus, it would have him. That thought terrified him enough to give him the strength to force himself to calm again.
When he opened his eyes again, he shifted his sight to the magical spectrum just slightly. He nearly lost his focus entirely when he realized. It wasn't on the warden's twisted corpse! Before he even had a chance to question it, Esmund and Fern came running, his skeletons rattling along right behind him. He spun around to face whatever threat had driven them to him. After a second, and there was still nothing, he turned back to them standing behind him. Fern was shaking violently.
"W-we hid like you said. But I swear I felt something moving in there. We should go," Fern said in a quavering voice.
"Where was it? Did you see it?"
"I d-d-didn't see anything," Esmund said, clearly struggling to control his own terror. "But I felt something moving across the floor from the bridge."
He moved to look out the door and beyond the stairs. There was nothing there now. He chalked it up to scared kids. Right now, he had bigger problems. He needed to figure out where the damned shard was. He walked back up to them, standing near the metal and magic grate in the center of the room. Part of him prayed they wouldn't have the answer. And the rest of him was screaming in desperation wishing that they did.
"I'm looking for a...a shard," he explained. "It's a big red crystal, but it's evil. It twisted the warden with its corruption. But he doesn't have it. Have either of you ever seen anything like it?"
They both shook their heads immediately. He sighed in frustration, nearly a growl. He bit back some profanities as he turned his attention back to the rest of the room. He motioned for them to stay where they were, and he set his skeletons in a circle around them. Likely, there was nothing left here, but if the shard summoned something... He shoved those thoughts aside. He needed to focus on finding the shard. It couldn't be far; he could feel it too powerfully. It was right here somewhere! If it had twisted the warden this much...and he could feel it. It was so frighteningly close. But not here, not in this room. If this man was anything like other soldiers or even other prison wardens, there would be records, lists, something that might give him a clue where to turn next.
The top of the desk was clear of anything, so he started rifling through the drawers. Amazingly, despite the chaos in the rest of the place, he was able to find several neat stacks of parchments and even books detailing prisoner records. He found the rotation assignments for the guards. He found requisition lists. He found dozens of other things that were useless to him. All of these he tossed aside angrily to get them out of his way. Frustrated, he lifted another pile of blank parchments in a bottom drawer and nearly flung them away violently with everything else when he caught sight of a small leather journal.
Of course! A personal journal would be the most likely.
He felt like an idiot for a second, but his mind was spiraling. The shard was hammering away at him, the kids were waiting, cultists were coming, and his sense of threat looming was literally screaming at him. He paused for one slow breath to force down his building frustration...and fear. He refocused and quickly flipped through the pages to find the last one that had been scrawled on in unsteady writing.
Where is it?
Still hear it beat.
Warm like the lash. Cold like fire to the fingertips.
Mine.
He flipped back another page.
Thought I was alone here. Not alone now. The Heart was
made to be shared.
My friend is back. It is small but it is growing fast. Like me we
are all growing. Grow hair grow teeth grow spine grow old.
Tired. Need to make the rounds. Can't.
Still feeling sick about the whole thing, He realized he was reading the poor man's descent into madness. He flipped back another page.
Moving the prisoners out to the shanties will work for some.
The unimportant ones. But there are monsters down here.
And monsters who look like people still. They can never see
the light of day again.
Kenton wants to seal this place up. I'm changing already.
And I'm their warden. I should stay. Somebody has to make
sure they never get out.
Gods, he already knew, he thought. And he chose to stay rather than risk it getting out, like a plague.
But he still needed to know where the damned shard was! This was getting him nowhere. He flipped back another page. He didn't have all day to read the journal.
Thought it was just an ordinary rock. Nice deep crimson,
decent shine on it. Put it on the bedstand; next day, I passed it
around the mess hall. One of the green guards gets a real long
look, makes for to grab it, and next he's spewing seawater and
his face is splitting open like a crab. Meris had to kill him with a
fire poker.
Every hair on my back's falling out, and it feels like my skin's
going to go next. Hell of a week.
He flipped back another couple of pages. Nothing. Not one mention of the shard. Frustrated, he threw the journal on the pile of other stuff. He started rifling through drawers again. No, he hadn't missed anything. There just wasn't anything there to find. But he knew it was here somewhere very close.
He eyed the doors on either side of the room. He would have to let it in, turn his focus inward onto it and whatever was crawling around the back of his mind that said he wanted it. He looked to the kids still huddled by the decorative grate. He shuddered, feeling sick at the idea. No, he couldn't risk it. If it managed to take over even for a second... He growled to himself in frustration and turned toward the doors on the far side of the room. He would have to search this place.
The monster that lurked below had other ideas.
While the necromancer was trying to find the shard, it was trying to find him. The magical grate moved up out of its housing without a sound as a long, slimy appendage lifted it up and slithered in. Pyresong was about to tell the children to wait here for him. When he turned back toward them, the words froze on his lips as his blood turned to ice. He caught sight of the stealthy movement of the grate and gasped.
"Run!" he screamed at the children, leaping right over the desk as he drew his scythe.
He sent a mental command to his skeletons to attack the slimy limb as he raced toward them. He heard Fern's painfully high-pitched screaming as Esmund tried to get her away from the thing. Being the closest target, it managed to grab the little girl and slither back down through the hole before Pyresong could even get there. In sheer panic, Esmund crawled back to the grate desperately.
"No, no, no! Fern!"
Esmund's screams scraped his already raw nerves. His mind raced in panic. He grabbed the boy by the back of his tunic and hauled him up.
"Help me get this grate up! Right now!"
"It has her! She can't swim! She—"
Whatever he was about to say next was cut off when Pyresong slapped him just hard enough to snap Esmund out of his hysteria. There was no time! The boy blinked and then punched him right in the nose. Caught by surprise and stunned by the pain for one heartbeat, he lost his grip when Esmund thrashed around wildly. The boy tore across the room, headed right for the wall behind the desk.
"Wait, Esmund!"
Esmund slammed something with his hand that looked like a protruding brick, and it sank into the wall. A stone door Pyresong hadn't even noticed earlier swung inward. He tried to grab him again and missed as the boy fled into the dark stairwell beyond.
"Esmund! Don't! I'll go after her!"
Still trying to catch up to the blindly panicking boy, he was only dimly aware that they were in some kind of cavern system under the prison. He watched helplessly as the long, slimy appendage still gripping a screaming Fern retreated down into a pool of water to their left.
"Esmund! Stop!"
Esmund hesitated on the edge of the pool only for a heartbeat. "I have to!"
"No!" he all but screamed as the boy leapt into the pool.
Zatham appeared out of a portal on the edge of the pool. He caught the equally panicked necromancer before he could jump in after the children. There was no time to explain. But Zatham's grip on his arm was too strong. Zatham swung him around, using his own body weight and momentum to fling him to the ground away from the pool.
"Take the beast's attention away!" he pointed to another part of the cavern. "While it's focused on you, I will find them!"
Pyresong scrambled to his feet, torn.
"Go! Now! I will come to you when I have the children!"
"You'd better," he snarled as Zatham dove into the water.
He did as instructed and ran to the other side of the cavern where a huge pool of water was edged by a short, sheer cliff of rock. He had no idea how big the monster was or how long the limbs were. But the one he'd seen was easily sixty feet. Very likely, those appendages sprawled throughout the complex in these tunnels. Still reacting to his horrified panic, he began throwing spirit fire and bone spears into the water.
"Over here, beast! Come out and die!"
His scream was slightly hysterical and had been more for the need to scream than any intended purpose. But the blasts of spirit fire had worked. The hellish monstrosity broke the surface with enough force to knock him right off his feet. Its gaping maw was filled with wicked, long fangs, and it sprouted several more of those slimy appendages in all directions. He rolled away and slashed at them with his scythe, lashing out madly in every direction with blades of energy. When he had an opening, he aimed spirit fire at the eyes with his left hand. His shield still hung on his back from earlier. There was no time to even grab it.
Even more horrifying, the shard was right here somewhere! It was battering at him, trying to claim him while he was distracted. Something inside of him was pulling, fighting against him. It was a violent rage that struggled to break free of its own prison inside of him.
Shutting it all out in his panic for the children, he gave in to his combat instincts and pulled on that too-familiar rage. Still slashing away at everything around him, he filled himself with so many restless spirits that he felt like he was going to explode. No burnout this time. He didn't care as long as it bought Zatham time to save them. He dropped his scythe and flung the bone spirits at the sea monster's face in a dual-handed barrage. It retaliated with lightning, much as the octopus creatures had. But he was shielded well enough that all it did was scorch his skin. He screamed with combined pain and fury. He refused to let go of his channel of bone spirits. He could still hear Fern's and Esmund's terrified screams reverberating in his fracturing mind and heart. When the thing tried to back away and dive under the water, the enraged necromancer found the weaker underbelly and sent a volley of bone spirits at it, just under the head.
It worked. The flesh was ripped and torn open in a gory mess by the bone spirits exploding in rapid succession. The creature opened its maw in a silent, agonized scream. Filthy, evil red light came pouring out. The thing flopped dead on the ground only a couple feet away from him.
The shard!
Instantly, he was flooded with the need to get to it. To hold it. To use it. With the shard, nothing could stop him against the cultists. He would use that power to cleanse the world of all demonic cultists. That beast of theirs would bow before him. He would destroy them all with its unthinkable power!
"I have her! Come here quickly! I'm going back for the boy!"
"Esmund!"
He had already retrieved his scythe and was cutting into the monster to get at the shard. Fern's scream tore through his soul, shredding his thoughts. He stumbled back away from the beast he'd nearly torn apart with his bare hands to get at the shard. Gasping and reeling in sickened horror, he very nearly fell. What he had nearly done... He felt like he was going to vomit. His horrified thoughts were shattered further by Fern's terrified screaming. Her painfully high-pitched screams tugged at his soul even more forcefully than the shard. He had to get to Fern! She was in danger!
Though the whole thing had taken no more than maybe two minutes, he was exhausted. He battled against the dizziness as he found the energy to run to her while Zatham crossed the cavern again and dove back into the water. Behind Fern, he'd spotted more cultists. Any thoughts of the shard were lost when he saw them reaching for her. Giving in entirely to combat instincts, he went wraith form to get there faster than his legs could move. Screaming mentally, he slashed at the cultists. He felt the vile energies shifting behind him as more cultists appeared through a portal. His only through now was to ensure Fern remained unharmed. One of the priests grabbed the thrashing little girl by the back of her shirt in a brief opening. A heartbeat later, he lost his arm to Pyresong's scythe. He danced around Fern, summoning skeletons to guard her in his wake. She fell to the ground and curled up in a tight ball to stay out of his way.
When he'd cut down the last cultist over here, he turned toward the others around the dead monster. His heart skipped a beat when he spied Akinees standing before a fiery portal, the massive shard in his hands. The priest laughed at his stricken expression.
"Fear guides your every move. You could have spared yourself so much."
He glanced over his shoulder at Fern to find Zatham returning, carrying Esmund. He had no time. Akinees was already disappearing through the portal.
"Stay by Zatham! He'll protect you both!" he shouted back to them, running toward the portal.
As the portal began to close, he threw himself through it in a flying leap. He prayed he was right about Zatham but had no other choice. He couldn't let the shard get away. If it meant chasing it into Hell, so be it. He landed on some stone stairs on the other side of the portal, jarred by the impact but not stunned. He turned the downward fall into a roll. He was on his feet a second later. Akinees running through the fog just ahead of him.
The fortress! They can't carry it far!
The revelation meant little at the moment. Right now, his target was running across a wide open parade ground with a few ship docks at the far end. The shard no longer pulled at him. It had found new masters. There was no more time for thought, or planning, or even feeling. He chased Akinees to where he now stopped in a large circle of other cult priests and priestesses waiting for him.
"Take it to the Bride of Hell!" he heard Akinees command them. "She may need longer to prepare its journey."
Apparently, Akinees hadn't realized he'd been followed. Maybe there was still a chance to stop him and get it back before he handed it over.
"If you take it, I'll follow! No matter where you run! Save yourself the time!"
He was only a few feet away, but his intention to startle Akinees into pausing didn't work. The evil priest threw the shard at one of the others, and they all disappeared through more fiery portals. Pyresong blistered the air with obscenities violently and loudly as they all fled. But Akinees laughed as he turned to face the necromancer.
"You think to frighten me more than the Lord of Terror himself? I will show you fear."
He was forced to dance back quickly when Akinees activated another giant summoning circle already painted with blood and magic on the stones. He sent a blade of energy at the priest that was easily blocked. He just needed to interrupt the summoning. He tried again. Akinees laughed all the more at his feeble efforts. Already standing within the enormous summoning circle, Pyresong instead turned his attention to the glowing sigils. Maybe he could—
"Great One! Ease from your throne and burn the sky black!"
He stepped back further, preparing for whatever came up out of the summoning circle. But he had been wrong. The massive flying demon he'd seen summoned on the beach now dropped down from the sky, almost right on top of the vile priest. Akinees laughed again as he disappeared through another portal just behind the enormous demon as it roared. Pyresong danced away from it as a red lightning storm surrounded the thing. It was just too massive! Nothing he did with his scythe was going to do more than make it angrier. And now he had its full attention. Caught out in the open with nowhere to even try to hide, he tried to come up with anything that might help. The last time he had fought anything even remotely similar in size, he had been trapped in Hell. Before he could even grasp that thought, it was blasted right out of his head.
A bolt of red, agonizing lightning struck the stones less than an inch away. It hit him with enough force to send him flying through the air like a thrown doll. His scythe and shield went flying away from spasming fingers. His whole body writhed and convulsed uncontrollably for a few seconds with the energy that scorched him from the inside out. Screaming, he reflexively tried to roll away from where he landed before the thing caught him again. Beyond the agonizing heat and electricity, he felt the familiar chilling calm of certain death clutching icily at his mind and heart. He gave into it, gratefully.
No longer thinking or feeling, he let his body and instincts take over. Now completely calm, he could fight back. The thing leapt at him, trying to catch him with its giant paws and talons. Just one of talons could easily pierce right through this armor and out the other side with feet to spare. The footpads could squish him like a bug and probably not even notice. It missed it's second attempt, but not by enough. He felt something in his leg shatter at the glancing impact. But he was beyond pain now. As it pulled back to try again, he rolled again. This time, it came at him with its gaping maw full of long, razor sharp fangs. His body was already glowing brightly with the spirits he held, waiting for the right opportunity. This time he held still as it came at him with its open maw. He unleashed the bone spirits in a giant explosion laced with fire right into the beast's open mouth. The head blew apart in hundreds of gory pieces.
While the demon's body was collapsing to the ground just a few feet away, he was uncorking another one of the most powerful, syrupy thick healing potions he had. Almost as soon as he swallowed the last mouthful, the sudden shock of pain in his leg made him gag. The blackened spots of skin all over his body from the lightning burns were nothing compared to the pieces of bone pulling themselves back together. He rolled to his side and gripped the stones beneath him as he clenched his teeth against a scream. The white hot agony shocked away the chilly calm of certain death, leaving him groaning in pain. His bones must have truly been in pieces, but he hadn't taken the time to look.
He fell back to lay flat as the pain finally receded into the warmth of healing. He struggled against the dizziness by gulping down lungs full of air. For a few seconds, all he could do was fight back against the encroaching darkness. This wasn't over. It couldn't be over! He had to find out where they'd taken the shard. Exhausted or not, he had to get back up. That reminded him of the stamina potion in his backpack. But he was still too dizzy to even sit up and get to it. He struggled to make his body obey. The sudden appearance of Zatham kneeling by his side startled him. But the man seemed prepared and easily caught the fist reflexively swung at him.
"You are injured," Zatham said calmly. "Let me help."
He shook his head. "I already took a healing potion."
Zatham nodded and extended a hand. He sat up carefully, still dizzy, but less so. He accepted Zatham's help as he climbed back to unsteady feet, feeling the threatening twinges and pangs in his leg as it was still healing. Seeing the man standing there brought his dazed and exhausted mind back to the last moments he had seen him. He was carrying Esmund. He had left Fern with them. If Zatham was here...
He struggled to focus for just one second beyond everything screaming through his mind. The raging headache pounded in time with his heart, making it almost impossible to think at all.
"I failed. The shard is passing from one hand to another...and soon to reach Diablo," he confessed to Zatham. "Are the children with you? Are they..."
He couldn't even finish the question. A part of him didn't have the strength to ask. His throat closed up as he tried to force the words out; as if saying them would make it real. Zatham sighed heavily, his blindfold-covered eyes and face turning away in shame and sorrow. Pyresong's heart squeezed painfully in his chest until he couldn't breathe.
"Only one..." Zatham said heavily. "I am truly sorry. They did not deserve this."
Pyresong lifted his hand to rub his pounding forehead just to cover the sting of tears.
"They are atop the fortress. Come. I will take you," Zatham said softly.
Zatham didn't wait for a response as he opened another portal, much as he had earlier. Limping heavily, Pyresong retrieved his shield and scythe before hobbling back toward the still-open portal. Wishing for the numbing cold of only moments ago to return, he followed through the portal. He was trembling with exhaustion, both mental and physical. He could feel his heart shattering, like something physical stabbing in his chest. He forced himself to breathe and keep his legs moving.
He stepped through the portal to find it exited on a waypoint at the battlements not far from where he'd met Zatham. He followed Zatham silently, trying to force control of his emotions. Zatham led him toward the covered guardhouse. There, he spied Fern kneeling next to a cold, still Esmund. He stopped before he even got to the door.
Gods...not again. I...I can't, he thought, unable to stop the feelings of crushing grief and failure.
Zatham paused in the doorway and turned back to him, giving him a curious look. Knowing he couldn't escape this, Pyresong took a couple of deep breaths and tried to force himself to the serenity he'd been taught to show everyone. He couldn't. He just couldn't find the energy to even care what others saw right now. He forgot Zatham altogether. All he could see was Fern and Esmund. Her quiet sobs clutched at his soul and dragged him closer. He was able to stop his own tears, but no more. He stumbled past Zatham and went to his knees beside Fern. Seeing him, Fern stood up and threw herself into his arms as if needing his nonexistent strength. He held her gently, wishing he could take her grief on himself instead.
"He told me not to fight," Fern said miserably from where she'd buried her face in his shoulder. "He said I would get killed."
"Fern...I'm so sorry... I...I couldn't..." his throat tightened until his voice was little more than a whisper.
He struggled to find anything to say that could at least offer her comfort. At the moment, every bit of his training and experiences in life failed him completely.
"I wish I could say something that would make it right," he whispered into her hair.
She stiffened and pulled back, shaking all over as tears poured down her cherubic face. He ached as much for her as for himself. It was all so...
"They shouldn't be allowed to do this! To take our home! To take our family! It's not fair! They should lose someone! I should make them lose someone!"
Despite her words of fairness echoing painfully in his own soul, he couldn't let this happen. He gripped her gently by her trembling shoulders. Already the child she had been was dead. He couldn't let her go down that path. He couldn't let them take the rest from her.
"Listen to me, Fern. I swear to you that the cult will face its reckoning, even if you stay within these walls for years," he swore. "Think about the life you want to lead. Don't let them take your future, too."
"You're just like him! 'You're not strong enough!' 'You have to be safe!'" she nearly shrieked. "I don't care! I'm going to hurt them!"
She'd already lost too much. He knew when someone felt like they had nothing left to lose, they would throw away the rest on attempts at vengeance. He shook her gently, desperate to get through to her. His own eyes burning now.
"I'll get you justice! I promise. You don't have to be the one to do it. You just have to live to see it. Please!" he begged, feeling a tear escaping. "Esmund died trying to save you. If not for me, then stay alive to honor his sacrifice."
Fern's face crumbled at those words. She practically fell into his arms. He pulled her into his lap and held her. Onlookers be damned. His own tears went unchecked. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head and rocked her soothingly. Somewhere far away, a thought born of absolute emotional exhaustion reminded him that this was why he didn't want children. Not that they were a hassle or a distraction, but because he couldn't deal with the pain of something like this. But he did now. He stared down at Esmund's cold body, silently swearing he would not let his sacrifice be for nothing. He knew he would watch over Fern, wherever she was, for the rest of his life.
No one disturbed them. Pyresong could still feel Zatham on the overlook nearby. Everyone else had deserted the place when he'd taken the little girl into his arms. As her quaking sobs wound down through sheer exhaustion, he began to find his own emotional balance again. Or maybe he was just too exhausted to feel much of anything. He wasn't afraid to admit, right now, that what little control he had was only on the surface. He would deal with the real fallout later. Already, he was thinking of Oza's Overlook and escape. After a few minutes of struggling to control her breathing, Fern moved to get back to her feet. He let her go reluctantly.
"I'll...I'll start bringing people up here so they can be safe, too." The look in her dark blue eyes was fierce and cold. "But you have to stop those fanatics. Or I'll come stop them myself."
He put his hand over his heart and bowed in a traditional oath offering. "I swear they will pay for this."
When he rose from the bow, she seemed satisfied. All he could do now was pray it had been enough. He knew she was easily courageous enough to keep her word. Now, it was up to him to make sure she never had to.
He had to get back to Westmarch and tell Cain and Karshun so they could start hunting as soon as possible. Only then did his tired mind catch up to the fact that it was well into the night. Another pettier part of him knew that if Karshun was half as good as his arrogance made him out to be, he should be able to get updates from the Astral Plane or some other divinational tool. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure he even had enough energy left to open a portal. He was weak with exhaustion, and his head hurt too much to even really think. He'd been too absorbed in his and Fern's misery to even take notice until now.
Fern knelt beside Esmund. "Goodbye, brother. Drift in the sea evermore."
His heart writhed and stabbed painfully once more at those words. She had said them as calmly as any adult. She stood up with a determined look on her face. He stopped her with a gentle tug on her arm.
"It's late. You need sleep," he told her softly.
"You need it more than I do, old man," she snapped, though not angrily. "I can't sleep right now."
He huffed an almost laugh with a flicker of a grin. She wasn't far wrong. The aches all over his body, even after that extremely potent healing potion were clear. He probably looked even worse. The last thing he wanted was a mirror right now. But short of buying a portal scroll to Westmarch, he wasn't going anywhere tonight, and he knew it. The rest of her life could wait until tomorrow. His hunt for the cultists and the shard could wait until tomorrow.
"Please, Fern," he pleaded gently. "You're right. I can't leave here until I get some rest. And you do need sleep. If you're going to help others, you'll need to be rested."
She wavered for a moment, looking sad. "Esmund and I used to take turns... We...we watched out for each other. Do you have nightmares, too?"
He nodded solemnly. "We'll guard each other tonight."
She finally nodded. Aching as he was when he rose to his feet, he scooped her up in his arms. She just felt so small and fragile to him. He was glad she didn't fight him on this. Silently, he hated himself more than he could have ever imagined. First, he'd used and manipulated Esmund, and then he'd let the boy die. And he knew it was a downright stupid thing to let this devastated little girl cling to him right now in her grief. But he was just too mentally and emotionally exhausted right now with his own grief and failure. Selfishly, he needed to know she was safe. After this, he would find a way to check in on her to make sure she stayed that way. He knew already. He'd set himself up for a lifelong commitment, and he wasn't going to go back on his word now.
All over the great hall—and likely the rest of the keep—the few survivors had gathered. Many were already curled up, sleeping. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the guilt of knowing how this had all come about gnawed at him. He had unleashed Diablo. But he was just too tired for it to take hold right now. He was too exhausted even to shove it into a mental hole right now. He knew he would eventually feel the full force of those creeping, gnashing shadows. First, Fern needed him. In a far corner, he found Commander Kenton.
"I need to get back to Westmarch, but I can't do it tonight. I've spent too much of my energy," he explained. "Is there somewhere a little less crowded we can rest?"
Kenton took one look at the girl in his arms and asked a silent question, as if wanting to know if she was going with him. Pyresong shook his head slightly in answer as the Fern watched on tiredly. Kenton raised an eyebrow, but said nothing further on that. They could discuss it tomorrow if there was anything that needed discussing. Right now, Fern was likely just one of many orphans the commander would have to deal with in the coming weeks. He motioned for one of his men.
"Take them to the west wing rooms on the second floor. It should be clear," Kenton ordered his soldier. Then he turned back to him with a wry grin. "Shall we discuss other compensation for your heroic efforts now or later?"
"Never," he replied, too tired even to feel offended. "I'm not a sell-sword."
"My apologies," Kenton said with all seriousness. "It was not intended as an insult."
He shook his head again. "None taken. I will be out of here tomorrow. If word hasn't already reached Westmarch, I will notify the city commanders."
"My thanks. Rest well."
With so many other things to deal with right now, including finishing up clearing the keep and island of demons, he dismissed the necromancer and Fern from his mind. Pyresong followed the soldier through the corridors and down some stairs. With Fern still cradled in his arms, he was careful not to stumble despite his shaking legs. His recently healed leg occasionally stabbed and cramped threateningly. By the feel of it, he would need at least one more healing potion. The throbbing and burning all over the rest of his body just confirmed that. He had been so wrapped in his grief that he'd not even realized just how thoroughly exhausted he really was. It was catching up to him quickly. They finally stopped before an ornately carved wooden door. The soldier peered inside to ensure the suite of rooms was clear and then nodded and left.
He set Fern on her feet just outside the door while he did a check of his own. In the light of the hallway torches, he spied some candles and lanterns and sent a trickle of flame to light them. He motioned her inside once he could see well enough. Apparently this suite of rooms was used for visiting nobility or some such. They were lavishly decorated and felt completely out of place in a military complex. He didn't care. They just needed a safe place to sleep. He latched and locked the door. There were two small doors on the right wall. One of them opened into a closet, complete with a dressing table and mirror. The other into a luxurious bathing room.
"Let's get cleaned up as best we can," he told her, lighting a lantern in the bathing room.
Fern's blue eyes were wide with wonder as she took in all the opulent furnishing of the room. Then, she caught sight of the unbelievably rare indoor plumbing that only the wealthiest of the wealthy could ever afford to have. He showed her how to use the faucets and then left her to it. In the main room, he found a chair near a desk and sat down before his legs gave out. He began removing his armor. He was so tired now, inside and out, that he just felt numb. He fished out his cleaning supplies and did what he could for various pieces of his armor. He would need to wait until he had access to water for the rest and set them aside. The ones he could clean easily, he stowed back in his backpack. At this point, even if there was another attack, he would be next to useless. And, to be honest, buried as deeply in the keep as they were now, it was unlikely they would even know about it unless someone came to get him.
Before he had even finished with his armor, Fern re-emerged from the bathing room wearing a huge dressing gown that could have served as a tent for her. He couldn't help grinning tiredly at the sight. He took his backpack and gear that needed cleaning into the bathing room. He found Fern's clothes hanging nearby to dry. She'd done her best to clean them as well. Very likely, that was everything she possessed now. The idea scraped at his already raw emotions. But he was too tired to even hold on to the thought or what he could possibly do about it.
He finished cleaning the pieces of armor and then stowed them in his backpack, too. Then he peeled off the filthy, ruined clothing and tossed them into a corner. They were beyond salvaging and just served as another reminder of how bad of a beating he had taken the last couple of days. There were tears just about everywhere his armor didn't cover and blackened, burnt holes everywhere else. His armor had likely been the only reason he had survived the red lightning blasts. Its magical enhancements and protection had likely absorbed most of it.
Cold as the water was from the faucets, it soothed his pounding headache somewhat and some of the other aches. He was too tired to really even appreciate being clean. He dug some more clothing out of his backpack. Somewhere far away a tired thought reminded him he was likely going to have to stop somewhere and have more clothing made soon. He didn't have much left after these last few months. But, like pretty much everything else, it wasn't going to happen tonight. He blew out the lantern as he left the room.
Fern was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wrapped snugly in her dressing gown and curled up in a tight ball. She just seemed so tiny and delicate to him right now; his heart ached all the more. He desperately wanted to do more to protect her. But he was just so tired he couldn't think anymore. Fern looked like she was about to fall right off the edge of the bed as she struggled against sleep. He was glad to see her so sleepy. Part of him was afraid she might try to sneak off after he fell asleep. He knew he had no right to stop her. Right now, though, there was a part of him that desperately needed to know she was here and safe. His tired mind and aching heart wouldn't let him move past that. He prayed some sleep would help him find the strength to put all the jagged pieces of himself back together tomorrow. He had to, if for no other reason than to keep his oath to this poor girl. Keeping that oath and giving her some semblance of justice was all he really could do for her now.
He pulled the many layers of covers back and let her crawl into the giant, overstuffed bed. He moved to blow out the last candle on the bedside table and then changed his mind. Nightmares were always that much worse in the dark, he knew. He set his scythe on the table beside him. Then he climbed in beside her. The moment he settled, she curled up against him, shivering slightly. He'd been so tired he hadn't even really felt the cold anymore. She was asleep in seconds, her head resting against his underarm. For a while, he just listened to the comforting sound of her steady breathing. Then, he finally let himself drift off into a very light sleep. He had said he would guard her dreams, and he intended to keep that promise, too. He didn't need much sleep, after all; just a few hours to let his energies recover enough to make a portal back to Westmarch. Besides, he knew the nightmares were waiting for him. And he couldn't deal with them right now.
A few times during the night, he pulled himself back to consciousness when he heard Fern whimpering or whining in her sleep. He managed to soothe her quickly enough with soft words that it never progressed to waking or even screaming, which he suspected wasn't far off for the poor child. As he stroked her forehead and hair, her eyelids fluttered. When he felt she was settled again, he would let himself doze off. He could feel the nightmares coming, the shadows creeping inward, clutching at his mind and heart. He pulled himself back toward consciousness to avoid them. He knew from experience that he could not do this indefinitely. Not allowing himself to sleep deeply enough to dream not only prolonged the inevitable but made him feel more exhausted as the days passed. He would let them come, just not tonight. Each time he woke, he checked the candle. If his guess about the length and quality was correct, it was a twelve-hour candle. He would let Fern sleep until she woke on her own.
For himself, he knew the real nightmares were the ones he had to live with, not sleep through.
Chapter 18: 17 Post Stormpoint
Chapter Text
Post Stormpoint
Though he had no way to be sure in this windowless room, based on the candle, he guessed it had been somewhere around ten hours since he lit it when Fern finally woke with a yawn. Feeling her stirring beside him, he pulled himself back up to the surface of consciousness.
"Good morning," he said gently.
"Morning," she whispered, staring blankly.
Pyresong's heart skipped a beat at her hollow tone and expression. "Fern? Are you all right?"
She seemed to come back to herself and blinked a few times. She shook her head and pulled away. Her dark blue eyes were cold and fierce.
"No, and I won't be," she admitted, meeting his eyes angrily. "Not until I know they've paid. You'll come back and tell me, won't you?"
He was relieved. For a moment, he'd felt he was losing her all over again. It wouldn't be the first time he had seen delayed shock claim someone. He couldn't bear the thought of her being left here to suffer that by herself.
"I swore I would make them pay. And, of course, I will tell you. Would you like me to bring you some trophy heads?" he teased gently.
For one second, the look in her eyes was so dark and cold, he thought she just might say yes. But then she shook her head and struggled out from under all the covers and ran to the bathing room. He stretched, trying to work out all stiffness from the previous days' battles. Thanks to the multiple healing potions, the worst of his bruises and blackened skin were gone. But he still felt so horribly tired. At least he had enough energy to get back to Westmarch. Now he just had to find the calm he needed to deal with Karshun without punching the man. He desperately wanted to talk to Cain, but he knew that wasn't going to happen any time soon, not with Karshun around. He would just have to meditate when he had time and deal with things on his own, just as he had done in the days before he met the old scholar.
By the time Fern reappeared, he had already stowed his scythe and slung on his backpack and side satchel. She took his large hand in hers, squeezing almost fearfully as he opened the door. Rather than shake her off, he squeezed her hand comfortingly to reassure her. He just managed to resist the urge to pick her up and carry her as he would a toddler. He led them down the corridors back the way he vaguely remembered getting here. It didn't take long to find some soldiers to get further directions back to the great hall where the survivors were still gathered. Many of them were now busy with picking up the shattered pieces of their lives. Not for the first time, he wanted to do more to help, but this was not his place right now.
He knelt down to look Fern in the eyes. Somehow, it didn't feel right looking down on her as everyone else would. Even on his knees, she stood below the level of his shoulders.
"I will keep my oath. Just remember, you need to live to see it. Agreed?"
"I'll keep my promise if you keep yours," she agreed firmly.
To his surprise, she leaned in and hugged him tightly before pulling away and walking toward some of the adults gathered nearby.
Good girl, he thought, sadly.
He knew she was tough. She and Esmund had survived the loss of their parents at some point. Now, she didn't even have her brother. He prayed she would find someone here in this mess that would take her in, along with the other orphans. But he had to remind himself again—more sternly, this time—not his problem. He shook off these and other painful, meandering thoughts as he watched her walk away. Off to the side, he took note of a waypoint. Vaguely, he recalled Zatham having used it to get them both back up here the night before. Focused on that, he sensed more than heard Zatham's stealthy steps as he approached at a respectful distance.
"I have hunted fanatics like these for a long time. In my homeland, we have no shortage of vile hearts. I will find their scent," Zatham promised.
Again, he was struck by the strange accent and hesitant speech patterns. Yet he couldn't recall anything remotely similar from anywhere. He was more than a little relieved to hear the man would be continuing the hunt. At least he wasn't about to turn his attention on this place and its survivors. In his preoccupation with Fern, he had nearly forgotten Zatham altogether. Grateful as he was for Zatham's help, he wasn't about to let this unknown entity possibly cause further harm here.
"We're going after them together, Zatham," he stated flatly, leaving no room for argument. "Right now, I have to return to Westmarch. If you need to find me, send word to Elder Deckard Cain in Westmarch. He'll know where to find me. Come find me when you know more."
"Of course. I will need your strength. The signs grow in number. We must follow on the fanatics' trail soon. Once I have their trail, I will return to you."
To his surprise, Zatham bowed rather than offer his hand in parting. Pyresong noted it was a bow of a commoner to a priest, rarely ever seen these days. Unlike many other bows, commoner to whatever was considered archaic, even insulting to most. He returned the bow respectfully, though, not wanting to insult his new ally. Then Zatham turned to disappear through a portal. He still didn't fully trust Zatham. Part of him wanted to believe he was a religious zealot as he'd first thought. Yet, the way the man reacted to the loss of Esmund told a completely different story. Most religious zealots thought that children dying before they could be tainted or corrupted by the rest of the world was a good thing. Not this one. The man's sorrow had been sincere.
Again, he shook off dark thoughts. He was just too tired to deal right now. He would have to figure out Zatham another day if they ever crossed paths again. In the meantime, he still had to update Cain and Karshun. As exhausted as he was emotionally, that would be a trial right now. His grief over the loss of Esmund was still acute. The injustice of it and where it had left Fern in this world gnashed at his soul with icy teeth. His failure to get the shard burned hotly inside him, right along with his guilt. It had been entirely his fault. He had nearly let the shard claim him. And then he'd gone to protect Fern when he should have been retrieving the shard. And no matter how many times he ran it through his exhausted mind, it all just came out jumbled and somehow wrong. There was a part of him insisting he could have done something different to avoid all of this. Yet, no matter how he looked at it, this whole mess was his fault.
It all came back to Diablo and his choices.
Too tired even to try to find a way to delay the confession and confrontation, he found a conveniently empty place in the hall and opened a portal to Westmarch. He stepped out into the Palace Courtyard waypoint. Against the wishes of his emotions, it was a bright and sunny day. Not quite warm, but at least tolerable. He wanted the icy rain. If he couldn't be numb inside, at least he could be outside. But these were foolish and irrational thoughts. He knew his mind was scattered and his heart broken.
He forced his usual serene expression onto his face and made his way to Cain's workshop. He was somewhat disappointed to realize that with Karshun now living there, it didn't feel nearly as much like homecoming anymore. More than anything, he just wanted to sit by the fire with a comforting cup of tea, even if he couldn't talk with Cain the way he used to. Resolutely, he shoved it all aside and clung to that mask of serenity he had learned to use so very long ago. He let himself in to find the two of them over by Cain's desk, working on something. The Astral Anchor still dominated the center of the room but was inactive right now.
"Welcome back!" Cain called happily.
Pyresong winced inside, feeling his serene mask cracking. He knew Cain was sincerely happy to see him back, alive and well. But he'd brought nothing of good news with him. At least last time he brought bad news, he was able to bring back and destroy a shard. This time, he couldn't even provide that much. Struggling to keep his emotions in check, he crossed the room toward them.
"I have news. And...I... I could use your...advice," he told Cain carefully, ignoring Karshun's glowering presence for a moment.
For one second, he considered asking Cain if they could speak alone. But why bother? Karshun was going to know everything anyway. Arrogant mages like Karshun would have plenty to say, no matter how he phrased it. And now was not the time to give in to his roiling emotions. He struggled to keep them out of his expression already. Cain eyed him closely, sensing or seeing something anyway. Cain put a comforting hand on his friend's arm.
"What has happened?" Cain asked gently.
"Diablo's cult failed to take Stormpoint Keep, but they...they got the better of me," he confessed. "A massive shard of the Worldstone is in their hands."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Karshun cross his arms with clear irritation and impatience. Before Cain could reply, Karshun snapped at him.
"The shard was your objective. One island saved will not be enough if all nations fall."
He just managed not to flinch visibly at those words as Cain turned toward Karshun. He carefully managed to keep control of his expression, and it was more of a struggle than he was willing to admit right now. He did not like the arrogant mage at all. He also knew Karshun was right, and that made it all the worse.
"Dire news, indeed," Cain agreed. Then he turned back to him with a faint smile. "Yet we are fortunate you blunted their advance. Every person we help is one more we can count on. King Justinian's aid is coming to Stormpoint, but it will take time."
His gut unknotted just a little bit at this news. At least those poor survivors would not be without support to help rebuild. He knew he could rely on Cain to understand, even if it didn't make his actions or the outcome any better. But he couldn't keep the pleading out of his face when he met Cain's eyes again.
"I'm sorry. I almost had it, Cain. There were two orphans... Fern and..." he had to swallow to get around the tightening in his throat, but at least he was able to keep his voice from cracking, "and Esmund. While I was trying to save them, one of the cult's leaders got to the shard."
Cain's expression softened from obvious concern to one of sadness. Yes, he understood, probably better than anyone, what his friend was feeling right now. He could tell by Pyresong's pleading voice and forced composure without him even having to say it. He could easily hear the raw grief behind it. And he knew exactly what Pyresong was feeling when the priest's eyes begged forgiveness. Beyond the guilt, even, there was something much worse. He could almost hear the fear and hesitation. He had no doubts, the shard had sparked something that had terrified him.
"Fern was surrounded by cultists. I couldn't let them take her," he continued, only seeing Cain now. "And Esmund..."
Cain nodded sadly and patted his shoulder comfortingly. He could easily guess what had become of Esmund. Already, he was trying to think up ways to get Pyresong alone. He wasn't going to let his dear friend suffer this alone. Whatever had happened had left its mark on him. He had already questioned, more than once, if the priest was even really recovered from what the shards had done before.
A few feet away, Karshun snorted derisively. "So you saved and orphan girl and let the shard slip away," Karshun sneered and then turned back to whatever he'd been working on on the desk. "Perhaps she can join us to watch the world burn."
Pyresong went cold when something already fractured inside of him snapped completely. He could feel it all the way through. His rational mind just shut down. All he could think about was Fern and how he had failed Esmund and this arrogant little man...
He didn't even realize what he was doing until Cain stopped him with a forceful hand on his chest, pushing back firmly. Cain's wide-eyed expression shocked him into realizing what he'd been about to do. He had very nearly lashed out at the arrogant bastard right there in Cain's workshop! A new kind of cold flooded him as he released the power he'd almost used. Cain's pale-faced concern was like an added slap. He was horrified by what he'd nearly done.
"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, whispering to Cain. "I have to...I have to go."
He managed to walk calmly but quickly to the door. Too quickly for Cain to keep up. Behind him, he heard Cain calling him even as Karshun was going on about sheer stupidity and idiotic priorities. He could hear Cain's shuffling footsteps as he opened the door and exited. He was already running when he got to the mouth of the alley and blindly made a portal to somewhere and fled.
Cain watched helplessly while Pyresong disappeared through the portal and it closed too fast for anyone to follow. His heart ached for his friend. He didn't need the whole story to know the priest was suffering. He'd suffered more than most anyone he had ever known, but he always survived. He had to believe his friend would get past this, too. Yet, he knew, there was only so much a man could take. Had he finally had enough? Had he broken? The younger man had seemed so fragile after he'd recovered from nearly dying so recently. And now this?
Whatever had just happened was so completely out of character for the man, that it had shocked Cain speechless. But he'd sensed the gathering energies in time to shock the necromancer out of whatever he had been about to do. He knew the man would have never forgiven himself if he'd lashed out emotionally in any fashion. But the fact that he had so very nearly done so scared him to his core. Something had definitely broken in his friend...again. And now, he couldn't even be there to help him.
"What's his problem?" Karshun asked as Cain closed the door.
"You are too harsh, old friend. You don't know."
"Know what?" Karshun asked, snorting again. "He's a Priest of Rathma, and one you told me grew up in the order. He should—"
"Exactly why you don't understand!" Cain snapped. "You can't imagine what he's been through. He's not like other necromancers. He never had a choice! And..."
Cain clamped his mouth shut, realizing he'd almost crossed the line. What little he had told Karshun of Pyresong was kept vague and limited only to what may have helped him get the priest back out of a death sleep. The memories he'd been privy to, and their private discussions of those and many other experiences, were not his to share.
Karshun, more irritated than understanding, waved it off. "Well, I'm sorry if what I said somehow hurt his feelings."
"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to!" Cain snapped again, harshly. "Just bear in mind, he's nothing like the other priests you've ever known. And that may be exactly why he's survived so much. We need him, maybe more than you can imagine."
Taken aback, Karshun stared at him as if he'd just grown another head. Then he shook his head, not really believing it. To him, warrior-type adventurers were everywhere. If one died, you could just hire another that would suffice, like mercenaries. This priest was no different than any of the others he'd met. Well, besides being some kind of beacon on the Astral Plane, anyway. Why would Cain bother so much with this one?
Still irritated, Karshun shook it off. The priest would be back, eventually. Right now, they needed to focus on the more important work; especially since Pyresong had failed to acquire the shard as instructed. Yet, a part of him couldn't help wondering if Cain knew something...else. He was certain now the old man had some kind of soft spot for that one. But there was clearly something else besides that, and it irked him to no end. That stupid priest had walked into his friend's life and somehow earned a place in Cain's heart. It would only wound his friend that much more when he died, as all the other adventurers inevitably did.
Still, he couldn't entirely deny there was something about this particular Priest of Rathma that really was so very, very different from any others he'd ever met, and he'd met quite a few. Now that he thought about it, he had never met a necromancer that would go out of his way to save a child over a bigger goal. He considered that maybe it was the suffering that made him so completely different in some deranged way.
And that thought worried him all the more.
Pyresong had no idea what had actually happened in Cain's workshop, but he knew he'd hit a breaking point. He had almost lashed out in rage. In Cain's own home...and against a dear friend of his, under his own roof. And it had been Cain that had to stop him. He felt a sick twisting in his gut. It should never have happened. It took a few seconds after crossing the threshold of the portal to even realize where he was. When he was still able to think, earlier, he had planned to go to Mount Zavain and the Overlook to be alone. Now, he was somehow in the Planks. His mind was swirling, twisting around itself until he couldn't think at all anymore. He took a few shaky steps away from the waypoint platform and sat down. He buried his face in his trembling hands.
Oh, gods... What's happening to me?
He already knew the answer. Esmund's loss had gotten to him. Something in him had broken, and he didn't know how to fix it. Any other time, he could have gone to Cain, but even that had failed miserably with that bastard Karshun present. Knowing as much as he did of Cain, he wondered how his friend could tolerate that arrogance. But Cain, being the patient and insightful man that he was, had obviously seen something he liked—something truly good—in Karshun that outshone the rest. And, of course, this was no time to give in to his petty emotions or fall to bickering. They had to work together.
First, the shard had nearly claimed him, and now this? Gods, he was coming apart!
After taking a few minutes to stop the trembling and slow his racing heart, his ragged breathing finally began to calm, and he could think again. Part of him knew he'd come here just because this island was the top thing on his mind. But if he wanted to be alone, this was not the place. It was too dangerous, for one thing. Had anything moved in to attack him, he'd be dead right now. Worse, a part of him didn't even care at the moment. No, there was no way he could go back to Westmarch right now. He briefly considered what he now called Oza's Overlook. But, if the monks were still working there...he couldn't. He didn't want to risk being around them any more than anyone else. There was no telling what he would do. Next time, there might not be anyone to stop him.
He had enough supplies to last several days at the very least. He knew he couldn't stay away from Westmarch forever. If nothing else, Zatham might come looking for him if he found a lead. A part of his mind that was not consumed with trying to think of a place to be alone realized he needed to be here. Something was tickling and itching at the edge of his thoughts beyond the grief. He wanted something to do to keep his mind off all the broken parts of him floating around right now, cutting him to pieces. It wouldn't be the first time in his life he'd used physical labor as a sort of meditation. He could take out his emotions on something constructive. And, when he was too physically exhausted to be a threat, then he could settle himself to deal with the rest of the fallout. These people needed help. But...everywhere he thought of there were reminders of Esmund stabbing at his heart. That would only make it worse.
Fern...
With a jolt, he suddenly he realized why he had come back. Stupidly, he began to realize that when he'd begged her not to go after the cultists, he had already known. He'd just been too tired to bring it to the surface as a coherent thought. And he'd just been too afraid, too hurt, to even dare think it at the time. Now he knew he couldn't just leave her here. He'd known it last night. She had no one. Hells, most of the remaining islanders had no one, now. There were so few survivors. Who would actually watch out for her and take care of her?
No one, he answered himself.
She had no one...except for him. And he couldn't really bring himself to see it that way, even now. He was no one to depend on. His life was now consumed by the hunt for shards and finding a way to fix his horrendous mistakes. He had not expected to live even this long. And he nearly hadn't on so many occasions. No, there was absolutely no chance he could take care of her or provide any kind of life for her by himself. But he was not about to give up and walk away, either. There had to be some way he could...
He stood and opened a portal on the waypoint behind him. He'd failed to save so many, and now Esmund. He'd failed to get the shard. This was one thing he would not fail. His mind worked frantically to come up with a plan. He was still wrapped up in ideas and filing them into lists when he emerged into the tightly controlled chaos of the keep. He'd found enough calm and control to begin forming ideas. He spied a group of civilian survivors working on moving food supplies into a central location.
"Has anyone seen Fern?" he asked them.
"Little girl with blond hair?" one of them asked.
He nodded.
"She's out with some others looking for more survivors," the woman told him.
"Where?"
She turned to some of the others. "I think they were headed to the Shanties."
"Thank you."
He moved off to the side and opened another portal back to the Planks. Thanks to it being daylight, he could at least see well enough to find some highly unstable paths leading back into the Shanties. In the light of day, though, he could see the devastation was complete. There was not a single standing wooden structure anymore. What hadn't been collapsed had been burnt. He couldn't help wondering if there was even enough left to try rebuilding.
Everywhere soldiers and survivors were working together to try to find anyone else that might have survived. It took him a few hours, but he eventually found the group Fern was working with. There were a couple of other kids with other groups. The bigger people couldn't fit into the tight spaces the way the kids could to help locate survivors...or bodies.
Despite the winter cold that would preserve the bodies for now, body recovery would be a priority for many reasons. One would be to keep them from rotting and poisoning the waters and spreading diseases. His stomach churned at the idea of Fern having to go through the further trauma of helping to recover so many mutilated bodies, likely of people she had known and lived with. He almost wanted to lash out verbally at the men and women who had recruited her to do so. But he knew he was being entirely irrational. She was very likely hurting far worse than he was but was too strong to let it stop her. He was sure she wanted to help, not sit around and let someone else take care of her. And, he knew, she wasn't a child anymore. Her childhood and innocence had been absolutely destroyed by the cultists.
He would ensure they would not have her future, too.
He finally managed to catch up to her as she was crawling out from a piece of crumbled stone wall. She was filthy with mud and no small amount of blood. He scanned her for injuries the moment he saw the blood but found nothing obvious. When she caught sight of him and paused, his heart squeezed painfully all over again. She looked so small, so very fragile. She watched him almost warily as he approached. He didn't want her staring up at him, not now. He went to his knees and took her by the shoulders. The men and women backed off to give them some privacy.
"Fern, please, come away with me. I know there's nothing left for you here," he pleaded. "I'll give you any life you want. Just come with me."
Her fierce blue eyes blazed as she shook her head almost angrily. He could see it in her eyes that she immediately suspected she was being tricked or misled by another adult. Her suspicion of him stung, but he couldn't blame her. He had openly admitted to using Esmund right in front of her. Pyresong held up a hand to silence her.
"Don't answer, not yet. Hear me out and then decide. Please?"
She nodded slowly, clearly still wary.
"I swore to you I would make those cultists pay. And that has not changed. But, if you want to go after them and people like them, you need training. I can take you to where you can be trained, starting right now. And then you can go after anyone you want, to make sure others don't suffer as you have."
Her eyes were wide for a moment but then narrowed in suspicion. "What's the catch?"
"There no catch, I swear it. If you don't want that, I'll give you any life you want. I can set you up in Westmarch. I know some people who would take you as an apprentice, learn a craft or a trade, or even become an artisan. Hells, I can give you your own farm. Just...please, come with me away from this place."
He found his heart racing again as she eyed him, still looking for a trap from this adult. So much depended on this answer. He knew if he left her here, she would be miserable, maybe even dead in a couple of years. This place might not even be safe to live in after the cleanup and rebuilding were complete, and that could take years. And she had no one. Despite the possibly thousands of adults trying to rebuild their lives, she was just an orphan child, easily neglected and forgotten in the chaos. His heart couldn't take the thought of it. If he could give her a life—any life—he would find a way to make it happen. It wouldn't bring back Esmund. That dear, brave boy had given his life trying to give her this chance. He couldn't just let that go to waste here on this miserable, destroyed island. He would see that she lived to grow up, fall in love, maybe even have a family of her own some day. He felt his insides knotting to a point he couldn't breathe anymore as she considered carefully.
"Please, Fern, anywhere in Sanctuary but here," he begged. "I promise."
"I don't ever want to be helpless and weak again," Fern finally told him, as if expecting an argument. "You'll let me fight? You're not trying to trick me, are you?"
"Yes, I swear I will take you wherever you want to go. I will let you learn how to fight. And, when you're old enough, fight your own battles."
"Fine, I'll go."
His whole body sagged with relief. He pulled her in to hug her, and she clung to him again. He knew he was a foolish idiot. This kind of attachment was stupid. He could be dead in a few more days, especially since he had to chase the shard again. And the longer this went on, the more devastating it would be for her when he did. She'd lost enough. She'd lost far too much. But he'd also known he was very likely to take her by force if she had refused his offer. This was the one time in his life he was willing to give in to his selfish desires. He knew he literally could not leave her here in this place. Yet Fern was brave, not stupid, and not a stubborn child. She knew what she wanted. And if he could give that to her, he was going to make it happen one way or another.
A vague plan was already forming as he let her go. He had read her correctly. Now, he just had to pray the rest of it would work out. He knew a few places he could take her where she could learn. But the first one that came to mind was the Sisters of the Sightless Eye and the Eastgate Monastery. He could start there. If they rejected her, he would find somewhere else. He would literally take her all over the world until he found someone who would take her in and train her. He hoped a hefty amount of gold would help.
"I'm proud of you, Fern," he told her, holding her at arm's length. "You're not weak. You never were. But sometimes we..." his throat closed up, and his eyes stung again thinking of Esmund. "Sometimes we just need to protect those smaller than us. I'm sorry if we made you feel like you were helpless."
Fern was fighting back tears again, but she scrubbed them away quickly as he stood up.
"Do you need to get anything before we leave?"
She shook her head and took his hand. His long, cold fingers made her tinier hand disappear completely. He turned to the others waiting nearby.
"Tell whoever is managing the list of survivors to remove Fern. She's leaving with me and won't be back."
A few of them looked envious. And a couple even looked afraid for the little girl. But he wasn't about to let them interfere. He didn't give a damn what they thought was going on. He quickly opened a portal to the Dark Wood. He knew it was a bit of a gamble on whether they would take her, but it was the best place to start. Like any other place he'd considered, he would likely have to go back to Cain's sooner or later and get a hefty amount of gold. But he had enough to at least get started already in his backpack. If he'd judged Kashya, Akara, and the others right, they would make Fern one of their own even without it. If that didn't work, he was certain Tabri would train her well. Then there were possibly the Demon Hunters in the Dreadlands, if he could find them. And there were always the Barbarian tribes in the Tundra.
He shoved the lengthening list aside and struggled to focus. First, Dark Wood. Then he would go from there.
The one place he could remember clearly enough to make a portal was the now former battle camp in the eastern middle portion of Dark Wood. It had been months since he'd been there and the terrain had changed much, but he was still able to make the portal successfully. There were still a few traces of the camp around them. Some barriers, pieces of wall, tent posts, and fire pits remained. Some of the fences had held up well, despite their original temporary nature. He had the feeling it wasn't the first time they'd used that place as a successful safe zone. If he remembered correctly, it had been less than a decade since the monastery had been overrun by demons, and another Priest of Rathma had helped clear and reclaim their monastery. But, he had no idea which direction to take to reach the monastery. Obviously, it was far enough away from this place to be safe but close enough to reach easily.
Fern remained silent while he considered the various options. North would take them near Inifuss or even the Forgotten Tower. West would take them into the swamp. South, he knew, would take them to the now abandoned Blackstone Village. That made him pause. Maybe, they had tried to rebuild. Despite the slaughter that had taken place there at the hands of the Bloodsworn, maybe there had been survivors. Maybe there were others moved in now.
All those empty homes... Broken lives... Alyssa...
He quickly shook off those sad thoughts as he shrugged off his backpack. He knew the forest was not likely to be anywhere near as bad as he remembered. The Rogues had most likely worked hard and steadily to once again cleanse the forest of the evil that had infested it. And, after Hemlir's sacrifice, likely the Tree of Inifuss had done its part as well. But just in case, he was going to at least have his scythe ready. He quickly pulled out his belt, too. Aside from being bent out of shape, the shield would just be awkward, if not painful, without his vambrace. Besides, he could always use his left hand for spells rather than defensively. If he needed a free hand, the scythe was better off hanging from his belt. Fern seemed more curious than concerned as she watched him.
"This place was under a dark curse about a year ago, now,” he explained. “I'm taking you to a monastery that belongs to the Sisters of the Sightless Eye. They're Rogues and priestesses that can train you and teach you, just as I promised. I haven't been here in a while, and I don't know exactly where the Eastgate Monastery is. But the Rogues patrol this forest regularly, working to cleanse it of twisted creatures and demons that infested it. We should be able to find one of the Sisters fairly quickly.” The he thought about what he had just said and grinned as he corrected himself. "Rather, they will find us."
Fern nodded, her blond hair dancing in the light wind. A brief flash of memory assaulted him from the shadows of his mind. She looked nothing like Alyssa, but the circumstances were too much for his aching heart to ignore right now. He considered her for a moment, then dug a hunting knife and its sheath out of his backpack. Fortunately, he always kept a few lengths of leather in case he needed to do field repairs to his armor. After a moment of consideration, he found a knife that didn't appear to big for her to hold comfortably. He thought might work, but prayed she would not need it.
"This is yours now, Fern. For now, use it only to protect yourself. If we do run into anything, I expect you to stay behind me. But don't be afraid to use it if the need arises."
"I will," she promised, her blue eyes hard and cold.
Tough girl, and no fear, he thought, both sad and proud of her. Likely, she's already faced the worst thing that could ever happen to her and survived it.
He looped the leather strap through the knife sheath and then around her waist. For now, all he could really do was tie it in place. As soon as he was done, she adjusted it for easy access without him even having to tell her to do so. He smiled warmly and nodded. He resisted the urge to ruffle her hair as he had done with other children. This was no child. Not anymore, and never would be again. Seeing her resolute and ready stance, he knew he was doing the right thing.
Almost as soon as they passed through what had once been the south gate of the battle camp, a whistle off to his left caught his attention. He turned just in time to see a Rogue jogging up to him from the shadows of the undergrowth where she had likely been hiding. He was happy to see it was one he was familiar with.
"Isolde!" he greeted happily, shaking her hand.
"What brings you back here after all this time? Not another shard, eh?" she asked with a friendly smile.
"Isolde, I'd like you to meet my friend, Fern. She is a survivor of a cultist attack on Stormpoint. Fern, I'd like you to meet one of the Rogues and Sisters of the Sightless Eye, Isolde."
Fern was eyeing the array of weaponry easily visible on the Rogue when she offered her hand to shake, like any adult. Isolde shook her hand solemnly. Pyresong was well aware that there likely wasn't a single person in all of the Dark Wood who hadn't lost someone in the fight against the Countess and the Bloodsworn, or even the demonic attack on the monastery years before that. They all knew the feeling of wanting vengeance and justice against those who hurt their loved ones.
"I need to speak with Priestess Akara and Commander Kashya, but I've never been to the monastery," he explained. "Cain and Charsi tell me you're trying to repair and rebuild."
Isolde shook her head. "We haven't even completed the repairs from the demon attack all those years ago. But, yeah, we're trying. I'm headed that way, anyway. I can take you. The Commander should be back by the time we get there."
"Thank you. How goes the cleansing?"
"Well enough," she answered, glancing to Fern as if not sure how much to say. "A few creatures still roaming around, but natural animals have begun to move in again. Seems like no end of Fallen, though. No matter how many we kill, there's always more. Priestess Akara thinks there might be a Hell rift somewhere in that area. But we haven't been able to find it. You were right about the Bloodsworn. They all died when you killed the Bloody Countess. They were linked to her somehow."
"That is good news," he agreed, still somewhat regretting that he hadn't come back to help when possible.
"Just one odd thing, though," Isolde continued. "There's something running around these woods that drinks animal blood. We find the bodies sometimes drained of blood. And a few Sisters swear they've seen something that they insist saved their lives."
"None of the Sisters have been attacked?"
"No, and that's what makes it so strange. It follows us around, watching our patrols. Sometimes, we just feel it or hear it. It's a wily one, too. None of our traps have worked."
He just nodded. He wasn't familiar enough with the Dark Wood and its usual creatures to really speculate. But if it wasn't hurting anyone... He shook his head mentally with a sigh. No, it wasn't his place to tell them how to protect their own territory. He would stay out of it. Maybe if he had time some day, he could come back and help them. Maybe he could find that Hell rift, at least. Even with what little time he did have, he felt like he could contribute something.
He nearly growled at himself mentally when he realized his mind was wandering again. Yes, he was still very tired. But, more to the point, he was so busy avoiding all the pieces floating around, cutting him apart from the inside, he was willing to do almost anything to keep them at bay. He just needed a little bit longer. Then he could escape and meditate or work it out or whatever the hells he was going to do to get himself back to functioning. Right now, he just had to keep his focus.
It didn't take them long to reach the walls of the Outer Cloister. Pyresong was actually surprised he hadn't run into it sooner. For that matter, he kicked himself mentally for not even checking his maps. Very likely, it was on one of them. He sighed internally. He was just not thinking clearly, and he knew it. He needed some time alone to think and process. Already, he was back to considering places he could go to spend a day or two. Above all, he could not risk another encounter with Karshun until he did. And they would need Karshun's help to find a lead to the cultists and their shard. Somehow, he would have to get his head straight before he really did murder that arrogant bastard.
He paused to note the waypoint in the Outer Cloisters. He had gotten much better at memorizing the various ones he found in seconds rather than minutes. And, in a place like this that didn't really change even over centuries, he really didn't have to remember much about it. One waypoint was much the same as the other. It was just the terrain around it that changed. The obvious signs of renovation, repair, and lingering damage were seen in every corridor they traversed. He knew his bag of treasure wasn't bottomless. Yet, he was certain he could easily provide for Fern and give something to the Sisters to help with their work of rebuilding.
When they got into a section that looked like it served as more current housing for the Rogues, Pyresong's heart stuttered painfully for a moment. He had just realized he was about to encounter Kashya. He hadn't seen Kashya face to face since he'd left after the Countess. But those green eyes and red hair haunted him, more than he would like to admit. There was something there, he knew; painfully, he knew. Whatever he had begun to feel when they first met had lodged itself inside him and taken root. If anything, it had grown, not unlike those life-sucking vines that had once grown through the Dark Wood. And those feelings terrified him. He couldn't afford such a distraction. And he knew a strong woman like her deserved so much more, so much better than he could ever offer her. He also knew that he could never be what she deserved. He just reminded himself over and over, not that it stopped her mischievous smile from creeping back into his thoughts again and again.
He ached to touch her thick, beautiful hair, and hold her, and just be with her. He crushed those thoughts viciously, but they always came back. Still, his life was consumed now by the hunt for the shards and ways to destroy them. And he had yet to even seriously consider how he would rectify his worst mistake of all. He couldn't see beyond his next hunt. For that matter, he couldn't even see that right now. He was a wreck at the moment. He knew he was struggling to see beyond the pain of his failures, and he would address that. Later, when he was alone. Somehow, he would find a way. He had to.
As they rounded a corner in a corridor, he caught sight of Kashya's vibrant red hair. She and a couple of others were headed in their direction from the opposite end. The commander was carrying her light leather armor in her hands. Weapons still hung about her belt and on her back. He struggled to keep his stuttering heart from strangling him at the sight of her.
"Oy, Commander, this one wants to see you," Isolde called with a grin, happy to give her commander some good news for once.
Kashya's welcoming smile made his heart squeeze painfully again. He struggled to keep his emotionless facade but managed it...barely. If anything, he sounded chilly. But that was far better than the unsteady things swirling beneath the surface.
"It's good to see you," Kashya said, moving her armor to her other hand to shake his hand.
Her warm, inviting smile made him ache all over while his gut twisted and clenched painfully. He forced it all down as he took her warm, strong hand as formally as he could manage.
"I've brought a friend who would like some training. She is a survivor of a cultist attack on Stormpoint. She would like to see them pay for their crimes someday," he explained carefully, falling back on his earliest training to keep his voice steady.
Struggling with himself to let go of Kashya's strong, warm hand, he turned and put a hand on Fern's shoulder.
"Can you teach me?" Fern asked eagerly.
Kashya frowned as she looked at Pyresong one more time searchingly. There was something in that look. She was questioning, probing. He kept his serene mask firmly in place, despite his gut clenching and twisting until he wanted to vomit. He nearly sighed with relief when she finally looked away. The commander knelt down to look Fern in the eyes. Those emerald eyes had bored right into his soul, exposing everything he couldn't confront yet. It took him another couple of seconds before he could breathe. Instead, he focused on what they were saying.
"Does your heart burn with anger?"
"Yes," Fern answered immediately.
"Can you hold that fire back and train it to make it work for you?"
"Yes, just show me how."
Kashya smiled widely. She took the girl by the shoulders and whispered something in her ear; even Pyresong's sensitive ears didn't catch. Whatever it was, Fern nodded fervently. Kashya stood back up with a warm smile, one he desperately wished was aimed at him for a second. Then he strangled that thought right out of existence.
"Then we welcome you to our ranks, Fern. Isolde, show her around and make sure she's got a room, please."
Isolde nodded, and then Kashya turned back to Pyresong, her emerald gaze searching for something in his again. He remained flat. And, he suspected, if anything, she might be irritated with him for this. He had somewhat expected it. After all, this wasn't some kind of orphanage. He hoped a hefty amount of money might smooth things over. At least they hadn't turned Fern away immediately. Maybe later, when he could think clearly again, he could set up some fallback plans for Fern for later. Right now, he just had to deal with today.
"We need to talk. Come with me," Kashya said flatly.
He sighed mentally as he followed her down the hall. Fine. Whatever she had to say about him bringing Fern here, he would deal with. And then flee from this place and everything else. She walked down the hall to another door. She motioned him inside and then followed. The light filtering through the high windows was enough to get a good view of the small room. There was minimal furniture and a wardrobe, not unlike the cells he was accustomed to in the monasteries in which he had once lived. A simple wooden bed stood in one corner, neatly made. The opposite corner held an array of leather armor, weapons, and cleaning supplies laid out neatly on a table. She set her gear and weapons on the table and then turned to him. Her green eyes were soft but intense as her brows furrowed.
"I understand this is unusual, and I can provide money for her," he started, hoping to head her off. "Fern has no one, and I got an oath from her not to go after them. But..."
"She has you," Kashya said, her hands on her hips as she cocked an eyebrow at him.
He shook his head. "No. I can't...I just..."
She strode up to within inches of him, her eyes again probing deeply. He forced himself not to step away in near panic. His heart almost strangled him, yearning for her closeness until he couldn't even breathe. He couldn't let her see. He couldn't let her know. He had to...
"What happened to you? You're wounded so deeply..." she asked softly, putting a hand to his cheek.
Gods, it would have been easier if she'd just slapped him at this point. Struggling with himself, he closed his eyes and leaned into her warm touch. His heart was racing, and her voice... Yes, he was wounded! But there was no time to indulge in grief...or the countless other things her closeness stirred in him. He had just come to see Fern safe. He needed to go sort himself out. He needed to stay focused. He needed to find the cultists. He needed to find the shard. He needed to get away from here. He needed...
He moved to take her hand off his face with his own but instead found himself pressing his face into her warm palm. He couldn't do this! Not now, not ever! He tried to force his feet and legs to move toward the door. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had her face in his hands and was kissing her hungrily.
He needed her warmth. He needed her comfort. He needed her strength.
Some still-sane part of his mind realized what he was doing, and he pulled back in shock. He was dizzy, gasping for air, trying to find some semblance of sanity. His mind was reeling, spiraling out of control. Gods...what was happening to him?
This is wrong.
"I-I'm sorry. I should go," he managed to stammer through numb lips.
When he tried to turn away and flee, she wouldn't let him go. She gripped his arm hard enough to bruise and spun him back around. With the same strength, she pulled him to her again. Her lips found his and kissed him just as hungrily. Pyresong groaned in the back of his throat but gave in. Every part of him knew this was wrong. He was going to hurt her. He had nothing to give her.
When her hands pulled almost frantically at his shirt, he almost managed to break it off. But then her warm hands found his cold skin underneath and ran them up and down over his chest. He found his lips now locked to her throat, lost in her sigh of pleasure. His hands had a mind of their own as they found the bulge of her breast and the tight little nipple under her own thick shirt. In seconds, the clothing became nothing more than an obstruction to her warmth and strength that he needed so desperately.
Somewhere far away, Pyresong's mind was still screaming that this should not happen. He knew he was damned for this, and he would hate himself after. He silenced those voices. He silenced everything but this one moment with the woman he couldn't stop thinking about.
When it was over, and they lay panting in her bed with her still on top of him trying to catch their breath, his mind finally caught up to what he'd done. Her ear and cheek rested on his chest as a cascade of mussed but velvety red hair flowed down his other side and tickled his bicep. He stroked her beautiful, thick red hair, trying to sort out everything while cursing himself for his weakness. His mind catching up to events, made his heart twist and stutter painfully in his chest as he closed his eyes. He was a monster for his. And he knew it.
"What are you feeling?" she asked him softly.
He let out a long, tired sigh. He couldn't avoid this. This was the part he knew he would have to suffer through. It should never have happened in the first place.
"Shame, mostly..." he confessed softly. "Guilt... I'm so sorry, Kashya. I don't mean to play with your emotions."
She rolled to the side to drape her body against his so she could look him in the eyes. "Don't," she stopped him fiercely. "Don't do that to yourself. You're not playing with my emotions, and we both know it."
"I'm sorry. I tried to walk away. I tried to let you go," he said, refusing to meet her gaze.
Her hand pulled his face toward her gently until he would meet her eyes. "I love you. I know that now. And I know what you said is true. It can't work. You have your life, and I have mine. But let us have this."
He closed his eyes and pulled her hand away from his face. He kissed her warm palm tenderly and shook his head.
"I'm sorry."
"No. I won't accept it." She put her hand to his mouth to stop him from speaking. "Listen to me, and hear me out. I know we can't be together the way I want. But I will be satisfied with this. When you need me, when you have time, when you just can't take the burdens, come back to me. If this is all I can give you, I give it willingly. I swear I will never ask more of you. Please...let me have this. Let this be mine to give."
He couldn't take any more. His heart was twisting painfully; writhing guilt lashed him. He couldn't even breathe to speak. He couldn't say yes, but he didn't have the strength to say no. He wanted her. He wanted this so much. It was a fantasy, a delusion, he knew, but he still wanted it. She put a hand over his heart. Not able to find the words, he rolled to the side and pulled her to him, burying his face in her bushy, silky hair.
"Forgive me," he whispered, "But I love you. I didn't want to do this to you. And I can't be what you deserve."
Kashya shook her head and pulled back to look him in the eyes again.
"I don't care! I don't care what you think I deserve. I just want whatever we can have. If this is all, I will be satisfied."
He nodded sadly again and pulled her close so he could breathe in the scent of her lavender soap and the part of her that was unique to her. Her musky, woodsy scent intoxicated him. He still hated himself for this, but he just couldn't find the strength to run away right now. Silently, he begged to any entity of the Light that might be listening to let him just have this. Just this one good thing in the sea of nightmares he now lived in.
For a while, they just lay there, holding each other in silence. Inevitably, the wickedly playful side of Kashya that Pyresong knew was kept well in check came out to play. He gave in. He loved her. He knew he was likely to be damned for this weakness; and he would pay for it some day. But for now... She teased him mercilessly, and he paid her back several times over with pleasurable torture. This time, her begging was all in good fun.
For now, they were left alone in a world all to themselves.
Hours later, late that evening, Kashya lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heart again. This time, it was slow and steady, his decision made. At least for now, he let the rest of the world fade away. Right now, there was nothing but this moment and Kashya. Her warmth had soothed away the icy pain he felt in his heart and soul. She soothed away and made him forget the nightmares he'd lived through. For right now, there was only comforting warmth. He knew it would end, likely with the dawn, but for now, he had this. All else was pushed aside. He soaked in her warmth, her softness, her strength as he absently stroked her thick, silky hair. For this one moment, he was content.
"Will you tell me?" she asked, sounding content herself.
"Tell you what?" he asked curiously, lost in his own thoughts.
"What happened to you?"
His fingers, running through her hair, paused, and then he took a deep breath as if steeling himself. He let it out slowly.
"No," he told her softly.
Curious and a bit annoyed by this, she raised her head to look him in the eyes.
"Why not?"
He smiled sadly, and he stroked her face. Then he rolled to pull her to him and bury his face in her chest and feel that fierce heart beating so strongly.
"This is what I need,” he told her softly. “I live in a waking nightmare, each one worst than the last. I just need this. Your warmth, your strength, your fierce heart. I can't...I won't taint you with the rest. Just let me forget for a little while. Let me draw on your strength. Let me know there is good in this world that makes it all worth fighting for."
"I'm sorry... I didn't mean—"
He was still smiling sadly when he pulled back and took her face in his rough, calloused hands.
"Don't be. I know," he said softly. "I know you want to share the burden, but I can't do that. Not to you. If you meant what you said about being satisfied with what we can have, just let me love you and be with you."
For a moment, she was afraid. Her feelings for him ran so deep that they terrified her. But she couldn't go back on her word. If this was all she could do for him, then she would willingly and gladly.
***
That night, rather than leave the safe haven and little fantasy they had created, Pyresong shared the rations from his backpack so they wouldn't have to leave and break the illusion. The next morning, he was amazed to realize he had actually slept. With Kashya in his arms, he'd slept soundly and peacefully. Not one nightmare. This whole thing was just too good to be real. While he lay there listening to her steady breathing, he let the feeling of contentment wash over him again.
Somewhere deep in his vague, dark thoughts, he knew it would end painfully. When the illusion broke, and he had to return to his world of nightmares and death...
He shoved that thought away. No. He would not allow her to be a part of that. Whatever had started here, he would work to preserve. Again, he sent up a prayer to anything of the Light that would listen, selfishly begging that this one good thing in his life last just for a little while.
As the sky beyond the windows turned from black to dark blue, he let his mind wonder.
Yes, he still felt the guilt and grief of Esmund's loss acutely. At least he could soothe some of that guilt by knowing Fern was safe now. His failure with the shard burned coldly, instead of hot with guilt and shame. His resolve to get it and prevent whatever Diablo had planned had only strengthened in the last day and night. For Fern, for Kashya, for Cain, for all the people he cared about, he would find a way to make it right.
Still feeling a bit disconnected from reality, he did a sort of mental inventory. In the end, he was satisfied with the results. What had almost happened yesterday in Cain's workshop should not be allowed to happen, ever. It was downright stupid of him to have gone back to Westmarch knowing what he was walking into with Karshun, and knowing he was so emotionally unbalanced. He had no one to blame but himself. He would make sure it never happened again.
A small voice whispered that, with Kashya, he would never have to worry about it again, that he could come to her to heal and then go back to his world. He wanted to believe that, he really did. But he'd lost so much in his life, he couldn't see it lasting. Sooner or later, she would want more, and she deserved more, regardless of what she had told him.
Still draped against him with her head on his shoulder, Kashya took a deeper breath as she began to wake. He couldn't resist caressing her beautiful face. He wanted to see those emerald eyes. As if knowing what he wanted, she refused to open them. Instead, she wrapped an arm around him and buried her face in his chest.
"I'm going to wake up, and you won't be there."
He laughed softly. "I was thinking the same, but here you are."
Finally, she opened her eyes. He let himself get lost in them for a while as he caressed her cheek.
"Did you know your eyes change color with your emotions?"
"What?" he asked in surprise.
She hummed happily, leaning into his hand. "They do. They're different shades of blue. What happened to your eyes, anyway?"
He sighed and craned his neck to kiss her on the forehead. "I'll tell you someday. Tell me more about this 'shades of blue'."
She laughed mischievously. "Oh no, that's my secret weapon now. If you haven't figured it out, that's your problem."
He laughed softly again. "You set it up that you have all the advantage. Clever."
"Just don't make me have to hunt you down and use them."
"I'll try my best," he teased back.
He felt sad as he realized he couldn't keep any promises to her, not really. He might be gone for months hunting a shard. And if he had to chase one into Hell again, maybe he would never see her again. While he was thinking this, she turned her head to look at the windows. It was maybe just a bit after sunrise, as near as he could tell.
"I have to get back to patrols," she told him, reluctantly.
"And I... I have to get back to Westmarch. In all seriousness, I will come when I can. But I can make no further promises."
She smiled sadly and shifted herself upward to hover her lips an inch above his. "I know," she whispered, caressing his face. "Just promise me you will whenever you can, and I will be satisfied."
"I can promise that much," he agreed softly.
She kissed him thoroughly and passionately again. The world faded away again for a few minutes. When she finally broke it off, he was, of course, disappointed. But there was no point in avoiding Westmarch or anything else now. He needed to find that shard before it made it to Diablo. Likely, Zatham was already making progress, and he had to be ready for whatever they found.
As she crawled out of bed and reached for some clothes, he sighed with disappointment at the disconnect from her warmth. He watched while she moved toward the pitcher and water basin. He couldn't help it. He felt himself smile wickedly, enjoying the view. She caught his reflection in the mirror and laughed.
"Don't worry, you're next," she tossed over her shoulder.
He didn't bother to wait. At this point, she'd seen everything a few times over anyway. Besides, teasing time was over. Time to get back to his reality. He reached for his backpack and fished out a large purse of gold he typically used to refill the smaller ones. He set it on a table.
"Fern will be one of us," Kashya assured. "Keep it."
"Then use it to help restore the monastery. I have enough to see that she lives comfortably. I'll be...watching out for her," he explained. "I gave her an oath, and I intend to keep it." As cold reality began to settle in on his mind, again, he added, "If it doesn't work out, for any reason. Send word to Cain, and I'll make other arrangements."
She turned away from the mirror, curious. "What oath?"
He sighed. "I will hunt down the cultists, make them pay. She just has to live to see it. More than anything, she doesn't want to feel helpless ever again. This...this place was the first thing that came to mind. But I understand she's a child. When she gets older, she may want something else. I've offered her anything and everything. If she does change her mind and wants to become an artisan or something, I will find a way to provide that. Or Cain will, in my stead."
She shuddered visibly and hugged herself at the verbal reminder of the precariousness of his life. He dropped his bag and went to her. He held her. Again he cursed himself that this was all he could offer her: a fantasy life, lived here and there a day at a time...with literally no promise of tomorrow.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, burying his face in her hair one more time. "I shouldn't have—"
"No," she said fiercely. "Don't be. I know what I'm walking into. I just don't like to think about it."
"Still... I—"
"Shut up before I slap you," she warned with a grin to take the sting out of her threat. "We will train her as much as she is willing to learn. I can send reports back to the workshop if you like."
He turned to the table and basin and started scrubbing himself up quickly. "No. I'll check in as much as I can. If she forgets me, all the better."
"You're doing it again."
"What?" he asked, confused.
Kashya sighed in disgust. "Never mind. I'll slap you later."
He couldn't help laughing. He knew full well she could and would make good on that threat. Briefly, his mind flickered to whatever she might tell her fellow Sisters about them. But that was none of his business. For that matter, the only one he was likely to even tell would be Cain. There was no one else that mattered. And, while he was away, Cain would be his contact for others, too.
Kashya sat by watching, her smile downright predatory while he cleaned and redressed himself. Again, he reminded himself that he would need to have some new clothes made soon. He also wondered if he'd even have time for such a thing. He gathered his scattered thoughts and forced himself to focus on the one thing he knew he had to deal with first: Karshun and Cain. He still felt a bit sick and guilty over what had nearly happened. But now he knew there was absolutely no chance of it happening again.
He shared one last, long kiss with Kashya, still so very reluctant to leave her warmth. But he soon stepped out into the empty corridor and walked through a portal back to the waypoint he recalled west of Rakkis Plaza.
Reality awaited.
Feeling calmer than he had since leaving Oza's Overlook what felt like a month ago now—he was surprised to realize it was only days ago—Pyresong walked slowly down the early morning streets of Westmarch. It was likely too early, and he didn't want to wake the two mages. He made his way around to Charsi's shop in Rakkis Plaza instead. As expected, she was already getting things started for another full day. For a while, he sat back and watched her dancing around the forge and shop. He couldn't help a smile as he watched her. Her combat experience came through here as he realized it really was a dance for her. She juggled so many projects at once but never dropped a tool and always deftly avoided obstacles. Briefly, he remembered how irritated her enthusiasm used to make him. Now, he was glad he had met her, and not just for her skill. He was also glad Cain had her to keep an eye on him.
But he hadn't come out here just to watch her work. He needed to figure out what to do about his shield. She glanced up at him with her reflexive smile as he approached, as she would any customer, and then froze. The smile slipped from her face, and she set down her current project with a clatter. She danced around the anvil to meet him.
"There you are!" she called, her usual enthusiasm replaced with concern as she embraced him. "Cain was worried about you yesterday. Are you all right?"
He grimaced openly at her words. He quickly covered it up as he pulled back from the embrace.
"I'm fine. I will talk to him later," he assured her.
Charsi eyed him closely, clearly irritated now. "He wouldn't tell me what it was about. But the way you disappeared scared him."
He had expected as much. The guilt writhed inside him again. He just hadn't anticipated Charsi being involved. Though, it made sense, when he thought about it. If he'd just come back to Westmarch beat up, Charsi would be one of the first in the city he would talk to, especially if his armor was in need of repair. Cain was too clever and just knew him too well.
"I had to take care of something," was the best he could come up with.
Though it wasn't exactly a lie, it didn't sit well. He couldn't quite bring himself to tell her where he had just come from and why. Maybe someday. For all he knew, Kashya would be angry with him for saying anything about them or Fern. More to the point, he hadn't had a chance to really think it all through yet. He quickly changed the subject.
"But, yes, I will be fine. I need your help, though."
She eyed him again, as if not buying his story, but finally nodded and motioned back to the forge. Her concern over the work she had provided to protect him clearly won out. He almost grinned again. At least he knew how to distract her easily enough. He shrugged off the backpack and pulled out his shield. Her eyes got huge when he placed the badly dented and almost mangled piece of gear on the table for her to inspect. Her eyebrows still up somewhere around her headband, she turned back to eye him closely.
"Friend, I've seen a lot of damaged shields in my life, but this... And you said you're 'fine'?"
Pyresong laughed openly at her mingled shock and wry tone. "Yes, thanks to that shield, I'm still alive."
Charsi picked it up to look at it from every angle. "How did you even manage to do this much damage?"
"Would you believe I got washed down a tunnel by a raging torrent of sea water?"
Charsi looked up from the shield incredulously. Then she frowned and nodded.
"Actually, coming from you... Yeah, I believe it."
He couldn't help a grin as he shook his head in amusement.
"I think the enchantments on it were broken, somehow."
"Yeah. The sigils that were used to anchor the enchantments were obliterated," she agreed setting it back down on the table sadly. "This is just too much damage. I can't fix it."
He was not surprised. If he was surprised at anything, it was the fact that it had survived as long as it had. Aside from nearly losing it multiple times, that smaller kite shield was the one thing he possessed that he'd had the longest. He had first acquired it while still an apprentice under Master Z over twenty years ago now. Initially, it had been too big. But, just as his master had said, he would grow into it. And now it perfectly covered his back when it hung, without getting in his way. It had served him well, right to the end. Now, the real problem was finding one of the same size and shape. He had never particularly cared for the round shields or bucklers; and anything larger was just impossible to wield easily for him. When the round ones hung on his back, because of his narrow frame, his arms moving in just the right way would unseat the shield from its hooks.
"How long to make a new one if you try to replicate the size and shape?"
"I'll have it ready to tomorrow," she confessed, her face flushing.
He grinned knowingly. "You've already started one."
"When I was working on your new armor, I thought a matching shield, but..."
"I'm very glad you did," he assured.
Her relief was visible. He had thought she would have figured out by now that he was not so attached to his equipment that he couldn't part with it. But, he knew, too, Charsi dealt with a lot of people that were very specific about their equipment and its properties; to a point, they gave them names and lives of their own. He suspected she was just used to dealing with a certain type of customer, and some habits were hard to break. He decided to just have her give it to Yverius whenever he showed up. It was not as if he needed the money.
That settled, he let her get on with her morning and wandered off to find some breakfast. He wasn't surprised to find the plaza was already starting to fill up with merchants, tradesmen, and even some early customers trying to beat the rush of later in the day. He wasn't deliberately avoiding Cain's workshop at the moment. He just had no desire to wake them. He had no idea what kind of morning person Karshun might be and didn't want to further add to the conflict by waking a cranky mage.
Now that he had a few minutes to just walk and think, he was amazed at how much better, calmer he felt today. As silly as the whole thing sounded, just spending time with Kashya had at least healed some of the gaping wounds. He wondered at that. Part of him had always counted such tales of love healing and whatnot as pure foolishness. Now, he knew he was not immune. But, for him, it was more about having something good in this world to anchor him. He'd nearly lost hope and sanity more than once. And something inside of him was just flat broken into pieces by losing Esmund. The sheer injustice of it all, combined with knowing none of it would have happened had he not made the choices he had made, tore at him mercilessly in the background. Spending even that one day with Kashya gave him something to fight for, as well as making him forget for a little while. He needed both, he realized. On his own, he'd never be able to forget the things that haunted him. With Kashya around, he had to, for her sake, if nothing else. He meant what he said when he'd told her he would not taint her or burden her with everything else in his life. He needed that one pure, untainted thing to help him keep his sanity and his hope for a better world for people like her.
Well into the morning, when the chill sunlight had finally shifted above the rooftops, Pyresong eventually made his way back around to Central Square and Cain's workshop. The new shielding Karshun had added, had been reinforced even further, he noticed. He hadn't seen it yesterday. But yesterday, he hadn't noticed much of anything. Still a bit ashamed of what had happened yesterday in this very place, he did another quick, mental inventory. Yes, he would have no problems with Karshun today. But it was very definitely time to find other accommodations. He already very much missed his evening conversations with Cain. Maybe one day they would happen again. Right now, though, Karshun was too important for him to be so stupidly selfish.
He let himself in to again find the two of them in deep discussion about something on Cain's desk. His mask of serenity firmly in place, he closed the door behind him.
"You're back!" Cain called happily, jumping up from his chair to greet him.
The relief on Cain's weathered face made the guilt squirm inside all over again. But he shoved it down and accepted the man's embrace.
"I'm sorry about yesterday. I had...something to take care of," he said vaguely to Cain's searching look.
He could see Cain knew he was lying, but let it go.
"Did you at least find something useful regarding the shard? Do you know where it is?" Karshun asked, crossing his arms and glaring at the necromancer.
"I don't know," he replied, evenly. "But, Karshun, they can't bring it directly to Diablo. At least, not yet. I heard them talking. They need to prepare it first."
"And what is the nature of this preparation? How long will it take? Where will it occur? Incomplete observation leads to unexpected deaths."
"You are too harsh, old friend," Cain warned.
Cain flashed another worried look at him. He put a comforting hand on Cain's shoulder. He had been prepared for it this time. And, yes, Karshun was not wrong. He knew full well this mess was his fault in ways neither of the mages could even understand.
"I have a new ally out looking for them right now. His name is Zatham. He has experience with demonic cultists. He helped me fight them at Stormpoint. He will reach out to me here at the workshop when he has a lead," Pyresong replied calmly.
Karshun huffed in irritation.
"Karshun! They risked their lives and would again. Until our hope is dashed to nothing, we must try!" Cain snapped.
Seeing he'd pushed too far again for Cain's liking, he nodded and backed down. "Yes. On that we agree, Cain." He turned to Pyresong and barked, "Tell me your plan."
"They're supposed to bring it to a 'Bride of Hell', the cultist that ruined your ritual on the Astral Plane. If we find her, perhaps we can intercept the ones transporting the shard."
"A portentous title," Cain commented, "but not one I am familiar with. If only I had more of the Horadric writings to hand! The End Times are smothering Sanctuary...and I cannot even name all of Hell's agents."
He squeezed the old man's shoulder again, comfortingly. "We will prevent the Lord of Terror's return. Hope, Cain. We can't move forward without it."
Karshun huffed again, but this time kept his mouth blessedly shut. For now, that was all Pyresong had to share anyway. And now Cain's words had given him another idea he would like to explore while Zatham was otherwise occupied. He desperately wanted to ask if they'd come up with any new ways to try to destroy a shard. But until they had a shard in their possession, everything was just theory anyway. Besides, the less time he spent speaking with Karshun, the better.
"Cain, I need to refill my purses," he said, coming up with a quick excuse.
He flicked his eyes to the adjoining room where the most dangerous items and books were kept, along with their treasure he'd acquired. Cain's brow furrowed for a second in confusion before he caught on.
"Of course," Cain replied.
He already knew how to disable the spells on the door. Cain had taught him on previous occasions, and had given him full access to that room once he was sure the necromancer wouldn't meddle about with anything dangerous in there. And Pyresong was fairly certain Karshun knew unlocking spells, too. But he doubted Karshun knew that he could get in and out, so this provided the perfect excuse and way to get Cain alone for a few minutes. As soon as they were in the room, Cain shut and resealed the door. Pyresong was amused to note it included a spell to prevent sound from carrying through the door. But, at the same time, he appreciated it very much.
"What happened?" Cain asked, still standing by the door. "Are you all right?"
He smiled and embraced him again. "Better than all right, at the moment." He felt his face flush with shame. "I'm so sorry. I..." He heaved a sigh. What could he say? "I'm sorry. I knew I shouldn't have come back here in that condition. Does he know?"
"No. But what happened?"
He sighed with relief this time. "We need him, Cain. We can't keep doing this without help. I know you see something in him, and I don't doubt he's a good man. But he gets under my skin and rubs me the wrong way. I...miscalculated. I should never have come back when I was that...unbalanced emotionally."
"Nonsense! This is your home, too," Cain insisted.
Not anymore, he thought sadly.
He shook his head and smiled sadly. He shrugged off his backpack to get at some purses. He couldn't even begin to tell Cain just how much he appreciated the time they had shared here and how safe and welcome he felt in this workshop, so he didn't even try. Besides, he had known it wouldn't last.
"It doesn't... I can't jeopardize..." he struggled to find the words. "We need him. I can promise it will never happen again. But if I need to remove myself from the situation to keep him working with us, I will find other accommodations."
"Pyresong... Please, tell me what happened."
Cain's pleading almost worked. For a few seconds, he wanted nothing more than a cup of tea and a talk. Then, he refocused and turned his attention back to his backpack. He sighed and squatted down to fill the purses.
"There's no time, my friend. Besides, it's likely nothing you haven't heard before. But I will say, I've taken Fern from Stormpoint. I've handed her over to the Sisters of the Sightless Eye for training."
Cain gripped his shoulder comfortingly. When he was finished filling the purses and tucked them back into his backpack, he turned to stand and face his friend.
"I've ensured Fern will at least have a chance to grow up and learn to defend herself," he told Cain sadly. "But she's so young. She may change her mind. If she ever does, Kashya will send word. If I'm not here, see that she gets whatever money she needs to create whatever life she wants."
"I will see to it," Cain promised.
"Thank you."
Cain eyed him again, having clearly sensed something more in there. But Pyresong wasn't ready to talk- not about Stormpoint and not about Kashya. He knew he was right; there really was no time. Maybe someday there would be. Not for the first time since meeting the old scholar, he considered taking up writing again. Yet, it always came down to time. There was never any time.
He motioned for Cain to unseal the door before Karshun got any more impatient. As they emerged from the small room, Karshun eyed them both with mingled curiosity and disgust. Pyresong kept his face serene but secretly enjoyed irritating the mage. Clearly, something about him irked Karshun as well.
Good to know the feeling is mutual, he thought dryly.
For Cain's sake, as much as for the sake of their work, he would not let it go any further, though. He turned back to Cain.
"Charsi is working on a new shield for me. She says it will be ready tomorrow."
Cain's brows shot up in surprise, likely already envisioning how it might have been lost or damaged and not relishing any of it. He grinned again to reassure the old scholar.
"Just a few dents she says she can't repair,” he added quickly. “Besides, she was looking for an excuse to give me a matching shield anyway."
Cain's relief was obvious, as was his soft laugh. "I'm sure she was. She probably already has the makings of a scythe lying around somewhere."
"I don't doubt it. I will be back daily to check in."
"And where are you going?" Karshun asked, not quite a sneer.
"Do you need my assistance with something?" Pyresong countered, neutrally. "I'll be more than willing to help if you do."
"Of course not," Karshun snapped, earning another look from Cain.
"Then I see no reason to be underfoot while you mages work on things," he replied,
He couldn't help stressing the fact that Karshun didn't even consider him any kind of mage; though Cain had likely explained at least some of his other abilities. To be fair, most didn't consider necromancers mages, even the necromancers who did possess other abilities. Karshun caught Cain's warning look and stopped whatever he was about to say. He just huffed again and turned his back. Pyresong was almost disappointed. Right now, he would be more than happy to further tweak the man's nose. But he knew he shouldn't push his luck, and it was clearly bothering Cain that the two of them didn't get along.
"Where will you be?" Cain asked, still clearly concerned.
"I don't know, for certain. Much like Zatham, I will be hunting for any leads we can follow," he replied honestly, not quite ready to divulge his vague idea.
"Be safe, my friend."
"You too."
He exited the portal from Westmarch to step into the Library of Zoltun Kulle. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been here. And the place still disturbed him more than a little. Cain, having mentioned Horadric writing, had sparked an idea. Standing on the waypoint in the private archives, he waited patiently for the Curator to come to him. He knew the construct would have easily detected the presence of the portal.
One. Two. Three. F— Three seconds, he thought in amusement.
"Oh, it's you," the Curator said, with exaggerated disappointment.
"It's nice to see you, too," Pyresong grinned.
"You've changed," the Curator commented, its glowing orbs flashing through various spectrums of color.
"I'm not surprised. Much has happened," he waved it off the analysis. "I've come to see if you can help me with another little problem."
The Curator snorted. It's so very human behavior still sometimes still caught him off guard. He couldn't help grinning back at it.
"What is it this time? The End of Days?" the construct teased.
"Actually, yes."
It was the Curator's turn to be startled. It eyed him closely.
"You're not joking," it said flatly.
"I wish I was," he said in all seriousness. "I can fill you in on what's happened since I left. But a massive and corrupted shard of the Worldstone has now fallen into the hands of some Terror Cultists. One calls herself the 'Bride of Hell'. Have you ever heard that name before?"
"No, but if it's regarding the End of Days and any prophecy the Master was aware of, there's likely information here somewhere."
"It's as good as any start I can think of at the moment," he replied. Then, another thought came to the fore. "I know you said I'm welcome to come and go, but would you be averse to me bringing a guest? The last surviving Horadrim is a friend of mine, and helping to locate and destroy the shards as we speak. The information in here could change everything."
"Horadrim I cannot allow," the Curator told him firmly. "That was forbidden even before the Master was hunted down by them."
He sighed sadly but understood. He knew Cain would love this place and the sheer wealth of knowledge it contained. But he knew the Curator had been given its instructions and would not budge from them. Even when its own existence was in danger, it did not budge, such as when they were attacked by other constructs. It slowed them down but was not allowed to destroy them. For now, he was just glad to have the Curator assisting with whatever they might dig up. The thousands of shelves filled with scrolls and books were beyond massive. He could literally spend the entire rest of his life here and not stumble on a single useful piece of information. Without the Curator's help, he'd be lost. Not to mention, he probably couldn't read or understand more than maybe a handful of texts in this entire, massive library. He was no great scholar or mage, not by a long shot.
While the Curator began rummaging through the thousands of shelves, he began recounting his journey. He wound up going all the way back to where it all started in Wortham. He had absolutely no intention of mentioning Rathma or anything prior to Wortham. He still refused to share those prophecies. If it were in any way relevant, it would likely come up in the findings somewhere. Until or unless it did, he was perfectly happy to continue acting as if his entire involvement in all of this was some kind of accident. Besides, in the end, those prophecies and warnings had done him absolutely no good. To say he had little faith in such things was a massive understatement at this point. But, maybe by some miracle, the information could help Cain; perhaps even give him an answer how to fix his own spectacular mistakes.
The Curator absorbed all of it, even asking for more details. He soon found himself having to stop and just start from scratch. The Curator wanted every minute detail he could recall from the moment he found out about the attack on Wortham. After a while, it explained it was actually looking for subtle signs that might have been mentioned in various prophecies of the End of Days. Pyresong wrestled with himself. He very nearly mentioned his own numerous dreams that had lead to his meeting with Rathma, which had set him on this path so many years earlier. But he just couldn't. If there was some mention in another text about a Priest of Rathma or Rathma himself involved in the End of Days, then he might. Besides, there were thousands of prophecies, even in the days of Zoltun Kulle. Everyone had a prophecy about how Sanctuary would be destroyed or built anew from the ashes of destruction. Some were pure fantasy—most of them, in his opinion—and some contained bits of truth. He was willing to include any lead, no matter how obscure. Cain obviously saw things he couldn't even begin to make sense of. He had no real idea what would be of value to his friend in all of this symbolic nonsense.
He could only pray something in there would help them all.
***
The next day, he returned to Westmarch to pick up his new shield from Charsi and check in. As he had expected, the new shield was the exact same shape and size and matched the rest of his dark armor. Of course, there just had to be a signature, wicked-looking skull in the center of it. He very nearly laughed outright and just shook his head in amusement. He hugged her in thanks and even tried to slip her some money, which she flatly refused. She insisted that the purse full of gems he'd given her previously was more than enough to cover anything for the rest of his life. He hadn't exactly counted or even gone to Vic to get estimates. So he chose to believe her for now and let it go. He was certain there would be plenty of other opportunities to slip her some gold while she was distracted.
When he checked in with Cain and Karshun, there had been no changes, and no word from Zatham. He wanted to tell Cain where he was and what he was working on, but decided not to in the end. He didn't know if Karshun knew about the Library, for one thing. And he didn't trust the mage enough to be sure he wouldn't do something like try to follow or even break in. He hadn't exactly been sworn to secrecy by the Curator, but the temptation of so much arcane and even forbidden knowledge... No, he would not risk it. There was some part of him that couldn't quite trust Karshun that thoroughly. Though, the idea of the Curator handling the invader did entertain him for a moment. And, if he was honest with himself, he didn't want to give Cain false hopes, either. It was possible the Curator might find nothing useful.
He returned to the Library for another day. And then another. And then another. Each day at some point, he would check back with Westmarch. Through it all, the Curator never stopped hunting. As Pyresong had expected, it found dozens of prophecies. Every single one of them that the construct shared sounded like so much symbolic poetry; in other words, nonsense. Though he had never seen much use or even meaning in prophecy—even ones he had now lived through—he knew people like Cain, and likely even Karshun, found them very helpful. After a while, the Curator quit trying to have him help decipher them altogether with no small amount of frustration. To be fair, he had warned it was a task doomed to fail from the start. He never had been any good at connecting verbal dots when it came to symbolism and actual events or places.
Once he had finished his story right up to the present day, he started to get the feeling the Curator just wanted him out from under its feet. It had assured Pyresong that, even if he weren't present, if something of any value was found, it would ensure the compiled information got to Cain's workshop. He didn't bother to question how that would happen. As long as the Curator could do it, it was good enough for him.
Wrapped up in his research in the Library, Pyresong began to lose count of the days. His only real schedule now was checking in with Cain which he hoped was at least once a day. He'd finished his recounting of relevant events to the Curator and the work was just ongoing. He was tired and growing more frustrated by the day. Aside from the expected nightmares that plagued him when he did actually bother to sleep, the anxiety was tugging at him again. Part of him felt he should be able to sense the shard well enough to locate it. It was massive and he had clearly felt it miles away. He was back to toying with the idea of hopping from waypoint to waypoint all over Sanctuary when Zatham finally showed up.
His sense of time skewed by being underground in the Library, he only realized it was late into the afternoon when he stepped off the waypoint in the Palace Courtyard. His comings and goings so frequently from that particular waypoint lately had occasioned some comment with those who were there regularly. People were curious, but thankfully, no one ever approached or questioned him. And, for once, his regular appearances there had caught the attention of someone he had actually hoped to see.
Zatham approached as he stepped down from the waypoint. Pyresong extended his hand to shake, hoping to cut off Zatham's more formal—and archaic—bow, which would only draw further attention to themselves. Meanwhile, a tickle of a thought flickered through his mind about this being a perfect opportunity. Zatham seemed a bit surprised by the far more informal greeting, but recovered quickly enough not to make it obvious to onlookers.
"You've found something?" he asked, eagerly.
"Perhaps."
"You didn't leave word at Cain's workshop?"
"No. But I would like to meet this Elder Cain if we have time. If we hunt the cultists together, I would know my allies."
Zatham's almost unsettling flat tone of voice in all things still made him wonder...about a lot of things. But he had literally just been thinking along the lines of introducing Zatham to Cain, anyway. If there were anyone that could see beyond the flat, tightly controlled nature of Zatham's exterior, it would be Cain. If Cain trusted him, then he would relax a bit. He wasn't sure he would ever come to like Zatham. His leanings toward religious zealotry in the beginning had concerned him. He had begun to doubt seriously his first impression of Zatham. Yet, he still needed the kind of confirmation of intent and overall nature of the man before he would trust him any further. A part of him knew he was looking for Zatham to be a reliable, uninfluenced ally in the field. After what had nearly happened to him with the shard at Stormpoint, a terrified part of him wanted to have a strong ally that could at least ensure he never became a threat if a shard tried to take him that way again.
Now that he had had time to go over it in excruciating detail during his meditations, he knew he had initially lost that battle. It both disgusted and terrified him. In that one second after he had killed the monster, the shard had taken him completely. He was certain now the shard had wanted him to kill the damned thing so he could possess it. Were it not for Fern's screams... He just couldn't risk it. He didn't know how else to do this, though. Much as Cain needed Karshun to help with their side of things, he needed Zatham. Worse, he hadn't even had a chance to warn Cain, yet of what had happened. Sick as it made him feel to admit it to himself, the disappointment and concern he knew his dear friend would be put through was so much worse to him.
He was still turning all this over in his mind and carefully putting it away for later. They spent the short walk toward the workshop in silence, weaving through the crowds. He noted with some amusement that it was Zatham who drew the looks more so than his white hair and face. Briefly, he wondered what lay beneath the bandage that covered the man's eyes but reminded himself that if Zatham could see in his own way well enough to navigate through the crowds and fight as he did, it was none of his business.
"But we still need to know what prevents them from moving more quickly!" Karshun was insisting as Pyresong opened the door to the workshop.
"I have the beginning of an answer," Zatham spoke as the two mages turned to greet them.
"Cain, Karshun, this is Zatham. He fought beside me at Stormpoint, and he's been trying to track down the Cult of Terror ever since."
Zatham bowed formally to the mages in greeting, commoner to master mage. Cain's eyebrows shot up as he and Karshun returned the bow reflexively. Pyresong threw Cain an intent look of questioning. As expected, Karshun eyed Zatham with something akin to sneer. Cain, reading his friend's expression accurately, switched to an open and inviting expression to lure Zatham in and probe him while they spoke. Pyresong very nearly grinned, recognizing that look from when they'd first met. The old man had a sort of genuine sincerity that made it hard to even think there was any kind of ulterior motive. And, yes, he knew he'd fallen for it. But, then, he had never regretted meeting Cain, either.
"It is an honor," Zatham replied, rising from the bow.
"If you stand on the side of righteousness, Zatham, then you are counted as a friend," Cain said warmly.
"Thank you, Elder," Zatham replied with just a hint of warmth in return. Then he addressed Pyresong. "The fanatics swarm even here, in your city. I spoke with a watcher in the Wolf City Tavern who says he will identify them to you. His name is Tamraz. He waits for you at the bar. Give him my name. For now, I wish to speak with my new allies."
Pyresong threw Cain a look, who nodded quickly. He knew even if Cain was off his guard, Karshun wouldn't be. The dark look in the mage's eyes already said much of what he thought of the newcomer in their midst. He grinned internally at that. Hopefully, Zatham's unshakably calm demeanor would further tweak the arrogant and suspicious mage.
"I will return when I find out more, then," he agreed.
Despite his growing anxiety and the sense that the shard was on the move, though not in use, he had decided not to draw further attention to himself by wearing his armor in the city. If anything, he had expected this to be yet another fruitless check-in, with maybe a few extra verbal barbs thrown at Karshun for fun. Since the mage so generously shared his own rather colorful repertoire so frequently, he felt it only fair. Now, he was exceedingly glad he had not arrived in his armor. Having already restocked his supplies, he was more or less ready to leave on a moment's notice. Not having to remove it all for the meet-up at the tavern unexpectedly saved him some time.
He had had no success with the Curator in finding any leads, thus far. Whatever the cultists were up to, the two of them had been unable to uncover it. He had hoped Zatham would return. The fact that it had only taken maybe a week was encouraging. The trail of the cultists had not had a chance to go cold. Frustratingly fruitless as his own research seemingly had been, this was at least something he could do. And, so far, Cain had given him no indication he had detected anything unusual about Zatham, which was a relief. And, he was sure he would learn more from the old scholar later.
He casually wandered into the tavern to find it rather busier than he had expected. But, if he was going to be getting information here, that was all to the good. No one missed the presence of a Priest of Rathma in the city. And it was a lot easier to blend in with more people. The warmth of the tavern washed over him, banishing some of the chill. Winter hadn't quite moved on from Westmarch yet. As he casually took a seat next to a heavily scarred man also sitting at the bar, Bailey threw him an unexpected smile as he closed in.
"You cost me valuable labor, Priest," Bailey said, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry.
"I'm sorry?" he replied, uncertainly.
Bailey's smile widened at his confusion. "Whatever you did for Jack and his mum, they left the city a couple of months ago. Something about an 'inheritance'. Thank you for whatever you did."
He shook his head with a grin. He remembered helping Jack retrieve a box. His elder brother had died before he could bring it back to their mother. Jack's mother had been less than pleased, initially, that her one surviving son had had anything to do with a Priest of Rathma however briefly. He hadn't expected to ever hear from either of them again. It was a rare good fortune that he was able to learn this much. He was pleased to hear something good had come of all of it.
"I'm just glad to hear they're doing well."
"What's your pleasure?" Bailey offered, happily.
"Tea would be welcome," he replied, reaching for his purse.
"On the house, friend," Bailey waved him off. "You've been a busy man."
Pyresong grimaced mentally but kept the expression off his face. Oh, yes, he very much understood barkeeps. Though he rarely interacted with them for more than a few seconds, they were always looking for gossip, even from customers they would much rather banish from their establishments. He knew they were the biggest gossips in the world anywhere you found one. It was like some sort of universal code among them. It was likely in this very tavern that tales of his exploits had spread far and wide. First, the events of Wortham and Ashwold. Then Charsi's talk about Dark Wood. He could already guess what the crew of Rehm's ship had to say after spending weeks at sea with him. Without a doubt, his recent run-in with the creatures on the Black Bower at the docks had circulated this tavern before he'd even left the docks.
Even Cain would occasionally put in an appearance, here at the Wolf City Tavern. He almost grinned again, thinking of all the tales the elderly scholar passed around this place. On more than one occasion he had heard of the old man sitting comfortably on a street bench surrounded by a dozen children while he told stories. Only to be asked to tell the same stories to an older crowd sometime later right here in the tavern. And, he had to admit, Cain had an amazing gift for storytelling. He could practically enthrall anyone willing to listen for even just a few seconds. Before they realized it, hours had passed. Pyresong himself had succumbed to that magic more than once while sitting in the rocking chair by the fire.
He was still wistfully recalling those days not so long ago when Bailey returned. He quickly forced his mind back to why he was here at all. He knew he hadn't slept much lately, and his mind was wandering again. He accepted the hot cup of tea and used it to warm his chilly hands while Bailey moved on to other customers. He continued to ignore the man beside him who drank an ale quietly. When he was fairly certain no one else was within hearing distance, he whispered into his cup.
"Tamraz?"
"Who's asking?" the man whispered back into his own cup.
"Zatham sent me."
Still looking in the opposite direction to cover up the fact that he was speaking at all, Tamraz whispered, "Zatham paid up front—and decently for a stranger in a hood. So, yeah, I've got information for you."
Tamraz went silent as another patron entered the tavern, walking right past them. Pyresong shifted on his stool to face away from Tamraz. When the woman had passed by, Tamraz lifted his cup and whispered into it again.
"But I'm not waiting on you hand and foot, Your Majesty. I know what kind of people you're hunting. You get your look, and I'm gone after."
He took a sip of his tea. "Fair enough."
"Take a seat at the table near the stairs, and I'll nod when they come down. Two Westmarch boys, more swagger'n they deserve. Can't miss 'em."
"Go sit somewhere else, death mage!" Tamraz shouted at him.
Startled by the unexpected outburst, Pyresong very nearly laughed. Of all the things to give him an excuse to move, the man had chosen that. He waved a hand to stop Bailey when the barkeep started to come over and throw Tamraz out.
"No need, Bailey," he assured when the man glowered at Tamraz. "A simple disagreement, and one easily resolved. I will be happy to move to avoid such unpleasant company."
Tamraz snorted in his cup and then turned away. Bailey glowered again at the man in warning but let it go. He took his tea across the room to the large double table near the stairs Tamraz had mentioned. He took a seat at the far end away from the couple dining at the opposite end that threw him some nervous looks. With his back to the stairs so he could watch Tamraz, he retrieved a book from his backpack. He propped it up on a nearby pitcher of water so he could keep the spy in his field of view while pretending to read. Meanwhile, his sensitive ears focused on the stairs behind him, tuning out the other conversations all around.
Bailey had refilled his tea twice before yet another set of heavy steps on the stairs triggered a nod from Tamraz. His ears already listening to the conversation, he began to close up his book and return it to his backpack casually.
"I can't wait to visit our friends for supper. I hear they're bringing the most exquisite dish," one of them said.
As Pyresong shouldered his backpack, he turned to catch a glimpse of the men.
"Did you get everything they asked for?" a wealthy man in an expensive outfit asked his scruffier partner as they walked down the stairs.
"Help me check if you're so concerned," drawled the scruffy one as they reached the bottom.
He made a show of finishing his tea so as not to draw attention to himself. When he glanced at the bar, Tamraz was already out the door and gone. Good. He had what he needed. He didn't want Tamraz to accidentally give him away. Or worse, getting caught in some crossfire if things went badly somehow. One or both of these men were somehow related to the cultists. The rest was up to him to find out what he could learn.
"Everything you do concerns me," the wealthy man in the green outfit hissed as they walked right past the table toward the door. "You're a loudmouth."
Well behind them, Pyresong made a show of stretching and looking relaxed and content as he rose from the table. Casually, he strolled across the room, waving to Bailey as he left. Just outside the door, the two men split up. One headed south, and the other rounded the corner and turned north. Frustrated that he could not follow both, he decided the scruffier one headed north was his best bet. The man seemed far more relaxed and less likely to be watching over his shoulder than the well-dressed one. And the red scarf around his head made him easy to spot in a crowd. He went with his instincts and followed slowly behind this other one.
Keeping at least half a block between himself and his target, he made a show of looking all around at the buildings and artwork of the architecture; basically anywhere but at his target. The man walked right past Cain's workshop when he turned east. It was not uncommon for Pyresong to be seen in this area, so he didn't draw a lot of attention. The man he was following walked with a strolling gait like he owned the streets. Now, he understood what Tamraz had meant by swagger. If people didn't get out of his way, he just pushed past them. Pyresong, accustomed to people moving away from him, was relieved when no one on this road or his other frequently visited place, Central Square, even really noticed him.
Following the man was a huge gamble, though. Strolling along as if absorbed in the sights and sounds of the city was one thing when in familiar territory or even busy public areas. But if the scruffy man crossed into the wealthier neighborhoods, Pyresong's white hair and face would mark him out as if he wore a flag on his back. If the neighborhood was quiet enough, he might be able to sneak. But sneaking drew more attention than just walking.
He groaned mentally as he realized that was exactly where the scruffy man was headed. He took his time crossing Central Square and even stopped to admire the tree and fountain in the center. His target walked on steadily to the east of the square and down a flight of stairs. He still held some hope, though. There were some shops and houses in that direction before they turned into multi-storey mansions for the wealthy. The nobility weren't much further north toward the palace.
Leaving the fountain as the man disappeared out of view down the stairs, he forced himself to keep his casual stroll. He wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the city beyond those stairs, but he'd never had need to frequent it. When he approached the stairs, he caught sight of the man's red scarf-covered head turning to the left. Pyresong paused near the top of the stairs, admiring the view of the shops below. Then he walked down the stairs to the right, heading down the road to the south away from his target. As he did so, the scruffy man walked up to and then through the door of a shipwright's shop with a boat standing against the wall on display. The man never even looked around himself before going inside.
At the end of the block, Pyresong ducked into the alley to his left that went east and considered his options. The scruffy man did, indeed, look like he might be some kind of sailor. Visiting a shipwright made perfect sense if he was. Concealed now in the shadows of the alley, he rounded the next corner at a run. At the end of the adjoining alley, he crouched down in the shadows near the exit. To his luck, he had a perfect view of the shop door. He settled in to watch for the man to leave the business. Instead, a couple minutes later, the wealthier one in the green robes walked up to the same shop. His white hair was a dead giveaway in the shadows. He ducked back when the man began scanning the few people in the streets around him nervously. He waited a few more seconds before he peered around the corner again. Unless the man had taken off a dead run, he had also entered the shop.
He eyed the door from a distance for a while longer. A couple of people walked by on business of their own. He leaned casually against the wall, as if waiting for someone, and avoided eye contact. Some suspicious part of his mind couldn't help wondering if any of these passersby were some kind of lookouts. Scanning with his magical sight, he found no hint of taint or hellish energies on any of them. He was glad he had checked. Until then, he hadn't even noticed the shielding on the shop. It was faint, almost thin to his vision, more like a warding than actual shielding. He eyed it more closely but could not find the source. It must be somewhere inside. And it was just unfamiliar enough; he didn't dare try to probe it as Cain had taught him.
He waited several more minutes. Watching intently, he realized no one else had approached the door. If this shop was like so many others in the city, the first floor was all business and the second floor was for living in. Needing to find out more, he waited for the area to be entirely clear and then walked slowly and casually out from the mouth of the alley. As he passed the door to the shop, he spied the sign that indicated they were closed for the night. So far, he had seen no one else approach or even look at the door. Having eyed the upper storeys, he was sure someone was living upstairs. The building didn't have the expected look of abandonment and there were lanterns lit upstairs.
The sun was already setting by now, and the street was pretty much deserted. Knowing he either had to wait for them to leave and follow again or get in there to see what answers he could find, he carefully tried the latch. It wasn't locked, surprisingly. Being almost completely in shadows now, he peered in through a crack. The entire first floor was lit with lanterns and lamps, but no people. There were various models of ships and boats lining shelves and counters as one would expect in a shipwright's. But everything was covered in years of dust. There was just one track of stone floor not covered with dust. It was a clear path that led to the back of the shop where supplies would usually be kept. Clearly, it had been traversed many times and recently.
Slipping inside to avoid being caught from the outside, he closed the door and dropped the latch silently. He felt the extremely faint tingle across his skin when he crossed the warding. That sensation was drowned out completely by the filthy feeling that slithered across his arcane senses. At the same time, he caught the familiar scent of fresh blood wafting from somewhere nearby. Still standing in the doorway, he switched to his magical vision. Instantly, he was assaulted by the view of vile, hellish magical residues oozing from the back rooms. These were the kind of energies that spoke of human suffering and torturous sacrifice. Despite his shields, he still shuddered. Whatever had happened here wasn't new. This was some sort of long-established ritual location. He could feel it.
His ears picked up the faint sound of raised voices chanting, coming from the back rooms further in. By the sounds of it, the two men were alone and in the middle of a ritual right now. Not wanting to be caught weaponless, he slipped off his backpack and retrieved his scythe. Shouldering the pack again quickly, he eyed the stone floor. At least he wouldn't have to worry about creaking boards. Then, the chanting stopped. He froze near the door, uncertain.
As near as he could tell, there were only two chanting voices. He hadn't been sure if there had been others here before he'd followed the scruffy man to the door. Given that neither of the two men gave off much of a magical aura, he suspected neither were mages or priests. He had seen the taint of darkness on them but nothing more than he would expect from any other dabblers of dark magic. No, more than likely, these two were either new recruits or still trying to attract the attention of real cultists. Either way, he needed to see what they knew. Nearing the door to the back rooms, the silence stretched on.
On edge, he began to wonder if this was some kind of trap. Cain had given him no indication that there was anything suspicious about Zatham. And Zatham had made no attempts to avoid the two mages or their scrutiny. He had to have known even before walking into the workshop that they would be analyzing him and his every intention. But he had made no attempt to follow these two, either. He'd sent Pyresong out on this errand.
Why? he wondered.
His heart lurched briefly at the idea that this wasn't so much a trap for him but for the mages. He forced down the rising anxiety with a firm reminder that Cain and Karshun were highly skilled, and Cain was too clever to be caught so easily. He did consider Zatham's appearance as well. He would stand out in a crowd far worse than even a Priest of Rathma. No, sending him had been the right choice. But he was still wary of a trap, possibly even one set by the cultists themselves. Something about this whole thing seemed wrong to him, and he couldn't quite figure out how or why.
He peered around the edge of the door to find a trapdoor sitting wide open in the floor. His magical vision showed him the filthy red energies of Hell in high concentration, as was the stench of both old and freshly shed blood. No dabblers, these. New recruits, likely. After the long silence, he heard the two men talking again, arguing softly by the sounds of it. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, so he inched closer to the trapdoor.
Peering into the candlelit gloom below, he realized he'd made a huge mistake the moment he saw his shadow on the floor below. Apparently, there was a magical light meant to trigger when someone approached the trap door. It perfectly outlined him and his shadow to the waiting pair below.
"Oh, it seems we have rats sniffing about, Hamit," the scruffy one drawled.
Caught, he decided not to even give them a chance to run. He dropped down through the trapdoor, scythe ready. Instead of looking fearful, they smiled at him wickedly.
"Don't squeal too much, rat," the scruffy one drawled on. "I'd hate for the neighbors to hear you."
Now feeling certain he'd just walked right into a trap, he let his free left hand glow threateningly. On the floor between him and the other two was a recently mutilated corpse in a summoning circle. Hamit's hands also glowed a threatening red as the pair smiled in wicked anticipation. A few words later, there were six demons rising up from the floor.
Terror adherents, he noted. Diablo's minions.
Already, he had flooded his blade with power. Throwing up a magical shield around himself, he flung the first energy blade right at the two men. As with any summoner fight, best to take them out first. His best hope was to end this quickly. The two men danced back out of the way of his energy blade fast enough to avoid getting hit. He just managed to take out one of the six demons in the first swipe. These were definitely a bit tougher than the usual weak summonings he typically dealt with. Switching tactics, he began throwing around spirit fire with his unoccupied left hand to create some chaos. The small space was too tight to effectively use any of his own summonings.
It was just enough chaos for him to duck and slip between two demons, using his physical blade to kill them. Now, closer to the other side of the room, he slung another blade of energy and a bone spear into the cluster of demons to slow them down. Already Hamit was chanting again, likely to summon more demons. In this tight space, he couldn't afford any more. The two men were now just a few feet away, watching in amusement. Thinking he was totally preoccupied with fighting the three remaining demons, they never saw it coming. He reversed his blade and spun to the right, catching Hamit right in the belly with the hooked end of his scythe. He completed the spin by slinging the body behind him at the demons, tugging hard to rip through the soft flesh and free his blade. The scruffy one was still frozen in surprise when the necromancer repeated the maneuver with him.
Despite slinging spirit fire and bodies around at the demons to create more confusion, one of the demons managed to get close enough to rake its claws down his back as he spun away. He came out of the move with a bone spear that went right through two of them. After that, he was quickly able to finish off the one remaining. For a moment, he sat in the eerie silence, listening for anyone to raise an alarm. The battle had not been quiet. But he'd been fast enough with the two men to avoid any screaming, at least. Once it seemed there was no one raising a cry, he turned his attention to his next problem.
For a second, he focused on the searing pain down his back. He could feel the blood running and soaking into the shirt. He continued listening intently to the empty shop beyond the trapdoor. He took a healing potion out of his backpack to slow, if not entirely stop, the bleeding. He would have to tend to it later. Hopefully, they weren't deep enough to need stitches or further healing. He took a better look around.
In the center of the floor was the summoning circle with a freshly mutilated female corpse. He flung a couple of blades of energy at the sigils to break the circle. There was blood everywhere. Sigils and seals drawn in blood covered every inch of wall and floor. Shelves along every wall were covered in even more unholy objects. The place made him feel sick. It was clearly a well-used cult sanctum. It had been here for a long time. And, to him, that meant there were likely several other cultists in the city that used it as well.
This had been no dabbler's work. This Hamit knew what he was doing. He could only guess that he used some kind of shield to avoid the evil, tainted aura showing to the rest of the world. He still was fairly certain this whole thing had been meant as a trap for him. The logical part of his mind said it couldn't be. Yet, the suspicious part of his mind...
He sighed heavily. He did not want to question the two dead men. Reanimation or otherwise, calling their souls back from Hell would very likely draw attention to him from something. He couldn't afford to have the Terror cultists realize he frequented Westmarch. But, more than likely, they already knew. It would easily be only a matter of minutes before someone in this city was willing to share that there was a Priest of Rathma staying with Elder Cain. More to the point, he wouldn't put it past Hamit to be able to throw something even nastier at him even as a reanimation. And he had absolutely no idea what the other was capable of. It was just too risky to question them directly.
No other choice but to rummage through their things, he thought with mild disgust.
Despite his shields, this place made his skin crawl. The numerous slow, torturous deaths in this confined space lingered as an almost palpable suffering. At least he sensed no tortured or enraged spirits here. On the wall behind him was a piece of parchment held to the wall with a bloody knife. He paused to read it, hoping there might be a clue to the men's activities and purpose.
Two live hens, their legs tied and heads hooded
Threescore candles of animal fat
Fresh well water from the town nearby, seventeen pints, cold,
carried separately
Silver ground to powder, mixed with chalk; enough to encircle
a large room
A list of ingredients they're gathering? he wondered, trying to figure out what for.
He was not unfamiliar with arcane rituals and even some witch's magic. Given what he'd seen so far, this almost seemed like some sort of mesh between cultist blood rituals and some form of witch's magic. He carefully tore down the parchment and shoved it into his side satchel. Maybe Cain or Karshun could make more sense of it. On a table to his left that was covered with mutilated animal and human body parts, he spied another parchment.
The rite of purification demands long journeys, but there is
no other path before us.
The stone will bend to His whim. We will need every hand, in
every corner of the realm.
You made a vow of sacrifice; stop cowering in your homes
and take up your knives.
This does not sound good at all, he thought, stuffing it into his side satchel.
Clearly this was concerning Diablo and the Bride's attempts to prepare the Worldstone shard to bring to the Lord of Terror. Whatever these two had been working on down here, they were doing so on instruction from someone else. The rest of the basement was just vile clutter at this point. Likely, he could spend hours rummaging around the room for any more clues. Equally likely, another cultist would find him still rummaging. He needed to hurry. So far, he'd not found anything that would indicate where they might be or be headed. He hoped the information about the purification ritual and ingredients list might give Cain and Karshun something to go on.
Feeling the blood trickling down his back again, he turned his attention to the bodies. He rifled through the scruffy man's pockets, finding no more than a few loose coins that he pocketed out of habit. Hamit, however, was a different story. Beneath the fancy clothes, he found the man was virtually covered in unholy tattoos. He might not be a high priest like Akinees, but he was definitely no novice. Again, he wondered about this being a trap. Then he read the folded parchment he'd found in the man's satchel and his heart froze, his blood turned to ice. All thoughts of this being some kind of trap fled from his mind.
As His eyes, we look across Khanduras, gazing where you point.
And I have found you a suitable location, one you will be able
to sense for yourself. Near the township of Wortham is a cavern
suffused with the energy of the shard. You are not to be a
moment late.
Thus, Akinees bids you.
Thus, you are commanded.
Pyresong knew instantly what cave the letter was referring to. It was the same cave where he'd killed Skarn's high priestess, Eskara. And where the shard had brought forth a lizard demon. It had to be that same cave. Part of him was saddened by the idea of that still-recovering village being plagued by cultists again, and so soon. Quickly, he shoved the missive in his satchel with the other two parchments and picked up his scythe. He cursed silently as he realized he wasn't exactly covered in gore, but there was easily enough blood to draw attention. Worse, the open wounds on his back would draw even more attention. He wasn't even certain if they were deep enough to need stitches or not. And he didn't have time to clean up. Knowing he had to cross a significant portion of the city to get to Zatham and the others, he quickly slung off his backpack and began pulling out his armor. He downed another healing potion and hoped it would be enough to stop the bleeding again, for a while longer. At least the armor would cover the blood for now.
A few minutes later, he scrambled up the ladder, resisting the urge to purify the place. He knew if Hamit was a priest high enough up to take orders from the cult leaders, like Akinees, these deaths would not go unnoticed for long. If he was lucky, he just needed maybe an hour at most to get to that cave before they had a chance to flee again. More to the point, though, purifying this place with fire would likely spread and wreak havoc on the city. He would have to find another way to deal with it...later.
Already, it was well after dark. He'd been gone at least a couple of hours at this point, though it wasn't really that late. In winter, the sun set early enough that it wasn't even supper time. The streets were still fairly busy as he ran toward Cain's shop. As much as he hated drawing attention to himself by wearing full armor and running through the crowds, he just couldn't bring himself to slow down. He'd only barely managed to avoid the urge to go straight to Wortham after exiting that den of evil. But going there alone into a nest of cultists in possession of a massive shard without even telling the others where he was going was just reckless and stupid.
Having run most of the way across the city, he was slightly winded by the time he reached Cain's workshop. He was glad Zatham had waited for him here. He did not want to waste the time hunting for the man. Cain jumped up, slightly startled as he closed the door.
"I found two members of the cult," he told them, pulling out the parchments to hand to Cain. "More of them are gathering at a cave near Wortham. They have the shard there. We have to go, now."
Zatham was on his feet and already headed for the door. Cain looked sadly at the parchments in his hands.
"How much will Wortham endure? Those poor people..." Then he seemed to shake himself out of it. "Go, they will need your help."
"We will learn what the fanatics have planned, and we will make and end of them," Zatham assured from where he waited patiently by the door.
Pyresong just couldn't take the risk. With his back to Zatham, he mouthed the words but did not speak them to ensure only Cain understood.
"Can we trust him?"
Cain nodded immediately.
Good enough, he thought, relieved.
As soon as they were on the other side of the door, he opened a portal and motioned Zatham through. He knew the man could just as easily make one of his own. But, right now, he didn't want to risk getting separated, and he wasn't sure if Zatham even knew where Wortham was. Still riddled with anxiety to spare Wortham more suffering, he stepped through the portal, hoping against hope.
Chapter 19: 18 Wortham / Pathstone
Chapter Text
Wortham / Pathstone
They stepped out of the portal onto the waypoint platform in the town square of Wortham. Dark though it was, it wasn't even suppertime yet. People were still going about their business. Pyresong was happy to note that, on the surface at least, life had returned to something approaching normal again for these people. There was no obvious indication of cultists attacking the village. He stifled a sigh of relief as his gut unknotted slightly. He resisted the urge to take off running toward the cave as he stepped off the platform. Forcing himself to walk quickly but calmly, he headed for the west gates. The few people who noticed him smiled and waved as he passed. Across the square, he could hear Korrin's hammer ringing steadily. Not wanting to start a panic, he put on a serene facade. Hoping to avoid talking to anyone, he just nodded or waved and kept moving.
"What did you uncover about the cult, Zatham? Anything new?" he whispered over his shoulder.
"Their plot to bring the shard to the Burning Hells did not work as they wished it to. They are fearful of punishment. Now, they scurry beneath us like mice. Seeking another way for the shard to reach Hell."
He caught the man's dark smile out of the corner of his eye. Admittedly, he felt the same. He held on to the hope that they could retrieve the shard tonight. Maybe Zatham could help them find another way to destroy it. Whatever strange land he came from might have knowledge they didn't possess. He prayed they did.
The western gates were open but guarded. He just nodded to the guards. The moment they were out of sight of them, he began running. He mentally growled with frustration as the wounds on his back first tugged painfully as the dried blood came apart and burned as if reopened. Then they began to ooze blood again at the movement. Any thought of possible venom or infection would have to wait, though. He pushed it aside for later. Despite having not been here for so long, there was a part of him that would never forget that place. Korrin had once told him the caves were being sealed up. Without a doubt, the cultists had broken into them, somehow.
The battle that seemed so very long ago now had been far from his first brush with death. What marked it for him was his first encounter with a corrupted Worldstone shard. Even now, for all his shields and mental tactics, this shard was so powerful he could not ignore it completely. It no longer called to him or tried to take him. It had found a better master, and it wanted to get to that master. The fact that he could even sense that much clearly made his stomach churn. Zatham said not a word as they ran side by side down the paths. On the narrower sections, Zatham fell behind a step but no more. While they ran, Pyresong was keeping his mental shields razor sharp. He'd not yet found a way to stop the shard from detecting him, but he could block out most of the attempts to distract him. At this point, his biggest concern was that the shard would alert them to his coming, and they would flee with it again. When the entrance to the cave came within sight in the distance, Zatham gripped his shoulder to stop him from rushing forward.
"There is no one guarding the entrance. Let us approach cautiously. We may overhear something," Zatham told him.
Pyresong had been so intent on just getting to the shard and killing everyone in that cave that the idea of spying hadn't even occurred to him. It did make sense, but he didn't give a damn what they were planning, if he could get the shard away from them right now.
"The shard is in there," he insisted. "If we rush them, we might be able to take it."
Zatham was silent as if considering. But then he shook his head.
"They had an entire army, enough to nearly consume Stormpoint. Can you determine how many are in there now?"
He closed his eyes and focused for a second on the sensations coming from the cave. Unlike on Mount Zavain, where the cultists were separated from the shard, and he could detect them clearly, this was just too much. The sense of the shard itself overwhelmed everything else, even the cultists touched by it. He sighed in frustration and shook his head. No, Zatham was right. Rushing in there blindly would likely accomplish nothing. He forced down his sense of urgency and crept toward the cave entrance. As expected, the power of the massive shard oozed out of the cave. Magical vision would be useless to him. He already knew where he was going. In the darkness, he didn't see or hear any guards at the mouth of the cave.
"Skarn, claiming to be the Lord of Damnation, used this place when he acquired a shard. I'm not surprised to find the Cult of Terror using it," he whispered to Zatham as they entered.
"Nor am I," Zatham said softly. "Sin infests the land and calls the sinful."
Once they entered the cave, he was disappointed to find it was well-lit with torches and candles. The sigils of Skarn's eye were still painted in blood on the floor and walls of the cave. He had no more fear of the sigil as he once had. Only a short way into the long, winding cave, he could hear the chanting ahead.
"The ritual is underway; we need to hurry," he hissed to Zatham.
Seeing there were no guards or other cultists lining the brightly lit tunnel, Zatham nodded. They now moved at a silent jog rather than a walk. He was relieved to hear Zatham make no more noise than himself, which was to say almost none. When they approached a curve he knew to be the last one before the large chamber at the end, he waved to Zatham. They took up positions in the shadows on either side of the tunnel. From this vantage, they could clearly see the new seals and sigils that had been carved into the rock. Skarn's eye had been obliterated to make way for Diablo's pentagrams. The Bride stood in the center of the largest seal in the middle of the floor. Three priests on either side were on their knees, working their magic. Akinees was on his knees before the bride. The chanting stopped so suddenly that the silence was startling.
The only thing Pyresong had eyes for right now was the massive shard hovering above the Bride. And it was massive, as he had suspected. The previous shards were small enough to fit in his hands, all three of them at once, even. This was exponentially larger. It was easily the size of his head, maybe more. Putting aside his magical sight altogether, he suddenly caught sight of the many other fragments all around it. Every single person here carried at least a fragment of a shard, if not another entire shard. Yet he knew the largest of them was the key to their plans, somehow. At the moment, he didn't care about the others. That one massive shard was his target. He would find the others once he had that one secured.
"Terror will be ascendant soon. Whoever finds the key to the island will ascend by my side," the Bride told them. "Seek it out. The Heart has waited too long to be made pure."
The Bride opened a portal. Pyresong was done listening and watching. He wasn't about to let them slip away. There were eight of them, including Akinees and the Bride. He and Zatham could easily take them. As he dove out of his hiding spot, Zatham made no move to stop him. The Bride, apparently knowing he was there the whole time, spun around laughing and aimed her staff at the necromancer, while the others ran through the open portal.
He realized the trap too late. Pyresong, at a flat run, didn't even have enough time to change direction or try to dodge. His best hope was a reckless push forward. He just managed to get his shield up in hopes of maybe absorbing whatever she was going to throw at him when Zatham tackled him to the ground. He heard Zatham's cry of pain when the burning red ball of vile energy glanced off his magical shields. It had been so powerful that even he felt the familiar tingle as his armor absorbed some of it. Had it hit him directly, enchanted armor and shield or no, he would have been dead. The Bride disappeared through the portal along with the shard.
Zatham, clearly shocked, rolled off him with a barely stifled groan. His concern for his ally quickly silenced the vile profanities that raced through his head at having lost the shard again. He turned to help as Zatham struggled to his hands and knees with visibly shaking limbs. Pyresong reached for a healing potion.
"How badly are you hurt?"
Zatham sat back on his knees and shook his head to clear it. Then he took a deep breath and sighed slowly in relief when he began to glow a bright yellow.
"It is just pain of the body. The spirit knows what the body should be and will repair it," Zatham told him steadily.
Pyresong was more than a bit relieved. By the looks of it, the man could heal himself, but he felt more than a little guilty for having caused the injury in the first place. He had been reckless, and that vile woman had nearly killed him as a result. Worse, Zatham had nearly paid for his rash actions. The glow faded a few seconds later, and Zatham seemed to relax, looking around the cavern.
"They have left us a ruin," Zatham commented.
He nodded and then aided Zatham to his feet. "They're a step ahead of us, still. There must be more clues to their destination in here somewhere. The Bride mentioned an island."
Zatham nodded, looking tired now. Though he had no idea how the man could see anything, he didn't question it. He moved to the other side of the cave. There were crates, boxes, tables, desks, and even shelves. He didn't remember any of this being here the last time. These cultists had apparently been using it for some time, even before they acquired the shard.
"How could they 'purify' a Worldstone shard corrupted by Baal?" he wondered aloud.
"They are still searching for the answer to that. This is to our advantage," Zatham replied.
Ignoring the sticky feeling of blood oozing down his back again, he rummaged through some parchments lying on a desk nearby. Most of it was ritual details and missives passed back and forth with other cultists. But one caught his attention simply because it was so completely unlike the others.
Gale winds in the waters far northwest of the crater. A day of
surging tides and fog.
A day later, the same, south fifty leagues, as though it
followed us.
"Records of weather patterns?" he mused aloud.
"What did you find?" Zatham asked
"Something about weather patterns and a map of an ocean I don't recognize," he replied.
"Over here," Zatham called, knocking over a small brazier. "Pieces of parchment. Somewhat intact."
He brought the two he'd found as Zatham patted out the flames on what looked like torn pieces of a map. It was expertly drawn but looked like it might be jumbled pieces of a map of Sanctuary. Zatham stacked the multitude of torn pieces carefully in his gloved hands and then extended them to Pyresong. He took the two larger parchments and folded the stack of pieces neatly inside.
"I have a suspicion about these pieces," Zatham told him with a dark frown. "We should show them to your Elder Cain."
"I was thinking the same," he agreed, carefully putting the folded parchments into his side satchel.
"How did you know the shard was here?" Zatham asked him, clearly curious.
Pyresong sighed heavily, his stomach churning. He had no real good reason for not sharing the information, but it had never sat well with him. He still felt they had tainted him somehow. And it seemed others could tell as well. Verathiel had seen it. Skarn had used it against him. Briefly, his mind flitted to Karshun's comment on the Astral Plane. Then there was the Curator's comment, which he had brushed off. And there was always the nightmare version of himself lurking in the back of his mind.
To buy himself a few seconds to put these dark thoughts away, he opened a portal and motioned Zatham to follow. He didn't want to spend another second in here than absolutely necessary. As they exited the Palace Courtyard waypoint, he considered the best way to word it. Ultimately, he could think of none. In all honesty, he didn't know enough. No one did. And he didn't really like the idea of probing or questioning it deeper. Whatever the shards had done to him, whatever they had left, there was nothing that could be done about it right now anyway. Even Cain had had no answers for him. And if Zatham chose to reject his help over it, there was nothing he could do about that, either.
"You are wounded," Zatham said, noticing the blood now running down his faulds, dripping from the edges of his back plates.
"They're not serious," he assured, heading for the quiet safety of the workshop. "I'll tend them later. As to your question... I've...touched other shards," he confessed, hesitantly. "Ever since then, it seems anyone who uses a shard can sense me through it."
"They marked you," Zatham said, nodding. "You are a threat to them, and they know it."
"I certainly hope that's all it is," he said, realizing he'd never considered it that way before.
Zatham paused to face him. "You feel tainted? Corrupted?"
"Wouldn't you?" he couldn't help shooting back.
"A sword that kills someone is not evil in itself. It is just a weapon; sometimes, others mark their weapons to indicate their kills and to warn others. Their mark on you is a weapon you can use against them."
The simple logic of it and how very close it was to his own thoughts when he'd first discovered it nearly made him laugh. As it was, he grinned with relief. He had very much disliked the idea that Zatham may have rejected him for being tainted by the shards. Or, at the very least, see him as a liability. Given the situation they were in, he very much welcomed Zatham's help.
"I'm glad we agree on that," he replied sincerely, resuming their walk.
Cold and disappointed with the night's work, he was happy to return to the safety and warm comfort of Cain's workshop, Karshun and all.
"Welcome back, friends," Cain greeted, rising from his desk.
"I don't suppose you brought us something?" Karshun drawled from his rocking chair by the fire, not even bothering to look up from his book.
"Not what we were after, no," Pyresong replied neutrally. "But we do have some clues about where they might be going next."
He carefully dug the parchments and burnt pieces out of his side satchel and handed it to Cain's outstretched hands. The elderly scholar set the small bundle on his desk and delicately unfolded it. Thankfully, Karshun had already moved toward the fire to start some tea. Not wanting to make more of a mess and not wanting to draw attention to what he considered minor injuries, Pyresong moved toward the shadows near the foot of the stairs to begin removing his armor. He quickly downed another, stronger healing potion to stop the bleeding again. Apparently, they had been deeper than he thought. He hurriedly removed the bloody armor while Cain and the others were distracted. Cain read over the weather reports and carefully scrutinized the ocean map.
"Karshun, I don't recognize this place. Do you?"
Karshun, curiosity having won out, was already standing over Cain's shoulder. He took the detailed map and turned it a few different directions.
"I do not."
"May I?" Zatham asked, from where he stood warming himself by the fire.
"Be my guest," Karshun said, handing it over.
As Zatham looked at it with eyes other than physical, his brow furrowed deeply. Pyresong couldn't help feeling as if the man knew something they did not. But he shook it off quickly. He knew he was tired, and his mind had a tendency to wander into dark, suspicious places when he was. Besides, he had his hands full trying not to leave a mess of blood on the floor and keeping Cain from seeing it all. The last thing he wanted was Cain worrying over him again. And the gods only knew what Karshun would have to say about it. He was in no mood to deal with Karshun at all right now, either.
"Elder, can you reconstruct those other map pieces we found?" Zatham asked.
"It's been rent to shreds. But I believe I can."
Zatham handed the ocean map back to Karshun, who eyed him curiously. Still by the stairs removing the last of his armor, Pyresong's ears caught Karshun's skeptical question.
"How do you see?"
"The body is an extension of the spirit. My body's eyes were lost, but the spirit knows how to see," Zatham answered, seeming surprised that Karshun even asked.
"Interesting," was all Karshun replied, his tone flat.
He couldn't help grinning at the mage's obvious irritation at the vague yet oh so oh-so-straightforward answer. Still, it had caught Pyresong's attention. He wasn't sure if it was some special ability of Zatham's people or something everyone could do. Having been blinded himself once, he hoped never to have to deal with blindness again. But if it were a learned type of ability, it would be good to know. It also made him that much more curious about what Zatham could see.
For that matter, as a necromancer, he could see dislocated spirits in a variety of states. But was that through his training alone? Or was that somehow part of his inborn abilities? It had been too long ago to remember when exactly he had begun to see them. He had only vague impressions of his mother having seen spirits as well. Or maybe she was just humoring her child. Now, with his combination of necromantic training and his magical eyes, he already knew he saw much more than most. He made a mental note to ask Zatham about that skill sometime.
Having stowed any of his clean gear in his backpack, Pyresong quickly made his way upstairs with a bucket of water while they were distracted. There was still a considerable amount of blood on his clothing from the demon encounter earlier. And the back of his shirt and vest were absolutely saturated with his own blood. As expected, both shirt and vest were torn clean through with three ragged claw marks. They were likely just more rags now. At least the saturated trousers he was able to salvage. He washed them and his armor quickly. His back didn't feel like it was still bleeding at the moment, but he carefully reached around to check. As near as he could tell, the cuts ran from his shoulder blades nearly to his waist. The skin over the healing cuts felt thin and tender but whole, thanks to that last healing potion. He would have to be careful for a while not to tear them open again.
Relieved that he would not need stitches or further healing, he hurriedly finished cleaning himself up. He headed back downstairs, looking forward to a hot, comforting cup of tea and maybe some answers. He caught Cain's words as he came down the stairs.
"Ah, look at it! There are notes on currents. Depth measurements in the margins. Hell is searching for something else, indeed. And...of all places..." Cain turned in his chair to face them excitedly. "The Forgotten Sea! An expanse of ocean west of Mount Arreat. Accounts of its crossing are scattered, but...if they can be believed, it is mostly empty."
"'Forgotten' is appropriate, Elder. But it is not empty. It hides a place of power. An isle concealed since its creation. The Cradle of the Ancients," Zatham said. "As I suspected from the ocean map."
Now, all eyes were on Zatham, mostly in surprise. But Karshun's gaze held no small amount of suspicion as well. Pyresong paused with the kettle in his hand as he listened.
"This isle and its power will be what they seek. But they lack the means to reach it. And artifact called The Pathstone conceals it with fog and rain. And its wake is clear on these maps," Zatham pointed to the parchments on Cain's desk.
"Fascinating! You must tell me more of this place," Cain said, enthralled. Then he caught Karshun's incredulous glance. "Uh...when days are less dire."
Pyresong couldn't help smiling at that. Cain's thirst for knowledge was insatiable. He handed Zatham a cup of tea that the man accepted gratefully. Still feeling a chill, the necromancer used it to warm his hands for a bit as much as for drinking while Zatham continued.
"If we reach the Pathstone before the fanatics do, we can stop their arrival."
Cain and Karshun exchanged a look uncertainly. Then Zatham turned to Pyresong.
"I have a ship at Stormpoint, but you will need to bring sailors. Four to six men should be sufficient. Ones who have never been beaten by fear," Zatham warned darkly.
He didn't like the sound of it, but there was nothing directly threatening that he could pinpoint. He nodded, and Zatham seemed satisfied. He wanted to ask more about what they would be facing. But there would be time for that another day, likely. It was getting later, and definitely after supper time. Already, he was considering getting a quick meal at the tavern. He really didn't want to go back out into the cold night. Still, he reminded himself, he was already going to return to the Library for the night. He was trying to avoid further conflict with Karshun. Trading verbal barbs while he was mentally alert and feeling well was one thing. Right now, as tired and frustrated as he was, his mouth would just get him into trouble.
"It may take me a couple of days to gather a crew that's willing and available," he warned.
"Not unexpected," Zatham assured. "My ship is moored east of the Ship Graveyard. You can see it from the cliffs. I will wait for you there."
"Are you sure you wouldn't care to spend the night here?" Cain offered. "We can easily accommodate one more."
"Thank you for the generous offer, Elder. But I will need healing sleep and time to prepare my ship," Zatham explained.
Zatham bowed formally to them, still commoner to master mage, and they returned it. He let himself out. Karshun and Cain shared another look. Karshun still looked suspicious, but Cain seemed to be mentally wrestling with himself. Then he shook his head uncertainly and turned to Pyresong.
"Do you trust him?" Cain asked.
Surprised and disappointed, he sighed heavily. Still standing by the fire to soak up more warmth. He shook his head, slightly frustrated.
"I was asking you the same," the necromancer said.
"I don't like it or him. And what did he mean by 'healing sleep'? He wasn't even injured."
Not much of a surprise, there, Pyresong thought in regards to Karshun's trust comment, but kept his mouth shut. He had already figured out that the only living person Karshun did trust was Cain.
Cain nodded as if taking Karshun's opinion into account. "I sense nothing. But he does have magical abilities and uses them to shield himself completely. He is clearly hiding many things. But I get no sense of treachery or even deceit from Zatham. Do you believe he is after the Worldstone shard for himself?"
Pyresong shook his head at the question. Feeling weary, he crossed the room to take a chair from the dining table. He turned it all over in his head as he warmed his hands with the tea. In the end, he could think of no obvious indicators or feelings of anything other than honesty from Zatham. And he had definitely not detected any essence of the shard or Hell's taint from him. To be fair, he hadn't detected anything overt or powerful from Hamit, either.
"I detect nothing, either. He struck me as a religious zealot when we first met, but not anymore. He's...different," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "And I cannot place his accent. He is a...variable I don't think the cultists can predict. They can literally see me coming," he finished, his voice heavy with bitterness.
"What happened in Wortham?" Karshun asked. "He didn't give us much detail."
"The Bride knew I was there."
"So all of this information might be a trap," Karshun stated, clearly feeling vindicated.
"I don't know," he replied flatly, refusing to give the mage the satisfaction of knowing how very frustrated he was right now. "It is possible. But why? Why give us this much and then immediately try to kill me?"
Karshun snorted. "She missed you again."
So very disappointing, I'm sure, Pyresong thought, but again bit his tongue.
"No, Zatham saved my life. As to what he meant by 'healing sleep', I don't know exactly in his context. But he was injured and he did heal himself. Despite his magical shields, the blast that glanced off of his shields was powerful enough I felt it through my armor, even as a glancing blow to him. It would have killed me, of that I have no doubt."
"Healed himself?" Karshun asked incredulously.
Karshun looked like he was speaking with an idiot child. Cain just looked worried for a minute. Both of them had seemed at least mildly surprised that Zatham had healed himself. From what little he knew of healing magics, a healer typically could not use it on themselves. If that was true, Zatham's brand of magic was unlike what he found in most of Sanctuary. That alone could be a benefit to them. In truth, he could see no reason to debate this further. He knew what he was going to do.
"Listen, if what he says is true about the Forgotten Sea and this Pathstone...we can't afford not to chase this lead," Pyresong insisted. "They can see me coming. No matter where I go. No matter what I do. But with Zatham's help, we might be able to use it to our advantage."
"Bait," Karshun said, musingly.
And I'm sure you're enjoying that thought very much, Pyresong thought with no small amount of amusement.
"Zatham knows what this Pathstone is. If I can get close enough to be a threat and distract cultists, he may be able to use it to get ahead of them."
Cain shared another look with Karshun. Karshun shook his head with a warning scowl. Cain sighed, then looked to Pyresong with frustrated indecision.
"You're the one that will have to work with him and trust him. It's your back he will be guarding," Cain warned. "Do you trust him?"
Pyresong ran a hand through his hair, heaving another, more frustrated sigh. He had so hoped Cain would be able to see clearly and give him a definitive answer. But, as he'd told them, Zatham was a variable. He clearly came from a culture unlike anything any of them had experience with. He couldn't blame Cain for not seeing any deeper than he himself had up to this point. Still, having that different perspective alone from Zatham could tip the scales in their favor. And there was still the fact that he knew this shard, if no other, could get through to him in a way he didn't even want to risk. If it really did see him as enough of a threat, it might take control again, even if only long enough to end whatever plans he had for taking it and destroying it. He needed help out there. And he wasn't about to risk Cain that way.
His extended silence and possibly something else had triggered something in Cain. The old man looked worried all over again. Much as he wanted to warn his friend of what had happened at Stormpoint and what he was thinking, he just couldn't, not with Karshun present. He had no doubts the mage would see him as too much of a liability, and the internal conflict between the three of them would begin in earnest. He couldn't allow that to happen. He needed to at least be able to trust Karshun to help Cain without undermining his own work for the time being.
"I have to trust him," he finally told them, weariness creeping into his voice. "We're getting nowhere here. Even my research has come up with nothing useful."
"Research?" Karshun asked, just shy of another sneer.
"Did you think I was on holiday this past week?" Pyresong snapped before he could stop himself.
He knew he was tired. He hadn't slept much at all in the past week. The hard, cold stone floor of the Library was uncomfortable at the best of times. And the day's events and disappointments had not helped. Despite the healing potions having sealed the wounds, he was also feeling the blood loss and the need for restorative sleep after that much. Karshun's grating attitude and sharp tongue were getting to him again.
Time to go, he sighed mentally, resolving not to respond to whatever Karshun threw back at him this time.
Much as he did not want to go back out into the cold night air, staying here would likely just lead to escalating barbs. They could not afford that right now. Whether it was Cain's glare or something else, Karshun at least did not snap back. Reluctantly, Pyresong rose from his chair and slid it back under the dining table. Cain left his desk.
"You're not sleeping enough," Cain said gently. "Stay here tonight. I don't know what 'research' you're working on or where, but you'll have to go down to the docks tomorrow anyway."
Pyresong glanced to Karshun, who had returned to the rocking chair by the fire with his book. He was tired and hungry and in no hurry to get back out into the cold winter night. Cain, asking the way he did, with a logical argument to back it up, was more than he could take right now. He gave in with a yawn and made his way upstairs. He could easily make due with the food he still had stashed in his backpack. Behind him, he heard Karshun muttering about idiocy and tuned it out.
***
The next morning, Pyresong woke before sunrise, feeling well-rested for the first time in a week. What little sleep he did get in the library was on a cold stone floor. Not very restful at all. But he hadn't really taken the time to consider other, more permanent accommodations yet, either. He was relieved to feel the thin skin over the wounds from the night before felt tight, but not quite so thin anymore. He quickly dressed and left before the mages could wake. He had begun to grow accustomed to dealing with the arrogant mage, but last night had proven that he could still have snappish moments with the man. He doubted anything Karshun said would bother him right now, but why risk it?
Desperate for a cup of tea, he shrugged off the wet chill in the air and made for the docks. The warmth of the common room in the Wolf City Tavern was enough to banish the chill. Knowing it was far too early for most sailors to be up and about, he just sat near the fire reading for a while. As people began to wander in for breakfast, he eyed them contemplatively. The people who came in earliest were the least likely to be drunken sots. For this voyage, he wanted hardy, experienced sailors. The first few that wandered in were little more than boys. A couple of older ones that had survived long enough to drink to excess less often came in for their hearty breakfast before starting the day's work. And they clearly had work to do. He was hoping to put together a readily available crew.
When Bailey wandered in sometime during the breakfast crowd, Pyresong realized that the best option would be the barkeep. He would know better than anyone who was available now and who could be bought on short notice. Bailey, still yawning, was making the rounds of the kitchen and getting the bar ready for the early drinkers. Not wanting to interrupt the man's work, he took a seat at the bar and waited with his book.
"You're here twice in one week. Must be a special occasion," Bailey drawled.
"Actually, if you're not terribly busy, I could use your help."
Bailey walked up and leaned on the bar as if ready for some juicy gossip. "Whatcha need?"
"I need to put together a crew for a voyage as soon as possible. Four to six men should be enough. I'm looking for men with plenty of experience, not afraid to sail in strange waters, and preferably not heavy drinkers."
Bailey laughed. "Good luck on the drinking part. As for strange waters...throw a rock; anyone you hit with it will have been to strange waters at some point. But I could give you a list to look out for that might be in port today."
"That would be most helpful. Thank you."
"Let me get you some more tea, and I'll be right back."
Bailey wandered off through the kitchens, and Pyresong returned to his book. Some minutes later, the barkeep returned with a piece of torn parchment. The list had been a lot longer than he'd anticipated, but that was all to the good. He didn't really have much hope of gathering all he needed in a single day. Besides, he was running low on some supplies and needed to go around to the shops before he headed out with Zatham. He still wasn't entirely convinced about Zatham, but the man seemed logical, as well as mysterious. Most of the morning was spent trying to locate potential candidates. Many of the ones near the top of the list were already committed to other work and unavailable. Close to midday, he managed to track down one taking a break in his other work.
"Excuse me, are you Norzo?"
"Depends on who's asking," the gray-bearded man replied.
He took note of the fact that the sailor didn't look cornered, as many of them had when approached by anyone asking for them by name.
"Five hundred gold is asking if you're available for a couple of weeks starting in the next three days," he offered.
The man huffed. That was more than he usually made in months, hopping from ship to ship, and Pyresong knew it. Being a Priest of Rathma was working against him, he knew. But this was one of those moments when he was ever so thankful for the treasure he had found.
"And where would this little venture be leading?"
"The Forgotten Sea."
Norzo tossed an apple core over the side of the docks into the water and stood up with a grin. "The Forgotten Sea, eh? Sounds abysmal...n'plenty far enough from this den of wolves. When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow, if I find enough men. The day after at the latest," Pyresong answered. "Five hundred gold on departure."
The man's eyebrows shot up. The normal rate was a portion up front and the rest after. He hoped offering up front would hook them and keep them from wandering off to find other work in the meantime.
"You have a deal. I'll be around here when you're ready to leave. You might check with Greengull. He's got plenty of experience. And he's looking for work."
"Do you know where I may find him?"
Norzo pointed across the way to a dock worker lounging on the other side waiting for work. "Tell him I sent you."
"My thanks. Good day to you."
With it being midday, most of the ships that had come in overnight were already unloaded. He eyed Greengull, another graybeard, who looked to have plenty of experience. Hopefully, he would meet the other criteria. He was more than willing to take suggestions on other candidates at this point.
"Excuse me, are you Greengull? Norzo recommended you to me."
The man glanced up from where he sat on the pier and looked less than pleased. He glared across the way at Norzo now relaxing in the sun.
"What do you want?"
"I'm putting together a small crew for a voyage to the Forgotten Sea. Five hundred gold on departure."
Apparently, the coin won out over the obvious dislike of working with a necromancer. "Just so we're clear: there's anvils swim faster than me. That's why I work the docks. If that's a problem, find somebody else."
"Understood, and that will pose no problems," Pyresong assured. "It will be tomorrow or the day after. I assume I can find you here when we're ready to set sail?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you. Good day."
And that was the end of his luck. Five hundred gold was a hefty amount of money for anyone other than an outright pirate. But even most of the freelancing pirates he approached either wouldn't accept working on a ship with a necromancer or wouldn't dare go near the Forgotten Sea for any price. Having run through the entire list Bailey provided by early afternoon, he crumpled it in frustration. He gave up for now and just hoped there would be more sailors to try tomorrow. There was possibly Port Justinian, though he was reluctant to go all the way back there just to ask around.
He made his way south and then around near Rakkis Plaza to restock his supplies. By the time he was satisfied with the supplies, it was nearing evening. He debated what to do next. He certainly didn't want to go back to the workshop and deal with Karshun right now. He had too much on his mind and definitely didn't want to slip from verbal barbs to outright bickering. Though, he had begun to wonder if Karshun actually enjoyed their verbal sparring matches as much as he did. After all, the mage was always the instigator. And, of course, Pyresong knew full well his tongue had gotten the better of him many times in his life. Master Z had given up on him in that aspect long before his apprenticeship had ended. He nearly grinned to himself thinking he really should have learned to control it better by now.
But what's the fun in that?
He was not entirely surprised to realize that he did not want to return to the Library. There was very little he could read of any of the texts that the Curator was going over. Most of it wasn't written with magic that his eyes could somehow translate. And most were written in arcane or ancient languages he could not decipher. And, even if he could begin to decode them, the work would take too long. The Curator was engaged in that search and he mostly just felt like a distraction, if not an unwelcome guest. Now that the Curator had all the information from the various events that he'd recounted, he really was not needed there.
As the sun began to set, he began to consider places to stay, at least for tonight, more seriously. Really, he needed to make more permanent arrangements for the long term. He could very likely buy a mansion here in Westmarch if he chose to, but that idea had absolutely no appeal. Renting a room or even a small flat would present its own problems. Landlords and landladies had an infuriating habit of keeping a close watch on the activities of their tenants. He had no idea how long this would continue, either. Now that he could make portals, it really didn't matter where he chose to stay. At least he wouldn't be forced to camp outside the city walls. Yet, he just had no real idea where he could safely stay for any length of time. Being able to make portals opened a huge range of options. Still, none of the ones he could think of right now were even remotely appealing.
Running through a list of possible places to spend the night, he made his way back toward the Wolf City Tavern, where he knew he could at least get a hot meal before he settled on a place. Spring was fast approaching, but most places were still rather chilly at night. He could easily make a camp just about anywhere. He grinned at the idea of returning to Bilefen, even, just for the awful, sticky heat and the fact that he wouldn't have to have a fire. Then again, he could just as easily rent a room for the night right here at the tavern. It was not as if he didn't have enough money.
Then he realized what he was actually doing and nearly laughed at himself openly. He knew where he could stay comfortably and easily. But he'd been avoiding it, and now he knew it. He got serious quickly, though, when he turned his thoughts in that direction. His thoughts turned to Kashya with no small amount of guilt. He had made no promises to her that he couldn't keep. And he was certain she would welcome him. For that matter, he was fairly certain they would be willing to give him a room in the monastery for a little while if he asked. Without a doubt, they would let him camp in Dark Wood on a regular basis. But he didn't want to go there because he was still sorting out everything that had happened.
Appetite lost, Pyresong poked lightly at the food on his plate. He'd managed to keep himself busy enough that he hadn't taken the time to really think about it or her or where any of that was going. Now he had no research and no other demands on his time; he didn't really have any excuse. He had separated himself from Kashya and the emotions tied to that incredible day and night. Yet, he still felt so very selfish over it all. Eventually, he would have to sort it out and decide how to proceed. Part of him still felt like his relationship with Kashya would end in misery for both of them. A greater part of him wanted to cling to it, and her, as the one untainted good thing in his life. She had only asked that he come to her when he could. But how long would that last? When would she want more? When would he?
His thoughts were interrupted by the beginnings of a fight at the table beside him. As the two men began throwing punches, he growled mentally. Bailey was already coming around the bar with a club in hand. More annoyed at the interruption of his thoughts than anything, he pushed his plate aside and reached for them. Not knowing or caring who the instigator was in the situation, he grabbed the arm of the closest one and twisted until the man went to his knees. When the other tried to use this to his advantage, he elbowed him in the face, breaking his nose. One stunned and the other helpless, Bailey had no problems dragging them out the door.
Giving up on the idea of food or quiet here, he decided to go with his instincts and just get a room here for the night. He would need to be close enough to catch the morning arrivals anyway. It made the most sense. And, at least with Bailey, he wouldn't have to worry about being thrown out at some random hour of the day or night. Bailey accepted the gold gladly, and he made his way to his room.
He needed to meditate.
***
The next morning, Pyresong was up before the sun and combing the docks again. Another fruitless search. Stifling his frustration, he returned to the tavern for some warm breakfast to wait while the ships were unloaded to try again. He was slightly startled when a man actually approached him. He took a seat at the table across from him with his own breakfast bowl still steaming.
"I hear you're offering five hundred gold for a run at the Forgotten Sea," the man told him.
Setting aside his breakfast, he nodded. "I am."
The man eyed him for a moment as if looking for something. He just waited.
"Not sure I need to lock eyes with the blue again. On the other hand...I could use the money. One thousand, and I'll bring my brother."
He carefully kept his expression neutral, despite his relief. He had begun to fear he would have to check other ports if things didn't pan out here. Four plus himself and Zatham should work. He wasn't the most experienced with ships, but he could do what he was told. He assumed Zatham must know more since he owned the ship. It would be rough with so few, but they could make it work.
"Agreed. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning," he finally said. "One thousand on departure. I could use two more if you happen to know of anyone. Same offer. Meet me here at sunrise."
At this point, he didn't care if the brothers were drunkards as long as they showed up. Most sailors with more than a decade of experience were no longer afraid of what the sea could throw at them. All sailors became superstitious after being on the open ocean for a while. Whatever Zatham had meant about not being beaten by fear, he would just have to hope for the best. It was difficult enough trying to get these superstitious men to join a voyage with a Priest of Rathma. And he wasn't about to wait around another month to find more.
The man nodded and took his breakfast elsewhere. At least he didn't have to worry so much about having enough crew. Giving up on his own breakfast, he gathered his few things and returned to the docks to find the other two and instruct them to meet him at the tavern the next morning. Now that that task was complete, he could turn his mind to other things.
Last night's meditations had taken him many places. Ultimately, other than breaking it off and never looking back, there was no real solution to his relationship with Kashya. Tomorrow was never promised to him, and he knew it. Now she knew it, too, though she clearly didn't like it. But, like all Priests of Rathma, one of the first lessons ever learned are those about the fragility of life. He had decided he would not reject this opportunity. If anything, he was curious to see where it would take them. Maybe nowhere. Yet, he couldn't deny, it was a source of strength and hope for him. And he needed it.
With nothing more to do until tomorrow morning, he opened a portal to the Outer Cloister of the monastery in Dark Wood.
Shortly after arriving, Pyresong learned from one of the other Sisters that Kashya was out on patrols. Fern was busy settling into her new training, and he didn't want to disturb her. He fetched his belt and scythe as he headed out into the forest. His last visit here less than two weeks ago had been under the kind of circumstances where he was not in the mindset to appreciate anything. Before that, the place had been under a curse of endless darkness. Having a general idea of where Kashya was patrolling, he headed that way at a casual pace. Now that the land had had time to recover with the help of Inifuss and the Sisters, he began to realize that this forest really was quite beautiful. Despite the winter foliage, it still felt alive rather than barren. The day was relatively warm, and the exercise did the rest to keep him from feeling the chill.
A couple of hours later, still well before midday here, he began to hear stealthy steps following him. Ever since he had spent a few days blind, his hearing had become almost inhumanly acute. Aside from his hearing, his instinct for danger he also knew was more a result of subconscious clues his senses could detect. This thing moved with him but did not have the feel of stalking. It seemed more curious than predatory. It was skilled, that much he knew. Too soft to be an animal, but too big to be a man. It definitely did not have any kind of demonic or hellish taint that he could detect with his arcane senses, either. But there was something still slightly unsettling about it, he couldn't quite pinpoint.
He smiled slightly when he considered that it might be Kashya or even one of the other Rogues toying with him. Leaving his scythe on his belt, he scanned the terrain ahead. It was maybe thirty feet behind him. With most of the undergrowth having died back for the winter, there weren't that many good places to hide among the trees in this area. Up ahead, there was a small rise with a steep drop on the other side. When he crested the rise, he paused as if enjoying the view of the landscape. Really, he was just listening to it moving closer behind him. It was trying to keep up with him but not actually catch him.
Still not certain it was one of the Rogues, he decided to play a game. He leapt off the short cliff to drop the ten or so feet to the ground below. Instead of landing and rolling to his feet as he usually would, he went wraith form and moved to the left to hide behind a small cluster of large trees. He resumed his physical form with not so much as a whisper. A second later, he went wraith form again and moved around the hill. By now, the stalker must be moving up the hill to keep him in sight.
Circling back around the hill in wraith form for a few seconds at a time, he fully expected to find Kashya or one of the Rogues he didn't recognize at the very least. Instead, what he saw briefly at the top of the hill was just a blur of motion. He could barely make out that it must have been muted greens and browns to blend in with the forest before it was gone. The thing had reached the top at almost exactly the same time he got within eyesight of it again. Apparently, when it couldn't find him, it had taken off away from the area.
Realizing it could not be one of the Sisters, he listened intently. He'd heard it running, the footsteps light and unbelievably fast. The brief glimpse he had caught confirmed it was bipedal, but that was about all. It was only marginally larger than a Fallen but didn't have their red skin. Already it was either stopped and hiding again, or too far away for him to hear. Either way, he was certain it wasn't human. Even Veradani monk masters couldn't run that fast. He'd caught a hint of magic with his eyes before it disappeared, but not enough to even determine what kind of magic. He wondered now if this was the thing Isolde had mentioned that they were trying to catch. If so, it had not threatened him in any way. It had simply fled when it realized it was about to be caught. Puzzled and slightly disconcerted, he returned to the top of the hill. The loamy ground didn't really keep footprints, so there was no clue there.
Turning to the east, he resumed his not-quite-aimless wanderings, hoping to cross paths with Kashya's group at some point. Though he let his eyes wander the terrain, taking in the quiet beauty, he was more alert than ever when he finally heard the telltale footsteps of a human. Light, quick, and expertly covered by the sound of his own boots on the forest floor. Not only were they stalking him, but they were also pacing him. This one was no more than fifty feet away. Once he was absolutely certain it wasn't predatory, he relaxed a bit. He smiled to himself and decided to play it out, much as he had the last one. This time, he found a convenient rock formation to use as cover.
He climbed atop the moss-covered rocks and sat for a few minutes. Only once did he hear stealthy movement to his right, the direction he had come from. After a few minutes of no more movement, he decided to make his move. He stood, stretched thoroughly as if he didn't have a care in the world, and then jumped off the rock to his left. The instant his feet hit the ground, he paused to listen. The steps were approaching. He waited a few more seconds to be sure she was close enough. Still grinning wickedly, he again went into wraith form. Instead of coming around the rock, he went right through it.
Kashya was so fast, her bow practically materialized in her hands as he flew at her. He stopped several feet away to regain his physical form, with enough time that she couldn't actually fire on him.
"You know, stalking a Priest of Rathma isn't the wisest decision," he teased with a grin.
Kashya huffed angrily, returning her bow and arrow to their places. "I almost killed you."
He cocked an amused eyebrow at her, still grinning. "I suppose this is the part where I should warn you that you are not the first woman to have tried to kill me."
"As long as I'm the first one to have good reason to," she snapped back with a grin. "Why have you come?"
"To see you. I did promise I would come when I could. I leave for Stormpoint in the morning," he explained. "The Sisters said you were out on patrol. I thought I might accompany you."
"Hunting is what I'm actually doing. That...thing was spotted in the area. We're still trying to catch it," she told him, her eyes dark with frustration.
"I had an encounter with it earlier. It is part of the reason I knew you were stalking me as soon as you found me."
"And how long ago was that?" she challenged with a grin.
"Twenty minutes, give or take. I encountered it over by that hill," he pointed back to the west. "It was stalking me, and I tried to surprise it. But it was too fast for me to even see when it realized I was trying to trap it. Have any of you had a good look at it?"
She shook her head looking irritated by the admission. "No, and that's the hardest part. It's just too fast. It's not an animal. It's not a demon. It's not human. It drinks animal blood but moves around in daylight. I can't figure it out. And all Akara will tell me is that it poses no threat to us."
"You think she knows more?" he asked, surprised that Kashya would question the woman who basically was a mother to her, as well as being the leader of their entire order.
Kashya ran her hands through her thick hair in frustration. Pyresong resisted the urge to run his own hands through her silky, vibrant hair. Firmly, he reminded himself they were supposed to be on patrol.
"I don't know. She's not stopping us from hunting it, but she's not concerned about it, either." She looked around again. "Well, if you've scared it off, we're not likely to find it again today."
He finally gave in to the urges and need for her warmth and took her warm, calloused hand in his. With his other hand, he caressed her cheek. She leaned toward him for a kiss. Still smiling, he leaned forward until his lips were a centimeter from hers. Then he grinned wickedly, unable to resist teasing her.
"Well, then I guess we'll just have to finish that patrol, now won't we?"
She growled deep in her throat and gave up waiting. He couldn't help chuckling as she pulled him in for a quick, passionate kiss. Then, the world faded away again for a few minutes. When she broke it off so they could catch their breath, she gave him a seductive grin that promised more later.
"Now we can finish the patrol together," she told him.
***
Pyresong woke before the sunrise with Kashya in his arms again. It still felt too good to be true. But he wasn't going to spend any more time questioning it. Besides, he only had a short while to appreciate the moment before he had to get back to Westmarch and then Stormpoint. Zatham was waiting. For a while, he just lay there, enjoying the warmth of her body against his and the soothing sound of her regular breathing. He very much appreciated the fact that the only reason he had to regret coming here was a sense of reluctance at having to wake her before sunrise. But they had both known the night before that he would have to be gone by sunrise.
He kissed her forehead and then slipped out of the bed as quietly as he could. She stirred slightly and rolled over. He couldn't resist running his calloused hands gently through her hair a few times. She quickly settled back to sleep at his soothing touch. Relieved, he got ready for the day and then scribbled a note to leave on the bedside table. He left her room and opened a portal in the dark corridor. When he stepped through, it was still full dark in Westmarch, but the sky to the east was just beginning to turn deep blue. By the time he got to the Wolf City Tavern near the docks, he was just seeing the first actual hints of sunrise. As he had hoped, all four men were waiting for him in front of the tavern.
He eyed the four of them closely. None of them were drunk, and all of them looked ready, with packs slung over their shoulders. He had absolutely no idea what kind of ship Zatham had, but he suspected it would be small. With spring rolling in, he hoped the weather would be good enough that they could bunk on the decks if there were no other room. He opened the portal to the waypoint in the Planks and Shanties. Now, with a bit of light to help them see, it was a slippery but navigable terrain. Many of the men paused at the sight of so much devastation.
"We'd heard the fortress had been attacked," Thumasson said, standing next to his brother, "but this..."
"The survivors are staying at the fortress and King Justinian has sent aid," he assured them.
"Why'd you bring us here?" Norzo asked, suspicious.
"The ship we sail on is moored near the Ship Graveyard on the eastern side of the island. This is the quickest way to get there," he explained, walking toward the wreckage below.
It took him nearly an hour to find a workable path through all the collapsed houses and shacks. The sun was well above the horizon by the time they topped the cliffs near the Ship Graveyard. As Zatham had said, he could see the small ship down below. Pyresong was relieved to see it was as small as he suspected. With just three people on a shift, they should be able to man it sufficiently. He still wished he could have acquired more men to be on the safe side, but this would have to do. As they found a path to descend the cliffs, he caught sight of Zatham moving about the deck.
Being an unusual spot to moor the ship, Zatham had tied ropes to nearby rocks on the cliffs. Catching sight of them approaching, he kicked over a long board that landed perfectly on a flat spot of rock just a few feet ahead of them. Here, Pyresong paused to turn to the men as Zatham approached. He shrugged off his backpack and dug out the four purses he had readied. Zatham looked over each man waiting for their turn, his expression flat. Then, he addressed them.
"It is a feat to cross these waters and live. Take this truth into your heart, and join me when you are prepared."
As he had hoped, none of the men walked away. Zatham returned to the deck of the ship while he handed out the purses. Zatham waited for everyone to board and then began issuing instructions to everyone but Pyresong. He moved out of the way and waited patiently while they worked to get the ship away from the island and into the open waters. The wind was chilly and not the most favorable, but they got moving quickly enough. He estimated it would be close to midday by the time they would round the islands.
Zatham, no longer needing to oversee the management of the ship for a few minutes, motioned him toward the rear deck and cabins. In the relative quiet, out of the winds, Pyresong was able to shake off some of the chill he'd felt.
"My cabin is the last on the right. Yours is on the left. The rest is used for supply storage," Zatham explained.
He took in the intricate designs on almost every wall. The outside of the ship had been plain and unadorned. In here were exquisitely intricate carvings almost everywhere he looked. Every single one of them was a style he did not recognize from any particular culture or region. Just more to fuel his curiosity. Zatham had returned to the deck to let him settle in. The small cabin had a chair and a table bolted to the floor, and a simple bunk bed. But even the chair had been carved with vines that looked something like ivy. This room really was a work of art in itself. Curiosity almost led him to ask if Zatham had done them himself or hired someone. Since Zatham didn't seem the type to normally ferry passengers, it would make more sense if they had been made with his own hands. If so, the man had an eye for woodworking beauty.
Not sure how much he could trust this crew he'd hired, he was pleased to see there was a lock on his door with the key waiting. He had no doubts Zatham would have another key, but if Zatham wanted what was in his backpack or even wanted him dead, there was little he could do about it once they were out at sea. His bigger concern was the rest of the crew and their curiosity or greed getting the better of them. Briefly, he looked around for some easy places to hide the bag if he needed to. He found a small nook under the bunk bed behind a loose board that might work. Silently he thanked Cain once again for the brief lessons he had been given while recovering. Before he replaced the board, he set a small ward within that would be easily visible to anyone with any knowledge of magic. It wouldn't stop them from taking whatever was beyond the ward, but it would alert him that someone had been in there.
He emerged back on the deck just as it began to roll more noticeably with the deeper waves. Zatham stood apart from the others, quietly watching. He stepped up beside him, his eyes roving back toward the islands. Zatham nodded to acknowledge his presence but said nothing. Curious as Pyresong was about his new ally, he felt no need to break the peaceful silence at the moment. He suspected there would be plenty of time for talking later, and that was if Zatham wished to do so. He had gotten the impression from the beginning that the man didn't really talk unless he had something to say worth listening to. He could empathize. More often than not, he preferred to listen than talk. The only real exception to that were his open talks with Cain. Even then, there were times they spent hours together comfortably without a word spoken.
He let his mind wander as he took in the blue rolling waters while the sun climbed. Just off in the distance, he caught sight of the fortress coming into view over the horizon to their left. Despite the slow going, it seemed almost no time before the island with the prison complex came into view as well. Much as with his first encounter, it looked like a seething mass of evil. That place had been so thoroughly tainted by the massive shard, he doubted it could ever be cleansed. Part of him was glad because prisons anywhere were such a source of suffering and restless undead and vengeful spirits, though he very much understood the need for them, as well. Yet he was also saddened by the sight of it. It made him wonder if places like Wortham or Ashwold could ever really be cleansed again. Would the corruption and evil linger forever? Or would it eventually begin to fade with time? At least the Dark Wood had the Tree of Inifuss to help cleanse their land.
"Eyes may be deceived, but the land itself always bears the scars of our actions."
Oza's voice drifted up on a related memory. At the time, he hadn't appreciated just how true those words were. Now he knew and understood. Even once the people left the land, it was still scarred by the memories of what had taken place there. So very many places in their world marred forever. His most recent return to the caves near Wortham had reminded him of that fact so strongly. An innocent village so very close to those caves. And the caves would call evil to themselves again and again in a variety of forms and ways. Even sealing them up hadn't stopped it. Maybe it was time to have Cain call in his friends to help with cleansing.
"What troubles you, Priest?"
Zatham's soft words were almost too soft to hear. But, he suspected it was more than likely due to Zatham's hearing being acute, rather than any need for secrecy here. Possibly, it was even just hesitance to break into someone else's thoughts. While blind, Pyresong had learned to hear so much more than he had ever noticed before. Very likely, it was the same with Zatham. He hadn't even realized he was scowling until Zatham had asked. He forced himself to relax and sighed, shaking it off. But, still, his own curiosity got the better of him. He decided to use the opportunity afforded him by the question.
"Someone once told me that the land itself bears the scars of our actions. The prison reminds me of that. Do you see it?"
Zatham nodded but made no further reply. Not feeling particularly conversational either, he fell back into his silence as well. After a while, he decided to wander off to a spot along the railing that gave a good view of the ocean without the islands. As he had expected, it was nearing midday by the time they left the small cluster of northern islands behind. The sky was clear, and the sea calm. What little wind there was felt like little more than a gentle breeze. The bright sunshine actually felt almost warm, showing the first hints of the coming spring weather.
Deciding he was not needed, he returned to his cabin to retrieve a book from his backpack. He chose an open spot near the rear deck where he would not be in the way. The book wasn't really of interest, so much as an excuse to enjoy the sunshine. He opened a new book he had chosen from Cain's collection at random. It was one that covered a wide range of history of almost every known culture in the world, and a few he'd never heard of. Some of them were just stories of cultures long lost, handed down verbally until there was no one left to remember them. Initially, the book had just been to make himself look occupied with something. But, as he turned the pages, he found himself engrossed.
It was not the first time he'd read a book on the histories of various cultures or the beliefs that shaped them. But Cain's insight into the motivations of the various peoples fascinated him. Despite the horrors Cain had heard of and even experienced in his life, he still believed in the fundamental goodness of humanity as a whole. Unlike so many other accounts of history and cultures he'd read, Cain's was colored with detailed explanations of why such little things as a daily tea ceremony or a daily prayer was so integral to their society and belief system; as well as how it affected the memories of each generation that clung to their ideals. It was a perspective he had never really considered before. For all of his life, his perspective of most cultures wasn't how they lived their lives; it was how they viewed death or even how they treated their dead. He well knew that had definitely colored his own judgment of people. Yet, a greater part of him knew that the life lived influenced the soul and its development.
How sad was it that the few dozen years spent in a mortal body often determined the eternity for the soul afterward? He lived by the Balance, and yet it all seemed so imbalanced sometimes.
As the sun set and it became too dark to read anymore, he replaced the book in his cabin and returned to the deck. As chilly as it was, he wanted time to think and maybe spend some time enjoying the expansive view of the stars. He wasn't sure how long they would be on this voyage, but given the more northern starting point, he suspected no more than two weeks, and that was if the wind was against them. If they were lucky, a week or less. With the sky darkening, he moved to the side of the ship that faced east and leaned on a rail. He let himself be lulled out of his thoughts by the gentle rolling of the waves as the stars began to shine above. Within minutes, he was wrapped in a meditative silence. He pulled himself out of it when he heard Zatham's naturally stealthy footsteps approaching. Zatham leaned on the rail beside him, looking up to the stars as well.
"What do you see when you look at them?" Zatham asked softly.
Pyresong considered the question. Everyone had a different opinion of the stars. He had no concept of where Zatham's people stood on those opinions and did not like the idea of possibly insulting his culture. Astrologers thought they had power over people's lives. Some believed the stars were the souls of dead heroes. Many cultures worshiped the stars in some fashion. He had never really considered any of those. For years, they had been a simple source of comfort. Their silent beauty and unchanging quality felt right to him somehow. Otherwise, they were pretty to look at and nothing more.
More recently?
Still feeling meditative, he decided there was no reason not to answer his new companion honestly.
"It's a reflection of our world," he started hesitantly. "So much darkness blankets the sky as it does the land. But a few beautiful souls shed their light for others to share."
Zatham nodded, considering this. At least he hadn't outright laughed or worse.
"And if the darkness was eradicated, there would be nothing but light. There would be no more souls to shine?"
He nodded, getting a sense there was a deeper curiosity at play. He decided to run with his suspicions.
"Where you come from, do you have something similar to the Priests of Rathma?"
"No, my society has existed as a divided culture meant to balance each other. But power has shifted. Necromancy is forbidden. I am curious about your philosophy."
"In many ways, it is very simple. And in others too complex to easily illustrate; much as is Sanctuary itself."
"Do you believe in the Balance?" he asked without a hint of challenge.
"I'm a Priest of Rathma," he replied with a slight grin, more amused than insulted by the question.
Zatham shook his head and then turned to face him, his curiosity clear. "I've met priests of various peoples who do not believe what they say to others. What is the Balance to you?"
"And that is the heart of the question," Pyresong told him, taking no offense. "The Balance is what we need it to be. For me, it is most often justice."
Zatham's brow furrowed as he considered this.
"The Balance is both big and small," he continued. "No one man can determine the fate of the world, not really. Therefore, it must mean something different to each individual that chooses to acknowledge or fight for it."
"What do you mean by 'justice'?"
He sighed heavily, not really sure how much detail he wanted to go into. He turned his gaze back out over the water.
"As a combat necromancer, I am more often than not called in to help when the damage has already been done, lives already lost. I cannot undo the damage, but I can stop it from continuing and seek justice for those lost."
"So the larger balance is not really meaningful to you?"
He shrugged. "The obvious comparison is good or evil, as most people see it. I've even been into the heart of Darkness, that is the Burning Hells. Even there exists a balance. Greater evils oppressing lesser evils. The greater are few, but stronger. When the lesser evils band together, they can overpower the greater ones. The Balance there was shifted. Sanctuary saw the results of the shifting of power when the Prime Evils were banished to our world.
"I've never seen Heaven and wouldn't presume to understand it at all. Yet we know that a people ruled by those who follow the Light can stagnate and turn upon itself, sometimes even becoming what they claim to hate or fight against. We saw that during the Crusades.
"Our world was created by a balance of both Heaven and Hell at just the right moment. Without the Balance, Sanctuary would become just another extension of either Heaven or Hell and cease to exist as its own entity. Both the large and the small are needed to maintain the Balance. I just leave the larger scope of things to others. I do what I can...what I must, and leave the rest to others."
"What if you could affect the outcome of events that would affect the world?"
He couldn't help wincing mentally at that question. He'd wrestled with it for some time after waking from his death sleep. Had he doomed Sanctuary by unleashing Diablo? He didn't want to believe so. He didn't like to believe that the actions of any one person could have such consequences. But, perhaps, his would. Yet, it wasn't just his actions, he knew. Cain had pointed out numerous times that his actions alone had not led to the result. And, even if he hadn't done it, who's to say someone else wouldn't have done it? Maybe even someone would have done it intentionally, leading to much more immediate and disastrous consequences. For now, all he could do was try to find a way to rectify his mistakes and fix what he had broken. And, of course, the prophecies—so very many of them—said it would happen eventually anyway. Pyresong loathed the idea of prophecies in general anymore.
Feeling almost as if he had talked himself into a corner, he smiled wryly. "Then I would probably find a deep dark hole to hide in and do nothing. I dislike the idea of being responsible for anything greater than my own life."
"Yet you save thousands of lives fighting evil and cultists. You took Fern to give her a new home. Do you feel no responsibility toward her?"
"Little things, Zatham. Little things are what I can do," he reminded him with a grin. "I had the means to give her a new life away from that place. Would I take the whole island of survivors away? No. But they have the means to escape or rebuild. She did not." He paused, more than a little curious. "How did you know about that, anyway?"
"I, too, felt some responsibility. I could not save her brother."
"What would you have done? Left her?"
He nodded, seemingly completely unashamed of the admission.
"Then why did you even check on her?"
Zatham heaved a sigh of his own. "Because she did not deserve what happened. The innocent always suffer the most when these things happen. It is so easy to crush their Light and turn it to Darkness."
"What would you have done had she gone down that path?" he asked, more curious than he wanted to admit.
"Been very disappointed," Zatham replied with a sad smile.
"But would you have tried to stop her?" he pressed.
He shook his head and looked out to sea. "No. We all have our choices to make."
"Exactly. And then we have to live with those choices. I didn't dictate her new life; she chose it. Now, she will have a chance to live and learn how to fight and protect herself and others. If she chooses to use those skills for something darker, nothing I say or do will stop her. But at least now she has a choice."
"You are an interesting dichotomy, friend," Zatham said. "You save the world by hunting down and destroying corrupted shards. Yet have no desire to affect the world."
He laughed softly. "I'm not saving the world. Just doing what I can to leave it a better place when I'm gone. I leave the 'world-saving' to the real heroes. No, my battle is one of millions in a long string of history."
"Who inherits that world when you're gone?" Zatham's curiosity again was clear on his face.
"People," he shrugged.
"Tell me more of your world."
"You make it sound as though you are not a part of it."
Zatham shrugged. "Until relatively recently, I was not. My peoples are cut off and have been since the creation of Sanctuary. Most of what I know of the world is through chasing such fanatics for so many years. I would like to see the world through your eyes."
"Why are you out here?" he couldn't help asking.
Zatham smiled almost bitterly. "Choices."
He couldn't help laughing softly along with Zatham's soft chuckle. It had been an interesting conversation, though not very enlightening. Yet, he had the feeling there would be more.
As they sailed, he learned little of Zatham's history or native people. What opinions he did share, Pyresong appreciated. He realized he was, indeed, very wrong about him being a religious zealot. Zatham did firmly believe that death cleanses the soul, but was not obviously out to scour the world for every perceived sinner. Pyresong had simply seen too much to believe that death was some kind of magical forgiveness. But, then, he also didn't believe in reincarnation, and the Veradani monks he respected so highly did believe in it. In the end, they agreed that it likely came down to belief. Maybe some people came back, and maybe some souls were cleansed of corruption with death.
Despite the differences, it was a mutual sharing of beliefs and opinions. He did not try to persuade Pyresong to his beliefs, nor did he scoff at the necromancer's beliefs. Though necromancy was strictly forbidden in his land, he held a curiosity about it that went beyond simply gauging its power as a weapon. Any time Pyresong warned him his questions bordered on order secrets he would not share, he quickly acknowledged this and moved on to other things. In his turn, Zatham answered most direct questions, though in a way vague enough to ensure Pyresong understood he did not want to discuss the details further.
The weather held true, and the wind was light but steady. They made decent, though not fast, progress toward their destination. After the initial conversation, he'd relaxed considerably around Zatham. More often than not, each would wander off to consider things after a conversation and then return for more. Zatham was enthralled by all the different cultures Pyresong had encountered, and all their various ways and beliefs regarding death. He got the feeling that the man really hadn't explored more than the western coasts. The eastern lands were a complete mystery to him. Zatham's curiosity about the world beyond had an almost childlike innocence to it. He enjoyed sharing what he could with Zatham. He'd come to appreciate the companionship and even looked forward to their talks.
***
A week went by almost faster than Pyresong could have imagined. But they could finally see the fog and heavy rains ahead that marked a storm that never moved and never abated. Not sure how many days it would take to even find the Pathstone in that mess, he readied himself and returned to the deck. Zatham nodded to him as they approached the storm.
"Do you know what lies ahead?" he asked.
"Not specifically," Zatham admitted. "But there is land there, concealed by the storms. It is close."
Curious, he switched to magical vision. The wall of storms obscured anything beyond. And his magical vision was really no better. Being a storm created by and fueled by magic, all he could see was a wall of dark blue energies swirling violently enough to look like a hurricane. He'd seen one of those once, while on land, and had hoped never to see one again. While sailing with Captain Rehm, he'd never encountered any serious storms, thankfully. He trusted Zatham now, and trusted the man knew his ship well enough to know what it could survive. As the storm grew closer, he had to remind himself that they at least had a way out if things went badly. A portal could get them all back to Westmarch in seconds. He was relieved when the sailors began anchoring themselves to the mast with long ropes. He considered doing the same. He was no experienced sailor. But some deeper instinct said he would likely inhibit his ability to move freely. Somehow, he knew his mobility was going to be far more important than safety.
His instincts were beginning to scream at him now.
As they sailed closer to the storm, he thought he could hear wailing in the winds. He shuddered mentally as an image floated through his mind. He saw the ferocious winds of the storm being made of all the wailing spirits of the all sailors and pirates that had died in those waters. It was a silly fancy, he knew. But he could sense...something. Whatever subconscious clues had set off his instincts for danger, they were now blaring warnings at him. There were definitely spirits there, many of them. He closed his eyes to focus on his other, trained senses. It took several minutes, but he definitely felt it repeatedly. And it was growing stronger as they closed in on the storm.
"What is it, friend?"
Pyresong was so preoccupied with feeling out what was in the storm ahead, he hadn't noticed Zatham approaching. When he opened his eyes, Zatham was watching him curiously.
"Necromancy," he told Zatham grimly.
"In the storm?"
"Yes. The dead do not rest here."
Zatham nodded to this, seeming a bit surprised as well as disturbed. Clearly, he was not entirely unfamiliar with the storm or what it concealed. Though he'd given very little information about his history or his home, this revelation obviously bothered him. He noted Zatham's deep sigh of sadness but didn't comment on it.
"We are warned, then," Zatham said softly.
He nodded in agreement. It was well into the afternoon when they approached the storm. Here on the outside, it was a chilly but sunny day in the northern seas. The moment they entered the storm, it was like slamming into a wall. He got the feeling it was trying to push them right back out. Zatham stood firm and calm as the men looked to him for direction. After a couple of minutes, whatever was pushing against them seemed to give way, and the ship lurched forward into the gale. The winds themselves were so fierce they screamed through the ropes. After the first giant lurch forward, Pyresong stumbled slightly. Zatham gripped his arm to steady him, but then both were slammed sideways by the wind. Whether it was chance or just good reflexes, they both managed to stay on their feet.
The waves were high, and all that could be seen were whitecaps in every direction. The wind blasted one way and then suddenly switched to another direction. The sails, already furled, were saturated in seconds by the sheets of rain that fell, mostly sideways. For a few minutes, every man held his breath in anticipation, waiting for something to happen. Pyresong's initial sense of necromantic magics at work hadn't abated. But now, he sensed something even larger and more powerful headed right for them. He couldn't tell what direction, only that it was immense and made with powerful magic beyond his experience. It was entirely unfamiliar but held a tingling taint of some form of necromancy.
"They have sensed our presence," Zatham told him over the wind, never taking his eyes off the water to their right.
"Who?" he asked, grabbing his shield and scythe.
"The monsters," Zatham answered so calmly it actually chilled Pyresong.
He scanned the waves alongside Zatham but saw nothing. The intensity of the storm rocked the ship, making it hard to stay on his feet, so he kept his scythe hooked on his belt and gripped the railing.
"The Darkness gathers around us. I will cut it away at the source."
He watched Zatham incredulously as the man leapt right over the railing and into violently crashing and frothing waters before he could even say anything. As Zatham disappeared into the waves, the massive form of a sea monster rose up before them. He didn't even have a second to form a spell before it dived into the water right where his friend had disappeared. He quickly reminded himself that this was not the first time either of them had battled such a sea monster. It had only been a couple of weeks ago that they'd encountered one under the prison at Stormpoint.
At least this one isn't empowered with a shard, he reminded himself, trying to convince himself Zatham could handle it.
Almost as soon as the thought ran through his head, he became acutely aware of the gathering necromantic powers. Just above and to the right of him, a woman with demonic horns holding a golden cube floated up toward them out of the storm. She hovered some sixty feet away. He could feel her wielding the necromantic energies even from this distance; it was so powerful. His instincts told him that cube had to be some kind of phylactery, sourcing her power. Nothing about the necromancy itself seemed overtly evil or perverted. But, as a Priest of Rathma, he knew all too well what such power and knowledge could be used for. This was not some direct connection to hellish energies, but there was no missing the demonic taint on the woman, either.
"I am heir to the Mother's blood, beholden to no one and nothing! If you will not kneel, your corpses shall!"
On all sides of the ship, he began to feel the undead climbing the sides.
"Beware the undead!" he called to the others over the wind.
Despite the howling wind and slashing rain, every one of them drew their sword. A second later, the first of the undead climbed up over the rails. These were no mindless undead, either. They moved with purpose and intent, coordinating their attacks. They were few but enough to be a distraction as they were cut down. He flung bone spears at a few, throwing several of the undead right off the deck and back into the waters. When the horned woman drifted closer, he could see she wasn't just demonically warped, she too was undead. A lich, most likely. The undead woman and her cube moved closer to Pyresong in obvious fury. He knew he had been identified as a threat, likely because of his own necromancy. Fully engaged in his combat mindset, he threw her a predatory smile.
"Forswear your craft and your flesh!" she screamed at him. "You are mine now!"
"Then come and get me, if you can," he called back with a laugh.
As he readied a blade of energy, a wave rocked the ship, knocking him off his feet. Still lying exposed on the deck, he rolled over to see her coming at him. He slung his blade of energy at her and followed it with a bone spear from his left hand. Floating as she was only a few feet away, she was easily able to dodge above both. Then, he was surprised to see her flying away from him as he scrambled back to his feet. He had anticipated her retaliating, not running.
Before he could even find his footing in the rocking waves, a much larger ship materialized out of the sheets of rain and fog. It slammed right into them. Zatham's ship rocked almost onto its side with the force. The audible crunching of wood in the hull told Pyresong the strike had been a fatal one for this smaller ship. He was thrown across the deck and slammed hard into the railing. Through sheer luck he managed not to go flying right over the rail. By the time he even realized he hadn't actually been thrown into the ocean to drown, the ship was already tilting back the other way, sending him rolling across the deck again. When the ship righted itself again, he slid all the way across to the opposite railing. The other ship, full of the enslaved undead, slung out bridges with hooks that latched onto the railing of their now crippled ship. He just barely avoided one of the hooks taking his head off as he rolled away from the railing and back to his feet. Already undead were pouring onto the deck across those bridges.
"Kneel and praise her!" one man shouted above the others.
The other four men on Zatham's ship were battling the undead and soon to be overwhelmed. He had no idea how many were aboard that other ship, and more were clawing their way up the sides of this smaller ship from out of the ocean itself. None of these appeared to be mindless undead, either. Every one of them was a fully aware reanimated sailor or pirate and apparently slaves to that woman's will. Though he had no time to analyze it, he suspected some form of lazars. Cutting apart or burning their bodies would be the only feasible way to stop them, and there were just too many.
Going with his necromantic training and experience, he decided to target the commander who seemed to be shouting orders to them for now. Maybe they were somehow linked to him and not just her. If he had any luck at all, they might break free if he rid them of their commander. When he ran across the deck to engage this undead commander, he heard another voice screaming out from the deck of the larger ship.
"Burn! Burn them all!"
Despite the wind and rain, several fires erupted all over the deck around him. Trying to distract the commander, he flung a blade of energy at him across the deck. The undead man laughed maniacally as he blocked it with his magic sword. The energy never reached him because it was absorbed by the weapon. Pyresong had to roll away an instant later when the commander flung it back at him from his sword. Changing tactics, he launched himself back at the man down low, aiming for his legs. His scythe was blocked by the sword. Already crouched on the deck, he slammed upward with his shield, sending the undead commander off the side of the ship into the water. He just hoped it was enough to distract the damned thing from controlling the others.
“Burn! Burn us all!” the other voice again roared insanely.
He could already tell the source of that voice was some kind of powerful Pyromancer. By now, the other four men he had hired had cut their tethers both to get away from the undead and the flames. There were undead everywhere, from fresh corpses to skeletons. Fires raged across the deck unchecked despite the soggy conditions. Somewhere behind him, he heard one of the men screaming as he was impaled and then burned. He spun around to find it was too late for Norzo and Greengull. The two brothers somehow managed to dodge and ran for the now-cleared bridges to the other ship. That was when he realized the deck of Zatham's small ship was only a couple of feet above the water and sinking rapidly into the rising waves. With no real plan, he followed the other two men aboard the other ship.
“Burn us to nothing!”
Almost immediately, he was greeted by the Pyromancer. Beyond the obvious insanity, he could hear the man begging for release. Though there was no time to analyze it further, he could understand. Whatever orders that woman had given, Pyresong was clearly the target. He raised his shield reflexively at the tall, black-clad pirate who flung a fireball at him. His wondrous new shield didn't entirely stop it, but it did absorb most of the flames and energy. In the chaos of the explosion, he retaliated with spirit fire. While the undead man was blinded by that, he closed the distance and swung his scythe, taking the man's head off. At least he could free one of them.
He turned to his right to meet the attack of two more hulking undead easily the size of his bone golems. Behind him, some of the undead were dragging Thumasson away, screaming as his brother chased after them. This ship was rocking almost as bad as Zatham's had. Pyresong struggled to cross the wet, slippery deck to get to the brothers. Before he could get there, more undead began to surround him. Thugs and pirates that they were, each one of them had at least some fighting experience. While the brothers disappeared into the bowels of the ship, he summoned a couple of bone golems. These undead weren't mindless enough for skeletons. They ignored his golems, trying to get at him directly. At least the golems could knock them away or even right off the edge of the ship.
That tactic nearly failed a few seconds later when the sea monster made its reappearance. It rose up out of the water, creating a giant wave that washed over the deck of this much larger ship. For the second time, he was nearly washed overboard. As it was, half of the undead he'd been fighting and both his golems were blasted right over the far railing. Almost before he could recover from this, the thing dove back into the water, slamming the side of this much larger ship. Already against the rails, he wrapped his legs around it as the ship rocked violently again, righting itself. The moment it leveled, he was back on his feet, cutting down a couple more undead. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was still trying to get to Thumasson and his brother.
Then, even that thought was pushed out of his mind when the sea monster rose again on the right side of the ship, only a few feet away from him. Out of instinct, he threw himself across the deck just as a giant, scaly appendage slammed the deck right where he'd been standing. Looking up as the monster's glowing eyes rose above the edge of the ship, he realized the thing wasn't even trying to avoid destroying the countless undead. It definitely wanted him. It seemed completely focused on killing the necromancer, even at the cost of its own people. It crashed down into the water again with enough force to create another giant wave that washed across the deck. Again, he was flung across the deck. By sheer luck, he managed to bury the tip of his scythe blade into a crack in the deck. He was just too exposed out here! Before the monster could reappear, he scrambled through the open door ahead.
Having thrown himself through the doorway, he rolled painfully down some stairs to a landing. Making his scythe glow with a trickle of energy, he was surprised to find no one alive or undead waiting for him as he scrambled to his feet. Behind him, he heard more screaming. Fully absorbed in his combat instincts, he leapt off the landing right to the lower deck and chased the screams. In the cabins beyond, he found dozens more undead. As he danced through them, flinging blades of energy and bone spears in every direction, he summoned two more bone golems. He cut and slashed his way through the room to where the screams were now coming from at the far end of the ship. He had no time to even regret bringing these men to their deaths. He was so occupied and filled with adrenaline, he was only even dimly aware of the wounds he'd taken.
In the farthest room, he found the source of the screams. He was shocked to find several living sailors in cages. The floor was covered in fleshy masses that reeked of demonic origins and the taint of something else. In the center of the room was a twisted creature that was half writhing tentacles and half man. It was holding Thumasson against the mast, binding him with more fleshy growths that protruded from the pole.
"Help us! You have to!" one of the sailors cried from a cage to his right.
"No more prisoners!" Pyresong shouted, trying to get the monster's attention away from Thumasson.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Thumasson's brother lying still in a growing pool of blood on the fleshy floor. The thing holding Thumasson was far faster than it appeared. When it turned to face him, a powerful tentacled appendage easily eight feet long shot out and slammed into him. The force of it sent him flying backward into one of the cages. Vaguely he was aware of the men still screaming at him to help them. Before his boots even touched the deck, he flung a blade of energy to attempt to cut off the appendage.
He needn't have bothered. The deck beneath the creature suddenly erupted into splinters and water when the sea monster came at Pyresong again. Because he'd been flung so far away, he was out of reach when the sea monster lunged forward, taking the other creature instead. He watched in momentary shock as it chomped twice on the writing mass of tentacles and man and then retreated back into the ocean. Now, water poured through the giant hole in the deck. He hooked his shield on his back and turned to the cages; he wasn't leaving them here. He slashed at the rusty bars of the cages with energy blades: one high, one low, to set them free.
"This way!" he shouted running back through the room toward the stairs.
Already, the frigid water was knee deep and rising. The cold numbed everything almost instantly. He knew they would never make it, but his instinct for survival for these men wouldn't let him do anything else. He was maybe halfway back to the stairs when the enormous creature appeared again. This time, it sent its scaly, rock-hard appendages right through the sides of the ship at him. Even though they missed, sometimes only by inches, each one tore a new hole in the side of the ship, letting the water pour in that much faster. He and the other men were already treading water, still trying to make for the stairs.
Then the thing gave up trying to get at him that way and just destroyed the ship itself.
With four massive appendages gripping and tearing right through the ship, it slammed its massive, hard head into the bottom of the ship and pulled, literally ripping the ship to pieces. Pyresong was so shocked, he couldn't even comprehend, at first, what had just happened all around him. He was sinking rapidly alongside so much heavy debris. Ballistas and crates sank all around him in the almost black waters. Somehow, he was now out in the open, away from the bulk of the chunks of ship all around him. Disoriented, he hooked his scythe on his belt and began to struggle upward reflexively.
The many glowing yellow eyes of the beast were coming right for him in the murky, dark waters. Beyond the stinging chill of the frigid waters, the familiar chill of the inevitable embraced him yet again. Still struggling upward toward the surface, he smiled wickedly while his whole body glowed with power. There was no shortage of restless spirits here. If he wasn't going to survive this, he was going to make sure that thing never took another life. Still kicking frantically in some vain hope of reaching the surface, he unleashed a volley of bone spirits. The thing screamed in the water so loudly it rocked his senses for a moment. But it had worked; the thing fled after the first volley. He was under no illusions that it was gone. It would be back, likely behind him, so he held the spell tight as he began to struggle upward again. The greenish white glow of his power revealed a desolate black void. There weren't even wreckage pieces around him anymore.
Already his lungs were burning, screaming for air. He had no idea how far down he was. He knew his initial shock at the ship being ripped apart all around him had cost him valuable seconds, sinking ever deeper. Despite how incredibly light Charsi had made all of his gear, it was still an added weight that dragged at him, making the surface waves feel further and further away. The dark waters this far north were so cold they burned against his skin. But it wasn't just cold that began to sap the strength right out of his limbs. His chest burned, and his muscles ached and tingled. Little by little, he was losing feeling all over his body. The tingling around the edges of his vision crept inward slowly until there was no more than a pinpoint of sight. He felt the air escaping a little at a time. Still, he pushed his arms and legs to move, move, move in some vain hope of finding the surface and air.
There was just no strength left. He was sinking again, not even able to feel his arms or legs at all anymore. The glow around his body faded when he could no longer hold on to the spell. His vision darkened. Vaguely, as if it were someone else's body entirely, he felt the icy seawater fill his lungs. His heart still beat rapidly. The blood pounding in his ears was all he could hear. A random flash of memory made him glad that at least this time it wasn't absolute and terrifying silence that greeted him in death.
As he had expected, the sea monster wrapped another appendage around his chest and dragged him away into eternal darkness.
When Pyresong opened his eyes, he was only mildly surprised to realize he was still in the water. But it was no longer cold to him anymore. He wasn't falling either. It was as if the water didn't exist, and he was just suspended in empty space. It was very much like his disorienting experience in the Astral Plane with Karshun. He was just sort of there.
"What have you gotten yourself into, my apprentice?"
He spun around, utterly shocked to find his master standing there, and as a much younger man than he remembered. The ghostly form smirked at him in a way that was so familiar it ached for a moment. Though he had never been emotionally close to his master, he did still miss his wisdom and kindness. Right now Master Z appeared no older than his apprentice.
"I'm dead," he realized.
"For the most part," Master Z replied with another smirk.
He sighed. As with any human spirit, his was no different in the category of unfinished business. All in the span of a second, his mind ran through everything. Then he shoved it all aside as irrelevant now. He shook his head. There was nothing more he could do. Then he looked to his former master again, curiously.
"Why is there no door?" he asked.
"You don't need one, for starters," Master Z said with another smirk. "For another, I'm here to stop you. Don't be so hasty."
"Stop me? I'm dead," Pyresong huffed a laugh. "Where else would I go?"
Master Z shook his head with a teasing grin. "I suppose I should say something along the lines of, 'You never did learn to listen properly', but I'll forgo the lessons this time. I said, 'for the most part'. You're dead, but not gone, so to speak."
"I don't understand."
"You will. Right now, we're in adjacent flow of time. So we will have to wait bit. At the moment, you are again utilizing the gift of the Iceburn Tear, though you don't quite realize it."
He nodded slowly, beginning to understand. The Iceburn Tear had given him the ability to bridge the gap between the land of the living and the land of the dead...or ignore it altogether. Previously, his body was alive when he'd gone to the realm of the dead. Now his body was dead, the heart had stopped. But he wasn't in the Unformed Land this time, and he didn't have to go. Nor would he likely become as other earthbound spirits and turn into either lost or vengeful and restless. Seeing his apprentice beginning to understand, Master Z smiled approvingly.
"You always could work your way around things logically," he complimented. "Even in spiritual and magical matters, you always found a sort of logic I could not see. You only had one completely illogical side I never could tame. I suppose you still have that wicked tongue I remember?"
He couldn't help chuckling at that. His mouth had gotten him in trouble on too many occasions to count, even as an adult and Master Necromancer.
"Unfortunately, yes," he admitted.
"Good. Keep it that way. You always had a knack for verbally stabbing that I found quite entertaining."
"So what now?"
"Now, we wait. And don't bother asking how long. We're in an adjacent flow of time that can make seconds feel like years or vice versa."
"If you're here to stop me from going, who sent you?"
"You'll learn one day," Master Z told him with another familiar smirk.
"Maddening how many times you said that to me," he admitted with a grin. "Am I not old enough now?"
Master Z huffed a laugh. "You never were young, Pyresong. That's part of what made you so different."
He sighed heavily, mentally returning to why they were even talking in the first place. Much as he missed Master Z's company, he knew if the man had come back to the land of the living after decades dead, it couldn't be anything good.
"So what is it? Another prophecy? Some world-shattering message? I'm not finished with my task of destroying the shards? Or did you just come to torment me?"
Master Z shook his head. "Nothing so interesting. You just don't want to die yet."
He shrugged. "It's not as if I have a choice in the matter."
"But you do," Master Z told him, all seriousness now. "And that's part of what you haven't realized yet. When you fled to the Unformed Land during your death sleep, Oza was there to help you for the very same reason."
A tingling shock crawled up his spine, exploding in his mind. Now he remembered. Oza! She had been there after Yl'nira shattered his soul. She'd said almost the same thing. He didn't really want to die then, and, of course, he didn't want to now.
"You remember now?" his master asked, reading the expression on his apprentice's face.
He nodded slowly, recovering from the shock and wondering how he could have ever forgotten.
"Good. That will make things easier going forward. There will come a time when your body is too broken or damaged to come back. Until then, you can move between the worlds. There are many gifts the Iceburn Tear has given you. This is but one. You need to understand and remember that. Thanks to the Iceburn Tear's gifts, death is not as certain for you as it is for others. It is a tool. Use it."
He nodded again, still amazed by this new understanding. Yet, he eyed his former master suspiciously. There was just one question he had never had the chance to ask. And, of course, as a necromancer, he very likely could have. Though it seemed disrespectful to summon his former master's spirit for something so selfish. But, since the opportunity presented itself, he was going to take full advantage of the moment.
"What about Rathma's prophecies? The dreams. What do you know of them?"
Master Z shook his head sadly, looking much more the old man Pyresong remembered.
"They can be a tool and a warning. I did not know about them at the time. But I have always sensed something very different about you. As I said, you were never young, Pyresong."
His smile was sad as he took Pyresong by the shoulders, just as he once had in life.
"I did all within my power to ensure you were as prepared for your life as a Priest of Rathma as I could make you without changing who you are. Who you are is far more important than what you are, especially now. No future is certain, now. Yes, there are divergent prophecies, many of them. But our world and others have reached a point of convergence that no one can predict with any certainty. For now, all you need to do is remember who you are. You will know what you need to do."
Surprised and confused by this turn of conversation, Pyresong nodded solemnly. A tiny part of him had hoped his former master might shed some light on some things he had been avoiding for some time. If anything, it surprised him that Master Z did not view prophecies as some sort of guideline to follow in all of this. His master's constant reminders about using the tools afforded him throughout his apprenticeship made this whole turn entirely unexpected.
Still, there was no avoiding what he knew he had to confess next.
"I—"
Master Z held up a hand to stop him. "You did not betray your oaths. There is so much you do not know. Even Rathma did not see everything. You made a choice from the heart. Yes, there have been mistakes. You are mortal. You are more human than most of us. But it was not through intent to betray. You did what you thought was right based on who you are and how you see things."
He shook his head. He wanted to argue. A part of him had desperately needed to hear those words, and not just from his master. Yet, now that they were said, they still felt so wrong to him. He had never taken the time in the fight against Skarn to consider the deeper ramifications. And now Diablo was free. While a part of him knew he had done the right thing, the end result was still all wrong to him. He had made his decision emotionally, not rationally. And now, tens of thousands of people were already dead for his decision. How many more would pay?
"This will be your last lesson from me," Master Z promised with a grin. "You are not a tool or a weapon for some prophecy. Be who you are. Remember who you are. When you forget, your friends will be there to remind you. Listen to them."
Still feeling somewhat lost in all of this, Pyresong just nodded again. He had always had dozens of questions he wanted to ask. Now that he was here with his master, he couldn't think of any of them. For some reason, it felt like none of them mattered. Now, he understood, if never before, that his master had not deliberately misled him. The man had genuinely believed his dreams as a child really were nothing more than night terrors. He had done what he could, but he was only human.
"Ah, there he is," Master Z said, turning to their right and looking upward.
Forced out of his thoughts, he turned to follow his master's line of sight. Out of the murky darkness of the water, they spotted Zatham dragging Pyresong's body with him. One arm was around his chest, and the other stroked quickly but calmly on the surface of the water. They watched while Zatham swam right over them as if in slow motion. Master Z grinned at him again.
"Hopefully, this time, you will remember the lessons I taught you."
He couldn't help smiling warmly. "I will try."
"We will meet again."
He bowed low to honor his master. They clasped ghostly hands for a moment, and then his master faded away. Now alone in the dark, murky waters, he turned to look over his shoulder. He hadn't even noticed the sparkling tether before because he wasn't expecting it. It was definitely there, and a lot stronger than his last one had been. More out of curiosity than anything, he decided to follow Zatham. Here, in this form, it was no more than a thought to get from one place to another. Following as if walking through the water was definitely an interesting experience.
He watched Zatham struggle to drag his body up onto the beach of a rocky island. He was mildly disturbed to stare at himself and that slack, dead expression. But he'd seen enough faces of dead people in his life; it didn't bother him as much as he had expected. He was, however, amused to note the difference between how he saw himself in the mirror and how he saw his body now. Not that it really made any difference. With the magic seals over his irises, it was more difficult to tell that his open eyes were even fixed in death. The biggest difference being that they didn't glow at all right now.
Despite looking completely dead, Zatham still scrambled to haul him up out of the waves. He watched while the man quickly took off the shield and tossed it aside, along with the scythe. Then he rolled Pyresong onto his belly and pushed several times on his back. Water poured out of his mouth and nose.
"You are not done yet, my friend," he heard Zatham say, an edge of panic in his voice. "You are not gone. The water is cold enough to preserve as well as kill."
After several more pushes, when finally nothing came out, he watched Zatham's whole body begin to glow. He began to feel a tugging sensation toward his body through the tether when the glow spread from his friend into him. He willed himself back toward his body only inches away. He was kneeling beside his body now, moving toward it. He could feel his heart starting to beat irregularly again. He was almost there. He could almost feel nearly frozen limbs again.
Suddenly, the scaly appendage rose out of the sea behind Zatham.
"Watch out!" he shouted reflexively.
Startled, Zatham looked up, their faces only a couple of inches apart. But, whatever Zatham saw or didn't see, didn't matter. The thing wrapped itself around Zatham and dragged him back into the sea. Momentarily panicked, Pyresong wanted to go after him. But his body was nearly alive again. He was being pulled inside now. If he stopped or pulled away, he might not get another chance. Instead of letting it happen gradually, he threw himself into his body. Frustratingly, instead of making his body move, his body swallowed his consciousness with darkness.
Pyresong had no idea how long he'd been unconscious when the coughing began. Coughing and vomiting, he expelled more sea water. When he was able to take a partial, shallow breath, he reached down to his belt. His hand was nearly completely numb. He forced himself to his knees. The upright position shifted something in his chest, making him cough all the harder, which triggered more retching. The coughing, combined with the strangling feeling in his lungs, nearly sent him back to unconsciousness. Somehow, he managed to get the healing potion off his belt. Operating completely on mindless instincts and reflexes, he struggled to uncork the precious bottle. By the time he got the vile tasting liquid into his mouth, he was again laying in the sand, too dizzy and weak to remain upright.
After a few seconds of warmth in his chest, he began to feel the dizziness backing off. The violent shivering from the cold was reduced to little more than trembling. Immediate concern addressed, he remembered Zatham. He wasn't sure if it was minutes or hours he had been laying there since the man had been dragged back into the sea. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his shield and scythe. The storm hadn't abated in the least. Through the sheets of rain and occasional blinding flash of lightning, he couldn't see more than a few feet out over the water. In the foamy, angry sea, he could find no sign of Zatham or the monster. There was nothing he could do to help his friend now.
The shock was wearing off. He began to realize his shields were down. Something had slithered across his arcane senses that made him shudder. The necromantic energies came from somewhere behind him. Turning, he eyed the small, rocky island. It looked to be possibly part of a larger chain of barrier islands. The vague, shadowy shapes in the water beyond this hunk of rock were barely illuminated for a moment by yet more flashes of lightning. Shields firmly back in place, he made his way around the sand to a place where he could easily scale the rocks.
Above, he found a magic circle carved into the rocks. The undead woman with demon horns he'd seen before now sat in the center of the circle. While he watched, she used that same golden cube to resurrect the body of one of the sailors he'd seen earlier. Briefly, he wondered if any of them had survived, but the likelihood seemed slim. Even if they had escaped the wreckage of the ship, they had likely succumbed to the frigid waters. He clambered up the rest of the way, using the sound of rain and lightning to cover his movements. Sickened by this profanity of necromancy and the enslavement of so many undead, he gave in to his growing rage. When the undead sailor rose, he sent a blade of energy to cut it down. Unfortunately, the woman dodged it. Turning to face him.
"This evil ends here!" he roared.
Her mocking laughter rang out unnaturally over the storm. "It will take more than you to drag me back!"
She flung a spell at him that had him diving to the side to avoid it. The necromantic energy in it was so powerful it tingled across his skin.
"Be freed of your woeful life!" she screamed, sounding completely unhinged.
He sent spirit fire in her direction to distract her as he moved again. Each time he tried to get closer, she managed to move perfectly away from him. Whatever power that phylactery held was a lot more than he had anticipated. He couldn't get close enough to do any actual harm, and her ability to fly in any direction made chasing her around nearly pointless. All he was doing at this point was keeping her occupied. He didn't care. It only gave him more time for the rage to build. He was more than ready to destroy her for what he'd seen here. If he couldn't wear her down, he would blast her apart with bone spirits.
"Your people's blood has cooled so much!" she laughed insanely.
He summoned a couple of skeletons and sent them in different directions toward her. Again he blinded her with spirit fire, hoping for just a couple quick seconds to unleash the bone spirits. Again, she laughed insanely as she dodged right to the edge of the rocks. He abruptly halted his ready barrage of bone spirits a heartbeat later when he felt the familiar energies of a portal right behind her. Hoping against hope, he dodged another spell she flung at him. He couldn't risk hitting whatever came out of that portal, even if he was wrong.
"None will set foot on the Ancients' land ag—"
Her words were cut off with a surprised gasp when a long, thin blade erupted from her chest. Zatham pulled his thin blade back out and then cut off her head in one efficient move. The cube fell from her twitching fingers and bounced across the rocks. She collapsed, truly dead this time, without its power to sustain her.
Before Pyresong had a chance to even process what he was seeing, Zatham collapsed beside the woman's body. His heart lurched when he ran across the slippery rocks to see blood pouring out of Zatham's mouth. He could clearly see the blood pouring out of numerous holes all over Zatham's torso. It looked like the sea monster had sunk its wicked fangs into him. Seeing Zatham struggling to sit up, he dropped his shield and scythe and wrapped his left arm around Zatham's shoulders to help him sit up and breathe.
"Zatham..."
Zatham coughed a couple of times, trying to speak. When he couldn't clear his throat of blood, his pale face twisted in frustration. With a shaking hand, he reached up and put a finger on Pyresong's forehead. The world around him went dark for a moment, as if he blinked. Then found himself standing in a huge field of flowers on a warm and sunny day. Every color of the rainbow was on glorious display before him. The land rolled away in gentle waves.
"I am here, my friend," Zatham said behind him.
He spun around in surprise. He was surprised all the more to see Zatham with his eyes still intact. Though he'd never asked Zatham outright what had happened, he'd been close enough now to have seen at least some of the scar tissue that showed around the edges of the blindfold he wore to cover them. As near as he could tell, Zatham's eyes had been burned from his head. This Zatham also looked much younger and healthier than the thin man with all the marks of suffering and hardship that lined his face. The eyes were an unbelievably bright teal that he'd never seen before.
"Zatham...your eyes..."
He smiled sadly. "You see me now as I still see myself."
"Where are we?"
"My body was too broken to speak, so I brought us into my mind to say goodbye. Here, we move with the speed of thought and have plenty of time."
Pyresong's thoughts latched on to that one word. His stomach clenched as his heart twisted. He'd seen the damage, but...
"Goodbye... But you can heal."
Zatham smiled sadly again. "My body is too badly damaged and my spirit too depleted."
"You brought me back," he said hollowly, beginning to understand.
"Do not suffer the guilt, my friend. No one could have foreseen this outcome. Now you must get the Pathstone she used to commit these vile acts and take it back to Westmarch."
His mind reeled. He knew what his friend said was true, but he refused to give up. He'd seen healers bring people back from the precipice with enough energy from another source. Seeing his friend wasn't even listening, Zatham sighed with visible frustration.
"You, of all people, understand—"
"Can you take what you need to heal from others?" Pyresong cut in.
Zatham blinked in obvious surprised. "I...do not know."
"Then try. Take what you need from me."
Zatham frowned and looked away for a moment, looking sad. "I am humbled by your compassionate and generous offer. But you only just survived. I will not take back what I've done."
"I can handle it. I promise. Just take what you need if you can. Before it's too late."
Zatham's vibrant eyes searched his. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find it. He sighed heavily and then looked frustrated.
"First, I brought you here to tell you that you must take the Pathstone back to Elder Cain. Get it away from here as quickly as you can before another comes to claim it. It is the key to both finding and unlocking the way to the Ancients' Cradle. What the cultists seek is there. You must find a way to protect both it and the Ancients' Cradle from them."
"I will. Now, please. We can talk later."
Zatham sighed heavily again, as if uncertain of his next move and bordering on irritation with his friend's stubborn fixation on saving him. After a second, he nodded.
"For you, I will try."
Pyresong reached inside himself to feel the pathways to his source of energy as he once had for Cain. He held out his hands. Zatham took them tentatively, uncertain. Zatham's body glowed a faint but warm yellow color, much as he had while healing Pyresong. For a few seconds, Zatham seemed to fumble, not sure how to connect. Impatient and worried, he pushed his energy through his hands into Zatham's. Somehow, in his desperation, he managed to connect the two, clearly surprising Zatham. Not unlike when he delved into souls, he felt something cold and hard...even dark inside Zatham. Before he could even begin to understand, Zatham flinched, almost pulling away entirely. His eyes opened wide as he stared at Pyresong in clear shock.
"What are you?" Zatham asked in a whisper.
"I don't understand," Pyresong told him, still focused on the flow of energy.
Zatham stared a bit longer, again as if looking for something behind his eyes. Then he closed his eyes and shuddered visibly, as if shaking off a chill that had crept over him. When he took his hands back to break the connection, he eyed Pyresong almost warily.
"It is enough... I think...I will live."
"You think? If you need more—"
He didn't get to finish. He felt the driving rain and howling wind when he returned to his own mind and body. Zatham lay limply in his arms. For a heartbeat, he was frozen with fear, thinking they had been too late. But when he put his cheek to Zatham's face, he could feel the deep, slow breathing. Reassured for the moment, he lay Zatham down gently and recovered his shield and scythe. He quickly cleaned off Zatham's sword and carefully put it through his own belt for now. Nearby, he spotted the inert golden cube. Assuming that to be the Pathstone, he shielded his hand and carefully picked it up. He sensed no necromantic power from it. But it contained a great deal of unfamiliar energy that tingled on the edges of his shields through his fingertips. The rest must have come from the undead woman. Not wasting any more time thinking about it, he shoved it into his backpack where it would be safe for now.
It was still painfully cold in the slicing rain. He had to get his friend somewhere he could be warm and sleep safely. Knowing only a little about healing sleep from the receiving end, he was sure Zatham would be out for a while. His mind raced through options. With Karshun at Cain's workshop, he didn't want to hang around there watching over his friend. Too many chances for conflict to arise. The tavern in Westmarch wouldn't be much better; and that was even if they would allow a "sick" person in the door. There were likely other places, but his instincts were already yammering away at him that he knew where he needed to go. Much as he wanted to get Zatham to a real healer—preferably Priestess Akara—he had a feeling it was the wrong move somehow. He didn't have time to figure it out, either.
Frustrated, he went with his instincts and opened a portal. Heavy though Zatham was to him, being nearly exactly the same height and weight, he just managed to carry him through the portal over his shoulder. He gently set the man's limp body down on the grass. The nighttime air up here wasn't any warmer than the last time he'd been here. But at least he knew how to find shelter. He looked through the holes in Zatham's clothing to confirm there were no more wounds, just to reassure himself. Then he summoned a bone golem. Carefully, he hefted Zatham into its arms more comfortably and walked up the path toward the monastery. The golem stomped along behind.
As he had hoped, the Sanctified Earth monastery was cold and empty once more. This time, he went room to room until he found one with a bed and a fireplace. Quickly, he threw a pile of wood from a nearby rack into the fireplace and lit it with his own power. He didn't stop until he was sure it would continue burning on its own. By this point, he was shivering in the cold mountain air, still soaking wet. Zatham's lips and fingers were already turning blue from the cold.
He took Zatham from the golem and dismissed it. Quickly, he unbuckled the few pieces of armor and stripped him down. Reluctantly, he removed the dripping wet blindfold to find the thick, burn scars across Zatham's face. He still did not know what had happened to cause such damage, but it was clear there were empty sockets behind the healed flesh of those permanently fused eyelids. He wasn't sure if Zatham wore the blindfold just to hide the hideous scars or out of some form of shame. He just hoped his friend would forgive him for this intrusion.
Once he had Zatham settled into the bed, he added a couple more blankets from his backpack for extra insulation. Unlike the monks that had lived here year-round, he and likely Zatham were not as accustomed to the frigid, dry weather up here. Not for the first time, he mentally thanked Cain for urging him to take more blankets than the one ragged one he was used to carrying before they met.
With Zatham settled, he began to remove his own armor and wet clothing. He wondered that he didn't find ice crystals in his hair it was so cold. Once he was back in dry clothing, he wrapped another blanket around himself and sat as close to the fire as he dared. While waiting for himself and the tiny room to warm enough he could stop shivering, he finally had time to think. For a few minutes, he just stared into the dancing flames, letting their music soothe and calm him. He then attempted to start sorting through all that had happened today.
He still found much of it hard to believe, but he remembered it all clearly now. He had no real idea why he hadn't remembered fleeing to the Unformed Land or what had happened there. But his interaction with his deceased master had brought it all back in such a way that he knew he'd never forget again. Cain had told him his soul was shattered, but he didn't really know what to think of it at the time since he had no memories. With his inability to remember what had happened after Yl'nira shattered, there really wasn't much to discuss. He was alive, and Cain insisted he wasn't corrupted. Now, he began to understand how he had pieced those broken parts back together. Yl'nira had been so interwoven into his soul that when she was destroyed, even the memories of what had marked and scarred his soul over the decades had fragmented. He began to understand why some memories had faded. They had not left their indelible mark upon his soul. Only those events that had shaped him in a spiritual sense were the ones that came back together.
Finally feeling warm enough, he pulled his backpack closer. In response, his stomach gave a hungry growl. He couldn't help shaking his head. He had been reaching for the Pathstone. But his body had been through much today and needed its energy, too. There would be time to inspect the Pathstone. Since he knew literally nothing about it beyond the fact that it was a power source very similar to his original thought of it being a necromancer's phylactery, there was little he could accomplish anyway. He put those thoughts aside for now. He pulled out an apple and some of his rations while he turned things over in his mind.
For a few minutes, he just let the fire lull him out of his thoughts. He was definitely tired, but all the thoughts swirling around his mind would not settle. To say he was disturbed by Zatham's reaction to whatever he had seen or felt was a massive understatement. Then there was his conversation with Master Z. At least now he knew the old man had not known what was coming for him. Until he had seen his master standing there, he hadn't consciously realized a part of him had carried a sense of betrayal after his visit from Rathma. For that matter, Master Z hadn't mentioned anything about corruption, either. He could not bring himself to believe his own master would hide that from him. And what did he mean about "who" being more important than "what"?
So much of it just wasn't making any sense to him right now. Likely, he was just too tired, and things were only getting darker the longer he let them crawl around his mind. He struggled to just sort through it, and file it all away one at a time until he could at least hold on to a single chain of thought for more than a few seconds. Finally, when he began to feel a bit calmer, he started down a mental path similar to how he would usually meditate.
Zatham was unlike anyone he'd ever met before, for reasons both obvious and not. Whatever his culture was like had clearly shaped his view of the world, as it does everyone. But the sense of Zatham's soul had been...different. He sensed the power in the man and began to understand just how great it was. He had never really gone around deliberately measuring people's strength in magic. It was a skill he'd had to learn during his apprenticeship: to accurately gauge a threat. For that matter, almost everyone had at least some spark of magic, even if they didn't know it. Cain he couldn't have missed, it was warm and sharp. And the old man only shielded himself from outside influence, not to hide himself. He'd known almost from the beginning that Zatham hid behind his shields. Yet the man's soul was hard...cold. He did not doubt the Zatham's sincerity when it came to his compassion for others. But that compassion was a distant ember compared to whatever drove him.
That brought him back around to wondering about his own soul. He wondered how it must feel to others. He was driven, too. He'd met people who were not really driven by anything and felt calm and fluid, molding to whatever their surroundings. Some religious fanatics felt almost razor-sharp and hard. His own soul had literally been shattered to pieces. Oza had clearly seen the scars even before then, as had Namari. Verathiel had said his soul was weak. But he'd been drained being in Hell. So that made sense. She had also told him she could see the Worldstone shard, or its effects on his soul, at least. Karshun said he shined like a beacon on the Astral Plane. What did that even mean? Now, Zatham had outright asked him what he was.
As if I'm not even human, he thought darkly.
He was at a loss and more than a little disturbed by his friend's reaction. More than ever, he wondered about the corruption. Verathiel had seen the shards' effects on his soul but didn't say it was corruption, just the power of the Worldstone. Only now did he realize Cain had never said anything other than to refute the idea that he might be corrupted. They had shared magic and much more. The old Horadrim insisted he wasn't corrupted. But did he know, really? Again, he recalled the nightmare version of himself that had been brought to the fore by the demon in the Silent Monastery and shuddered. Was it really just a nightmare? Or was it some subconscious part of his mind trying to warn him?
He had no answers, for Zatham or for himself. In the end, he didn't think it mattered anyway. As he'd told Verathiel and others, he would do what he must. If it left his soul damaged, so be it. Maybe once Zatham woke, he could ask more about whatever he had seen that startled him so much.
Appetite lost, he shoved the food back into the backpack. Now that he was warm and fed, he was feeling sleepy. Obviously Shura and any other monks that had been here were finished with their tasks and had moved on. Most of the temple remained as it had been the last time he was here, just without the corpses. By the feel of it, the place had been cleansed, at least. It didn't feel to him like anyone was moving back in any time soon. And, much as he wished the place to return to the life it once had, there were other priorities. He could only hope that one day, people would return. For now, with the black mist and nightmares gone, he and Zatham could sleep safely.
Not sure how long Zatham would sleep, he shrugged off the blankets and went to fetch a bucket of water. Before he would let himself sleep, he needed to at least see to the clothing. He regretted the loss of the ship. He wondered if Zatham even knew it had been destroyed. Hopefully, the man had more supplies stashed away somewhere safe. Right now, those damaged clothes were all he had. He quickly cleaned the clothing and hung them up to dry where he could. In this windowless room, it was impossible to tell how late it was. His body said it was nearing morning. But he'd been through a lot and was fairly worn out. For now, he would sleep until his body told him to wake.
Chapter 20: 19 Westmarch / Shassar
Chapter Text
Westmarch / Shassar
It was late in the morning when Pyresong woke. Zatham no longer looked sallow and blue with cold, but neither had he woken. Given that his own healing sleep for broken bones normally lasted a full night, he wasn't surprised. Zatham's body had been badly damaged. Multiple of the wounds had been fatal by themselves. While he hoped the man wouldn't sleep for days, he hoped Zatham would have enough time to recover fully. He did try to be as quiet as possible while moving around. Fairly certain that Zatham would remain asleep for at least a little longer, he decided to see Oza's new shrine. Having wandered into a relatively unfamiliar part of the monastery complex the night before, it took him a few minutes to backtrack to one of the main halls. He marked the location in his mind.
When he reached Oza's Overlook some minutes later, he was not surprised to realize his mind was still jumbled with many things. Despite the sleep having helped to clear his head of some of the darker elements that had disturbed him the previous night, he still had much to consider and even more to fear. Outside, the sun actually felt slightly warm, despite the chill breezes. The overlook was still clearly a former battle zone, but all the various pieces of the broken shrines and altars had been removed or repurposed as a fire pit in the center of the deepest part of the depression. Now, it was just an open space with a fire pit made of the various stones that had once been debris.
Off to his left, he spotted the new shrine. In the shade of the small stand of birch trees where he had buried Oza now stood a small, unadorned white shrine. It was enclosed with a couple of wooden doors. When he opened them, there stood a handful of candles and some already melted wax in the bottom. On the right lay several sticks of incense. Having little knowledge of the more formal ways of the Veradani, he wasn't sure if there was more to it than simply lighting a candle or some incense. He would have to remember to ask sometime. For now, he was just happy to know that Oza's memory and sacrifice had been remembered and honored.
He closed the doors and took a look around, letting the peaceful serenity that permeated this place sink in. He knew now without any doubts that Oza had moved on. She wasn't here, and he would never find her here. Yet, he still felt closer to her here than anywhere else. His mind was still swirling with all the thoughts of previous days, though not all of them were bad. He decided to go ahead and calm himself with his flute. If Zatham did wake while he was gone, he was certain that he could find his way around the unfamiliar complex easily enough. Or make a portal back to Westmarch himself.
Much as with the last time he'd been here awaiting Shura's arrival, Pyresong didn't feel the need to purge this time. He was still somewhat unsettled about Zatham's reaction to whatever he had sensed and the thoughts of the state of his own soul. But, more than anything, he just wanted to hear the music of his soul to reassure himself. There was Darkness there; as he'd been reminded, he possessed a human soul made of both Darkness and Light. But he'd never had any real issues with fighting the Darkness within himself. No, what he wanted to hear now was the Light. For one second, he almost wanted to play for Kashya, but he doubted she would understand. And he knew it was a silly idea born of his distraction. She was a distraction, and he knew she would be for some time. But he was not here to think about that now, either.
The sun wasn't quite halfway to midday when he closed his eyes to play. It was easily warm enough he didn't need a blanket or a fire. This time, he wasn't completely absorbed in his playing as he most often was. After a couple of minutes, he decided to let his eyes wander the vistas below. With the black mist gone, he could now see the recovering valley below. He could see the first slightly greener tints of the coming spring already in the grasses. There were no flowers yet, but he suspected they would come in time. He hoped he would have a chance to see them. The wind was almost nonexistent, making the notes carry far and wide in every direction. He listened as much as he played, hearing Yl'nira's accompaniment in his mind. He dug deep into his soul, even exploring the gaping cracks he knew still existed there. But, as always, the music and his soul went where they wished, his hands and mouth just an outlet. Despite all his fears and even nightmares, he could still hear and feel the hope in those notes. There was a darker undertone that promised justice against the cultists, but the music was mostly as light and peaceful as his surroundings. He let it flow, welcoming it, letting it calm him.
The sun had risen to almost directly overhead when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Zatham's hood was just visible on the walkway that led up to the overlook itself. He was almost surprised to realize he was not ashamed to have been caught out. Still, it was not something he typically shared, so he let the last note trail off.
"Where are we?" Zatham asked, looking around curiously.
"The Sanctified Earth Monastery. Mount Zavain. We're about a day's walk from a fort and village called Sentinel's Watch," he explained, feeling serene. "It was a safe place for you to recover. I did not know how long you would be sleeping."
Zatham seemed to accept this as he took in the shrine and then the vistas all around them. He appeared as impressed by the expansive vistas as Pyresong had been. After a few seconds, he seemed to sigh happily.
"It is a good place for healing the body and spirit."
"That is why I come here," he admitted.
Quickly, he wrapped the flute in its velvet cover and returned it to its case. Still feeling calm and almost serene, he decided he might as well ask now. He rose to his feet and joined Zatham on the eastern edge of the overlook.
"What did you see while you were healing?"
Zatham did not seem surprised by this question, though he did frown slightly. He was quiet for several seconds as he appeared to be considering what to say and how to say it. A bit of his calm faded as a twisting feeling began in his gut. But there was a desperation there to know the truth, as well. He trusted Cain completely. Yet, there was a part of him that knew something about his soul was different enough to outright shock others. Terrified as he was of the possibilities, he needed to know for certain. He would not shy away from this. He waited patiently.
"Many things. Your language does not encompass the words, but I will try." Zatham sighed. "A healing connection with my people is one of body and spirit. When I healed you on the beach, your spirit was not there for me to touch. I was looking for it, hoping you had not left yet. When you gave me what I needed to heal, we...connected. Your spirit was...jagged and incomplete. But far more powerful than anything I've ever encountered. It is a puzzle."
"How so?"
"I do not understand how a once broken and still incomplete spirit could be so...hm...powerful is not the word. I cannot think of one in your common tongue. It feels as if many parts are missing. Held together by a nearly invisible strand, like a spider's web. And some parts are left alone as if not even a part of your soul at all. Fragments. Most broken souls are easily corrupted or turn to Darkness to fill the cracks."
Zatham seemed almost reluctant to share his analysis, as if afraid to insult or pry into things that were not his business. Pyresong smiled softly and nodded to assure him he was not insulted or offended. And now he had some sense of where this was going. It was a relief to know Zatham hadn't seen anything darker or any signs of corruption. He already knew the answer, thanks to his talk with Master Z. At least his new friend seemed more puzzled than concerned. After his reaction the night before, he had half expected something more akin to suspicion or accusation than puzzlement and curiosity.
"You've touched a lot of souls?" he couldn't resist asking.
Zatham shook his head. "No, but something of the spirit always comes through when encountering others."
"Most people exist in either the world of the living or the world of the dead. Right now, I also exist in the land of the dead...at least partially. And I can move between them."
Zatham turned to him in clear surprise. "How is that possible?"
"I encountered an...artifact. It let me cross over into the Unformed Land physically by making my body incorporeal while I was chasing a shard. Since then, it has granted me the ability to move between the two worlds, though I don't really have control over it."
Zatham nodded. "Another weapon that may prove useful."
He grinned. "It certainly proved useful yesterday. I was still around when you healed me."
Zatham nodded. "You have the Pathstone?"
"Yes. Are you well enough?"
He nodded and motioned back toward the walkway. Pyresong led the way back to where they had slept to gather up the rest of their things. In the corridor outside, he opened the portal back to the Palace Courtyard waypoint. He clung to the sense of peace and calm he had found on Oza's Overlook as he mentally prepared himself for another encounter with Karshun. If anything, he planned to irritate the mage by not reacting. There was a part of him that had come to appreciate Karshun for more than just his help. He was glad Cain had a companion who could work with him on his own level. They found the two mages in deep discussion over some rolled parchments when they returned.
"But how can we trust the information when we don't even know the source?" Karshun asked harshly, ignoring Pyresong and Zatham for a moment.
"What has happened?" Pyresong asked, taking note of Cain's excited expression.
"A roll of parchments magically appeared on our doorstep. And they just so happen to be conveniently filled with bits and pieces of ancient prophecy," Karshun explained darkly. "Prophecies about the End of Days."
"May I see?" he asked.
"But they are true!" Cain insisted, handing over one of the parchments. "I've seen these same ones in some of my own collections."
He only needed to glance at the page Cain handed him. He carefully kept a grin off his face as he handed it back.
"They are legitimate," Pyresong assured.
"And how could you possibly know that?" Karshun challenged.
"It is my research," he told Karshun blandly, just barely resisting a smirk. "It was compiled and translated by the Curator."
Cain's eyes went wide. "So that's where you've been!"
Lost, Karshun looked from one to the other in irritation.
"Yes," he admitted. "I had it hunting for any mention in the archives of the End of Days or anything related to prophecies. It promised to deliver them here. I had no idea it would be so soon. I could not obtain permission for you to go yourself. So I asked it for help. But I didn't want to give you false hopes if nothing was found."
Cain laughed and then embraced the priest happily. "You've given me enough for a real start. Nothing here is complete, but nothing we've found is, either. By putting all the pieces together, we may have a real chance at stopping this!"
He hugged him back happily, warmed by being able to bring some good news for a change. Karshun crossed his arms and glowered.
“Would anyone care to fill me in?"
Cain looked at him in question. He mentally shrugged and then turned to Karshun, unable to keep the smirk off his face entirely.
"I have been to one of Zoltun Kulle's private archives," Pyresong admitted. "But, I alone am given permission by the guardian of the archives to come and go. Even Cain would die if he tried. I saw no reason not to at least try to get something useful out of them."
Karshun's shock was more gratifying in a petty way than he wanted to admit. But he was still too happy over the good news that they had something to work with to let it turn ugly. As Cain placed the set of rolled parchments back on his desk, Pyresong shrugged off his backpack. Zatham stood by the fire, patiently waiting throughout the exchange. He could all but sense Zatham's own curiosity. But he well knew his friend would likely not speak up unless prompted.
"We found the Pathstone," he told them, digging it out of his backpack. "It wasn't easy."
"Once it is attuned, it will guide us to the Ancients' Cradle...while the fanatics drift in the fog." Zatham smiled grimly. "Perhaps they shall perish on their journey."
"Or," Pyresong spoke with a grim smile of his own, "perhaps we'll use it to ambush them and take the Worldstone shard. Zatham, is that possible?"
Zatham considered for a few seconds. "It may be," he said hesitantly. "They can sense you through the shard, and that may be sufficient bait." Then he sighed heavily. "But the Pathstone is the artifact of a broken and misguided people. We must be careful."
"And how is it that you know so much of this place and its people?" Karshun asked, suspicion lacing his voice.
"To catch a quarry, you must be one with the terrain. I have traveled for many years in pursuit of the wicked."
Zatham seemed completely unbothered by the obvious suspicion Karshun repeatedly threw at him. His deft maneuver around the direct question nearly made Pyresong snicker. The pettier part of Pyresong's mind was watching the mage's irritation with a secret smile. However, he noted Cain closely watching Zatham's reactions and words as if looking for something, himself. Having spent many hours speaking with Zatham while aboard the ship, his suspicions had been allayed. He'd also learned Zatham was much older than he looked. While on the outside he seemed no older than maybe early thirties, he was actually closer in age to Cain than Pyresong. Apparently, his people aged differently and much more slowly. Mostly, though, Zatham had nearly died saving his life. Had there been any lingering doubts, they were wiped away in that one unselfish act. He trusted their new ally completely now and could see no reason to doubt further. What possible motive could he have to work against them?
"It must be a burden for you to spend so long away from home," Karshun commented almost sneering again, unwilling to let go of his obvious suspicions.
Zatham smiled slightly and shook his head. Pyresong got the sense his new friend was actually enjoying frustrating the mage.
"It is no burden. It is my charge. All who do evil deserve punishment."
"How charmingly...straightforward," Karshun replied, clearly irritated by the answer.
Pyresong couldn't help the flicker of a smirk that he covered quickly while the mage was otherwise occupied. Cain's penetrating gaze turned from Zatham to him, the question clear in his expression. Pyresong nodded, knowing the question without being asked. Cain seemed relieved and nodded in return.
"We should go as quickly as we can," he reminded, turning to Zatham. "How do we prepare the Pathstone?"
Zatham sighed and shook his head. "I have not heard of it being attuned apart from the Cradle. And the one who claimed it is dead. We will need to experiment."
"Of course," Karshun muttered.
"Karshun is quite practiced at the crafting of arcane objects. Perhaps he can assist you," Cain volunteered.
"No need to flatter me," Karshun added quickly. "But I suggest we learn more of its origins before using it in any working of significance."
"Of course...and I will begin that research immediately. Zatham, would you join me and share a few of your tales? I, too, must prepare for a journey."
"It is an honor," Zatham replied with sincere warmth.
While Cain led Zatham toward the adjoining room where the Horadrim kept his most powerful tomes and artifacts, Pyresong remained. There was little more he could do right now, he knew. And the last thing he wanted was to be underfoot while the three of them worked. More to the point, he had other things he needed to address. But there was one thing he could address now while alone with Karshun.
"Do you need something? Or are you just going to—"
"Thank you for being here and helping us, Karshun," Pyresong cut him off. He had no intentions of letting this become a verbal sparring match or an outright argument. "I just want you to understand that I appreciate your help, despite our differences.”
For a moment, Karshun stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. He quickly took advantage of that confusion and surprise to make his escape.
“I'll be ready to depart when you've finished your research."
The mage's irritation was clear, as was his disgusted opinion of the Priest of Rathma. Having said what he needed, Pyresong headed toward the door, hopefully before Karshun could snipe at him.
"Too much needs to go right for this to work," Karshun called after him in a carefully neutral tone. "Don't indulge in false confidence. You're...better than that," he finished grudgingly.
He couldn't help pausing. Had he actually heard something other than disdain? Not possible, he knew laughingly. He had stopped keeping a mental tally of the score between them a while ago. Still, this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. He turned from where he stood at the door, not bothering to prevent the grin.
"Really? Before today, the Cult of Terror had all the advantage. Now, we have something."
Clearly irritated again, Karshun huffed again in disgust. "Remember how long the cult has had to prepare for this moment. Our hope should be no louder than a whisper."
"Are you admitting that we have a chance?" he couldn't help asking with exaggerated surprise.
Karshun smirked back at him and his tone. "Don't spread it around."
He was almost surprised to realize his warm smile was genuine. Despite their differences, he really did appreciate the mage. More to the point, he liked the snarky and even sarcastic man under the arrogant facade.
"I'll be back in a couple of days to check in," he opted to say rather than further irritate the mage.
Karshun turned back to his study of the Pathstone, dismissing him completely. Relieved he'd managed to escape without an argument out of Karshun, he closed the door behind him. With nothing more important to do at the moment, he decided it was time to visit the Dark Wood.
Still feeling somewhat at peace and more than a little encouraged by the tiny crack in Karshun's facade, Pyresong decided to return to the waypoint at the Rogue's former battle camp. He knew it wouldn't take long for one of them to either spot him and report in or approach him. Few as they were these days after the Bloodsworn had decimated their numbers, they still patrolled thickly all over the Dark Wood. The day was warmer than he'd felt at the higher elevations around Mount Zavain. Here, too, he began to see the first greens of spring in both the trees and the undergrowth. Alert for the thing that had stalked him before, he took his time walking toward the monastery in the late afternoon sunshine.
There was no sign of the thing they were hunting or that anything else had even noticed him. By the time he arrived at the monastery gates, it was very nearly evening. He had already been given permission by Kashya and Akara to come and go as he pleased in the monastery grounds, so he had no concerns about entering, even with the gates locked and barred. Rather than go through the trouble of having to unbar and open the gates, though, he decided to just use wraith form to pass through them. He was met with some startled Rogues on the other side. He gave them an all too innocent smile. As if appreciating a joke, they gave him an amused wave once they realized it was him.
He took his time in the Outer Cloisters, appreciating a fountain near the gates that had been recently restored. Apparently, someone had already alerted Kashya because it wasn't long before she caught up to him there. It wasn't until he saw her approaching that he realized just how badly he had been wanting to see her again. Despite his smile, his heart ached for a moment, guilt twisting painfully around his insides. When he'd drowned, Kashya was no more than a split-second thought in the list of what he was leaving behind. Though he would likely never tell her, it was enough that he knew. He held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, letting the scent of her wash away the rest of the world, just for a little while.
Kashya wasn't blind, though. If anything, she saw way more than he would like. There was so much he couldn't hide from her. But he refused to taint her with it, either. And this time was no exception. When she pulled away to get a good look at him, she frowned almost immediately.
"Something has changed," she told him, searching his eyes.
He smiled even wider. "Much has, and in our favor for once."
"But you still won't tell me," she said flatly, letting the irritation creep into her green eyes.
He couldn't help laughing softly as he moved to kiss her again. He knew she would never push him to tell all after what he'd said to her on that first day and her own promises. But her natural curiosity always came out at random times, as if trying to catch him off his guard.
"Not everything, but I can tell you some. The fact that we are hunting Terror Cultists is no secret. But we may now have a way to get ahead of them. And we have a new ally that knows what they're after."
"Then you better be ready to tell Fern," Kashya warned playfully. "She's been asking about you. The other sisters mentioned you've been here, and she wants updates."
Pyresong reflexively winced at this. He had hoped that after a few weeks of settling into her new life, she might just begin to forget about him and the hunt. Still, he knew better. He'd known from the beginning she was not like other children, and she never would be again. His good mood wasn't entirely lost, but there was still a stab of grief when he recalled Edmund and why Fern was here at all.
"What is it?" Kashya asked, seeing his expression.
"How much did she tell you?"
Kashya searched his eyes again. "It was Edmund, wasn't it?"
She didn't need to clarify. He nodded sadly.
"He helped me get around the island and stop some of the cultists. And..." He shook his head; he didn't want to go there. "I can't change what happened. All I can do is make sure Fern has a chance at life."
"And you've done that. But you have to remember, your a part of that life, too."
He nodded, shoving the grief aside. "I know. I guess part of me just hoped she would...I don't know. Forget? Move on?"
"Oh, so it's not just me? You have a fear of commitment in general?" she teased, trying to get him out of his funk.
Latching on to this excuse to put it all aside, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him, laughing. He grinned mischievously, falling deep into those emerald eyes.
"Can you live with that? Sharing me with another woman?"
In response, Kashya kissed him thoroughly all over again.
"For that, I'll live with just about anything," she finally said breathlessly a couple of minutes later.
He laughed again and held her for a moment, reveling in her warmth. But he knew he had to get the next part over with. And the sooner he did, the better.
"Where is Fern?"
"Now? Probably the training yard. The girl never stops."
He was not surprised to hear that. Fern would be driven, he knew. He'd seen the determination and hate in her little blue eyes. All he could do was hope she would use that for something good someday. He held Kashya's hand in his own as they crossed the monastery grounds to the practice yard where all the Sisters trained. This late in the day, most had already worn themselves out and were back indoors. From the direction they were approaching, Fern had her back to them, working hard with a wooden sword and a practice dummy. Kashya caught on right away when he motioned to the side with the deepest shadows in the corridor to watch. He knew Kashya was watching him watching Fern, but he didn't see the point in hiding it from her either. For a few minutes, he watched the little girl's technique. He grinned at Kashya and walked out into the yard.
"You need to move your feet more," Pyresong called from a few feet away. "It's a dance."
Startled, Fern spun around with her wooden sword at the ready. Seeing him, she lowered it with a huge smile as she ran toward him. It was Pyresong's turn to be startled as she launched herself at him.
"You're back!" she cried happily. "They said you were here, but you didn't come to see me."
He managed to keep his expression carefully neutral. Yes, he should have known she wouldn't so easily forget him or his promise. He knelt down to embrace her for a moment.
"I've been busy hunting cultists," he told her when she let go.
Fern glared at him and shook her head. "You're avoiding me."
He cocked a challenging eyebrow at her, trying to cover the fact that he'd been caught.
"I had nothing to report. But now I do. We have something that may let us get ahead of them. We're considering an ambush."
Fern glared at him with hard blue eyes for a moment longer before seeming to accept his explanation, much to his relief.
"You'll come back to tell me?" she asked suspiciously.
"You have my word," he assured with a smile.
That, she seemed to accept. "I need to keep training. What do you mean 'a dance'?"
He took the small wooden sword from her and eyed it for a moment. It was far lighter than his scythe but roughly the same length when extended from his arm. Reaching back over the decades, he recalled some of his earliest lessons that involved a nearly identical wooden sword. He smiled to himself remembering Master Z's frustration at how slowly his apprentice learned anything combat-related. It was a wonder the master didn't give up on him before he'd even reached double-digit ages. It had taken him years to break inexplicable habits he had somehow developed toward using a staff or a two-handed scythe. By the time he was tall enough to actually wield the larger weapons, he had taken to a one-handed scythe and shield rather than even the more common phylactery. In the end, Master Z was just satisfied to know his apprentice might maybe survive an encounter while wielding anything. Pyresong himself often wondered how he had survived those early days on his own.
"It's like dancing but with a purpose," he explained, walking over to the dummy. "Practice dummies are good for some things, but they don't move. Don't let yourself get too accustomed to them. A real enemy will never be where you're expecting them. Let me show you. Watch my feet."
Fern nodded, watching intently. Recalling some of his own earliest lessons, he moved slowly so she could follow. He moved around the dummy, hitting from different angles. When he came fully back around, Fern nodded as if to herself and took back the wooden sword. Pyresong handed it over. A few seconds later, his eyebrows shot up in surprise nearly into his hairline. She copied his moves exactly in her first attempt. Beside him, he heard Kashya chuckling at his obvious surprise.
"That was very well done," he told Fern when she stopped, looking to him for correction.
"Fern's a fast learner. We never have to show her twice. She'll be a great Rogue," Kashya told him. Then she turned to the little girl. "But you're not going to learn everything in a couple of months. You need time to rest."
Fern shook her head, all seriousness with Kashya. "With respect, Commander, I'm too soft. I still blister."
She presented her right palm, showing the ragged skin where multiple blisters had popped and peeled. Pyresong's heart twisted painfully as he knelt down again, already shrugging off the straps of his backpack to get at a healing potion. Kashya was frowning sadly.
"Fern, it takes time," he explained with a sigh, pulling out a light healing potion. "Callouses don't happen overnight. You have to keep working your body, yes, but not to the point of injuring yourself. Here, drink some of this."
Fern glared at him defiantly as if she would refuse the potion.
"Please?" he urged gently.
"Fern, even if you learned everything we have to teach you in a year, you won't be ready for the battlefield," Kashya explained. "I was younger than you when I started training. But I had to get big enough to take on some things. Please, be patient."
Finally, the little girl accepted the bottle and took a couple of sips of the vile-tasting liquid. He couldn't help a grin as she made a face. He could empathize. He felt the same way every time, even after all these years. He put the cork back in and gave it back to her to keep.
"I promise you, there is no shortage of people needing protecting," he assured. "You will have your chance to fight when you're ready. Until then...I'm sure no one here thinks you're weak or helpless."
"Far from it," Kashya assured.
Fern nodded but remained silent. At least she seemed to be considering what they were saying. But the dark look in the little girl's eyes told another story. For one heartbeat, Pyresong was more relieved than ever that he had brought her here. One of his other considerations had been the Demon Hunters. He could easily see her fitting in with them, as well. Every Demon Hunter he had ever met possessed a core of burning anger they could never let go of. He knew Fern's own rage and hate would drive her. But he still had some small hope that maybe one day she would decide on another path entirely. Right now, it was far too soon. Her horror and grief were still too fresh.
"It's getting too dark to practice anyway," Kashya told her. "You should go clean up for supper."
"Yes, Commander," Fern responded respectfully.
She leaned in to hug Pyresong one more time before moving to the rack to replace the wooden sword. He watched her disappear into the cloisters sadly. Kashya put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"I didn't know," Kashya admitted, clearly still feeling the guilt. “There's a term we use to describe Sister's too new to—“
He slung on his backpack and then turned to hold her again for a moment. She didn't need to explain. He already had some idea.
"I'm not blaming you or anyone else," he assured her. "Fern is..."
"In a lot of ways, she still is a child. She has a child's understanding," Kashya agreed.
"Are there any others training with her?"
She nodded. "There were some other orphans that have come here. And there are always a few families that want to see their children have a future with us. She's not alone. They all lost someone to the Bloodsworn or demons."
"It's too much to ask that she make friends, I suppose," he grinned wryly.
Kashya was serious, though. She caressed his face. "That will be up to her. In time, she likely will. We will take care of her. She's one of us now. And if that changes, like Charsi, she will still be one of us."
He sighed and let it go. He'd done what he could. And, as yesterday had proven, he could not promise more than he had already. He had to trust them and Fern.
Then, another memory rose to the surface, derailing all thoughts for Fern for a moment. He took her face in his hands and caressed her cheeks with his thumbs, making her hum happily as she leaned into his touch.
"It helps to have friends that can call us back when we wander off," he whispered.
Kashya's emerald eyes shot open in confusion. She could clearly see he was trying to tell her something, but he gave her no opportunity to think about it. He kissed her gently and pulled away, grinning almost mischievously.
"What are you talking about?" she finally asked.
He couldn't help wanting to torment her, but he didn't really have the heart for it right now. Until now, she had not once mentioned her own actions while he'd been in his death sleep. He had a few guesses as to why. He toyed with her thick, soft hair before meeting her eyes again.
"You tried to call me back when I was in the Unformed Land. I remember now."
Kashya's eyes went wide, and her cheeks flushed slightly. "Remember? Or Cain told you?"
He laughed softly at her suspicious tones. "I remember. Though it was clever of Cain to try to use you."
"He didn't," she admitted, her cheeks still red. "When Charsi came running to Akara with the news, I more or less overheard."
"Speaking of which, I assume the entire monastery knows about us by now," he commented dryly.
He was both curious and a bit concerned. The last thing he wanted was to create problems for her or the Sisters. Though they weren't as closed off or disgusted by Priests of Rathma, he really had no idea what other possible restrictions their order might have on any kind of sexual relationship. He most definitely trusted Kashya, especially when it came to setting necessary boundaries. Though she hadn't openly said anything, he still couldn't help thinking there had to be some kind of guidelines within their order. And what of the other Rogues? Would her involvement with him pose some kind of conflict with the other Sisters? He was more than a little relieved when she laughed off his question.
"I think there might be a scullery maid that lives nearby that hasn't heard yet, but otherwise yes. Did you think that kind of juicy gossip would go unnoticed around here?"
Then she eyed him closely again, as if looking for something.
"Your eyes changed when you said that about remembering. There's more you're not telling me."
He grinned again teasingly. "Of course there is."
Kashya was all seriousness again. "Don't hide from me. I can understand you not wanting to talk about...things. But don't avoid me just because you think I don't want to deal with you when you're hurting."
He smiled warmly. "I know, and I won't."
She seemed satisfied with that and nodded. She took his hand in hers. She led them casually back toward the eastern cloisters.
"It's almost suppertime. Will you be staying tonight?"
"Yes, but I think I'll go back to Westmarch in the morning. I want to see if I can find Fern some gloves. Then I want to show you something."
"I can see to it she gets some gloves and uses them," Kashya assured. "What did you want to show me?"
He paused as they entered the corridor, an idea coming to mind. For a heartbeat, he wrestled with himself, convinced it was a downright horrible idea. Yet, the greater part of him wanted this more than almost anything at that moment. If it turned out to be a bad idea... The hells with it; he was going to go with his instincts.
"Actually, are you available from now until just after sunrise?"
"I'll have to let them know Flavie's in charge until I return, otherwise yes."
He smiled mischievously again. "Let's do that."
Half an hour later, once Kashya had packed a few supplies and grabbed a couple of weapons, Pyresong led them through a portal to the western path up to the monastery. She looked around at the unfamiliar nighttime landscape. He had not said another word about where they were going once she agreed to come with him. She had found herself both irritated and frustrated by his silence. Rather than seeming playful or even mischievous, he seemed more than a little distracted and uncertain. Yet, she could tell that whatever he was up to was somehow important to him. She stifled both her curiosity and her irritation. He took her hand as he led her up the path to the now empty but cleansed monastery.
"Where is this place?"
"Mount Zavain. This is the Sanctified Earth Monastery. It's abandoned now. But I come here sometimes when I need to be alone."
"Karshun still giving you problems?"
He laughed softly. "Of course. He wouldn't be Karshun if he weren't."
Kashya clearly had a dozen questions but kept her silence as he led her through the complex. Almost without thinking, he headed for Oza's Overlook. His original intention was to maybe bring her here tomorrow to see the sunset. Since the opportunity presented itself and his instincts had all but demanded it, he decided on a nighttime vista and a sunrise. Still, he knew if he thought about what he was doing at all, he'd likely change his mind or back out. He couldn't help wondering if he was making a fool of himself. Or worse, wondering if he was somehow being selfish by bringing her here to this particular place; introducing her to a part of his life that he wasn't sure he even should share with her.
It was chilly, but the biting cold of winter had let up some, even here. He diverted them for a few minutes to grab some firewood from another section of the complex. The firewood made Kashya all the more curious. It was obvious within seconds that he was loading them up with a lot more than just a couple of logs for a small fireplace. At this point, though, she was almost too breathless to ask. He made a face and mentally kicked himself when he realized her breathing had become a bit labored.
"I'm sorry, I forgot. You're probably not used to these elevations any more than I was the first time I came here. And this monastery is near the summit of the mountain. Rest for a minute. I've got something to show you. Oza taught me when I was here the first time."
"Another woman in your life?" Kashya could not help teasing breathlessly.
He grinned wickedly to cover his sudden surge of fearful uncertainty.
"Actually, yes. Jealous?"
"Leave it to me to fall in love with a womanizer," Kashya said, rolling her eyes.
He laughed again, partially in nervous relief. Once her breathing was back to normal, he showed her the same breathing techniques Oza had taught him. He had been doing it often enough at this point; he didn't even have to think about it. It was just a reflexive thing he started doing the moment he started to feel the thinner air.
Once Kashya had recovered enough, he decided to use their backpacks, instead. He piled some firewood into their virtually bottomless backpacks and continued on through the monastery complex. When they reached the shattered outer building where the shard had been housed, a thought struck him. Where the prison had been absolutely flooded with the shard's influence and filthy feeling of corruption, whatever the monks had done to keep the shard had kept its foul energies contained. And now, after the cleansing and likely purification rites, he almost couldn't tell it had ever been here. It gave him renewed hope for places like Wortham.
Glancing to Kashya, he quickly shoved all those thoughts into a hole for later. He knew he was just distracting himself from the purpose of being here. While there were some part she was absolutely certain she would enjoy and appreciate, his stomach had begun doing occasional backflips when he considered the rest. His question about jealousy had not been entirely teasing. He was able to give her so little of himself, he couldn't help wondering if this whole thing was a bad idea.
Kashya was quiet again while they crossed the ruined courtyard and followed the path to the overlook. Much of the stones broken off of the building had been pulled aside, but the devastation that had taken place was still obvious. He took one last deep breath to clear his mind and then decided it was time to stop dithering and get to why he had brought them here.
"I don't know if it had any name before other than 'overlook'," he told her as they reached the top, "but I've renamed it Oza's Overlook. And I have a feeling the Veradani monks in this region aren't likely to change that."
Kashya's eyebrows shot up. Her curiosity was obviously eating her alive at this point. Then she took her eyes off the obvious devastation to glance upward. After that, she was too preoccupied by the view. The valleys below were too dark to really see anything. Meanwhile, the cloudless sky above was gleaming with more stars than she had likely ever seen at one time. With the thinner air up here, there was so much more to see. And, with the expansive view, it was like a whole new world.
"You like it?" he asked hesitantly after a few seconds.
"It's amazing," she admitted. "Do you ever just stop to look up at the stars?"
He smiled, wrapping his arms around her from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. She leaned into his embrace happily.
"I stopped doing so for a while. But it's hard not to up here. It's part of why I brought you up here."
"Part?" she asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.
"If the weather holds this clear until morning, we should have quite the sunrise. I've seen a few from up here. And the sunsets are spectacular. East is that way," he pointed.
Kashya's smile beamed even in the darkness. She turned in his arms to hold him.
"There's more," he told her, caressing her face. "Part of why I brought you here is that I want you to know and...understand some things."
Kashya leaned into his touch again but couldn't resist teasing. "Understand where to hunt you down?"
He laughed softly and kissed her forehead. "That too."
She shivered slightly, having worn her usual rather lightweight patrol uniform. He was so used to the cold anymore he hardly felt it sometimes. And, with Kashya, he never seemed to feel cold at all. To him, it was relatively warm up here, right now. But they had hours yet to talk. It was time to get a fire going. Once they had a rather large fire and a couple of comfortable blankets, they shared their field rations in lieu of supper. Afterward, they moved away from the fire a bit to enjoy the stars again.
He spent the night explaining about Oza and how she'd died. He went on to tell her that it was Oza who had helped him put his soul back together while he was in the Unformed Land. But he had definitely heard Kashya's call. If he hadn't, Oza would likely have never caught him. Kashya remained silent through the retelling and explanation. He didn't go into the fact that he had died again only a day ago, just that he'd remembered at some point.
She clearly had questions but was hesitant to ask. What he volunteered here might be her only opportunity. Yet, she didn't want to ruin it or make him stop talking by pushing. She was just glad to be a part of his life and his world now. She lay with her head in his lap taking it all in. She had so much to work through and consider in the days or possibly even years to come with him. For right now, the only thing that mattered was that he was talking, sharing a part of himself.
***
As was his usual custom, he woke before sunrise; Kashya curled up against him under multiple blankets. The fire had died down considerably while they slept. He wanted to build it back up again but was reluctant to wake her just yet. He couldn't really fathom what had driven him to do this. Once the idea had come to him yesterday, it just seemed the right thing to do. She had been visibly concerned when she'd told him not to hide from her. At least with this, he could show her that he meant what he said and intended to keep his promise. The rest...he would never tell her. He would give her all that he could of himself, but he would not share that darkness.
When his eyes detected the first hints of the changing sky in the east, he kissed her awake gently. She woke happily, as eager to see the sunrise as he was to share it with her. She was still wrapped warmly in her blankets when they moved to the eastern ledge. Beside her, Pyresong shrugged off his blanket, reaching into his backpack. Yet another instinct was nagging at him. And he was feeling far too peaceful and content to fight it. Ultimately, he hadn't planned any of this. But what was within his power to give her, he gave her completely. He hadn't really let anyone listen to him play his flute since his childhood in the monastery when he really had little choice in the matter. As an adult, it had become something private. For so long, he had played to purge himself of so many things. Now he played his flute for the sheer joy of it and for Kashya.
When the sun broke the horizon, and he knew he would have to keep his promise to get her back to the monastery soon, he let the last notes trail off. A chilly wind had come up that felt like it would bring rain soon. For a while, Kashya was silent. He held her with an arm around her back and kissed her hair.
"I said I would not taint you with the nightmares I live in, but that doesn't mean I won't share anything," he told her. "I want to share these parts of my life with you. These are the things I want us to remember. These are what matter to me."
"Thank you for letting me in."
They held each other for a bit longer before she finally moved to pack up the camp. Though absolutely none of it had been planned, Pyresong was certain he'd made the right decision, both in bringing her here and showing her this small part of his life. And, compared to the rest, this and her really were very small parts of his life. They were brief interludes to everything else. But he had spoken truly; these were the only things he wanted to remember, especially when he was with her. The rest didn't matter when he was with her.
After opening a portal to the Outer Cloister for Kashya to return, Pyresong decided to head back to Westmarch. It was still too early to disturb Karshun and Cain, and he had no idea where Zatham was staying. Given they were just getting started with their research into the Pathstone, likely nothing of note had happened yet. Still, he definitely wanted some tea and breakfast, so he decided to drop in on the Wolf City Tavern that was quickly becoming his usual haunt when he couldn't hang around Cain's workshop. He was surprised to find a grumbling Bailey behind the bar. He was more accustomed to Bailey's warm welcome or at least sleepy yawns at this point.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, taking a seat at the bar.
"There's a bunch of black-robed missionaries preachin' around town again. Just threw out another one a minute ago," Bailey explained, already working on a cup of tea for his newest arrival. "Didn't the king say no more believers' gatherings after that Zakarum row?"
"I'm not quite sure about that. What's the problem?" he answered carefully.
The barkeep sighed. "I'm so used to you being around; I'd forgotten you're not one for gossip. And you're not a local."
He couldn't help quirking a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Bailey laughed, lightening up a bit. "People are eating up that blather and hopping aboard any ship for the east they can get. They're leaving in droves for this supposed savior. Load of shite, like every other."
"Why would that bother you?" he couldn't help asking.
The barkeep sighed heavily, almost sadly. "Some good friends of mine got wrapped up in that stuff. Sad, really. I thought better of them. The gods only know where they're headed now."
He considered for a moment, keeping his expression neutral. It really wasn't any of his business. And he had never been one to question another's religious beliefs, no matter how ridiculous some of them definitely sounded to him.
"Why don't you report them to the city watch if they're not allowed?" he offered.
"Doesn't do any bloody good. They just keep coming back and...bah, none of my business."
"People need something to believe in," he pointed out with a shrug. "Sometimes they're so desperate to believe in anything, they'll follow anyone. Give them time. They'll come wandering back when the disillusionment sets in."
The barkeep huffed at that but eyed him with amusement. "And the only thing you believe in is the Balance, right?"
He grinned back. "It has its upsides, such as not needing us to go around preaching to gain followers."
Bailey laughed openly at that and then walked away, clearly in a better mood. After a cup of tea and a warm breakfast, Pyresong made his way back out into the city. He doubted there was anything to report yet from the others, and the day was just barely warm enough in the sunlight to be comfortable. Given his lack of recent issues with the locals in the city, he was much less concerned about getting escorted out at this point. More by chance than by design, he made his way toward Rakkis Plaza. Even from a distance, he could hear the bellowing voice that drew his and others' curious glances.
"The age of death and fatigue is no more! You were born to rise! Join us on a grand journey, and be uplifted!"
He sighed mentally, knowing it was one of those preachers Bailey had mentioned. He wondered how long it would take for the city guards to escort them out. Probably a lot longer than it had to try getting him out of the city last year. The square was only just beginning to come alive with morning crowds. Even from where he stood on the western side of the plaza, he could see a sizable crowd gathering around three black-robed figures. At first, he thought they were just incredibly pale, like himself. As he drew closer, he realized they were actually wearing silver masks.
Well, there's something to instill trust and confidence, he thought.
Spying one of the city guards leaning against a wall nearby, he approached. The young man glared balefully at the missionaries. The guard muttered darkly under his breath while gripping his sword threateningly. He went silent as he realized he was being watched.
"What is this all about?" Pyresong asked.
"Bloody belief merchants," the guard growled. "I'm waiting for reinforcements so I can get them out of here. They're chanting their nonsense at all hours. They stink of sweat."
He nodded, watching the black-robed men moving through the gathering crowd talking more softly with each person that stopped to listen. He let his magical sight do a bit of surveying, and he did not like what he saw. There was definite dark magic here. Not demonic and not directly linked to Hell. Yet it was not entirely unfamiliar either. It itched across his arcane vision and senses in a much more subtle way that he could not clearly analyze. He only half heard what the guard was saying as he tried to recall where he had seen such magical auras before.
"My Benna went off with the last crop. A boat to the east, of all places. Imagine quitting Westmarch for a cargo hold, head to toe with a bunch of other scabs, breathing in everyone else's nasty air," the guard went on. "We should chase them out of here, point first."
Realizing Pyresong wasn't even really listening, he eyed him up and down. Without his armor, it was a lot harder to tell at a glance that he was a Priest of Rathma. But, even the most oblivious person would catch on after a few seconds that his unnaturally white hair and face were not in keeping with his age.
"You some kind of death mage or something?"
He stifled his irritation, finally taking his eyes off the preachers in the square. "Priest of Rathma or necromancer, if you please. And, yes, I am. I will go see what they've got to say. Feel free to run them off when your reinforcements arrive. There is something...dark about them."
"Coming from a de—necromancer, that's saying something!"
He just shook his head and put the ignorant guard out of his mind. Watching from a distance, he had seen the magical aura around each one. What he had been looking for was them using that magic to influence others. So far, he hadn't seen anything. Yet, his every instinct was screaming there was something absolutely not right here. He had seen preachers from a lot of gods from a lot of places in the world. Most had minor magical auras of some kind they claimed were blessings from this or that entity. But these people reminded him more of demonic cultists, despite the lack of demonic or hellish auras. One of the missionaries caught sight of him approaching and turned to intercept him.
"All are welcome among us, Priest of Rathma," the priest called, bowing priest to priest.
Out of reflex, Pyresong returned the bow but with as little courtesy as he could get away with. "Speak plainly. Who sent you here?" he demanded.
Despite the mask, he could hear the smile in the man's words. "I am here of my own divinity. As are we all. But our heart is in Shassar."
He kept his surprise concealed as he tried to consider where they might be hiding. Tabri and the others had never mentioned a cult in their territory. But it had been months since he'd been there, and they were openly at war with Vataos and the Sand Scorpions, the last he'd heard. He knew there had been demons in the desert, one, at least, that he'd help hunt with Josen and Valla. Very likely, there were more. It was the perfect, isolated place to start almost any cult. But harvesting people from across the world? How could they have grown that large with no one in that area even noticing? Still, he didn't exactly feel a demon's taint on them. Tuning his vision to the magical spectrum again, he still didn't see any magical trickery or influence going on. The man was just using smooth words and charisma to lure him in like all the others. Though, he'd clearly been singled out, drawing mixed looks from the other people gathered to listen.
"Do you not hear His call from the Shassar Sea?" the preacher asked. "He will be pleased to share His sacrament with one such as you."
"The desert? Isn't that a bit far for a revival?" he asked suspiciously.
Again he could literally hear the missionary smiling, if not laughing, behind that silver mask. "No journey is too long if it makes us whole, Priest. You, of all people, should appreciate that. You will come to know yourself and to know others. Cast off your misery. Cast off death. Thrive as you were meant to."
He cocked a chilly eyebrow at him. "'Cast off death'? Clearly, you are not familiar with the Priests of Rathma. Where are you from?"
"As I said, the Shassar Sea. Join us, and you will learn."
"Well, you certainly sound convinced," he replied darkly.
"Because I have seen for myself the blessings of—"
"All right, enough!" the guard hollered just a few feet behind him. "Disperse, you blaggards! Out the gates!"
"Find us, and you will see, necromancer," the missionary said, no laughter this time, "death is not as inevitable as you think."
Rather than intriguing him, that last statement thrown his way convinced him that whatever was behind this religion could not be anything good. Of course, with his knowledge and experience, the first things that came to mind were enslaved undead such as lazars or even liches. Very likely some form of sorcerer or twisted necromancer was passing off reanimation as continued life. But, as he eyed this blacked robed priests again, he found no such taint of perverted necromancy or obvious enslavement. These men and women were alive in the traditional sense as far as he could tell.
He stood back out of the way as the group of city watch guards gathered up all the men in silver masks and black robes and began marching them toward the south exit of the city. He was somewhat frustrated by the bad timing. There was something about those men that just felt wrong. He wasn't one to typically get involved in other people's religious beliefs. He couldn't prove it was a demonic cult, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was something evil, nonetheless. His instincts were clawing at the back of his mind that there was something evil involved, even if they had not been touched by it directly.
As he walked away, he tried to convince himself it was none of his affair. But it had been months since he'd been to see the Amber Blades. If these missionaries had spread as far as Westmarch, how many others had they gathered across the world? If they really were evil, what damage were they doing in Tabri's territory right now?
Wrestling with himself, trying to walk away from the whole thing, he finally decided. If anyone would know more about these people, it would be the Amber Blades. Maybe it really was just another harmless cult. And, truthfully, he had nothing better to do with his day. A quick visit would at least put his mind at ease if he was wrong. Still, something about that missionary and the way he had said what he'd said made his skin crawl. It was as if he knew something about him...or sensed something. Of course, he had his mental and magical shields up. It wasn't possible the missionary had seen further than the surface. Maybe he was just on edge after recent events and questioning himself.
Of course, with his inherent bias against most religions that involved more than a dozen people, it was equally possible the was jumping to conclusions and seeing what he wanted to see, and he knew it. He was still turning all this over in his head when he rounded the corner back near the tavern and almost ran right into Captain Rehm going the other direction.
"Fancy meeting you here," Rehm said, shaking Pyresong's hand. "My men heard a rumor you were hiring a crew a while back. Got your own ship now?"
He couldn't help a grimace at remembering the crew he'd hired and how they were all dead now as a result. He shook his head to Rehm's curious expression.
"Forgotten Sea. Be glad you weren't there," he explained darkly.
Rehm's eyebrows nearly shot up to his hat brim. "You really do go to some of the strangest places. How's the old man doing? Still owes me supper, by the way."
He grinned at this. "One day, maybe we'll get around to it. Otherwise, just busy with lots of research. You know how it is being a scholar and all."
"Scholar, yeah," Rehm shot back dryly.
"Actually, maybe you could help me with something," he said, an idea coming to him. "I hear lots of people from Westmarch are headed to the Shassar Sea lately."
The captain sighed heavily and took his hat off to run a hand through his hair. "You have no idea. It's a bloody exodus. A bunch of misfits all think they've found their savior. People are offering entire fortunes to take those lice-infested freaks across the world."
"But not you?"
Rehm put his hat back on with a grin and a theatrical flourish. "As you once said, I've got better cargo to haul than warm bodies. Besides, my men agree with me. Something is not right with them. And we hear, no one has ever come back."
"Maybe they're just...happy," he suggested with a smirk. "Found their salvation or some such."
Rehm shook his head, frowning. "Maybe. But I hear from other captains that no one leaves Shassar. No religion is so good everyone stays."
"That's all I needed to hear," he replied with a wicked smile.
Rehm's eyebrows shot up again. "What are you going to do?"
"Maybe it's time I found a new religion."
Rehm laughed heartily. "You needing a ride?"
He shook his head. "No, thank you. But listen to your men, don't take the money. Don't go near them."
"Don't worry, we won't. We're running for Port Justinian in the morning."
"Safe voyage, Captain."
Rehm shook his hand again. "Happy hunting, friend."
This close to the docks there were plenty of places out of the way of foot traffic. He dug his armor, weapon, and shield out of his backpack and donned them, ignoring the stares of passersby. Knowing there was a time difference between here and the Shassar Sea of at least a few hours, he was in a hurry to get moving. He found a quiet spot to open a portal.
He stepped out into the afternoon sun of the Amber Blades' camp. He was immediately impressed with how much it had grown. Aside from the dozens of people walking about, many of the buildings had been repaired. Looking in either direction, he realized it was no longer any kind of camp; it was a bustling village. There looked to be hundreds of people in this one small area. The walls and gates had been pushed back to encompass many more buildings. The last time he'd been here was before even going to Mount Zavain; almost seemed a lifetime ago now. He drew many curious stares as he descended the two steps off the waypoint platform. Immediately he was challenged by a nearby guard with a sword drawn. Reflexively, he put his unoccupied hands out to his sides, palms out to show he wasn't a threat.
"Who are you that comes as if you belong?" the young guard challenged.
"I am Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma and an Amber Blade...unofficially."
Another one behind him spoke up. "I know that name, but I do not know you, outsider."
"Tabri or Peth will vouch for me."
The guards exchanged a look, neither lowering their weapons. One finally nodded to the other.
"Wait here," he instructed, the threat clear.
"As you wish," he replied serenely.
While they waited, Pyresong took the opportunity to get a better look around. The village had grown exponentially, but now he noticed every eye turning to him in his darker armor warily. Many others stopped along nearby walls as if by happenstance, hands on their weapons. He could feel their eyes on him, just waiting for him to make a move. Sensing as much as seeing the building tension, he crossed his arms, so it would not look like he was reaching for his scythe or preparing any spells. But it seemed to do little to allay their obvious tension. Other guards were oh so casually making their way in his direction as if by coincidence. They were moving to surround him. Given this was a place that held little fear of necromancers, this seemed a bit excessive.
"What has happened here?" he asked the guard watching over him.
"None of your business, outsider."
Obviously, something had set these people on edge. He could only assume it was Vataos and the Sand Scorpions. Yet it seemed something more to him. Tabri had made it clear their war was not his fight, and he had taken that to heart. But he still felt a slight shadow on his heart, too. With so many other responsibilities, he had nearly forgotten what was happening here. It had taken some convincing for him, but he believed in Tabri and her vision. He had sincerely hoped she could make a better life for the people here. As far as he could see, she had accomplished much.
"Welcome back, Pyresong," Tabri called out with a smile. Then she turned to the other guards. "He is one of us, though he rarely pays visits. Remember that name next time, hm?"
Three of the guards nearby looked sheepish. The others headed his way quickly found somewhere else to be. All the others that had crept into the shadows to watch him warily faded back into the alleys. He took note of all of this while also noticing many other defenses on rooftops and in windows all around him. He set it aside for later.
Right now, he could not have missed Tabri's familiar, almost predatory smile. She eyed him up and down in his new, matching armor. Her eyebrows went up appreciatively.
"You're looking...well," she commented with a seductive smile.
Deciding to play along, he smiled warmly to her in return. Then he took her hand and performed a far less formal and more flamboyant bow, courtier to queen.
"And you are even more radiant than I remember," he flirted back, kissing the back of her hand.
She laughed softly as she took her hand back. It seemed half the people within visual range were needing to re-learn how to blink when they witnessed the blatant game. She nodded to concede he had won that round for the sheer audacity of such a public display.
"Come, we need to speak privately," she told him, all business now. "Theo, fetch Peth. I need him in my tent."
He followed beside Tabri while she led them through the crowds. Now that he'd been vouched for, everyone seemed to relax somewhat and get on with their business. But he'd been here before. He knew even the children here were armed and ready to face any threat. Had he posed a real threat, every person in this village would have been against him. He was under no illusions that these were soft people. Every single one of them had survived this inhospitable place by sheer will and strength. In many ways, they were even tougher than the Barbarians of the north.
Tabri remained silent until they were safely out of the crowds and beyond the privacy curtain in her tent. He was only slightly surprised to realize she still kept to her tent when she could easily have claimed one of the much more comfortable and private buildings. She motioned to a bunch of cushions while she settled gracefully on her own pile with a relieved sigh. She reached over to a small table and poured them both some cool wine. Pleasantries observed, Tabri wasted no time getting to what was on her mind. Her dark eyes twinkled mischievously as she eyed him again again.
"Are you going to tell me who she is? Or do I have to ferret it out?"
"Excuse me?" he asked, utterly confused.
"The woman who stole your heart...and your bed."
How the hells...
Tabri laughed at his obvious shock. "You've changed," she explained. "Your smile is more sincere. And you didn't look like you were going to run away when I flirted with you. You're secure in your heart. She makes you happy."
He just shook his head with a grin. Why is it some women could read him so easily?
"Why? Are you going to hunt her down?"
Tabri's smile became predatory. "Maybe...if she ever hurts you, that is."
He couldn't help laughing. "Yes, she makes me happy. But it's...complicated."
"Isn't it always?" Tabri laughed, taking another sip of her wine. "I'm happy for you."
"Thank you," he too sipped the deliciously fruity wine, remembering now that it was possibly the best he'd ever had anywhere in the world. "I assume you didn't drag me to your tent to talk about my love life."
"And I assume you're not here for a friendly visit with old friends," she shot back with a grin.
"Something's happened," he said more seriously.
Tabri sighed, her smile and teasing gone. Now she was hard and cold. The fear behind those dark eyes worried him far more than he liked. He couldn't imagine this woman afraid of anything.
"Yes, and for once, I wish it was Vataos behind it," she admitted.
"The war goes on?"
She turned sad for a moment. "Sometimes I think it will never end. But, at least those who have survived and joined us are working for a better life. Did you see the children? We have children playing safely in the streets, even little girls."
He smiled and nodded. "I did. And you have much to be proud of. What you have begun will not fade easily. You've given people hope, and that's the most important part. Without hope, dreams cannot be sustained."
Before he could say more, Peth tossed aside the privacy curtain. "There he is! Welcome back, friend!"
"It's good to see you, Peth," Pyresong said warmly, shaking the scholar's hand.
A moment later, he was surprised to see Peth lean down to give Tabri a kiss before taking a seat beside her. Tabri grinned playfully at his surprise.
"At least I know who to hunt down," Pyresong teased with a wicked grin.
Peth stared from one to the other in confusion as they both laughed.
"Ah, missed opportunities, my love," she told Peth, giving him another kiss. "Never mind that. We need to talk about the cultists."
Peth frowned darkly. "Yes, we need your help. I..." the man sighed and ran a hand through his hair in clear frustration. "I don't know what to do. We've already sent word to Westmarch to try to find you, but it was only just a few days ago. It could take weeks to arrive. Anyone we send to investigate doesn't come back. And there's undead. I had hoped you would know more."
"Cultists? Undead?"
Tabri sighed heavily and took Peth's hand comfortingly. Rather than relaxing, the scholar looked even more tense and desperate.
"You're not making sense, Peth. Calm down." Then she turned her worried expression on Pyresong. "About a year ago, some strange people in black robes started combing the deserts, recruiting people. While we were occupied with the Sand Scorpions, they seemed little threat and we dismissed them. They mostly talked nonsense about casting off death or other craziness. Then Vataos lost half his men almost overnight. And they were not willing converts. Amber Blades started disappearing in the night soon after. Something is taking our people. Even when we secure the village and lock down every gate and post sentries on the rooftops, people still go missing."
"And we know it has something to do with those...missionaries," Peth added. "But we can't prove anything. They wear masks, so we can't even see who they are. Yet, I recognize some of those voices."
"How so?"
Tabri and Peth shared a look. Peth's held an obvious question, and Tabri nodded. Peth sighed again.
"I took on an apprentice last year. He was one who went missing from his tent in the night. When one of those...things came around knocking at our gates, I swear it was him. It was Tomi's voice I heard behind the mask."
"Tomi?" he queried, the name familiar.
"You were there when Vataos' men left him behind to die."
Remembering the incident clearly, his eyes got wide. "The boy who nearly lost his arm?"
Tabri nodded sadly. "He was no fighter, no killer. And Peth saw the potential in him."
"He was a good kid," Peth agreed sadly. "But those things aren't human. I don't know what they are, but they're not human. And I know the undead roaming the sands are linked to them."
"Anyone who gets close to their camp never comes out again,” she told him. Then she looked hesitant. “I know it is not your problem, but..."
"Actually, they are why I'm here," he admitted. "I encountered some of their missionaries in Westmarch. A ship captain tells me that people all over the world are flocking to this desert to join this new 'religion', but no one ever leaves."
They both nodded confirmation.
"And yet we have undead that roam freely where there never were before," Peth told him. “These are not the same as the ones that break out of the forgotten tombs that litter this land. They are...” He almost looked embarrassed as he struggled to continue. “'Fresher' just seems like the wrong word, somehow. But they are not the mummified remains of ancient dead.”
"They're building an army," Tabri warned. "We cut them down by the score, and there are always more of them."
He nodded and sighed heavily, having expected as much. "I'm not one to interfere with other people's beliefs, but everything about them felt wrong to me. It wasn't demonic. And no necromancy that I could detect. Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"We don't know," Peth admitted helplessly. "And, as Tabri said, no one has returned to tell us. Despite my years of research, the only thing I know about the undead are that they usually happen through dark magic I'm not familiar with."
Again he looked embarrassed, though not by the admission of ignorance. Catching on to the source of the scholar's discomfort Pyresong shook his head with a grin to let the man know he was not insulted.
“I understand, and you're not wrong. Outside of Priests of Rathma, most necromancer's don't typically have good intentions. And, we don't typically go around building armies, either.”
Peth gave him a relieved nod, his cheeks still a bit pink.
"I will see what I can find out," he told them, carefully choosing his words. "Undead disturbing the Balance in this place is something I can and will address. But if the cultists are not the cause of this, I will not interfere with them."
The relief was clear on both their faces. They were, apparently, that certain that the cultists were the cause of the undead. Given the vague dark sense of arcane energies around the ones he had met in Westmarch, he couldn't blame them. All this conversation had done was further confirm his instincts with at least some evidence. People like these did not find themselves afraid of the dark in these inhospitable lands without a very good reason. Typically, they were the ones to be feared, not the other way around.
"Thank you," Tabri said. "You might at least live to tell us."
Peth snorted. "After Fahir's tomb and Kulle's Library, I would hope he could survive some crazy cultists."
He couldn't help chuckling at that. But it was growing late in the day here, and he needed to get moving if he was going to find out anything today. He quickly made his way out through the north gates and headed east. Again the baking heat of the desert hit him harder than he expected. He knew he had plenty of water skins in his bag and a few days' worth of rations. He just hoped he wouldn't be here long enough to need to restock.
It didn't take him long to pick out the hard-packed sand trail to follow. He remembered the last time he'd come this way, it was Zov that led him, and he couldn't see anything even remotely resembling a path or trail at the time. Vaguely, he recalled that it would curve to the south and back to the fishing pier on the river where he'd first arrived so long ago. As he had expected, he found the rock formation where he'd first encountered Thiago and Zov after only a short while. A darker flicker of movement just beyond the rocks caught his attention. Before he could even pause to see what it was, there was a terrified scream from that direction.
"No! Leave me alone!"
Clinging to the rocks for cover, he got his shield off his back and gripped his scythe.
"Do not struggle," another female voice called. "Surrender the blood to Him!"
"Let me go! I just want to go home!" the young woman screamed back. "Somebody help me!"
Not able to see what was going on, he tried to inch around the corner as the woman's cries got more frantic.
"Without sacrifice, you cannot grow. In your heart, you know this," preached a woman in black robes.
When he crept around the rocks behind the woman in black robes, he caught sight of several animated undead surrounding the struggling young woman. None of these held an aura of necromancy. They were closing in on her. He had no more time to analyze. When the struggling young woman caught sight of him, she screamed and thrashed more frantically against the one clutching her arm in a crushing grip.
"Help! Please! Help me!" she shrieked.
He opted to target the undead in the hopes of questioning the woman in robes afterward. Of course, it could never been that easy. She didn't give him a chance to even cast a spell. The moment she realized he was there, she flew at him, literally. He had a brief glimpse of her hands turning to claws as he changed directions with his scythe to meet her attack. She had moved so fast that he almost couldn't keep up. His blade cut through her robes, making her scream in pain. The unnaturally high-pitched scream was downright disorienting. The four undead nearby were almost as fast. He found himself retreating backward frantically as their powerful blows met his shield and armor. They were inhumanly strong. But the young woman he'd tried to help was in his line of fire. He couldn't risk an energy blade or a bone spear. He threw around some spirit fire to blind them just long enough to cut them apart. Their soft, undead flesh cut easily.
Still reeling from the blows he had taken, he looked around. For a moment, he wasn't even sure he'd gotten all of them. Even after cutting off limbs, they had continued the attack. The woman in the robes was literally cut to pieces before she stopped. He turned to eye every shadow of every rock before finally turning his attention back to the woman he had rescued. The screaming alone made him more than half expect more to come running. The young woman sobbed hysterically, as she sat on the ground a few feet away. Seeing him approaching, she suddenly found the strength to crawl away in panic. He hooked his scythe and put his hands out at his sides.
"Are you injured?" he asked, keeping his distance.
"They're deranged!" she screamed. "Said I had to let their monsters feed on me!"
"You're safe now," he said soothingly. "If you follow that trail to the west, you will find a village."
"Safe?" the woman wailed. "Nothing is safe in this gods' forsaken desert!"
He sighed mentally. He needed her to calm down. The constant shrieking and wailing wasn't just grating on his nerves, it was going to bring something probably even nastier out of the deserts for their warm blood and flesh. He made a calming motion with his hands.
"I will guide you to the village."
The woman's hysterical tears turned into hysterical laughter.
"A necromancer? Guide me to safety?"
He had totally expected to be called “death mage”, as was typical of most people. Instead of being relieved that she hadn't, it made him pause to consider her more closely. Her almost comical over-the-top hysterics combined with her vocabulary usage made him eye her clothing. She was dressed in rather expensive layers of satin, not silks. They were well-made but clearly had been worn for several days at the very least. While dusty and dirty, they were not torn or ragged. Between the quality of the clothes and her education, he guessed her to be the daughter of someone with money. It didn't seem likely she was nobility. There was at least some small chance she would be practical enough to listen to him once she calmed down.
Sensing he wasn't going to get anywhere with her at the moment, he turned his attention to the black-robed woman he had literally cut to pieces. He pulled the silver mask off. He wasn't entirely surprised to find she was as white as him, a vampire. Now he understood that familiar, yet unfamiliar, taint about them. He had seen something similar around the Bloodsworn. Still, even most vampire nests don't go about building armies. And there was something very different about this curse from what he had seen on the Bloodsworn.
While he let the woman rant and cry herself to exhaustion, he inspected the other corpses. They had definitely been undead. But there was no necromancy here. These were victims resurrected by the vampire's curse.
Thralls. And they're building an army. This can't be good.
After a few minutes, he began to place her mixed accent. While babbling hysterical, she seemed to lean one way. When slightly calmer and speaking in longer sentences, it went a completely different direction. By his estimate, she was not originally born to money. She had learned her affected nature from years of finishing school, most likely. He moved off to the side to stand in the shade of another rock while the woman babbled and cried herself out. When it seemed she was finally winding down, he tried approaching her again. He tossed a water skin on the ground in front of her. She looked up at him fearfully.
"I will guide you to the village," he told her soothingly. "It's not far from here."
She looked around fearfully as if wanting a way out.
"There is nowhere else to go, right now. And worse things than vampires call this desert home," he warned her softly.
She eyed him warily, ignoring the water skin. He almost offered to just send her back to Westmarch, though he doubted she would believe him, anyway. More to the point, he needed some information from her. If there were more survivors, he might as well wait and gather them all at once. While she continued to stare at him as if he was going to curse her at any moment, he just shook his head and turned back toward the village.
"No! Don't leave me out here!" she screamed, scrambling to her feet.
"I won't, as long as you follow me," he told her over his shoulder while he continued walking slowly.
After a few more seconds, he heard her pick up the water skin and come running after him. He mentally shook his head again. Well, at least she had some sense.
"Drink the water," he told her gently. "It's not poisoned. But the heat out here will kill you if you're not careful."
"I just want to go home," she cried pathetically.
"Where is home?" he asked her softly.
"Kingsport," she sniffled.
"Where were they taking you?"
"A camp to the east. The whole ship went with them. Everyone's caught up in their madness. Nobody else even ran!" she told him, nearly wailing again.
He just nodded, not wanting her to get more worked up and noisy with more of his questions. A few minutes later, the walls of the village came into view on the horizon. He paused to face her. She backed up away from him again, still clutching the water skin to her breast as it were some sort of magical talisman. He nearly snickered mentally at the idea. Given how preciously important water was in a place like this, it wasn't far off the mark. Instead, he kept his expression serene as he pointed toward the walls in the distance.
"Follow the path to that village. Ask for Peth or Tabri. Tell them Pyresong sent you. I will return there with any other survivors when I'm finished, and I will see what we can do to get you home," he said, ignoring her reaction.
"Pyresong? What the hells kind of name is that?" she asked, her eyes wide and terrified again. "I'm not walking into another crazy bunch of murderers! You said you would—"
His already thin veil of patience was worn right through when she began to shrieking like an enraged phantom all over again. He wanted to get to that nest and see what was going on before the sunset. He already knew he was dealing with vampires, and they were always weaker in the daylight. At this point, he had neither the patience nor the tolerance for her screaming. Some darker part of him wanted to scare her badly enough to give her a valid reason to scream just to teach her the difference. The rest of him wanted her off his hands before his ears started bleeding.
Giving up on words altogether, he made his decision and went with it. She gave a frightened squeal when he moved too quickly for her to get away. He gripped her as gently but firmly as he could by the arm, now dragging her toward the village. She began screaming and wailing hysterically all over again. Mentally he just sighed, contemplating a sleeping curse and a bone golem to carry her.
"Let me go! Let me go!" she shrieked, her voice carrying almost painfully across the dunes.
"Who goes there?" a man shouted from behind some nearby rocks.
"Master Pyresong of the Amber Blades," he called back as the man showed himself.
"Pyresong! It's good to see you!" the man called, lowering his mask.
He only vaguely recalled the man as one he'd fought beside during the Lacuni attacks. He released his grip on the woman's arm while he turned to shake hands with the sentry. She crumpled to the ground sobbing hysterically again. For one second he thought her a toddler in the midst of a temper tantrum.
"What is this?" the man asked curiously.
"I rescued her from the 'cultists'. They're vampires," he explained far more calmly than he felt at the moment. "I was trying to get her back to the village until I could help get her and any other survivors home. I need you to send word to Tabri and Peth that they are vampires. And I will be doing what I can to stop them."
"Understood," the man said.
He took several steps back from the hysterical woman to let the man approach her. She gratefully accepted the man's hand and then clung to him, still wailing. Despite his irritation and profound relief, Pyresong kept his expression serene while she threw him several more fearful looks over her shoulder. At least she was off his hands now. Some pettier part of him hoped this experience would go a long way in teaching her some very valuable life lessons. For a few seconds, he had been highly tempted to gag her. But he was being too harsh, and he knew it. He quickly shook it off and focused on what lay ahead.
Turning his attention back to the east, he jogged back to where he'd left the bodies. The heat was already making him tired. He had never been further east than that dock where he'd arrived. And, of course, he had no useful map of that area. Standing near the rocks, he scanned ahead. He almost considered going back to the village and seeing if Peth could give him a map. Maybe he would be better off coming back earlier in the daytime. Then he spied the clear trails of footpaths leading up to some red sandstone cliffs in the distance. It should be enough. Besides, going back for a map would mean having to come back the next day if he wanted to catch them at their weakest.
Before he could make a firm decision on how to proceed, the sound of several voices to his right made him duck back behind the rocks to the side of the path. There was another group of people gathering at the dock. He inched his way around the rocks to get a better look. At least twenty people and a couple of the robed missionaries were standing around waiting for another group. It was too good of an opportunity to waste. He quickly made sure the other bodies were far enough back behind the rocks not to catch their attention when they would pass this way later. At least this way, he might not have to fight his way through to the nest. He hooked his shield and scythe put his hands out at his sides in a non-threatening gesture as he came around the rocks.
"I come to hear the word of our savior," he called. "The blood has called to me."
Several of them spun around, startled by his arrival. The two in black robes shared a look, and one of them nodded.
"All are welcome," a man behind a mask said smoothly. "Join us."
He bowed respectfully, priest to priest. When he rose from his bow, the two missionaries seemed considerably less tense as they returned the courtesy. Several people milling about waiting for others backed away from him as he joined them. Briefly, he eyed each one but kept his eyes mostly on the missionaries. He pasted on a vague scowl and crossed his arms to wait patiently. The next boat of people arrived shortly after, making for a total of roughly thirty. Making his distaste for these others blatantly obvious, he opted to keep himself visibly separated. Thankfully, none of the others dared approach him. He followed along behind the group, trailed by two more black robes. All of the people ahead of him were such a variety he couldn't find any pattern. The wealthy, the poor, the workers, they were all welcome. He was just grateful he didn't see any children among them.
They took a path along to the northeast that followed a red sandstone cliff that rose high above them. All along the path, he spotted more of the missionaries calling happy and friendly greetings from behind their silver masks. Above them, he could make out the faint movements of many more on the cliffs. They were led to the small mouth of a canyon that looked to have been inhabited by a much older, likely lost culture of the desert. The carvings in the sandstone were reminiscent of what he had seen in the ancient cities and tombs of the area. As they all filed through the gates, they were greeted by one missionary who radiated dark magic as well as the obvious curse to his vision. This one practically radiated the curse visibly.
"Greetings, favored ones!" the man called happily. "Do join us! Your long travail is at an end!"
The others talked excitedly as they passed through the gates into the camp sheltered within the narrow canyon. All around them were open tents and awnings with various goods and even tables full of food and wine ready for the taking. All were invited to partake. Many acted as though it was a celebration. When Pyresong approached the gates, though, the one that had greeted, the others eyed him closely.
"I don't recognize you," the deep, gravelly voice behind the mask said suspiciously. "Are you among the favored?"
He bowed low and reverently again, priest to priest. "I have heard the word of the blood and wish to learn more."
"Yet you come before us whole and unmarked," the man said darkly. "What do you offer?"
He smiled coldly. "My blood. It is more powerful than these...commoners," he finished with clear disgust.
As expected, he felt himself being probed with magic and lowered his shields. After a few seconds, the priest nodded.
"You do understand," the priest said happily and then motioned for him to enter. "Please, enjoy the...activities to come."
He bowed low again. By this point, his heart was beginning to race. He'd literally just walked right into a nest of vampires. Hoping he hadn't been marked as a threat with his little introduction, he approached the table with various wines and selected one at random. Unsure what to expect, he didn't dare actually drink it. The man next to him looked to have had more than his fair share of the proffered wines. That, at least, gave him some assurance that it wasn't drugged. The man didn't move away the moment he saw a Priest of Rathma. He took it as a good sign.
"Free food! Free wine! If I'd known the desert was this good, I would have been here years ago," the man slurred happily. "Why do they even call it a desert?"
"You need to leave here. Quickly and quietly," he whispered, pretending to take a sip of his wine.
"Absolutely not!" the man all but yelled. "This place is great!"
He shook his head mentally. This one was clearly too drunk. Maybe he would have more luck elsewhere. Looking around, he realized the new arrivals were all mingling with several more in masks. The whole small canyon had the feel of a celebration. He even caught sight of a couple dancing animatedly. He moved slowly through the crowd, looking for anyone who might be the least bit wary. If he could warn at least one person...
He caught sight of a young woman sitting off to the side, away from the others, watching everyone else. When her dark eyes fell on him, they narrowed suspiciously. Keeping a vague smile on his face, he wove his way around the tents and tables toward her. He paused to look at some items on one stall table while watching her out of the corner of his eye. She definitely hadn't been changed yet. But she didn't mingle with the rest of the newcomers either. Did someone else come to investigate? While he pretended to browse the various foods before him, he watched her approaching out of the corner of his eyes. He turned to meet her with a smile.
"There is such desperation in you. The worry drags at your soul. Let it be for just one night," she told him, pasting on a blatantly fake smile.
He smiled back and whispered. "It is dangerous here. Don't trust the preachers—get out, now."
Now her smile was real and predatory. "He is free with His blessings if you are willing to suffer a little sting."
Damn, he swore silently, knowing he'd given himself away.
Before she could alert the others, though, another missionary called out to the crowd, drawing everyone's attention.
"He is near! The pure will be blessed and shed their every woe! Gone is weakness! Gone is death! Make your offerings now!"
At some point in the last few minutes, several more of the black-robed missionaries had joined them in the little canyon. Almost before he could comprehend what was happening, the black robes were holding the people in place. Terrified screams echoed through the canyon. A giant swarm of bats seemed to materialize out of nowhere. The numerous bats began attacking the helpless newcomers. Sensing one of the robes coming up behind him, he threw back his elbow, crushing the man's mask. He felt the satisfying crunch of the man's nose as fell back. He grabbed his scythe off his belt. He swung around, cutting the vampire's head off.
"My blood is yours!" one of the onlookers screamed.
When he turned to take on the next one, he caught sight of the bats condensing in the middle of the canyon. Already they had harvested the blood of every other living person. What was left was being given to the robes and the thralls now pouring into the little canyon. The whole thing was so fast that he almost couldn't track everything visually. Then the bats coalesced into a vampire lord that spread its fleshy wings. Without a sound, it launched itself upward and out of the canyon. He had no time to even attempt to attack the thing as it left behind at least two score thralls and a handful of followers to attack him.
In an attempt to remain free, he put his back to a wall while he summoned a couple of bone golems. They were already moving to surround him. He began slinging blades of energy off his scythe in every direction as fast as he could. But there were just too many and far too fast. Even his golems couldn't stop all of them. And these were no mindless undead. The thralls were happy to go after the fresh food. But the robes knew what they were doing. They ignored the golems to get to him and his fresh blood. And a couple of thralls quickly shattered his golems seconds later.
Using the handful of corpses he'd managed to create, he set off corpse explosion. This managed to create some distance but did nothing to stop the black-robed vampires or their thralls from closing in again. He shielded himself as strongly as he could and began throwing flames in every direction. The one thing he was certain they were afraid of was fire. He dropped his physical shield to the ground so he could alternate between flames and bone spears with his left hand while he slung more blades of energy with this scythe. The black-robed figures quickly left the melee to their thralls.
Everywhere their claws stabbed and raked any exposed flesh. More than once, he very nearly felt his thin plates of armor almost being torn apart with their inhuman strength. Even the damaged thralls just got right back up and came at him again. He knew he was going to be overwhelmed any second. If even one of them got their fangs in him anywhere... He reinforced his shields with everything he could muster. He blasted outward with bone spears and flames and spirit fire. At the same time, he tried to concentrate on calling enough restless spirits to unleash bone spirits, maybe. His concentration on that slipped as one mindless thrall grabbed his left arm and pulled it toward their fangs. Instead, he was about to go into wraith form to escape them in his near panic.
Suddenly, the thralls and vampires were being cut down by something behind them. It moved almost too quickly for him to see. And it was powerful enough with its long weapon that bodies were flying through the air away from them. He was in no position to question his good fortune anyway. He had been a thought away from going into wraith form to escape, knowing he was about to lose this battle. That one heartbeat of distraction afforded him the chance to wrest his arm away by blasting outward again with spirit fire. Just narrowly avoiding being bitten. His heart was racing with fear at this point. He turned to meet more attacking thralls. He sliced viciously again and again. Ignoring the numerous blows he took from so many of them, he let the corpses pile up for a few seconds.
"Run away from here!" he shouted a warning to the other fighter. "Corpse explosion!"
He didn't wait to see if they listened. He sent a giant wave of power outward that detonated every one of the dozens of corpses throughout the entire canyon. There were so many corpses, and the explosions were so powerful they destroyed almost everything in the canyon. Every tent, every shack, every table was gone in an instant. When the dust began to settle, there were no more vampires or thralls left to attack. His chest heaving from the exertion, he spun around with his scythe ready when a woman with white hair in red armor jumped down from a rooftop nearby. Catching sight of her red eyes and pale face, he sent a trickle of energy into his scythe.
"Who are you?" he asked warily.
She bowed to him, knight to priest. Pyresong wasn't about to let his guard down with this thing. Instead of acknowledging the insult of him not returning the bow, she smiled widely, showing him her fangs.
"I am called Mariki. I am a Blood Knight," she explained. "The abomination you witnessed is Bellon. His plague of thralldom will grow if he is not stopped. I appreciate your attempt."
"Blood Knight? You're a vampire."
"No," she cut him off angrily. "I am cursed, yes, but I am no vampire. Just as you are no death mage."
After a moment, he reclaimed the energy from his blade but remained wary. He struggled to slow his breathing as he did a mental inventory of his injuries.
"If you know how to find this monster, speak on."
Mariki sighed. "I am not truly certain. I thought I had slain Bellon, and here he is, bleeding a flock. But I have the means to deal with him. Join me."
"I will...so long as you explain yourself."
Mariki smiled at his suspicious tone. "I will tell you everything you need to know—not an utterance more, dear."
He cocked a chilly eyebrow at her comment and tone. Still not taking his eyes off of her, he reached for one of his more potent healing potions. He was bleeding from dozens of wounds, many of them deeper than he would like to contemplate right now. So far as he could tell, none of them had been actual bites. He shuddered mentally and shoved that idea aside.
"I have a hideaway nearby. Let's go."
Before he could respond, she opened a black swirling portal and stepped through. Quickly he downed the healing potion and retrieved his shield from where he'd dropped it in the melee. He muttered some profanities under his breath. He didn't like this at all. He felt like he'd stepped into the middle of a private dispute of some kind. But a vampire lord raising an army of thralls could not be ignored. Shielding himself and keeping his scythe ready, he stepped through the portal, still half expecting an ambush. On the other side, he found the Blood Knight waiting for him patiently standing before the entrance to a tomb he vaguely recognized as another monument to Fahir. Seeing that he wasn't immediately attacked, he relaxed slightly.
"One of Fahir's chambers? Is this safe?"
Mariki laughed and then taunted him. "Is anything? You followed me this far. What's a little further?"
He couldn't help grinning in amusement. He had once used the very same words on Kashya. He was still wary. Though, given what he'd seen of her attacking those other vampires and thralls, he had to admit that if she wanted him dead or vampire-cursed, all she had to do was leave him to his fight earlier. As if seeing what was going on behind his eyes, she grinned wickedly in return, clearly enjoying unsettling him with her fangs.
"There is a gate within," she explained. "Only those who have been invited may enter."
"And I can just walk right back out?"
"Of course. We are not the monsters," she told him. "We are the ones that kill the monsters."
He considered his circumstances for a moment longer. He did want her help, but he'd never heard of these Blood Knights before, and he'd been to a lot of places in his lifetime. Her accent told him she was originally from somewhere near Kyovashad in the Fractured Peaks region. She waited patiently while he thought it out for a few seconds. He couldn't see any reason she would want to trap or trick him, but he just couldn't bring himself to trust her that easily.
"Tell me about the Blood Knights and this place."
She nodded and turned to lead the way through the entrance, showing him trust by turning her back on him.
"Like all in our order, we are cursed," she explained as he began to follow at a distance. "And we hunt those responsible. Vampires. The Darkness they forced upon us...we wield it against them. My chapter searches out gatherings of vampire thralls."
"Why have I never heard of you?"
"We keep to ourselves. We also deal with the Knights who succumb to the madness in their blood. Sooner or later, we all do," she finished sadly.
He had to admit, she had given him no reason not to trust her. The idea of walking into a lair of these so-called Blood Knights was not appealing, but he could neither think of nor sense any ulterior motive. She did seem to want his help, and he certainly could use someone with more expertise. He hadn't encountered large nests of vampires like this before. The only other experience he had that even came close was the Bloody Countess and the Bloodsworn. And that had all been related to a shard and its power. So far he had not felt so much as a whisper of a shard in the area.
She was silent for a while as they navigated quietly through the tomb. He could sense the lingering magics in this place. And there were clearly undead here. He could hear them shuffling about in the darkness of the other chambers. Once they had reached a place much deeper in and well past the shambling undead nearby, she began to explain more.
"I sentenced Bellon myself. And brought his keepsake here. It is the very scaffold of his heart. Even with all the power he has stolen, it will help us against him."
She paused in front of a solid stone wall. He looked around again suspiciously.
"You are invited," she stated, opening another portal, this time in the wall itself. "Come with me."
After a moment, he nodded and hooked his scythe on his belt and his shield on his back. He'd made his decision. Despite his suspicions, his every instinct said he could trust her, if not these other Blood Knights he had yet to meet. He bowed to her, priest to knight.
"Master Pyresong."
She returned the bow, knight to priest, with another unsettling smile showing off her fangs. He nearly grinned darkly at her teasing him with them. Unsettling as it was, it also amused him that she persisted as if trying to get a reaction out of him.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance. We have much to discuss," she told him, still grinning.
He let Mariki lead the way through the portal. On the other side, he found a new chamber that seemed completely sealed off by a collapsed entrance that became visible when the portal closed behind them. She waited for him on the stairs as his eyes adjusted to the lower light levels within. It was not completely dark, but there were no more than a few candles in the room beyond.
"The darkness of the world has kept us hidden in places like this one," she explained, her voice tinted with sadness. "It is...rustic. But it's peace of a kind we would not have in the cities. To contain the curse in our blood, we must perform a ritual. A precious one."
She turned to lead the way into the room, nodding to one of the guards watching their arrival. "Though Bellon has fallen, he is a Blood Knight still," she told him over her shoulder.
Once again, he felt as if he'd just walked into something more like a private dispute. But he quickly shoved that aside. He had a multitude of questions about all of this, so many he couldn't even organize them all at the moment. Maybe there would be time later.
In the darkness, he navigated as much by hearing as by sight. Mariki led the way down a corridor and around a corner. The room beyond was a large chamber and very well-lit. To his magical vision, the room was almost blindingly powerful. In the center of the room stood a six-pointed star covered in magic sigils and runes. In its center was a glowing red orb of some kind that was easily four feet in diameter. Mariki approached the star and turned to face him.
"With the blood he has consumed, Bellon's power will be immense. But he could not destroy his keepsake. We will use it and tear the curse from him," she explained.
"What exactly is a 'keepsake'?"
"It is the core of our being. It is an old and potent artifact. Just holding it will give us options."
He watched, still somewhat on edge, when half a dozen other Blood Knights entered the room through another door. They nodded to Mariki, taking up positions all around the room. Several of them eyed him in surprise and curiosity. Watching them mostly out of the corner of his eyes, he was relieved to note no hostility, at least. Despite his instincts telling him he could trust them, he couldn't help being uncomfortable seeing himself effectively surrounded by vampires for the second time today. Mariki raised a hand, and he heard the giant doors behind him slamming shut. He sensed the surge of power when she sealed the room. He fought the urge to tense up again, half expecting a trap.
"A...guest? Unexpected," one of the others commented.
"He is here to help us," she explained.
"At your word, Mariki," another one said.
"What option do you have in mind?" he asked her, forcing himself to focus.
She motioned him to follow her to the left of the room, where something that resembled an altar stood with a couple of braziers on either side of it. On the velvet-covered table were several items, most of which he could not identify at a distance.
"We should be able to destroy the keepsake at one of our cenotaphs—the star or the orb. That is a dark end for a Knight—certain condemnation. But a mercy for the monster he has become," Mariki told him coldly. "Bellon has lived decades as a thrall. His curse is deep. Even with his keepsake intact...I doubt he remembers the life he had. That would be an...unlucky thing."
When he considered it in a more relatable form, it was not so very different than other things he'd encountered. Enraged phantoms, for one. After a while, they forgot the human that they had once been. And he couldn't quite figure out what a keepsake actually was or what role it would play in this. Even so, her words made sense. But he found this whole thing with the Blood Knights hard to believe. Still, if she knew of a way to destroy this vampire lord and keep him from claiming more lives and upsetting the Balance further, he was all in.
"What—"
His question was cut off by a powerful blast against the doors Mariki had just sealed seconds ago. A second, even more powerful blast followed.
"Give me the keepsake! Fools!" a dark and twisted voice raged at them through the doors.
The magical enhancement in the voice demanded instant obedience. It jarred Pyresong for a moment. He fought to shake off the compulsion as he turned back to Mariki. He quickly reinforced his arcane and mental shields to stop it as he regained his equilibrium.
"Prepare yourself!" Mariki warned.
She opened a box on the altar and took out something red that he barely saw. Then she turned back toward the center of the room. Grabbing his scythe, he followed closely. Bellon beat at the doors both physically and magically. Almost before they got back to the cenotaph in the center, the doors exploded into pieces. He raised his shield and ducked to avoid some of the stone fragments. One razor-sharp fragment flew so forcefully it went right through his faulds and caught his leg, a glancing blow on the unprotected calf sending him to one knee. Ignoring the pain, he jumped back to his feet as Mariki spun around to face Bellon.
"You don't know how to wait, do you?" Mariki taunted.
She motioned to the others standing around the room waiting to attack the vampire lord. Meanwhile she moved to stand directly between the vampire lord and the necromancer. Until the moment she dropped it, he hadn't realized she was hiding it behind her back and under her cloak. The red, crystalline thing initially had him flinching away thinking it was a Worldstone shard. Then his startled thoughts caught up to the fact that it couldn't possibly be another shard. He hadn't felt it, for one thing. And, for another, she had said she was getting the keepsake right before Bellon tried to blast his way into here. Mariki confirmed his thoughts a heartbeat later.
"Take this to the other cenotaph. Shatter the keepsake," she hissed to him over her shoulder and then turned to confront Bellon with the others.
Pyresong had no idea what he was doing. And there was no time to ask, either. Already three of the other Blood Knights were down after the first engagement with the powerful vampire lord. More were coming through the shattered doors to join the fight. He hooked his scythe on his belt and snatched up the keepsake. What little power it did radiate felt violent and angry but not coercive or sentient at all.
As he took off running in the direction she had pointed, Mariki screamed and jumped into the battle with Bellon. Behind him, he felt the doors he'd just exited through slamming and sealing with magic. She had closed herself in with Bellon to buy him time. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with the crystalline thing he now carried. He just hoped it would be obvious when he got to this other cenotaph.
Racing down the wide, dark corridor, he felt the blood pouring down his calf and into his boot where the stone had cut him. With no time to tend it, he shoved the keepsake in his side satchel and grabbed a healing potion that would at least stop the bleeding for a while. In the dim light, he nearly slammed right into a set of stairs that led up to another level. Once he regained his footing, he raced up them three at a time. This opened into another even larger circular chamber, but there was no sign of the star or orb. This looked like some kind of study or library, lined with tables and desks. Across the room, he spied another couple of large doors. With no other direction to go, he ran through the room and shoved them open. Beyond another short corridor, he spied another one of those six-pointed stars. But this one didn't have the glowing orb. Instead, there was some kind of golden pedestal. To his magical vision, it still radiated a huge amount of power.
This has to be the right place, he thought. But how do I destroy the damned thing?
He approached the pedestal in the middle of the room. It was shaped just like the keepsake, like two cones fused together. At the very top there was a sort of hole in the middle that looked like it might be the right size to hold the crystalline keepsake. Having no better ideas, he reached into his side satchel. The moment his gloved hand encountered the keepsake, he realized he had made a critical mistake. He had underestimated it the moment he confirmed it wasn't anything related to a Worldstone shard.
Even with his hand gloved and heavily shielded, the thing fought him with an intelligence of its own, one that was frighteningly familiar. It knew it was about to be destroyed and it had no intention of letting him do so. It pulled and pushed and latched on to his hand with its own powerful energies, anything to keep itself away from that pedestal. For several seconds, his mental and magical shields were battered in a way that was so similar to the Worldstone shards it terrified him. It wasn't trying to take control of the as the shards had, though. It was actively fighting against him to get away from this place. Faint images and sounds screamed through his mind in a blur as it tried to tell him something he did not want to hear.
He blocked everything out and focused his entire being on just getting that crystal into the hole at the top of the pedestal. By the time he managed to even focus his eyes on it, he was shaking with the effort to move at all. His chest was already heaving from running and now squeezed painfully from the force of whatever was assaulting him until he couldn't breathe. He threw even that frighting thought away. He didn't need to breathe. He just had to get that keepsake into the hole, then he could breathe. His vision narrowed to that one thing, only inches away.
He knew he'd lost the battle when his vision went red. The whole whole scene in front of him exploded with red blood magic that left him unable to see or think or even move. The thing had won, and he was only dimly aware of his knees hitting the floor an instant before his head collided with the edge of the pedestal.
When Pyresong opened his eyes, he realized he was standing in a house facing a desk full of parchments and books. Almost before he could even make sense of this, he realized he couldn't feel his body. He had no control! Mentally he thrashed around for a minute, trying to even remember who he was. He couldn't even feel his heart racing in fear.
Am I dead? he wondered.
He tried to look down at himself or even move his hand. There was nothing! Then the scene of the desk shifted, as if coming closer. When he calmed enough to actually think, he realized he was in someone's body, not unlike when he'd explored Kulle's memories of the fight against Baal with Tal Rasha. The person he was currently a passenger inside of walked up to the desk and picked up a parchment.
Bellon,
I have need of your talents again. There's a menace on the
outskirts, tearing through the livestock and striking unholy
fear in the commoners. I sent some of the hedgefolk, but
they're unreliable. This must be solved before anyone else
decides to quit our lands.
Write as soon as you can. I'll come see you off.
-Edelard
No longer panicking mindlessly, he watched while the large hand placed the parchment back on the desk and picked up another one with more writing. It was another letter. He suspected it was somehow Bellon's memories he was seeing. Clearly, there was something here he was meant to see. The keepsake had to be behind this somehow. He had no idea what all of this meant or even how to get out of it. All he could hope for was that he learned something useful in here. He prayed he wasn't a prisoner, trapped inside the keepsake itself somehow.
Catherien,
My deepest apologies for borrowing your lord husband. The
hedgefolk are fearful of these monsters, and the estate will
not survive and exodus. Not everyone has the means to
protect themselves and those of us who have much indeed
are obligated to be generous in their defense, as we are in
all other walks of life.
-Edelard
Calming considerably, he took note of the two letters. He took in every detail of his surroundings that he could see as Bellon picked up yet another parchment.
I wish it were only wolves. These things walk like men; I'm
told they drag their nails along the ground until they
splinter. Their skin is withered, and they reek. But they do
bleed. I know you hardly want for skill at arms, but I have
something that will help you put them down.
-Edelard
The large, pale hand set this latest one on the desk to pull out another that had been folded and nearly concealed under a book.
From your lack of response, I assume you see the rightness
of my proposal. Bellon will be gone only as long as he must,
and I will ensure that no harm whatsoever comes to you
while he is serving in the realm's defense. Know that you will
always have a place of safety where I am and that whatever
you require I can see done.
-Edelard
"I knew you wouldn't go without saying goodbye," a woman's voice spoke up behind Bellon.
Bellon turned, and Pyresong found a woman with long, honey-colored hair and dark brown eyes. Her delicate features spoke of a natural beauty and elegance he had rarely seen in his life. Her beauty was marred only slightly by the delicate brows furrowed in concern.
"Can't you tell him no?" she pleaded with Bellon.
He heard Bellon sigh as he walked toward the woman. He tried to place her accent. It wasn't pure anything but sounded like something possibly from southern Scosglen mixed with the Fractured Peaks region.
"Who else does Edelard have? A bunch of peasant levees? Come now. I've killed plenty of beasts," he heard Bellon reply, with clear tones of Fractured Peaks in his accent.
"Confidence might be your best quality, Bellon," a new voice called out from the doorway. "After good taste."
The young man in the doorway eyed the woman with a smile that made him instantly think it had a leering quality. There was a friendliness, yes, but something more that didn't feel quite right. But, since he was riding in Bellon's mind right now, he didn't have enough control to see what expression the woman was wearing in response. Bellon had looked up to the new arrival, basically moving her out of his line of sight. Bellon stepped around the woman he assumed was Catherien to shake hands with this young, expensively dressed younger man.
"Edelard, welcome," Bellon said warmly.
"There's a nest of them not far off. I've drawn you a map. Twenty gold for every skull you bring back. I'll take ears, too, if they're clean," Edelard said.
This one's accent was almost pure Fractured Peaks, definitely from Kyovashad's upper class. Pyresong still had no idea where this was actually happening, but this Edelard looked nothing like a country lord. By the look of the perfectly combed dark hair and expensive clothing, he would fit right in in Westmarch. He watched when Edelard pulled something out of his pocket to hand to Bellon.
"Carry this sigil. I'm told it's good for protection against monsters," Edelard said.
He caught a brief glimpse of the silver talisman in Bellon's open hand before he shoved it into a pocket. It looked like some kind of magic talisman, but from what he could tell, it was nonsense. He had seen enough in his life to know when a sigil or seal was real, even without his magical vision. His help with Cain's work as well as browsing the old man's library, had taught him that much more. This supposed talisman looked brand new, too, like it had just been made a day ago by someone who knew only vaguely what real magic talismans looked like.
He refocused his thoughts on Edelard as the man smiled in a way that was likely meant to be comforting but actually came off rather slimy to the necromancer.
"And don't worry for Catherien. I'll have the fellows watch out for her. I vow it."
"Thank you, Lord Edelard. But I'll be back in no time at all," Bellon replied casually.
He gave Edelard a respectful bow they Pyresong couldn't see. But Edelard's return bow was noble to lord. Then Bellon turned to his wife and embraced her. He kissed her forehead tenderly.
"Catherien...soon, love."
"Safety, beloved," she whispered back, caressing his face. "Be careful."
With that, Bellon marched heavily out the door of his rather expansive house. Just beyond the doors, it was dark and rainy. He turned toward his left and began walking down the muddy street out of the manor courtyard. Every face turned his direction with a smile. He offered all of the gathered workers a friendly smile and nod or wave as he passed them. Pyresong could easily see that this man was no petty tyrant ruling over his people with an iron fist. Bellon appeared well-liked by all of them as far as he could tell.
Just as Bellon passed through the outer gates, the scene went dark and then misted over red as it faded into a new area. Now Bellon was walking into what looked like a tiny village in the middle of the night. There were no more than a handful of cottages gathered around a well in the center. All over the ground lay the mutilated bodies of men, women, and children. Bellon stopped to sniff.
"Ugh," he said in disgust. "Doesn't smell like the spoor of any beast I've seen. Rancid! What are they?"
Undead thralls, Pyresong thought, already seeing where this was going.
Still, all he could do was watch helplessly. Bellon stomped into the open space with all the bodies, not even trying to conceal his presence. As Pyresong had expected, a horde of thralls soon came rushing out of the shadows in every direction. Bellon began firing on them with his heavy crossbow. It didn't even slow them down. The bolts ripped right through the soft, undead flesh and kept going. These were nowhere near as fast as some of the ones he had encountered, but they weren't exactly shambling, mindless corpses, either. They could smell his warm blood waiting for them. Bellon backed up, still firing frantically. With his other hand, he pulled the talisman out of a pocket and held it up in front of himself to ward off the creatures. Of course, it did nothing but waste a free hand that he could have otherwise put to better use.
"The sigil...failed...why?" Bellon muttered in shock.
Because it was never meant to work, Pyresong thought darkly.
In seconds, Bellon was surrounded and overwhelmed. A random thought flickered through his mind wondering what would become of himself being trapped in a dying body, but he reminded himself this was just a memory. Yes, he was trapped. But his body wasn't here, and—he hoped—neither was his soul. Whatever was happening to him, he was unable to stop or escape. Bellon's eyes were closed by the point the thralls started biting him. He could hear the man screaming in fear and pain. His own fear of having so nearly been bitten himself rose to the surface. He shuddered mentally at the sounds of sucking he could hear in the darkness around him. He had been more than a little lucky with Mariki's arrival. Some part of him knew this could so easily have been his own experience.
Beyond the screams, he could hear the sounds of a woman battling and killing the thralls. He couldn't help thinking it was familiar. Bellon's eyes opened slowly to slits. Pyresong realized he was now lying on the muddy ground, looking up at Mariki.
"Decent showing for a rube," she said casually, her red eyes flashing with amusement. "I'm sure you'll be good for the pledge if you wake up."
Bellon groaned pathetically, too weak from blood loss to speak. He, too, was helpless as they watched Mariki's hands glowing. On the ground all around Bellon appeared a magic circle. Though Pyresong could feel nothing in this state—not even Bellon's fear or panic—he sensed the man's struggles to get away from whatever she was doing. Then his eyes opened wide when his body levitated off the ground in the middle of the magical seal Mariki made around him. Both Bellon and Pyresong were plunged into darkness a moment later.
Sometime later, Bellon's eyes opened again, making Pyresong aware once more. Bellon was again lying in the mud in the middle of the tiny village amid the other human bodies. Mariki, standing over him, offered him a hand up.
"You made it through," she commented happily. "Most don't. That's a promising start."
Bellon ignored her hand and scrambled to his feet. "W-what did you do to me? What are you?"
"I'm Mariki. A Blood Knight. You were becoming one of them," she pointed at one of the many dead thralls. "I saved you."
Bellon took a couple of deep breaths that sounded on the edge of panic. "I feel...fevered. Starved. Like I'm losing my mind. What's happening to me?"
"Their curse is in your blood," Mariki explained calmly. "I slowed it, but it will change you. I need your promise that you will work with us at our chapter house. Someone there can show you how to keep it at bay."
"You're conscripting me?" Bellon asked incredulously. "I already serve someone. You have no right!"
"I've been where you are," Mariki said more forcefully, "and I'm still standing here to talk to you. A person, not a monster. That gives me all the right I need. Now come on. You don't have long."
Pyresong didn't want to agree with her. He could empathize with Bellon in this case. But, at the same time, she had a point. If given a choice, he would likely have chosen death for himself. But Bellon hadn't even been given that option. Mindless thrall or Blood Knight had been his only options.
"This is too much," Bellon said. "I'm not going with you. What about my life?"
Mariki's expression was sad for a moment. Her voice was much softer, filled with compassion when she spoke next.
"Your cursed blood is your life now. It decides. And if you are not with us, you'll be just like the thralls before the week is out. I won't take that risk. Would you rather be dead? I can make that happen if you prefer. At least now, you have a choice."
Bellon was quiet for a moment as he gave the option serious consideration. But Pyresong already knew that was not how this ended. Mariki stood by passively while he thought about it. She made no moves to sway his decision one way or the other. The world went dark again for a second when Bellon closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
"I'll...all right. But I need to tell Catherien, my wife. Can I at least say goodbye?"
Mariki frowned and almost looked like she was going to say no. But then she shook her head and relaxed.
"Fine. I will give you that. If closure is what you need to move on, I will allow it. It's more than I got with my daughters. But I will be with you."
Daughters? Pyresong wondered but quickly let it go.
Bellon nodded again and the vision went reddish black.
The next time Bellon opened his eyes, he was in the doorway to his study at home. Edelard was holding Catherien from behind. His hands groped her chest while he nuzzled her neck.
"Consider your options, Catherien..." Edelard crooned.
"You slime! It's not been a week!" she shrieked, trying to pull away.
Bellon stomped heavily into the room. His breathing ragged to Pyresong's hearing. The couple turned to face him in absolute shock.
"Bell! What happened to you?" Catherien asked, clearly horrified by whatever she saw.
"Your sigil was a lie!" Bellon roared. "You did this to me! You wanted me out of the way!"
He flew forward so fast it felt like he teleported across the room. Pyresong winced mentally when the enraged Bellon grabbed each of them by the neck, one in each inhumanly powerful hand, and ripped their throats out. A heartbeat too late, Mariki was there, blasting him back away from the bodies with a glowing red hand. Instantly Bellon was back on his feet.
"She didn't even see me! And you made me this way!" Bellon raged.
"Bellon! Stop! Restrain yourself!"
Bellon's scream of unbridled rage held no words but contained all the helplessness of a person gone mad. He screamed again, and out of the corner of his vision, Pyresong saw two fleshy, demonic wings sprouting from Bellon's back. Not for the first time in all of this, he was thankful he could not feel anything. Given what Bellon had looked like in the few seconds he'd seen him in the chapterhouse and canyon, he imagined the transformation was painful. Mariki watched in clear disappointment.
"You're fallen. I should never have given you a second chance."
Bellon turned to fly right at her in a vicious attack, but her glowing red hand stopped him. Another even more intricate and powerful blood-red seal began glowing around him, putting up a barrier. Bellon raged and screamed and fought against whatever the magic was doing to him.
"I will haunt you until my soul is wind!" Bellon screamed as he was pulled apart by her power.
Again the world faded into a bloody black mist for Pyresong.
When he opened his eyes again, his heart was racing, and his head was pounding. He gasped for breath, disoriented. Finally able to feel his own body again, he almost wished he couldn't. His head hurt so much that even moving his eyes was painful. He blinked several times before he was able to see that the keepsake was hovering above the slot on top of the pedestal. Now it was glowing a violent red but no longer lashing out at him. He was glad to be rid of it, but it wasn't breaking!
He got to his knees, fighting off the blinding headache and dizziness. Only then did he feel the sticky blood pouring down his forehead and face. He quickly reached for a healing potion on his belt, not even bothering to look at what type. Anything was better than the blinding pain in his head. He swayed on his knees, even reaching out to the pedestal with one hand to steady himself. As the warmth of the healing potion spread, easing the pain slightly and slowing the flow of blood, he eyed the keepsake. He'd gotten it here, but it wasn't destroyed.
Something in Bellon wants revenge. It's holding his keepsake together, he thought vaguely, not even entirely sure he was thinking clearly.
The only thing he could think of was getting it back to Mariki. Slightly more steady than he was a minute ago, he reached out for the cursed object. Every instinct screamed at him not to. But he had been unable to shatter it, even here. As he took it back to his gloved hand, he held his breath. This time it didn't fight. He wasn't sure if he'd been unconscious for minutes or hours. By the feel of the blood across his forehead and face, probably no more than a few minutes. Pushing aside his pain, he began to race back toward the cenotaph, where he could hear the battle raging between the vampire lord and the Blood Knight. He found Mariki holding back Bellon with a powerful magical shield.
"Mariki! He's shielding the stone!" Pyresong called from the doorway.
"Of course," Mariki called, panting with the effort of holding the shield. "He won't let go of the curse."
"I will bury it in your heart!" Bellon raged, thrashing at the shield. "Make you feel..."
Bellon stopped thrashing for a moment, glaring balefully at Mariki. Then he screamed, unleashing all his gathered power from all of his victims. The shield shattered with enough force to throw Mariki across the room.
"You will remember as I do!" Bellon screamed.
"You weren't ready. I mistook you. I am truly sorry," Mariki apologized, struggling to her feet. “I know you can never forgive me, Bellon. So I will give you what you ask.”
The vampire lord froze in shock, eyeing her as if her words were some sort of trap. Pyresong watched in mute shock as Mariki dropped her weapon and put her hands together. A second later, another keepsake materialized between her gloved hands. Her hands twisted into wicked claws as the rest of her body writhed painfully, changing. Bellon laughed maniacally when Mariki began her own horrifically painful transformation. The keepsake fell to the ground at her feet.
"Now we are both fallen!" she screamed in pure, wicked rage.
"Yes! At last!" Bellon roared triumphantly.
Helpless, Pyresong watched while she launched her now twisted form at the vampire lord. Now they fought on a level the necromancer couldn't even hope to keep up with. Between the inhuman strength and speed, it was all he could do to get out of the way. They slammed each other into stone walls with enough force that the massive blocks of stones cracked and even shattered.
Feeling somewhat numb with shock and completely disoriented, Pyresong just danced around away from the two of them trying to figure out how to help her stop the maddened vampire lord. Even his spells and curses couldn't keep up with their speed. He doubted even his bone spears that tore through flesh so easily would have any affect. And, of course, if they did, there was no way he could miss Mariki while trying to get at Bellon. Somewhere in the midst of it, he heard Mariki's now almost demonically distorted voice scream at him.
"Break it now!"
Only then did he realize he was still holding the keepsake. Jolted out of his shock, he ran for the orb in the center of the room. Again he felt the keepsake trying to fight him. It was so much weaker this time he could easily block it out. When Bellon tried to launch himself at Pyresong, Mariki again intercepted him. They rolled across the floor, screaming and clawing at each other only inches from his exposed back. Still having no real idea what he was doing, he slammed the keepsake down into the glowing orb.
The flash of magical backlash was not only blinding but enough to throw him off his feet. He felt like he'd been blasted by lightning. His whole body tingled and twitched as he slammed into the floor on his side and rolled. Across the room, Bellon and Mariki both exploded into a mist of black magic laced with blood. Then that evaporated and faded away.
Stunned and fighting against the dizziness to at least stay conscious, he lay there on the floor for several seconds. He tried to focus on at slowing his breathing. His head still pounded mercilessly in time with his heart. Again he felt the creeping numbness and darkness of shock clutching at him. He had to move or do something before it did. A couple minutes later, when he was reasonably certain he would not black out or vomit, he struggled back to his feet unsteadily. He tried rubbing away the drying blood gumming up his eyes. Even when they were clear, he realized he had some trouble focusing. The room itself was blurring, and it was almost too much effort to stay awake.
A few feet away, he spied the blue crystalline structure of Mariki's keepsake. That, at least, managed to drag him out of his own misery for a second. He still had no idea what all of this was really about. He didn't know exactly what that thing was. He didn't know what it could do. He didn't know what happened to Mariki. He didn't know...so much.
And he could hardly even try to think through it right now.
He said a silent prayer for the Blood Knight, who had given her own life to save others. He scooped up the keepsake. It was completely unlike Bellon's in every way except the shape. This was pale and beautiful to both his normal vision and his magical vision. It was not laced with the kind of cursed power he'd seen and felt in Bellon's. He didn't know what to think. He still hated vampires, probably more than ever. He couldn't even begin to guess how many hundreds of lives Bellon had claimed. But Mariki had fought valiantly against that Darkness, that curse that was within herself. She had courageously turned that curse into a force for something good in this world.
“Sooner or later, we all do,” he remembered her mentioning when it came to those who eventually succumbed to the curse.
His exhausted mind flickered briefly to Shaddox and how even an angel had eventually succumbed to the evil and corruption. He sighed wearily and shoved those dark thoughts aside. He couldn't go there. Not right now.
He didn't know how long Mariki had been a Blood Knight. He wanted to believe she had outlasted many others, her will strong enough to overcome the curse. But now it didn't even matter. She was gone. No matter how long or hard she had fought and survived, she was gone now...and the injustice of it gnawed at him. He could not help the feeling that he had failed her somehow.
He glanced at the orb in the center of the room. Quickly, he put that thought aside. He had absolutely no idea what power the keepsake may have if it might even let her come back, as it had Bellon. If any one of the numerous dead Blood Knights he saw in this room deserved another chance, it was Mariki. He prayed she was at least at peace now, no longer fighting the curse. Not sure what else to do, and alone with this decision, he decided to place her keepsake on the altar on the far side of the room where she had held Bellon's.
This place was empty now. He could hear no movement or voices anywhere in these chambers. By the looks of what little he had seen, this was a permanent chapter house. Very likely, someone would discover what had happened here and come to clean up. Still feeling more than a bit unsteady and definitely exhausted, he made his way back to the big circular room with all the desks. He removed his gauntlets and gloves when he found a stack of blank parchments on a desk. He lit a candle and located some ink and quills. Almost immediately, it was a struggle to get his eyes to focus. He took another healing potion; this one much stronger. Hopefully, it would seal the wounds in his leg and head. He knew he probably still needed a healer and possibly even some stitches, but he just couldn't think beyond right now and what he needed to do.
He stared down at the blank sheet of parchment for several seconds. Some disoriented and exhausted part of him just wanted to lay his head down right here and sleep. He shook it off quickly. After a few seconds, he managed to put things in his head into some semblance of order. He couldn't even really re-read it to make sure it was accurate. He was too tired now. He just hoped it made sense. At this point, he was just satisfied that the writing was legible.
An hour later, he lay the parchment on the altar, held down with Mariki's beautiful, crystalline keepsake. Then he opened a portal to the Amber Blades' village.
It was well into the night when he stepped through the portal back into the well-lit village. A couple of guards stepped up to challenge him as he put his hands out at his sides.
"Pyresong!" Peth's voice called somewhere off to his right.
He turned to greet the man wearily as he jogged up.
"By the gods..." Peth said, shocked. "Someone get a healer!"
"I'm all right," he assured Peth tiredly as Tabri came running from around a corner. "I just came to tell you the vampire lord is dead."
Tabri ignored his protests as he pulled his head down to get a better look. "You've taken a healing potion."
"A couple, actually," he said, gently pushing her away. "The threat is gone. I don't know how many, if any, of the thralls are still out there in the desert spreading the curse. But the vampire behind all this is dead. And...I had help. I can't tell you everything, but there are others watching out in the desert for more of them."
"But you can't tell us who?" Peth asked, confused.
He nodded tiredly. "There may be other boatloads of people still on their way here. There's a small canyon to the east where they were bringing their victims."
"We can talk later. Come, let's get you cleaned up," Tabri said, tugging his arm.
"I can't stay," he told them with a sigh, desperately wanting a bath and bed. "Where is that woman I found in the desert? She's from Kingsport. I can at least take her back to Westmarch. If I hurry, I might be able to get her on a ship for home by morning."
"Since I've already been rolled out of bed, you might as well let me have a look at you," and old woman grumbled, pushing her way through the crowd.
"I'll go get her," Peth volunteered. "She was still pretty hysterical the last time I saw her."
Tabri's lips thinned and she looked like she was about to demand he stay. Before he could say anything further, though, the old woman took his bare hand while he was distracted. He felt the warmth spreading through him as she probed and healed his remaining injuries. He just sighed and waited. He had to admit the headache backed off considerably, making it easier to think. But now he was the level of tired that made him feel downright unsteady.
"Heh, nothing that won't heal on its own from here," the old woman said. "Come on, and I'll get you cleaned up."
"Thank you, but I don't have time," he explained, feeling more tired than ever.
"You expect me to go with a death mage?" the woman squealed as Peth dragged her toward the waypoint where they were all gathered.
"No. I expect you to walk back to Kingsport," Tabri snapped. "Across the desert, alone."
Tabri's cold glare silenced the woman, who cowered back away from her. Too tired to even care about the insult, Pyresong struggled to keep from scaring her further with a scowl.
"I can get you on a safe ship in Westmarch headed for Port Justinian by morning. I can convince the captain to stop at Kingsport on his way," he explained.
Hearing this, she burst into tears again. He had no patience at all at this point. He added a hard edge to his voice.
"If you'd rather stay here, I'm sure they can find a good use for you."
The woman began shaking visibly again, clearly terrified of both options. Unlike his earlier assessments of her, this wasn't some theatrical hysterics to gain some sort of sympathy. She really was that afraid. Pyresong felt a flash of guilt at his obvious short temper, but he was just too tired to let it take hold.
"Will one of you come with us?" he turned to Tabri and Peth tiredly. "It won't be more than a few minutes, and I can send you right back here."
"Peth will go," Tabri volunteered.
He turned back to the woman, cocking an eyebrow at her questioningly; he still didn't even know her name.
"Now, will you come with me to Westmarch?"
Through her tears, she nodded miserably. More disgusted than relieved, Pyresong just turned around and opened a portal to the Palace Courtyard as he usually did. He stalked through and waited on the other side for the two to appear. The woman's sobbing took on a whole new level of irritating when she realized she really was in Westmarch and about to go home. Peth, overawed by the sheer size and beauty of this part of the city, stared around in mute wonder. He led them down the streets past Cain's workshop—wishing he was in bed there right now—and down to the western docks. As he had hoped, he spotted the Black Bower still in her berth.
"Wait here," he told them. "I'll be back in a minute."
He approached the ship to find one of the men drowsily keeping watch on the deck. It took him a second to recall the name that went with that middle-aged face. Thankfully the sentry yawned hugely and tried to at least look like he was alert after catching sight of him.
"Wyreck, I need to speak with the captain. Is he aboard?"
"What the bloody hells are you doing to look like that?" Rehm spoke up from one of the cabin portals. "Never mind, I'll be right there."
He took off his shield and shrugged off his backpack. He quickly retrieved a purse that felt like it might have enough in it. He was too tired and miserable to bother counting. Half dressed, Rehm jumped easily from the ship to the dock. He held out a healing potion.
"I have already been healed," he said, waving it off. "Here, I don't know how much it is, but it should be enough. I've got a passenger needing transport back to Kingsport."
Rehm's eyebrows shot up. "Do I even want to know?"
"That new 'religion' was a vampire cult. They've been dealt with. As near as I can tell, she's the only survivor. And I don't recall the Kingsport waypoints well enough to take her there myself. Please?"
"Of course," Rehm said. "You sure you're all right?"
"Well enough," Pyresong assured again. "I just haven't had a chance to clean up. I wanted to catch you before you left."
He motioned to Peth and the woman to come closer as Rehm took the purse. Peth didn't quite have to drag the sobbing woman toward the dock, but close. Rehm threw him a questioning look. Pyresong just rolled his eyes, the flaring pain instantly making him wish he hadn't.
"This is Captain Rehm," he told the woman using his most soothing voice, one typically reserved for young children. "He's agreed to stop in Kingsport to drop you off. Your passage is paid in full."
The pathetic bundle of tears sobbed all the harder. "I'm s-s-sorry. I-I-I was j-just so s-scared."
He couldn't help laughing softly. "Apology accepted. Now, go home."
The woman nodded miserably and allowed Captain Rehm to guide her to a cabin. By now, her hysterics had drawn a sizable crowd of sleepy onlookers from other ships and general drunks hanging about the docks. Peth had stopped looking around and had his eyes fixed on the sedately moving black waves beyond the ships.
"So that's the ocean," he said, filled with wonder. "I've never seen it before."
Pyresong nodded. "Maybe sometime I can bring you both back here to appreciate it in the daytime. It's a lot more expansive."
"That would be nice," Peth agreed, taking his hand. "Be well, my friend."
"You too. And be good to Tabri, so I don't have to hunt you down," he couldn't resist adding.
"Ah, so that's what you two were talking about!" Peth said, laughing. "Nothing to worry about there. Tabri would gut me without your help."
"I know," he grinned.
Exhausted, his head still pounding painfully, he opened a portal back to the Amber Blades' village and watched with relief while Peth disappeared through it. At this point, it was far too late to wander into Cain's home. Besides, he was certain showing up in his current state would just send Cain after another healer, regardless of what he said. To say nothing of Karshun's likely comments. There was absolutely no way he would be able to play nice and watch his mouth right now. And he was too tired to bother thinking of anywhere better. He wandered up the street to the Wolf City Tavern, hoping Bailey still had a room available. Thankfully, it wasn't as late as he feared. Bailey was just finishing up for the night.
"What the hells happened to you?" the barkeep asked in wide-eyed shock.
"I fell," he replied truthfully, not even caring if the man believed him. "I need a room and obviously a bath."
"You and Cain not getting along anymore?" Bailey asked curiously, taking the gold coins.
He shook his head. "He has other guests, and it's none of your business."
"Fine, fine," Bailey said, backing off. "Third door to the left. Bathing room is closed for the night, but you're welcome to it. Just clean up after yourself."
"Thank you," he replied, sincerely grateful he would have anything other than just a bucket of water to clean up.
By the time he finished cleaning himself and all of his gear, he was yawning almost constantly. Though the pounding in his head had eased considerably after the healing, the idea of food made his stomach roil threateningly. Instead of reaching for his backpack and supplies, he crawled gratefully into the musty bed. He was too tired to even think anymore. He had a passing thought about something related to the door before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 21: 20 Westmarch / Recovery
Chapter Text
Westmarch / Recovery
Hours later, when he was too deeply asleep to even dream, Pyresong was painfully reminded what that thing about his door had been. Most nights when he stayed in this tavern, he propped his shield against the door so that it would be knocked over and make plenty of noise to wake him if anyone tried to enter. Having been exhausted by his battle with the thralls and injured with a head wound that still throbbed painfully and then active healing on top of all that, he had forgotten. Or, maybe he'd just gotten too comfortable being in Westmarch.
Whatever it was, he paid for it dearly.
In the darkness, a red and black-robed pair of assassins let themselves into his room while Pyresong slept blissfully. His first indication something was wrong was when his senses detected the malignant and icy feel of something touched by a corrupted Worldstone shard so very nearby. Had he been dreaming, he would have immediately chalked it up to nightmares. Yet, as the chilly dread crept slowly down his spine, he knew he was not dreaming. Laying on his side facing the door, his eyes flew open. At first, all he saw was the darker shadow in the gloom between himself and the still partially open door. His combat instincts took over before he could even process what he was seeing.
He launched himself at the man, somehow catching the arm that held a knife just below the wrist. They slammed into the door with a loud bang that sounded like it shook the whole building. While they were wrestling over the knife, another shadow materialized behind him. He felt the blade of the other knife sliding neatly between his ribs on the right side of his back, just below his shoulder blade.
"Skarn waits for you in Hell!" the one behind him hissed almost in his ear.
The explosion of pain stunned him for only a half heartbeat, but he was already fully into combat instincts. Pain was a distant thing. He vaguely felt the one in front of him slice the back of his left hand wide open. The assassin in front of him twisted his knife hand out of Pyresong's blood-slicked grip. He plunged the dagger down between them to stab deep into his left shoulder behind the collarbone.
At the same instant, Pyresong had flung back his right elbow, slamming into the face of the one behind him with a satisfying crunch and scream of pain. By then, that one behind him had already managed to pull back and stab him again; quick as a viper. That blade was now firmly lodged agonizingly between his ribs. Only the pain of his broken nose made the assailant let go of the handle.
As he was elbowing the one behind him, Pyresong's hands lit with blazing spirit fire. He punched the one in front of him in the same smooth motion, adding the force of the small spirit fire blast to the blow. The man grunted in pain, never releasing his grip on the knife as he fell back from the force of the punch. When he did pull the dagger out to stab again, the knife ground and scraped against Pyresong's left collarbone. Instantly, the cultist was ready for another overhanded stab.
Pyresong raised a knee catching him solidly between the legs, making him double over. The knife, already in motion, found its second mark in Pyresong's side just below the ribs. Still only dimly aware of the pain, he stepped back a pace, and the knife came out again. Now there was a few inches between himself and them, he could set them both alight with soul fire. Some detached part of his mind didn't want to use real fire and set the whole building ablaze.
While they screamed and writhed on the floor, unable to escape the flames, he grabbed his backpack off the floor beside the bed and flung open a portal in the tiny room. In those few seconds during the attack, he had no time for conscious thoughts. He was moving on pure instinct and adrenaline now. The portal opened somewhere into more darkness. The instant he crossed the threshold, he slammed the portal shut as quickly as he could so no one could follow.
He was dazed and in too much pain to think where he was. When he tried to take a step beyond the closing portal, his knees gave out. The world was spinning and tilting at crazy angles. Somewhere he thought he heard a woman's voice. Cold, dewy grass met his face as he collapsed onto his belly, causing multiple explosions of pain. The flaring agony left him not even the breath to scream. He was freezing and burning in many places. He was shaking too violently to push himself back upright. His limbs had no strength. The pain in his back and chest made him too weak to even fight it. His body wouldn't respond anyway. He tried clinging to the sounds and voices around him as his eyes closed against the pain and against his will. Part of him needed to know where he was.
Then a single realization consumed his spiraling mind: His body was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. No calm chill of death this time, just wracking pain and a racing heart.
Warn Cain! he thought frantically.
He struggled to hold on to that single thought. Somehow, he had to warn Cain of the Damnation Cultists still in Westmarch. He tried to speak, and all that came out was an incoherent, agonized groan. Someone was pushing at him, yelling at him. He couldn't even make sense of their words.
Warn Cain!
The knife still lodged in his back was brushed by something, and he gasped with the pain, which turned into a gagging cough from the blood swiftly filling his lungs. The choking coughs caused yet more explosions of pain in a vicious cycle.
Please..somebody warn Cain! he screamed in his head, trying to force the words through numb lips.
Instead, something vile-tasting was shoved between his lips. He choked and gagged on it as much as the flaring explosions of agony that came with each shallow, gasping attempt at breath. Again pain exploded in his back; the knife lodged between his ribs, literally twisting and tearing at his lung with every attempt to breathe. More voices. They were almost familiar to him, but he couldn't hold the thought through the pain. There was more screaming in the darkness swirling around him, dragging his body down into an abyss.
Something warm touched his forehead that began to tingle across his whole body. The pain flared white hot from so many places; he couldn't count them all. His entire body convulsed, making them flare impossibly even worse again. This time, he knew the scream was his own. He couldn't breathe through the pain anymore. He couldn't even find the breath to scream anymore. The panicked stuttering of his heart pounded in his ears.
Warn...Cain.
Finally, the merciful, painless darkness spread across his consciousness. He embraced it.
The frantic pounding on Cain's door in the middle of the night jolted both he and Karshun awake violently. Almost before Cain got to the door, Zatham reached the bottom of the stairs with his sword in hand. He'd been staying in Pyresong's room at Cain's insistence the last couple of days while the priest was off doing...something; and they were studying the Pathstone and how it worked.
"Elder! Elder Cain! Open up!" a familiar voice called from the other side of the door.
"Bailey!" Cain called, fumbling the latch. "What—"
"Your friend, the priest!" Bailey called, not even waiting for the door to open fully. "He's been attacked! He's disappeared!"
"Who...what..."
"Bailey, calm yourself!" Karshun snapped, putting a comforting hand on Cain's shoulder. "Now explain."
"He got a room for the night," Bailey said breathlessly, shuffling from foot to foot. "He was in bad shape. Says he fell. Then some...assassins got into his room. There's blood everywhere. We can't find him. But there's two dead bodies, burned pretty bad, and...and blood everywhere."
Karshun, dressed in little more than a night robe, already had his staff in hand. He turned to Cain's pale, wide-eyed face and calmly said, "You wait here. I'll go."
"I will come with you," Zatham said, crossing the room.
"But..." Cain started to protest.
"Seal this place," Karshun ordered firmly. "We'll be back when we know more."
Zatham had already slipped deftly around the two and out the door to follow Bailey down the street at a run. Cain opened his mouth to argue again. Karshun quickly cut him off.
"Cain, it might be a diversion to get us out of the workshop and take the Pathstone. Seal it!" Karshun tossed over his shoulder as he ran after the other two.
At the tavern, candles and lanterns were ablaze all across the common room. Patrons stood around in sleepy shock all over the room and down the upstairs hallway. Bailey pointed up the stairs breathlessly, and Zatham led the way. There was no missing the scent of burnt human flesh and smoke still lingering in the one open door no one wanted to go near. Karshun quickly used his staff to clear the air of the sickening smell and smoke. Inside, just as Bailey said, were two badly burned corpses and more blood than either of them could have imagined. Lines of blood sprayed the walls and sat in pools on the floor. Pyresong's boots still stood untouched under the bed. There was a clear set of bloody, bare footprints that led away from the bed. They ended suddenly in the middle of the floor. Zatham viciously kicked one of the bodies to roll it over and then knelt down.
"Damnation cultists," he told Karshun, who was now inspecting the place with his magic.
"There was a portal here," he pointed to a small space across the room. "Only one."
Zatham found the other dagger lying on the floor and held it up to show the carved wooden handle to the mage.
"The Eye of Skarn."
"He was alive when he escaped through the portal," Karshun stated firmly. "Where would he go?"
"I...think I may know," Zatham said hesitantly. "I will go now to check."
"And I will check the Astral Plane," Karshun agreed. "If he's alive, we must find him. Meet back at the workshop."
"What the bloody hells is going on here?" a new voice called.
They turned to find a heavily armored city watch guard stomping up the hall, shoving everyone else aside. Karshun met him in the doorway with an icy scowl.
"Murderers attacked a patron in this establishment," Karshun snapped. "And we think he might still be alive somewhere. Now get out of our way."
He shoved the guard aside, and Zatham used an opening to slip past. The rest of the milling, terrified patrons backed out of their way quickly.
"Wait, you two can't just—"
"Bailey will explain," Karshun said over his shoulder to the guard. Then to Bailey, "Come to Cain's workshop tomorrow for...compensation for your troubles."
The barkeep, still pale with shock despite his dark skin, nodded vaguely. The moment he stepped outside the tavern, Zatham opened a portal and disappeared through it. Karshun, turning all of this over in his mind, headed down the street a bit more sedately back toward the workshop. He didn't know the priest well enough to guess where he would go for help. The amount of blood loss, and some of it clearly spurting from arterial wounds, meant he had to have sought help. He would not have survived more than a couple of minutes without a very good healer; and likely not even then. Grudgingly, Karshun had to admit that he was impressed the man had been able to make a portal after losing so much blood. Now the only question was if the priest had been able to get to help quick enough.
As he recalled the amount of blood and the barefoot prints left in the blood on the floor, he didn't think it was likely. But he knew he had to give Cain some hope. Until word reached them of where Pyresong's body had been found, Cain would not give up hope. Part of him was unreasonably irritated with the necromancer for this. He was furious that the stupid man would leave Cain in such misery. Yet, he knew that was unfair. The priest fled a threat while badly injured. He'd done what any sane person would do in those circumstances.
Karshun, sensing the additional warding and shielding spells on the door, knocked and waited for Cain to answer. Cain's face was nearly as pale as his beard. The rest of the mage's anger bled away on seeing his dear friend's pinched-faced distress. Karshun, not wanting to be outside a moment longer, followed the old scholar back inside and gently guided him toward his rocking chair by the fire. Tea was already steeping.
"Two assassins, Damnation Cultists, broke into his room," Karshun explained as gently but quickly as he could. "We think he's alive. He escaped through a portal. Zatham is out looking for him. I will begin a divination to look as well."
"Skarn's cultists? But he's dead!"
Karshun approached the Astral Anchor. "Revenge, most likely. If he's alive, we will find him."
Cain nodded and went silent while his friend activated the Astral Anchor. For a few seconds, he wrestled with the writhing icy fear in his gut. Taking a deep breath, he forced down the desperate need to know more about what had happened to the young man he now thought of as a son.
The Outer Cloister of the Eastgate Monastery was in tightly controlled chaos. The two gate guards within sight of the waypoint had spotted Pyresong's portal as it opened. When he collapsed through it a moment later, they wasted no time asking questions. One of the young guards was already running full tilt for her commander's room. Along the way, she sent another Sister on night sentry duty running for Akara. She hadn't looked at the priest very closely, but she hadn't needed to, either. The knife sticking out of his back said enough.
Kashya, wearing nothing more than a dressing gown, came flying through the corridors seconds later. She skid to a stop on her knees in the grass. Already Pyresong's normally pale face had taken on a sallow, deathly pallor. He was groaning incoherently, his eyelids fluttered and the eyes rolled around blindly. His shallow breathing rattling in her ears would fuel her nightmares for weeks. She had heard that sound from others, and it never ended well. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest until she couldn't breathe. The other excited and terrified voices she tuned out as she snatched up the backpack that had fallen beside him. By the time Akara arrived only seconds later, she was already pouring healing potions down his throat.
"There's a knife still in his back," one of the other Sisters warned as Akara reached toward him.
"Do not touch it," Akara said calmly.
Pyresong tensed and screamed as she began to delve into him with her healing magic. Whatever they had done to him reacted violently to her healing magic. The old priestess struggled to keep her face calm when she felt what was inside of him. Silently, she thanked the Great Eye for the mercy when he fell into complete unconsciousness a couple of seconds later. How he had survived the pain thus far was almost incomprehensible to her. There was just too much damage and too much poison. But she would not let the Darkness claim this one so easily. She focused all her powerful healing energies in a concentrated, targeted flood into him.
"Kashya, get to Charsi in Westmarch," Akara instructed calmly, opening a portal a few feet away. "Tell her to bring a healer and use the amulet to get back here as fast as possible. I can't do this alone."
Reluctant as she was to leave Pyresong, Kashya nodded and fled through the portal. She knew she had been chosen because she knew where to find Charsi. Anyone else would have been lost in the enormous city.
As expected, within a few seconds, other priestesses joined the chaos. They knew when Akara was summoned in the middle of the night, it was something serious. Even the youngest one, still a child, came running. Seeing what was happening, the eldest of the priestesses laid a hand on Akara's shoulder and then reached to the others. They swiftly formed a chain that flowed all of their power in one direction.
Akara focused entirely on keeping the poison and dark magic in check as well as keeping the priest alive, was only dimly aware of the numerous sisters gathering around. Somewhere beside her, another Sister had taken Kashya's place and was pouring healing potion after healing potion through the man's unresisting lips. With the sheer amount of damage done to his body, even the most potent of the healing potions were doing little more than slowing the internal bleeding at this point; but it was at least something. It was all Akara could do to combat the magic and poison while forcing his heart to keep beating against its wishes to stop.
After some minutes, another portal opened. A burly man with dark hair shoved the other sisters aside and knelt on the priest's other side; opposite Akara. His hands glowed a powerful, warm yellow of healing.
"I can take care of the poison and magic," Akara told him, now sweating and trembling visibly with the effort. "I will keep him alive. You remove the dagger and heal the internal, physical damage."
Healer to healer, they both knew there was no time to argue. This Priest of Rathma was familiar to him. Being that it wasn't the first time he'd healed this one from massive damage, he knew that Pyresong could easily supply enough energy to accomplish the task. But, even for all of that, survival was not going to be guaranteed. At least half of the energy to heal came from the healer. Byron knew he was sometimes hailed as the best healer in all of Westmarch because of both his talent and his power. But this...
For several tense minutes, the two healers were in their own world. Once the knife was carefully freed, Akara was able to finish cleansing the dark blood magics that had worked their way through his gaping wounds. Then she tackled the cleansing of the necrotic and paralytic poisons that had been left in each wound, and there were many. Anywhere the blades of the daggers had touched even his skin had been poisoned. She felt Byron repairing the arteries and sealing off the worst of the internal damage. The external damage would have to be stitched and healed over time. Akara knew neither she nor Byron would have the strength to heal him further for many days after this.
Minutes stretched on in tense silence while the two of them worked desperately. They were both surrounded by their warm, powerful glow of healing magics. Finally, they both gave out with gasps as they sat back shakily. Despite the many other priestesses giving her their strength, Akara was downright exhausted. Several of the others that had been supporting her healing efforts, collapsed nearby as well. Akara didn't waste a single second on giving even herself a chance to recover. She turned her attention to the alert Rogues gathered all around and began issuing orders.
"He needs to be stitched up and moved to a healer's in a safe place to recover," she told the Commander and the other Sisters. "Get him inside and off this cold ground for now."
Then she turned to Byron, "You will be adequately compensated by Elder Cain when there is time. For now, return to Westmarch, and we thank you for your aid."
She turned to Charsi. "Go with him to Westmarch. Tell Deckard I will come by tomorrow to tell them where I've taken their friend for further healing."
Charsi nodded and then helped the exhausted healer to his feet. The moment they disappeared through the portal, Akara turned to Kashya and the others, carefully lifting the priest off the ground.
"Take him to the Forgotten Chapel," she instructed.
"The... Why?" Kashya asked, startled.
Akara shook her head tiredly. "All the Great Eye would show me was that he was attacked in his sleep by Skarn's cultists. Terror Cultists are not the only ones looking for him. He must be kept hidden and safe until he is recovered."
By the time Charsi, still less than half dressed, knocked on Cain's door, she was not surprised to find them all up and frantically doing what they could to find their injured friend. None of them would admit Pyresong was dead until they had irrefutable proof. Zatham had gone to the Sanctified Earth Monastery and found no indication the priest had been there in his condition. Even searching the temple complex had provided nothing. Karshun, scouring the Astral Plane, had had no good idea where to even begin to look, so he simply roamed, hoping to see the man's powerful spirit shining somewhere. He had even scryed back into the room and the attack itself, hoping the priest might have said something that would tell them where he'd gone. All searching had proved useless.
"He's alive," Charsi assured them. "Akara and Byron healed him as much as they could. He will need more time to recover. Akara is moving him to a healer's where someone can provide the care he needs."
"But where?" Cain asked, desperately wanting to get to his friend.
"I'm sorry," she told him sincerely, embracing him. "I don't know. She said she would come by tomorrow to tell you."
Zatham nodded quietly at this news. "I can heal him."
"I'm sorry," Charsi sighed, letting go of Cain. "I don't know where she took him. But, by now, they've already left the monastery. We'll just have to wait."
Cain sighed heavily. "I don't think any of us are going to get any more sleep tonight. You might as well join us."
Charsi shook her head and indicated her nightgown. "I need to get some clothes on. Byron will want payment tomorrow, too."
"Return when you can," Cain told her, embracing her for a few seconds.
"I will. He'll be all right, Cain. You'll see. He's tough."
Cain just nodded and shuffled miserably back to his rocking chair across the room.
***
Pyresong drifted in darkness. He was fairly certain his body was suffering somewhere. He just wasn't sure where. There were the usual vague but warm sounds of living voices nearby, so he knew he wasn't alone. But no matter how hard he struggled toward consciousness, they still didn't make any sense. Everything was muffled or garbled. Half the time he felt like he should understand their words but just couldn't. Nothing made sense.
Cold was the only sensation he could feel from his body now. It was painfully cold everywhere. Something about the cold darkness everywhere was terrifyingly familiar. Yet he was not consumed by it, either. At least he wasn't alone this time. He could hear the voices of the living...and so many dead. His memories of the attack and after were fuzzy and dull. He fought to focus on his thoughts or the voices or the feeling coming from his body; anything that would make sense to him right now. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was not actually dead; despite what he had felt before. Still, all he could feel was the violent shudders of his cold body, shivering, suffering.
There was no real measure of time here in the darkness; just the unrelenting cold and the exhaustion of fighting it constantly. The voices and sounds would fade away and then come back again. Everything just seemed so very slow and vague in here. There existed nothing solid for him to hold on to. And he was so tired. When he couldn't fight the cold anymore, he gave in and let the darkness take him away again. Each time, it seemed like he was less and less aware of anything. He'd begun to forget why he was even here anymore.
The voices were back again; several of them. But there was only one he thought he recognized. He struggled toward consciousness, trying to hear it more clearly. They needed him. She needed him. She was trying to tell him something important. The dark, terrifying things in the shadows of the deeper darkness swirled around him threateningly. They came for him with their icy claws clutching at his heart. His nightmare laughed, enjoying his torment. He wasn't about to run away this time. He would fight it, destroy it.
The bright flash of light that shocked him out of his vague fears nearly blinded him. Out of that warm, powerful light came a familiar voice he could not put a name to. For the first time in what felt like months in here, he understood something clearly.
"Go to the Unformed Land," the voice told him. "Wait there."
Surprised that he even understood the clear command, he almost instinctively did what the voice told him. He felt a sort of icy tugging sensation near his chest as he did so. The shock of suddenly having a form again, even ghostly as it was, had him reeling for a moment. His spectral eyes opened on a shifting, wispy landscape he was familiar with. Finally, the bitter cold that had become the whole of his existence was gone. He could see the vague outline of the new shrine to his left from where he stood.
"Back again, my friend? Hm, you don't look like an old man to me."
Pyresong's smile was genuine as he turned to greet his dear friend Oza. He embraced her warm, golden spirit tightly.
"I'm not dead," he assured her.
"I see that," she said, eyeing his weak yet sparkling tether. "What has happened?"
He shook his head and sighed as he let her go. A flash of clear memory from that night made him want to kick himself. He had been unbelievably stupid, and now he was paying for it.
"I was attacked by Damnation Cultists in Westmarch. Akara told me to come here to wait."
"So, you've finally remembered you can move between the two worlds. Good, that will make things easier."
He couldn't help grinning at that spoken echo. "You're not the first to say that."
"Oh?" Oza asked curiously.
"Master Z came to me last time."
"Last time?" Oza asked, her eyebrows shooting up near her hairline.
"I drowned," he told her frankly. "He came to Sanctuary to stop me from fleeing my body too quickly. How he did so, I have no idea."
Oza laughed and shook her head. "Only you, my friend. I would say you need to write all this down for your scholar friend, but no one would believe it."
Another dark thought rose to the surface. "Speaking of Cain, I need to warn him about the cultists. I need to get back, somehow."
Oza shook her head and pulled him toward the eastern cliff edge away from the little shrine. She motioned for him to sit beside her, facing the expansive but wispy vista. Even here in the Unformed Land, it was beautiful rolling mountains and meadows.
"If this Akara told you to come here to wait for something, you need to stay for now. Besides, isn't Akara a friend of his?"
His memories of his last encounter with Oza took on a whole new light. He froze for a moment, recalling it clearly now. He frowned curiously as he sat beside her.
"You were reading my mind?"
"It's not that simple," Oza explained, leaning into his side and pulling his left arm around her. "It was not your mind as much as it was the fractured pieces of your soul and its memories. I saw the things and people who had left their mark on your soul. But meaningless thoughts and memories don't leave a lasting mark. And there was much damage there that needed more time to heal."
He nodded thoughtfully as he began to understand. That explained a lot about why some memories were so vague or even lost altogether. It wasn't that his mind had been shattered along with his spirit, as he had begun to fear. It was more along the lines that his spirit ruled his mind, and it was what retained the core of his memories. Then another, more terrifying thought occurred to him.
"The shards..." he hesitated, almost afraid to ask. "They...marked me, didn't they?"
Oza nodded firmly, seeming unconcerned. His fear eased slightly with her complete lack of concern; though something of terror still stirred in his heart.
"No one who has touched them is completely unaffected. Even Cain carries something from them. But you were the one that destroyed them. They fought back."
That actually made him feel worse rather than better. "Does he know? Is he..."
"Of course, he knows. Many of the demonic artifacts and weapons he's encountered in his life have left their mark. But he is wary and knows how to fight them. Just as you do."
He had no choice but to accept this. He knew he wasn't corrupted. Oza would never have hidden something like that from him. And there was still Yl'nira. He couldn't believe an angelic blade would have bonded with him if his soul festered with corruption.
"Exactly," Oza said.
He laughed softly again and kissed the top of her head. For once in his life, he didn't mind a woman reading him like an open book.
"It helps that I have good friends to remind me," he teased.
"So you keep saying. I just wonder when you'll actually believe it."
They sat in contented silence for what passed as a few minutes in this unchanging, wispy landscape.
"I'm happy for you, by the way. Kashya is good for you."
"Thank you," he nodded, squeezing her to him. "I just hope..."
"Tomorrow will come when it comes," she warned, not letting him finish the thought. "Today is all that matters."
He huffed a laugh. "Easier said than done."
"It's part of being human," Oza shrugged. "And before you ask: yes, you are still very much human, in addition to everything else; not despite it."
"But what else am I?"
"You will know in time...if it even matters," she assured him. "Stop worrying about it. As I said before, if evil enters your heart, you will fight it. You always do. For now, all that matters is that you are a good person willing to fight."
He smiled warmly. "You have a talent for making it sound so simple and making me feel so...foolish."
"I know, love. But the fact that you even question yourself is why you do not become that thing from your nightmares. It really is that simple. When you stop questioning, is when you'll be in real danger."
"Will I?"
"If you stop questioning, your friends will be there to remind you."
He really had nothing to say to that. She'd used his own words against him again. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, resting comfortably. They sat enjoying the view and the absolute peace of this place that always sank right down into his soul. He cherished it, even when he knew it wouldn't last; maybe because he knew it wouldn't last. As Oza had just reminded him, today is all that matters.
***
Akara sighed heavily and tiredly. Her old and aching bones were just getting too old for this. Not for the first time, she realized she needed to start seriously looking for an apprentice to take her place as High Priestess. Yet, every time she considered one of the other fully trained priestesses, she felt the Great Eye was telling her to wait for something. She hoped whatever it was would come soon. The events of the world were progressing rapidly now, and too many things were shrouded in mystery going forward. With or without someone to take her place as High Priestess, she would not be around much longer.
She shoved these and many other concerns aside. Stifling a yawn, she struggled out of bed sometime late in the afternoon. Much as she needed her rest to recover from the night's work with the priest's healing, she knew her dear friend Deckard was likely driving himself to distraction with worry. Likely, he was not the only one in Westmarch worrying. But, then, they had good reason to; given what little she had seen of past, present, and future regarding that priest.
Once dressed and at least feeling somewhat functional, she made her way to the ancient Forgotten Chapel at the far end of the complex. As expected, Kashya had temporarily handed over her duties to Flavie so she could be with Pyresong. Kashya now dozed in a chair beside the bed the Sisters had brought in for the priest to make him comfortable. The Sisters had worked swiftly to stitch shut the numerous wounds and then bandage them. The man would likely sleep for at least a couple of days after such extensive healing. Her heart still ached for the woman she considered a daughter. Despite everything, she still wished Kashya had found someone besides Pyresong for her affection.
Not wanting to disturb Kashya's scant rest, she left without checking on the priest. It could wait a little longer. What she knew of the man led her to believe it could not end well for Kashya. However, the truth was too complex and even too shrouded even for her to discern. Without the Great Eye's confirmation, she and Kashya could still cling to some stubborn hope. The one thing she did know for certain was that he needed Kashya in some way that defied logic altogether. He could not survive the coming events without her. Too tired to even try to make sense of it all, she shoved it all aside.
When she exited the portal to the Palace Courtyard waypoint, she was greeted respectfully by the few people milling about at this hour. She did not visit regularly but was seen with their respected Elder Cain often enough that many knew her status. She returned the greetings with nods and blessings more out of habit than any sincerity at the moment. Ignoring the aches and creaking of her knees, she walked the short distance to Cain's workshop door, not surprised in the least by the new layers of shielding she found on it. Her knock was answered almost immediately by Charsi who greeted her with an enthusiastic embrace. Seeing how exhausted she was, Cain quickly grabbed a chair from his desk as all eyes turned to her expectantly. She sat gracefully, stifling a sigh of relief.
"He is alive and recovering," she told them simply.
All tight expressions in the room softened with relief. She even noted Zatham's tightly controlled expression relax slightly. Zatham was still a mystery to her. She had not been asked to investigate him or his motives by anyone, so she did not. But, she knew from the healing connection she had shared with the priest that Pyresong trusted him fully. That was enough for her. And, in her tired state, her suspicious mind could only handle so much right now.
"Where is he?" Cain asked.
"Even I am unable to find him," Karshun told her, his irritation clear.
"He is being hunted, as you know," Akara told them as delicately as she could, trying to find the words without outright lying. "I have taken him to a place where he can recover with a healer but cannot be found by any means. When he is well enough, I will bring him back here."
"I can complete his healing," Zatham offered.
"While your offer is appreciated, his energies have also been severely depleted. Even if his body was not still recovering, he will be several days in recovering his energy anyway. Best to let him be for now."
"May I see him?" Cain asked.
"When he is awake, I will let you know," she assured her friend firmly.
Cain eyed her closely, knowing there was more she was not saying. But, they were not alone, and she would not risk her monastery or the Sisters for one man. Even if she could trust everyone in this room, there was the possibility the information could get out somehow; even if only through someone scrying a private conversation. Right now, the priest was hidden from all the worlds in that long-disused chapel. And it would stay that way until he was well enough to be moved.
"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Karshun asked, clearly not pleased.
"For the time being, you know as much as I," Akara told him tiredly.
"And you need more rest," Cain spoke up. "You're exhausted. Thank you for coming to tell us."
Akara nodded. Charsi gave her another hug as she headed for the door. Cain walked her to and then through the door, closing it behind them and then adding a silencing spell to it.
"Please..."
"My dear friend, I know what he means to you. And I will tell you when he wakes. But, for now, he is safely hidden from all eyes in all worlds," Akara promised. "I will not tell you more."
Cain sighed miserably but nodded. "Tell him..." Cain shook his head, clearly changing his mind about whatever he was about to say. "Tell him come back to us soon."
Her own heart twisting in sympathy for her dear friend, she embraced him again comfortingly for a moment. Then she opened a portal back to the monastery. Her feet nearly dragging the floor with her exhaustion, she made her way back to the Forgotten Chapel. As she approached, she could hear raised voices that made her feet move more quickly.
"What has happened?" she asked, seeing Kashya along with the other sisters.
Kashya, her face pale, forced herself to composure. "Fever. We were changing his bandages, and he started shaking. Every one of them is inflamed."
Akara sighed sadly. The man's body had barely survived the initial trauma. He'd lost too much blood by far, his lungs had been badly damaged, he'd been poisoned with both necrotic and paralytics, and demonic blood magic had been added. It seems they had even covered the possibility of using something as simple as infection to kill him. She was already unsure if he would have survived the night even after the extensive healing. Now this? She wished she was surprised, but she wasn't. Worse, whatever they had used on the blades to infect the wounds had been so subtle neither she nor Byron had seen it while healing everything else.
Still exhausted, she shoved it all aside as she touched his bare chest to delve. Just as Kashya had said, the man was shivering violently. As she had expected, every single wound was infected, and his body was raging with fever. He was already blazing hot despite their efforts to cool his body with cold cloths and water. The infection was throughout his entire system. She could not heal this. Aside from being too weak right now, most healers could only really minimize the damage when it was this widespread. Cleansing a single wound was relatively easy. But this was just too much; even for the best healers. Besides herself, Byron was the best she knew. And he was just as exhausted right now as herself. She pulled back into herself from the delving, her heart heavy. Kashya already knew the look in Akara's eyes.
"He can still fight it," she insisted before the priestess could even speak.
"Kashya..."
"No," she said flatly. "He can still fight it. He won't give up so easily."
Akara gave a tired half grin. "And neither will you."
Kashya returned it with a dark one of her own. "Not a chance."
"Very well. We shall see," Akara agreed, for her daughter's sake.
Kashya nodded with determination. She and the other Sisters resumed their cleansing and re-bandaging with lots of cold water. The man continued to shiver violently, despite the heat practically rolling off of him in waves. All they could do was wait and pray.
Their best efforts had only minimal effects. Akara was recovered enough to do what damage control she was capable of, but no more. Kashya still refused to give up. The high priestess knew the man's already badly weakened and damaged body could only take so much. It was only a matter of time before he would stop shivering forever. She prayed for Kashya, who grew more exhausted but fiercely determined by the hour. For Pyresong, there wasn't much she could do. From time to time, he would mutter and groan incoherently. Names like Cain's came through clearly sometimes; making her heart ache for her friends in Westmarch.
By the second day, the priest was intermittently convulsing from the fever tearing his body apart from within. Akara did what she could to ease his pain, but it was frustratingly little. His shivering had grown weaker as the day wore on, as had his body. When he rose to near consciousness, the fever warped his mind until he didn't even know reality. She could stand it no more. She would not allow the priest to hurt the Sisters in his delirium. And she knew the man's gentle soul would never forgive himself if that happened. Shoving Kashya aside, she took Pyresong's head in her hands and sank inward. She found the spark of consciousness drowning in his own fear and confusion deep in the darkness. She gave him one command.
"Go to the Unformed Land. Wait there."
When she felt his whole body go limp, she pulled back into herself. The Sisters that had been holding him down slowly backed away uncertainly. Kashya's eyes were watery with unshed tears as she felt his neck carefully for a heartbeat.
"He's in the land of the dead now," Akara told her tiredly. "He will wait there for whatever end."
Kashya roughly scrubbed away her tears and nodded, unable to speak. She knew. Akara didn't need to tell her. His fevered outbursts were too dangerous to all of them. If he began using his trained abilities in his delirium... There were worse things than death when it came to Priests of Rathma. Now it was no longer a matter of will. He would wait on the other side until he was pulled back or his tether faded away. Kashya just prayed he wasn't hurting anymore. She prayed to the Great Eye for Oza to be with him.
The next day, Akara returned early in the morning to check on Kashya, more so than their patient. She was amazed to realize he didn't feel fevered anymore. The infection still raged through his body, and he had not stirred at all. Yet, somehow, the heat rolling off his body had gone down to something almost normal. His body was still fighting; she could feel it. But the icy chill of his soul being in the land of the dead had somehow cooled his body. Unlike the last time, though, he wasn't cold to the touch because of the fever and infection.
"The fever's gone?" Kashya asked hopefully.
"No," Akara told her, amazed. "But his spirit in the Unformed Land still tied to his body has cooled him. The fever is no longer breaking him down."
Kashya's eyes widened with hope. Akara sighed sadly.
"I'm sorry, I hadn't thought of that sooner."
Kashya shook her head and pulled her adopted mother into an embrace. "It's working now. That's all that matters. Now we wait."
"Yes, now we wait," Akara agreed, finally feeling the tiniest spark of hope.
Still sitting on the spectral version of Oza's Overlook, Pyresong felt a tingling tug on his back. He knew he had been told to wait, yet had no idea for what or for how long. And there really was no concept of time here. Oza had spoken truly. Days could pass in the material world while only minutes here. Minutes in the other world could stretch into years here. Still holding on to Oza, feeling peaceful and content, he sighed heavily, almost not wanting to go back.
"There you go again," Oza laughed. "Trying to convince yourself you want to stay."
He laughed softly. "You said it yourself: I am human. I'm allowed to be selfish."
Oza stood and pulled him to his feet. "I'm not the one that has to tell your loved ones, though. Remember that."
He held her tightly, relishing the loving warmth of her spirit. He kissed her forehead.
"I miss you."
"For a few minutes, anyway," she teased, pulling his head down to kiss him in return. "Go, they're waiting for you. We will meet again."
She stepped back away as he mentally grabbed his tether and tugged. With a thought, he found himself in an unfamiliar place. The wispy walls gave him the impression of a monastery or other religious building. Though he had not explored much of the Unformed Land, something about this place spoke of age, power, and permanence. It piqued his curiosity. But that was not what he was here for. He would know when he woke soon enough. For now, his only focus was the blueish glow around a specific spot in the room near one wall. He reached down, willing himself into that glow, and sank quickly into it; the darkness of unconsciousness claiming him yet again.
***
He rose through the darkness gradually, layers of silence falling away as he heard soothing voices calling to him again. At least he wasn't cold this time. He heard his own slurring voice as he tried to force his thick, dry tongue to obey his commands. Whatever came out made no sense even to him. He stopped trying to talk when he began to feel hands pulling and pushing on him gently. There was a sensation of his body rising just before another wave of darkness crashed over him.
The second time he began to wake, he was able to find the sounds around him more quickly. No one was talking this time, but he could hear soft, regular breathing. At first, he wasn't sure if it was just his own. Needing to know, he struggled to open his eyes. Instead, he found his head lolling to the side, his neck aching painfully from being in a position for too long. A moment later, he struggled to take a deeper breath. There was a slight ache coming from other parts of his body that still felt almost detached. Somewhere nearby, he felt his left hand being squeezed gently, comfortingly. The hands holding his were so warm and strong he felt the heat like a beacon. Reflexively he squeezed back, needing more of that strength. He heard himself mumble something again as he tried to force his eyes to cooperate.
Sometimes coming back to the body is a real pain in the ass, he couldn't help thinking.
A soft laughter nearby that he recognized finally jolted him back to almost full consciousness. Apparently, he'd spoken that thought out loud. A couple of seconds later, he blinked his gummy eyes blearily in the direction of the voice, desperate to see her for himself.
"Welcome back," Kashya whispered, caressing his face tenderly.
He sighed happily at her warm touch, leaning into her calloused hand. Quickly and with some confusion, he became aware of something warm pressed up against his right side. Curiously, he lifted his shaking arm under the blankets to find Fern sleeping with an arm around him, her face nearly buried in his chest.
"She's guarding you from the nightmares," Kashya whispered, smiling.
"I thought that was your job," he teased with a grin.
"We're working in shifts," Kashya shot back with a smirk, reaching down for a cup of water and a pitcher. "Drink as much as you can."
Disappointed by the loss of her soothing touch, he fought to focus on all the various and uncomfortable sensations of his clearly still-healing body. He struggled with his now-freed left hand to hold the cup, but his arm just would not cooperate. The shaking in his hand nearly caused him to drop it. Without a word, Kashya took the cup before it slipped through his fingers. This was almost worse than waking from the death sleep. He couldn't help being more than a little irritated by how weak he felt in every limb.
"You've been out for a few days. You'll need some time to recover," Kashya explained while he drank thirstily.
He thought he'd never tasted anything better than that tepid water in his life. As a tiny bit of it splashed across his lips, stinging them, he realized they were deeply cracked. His thick tongue felt like it was coated in a disgusting layer of fur. He swallowed the water gratefully, relishing the feeling of it sliding down into his belly. When she paused to refill the cup, he did a sort of mental inventory of his body. If the weakness in his arms was any indication, he was still in pretty poor shape. He probed his lips carefully with his tongue.
"Fever?" he asked, a vague memory floating to the surface.
Kashya nodded, raising the cup to his mouth again. "Five days since you were initially healed."
He struggled to think back over what little he could remember. Initially, he hadn't expected to survive at all. Once he realized he was going to survive, he had expected to sleep at least a couple of days after such extensive healing. But the fever too? He was actually amazed it hadn't been much longer, then. After the second cup, he shook his head. His stomach was starting to protest the sudden invasion of anything after so long empty. He lay back tiredly, just staring at Kashya; lost in her beautiful, emerald eyes. She held his left hand in both of hers. Only now did he realize it, too, was covered in a bandage.
"How's Oza?" she asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
He smiled, letting his head loll back on the pile of pillows he noticed was propping him mostly upright. He cocked an amused eyebrow at her.
"Jealous?" he teased.
"Why? Should I be?" she teased back.
He just shook his head slightly, still struggling to remember some details. "Akara said—"
Despite their best efforts not to wake her, Fern gasped and sat up abruptly, realizing he was awake. Her wide, dark blue eyes filled with tears, but she quickly scrubbed them away.
"Good morning," he told her warmly
He just managed to reach out with his still trembling right arm and pull her in for a hug. She hugged him carefully but fiercely, seeming at a loss for words. Then he noticed he was still wrapped in several bandages across his chest and shoulders that she was trying to avoid.
"You did good, Fern," Kashya told her. "Not a single nightmare."
Fern huffed a dark laugh as she sat back up on the edge of the bed. "Feeling better?" she asked, eyeing him intently.
"I'm mending," he told her. "It will take a while."
"As long as you do," Fern said, looking so much like a child but not sounding it at all.
"Agreed," Kashya said.
"Damn all those cultists," Fern growled. "I won't let them take you from me."
His eyebrows shot up in amusement at her language, coming from someone who wasn't even double-digit age. Beside him, Kashya shifted uncomfortably, her face going as red as her hair. He grinned and shook his head to indicate they did not need to chastise the little girl over it.
"Agreed," he said. "Not going to happen."
"What happened?" Fern asked.
He could feel the tension in Kashya through her gentle grip on his left hand. He had no idea how much they had told Fern. So he turned to Kashya and cocked an eyebrow questioningly at her. She nodded in reply to his unspoken question.
"We know you were attacked by cultists while sleeping at a tavern in Westmarch. But Akara said you'd been through a battle even before then. That's all we really know."
He nodded back. He knew Fern was no ordinary child, whatever she may look like. And, if she was here with him now, he felt she had a right to know. But in so many things, he deferred to Kashya and the Sisters as Fern was officially their charge.
"Have you had any black-robed missionaries come through here in the last few months?"
"A few. Akara had us chase them out. Why?"
"Vampire cult," he sighed tiredly. "I helped some Blood Knights put an end to the cult. They caught my attention in Westmarch."
"Blood Knights?" Fern asked. Kashya was no less curious.
"People whose blood is vampire-cursed but have decided to use it to hunt down vampires. I don't really know much about them. It was the first time I learned about them," he explained.
Stifling a yawn, he shook his head and tried to sit up a bit more to shake off the sleepiness.
"Carefully," Kashya warned. "We don't need you tearing the stitches."
He nodded and leaned back again, too tired and shaky to hold himself up anyway.
"I had...quite a fight with some of their thralls. One of the Blood Knights, Mariki, helped. And then we destroyed the vampire lord behind the cult."
He sighed sadly, remembering Mariki's sacrifice but not ready or willing to talk about it with them. Then he turned his mind back to what had actually led him to this point.
"I was tired when I got back to Westmarch. But that's not an excuse," he told them, shaking his head.
"What happened?" Kashya prompted gently when he fell quiet.
"I made a mistake," he admitted tiredly. "A very stupid mistake. It was late, and I suspected Zatham was staying with Karshun and Cain while they were working on something. So I got a room at the tavern. Something I've been doing occasionally. And...I fell asleep without something to warn me of intruders. I usually prop my shield on the door to alert me. And I didn't."
Kashya squeezed his hand carefully and caressed his face soothingly.
Fern glared darkly. "You shouldn't have to."
He wrapped his arm around her again and pulled her back to him. He kissed the top of her head, ignoring the tugging pain in his back and shoulders for a minute.
"I knew cultists were hunting me," he explained to her. "It was my mistake. I got too comfortable."
"Well, they really wanted you dead," Kashya told him, her emerald eyes full of fear even now. "Aside from the blood magic in the knives, they also used necrotic and paralytic poisons and something that caused massive infections."
He vaguely remembered that there had been multiple stab wounds; and very clearly remembered the flaring agony of each one. It was far from the first time he had experienced a deep stab wound. Even then, he had realized the pain was far beyond what a normal stab would have inflicted; and there had been multiple. He nodded, not entirely surprised.
"Akara was able to stop the poisons and blood magic. She and a healer from Westmarch were able to repair the worst of the damage. But the infections took over the next day," Kashya continued, pressing his hand to her cheek. "When you got delirious from the fever, Akara told you to go to the land of the dead. It saved your life."
"How?" he asked, too tired to really make sense of how that worked.
"When you're there, your body cools. The first time you were...near frozen, is all I can say," Kashya explained, visibly shuddering. "This time, it cooled you enough for your body to survive and fight off the infection."
He frowned and nodded slowly. He did recall Cain having mentioned that. Now, he didn't know what to say. He'd made a fatal mistake and only narrowly avoided paying everything for it. Then another memory of that night floated to the surface, shoving all shame and guilt aside. As the terrifying memory surfaced, he turned back toward Kashya.
"And, yes, Cain and the others were warned on the night it happened," Kashya assured him as if reading his anxious expression. "Akara intends to bring him to see you now that you're awake."
He relaxed with a sigh that turned into a yawn. The others were safe. He knew this whole thing was his fault, his mistake. But he also knew that if cultists had traced him back to Westmarch... Was there anyone in the city that didn't know he'd been staying with Cain? Very likely not. He certainly wouldn't be staying there anymore.
Problems for another day, he thought, realizing his body was already worn out.
Kashya reached down beside her for the cup and pitcher. "You need more water and food in a few hours," she told him. "Fern, you can come back tomorrow. You need more sleep, too."
"Yes, Commander," Fern said, hugging him gently one more time.
"Sleep well," he told her, kissing the mop of blond hair on top of her head.
"Now that I know you'll be okay, I should," Fern told him, sounding nothing like a child to him.
His heart twisted painfully with unaccountable guilt at those words, but he kept his expression neutral as she crawled out of the bed and put the blankets back in place. He couldn't stop the guilt of what he had just put them through; most especially Fern. He watched her walk away, sad that so much had already been stolen from her.
"She's a tough girl," Kashya told him, reading his expression once again. "She may have lost her childhood and her innocence, but she's gained a strength few will ever understand."
He nodded sadly, knowing the truth of those words. But his heart couldn't help wishing for something better for the little girl. He put it aside, too tired to think of more right now anyway. He drank another cup while Kashya held it for him. When he was finished, she set it aside and then left her chair. He watched curiously as she came around the bed. Carefully, she slid into the recently vacated narrow space to his right.
"My shift," she told him with a grin.
"So you are jealous," he teased with a soft laugh.
"No need to be," she replied with a contented sigh, nestling her head against his uninjured shoulder. "You're heart's big enough for all of us."
He didn't even know what to say to that. So he just kissed the top of her head and lay back, letting himself soak in her warmth as it echoed the warmth he now felt blanketing his soul.
***
The next couple of days were little more than an annoyance to Pyresong. He loved that he could spend time with Kashya and Fern. He still held some concerns for the little girl clinging to him as she did. It was one thing for an adult to lose someone, but that child had lost too much already. As this incident had reminded him all too painfully, tomorrow was never promised for him. One little mistake and his life had caught up to him quickly. He wondered if the cultists had already been watching, waiting for the opportunity. Very likely.
Of course, that brought him back around to Cain and the others. He knew Cain's power, but anyone could be caught off guard. Anyone could make a mistake. Despite the shielding in the shop, he worried that the Damnation Cultists were watching there, too. He had hoped they would have been broken and scattered by the loss of Skarn. Never had he been so grateful for Karshun's irritating and arrogant presence. At least that mage was wary enough to see an attack coming. Sometimes he wondered if Cain wasn't too trusting. But, then, the old scholar had never been wrong about a person, either that Pyresong knew of.
Most of the following three days were spent either sleeping or eating. No matter how hard he struggled to remain awake for longer, his body just would not let him. Hearing Akara wanted to bring Cain to visit him, he asked her not to. The old man had enough to worry about without wasting time here. As soon as Akara deemed the wounds healed enough to remove the stitches, he was pushing to get out of the bed. Both Kashya and Akara warned him he would be in no condition for fighting any time soon, so he might as well relax. But he just couldn't. By now, it had been over a week since they'd recovered the Pathstone. The three of them should have figured it out by now. He refused to believe their one great advantage might be lost because of his own mistakes.
Finally, Akara gave in and had him moved to one of the cells in a relatively unused corridor of the monastery. There, he could move about as he wished, trying to regain his strength without causing anyone else further frustration. When she came to see him shortly after, her expression was dark.
"I am in your debt," he told her, struggling to control his shaking limbs.
Akara waved at him. "Sit down before you fall down," she snapped and then sighed tiredly and took a chair across the small room. "I'm sorry, but I know what hunts you. Much as your concern with Cain, word can spread quickly that you are here. I will not risk this monastery or my Sisters for one man," she told him bluntly.
"I understand," he told her gravely.
"And that is part of why you're in such a hurry to leave," Akara told him with a grin. "The Great Eye shows me much. But there is still far too much shrouded in the mists."
He couldn't help a wry grin, yet another woman reading him like an open book; maybe with a bit of help, but still... He was just too tired to even be surprised.
"You did the right thing, coming here as you did," she said softly, eyeing him contemplatively. "I don't know if that decision was guided or not."
He'd had time to think about that, too. He honestly could remember no conscious thoughts directing him when he opened the portal during the attack. He could only guess that somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this monastery was a place of safety. But even that could be challenged by the right people and the right magics. This place had suffered enough of their own problems. Now that he was recovered enough to walk for a few minutes at a time, he had every intention of fleeing to somewhere more private to complete his recovery. Minutes from now, he would be gone. He'd intended to leave a note when Akara caught him preparing to leave.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But, you're right. I'm leaving before anyone can find me here."
"Even Cain?" she challenged with an amused grin.
He frowned sadly with a sigh. "Yes. I was hoping to send word, but..."
Akara shook her head. "You will go to see him in disguise," she told him. "I have something that will help you, but I have also been warned that it is not...perfect." She pulled a bronze talisman out of one of her robe pockets and handed it over. "It is a seal of the Great Eye that will conceal you from most prying eyes, especially magical ones. It can't stop everything, but it will give you some protection. And it will not stop the shards from finding you."
He turned the amulet over in his hand curiously. It felt very old and definitely radiated an ancient and powerful magical aura. The image of the Great Eye was closed on this one, as it usually was, but this one felt more...deliberate. He didn't really have a word for it. He had only a very vague understanding of their beliefs to begin with. Akara continued while he inspected it.
"I'm sure you have a thong you can use. Wear it around your neck, under your clothes in contact with your skin and it will conceal you. You are, of course, allowed to come and go in the monastery when you can.
"I know that, from the beginning, you have kept Kashya out of your...other life," Akara told him with another grin. "That is for the two of you to work out. All I ask is that you wear that amulet any time you return here. The rest of the time is up to you."
"Of course," he agreed readily, already digging into his backpack. "It seems my debts to you are piling up."
Akara laughed dryly. "The world owes you great debts they will never know. You owe us nothing; that is what friendship means."
His hand in the backpack paused at this. He could sense something deeper in her words but only nodded. He was still too exhausted to think too deeply into things right now. He found the thin leather strips he usually cut pieces off of to tie his hair back. Akara remained silent as he fed a loop of the cord through the amulet, and then tied it around his neck as instructed and tucked it under his tunic. Akara nodded, satisfied; silently relieved he wasn't asking more questions. She quickly moved on, hoping to keep him distracted for the time being.
"I have some old robes you may have to conceal your identity while in Westmarch and other places," she told him, walking to the door to retrieve a pile she'd left outside. "They are plain enough to be from almost any possible order."
He smiled slightly in amusement and shook his head. No, this was far from the first time he'd concealed himself to get into a city. Getting out was always the easy part. Besides, after this, his visits to Westmarch were likely to be much fewer and shorter. He accepted the folded robes gratefully. This would at least allow him to see Cain and the others soon.
"You will not need to conceal yourself always," she told him gently. "And, with the amulet, you are welcome to stay here a few more days to recover."
He shook his head. "It's been too long already."
"While you were in that old chapel, you were hidden from the eyes of every world, much to Karshun's chagrin," Akara told him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "He kept looking for quite some time."
He laughed softly at the idea of anything irritating the arrogant mage, though the guilt of leaving Cain in distress did still bother him. Akara was all seriousness now.
"Karshun is not what he seems. It is not my place to tell his story. But he does not dislike you for the motives you believe."
He nodded and grinned. "I know. If anything, I think he enjoys our verbal sparring matches."
Akara grinned. "He does, indeed."
"It is enough that Cain has accepted him as a friend. Cain, I trust."
"As you should," Akara agreed. Then she rose gracefully from the chair. "You are well enough to make a portal, but I would ask that you remain for one more day to recover. It is already late."
He eyed her, sensing something there that she wasn't telling him. But he was too tired physically and mentally right now to even begin to figure out what it might be. He nodded slowly, agreeing. Through the light of the thin window behind him, he'd guessed it was likely late afternoon. One more night might give him that extra bit of strength he would need to fight off anything else he might encounter. Besides, she was right; his legs would barely support him when she had shown up. He doubted he could make the short walk from the waypoint to the workshop right now, let alone try to walk all the way up the western path to the Sanctified Earth Monastery. Satisfied, Akara nodded in return. Then she smiled softly.
"The Great Eye is not alone in watching over you, my friend. All our blessings and hopes go with you on your journey."
He took her hand and bowed low, priest to honored high priestess. "I am honored."
Akara snorted. "No, you're disturbed by that, but any sane mortal would be."
He laughed outright at that. She was not wrong. She patted his hand warmly.
"Just know that you are not alone in your battles."
He smiled warmly in return. "I know."
Akara nodded again and let herself out. With no small amount of frustration, he forced his legs to cooperate as he began shuffling back and forth across the room, trying to work out the stiffness and shakiness. He was doubly frustrated to feel the dizziness taking over after only a very few minutes. Shoving aside his frustration, he sat on the edge of the bed to take a closer look at the robes.
Unfolding one to hold it up, he realized it would be long enough to brush the ground when he walked and easily many times wider than him. It almost looked to have been made for a Barbarian by its size. The extra girth would very likely come in handy to conceal his armor. Though, concealing the scythe might be much more problematic. No matter how he hung it on the hooks at his side, its width would be obvious. Besides, there was no easy way to get it out through the robes. He considered the idea of carrying a sword instead on those occasions. He made a quick mental note to ask Charsi about something that might come close to the properties of his scythe. If he were going in disguise anywhere, he would not go unarmed. The shield on his back he could probably cover by acting as a sort of hunchback; which would also help with disguising some of his height. The hood was easily long enough to cover most of his face, though he very much disliked not having the peripheral vision range he was accustomed to.
White hair and face in a robe, however, was not so much of a giveaway. Many people who worked with magic, even other priests, could sometimes find their hair bleached. He began to recall some priests even dyed their hair. Aside from being entirely unappealing, he couldn't even begin to think of a color he would appreciate. Most Priests of Rathma who opted to dye their hair went with black. He couldn't even picture himself with that. Before he could consider further, there was a tap at his door.
"Come," he called tiredly, his legs still shaking from the recent attempt at exercise.
Fern's blond head popped around the edge of the slightly opened door. Her wide blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"You're leaving?" she accused.
He motioned for her to come in. "Not just yet," he explained. "Akara asked me to stay another night to recover."
"Good," Fern said, closing the door behind herself. "You're not ready."
He laughed softly at her firm tone. He leaned in to hug her when she approached.
"Perhaps not," he admitted and then explained, "But it isn't entirely safe for me to be here, either."
Fern pulled back from the embrace and eyed him in obvious irritation. Then, to his amazement, she placed one tiny, glowing hand on each cheek. He forced himself to remain still as she delved him, the warm tingling spreading through his body.
"You're not ready," she repeated as he stared at her in wide-eyed shock. "You are too weak physically, but the rest of you has recovered."
"How?" he asked in complete shock.
"I watched Priestess Akara," she explained simply as if it should be obvious. Then she touched the amulet hidden under his tunic. "The Great Eye told me the rest."
For several seconds, he could only stare mutely. Fern's sapphire eyes took on an amused glint. There was no childish innocence there anymore. He felt an electric tingling along his nerves as he began to realize there was so very much more going on here than a child's discovery of a new talent. His tired mind was too scrambled with surprise at the moment to untangle it all.
"Do the others know?" he finally managed to form a cohesive thought.
"They will," she told him, moving to climb onto the edge of the bed beside him. "The Great Eye will tell them when I'm ready."
He repressed a shiver as he tried to push all those swirling thoughts back down. She sat beside him and pulled his left arm around her back to hold her; very much as Oza had recently done. That was no child speaking. There was definitely more going on here. Was it even his place to say anything? Was this some kind of religious thing? Was it just Fern coping with what she'd been through? His mind flitted through so many things in that moment he had to just force them all to stop for a second. He squeezed her gently in a sideways hug. Part of him still ached for her lost childhood, but he felt something much bigger was beginning here.
"I have much to learn, yet," he heard her explain as he forced his thoughts to calm again. "I'm still too small for most things. I need more strength."
He smiled at that, kissing the top of her head. "I'm proud of you, Fern. Remember that. Being small isn't always a bad thing. And you were never weak."
"I know," she smiled up at him happily. Then she eyed the pile of robes distastefully. "You're going to wear those?"
He laughed at her disgusted tone. "Yes, for a little while, anyway."
She turned those eyes on his hair, still brushing his shoulders. "You're not going to dye your hair, are you?"
He laughed again. "The thought had crossed my mind."
"Commander Kashya won't like it," she warned him.
Before he could answer, the latch of the door rattled, and Kashya let herself in.
"Won't like what?" she asked, eyeing the two.
"He's thinking about dying his hair to disguise himself," Fern explained, pointing to the robes.
Her emerald eyes took on a wicked gleam as she grinned mischievously. "This could be fun."
Feeling like a cornered mouse, Pyresong shook his head. He'd walked right into it. "Let's hold off on that until I've recovered well enough to think my way through this."
Kashya snorted. "You'll be long gone by then."
"Exactly," he admitted, making them all laugh.
Fern hopped down off the bed and came around in front of him. He embraced her again as she leaned in.
"I just came to say goodbye since I'll be training when you leave tomorrow," she told him. Then she pulled his head down to whisper in his ear. "Stop worrying about me. My path is known to me."
Again, he repressed a shiver of shock as he pulled back gently. He kissed her forehead softly. Kashya waited patiently, though very curious about the whisper. Fern bowed formally to her commander and closed the door as she left. Kashya came over and shoved aside the robes to make more room to sit beside him.
"Tomorrow?" she asked, wrapping an arm around him.
"Yes," he told her. "Akara asked me to stay one more night."
"Good," she sighed, not unhappily.
For a while, they sat in silence, just holding each other. Eager as he was to get back to the hunt for the cultists and the shard, he cherished these moments. He wasn't about to let it be tainted with those other thoughts. Right now, all he knew was Kashya's warm presence and strength. Even thoughts of Fern fell away for a while.
***
Kashya, having already returned to her duties, did not spend the night with him since he still needed as much sleep as he could get. Pyresong wished she had stayed but knew he would be leaving early. Unlike his usual habit, he slept well past the sunrise. All he could do was sigh. His recovery would be long, he knew; and it was unreasonable to expect it to be completed in only a handful of days. But, still, he was leaving. Despite the amulet Akara had given him, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone would find him there. And he did not want to risk bringing the fight here under any circumstances. He still did not understand what it was that had made him open the portal here, and he liked to believe it was his own subconscious will. Yet Akara's words still haunted him. And, truthfully, it didn't matter now.
It was still relatively early when he donned his armor and then tied the robes over that. Kashya had already found a pair of boots that fit well enough for now to replace the ones he'd left behind in the tavern. He noted the reluctance to leave this safe haven. Some delusional part of him wanted to cling to the fantasy that one day he might be able to stay here within these quiet, safe walls for the remainder of his years. Of course, he knew better. Right now, he was just happy that he was certain at least his legs would support him well enough to cross the small bit of city he needed to get to his destination. After that, he would have a much longer and more arduous walk than he would like.
One thing at a time, he reminded himself.
He appeared on the Palace Courtyard waypoint drawing only a few curious stares as an unknown monk from some likely obscure order. He pretended to ignore everyone as they eyed this unexpected monk in their midst. Yet, he observed each one. As he walked toward the stairs south and then west toward Cain's workshop, he watched for anyone leaving in a hurry. If anyone here was looking for him, they did not seem in a hurry to alert anyone else. Truthfully, he hoped no one had seen him for what he was. Despite the robes and hood, he still felt too weak to be anything other than vulnerable and wary.
He was happy to see the extra layers of shielding that had been placed on the workshop door, even from a distance. Hopefully, they were as wary of intruders now as he should have been. As hyper-alert, as he was now, the stealthy footsteps behind him had him walking right past the door instead of stopping. He was not about to lead his follower right to Cain, and he wanted to confront them somewhere more quietly. He would not allow bystanders to become collateral damage. Not for the first time, he was irritated by the lack of visual range the hood forced on him.
"You should stop and at least tell them," the voice behind him spoke up.
Zatham, he thought with relief, turning around.
"You are still weak, friend," Zatham observed. "Let me heal you."
He shook his head. "Not here."
He turned to lead them to a nearby alley that he knew was typically empty.
"We have discovered how to use the Pathstone. Talk with your seer, and then let us sail for the Ancients' Cradle. It is long past time," Zatham told him.
As expected, just beyond the mouth of the alley, they were well out of sight, and nobody was hanging around in the shadows.
"That is good news."
Zatham took hold of Pyresong's offered hands. The two of them glowed brightly for a few seconds as Zatham began the healing. Thankfully the telltale glow did not last very long.
"The spirit knows what the body should be," Zatham told him. "The spirit will do the rest."
"Thank you," he said, feeling much better but still not his usual self. If anything, he was more tired now; as was usually the case with healing magic. Still, it was a relief from the shakiness and dizziness he had been dealing with until now.
"I will speak with them and meet you when ready."
Zatham shook his head and waved off the idea. "I will speak with the watchers here. There may be news of the fanatics' movement. We leave tomorrow morning."
He was again relieved there had been no other news of the cult and their activities. He was doubly relieved that he would not have to scramble to get himself together right now to hop on a ship. At the moment, he was too tired to think his way through what all he needed before leaving the city. He would have to remember to thank Zatham for making the arrangements and doing all the work lately.
He watched for a moment while Zatham headed in the opposite direction of Cain's workshop. Making sure his hood was still pulled low, he made his way back down the street toward the door. He paused long enough to ensure there was no one else on the street before knocking. It was Karshun who answered, clearly wary of any visitors. He could easily feel the power in staff hidden behind the door, ready to strike at him. Despite being tired, a mischievous spark reared its head while tilted the hood back enough for the mage to get a good look.
"I've come to bring the word of salvation," he said loud enough for anyone on the street to hear as he flashed a wicked grin at the mage. "Would you be interested in donating your soul for a better use?"
Karshun snorted in amusement and waved him inside. Already, Cain was on his feet, abandoning the desk.
"Pyresong!" he said happily, embracing his friend. "Akara wouldn't tell us more than you were recovering. It's been days."
"My apologies, friend," he replied sincerely. "But she was right. Too many eyes are looking for me now. She kept me where I could not be found. I thought it best we not draw attention to that place."
For once, Karshun kept his mouth blessedly shut as he closed the door and walked away. Pyresong took the opportunity of being safely indoors to shed the heavy robes. Yet, he sensed a tension here he had not anticipated. Cain's own expression was one of relief, but something else, too. Just as he was about to ask for an update, Cain's eyes closed in clear frustration for a second when Karshun loudly shuffled some parchments on the desk. It was obvious the mage wanted their attention over something.
"We were just...talking," Cain replied quickly to Pyresong's questioning look.
He headed back towards the desk and Karshun.
"Are you certain, Cain? You aren't getting any younger," Karshun said firmly.
Cain didn't immediately answer, though Pyresong could not have missed the heavy sigh.
"I heard the Pathstone is ready," Pyresong said, not liking the feel in the air. "What are you talking about?"
Cain sighed again and turned back toward Pyresong. "Karshun and I were having a...discussion. About a rumor, I want to seek out. The information the Curator provided is priceless and not to be ignored."
"Of course," he agreed. "I'll help as soon as we're back from the voyage."
Cain shook his head and waved him off. "No, don't trouble yourself. You have more urgent work. But...I wish you would return tomorrow before you leave on your voyage. I don't suppose you'd be willing to stay here tonight?"
He shook his head. "Akara has given me some protection against those looking for me, but I can't. I won't risk it."
"I understand," Cain said sadly.
Behind Cain's back, Karshun unexpectedly threw him a meaningful look as he nodded his head toward the elderly scholar. Pyresong glanced from Karshun to Cain, confused. He just couldn't quite understand. What was going on here? When Cain turned back toward his desk, he cocked an eyebrow questioningly at Karshun while the old man's back was turned. Knowing Cain was looking right at him, the mage just shook his head with a look of disgust.
"I will explain the Pathstone before you leave...tomorrow," Karshun said firmly and turned away with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You likely have more recovering to do."
He knew that was true and nodded slowly. Still feeling something here he didn't like but couldn't quite figure out. Yes, he was still tired, perhaps more so after the healing with Zatham, but nowhere near as shaky as he was even just this morning. He turned to Cain, searching for something. Cain smiled at him warmly.
"Go and get some rest, my friend," Cain told him.
He nodded, almost reconsidering the offer to stay. Not really certain what was going on and why Karshun had wanted him involved, he scrutinized Cain again.
"Zatham is checking in with the other watchers."
"And he should be chartering a ship," Karshun told him. "He was ready to leave without you if you didn't show up soon."
He grinned at that. "He is...dedicated."
"Where will you be?" Cain asked, clearly still worried.
Whatever was going on here, he wasn't going to figure it out unless someone outright told him. His thoughts were slightly muddled and he was in no mood for subtle games or verbal duelling with Karshun. He reached for the heavy, itchy robes again.
"Sleeping, most likely. I'll be fine, Cain. I promise. Zatham helped considerably. I will be back tomorrow."
Cain nodded sadly. "Be well, my friend."
He finished tying the robes and embraced him one more time. "You too."
He let himself out quietly and turned back toward the alley. There was nothing more he could do here today. He might as well take everyone's advice and get some more rest. And he knew exactly where to do it. As soon as he was certain he was alone and unobserved in the alley, he opened a portal to the waypoint just west of the Sanctified Earth Monastery. Now he just had to hope Zatham had healed him enough that he could make it all the way up and into the safety of the temple complex.
***
Early the next morning, Pyresong woke feeling far more recovered than he had expected. He would have to thank Zatham again. He spent a few minutes covering up the remaining embers of the fire and donning his gear. Considering he was going to be seen leaving the city on a ship, he wasn't nearly as concerned about concealing himself today. He would be leading anyone watching far, far away from Cain and the others. Besides, a pettier part of him would enjoy letting all of them know they had failed to kill him.
Again he took note of the stares as he appeared in the Palace Courtyard waypoint. But none of them seemed to have taken a special interest this time, either. In full gear, with his scythe hanging comfortingly at his side, he headed down the stairs and around the corner. His eyes fell on the donkey-drawn cart beside Cain's open workshop door. Already, there were a couple of trunks in the back of the cart. His heart skipped a beat as the conversation from yesterday replayed itself in his mind. Having recovered much physically, he now saw all the things he hadn't seen yesterday and kicked himself mentally.
When he saw Karshun, Cain, and even Charsi filling another chest with more books and parchments, his heart sank to his feet. Something told him this was no quick trip. He froze in the doorway.
"You all are perfectly capable without me," Cain told them firmly. "Karshun's wisdom, Charsi's craft... And you have a most reliable friend on top of that. One who tends to do all the hard work, don't forget."
Karshun snorted in response to that as he closed the lid of the chest while Charsi helped Cain back to his feet.
"Your faith is very rarely misplaced," Karshun told him warmly.
Cain smiled broadly, his beard tugging when he spotted Pyresong in the doorway. "We were just talking about you," Cain told him, motioning him inside.
"You're leaving," he replied sadly, approaching.
Cain smiled again warmly and embraced him. Almost reluctantly, pulled back and looked up at his friend.
"Yes. I can ignore the prophecies of the End of Days no longer. There have been too many signs. I must look for answers that Westmarch cannot offer, my friend. We all have our roles to play, and I believe yours is to stop the Darkness which presently looms. There is nothing I provide which you cannot accomplish yourself."
A part of him wanted to argue so many things. Given what little he knew of the prophecies that involved him directly, he didn't want to bring them up. And, a part of him knew it would make no difference if he did. Those events were past. He could see it in his eyes that Cain had his plans set; even that much information would not change his friend's mind. Pyresong had, for months now, flatly refused to even think about where this friendship would end. And he did the same now. For Cain's sake, he put on a warm smile. Already, he was considering maybe finding him and visiting someday. With his ability to make portals, it was not out of the realm of possibility. But, oh gods, he would miss him!
Karshun sighed heavily. "If that is your decision, I will not stand in your way. Though, I may regret trying to read your script."
Cain laughed as he turned back to Karshun. "Never change, my friend. The workshop is yours until I return. I know you will use it well."
"It has been the 'End of Days' for a long time, Cain. Are you sure about this?" Pyresong couldn't help asking.
Cain shook his head, still smiling. "You all are far too much. Don't bully an old man."
"I know when you've made a decision," Charsi said, smacking Pyresong on the arm. "I'm going to get these chests out of here."
Cain threw him a sad smile and then turned back to Karshun. They walked over to his beautifully crafted desk that the necromancer had hoped the old scholar would use for many years to come. He struggled with the urge not to abandon his own task, to follow his dear friend. But he put it away. He knew what he had to do, as did Cain. His choices had already been made. Now it was his responsibility to find a way to fix those mistakes. Maybe it was better this way for his friend. Perhaps he wouldn't have to be caught up in all of that.
"I've left my research on the Worldstone, and a few other subjects, besides," Cain told Karshun. "I am certain they will be of use to you."
Karshun nodded, already knowing all of this but letting Cain say what he needed. Pyresong realized this parting was no easier for Cain than it was for the rest of them. Cain motioned to the shelves to the left of his desk.
"And some of my own manuscripts—if you can be bothered to squint, you might even learn a few new things," Cain teased the mage.
Karshun smiled sadly and nodded again. Cain moved over to the fireplace, eyeing the painting above. Now his own voice was heavily laden with sorrow.
"Save for my memories, this is all I have left of Amelia and Jered now. Pyresong, you're taller. Would you mind taking it down and out to the carriage outside?"
"Of course."
"It's hardly fit for travel, but...it wouldn't be right for me to leave it."
His heart ached. Now he knew Cain wasn't coming back. He'd sensed it but didn't want to believe it. Cain was essentially telling them without admitting it, even to himself. This was no longer his workshop and likely wouldn't be ever again. Pyresong kept his expression carefully neutral when his heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Memories of their many nights sitting by the fire talking flitted through his mind. But he knew it was already done. Cain had made up his mind. At best, maybe they would meet again someday, somewhere else.
Carefully, he lifted the large painting and maneuvered it across the room. He laid it on Cain's bed and folded it carefully in a blanket. Hefting it with equal care, he carried it out the door and slid it neatly into a narrow space beside some of the chests and crates. Then he hurried back inside. Cain had turned to face the three of them.
"That appears to be everything, my dear friends. At my age, you become an expert in farewells. But...I quite prefer 'we'll meet again'."
Karshun embraced him one last time. "May the stars follow you, Elder."
"You know where to find me, Cain. Have a safe journey," Charsi said, embracing him as well.
Cain's eyes turned to Pyresong. "Walk with me, my friend. If you please."
He nodded, still struggling to keep his emotions in check. He let Cain lead the way through the door where the old man motioned the cart driver to get moving. Cain continued his shuffling walk in silence until they were well away from the shop and alone. Pyresong didn't even know what to say anymore. He didn't want this to happen. Yet, he also knew it was the right thing for all of them; for the world.
"Your potential..." Cain started hesitantly, "your...virtue...have no limit, my friend. I know you don't see it, and you likely never will. I knew it when we met in Wortham. You've met your perils with resolve and compassion. And that is rare, indeed."
"I did not have had a choice what I would become. Instead, I simply chose to use those skills to leave the world a better place. I'm no hero, friend.”
Cain stopped, shaking his head. "As I said, you cannot see it. It's part of who you are not to see what I see, and that is no bad thing. But you are more unique than you will ever realize because of that."
Cain sighed heavily. "These are troubling times. Perhaps more than any in my life. So many ignore the call to help others. It is...hard to blame them. But you do not."
Pyresong smiled sadly. "So few speak for the Balance, now. The world is toppling. I cannot save the world, but I can set some things to rights. Who else but me?"
"Exactly, my friend," Cain told him warmly. "I have seen some of the bravest people alive descend into Hell, stand against Destruction incarnate. You are a hero of their ilk, but you do not see it that way. And that is part of what makes you so unique. For what you've endured...perhaps even greater than them."
He just shook his head with a sad grin. This was an argument they'd had many times. He knew he was no hero and never would be. He didn't want to be, despite Cain's wishes—almost nagging—to the contrary. He would miss those talks. He would miss the old man's gentle prodding and encouragement. More than anything, he would miss the man who had accepted him as an adopted son.
"Never lose sight of all you have overcome," Cain warned, more seriously now. "Cultists, Demon Lords, traitors...even the power of creation itself."
“I did not do so alone, and that makes all the difference.”
Squeezed Cain's shoulder gently, still struggling with himself to not somehow make this that much harder for his dear friend. Yet there were still so very many things he wanted to talk about with Cain, so share with him. He quickly bottled them all up. He would find the old scholar some day.
"One last thing," Cain said, with an amused grin, "quit worrying about me. I've walked dangerous roads my whole life. You stop fearing what could happen and focus on what must. I'll be as safe as I ever have."
Pyresong embraced him one more time. He already knew in life or in death, he would never forget his friend. He would meet Cain again somewhere someday.
"Thank you for everything, Cain. We'll meet again," he promised.
"Until that day, my friend," the old man said resolutely.
Cain's steps turned toward the docks in the direction of the cart. He resisted the urge to watch, to follow. Part of him knew he would never see Cain again, at least not alive. Even if his friend lived to be another forty years older, the likelihood of his own survival was slim. But a greater part of him clung to the hope in their last words. The old man had become something of a father to him. And, like any parent/child relationship, he would have to walk on his own now.
He forcefully turned his own steps back toward the workshop where he knew Karshun waited for him. It was time to focus on what lay ahead. He took a deep breath and forced it out slowly, shoving aside all emotions. He could not let Karshun get the better of him right now. They did not need that kind of discord. Besides, he wasn't sure he could take it right now; his heart aching acutely.
The workshop door still stood open as he forced himself to put everything else away to deal with Karshun. He felt...raw right now and knew it would be far too easy for the man's arrogant attitude and snide words to get to him. Without Cain there to keep the two of them from stabbing at each other, things would likely get ugly quickly if he allowed it. He forced his usual serene expression on as he spied Karshun standing in front of the fireplace staring into the flames.
"Enough goodbyes?" Karshun asked with a dark grin, turning to face him.
"I'd gotten...used to him being here," Pyresong admitted grudgingly. He felt his eyebrows flicker unconsciously. "I hope he'll be all right."
Karshun's expression softened, having seen what was beyond his mask, despite his carefully controlled voice.
"I met Cain in a jungle. You met him in a town under siege. He can take care of himself," Karshun told him gently, the arrogance completely gone for a moment in their shared sadness.
He nodded, grateful for the man's attempts to at least not be a complete arse at the moment.
"Now, let's see to your journey, hmm?" Karshun said, all arrogant mage once more.
"You know the way to the Ancients' Cradle?" he challenged with a grin.
"I don't need to," the mage shot back with a smirk, pulling the Pathstone out of a pocket in his robes. "It...harbors a residual energy I do not recognize. But Zatham was able to provide enough that we learned to use it."
He watched while the mage held it up to the Astral Anchor. He activated the anchor and the Pathstone cube hovered toward the top of the construct.
"Its powers are of sealing and unsealing. Not just doors. The clouds themselves," Karshun explained.
The purple glow of the Astral Anchor was enough to nearly blind Pyresong's magical vision. But he didn't need to see in that spectrum as the Pathstone lit up a magenta color and sent something of a small orb of energy toward the anchor. With a flick of Karshun's fingers, a map of Sanctuary appeared between them. A part of the Forgotten Sea almost due west of the now shattered Mount Arreat glowed brightly, with a brighter spot almost in the center of the sea.
"There is your destination," Karshun told him with a hint of smugness.
"And how should we use it?"
Karshun waved and the map disappeared while the Pathstone returned to his hands. He handed it over to Pyresong. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he made a clear verbal jab.
"When you sail into the fog and mist of the Forgotten Sea, keep it close and your mind focused on thought of opening," Karshun instructed as if talking to an idiot pupil.
Appreciating the mage's deliberate attempt to both dig at him verbally and take his mind off their recent, shared loss, Pyresong decided to play into it. He grinned back.
"Hold it and think about it. I can do both at once?" with feigned wonder.
Karshun smirked, clearly enjoying this. "I thought you might appreciate a simple task...on the rare occasion one presents itself."
"I'll keep that in mind," he laughed softly. Then he smiled warmly at the mage, "Take care of this place, Karshun."
"I would say 'be safe', but I think I know you well enough now to know that isn't going to happen. So I'll just say, 'come back in one piece', if you can," Karshun told him, smiling warmly back.
Pyresong, feeling the need to show appreciation for all the mage had done for them, stepped back and bowed low, priest to honored mage. Not waiting for or expecting a reply from Karshun, he headed out the door. They had clearly come to an understanding, but the two of them were still likely headed for more verbal jabbing and arguments in the near future. He waas all the more glad he would be getting away from the workshop for a while. He knew it would take him some time to come to terms with Cain's absence here in this place he'd all too briefly considered home.
It was time to find Zatham.
Chapter 22: 21 Ancients' Cradle
Chapter Text
Ancients' Cradle
Still wearing his full gear openly, Pyresong decided to make his way to the Wolf City Tavern. If Zatham weren't there, likely someone there would know where he had last been seen. It was still early enough in the morning they could get moving today, if Zatham had managed to charter a ship. But it was late enough most of the breakfast patrons had gotten on with their day. The docks were bustling with activity when he came around the corner. For one second, he scanned the crowds looking for Cain's cart or the man himself, and then forcefully stopped himself. Cain was likely already aboard a ship and settling in. More importantly, he knew he did not have the time to follow or question. Cain was clever enough that he had very likely deliberately left out the information on where he was going and what ship to all of them. He was not alone in this. The less they knew of where to find the old scholar, the safer Cain would be. He just hoped Cain didn't get so distracted he forgot to send letters back to the workshop once in a while.
Briefly, his mind ran over their last conversation. So very much he wanted to say. There was so much more he'd never gotten to tell Cain. The elderly scholar's words hadn't really had time to sink in, he knew. But he would have time to think over them later. Some of what the old scholar said was absolutely true; he would never see himself as a hero. In his mind, he only did what needed to be done. And if that made a world of difference to one person, great. If it made no difference at all in the greater scope...well, there was nothing more he could do about that. Others would have to do their parts.
He was not in the least surprised to find the usual bunch of drunken sailors already hanging out near the entrance to the tavern. This time, several were deliberately blocking his way. With a mental sigh, he tried to move around them. A couple moved to block him. He was in absolutely no mood for a confrontation right now with anyone. He knew it would not end well for them. He let his expression go cold as he cocked an eyebrow at them.
"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"
"Yeah, you go tell Bailey we need more—"
He didn't let him finish; he went into wraith form and slid neatly right through them, literally. Several of the men jumped back in fear with terrified yelps. When he re-materialized in the doorway on the other side, he heard most of them running and a couple screaming. Bailey looked up from the bar in confusion at the unexpected commotion. The moment his eyes fell on the priest, he smiled happily and came round the bar.
"They'd told me you survived," Bailey said happily, shaking his hand and guiding him inside. "But what I cleaned up in there..."
"It's all right, Bailey," Pyresong reassured him. "I know it's not your fault."
"What the bloody hells happened anyway?"
He sighed; he did not want this man involved in any of that. He was far too easy of a target.
"Bandits," he replied with a grin.
Bailey's eyebrows shot up in surprise before giving him a look of total disbelief. Whatever. He didn't care as long as he wasn't barred from this place at the moment.
"Fine, keep your secrets," Bailey said with a grin, going back around the bar.
"How much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching for his purse.
Bailey waved him off. "Elder Cain already took care of the cleanup. And...I'm sorry. I don't know how they could have gotten in here."
He shook his head. "There was nothing you could have done to stop them, I assure you. It involved magic, likely the kind of magic that is also banned in this fine establishment."
Bailey snorted at that. "What can I get for you?"
He waved him off, already hearing Zatham's light steps approaching. He'd caught sight of the man out of the corner of his eye before Bailey had approached him.
"Are you ready?" Zatham asked.
They turned and nodded to Zatham. "Cain has left, and we have the Pathstone ready."
"The Elder has left?" Zatham asked, clearly surprised. "Where has he gone?"
"We don't know," Pyresong admitted. "And it's safer that way."
Zatham nodded, his neutral expression marred only by his brows furrowed in worry above the bandage over his eyes. Then he seemed to shake off those thoughts, an entirely different worry marring his face.
"Two ships departed Westmarch in the dead of night without any record of their destination. The fanatics must be on their way."
He swore silently. His instincts were correct again. His mistake had likely cost them the opportunity to get ahead of the cultists. And he had been halfway across the world on Mount Zavain when they had come through here. He was too far away to have sensed them passing through Westmarch. He shoved aside more filthy expletives that crossed his mind.
"Karshun showed me how to use the Pathstone. He gave me a general idea of where we're headed. Can you guide us directly to the Ancients' Cradle?"
"Yes," Zatham confirmed with a nod. Then he hesitated. "You will have time to finish recovering. But be certain you have everything you need. This will not be a short journey."
He did a quick mental review of his supplies. He had yet to restock his healing potions, which Kashya had warned him they had used up. The rest of his supplies would likely be enough.
"You've already chartered a ship?"
Zatham nodded. "We can leave today. As soon as you are ready."
"I will need to restock healing potions, but I should have everything else I need."
"Very well, I will wait for you on the docks," Zatham agreed.
Knowing several people had easily marked his presence at this point, he didn't bother to hide himself while he jogged quickly south from the tavern toward Rakkis Plaza. Still wary of an unexpected attack, he remained on the obvious roads rather than taking his customary shortcuts through the alleys. He nearly laughed to himself mentally when he realized it would make no difference. If there were anything from muggers to cultists out to get him today, a few people in the street wouldn't make much of a difference. Nonetheless, it made him feel at least slightly more secure as people quickly moved out of his way. The last thing he wanted was a fight in the city streets where innocent bystanders could be collateral damage. He hoped that would be enough to deter any potential watchers for right now.
He had come around the west side of Rakkis Plaza, where he typically bought his healing potions. Sensing Zatham was not exaggerating, he spent a hefty purse on many of them that he quickly shoved into his backpack. The apothecary noted how casually he dropped them in there but didn't comment on broken bottles. That would be his problem, anyway. Truthfully, he still had no real idea how the thing worked. To this day, though, he'd never found a broken bottle inside the backpack, and that was enough for him. Maybe someday he could ask Karshun about it, if for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity. For now, he should hopefully have enough healing potions to keep him alive for several months. And, with Zatham's help, he was fairly certain anything short of an instantly fatal wound could be dealt with. On instinct, he bought another stamina potion to go along with the other he'd purchased a while back and, thankfully, hadn't needed.
On his way back toward the docks, he spied a food seller and grabbed a few more items at random to add to his stocks. He admitted to himself he likely had enough to hold out for quite some time but would rather be certain. Besides, items stored in his backpack did not rot. Where they were going, he wasn't likely to find anyone to sell to him, he guessed. Zatham had warned it would be a long trip. Much as he hoped that would not be the case, he was more than a little eager to get on with it and maybe, just maybe, get their hands on that damned shard.
And that brought his mind back around to where they were going. A hidden island in the middle of the Forgotten Sea that no one even knew existed. This whole thing unsettled him. He still didn't have any real idea what it was the cultists were after. But Zatham did seem to have some idea, and that would have to be enough for now. He hoped during their voyage, he would be able to get the man talking more about his theories and what they were walking into.
In less than an hour, he'd made his way back to the western docks, where Zatham sat patiently in the shade, watching people moving about their business. He had noticed that Zatham often sat in the shadows to watch others. The man always seemed at least somewhat intrigued with people but rarely ever approached them to ask anything. Whether it was some form of social awkwardness or just general shyness, he was uncertain. Yet, he and Zatham had spent endless hours talking about many things. He seemed to have no trouble asking Pyresong nearly anything.
Zatham rose to his feet gracefully, seeing his friend approach. He motioned toward a dock on the northern end of the western piers and then led the way. He had a sinking feeling in his gut as he realized Zatham was leading them right to the Black Bower. The last time they'd gone to the Forgotten Sea, the entire crew had perished. And the ship had been destroyed. He would not do that to Rehm.
"The Black Bower?" he questioned Zatham, who paused at the unexpected question.
"He is a friend of yours, is he not? He will keep our secrets," Zatham said, his brows furrowing curiously.
He shook his head adamantly. "No, I won't risk him or his crew."
Catching on, Zatham nodded. "It will not be so unsafe as our last voyage," he explained. "We have the Pathstone to part the storms. And the monster is dead. It will claim no more lives."
He eyed his friend closely, looking for any signs of uncertainty or deception. Aside from the unsettling feelings of the uncountable unknowns they were walking into, he just had an overall bad feeling about the whole thing he could not shake off.
"Are you certain?" he finally asked, a hard edge to his voice.
"I am. We will arrive safely."
"And how does Rehm get out of the storm once we've taken the Pathstone onto the island?"
Zatham smiled in a way that seemed to him to be almost bitter. "Leaving far easier. As long as they head directly away from the island, they will have nothing worse than rain to bother them. I swear it."
He still didn't like it. But he'd had no reason not to trust Zatham thus far. Zatham sat quietly while he considered. Briefly, he wondered why Cain hadn't used Captain Rehm and the Black Bower wherever he was headed. They had been friends for many years. He shoved that aside quickly. He would just have to trust that Zatham knew what he was talking about. They needed to leave now. He could almost feel it and them getting further away by the minute. They were already too far behind the cultists if what Zatham said about the two ships last night was actually the cultists. Even without the Pathstone, they might have found a way through the storms. His sense of urgency won out. He finally nodded, accepting, and Zatham resumed their trek. The captain, already on the deck, spotted him coming and smiled widely as he kicked a plank over for them to come aboard.
"Ha, I should have known you'd be involved. When a mysterious stranger shows up at Cain's recommendation, it's typically something wild," Rehm said, shaking his hand. "Which of the four corners is it today?"
"The Forgotten Sea," Zatham answered, as Rehm shook his hand as well.
Rehm's dark eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hat line as he turned to Pyresong for confirmation. He nodded, his expression almost grim.
"The Forgotten Sea, eh? Quite the trip. Can't imagine what you'd expect to find out there."
"We'll do everything we can to keep you and your crew safe. And you don't need to stay. But we have to leave—"
Rehm cut him off with an amused laugh. "Yes, I know. Soon? Right away? Yesterday? We're already stocked. Let's get moving."
He pulled in the board and motioned to his crew already standing ready for his direction.
"You'll have to find your own way back. But from what I hear, that shouldn't be a problem for you," the Captain mentioned. Then the turned to them with a slight grin. "You'll be sharing a cabin."
Pyresong couldn't help a return grin, sensing there was more to that statement.
"That won't be a problem."
"Good. Lover's spats at sea are too much gossip fodder even for me," Rehm teased.
Pyresong laughed outright at this and shook his head. Only Rehm would be so bold as to insinuate something like that so openly with a Priest of Rathma. While he was in no way insulted, he wondered about his new companion. He glanced at Zatham, who simply raised and amused eyebrow at the jest but said nothing. Relieved, Pyresong turned to guide his friend to their cabin and out of the way of the rest of the crew while they worked to get them out into the open waters. The day was clear, and the wind was in their favor. He hoped they would make good time, better than the cultists, at the very least.
***
Given the extra distance compared to departing from Stormpoint, Pyresong was surprised when they made it to the visible edges of the storm in only a little over a week. The weather had been excellent, and the wind stayed in their favor. Briefly, he had watched from the deck as they passed by Stormpoint on that first day. They were too far away to clearly see the devastation that had been left in the wake of the cultists' attack. He still wondered at their recovery. The flags and masts of a handful of ships he could make out gave him hope that they were at least surviving with help from Westmarch. But, as with so many other things, there was little to nothing he could do to help them at this point. And, now, he knew his presence could be detrimental to everyone. He did not relish the idea of such isolation again, not after all he'd been through. Yet, he could not ignore Akara's words. All he could do was pray to anything who would listen that Charsi and the others would be safer without him in Westmarch. The dark thoughts of what the cultists could and would do to them to get at him were something he struggled to put away. Still, much as with Stormpoint, there was nothing more he could do right now. The best thing he could do was find the cultists and get that massive shard away from them before they could bring their plans to fruition.
With the storm in sight, Rehm threw him an uncertain look; as if questioning his sanity. Pyresong, feeling the need to reassure the captain and his now equally nervous crew, pulled the Pathstone out of his backpack and held it out.
"This will part the storms for our approach," he explained. "If all goes well, we're maybe a day or two out from our destination."
"Magic, eh? I should have known," Rehm muttered with a grin, more for his crew than anything.
As they approached the storm, Pyresong again sent his senses forward. This time, there was no sense of necromancy, though it was still unsettling. They were approaching the storm much farther west than they had previously, as well. There were still thousands, possibly tens of thousands, of restless spirits in that storm. Considering that the storm had raged unabated since the creation of their world, it wasn't entirely surprising.
With a show of confidence he really did not feel, he held the Pathstone in both bare hands and eyed the storm. He could feel the magic of the stone moving outward. To his magical eyes, the waves of power that flew ahead of them were enormous. He almost couldn't believe they had come from that small object in his hands. He focused his thoughts on a clear path and watched with wonder as one opened. The storm parted, making a clear corridor for them to sail through. In that corridor were sunshine and strong winds moving them even faster toward their destination.
Not sure how long he would have to keep this up, he tentatively backed off on his connection to the Pathstone. It seemed to know what to do or what he wanted, at least. He moved toward the front of the ship to be easily visible to the crew that now trusted him to see them safely through. Once he'd seen the storm, he wanted to be ready for anything, so he was already in full armor. He lowered himself to the deck and sat with his legs crossed.
It didn't take long for Zatham to join him. Zatham, usually so quiet unless prompted or asking questions about Pyresong's encounters with other cultures, had opened up considerably. He still had spoken almost nothing of their destination or his homeland. Yet he had begun to all but bombard him with questions about the Balance and bigger aspects of it. He had started to realize that Zatham believed him capable of making a bigger difference in the world than he thought. Unlike Cain's gentle urging, however, his new friend saw things from a perspective he didn't care for as much. Zatham's leanings toward a cleansing of Darkness for all, leaving only the Light, did not appeal to him in the slightest. Aside from the teachings of Rathma that had become a fundamental part of his thinking over the years, any path he could see to such cleansing would inflict more misery on those who did not deserve it than the results would account for. He had finally had to firmly silence Zatham on the subject only a day ago. He was glad to see his friend had not taken it as a personal insult and sat with him now after hours of consideration.
It was only approaching midday when the islands came into sight on the distant horizon. For a moment, the rocky cliffs and jagged landscape seemed wrong to him. They were somehow almost blurry to his normal vision. He switched to his magical vision more out of habit than any conscious thought and was nearly blinded. That's when he realized the entire set of small islands was awash in magic. There was a magical aura to all of them that was absolutely, mind-mindbogglingly immense. He wondered why they couldn't see it right through the storm and on the mainland. It was almost unbelievable to him. He turned to Zatham in shock. Beside him, Zatham nodded as if reading his mind. Then he smiled sadly and rose to get their things. At the rate the wind was moving them, they would be close enough for a small boat in a matter of minutes.
Pyresong couldn't help sitting there for a little while longer, looking over the place. He just couldn't comprehend the amount of power within this small place. And it was small, at least compared to the continents of Sanctuary overall. The main island was at least as large as Westmarch's sprawling capital. The other islands that dotted around it ranged from the size of a village to as large as Bilefen.
And somewhere amidst that incredible power is what the cultists are hunting, he thought, no longer needing to wonder why this of all places.
Reluctantly, he closed his eyes and focused inward. He hated this part. No mental or magical shield he had found would block out the sense of the shards. And, as he'd learned, the larger they are, the easier they are to detect. Still, he'd manage to learn to live with it and almost completely ignore it at times. When the shards weren't actually calling to him, it was little more than a dark whisper of power and what he could do with that power. Now this shard had found those who would use it in the most powerful way. To it, he was just an annoyance and potential threat to keep an eye on. He hoped it wasn't looking now.
As expected, he could feel it. It was extremely faint in light of the awesome power radiating ahead of them. It wasn't close at all, either, but it was definitely ahead of them. Somehow the cultists had beaten them to the island, despite the storm. He cursed silently, opening his eyes again. He had hoped the excellent weather and now the extra magical push from whatever the Pathstone was doing to the storm might have even gotten them ahead of the cultists; or, at the very least, caught up. He still held hope they weren't too late, that they were still close enough to stop them from actually completing their task. Somehow, he had to figure out what they were after and stop them. He would not give up.
He rose to his feet when he heard Zatham crossing the deck again. Captain Rehm was already dropping anchor, not wanting to get any closer. Pyresong couldn't help noting that even people without any noticeable magical sense or talent were unnerved by this place and the power it radiated. He couldn't blame them. Even way out here, his skin was tingling right through what his armor could block easily. It was just too much. He'd felt the power of entities calling themselves deities that did not come anywhere near this level of power. And this was just radiating from the land itself!
"Well, gentlemen, this is where we part," Rehm said, shaking their hands. "The boat is ready. Oh, and you owe me for another one, now."
He grinned and reached into his backpack that Zatham had handed him. He did enjoy Rehm's near-constant jovial nature.
"No more getting money from Cain, my friend. You'll just have to settle for dinner instead of supper," he joked.
"Still don't want to tell me where he went?” the captain teased.
He smiled sadly. "More adventures to add to his collection, I'm sure.”
Then he eyed the open corridor behind them, already resolved to keep it open as long as he could.
"Zatham has assured me you should have no problem getting the Black Bower back out of the storm safely," he started, trying not to sound uncertain.
"I believe you. Be safe, and you owe me supper when this is over."
He smiled widely; yes, he was very familiar with Rehm's desire to hear what he considered their adventure stories; much abbreviated, of course.
"Drinks are on me," he promised, handing over a small purse for the boat. "Safe voyage, Captain."
Zatham was silent as they boarded the small boat and were lowered down into the unnaturally calm waves. Eyeing the islands ahead, he estimated no more than two hours would get them to their clearly visible destination. Both of them took up sets of oars and began rowing smoothly. He set the still-glowing Pathstone in his lap and kept his mind focused on the storm while Rehm turned his ship around and headed out. He was relieved to see the ship sailing away at least as quickly as it had gotten here. Behind him, Zatham remained silent as he guided them toward the rocky shore.
As expected, it was little more than an hour later when they approached a small, sandy bit of beach with carved stone stairs leading up to the tops of the cliffs and away. Zatham's expression had grown dark as they pulled the little boat onto the sand and flipped it. Yet, he still said nothing as he led them up the stairs to the jagged cliffs above. At the top, they found a long, stony bridge that looked to be an almost natural formation. On either side was a drop of many feet into rocks and sand with a bit of ocean washing in and around them. A light fog obscured the view both below and ahead. Still, he could see well enough to know there was no connecting bridge to the land beyond.
Zatham stopped at the beginning of the bridge. His expression was sad.
"Here we are," Zatham said softly, sadly. "It has not changed since I left. A shame."
Pyresong followed a few steps behind while Zatham walked out onto the bridge.
"There is an altar ahead," Zatham explained, pointing toward a small stone pillar at the end of the bridge. "Place the Pathstone on the altar. It should grant us entry."
"Should?" he questioned as they approached the stone pedestal.
Zatham remained silent, clearly his mind elsewhere at the moment. Pyresong could easily see there was a square hole in the altar that was meant for the Pathstone. He was reluctant to put it to another use while Rehm was very likely still navigating out of the radius of the storm. He hesitated, drawing Zatham's scrutiny.
"What is the island to you?" he asked curiously, eyeing the glowing Pathstone in his hand.
Zatham smiled bitterly again. "It was my home for quite some time. Now it is more of an obligation. But stopping evil demands my presence here. Our presence."
He nodded, and then his eyes roamed back over the horizon where Rehm's ship had disappeared. As if understanding his friend's reluctance, Zatham nodded.
"They should be clearing the storm in a few minutes at the speed they were moving," he assured. "But this is no place to stop. As I said, they will be safe. Far safer than us," Zatham said with a dark grin.
He nodded again with a bit of a grin of his own. Was there anyone that couldn't read him like an open book anymore? He believed Zatham, if for no other reason than he'd come this far with him. But, rather than turning his thoughts completely to the pedestal and whatever would happen when he used the Pathstone to open the way, he sectioned off a small part of his focus to remain on the storm, much as he would keep track of a summoned skeleton. Carefully he slotted the Pathstone into the opening and focused on the path ahead.
A second later, that split focus was nearly shattered when the grinding sound of stones came from below them, echoing off the nearby cliffs. He watched in awe as a bridge began to rise up a stone at a time. The magical power of this place radiated off of each stone as they all slotted into place neatly. In seconds, there was a solid bridge that led across the crevasse and through the light fog into the land beyond. Briefly, he turned to look back at the storm. The corridor was still there, still clear. With relief, he carefully took back the Pathstone from the pedestal as if expecting the bridge to disappear. When it didn't, he turned to Zatham.
"All right," he said firmly. "Show me where the cult is likely to strike. We can prepare for an attack there."
Zatham nodded. "A good plan. There are many places of power where the source energy of the land burns freely. The Pathstone is connected to these places. We will use it in their defense."
"I'm ready when you are," he replied, offering a predatory smile.
Zatham moved toward the stone brick bridge, leading the way with his sword drawn. Pyresong retrieved his shield off his back and unhooked his scythe.
"Watch your step. If you fall, the people here will not lift a hand to save you," Zatham warned.
"That's true of most places I visit," he shot back.
"But...wait..." Zatham froze for a second halfway across the bridge. "They are already here!"
Already the two of them could see bodies. He had half expected after so much noise, someone, even a sentry, would have come to challenge them. Now he could clearly see why no one had come. There were none alive. He had noted that the cultists were ahead of them, but he had not warned Zatham. Now, he very much regretted that. He followed only a step behind as Zatham ran across the remaining expanse of the bridge. There were easily a dozen torn and mutilated bodies.
Before he could analyze further, the sudden surge of power that he felt from the pillars on either side of the bridge had him gripping Zatham's arm to stop him abruptly. He was surprise to feel the building charge in the air all around them, even several yards away from the pillars.
"Wait!" he hissed. "There's—"
He didn't have to finish. They both watched while the pillars glowed red even in the visible spectrum and then sent red lightning into the bodies littering the ground ahead of them. Even as the lightning faded, leaving them both partially blinded, they could hear the groans and cries as the bodies rose up. Zatham backed away a step in clear shock while the necromancer sent his senses ahead of them into the small group. These were no shambling undead. The reanimated bodies each had a spark of Life that he would never have felt in true undead. Even vampiric thralls did not radiate life energy as these did. But, their intent was clear. Zatham was the first to recover from the shock as he raised his sword to fend off these creatures. Pyresong quickly flung blades of energy into the small crowd, cutting them down. In seconds, they were all still again.
He eyed those still-glowing pillars warily and with no small amount of horror. They didn't feel tainted or in any way evil, like the energies of Hell he had experienced. Yet, what they had done was unlike anything he'd encountered before. Scanning the bodies again, he was certain this time there was no life left in them. He turned to Zatham, who was staring at the pillars as well, but more curiously than afraid.
"This is not necromancy," he said darkly. "There was Life in them."
Zatham sighed. "I told you, this island has power in it. The Fire of Life. A force that touches everyone here."
"Fire of Life?"
Zatham nodded again. "Yes, but I do not remember it being so...uncontrolled. They were not here to stop us."
"Then how do we get past them?" he asked, motioning to the pillars.
"They will not harm us," Zatham assured. "Let's go. As fast as we can."
As confused as he was, he had no choice but to trust Zatham. They had to get past those pillars and keep going. But the idea that those things could so easily reanimate the dead with actual Life made his skin crawl. He had absolutely no doubts he'd felt some form of Life, not unlike what he'd encountered in Kulle's library. Zatham's words about being uncontrolled disturbed him. He couldn't help wondering if it was somehow the shard's influence on the island. And if they were already too late to stop whatever the Terror Cult was doing.
He held his breath fearfully when Zatham approached the pillars. As promised, they did nothing to Zatham. He fell in only a step behind again as Zatham began to run. Ahead, they could see more bodies sprawled on the ground. They wore white and gold clothing, unlike anything he had ever seen. It almost looked like something he would expect in a monastery or temple dedicated to the Light. Yet, he knew absolutely nothing about this culture, either. Now he wished he'd pushed his friend more to tell him what he knew of this place.
Again, bolts of lightning from a couple more pillars a little further down the path blinded them when it reached out toward the bodies lying on the ground. When it finished, the necromancer could clearly see the reanimated bodies rising from the ground. Despite their numerous and horrific wounds, these people were alive. It made his gut twist and his heart lurch. Undead didn't feel anything. Did these poor souls?
"Does nothing stay dead any longer?" Zatham growled.
At least this time he wasn't too shocked to check more thoroughly. These were no lazars or liches. The body was alive and animated, but there was no soul. That almost chilled him even more. Something about a living body with no soul just felt wrong to him. Even animals had a spirit or soul of some sort.
After cutting down these reanimated attackers, Pyresong could get a better view ahead. Once beyond the cliffs, the fog dissipated. There were many of those pillars, and not always in pairs. They dotted the landscape in every direction. Some even had carved stones that looked like altars around them. Every single one of them glowed red as if just waiting to be used. In the distance, he caught sight of stairs that led up to a much, much bigger pillar on a large, raised platform. There was no mistaking the statues of faces and carved stones around it. It was some sort of holy place. Worse, they could see cultists all over the stairs and likely on the platform above.
He shuddered physically as he was assaulted by the feel of the shard. It wasn't just here on the island; it was directly ahead of them on that platform in the distance. Beside him, Zatham growled darkly at the sight of the cultists defiling this holy place. Pyresong gripped him by the arm to stop him from running forward. Zatham threw him an angry look.
"The shard is there," he hissed quietly. "It knows I'm here."
"Are you prepared, children?" the sound of the Bride's voice rang out loud and clear. "The power of creation, made pure through Terror!"
Zatham's face twisted with unexpected rage, startling him. He yanked his arm out of Pyresong's grip and ran toward the stairs. He cut down every kneeling cultist in his path. Pyresong muttered darkly under his breath. He knew if he got any closer, the Bride would easily target him. But Zatham, in his fury, was running headlong into whatever was ahead. He had no choice. He couldn't leave his friend to deal with all of them and the shard alone. He hurried to catch up to Zatham as they cut their way through the cultists and up the stairs. Somewhere at the top of the platform at the base of the enormous pillar, the Bride screamed in frustration.
"Even here, it resists!"
Zatham crested the stairs just a few feet ahead of him.
"No more filth!" Zatham screamed back at her, cutting down a priest.
The Bride laughed, turning to face him as Pyresong caught up. She dodged his sword several times with inhuman speed. Then she blocked one swing with her staff, sending a surprise shock through the contact that forced Zatham to stumble back a few steps.
"This land will burn," she taunted Zatham. "Leave, and you can live to dream of its ashes."
Zatham launched himself at her blade first again as she laughed mockingly. Then she disappeared in a red flash. She and the shard were gone, but not far. He could still feel it somewhere on the islands. In the few seconds that followed, most of the cultists disappeared through portals, but the two of them worked their way around in a near frenzy to cut down as many as they could. When there were no more, he rounded angrily on Zatham. The man had been downright reckless in his fury. He found his friend struggling to calm his ragged breathing. A flash of empathy calmed his own angry thoughts.
How would I feel if this was the Necropolis? he reminded himself.
Finally, Zatham took a shaky breath and turned to face him. "My apologies. I let my anger get the better of me. And we lost an opportunity to—"
Pyresong cut him off with a wave of a hand. "It was an opportunity, but not our only one. Clearly, they've not made any real progress. We will use the Pathstone and get ahead of them."
Zatham nodded, clearly still unhappy. "You saw what happened when she tried to harness the Fire of Life. Perhaps this is why they could not bring the shard to Hell so quickly."
"We can keep hope that they still do not have what they need," he agreed.
"The witch is stronger than I suspected. As if she could do anything..."
"A rogue necromancer, Lethes, commanded a legion of the dead with the tiny fragment of Worldstone shard she possessed. This one is much larger, and the Bride has had time to practice. We should expect the impossible," Pyresong told him. "That doesn't mean we can't still win."
Zatham nodded, accepting this. Then he turned his gaze to the pillar and around to all the bodies. Pyresong was just grateful they were all cultists, and the pillars hadn't seen fit to resurrect them as well. He had more than half expected it. On the opposite side of the platform, heavy steps approached. They turned to meet the new threat with their weapons ready. He was already sending energy into his weapon when he caught sight of a demonically twisted face and dark robes. He was startled a moment later when Zatham gripped his arm to stop him.
"Don't," Zatham told him.
"What? He's—"
"Zatham!" the thing called out in a young male voice. "And...an outsider!"
Zatham sighed heavily as he put his arms out to indicate no threat so the young man would approach. Confused, Pyresong reclaimed the energy from his scythe and did the same warily. The demonic influence on this one was evident. Half the face was twisted with a horn sticking out of its forehead! What more did Zatham need?
"Why do you travel with one of them?" the thing asked Zatham angrily. "Outsiders bring destruction!"
"The outsiders have more in common with our people than you would expect, Rhyn," Zatham replied angrily.
"The cultists you saw are my enemies, too. Zatham and I are going to stop them," Pyresong offered, keeping his expression and tone neutral.
This Rhyn eyed him warily as if he was the monster. Accustomed to such, the necromancer had no problem remaining calm. But he had clearly stepped into something he had not been prepared for. All he could do, really, was follow his friend's lead here.
"Their leader, what does she want?" Rhyn asked, turning to Zatham and dismissing the outsider.
Better than being attacked, Pyresong conceded to himself.
"Let me investigate," Zatham told Rhyn simply. Then he turned to Pyresong. "I will see if we can find answers."
He watched while Zatham cleaned his blade and sheathed it. Still, several feet away, he noticed Rhyn stepped even further away fearfully as he cleaned and hooked his scythe. He watched Zatham approach the carved stone face at the base of this enormous pillar. Zatham went to his knees inches from the stone face with his palms up in supplication, speaking too softly for even his sensitive ears to hear. Zatham drew back only slightly when the mouth and eyes of the statue began glowing bright red. Sensing something, Zatham flinched back, still on his knees.
Pyresong's heart stuttered fearfully when a bolt of red lightning shot down from the pillar towering over them. Zatham's unexpected flinch very likely saved his life. The lightning landed only maybe an inch in front of him, but was powerful enough his whole body was flung back several feet. Before he could even process what was happening, Zatham's body flew like a rag doll off the platform and down the stairs. There was no way to get to Zatham when the lightning storm suddenly targeted every cultist body on the platform and began reanimating them.
Rhyn backed away fearfully, not even bothering to draw his weapon. Seeing no help from that quarter, Pyresong began dancing around through the cultists, cutting them down again. The lightning stopped a second later as the last body rose to attack him. In seconds, the score of cultists was dead for a second time, and the pillar had gone inert again.
He didn't waste any more time thinking about it as he ran across the platform, his chest squeezing painfully in fear for his friend. He found Zatham laying at the base of the stairs motionless. He sighed openly in relief, realizing Zatham was at least still breathing. Careful of possible broken bones, he rolled Zatham onto his back and pulled a healing potion. Unconscious, Zatham didn't resist as he poured the potent potion through his lips. Halfway through the bottle, Zatham coughed when he began to regain consciousness. He pushed the remaining potion away and glowed yellow for a moment.
"Thank you, friend," Zatham said, recovering quickly. "Nothing is broken."
He corked the bottle and placed it back on his belt. He helped Zatham back to his feet, seemingly unsteady for a moment. When the glow faded, Zatham shook his head.
"I gave up my connection to the Cradle long ago," he explained. "It must remember the insult. But that is not all that caused this. The Fire of Life has gone mad. I can feel it."
His sensitive ears picked up Rhyn's approach on the stairs above them. He ignored it for a moment. His mind momentarily latched on to the idea that this Fire of Life seemed to possess some form of sentience. Was it angry about the corrupted Worldstone shard being here on the islands? Did it feel as if they were somehow linked to it and whatever it was doing? He shook it off quickly. He knew he wasn't going to get answers at the moment.
"What options do we have?" Pyresong asked. "We need to keep the Bride of Hell from any place of power we can."
Zatham sighed heavily, his brows furrowed. Then he looked up at Rhyn. The boy flinched away when his eyes followed his friend's.
"Where is your mother, Rhyn? Her aid would be welcome."
Rhyn came down the stairs slowly, his voice quavering with emotion. "The Fire...it...plagued a lot of us," he told Zatham, still carefully keeping away from Pyresong. "She...got sick, and...and she changed, like me. She fled into the wilds. I was trying to find her."
"How severe was her...sickness," Zatham asked, delicately.
"Do you think she's still alive?" Pyresong asked bluntly.
Almost as soon as he said it, he realized he was letting this place and the circumstances get the better of him. He was disturbed by much of what little he had learned thus far. He felt entirely out of place and confused. And, just to add to it all, the anxiety and dread of the shard were clawing at him incessantly. He quickly forced himself back to at least a calm exterior to avoid further frightening Rhyn or worse. After his initial flinch at Pyresong's question, Rhyn very blatantly refused to even look in his direction.
"I...hope so," he told Zatham. "The change... It doesn't affect everyone the same."
Zatham turned to Pyresong. "There are few more connected to the land than Tarzoine. Only the Elders...and I would not depend on their assistance," he finished darkly.
"We need her, then," he stated, not quite a question.
Zatham nodded anyway. Pyresong turned his still forced neutral expression on Rhyn, easily covering his distaste for the partially demonic appearance. In truth, he now began to understand the twisted visage was likely a result of this Fire of Life inflicting something on them more so than a reflection of the state of their souls. If anything, it angered him that such would be inflicted on people who had likely done nothing to deserve it. He would keep his anger and disgust for the right people and targets. As yet, he'd detected nothing overtly wrong with the boy besides his appearance and demonic taint. If there were a darker corruption there, he would not be so easily able to detect it now. He questioned how much he could even trust his senses in this crazy place!
"Rhyn, do you have any idea where she might have gone?" he asked more gently.
Rhyn eyed him warily. For the first time, he got a good look at the untwisted part of the boy's face and realized he really was just a boy. Based on what little human he could see, Rhyn couldn't be more than twenty, if that. He had a hard time believing a boy that young had already turned to Darkness. Or, rather, he didn't want to believe it. But he'd seen enough in his life to know it was a real possibility at any age. He was mildly surprised when Rhyn turned to him.
"We're all bound to one another," he explained, "through the Fire of Life. I can find her...I just... I pray it doesn't make me sicker."
Heaving a deep, heavy sigh, the boy practically dragged himself back up the stairs. Zatham and Pyresong followed not far behind. Much as had Zatham, Rhyn went to his knees with his palms up. Standing a few feet away near the edge of the stairs, they watched and listened.
"Mother Lilith...guide me to your blood," Rhyn prayed.
Pyresong's head whipped around to Zatham in wide-eyed, absolute shock. He knew that name! And it was not one he'd ever expected to hear spoken anywhere in Sanctuary. Even he only knew it from ancient texts he'd found in Cain's library. Most current cultures don't even remember the true origin stories. Many had deliberately erased that history, even when they still believed in the existence of Heaven and Hell. Lilith, the demon daughter of the Prime Evil Mephisto, was one of the two creators of their world. She had been banished to the void for millennia. Her consort had been the angel Inarius. The angel had been a prisoner in Hell for millennia. Together, they had created Sanctuary and their children, the nephalem.
Zatham, clearly recognizing his visible shock and unspoken questions, nodded slowly in confirmation.
"While the Eye of Anu was housed in the heart of Mount Arreat, we stand upon the first lands, the first home of the Worldstone... The Heart of Creation," Zatham explained in a whisper.
Pyresong couldn't even form a coherent thought for a moment in his complete and utter shock. The unbelievable magnitude of the situation he was now in overwhelmed him. He began to understand why this place was so very powerful. And he now had an inkling about this Fire of Life. It was very likely the source of all life in this world. Finally, he began to understand Zatham's pushing in recent days. He was now a part of something that could fundamentally alter or even destroy their world, far beyond the threat of mere corrupted Worldstone shards and organized cultists. He shuddered visibly as he realized that stopping the Terror Cultists was no longer just a matter of preventing a shard from reaching Diablo; it was a literal matter of saving their world from whatever they had planned for this place and all its untapped power.
For several seconds, he was dizzy with the swirling thoughts racing through his head. This was so unbelievable...impossible... And, yet, here he was. And now it was up to himself and Zatham to see that the worst didn't happen.
Gods...how? he asked himself, still not able to believe.
"You understand what we are up against?" Zatham asked him softly, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.
He nodded and took a deep breath to slow his racing heart. His mind still couldn't find the words to encompass the sheer magnitude of it all. So he just shut them down. Right now, he and Zatham needed to find this Tarzoine. One simple task.
One thing at a time, he told himself, putting it all away.
Zatham pointed to the magenta glowing trail that now led from Rhyn down the stairs behind them and off into the distance.
"Find Tarzoine, if you can. I will protect him until you return. If he leaves this place or loses focus, we lose the trail," Zatham explained before Pyresong could question.
He just nodded mutely again, still trembling slightly from the shock. Even had Zatham offered to answer anything at this point, he was too much in shock to think of any questions. He didn't like the idea of splitting up but didn't really see an alternative. Right now, his mind was so completely focused on keeping everything else out he was more than willing to rely on Zatham for direction. He was in more than just unknown territory; he was in a whole other world at this point. All he could do was keep his focus on this task and let the rest of it sink in.
He headed down the stone stairs with his scythe in hand. The trail led to the southeast. For a while, he encountered nothing; but that didn't stop him from falling into his combat mindset. In the safety of that hyper-alert thoughtlessness, his otherwise occupied mind might be able to find a way to cope with what he'd just learned.
Eventually, his shock-numbed mind began to take note of his surroundings. Earlier, when he'd arrived with Zatham, he hadn't really had a chance to take in more than the sand and rocks. Now he realized this place felt somehow...faded. Not unlike the forest in Hell he'd encountered, everything here was faded colors. The sandy ground was gray. The grasses were a lifeless gray. Even the rocks somehow seemed slightly insubstantial and gray. Part of him wondered if the place had always been such; or if something else had caused it.
He vaguely remembered the tales of a magical land that was a paradise where the first humans, the nephalem, had originated. It was said to be a gloriously beautiful place. He wondered if the stories, though handed down by generations and twisted over time, were referring to this place. If so, it was clearly no paradise. If it had been in the past, there was no sign of it now. The only color he could find in anything was the red of the glowing pillars he passed occasionally.
He'd given up trying to track time. In his initial shock, seconds had seemed like hours. Deep into his battle mindset, time had no meaning. He jogged along the wavering magenta trail of light, catching sight of some lit braziers in the distance. The path he was following wound around through a narrow opening between some tall rocks. In the deeper shadows of the canyon, he could hear voices...and a fight. He slowed and ducked into the shadows as he continued. No one was immediately ahead, but he could make out some carved stone stairs and intricately carved pillars, and other structures. Analyzing as he stalked, he realized there was a heavy demonic influence in that direction.
But this place and its peoples' connection to Lilith explained much of it. Rhyn himself looked at least half demon. He almost wished he'd asked more questions. Now he was entirely uncertain if the demonic twisting was a result of being one of Lilith's people or this supposed illness inflicted by the Fire of Life. He was momentarily frustrated by Zatham's tight-lipped references to his home. He hoped he would have a chance to question his friend further. If anything, he almost wanted to punch Zatham now for dragging him into this so completely blindly. Yet, Pyresong had to admit, he'd made his stance on many things very clear to Zatham. Zatham wasn't entirely at fault for his ignorance here.
Would I have even come had I known?
There was no time to even consider the answer, not that he needed to. Right there on the stairs, he caught sight of a handful of Terror Cultists. He wasted no thought on them or their motives. That explained the filthy demonic sense he'd felt. Even as he cut them down, there was the sound of battle to his right up another set of stairs. He never slowed down as he danced through the falling bodies and up the next flight.
"Drink of the fear! Let it fill you!" a Terror priest cried exultantly.
He didn't even bother to count or calculate the odds of taking on so many. Beyond the cultists, he saw another white-robed figure standing near the very edge of the platform, cornered by the cultists. He reinforced his shields and began cutting through the cultists. While occupied, he heard a scream when the man in white was pushed right off the ledge. Holding tight to his rage, he danced around them, slinging blades of energy to slice at each one of them. Their screams of pain were the sounds of justice to him. He didn't need to know the man they had just murdered to feel like he had failed yet again. When the last body fell, he turned to follow the magenta trail again.
A heartbeat later, the sound of someone grunting by the ledge had him dropping his scythe and shield reflexively. He raced over to find the man's white hands still clinging to the carved stone ledge. Beyond him was a drop of at least forty feet onto more carved stone. He threw himself flat on the ground and gripped the man's wrists. For a second, those dark eyes stared at him in absolute terror. Sensing as much as seeing the man was about to let go out of fear of his rescuer, he gripped those arms more tightly.
"I've got you, but you need to push yourself up," he instructed. "Can you get a foothold?"
Seeing the man frozen in fear and shock, Pyresong came up with another plan. He summoned a bone golem and gave it mental commands. As it wrapped an arm painfully around his chest, he held his breath. In one smooth motion, the golem lifted him. The man he held on to had no way to resist as they came up over the ledge and back onto the platform. Finally, the man's survival instincts kicked in, and he found his feet. The moment his feet hit the carved stone, he twisted his arms out of the necromancer's grip. He let go and dismissed the golem while he found his own footing.
"Outsiders...everywhere upon the Cradle... This is truly the end," the man said, pulling his sword.
Pyresong backed up a few steps with his hands out at his sides in a non-threatening gesture. Some twisted part of him was both amused and disappointed at being greeted in such a similar way to pretty much anywhere he went in Sanctuary. Then again, if this place had been so completely closed off as Zatham had said, they might not even know what a Priest of Rathma was. And, after this man's first encounter with outsiders being Terror Cultists, he couldn't entirely blame him for that reaction.
"You're safe for the moment. I have allies nearby who can protect you," he told the man soothingly. "Follow that...trail to the north and west, and you will find them."
The man wailed miserably, startling him. "Rot upon our flesh! Rot upon the land. Mother and Father left us! The Conflict has found me!"
He noted the man's obvious tears as he wailed, shocked. He couldn't even make sense of what the man was saying. He sighed, backing away further. Keeping one eye on the man, he recovered his shield and scythe from where he'd dropped them. The man was still blubbering and now babbling incoherently. He mentally shook his head and tried to at least get some information from the man.
"Have you seen a woman named Tarzoine nearby?" he asked, still pitching his voice to be soothing. "I'm trying to find her, and—"
"Tarzoine of the Lilin?" the man suddenly snapped, his eyes wide and terrified. "This curse is their fault! All theirs!"
Before he could question further, the man waved his sword threateningly and ran toward him. He easily danced away and out of range while the crazed man turned to raving. He raised his shield defensively but hoped not to have to use his scythe in this. The man was clearly in shock. But a part of his mind recalled Zatham's uncanny sword skills and was wary. Zatham may not be the only one in this strange place with such skills.
"Begone from here, outsider! Keep your filth from our home!"
The man turned to swing at him one more time. Pyresong again danced back with his shield up. Then the crazed man ran right past him and down the path that led in the direction Rhyn's path indicated the necromancer should go next. The man was watching him over his shoulder as he stumbled and ran. He never saw the group of cultists coming right at him. Cursing silently, he chased, already knowing he was not going to be able to save the man a second time. As expected, the cultists cut him down. He'd at least managed to stab one before his white and gold fringed robes were covered in blood. Part of him knew he wasn't to blame for this, but it still sickened and angered him. Falling back into his cold rage, he cut down a few of the two score cultists and then waited for the others to get close enough before setting off corpse explosion. Hearing no more cultists, he turned to the man on the ground. It was but a moment to confirm he was dead and the spirit gone.
At the base of a nearby statue where the cultists had been gathered, he found more mutilated corpses of the locals. He had no idea how many cultists could have come with the Bride and her two ships, but there were many more here than even he had anticipated. Very likely, the ones who had arrived by ship had opened portals to bring in more. And, he suspected, they were very likely to encounter some Hell rifts also, bringing in demonic reinforcements, too. His sense of urgency raised exponentially, and he jogged along the magenta trail again. Several times he encountered a couple of lingering cultists and cut them down as quietly as he could. After only a few minutes more, he finally spotted his target.
At the top of a short flight of stairs stood a hellish altar that was clearly in the process of being constructed and empowered. Another local shrine was perverted for their use. Part of the construct always included human sacrifice and flesh. But this one was far from complete. The magenta trail ended at those stairs. From this short distance, he could see and hear what was happening clearly. A Terror Cultists was using vile-feeling magic to hold a writhing woman in its grip at the top.
"Give in, and this will end swiftly," the priest told her as she writhed and screamed in pain, clearly enjoying every bit of it.
"You will not take anything from me!" she screamed back defiantly through her agony.
He was already in motion, making his way silently up the stairs. Around the altar and the Terror priest were maybe a half dozen other cultists on their knees. His scythe blazed right through the priest's back, nearly cutting him in half. Released from her magical bonds, the woman fell in a heap with a pained cry. Another cultist reached toward him and lost an arm for his efforts. The one beside him lost his head. He flung a couple of razor-thin energy blades at the others. While the woman lay limply on the ground, he finished off a couple that were still trying to crawl away; every bit of his heart screaming that they did not deserve the easy ending he was giving them.
But there was no time to indulge in the dark thoughts that crept around the edges. Once he was certain none of them would be rising again to threaten them, he turned to the woman struggling to sit up. Seeing her confusion, anger, and terror, he quickly dropped his shield and scythe. He pulled the partial remaining bottle of healing potion off his belt as he knelt just near enough to hand her the potion. Already he could see half her body had been warped, much as her son's had been. Aside from the demonic sense, it also looked horrifically painful to him. Mutilated flesh was covered in what looked like pustules and even burn blisters all over her limbs. And she was bleeding from a number of shallow wounds. For a moment, she looked like she was going to pull away in fear.
"It's a healing potion," he explained, backing up slightly but still holding out the bottle. "It will help with your wounds."
She eyed him warily but nodded and accepted and accepted the bottle hesitantly.
"You are not with them?"
He shook his head and stepped back away to ease her fear. "Drink. It tastes horrible, but it will help at least stop the bleeding."
Her eyes never left him as she upended the bottle. Her face twisted slightly at the vile concoction he'd become all too familiar with taste-wise. But he kept his expression serene. A moment later, she shivered when the warmth of healing spread through her, easing some of her pain.
"I have more if you need," he offered.
She shook her head and spat, trying to rid her mouth of the awful taste. Then extended the hand with the empty bottle carefully, obviously still expecting an attack.
"Who are you, stranger?"
He moved slowly so as not to frighten her further as he retrieved the bottle. "I am here to restore harmony, not worsen it. Are you Tarzoine?"
"How do you know my name?" she asked, scrambling to her feet. "If you want my blood, you will have to fight for it."
Again he stepped back further, putting his empty hands out to his sides in the universal gesture of non-threat. He wasn't even sure if these people understood the gesture. With the energies he sensed her gathering, he could think of nothing else that would at least make her hesitate long enough to listen. And the last thing he wanted was to turn her against them. For all he knew, necromancy was as evil to them as he found demon worship.
"I met your son, Rhyn. He's the one that showed me how to find you," he explained quickly before she could attack. He pointed to the still-visible magenta trail. "He thought you could help us protect the island. I couldn't have found you without him."
She did not relax at all, but he still sensed and saw her power ready for an attack condensing around her hands.
"I am no threat to you," he insisted. "I have been following those cultists that attacked your island. I'm here to stop them."
Tarzoine's eyes, even the demonically twisted one, bored into him. But they did flicker briefly to the still-visible trail that had led him here. He had no idea if she could sense or understand the energies behind it as coming from her son. He had no idea what kind of magics they even had in this unbelievable place. Feeling something invisible from her probing his magic and mental shields, he dropped them completely. He had to get her to trust him somehow. Thankfully, she withheld whatever attack she'd been preparing when he lowered his shields for her.
"Rhyn would not give his name to an outsider easily," she said, still wary. "Either you are born of lies, or we share this goal. Where is he?"
He nodded and put his shields firmly back in place. "He is in the wilderness nearby. I will take you to him."
Taking a chance, he turned his back on her and stepped down the short flight of stairs to retrieve his shield and scythe where he'd dropped them before approaching her. He felt the tension building between his shoulder blades, still half expecting some form of attack. He just hoped she could recognize the symbol of trust he had shown her as other cultures in Sanctuary would. He was not about to move forward unarmed, so he kept his shield on his left arm and hooked his scythe on his belt where it would be easily reached. He presented his empty hand palm up and motioned for her to come down.
"You remain in front," she ordered.
Better start than I get in some places, he mused.
He nodded but kept the amusement out of his expression. She hadn't attacked him yet, though she had not released whatever power she still held ready. He turned to retrace his steps back along the glowing magenta trail. She followed along, her heavy steps from the twisted stump of one of her legs making him wince mentally at the noise. But, so far as he could tell, the way forward should be clear of cultists for the moment. And he had yet to detect any vile rituals powerful enough to indicate a Hell rift, thankfully.
Before they'd even made it as far as the statue where he'd killed so many other cultists, the trail vanished from sight. He prayed it wasn't due to something happening to Rhyn and Zatham. But there was nothing he could do about it now if it were. In the meantime, he knew the way well enough. Despite his mindless following earlier, he'd taken note of the surroundings well enough to find his way back. Behind him, if Tarzoine noticed the trail's disappearance, she said nothing.
"If there's anything more about this 'curse', it might help," he told her over his shoulder. "Provided you feel like sharing. My name is Pyresong. I'm a Priest of Rathma."
"I do not know of the priesthood you are a part of, but you are a necromancer. It is forbidden magic," she told him darkly.
Of course, it is, he thought wearily. "It is only a tool we use to help maintain the Balance."
"Balance," she mused darkly. "The Mother and Father once believed in balance, or our world would not exist."
He nodded, not really sure what to say to that. He had been taught, as all Priests of Rathma were, about the importance of the Balance and its various aspects. Though he knew little of this place and its peoples, he could guess enough to understand that this Ancients' Cradle could have become a living example of the Balance. Instead, Sanctuary had become an extension of the Eternal Conflict, and this place was literally forgotten. He recalled some of Zatham's earliest conversations with him. The power here had shifted. He wondered what that meant now.
Still turning these thoughts over silently, he led the way up the stairs to the platform where he'd found the other man in white robes. The bodies of so many cultists still littered the ground, most in gruesome pieces.
"There is a necessary balance in all things. When the Balance is disturbed, we step in to restore it," he explained simply.
Part of him was too wrapped up in everything chasing itself around his mind to want to get into explanations right now. Until he knew more about this place and how to stop the Terror Cultists, it was enough to know outsiders were not welcome and he was using forbidden power. Of course, he only now remembered that Zatham had said as much early on. Tarzoine was quiet for a while as she followed. He let her alone with her thoughts for a couple of minutes. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision and sighed heavily.
"The Children of Inarius were cruel to us...to all the Lilin. They kept food for themselves while we starved. Anyone who suggested leaving the island was punished. One of our Elders tired of their hypocrisy. Morwith stole the Pathstone from the others and fled. Since then...the Fire of Life burns us all at its whim," she explained sadly. "Some of us are unaffected. Some...disfigured, like me. And some turn into monsters."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he told her sincerely, not quite ready to confess to his possession of the Pathstone or its recovery.
"I did not support Morwith, but the Inari are to blame for what we have become," she told him, a hard edge to her voice.
He sighed mentally. Zatham had said this place had suffered a shifting of power. Very likely, the Balance here had already been badly disturbed even before the Terror Cultists had gotten here. Now he understood some of Zatham's earlier comments. One side of the populace worshiped Lilith. The other half worshiped Inarius. This was a place meant to live by the Balance. And, once again, those who likely stood on the side of the Light had unbalanced it and turned it into something it was never meant to be.
He wondered briefly how much of this Rathma actually knew about. Then again, with everything else happening in their world and others, maybe this ancient place and its issues weren't all that relevant to the bigger picture. Pyresong knew full well he had never been able to envision or understand such things fully. Nor did he ever want to. He left those larger aspects of their work to people who understood such large-scale issues. But now he was here. A terrified part of him knew he had to understand them now. If he ignored them, what could the repercussions be to the rest of Sanctuary? He recoiled from those thoughts quickly.
Zatham knew. Zatham understood. Zatham could help him figure out what their next moves would be. He could trust Zatham to give him direction here.
Ahead, he spotted the platform and giant pillar where Zatham and Rhyn were supposed to be waiting. Still on the alert, he found no sign of an attack. If there had been one disrupting Rhyn's focus, there was nothing now and no additional corpses. It was quiet in all directions. He wasn't sure if Tarzoine sensed or somehow detected her son ahead, but she ran right past him with her uneven gait as they approached the stairs. Pyresong looked around but could find no sign of Zatham. Hanging back, he couldn't help wondering if Rhyn had done something.
"Rhyn! Are you hurt?" she asked, running up to embrace the boy.
"I...I'm fine now," Rhyn answered, clearly happy to see her. "Thank the Ancients, you're alive!" He looked tearfully to Pyresong over his mother's shoulder. "Thank you."
Still looking for Zatham, he just nodded in return for the gratitude. He gave a mental sigh of relief a moment later when he spotted Zatham coming around the pillar from wherever he'd been hiding. Catching sight of Zatham, Tarzoine pulled back to face Pyresong. She nodded to Zatham, clearly recognizing him. Pyresong kept the relief out of his face as he relaxed.
"You are true to your word, outsider. But how did you come to stand beside an Inari?" Tarzoine asked bluntly.
"I want what you want, Tarzoine. There is Darkness here. We will need all our strength to banish it," Zatham answered.
"Zatham is right. We need to keep the cult from anywhere on this island where they could 'purify' a Worldstone shard."
"A shard of the Worldstone?" Tarzoine asked, both surprised and horrified.
"It was corrupted by Baal a few years ago," Pyresong explained. "The archangel Tyrael destroyed it to keep it from being used against all mankind. But the corruption within some of the remaining shards is still potent, and calls to evil to be used. I've already destroyed one demon lord that was gathering them and four of the shards. This one is far larger and in the hands of Diablo's cultists. They are here to try to purify it to bring it to him. We are trying to stop that from happening."
Tarzoine and Rhyn seemed to only get more horrified with every word. The woman looked like she might even be sick. But she recovered quickly. She shook her head.
"The Worldstone. A relic of the First Days," she said sadly. "It once rested in the Husk of Creation." She paused and eyed him as if making a decision about him. "Father Inarius abandoned us. Took the stone away. At first, Inari and Lilin were equal. Then Inarius' favored children made themselves greater. Too slowly for us to recognize."
Beside him, Zatham bowed his head as if in shame but remained silent. He had been an Inari. Pyresong still didn't know what had led to him leaving this place. Yet, he got the sense it very likely had to do with Tarzoine's accusation and its results. Had he stood against his own people? Given how little he knew, it still did not entirely surprise him. Despite Zatham's leanings towards cleansing that mildly disturbed him at times, there was something fundamentally good about Zatham. He could sense the man's underlying desire to fight evil and defend those too weak to fight back.
Tarzoine took a deep breath and nodded as if coming to a decision. She approached Zatham and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He looked up slowly to meet her gaze, and she nodded to him. Whatever passed between them at that moment, Pyresong was not privy to. He watched as Zatham nodded back firmly. Then she turned to the necromancer.
"I will show you," she said, extending her still-human right hand toward him. "Take my hand."
Uncertain of what was happening, he took a moment to remove his gauntlet and glove from his right hand as he glanced at Zatham. Zatham nodded to him that he was doing the right thing and he could trust her. That was enough for him. Her hand glowed a brilliant, yet somehow warm, magenta as he gently gripped her hand in his own. Then he was lost in the visions.
Inside the visions, he found images, thousands of them, of what he knew to be this island. So many beautiful structures and monuments. He couldn't even find words to describe them had he tried. It was as if the entire land had been shaped into a glorious monument to the creation of their world and all its Life. Interspersed were equally magnificent and beautiful monuments to their creators, their parents, Mother Lilith and Father Inarius. In his mind, he could also hear Tarzoine's thoughts as she guided him through it all.
"What was began in harmony ended in discord," she told him.
The images flashed to a brutal war. Armies of demons battled countless angels on battlefields that in no way resembled Sanctuary. He couldn't even begin to guess where. He'd read of the Pandemonium Fortress and Battlefields of Eternity from Cain's collection. Cain had been to one of them with Tyrael and had researched numerous others. But the battle did not remain only between angels and demons.
The images changed to scenes of battles between humans. Human against human, and the bloodshed was painfully familiar. Though he'd killed his fair share of evil humans in his life, Pyresong had always believed they should be working together against the demons, not wasting time killing each other. Now he saw the battles in a whole new light. Followers of the Light, battling the humans that followed the Darkness. He didn't like it. But a part of him had always known that Sanctuary and all its human population was really nothing more than an extension of the Eternal Conflict between Heaven and Hell. Both sides were needed here, in their world...and likely the others he had seen.
"After the war, the Father returned to us, forever changed," Tarzoine continued when he had a chance to process what he was seeing.
The images changed to a huge stone chamber where a solid pillar of the Worldstone was housed atop an ornate altar. The scene pulled back to show two massive stone doors being magically slammed shut and sealed by an angel he assumed was Inarius. On all sides stood thousands of people watching with mixed sadness and horror.
"He had condemned his children, sealed away the Fire of Life."
He watched Inarius handing the Pathstone to a man who knelt on the stone floor.
"Only those of angelic blood were permitted to guard its embers."
The image returned to the chunk of Worldstone in its altar. Its light slowly bleeding away as it became a dark an inert husk of the gloriously bright and vibrant Worldstone it had once been a part of. Part of Pyresong's mind was saddened by this. Somewhere far away, his mind wondered at what humanity could have become if the nephalem had been able to maintain the Balance as it was meant to be.
"We watched as the light faded," Tarzoine told him sadly.
The images in the vision again changed to show a wondrously massive and beautiful statue of Inarius facing and equally beautiful statue of Lilith.
"Now, at long last, the ancient fears of our creators are manifest."
The ornately decorated massive stone doors beyond the two statues shattered and exploded.
"It begins in Terror and ends in Destruction."
These last words rang with a different tone from Tarzoine as if something else was guiding her thoughts and her voice. They echoed inside of him with a feeling that made him shudder when he recognized their power...and their all too familiar feeling. It was prophecy. He'd felt and heard it before. That feeling had haunted his every step for over a decade now. His whole life, if the truth were told.
Tarzoine's voice faded away as the images of the Terror Cultists engulfed them. Then, they, too, faded to darkness. When he opened his eyes, Tarzoine was eyeing him sadly. He suspected she had seen a lot more from him than what she had shown him. He hadn't exactly been shielded during the encounter. He shook it off. It didn't matter. He was here now. He would do whatever he must to stop the cultists.
Prophecies be damned, he thought darkly, putting his glove and gauntlet back on.
"The place where the...Worldstone was stored; this Husk of Creation. How do we get there?" he asked, his mind already racing ahead to plans for their next moves.
"It sits behind a great barrier. I have only seen it opened or sealed with the Pathstone by a procession of the Elders," she explained.
He turned to Zatham, cocking an eyebrow questioningly. Zatham nodded in answer to his unspoken question.
"We...have the Pathstone with us," he told her hesitantly. "Your Elder, Morwith, you said her name was... She was using it to ravage the seas with necromancy."
Tarzoine's eyes were huge with surprise.
"Her heart was as black as any," Zatham spoke up, "and her end was quick."
Tarzoine slashed her hand in the air to cut him off angrily. "Enough from you," she told him harshly. "I do not grieve for her. But only a fool believes they know another's heart."
Zatham again bowed his head as if in shame. Tarzoine turned to Pyresong again.
"Outsider, if you have the Pathstone, then you have a chance to guard the Husk of Creation. The Elders gather in the center of the island, in a wood teeming with great trees. But I would not count on their help. None of my people sit with them any longer."
"Come with us," he urged. "We could use your aid."
The half of Tarzoine's face that was still human smiled bitterly in a way that was reminiscent of Zatham.
"I am not permitted among them. My...condition. But my son knows of a home for the Afflicted. We will travel there. Perhaps we can rally them to fight the cultists. As the Fire of Life benighted the land, it burned many of us. Some now hunt the Afflicted. They believe it will stop the spread. Be wary of them," she warned. "Travel safely, outsider. May we meet again."
Something in her tone made him actually believe she meant that, surprisingly. He simply nodded with a warm smile. She took Rhyn's hand in her own and began to walk away.
Pyresong turned to Zatham, who nodded to him silently and began to lead the way north off the platform. As they descended the stairs, his friend seemed alert but otherwise lost in his own thoughts. He wondered at what Tarzoine's words had inflicted on his friend. The man did not seem verbally beaten down by any means, but something in what she had said clearly cut deeply. He also sensed that Zatham was not likely to ever discuss it, either.
They walked for several minutes in silence, encountering nothing. He was deep in his own thoughts of all he had learned in this place. It was still almost too much for him to really comprehend. But there was no time to stop and really think, either. Right now, his one focus was to get to the Husk of Creation before the Bride and her minions. Whatever came after that, they would have to figure it out later.
Ahead, they found a long stone brick bridge that was clearly well-maintained and still displayed many ornate carvings from its original creation. Like many of the things he had seen in the vision, it was beautiful. But, as with other places he'd been on the island, much faded. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it seemed some of the still overwhelming magic of this place had faded. Given what little he knew, it was likely because the Husk of Creation had faded. Part of him even wondered if the fading feeling here was a result of the Worldstone itself having been destroyed.
Still analyzing these observations, he froze in mid-step more than halfway across the bridge as the cold dread of the shard assaulted him violently. Beside him, Zatham paused curiously.
"It's there," Pyresong explained, pointing toward the giant building ahead.
He knew from previous experience the Bride and the shard already knew he was there. There was just no way to deny or avoid it now. Part of him was torn with the idea of going in a completely different direction than forward. Using Zatham to ambush the Bride might have at least some chance for success. Zatham frowned as if reading his thoughts. He shook his head and motioned to the shadows near the large, arched entrance.
"I need your strength, friend. I cannot do this alone," Zatham insisted in a whisper.
He sighed and gave in. There was absolutely no way to conceal his presence this near the shard. It already knew he was there. He could only hope the Bride was too occupied to feel him coming.
"How obstinate!" the Bride said in frustration somewhere ahead.
Crouching in the shadows near the entrance, Pyresong did not need to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. His magical vision could already see the filthy aura around her and the strands of magical power she was using on someone at the far end. They were standing before a powerful magical barrier that barred the exit. He just resisted the urge to throw a bone spear at her back when he saw the protective shield of energy around her. Besides, the distance was likely too great, and it wouldn't have even reached her.
"Open the barrier, and I will set you free," the Bride told the man writhing in pain before her. "Or, we can continue."
"I will die before I give paradise to your kind!" the man screamed defiantly, raising his staff.
The staff glowed brilliantly, a vibrant magenta that felt as threatening as the red lightning of the earlier pillars. It was a color Pyresong had come to associate with these people subconsciously. Before the Bride could react, the man broke the red and black tendrils of power holding him in an explosion of Life energy that shocked the necromancer with its strength. Then that energy fled, breaking apart and flying toward the various statues of faces around the room. The eyes of all the statues lit up magenta to match the man's energy. Bolts of pinkish-red lightning descended on the Bride and her handful of minions. He and Zatham watched while she dropped the body of the man who had literally sacrificed himself to protect those doors. She growled in clear frustration when her minions died around her. Her staff lit up, forming a protective bubble around her where the lightning could not penetrate.
"Idiot! You've traded your life for a moment's delay," she raged. "Come, Shard-seeker! Let this place end your threat as well!"
His gut twisted at those words with mingled rage and dread. Even with her distraction, she had known he was there. He watched in frustration while she disappeared in a flash of red and black magic.
"Be careful," Zatham warned beside him. "The land's fury is roused."
Already all of the cultists in that room were dead. The eyes of the statues still glowed a violent magenta. Zatham stepped carefully forward through the arched doorway and was instantly targeted. Even with all the power of his personal magical shields, Zatham was blasted backward off his feet with a cry of pain. Before Pyresong could follow, another bolt lanced out at him as well. Unlike Zatham, however, he found himself shielded by a somehow warm, magenta bubble. He stepped toward Zatham, helping him to his unsteady feet.
"The Pathstone..." Zatham said, shaking his head to clear it. "It is shielding you."
He pulled the Pathstone out of his side satchel. "Do you know how to use it to stop them?"
"I've never seen them like this before. But I sense their anger."
He looked around the room again at all the lightning and glowing statues. Holding the Pathstone out, he crossed the entrance again. Again the lightning targeted him, but was stopped by the pink shield from the Pathstone. Focusing his mind on the Pathstone halting the threat of the lightning, he lifted it above his head. Closing out all other thoughts, he listened to something well below the threshold of sound or thought. He felt a gentle sort of tugging urging him to move. He followed it, giving the Pathstone control of his next movements. It led him to one of the statues all the way across the room to the right of the magically sealed exit. He watched, fascinated when the Pathstone tugged his hand toward the forehead of the statue. The moment it touched, the face and the Pathstone flared brightly. Then the face seemed to grow dimmer, though it felt somehow still wary as if it was waiting for him to prove he was a threat. Feeling the tugging again as he kept his mind empty, he followed to the left side and repeated the gesture.
When the lightning stopped, he heard a sigh of relief from Zatham back at the entrance. Still cautious, Zatham stepped through the entrance. When he wasn't hit again, he moved forward with more confidence.
"Are you hurt?" Pyresong asked, eyeing him carefully.
He shook his head. "Now we need to focus on opening the barrier."
He turned toward the stairs with that thought in mind and nearly jumped backward right into Zatham when a circular chunk of the floor on the landing began moving downward with a grinding sound. Zatham steadied him and motioned up the stairs with an amused grin. When Pyresong turned back to look, a pedestal almost exactly like the one they'd found on the bridge when they arrived was rising up out of the floor where the circular stone had disappeared. He nearly laughed at himself mentally for being so jumpy. He probably should have expected as much. But, then, everything here was a surprise as far as he was concerned. To say he was unnerved and edgy was a massive understatement. Refocusing himself, he slotted the Pathstone into the square hole as he focused on lowering the barrier.
"Good work," Zatham commented as the barrier evaporated. "Now, keep the Pathstone hidden. Others may react with violence if they see it in our hands."
He placed it back in his side satchel with a nod.
"We should be ahead of the fanatics," Zatham commented. "Let us go."
"Can we raise the barrier again behind us?"
Zatham looked toward the corridor beyond. The numerous statue faces beyond that all glowed what he considered to be a threatening pink at this point, though how he could tell the difference was a mystery to him. Slowly Zatham nodded.
"I believe once we pass, it will return," Zatham said.
Good enough, he thought, motioning for his friend to lead on.
Zatham ascended the stairs but paused before he reached the first set of glowing statue faces on either side. He motioned for Pyresong to move ahead of him.
"They are wary," he explained. "You must lead here."
He nodded and focused on the Pathstone, allowing them entry as he crossed the first set of statues. The eyes flared briefly and then went back to their usual glow. He let out his unconsciously held breath in relief as his friend did the same. As Zatham had predicted, once both of them were a few steps beyond the arched doorway, the barrier reappeared. Each set of statue faces they passed flared briefly, as if analyzing them, and then returned to normal. In the darker gloom of a chamber beyond this corridor, they heard muffled screams and grunts of pain, making them both pause to listen.
"How dare you threaten a son of Inarius!" one man cried. "Unhand me!"
"You are plagued," a darker voice replied. "Your life endangers the sanctity of the Cradle."
Zatham stalked ahead, already drawing his sword; his face twisted with downright murderous hatred that startled his friend. Pyresong, lost and confused here, followed with his scythe in hand. In the near-total darkness of the room, Zatham had no problem picking out his targets with his spiritual eyes. Pyresong held back, uncertain, while his friend began attacking the handful of shadows he could only barely make out in the gloom. But, it seemed Zatham didn't need help anyway. He danced among them too fast for any to even retaliate. The man in white robes, who had been the speaker they had heard, stood stunned. When he approached the man to see if he was injured, the young man fell to his knees.
"Please...let me live," the man cried, his face half demonically twisted much as Tarzoine's was.
He again hooked his scythe and put his hands out, palms up, as Zatham approached. "We won't hurt you. What happened?" he asked soothingly.
"The Sanctifiers...we tried to tell them, we're not monsters, just...just changed. They hear nothing but the tolling of death bells!" the man practically wailed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zatham's dark expression as he nodded to the man's words. The terrified man's next words made Zatham's lips twist angrily as if he wanted to speak.
"The Lilin ripped the heart from our home!" the man cried, scrambling to his feet. "They deserve their punishment. But I've done nothing wrong!"
Before either of them could say anything further, Pyresong swung around, scythe in hand at the sense of gathering energies behind them. A deeper, smoother voice came out of the pillars of white and gold light that appeared. He and Zatham backed away warily.
"What tragic discord," the deep, smooth voice said mournfully.
Three black-robed men with powerful magical staves appeared. At the top of each staff was a white crystal that projected a white halo. Pyresong was already gripping his scythe and sending a trickle of energy into it but watched Zatham out of the corner of his eyes for direction. With so much going on that he didn't understand, he felt completely out of place and off balance. The last thing he wanted was to start something that would wind up working against them. All he could do was follow Zatham's lead and hope for the best. Zatham made no move to attack, so he relaxed somewhat. The three newcomers ignored the two of them as the man at the fore addressed the younger one in white robes they had just saved.
"The light of your life still shines, Isphas."
"Please, brother, help me," the man begged. "The Sanctifiers...they killed everyone else. Had the outsider and Zatham not protected me..."
"We will hunt down these jackals. The Elders will not permit murder in defiance of our law. Come with me, brother," the foreman said soothingly.
Rather than allaying his fears, something about this foreman's soothing tone actually triggered an unconscious reaction in Pyresong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he realized the man was outright lying. Despite sounding surprised by the obvious slaughter that had just taken place here, this man was not surprised at all.
"Where are you taking him?" Pyresong questioned, earning a surprised look from Zatham.
The foreman eyed him, his gaze completely devoid of emotion. The lack of fear and disgust he had come to expect just further put the necromancer on edge. Something was wrong here. Aside from the outright lies, there was a darker threat here he could not pinpoint. Zatham's clear surprise at his questioning of this person only deepened his suspicions.
"A safe place for the Afflicted. He will be no threat to anyone and be under no threat from anyone," the man explained flatly. Then he turned to Zatham, "Outsiders bring destruction, Zatham. Inform the Elders of the one you your care. And accept their judgment."
Judgment? Pyresong wondered in surprise. That can't be good.
Before either of them could reply, the man raised his staff, and the four of them disappeared in a flash of white light. Zatham sighed, shaking his head.
Pyresong had had enough.
Whatever threats existed here from the cultists was one thing. But he keenly sensed there was a deeper, darker threat here that Zatham had not warned him of. Worse, he was beginning to not only see what the shifting of power had done to this place, but he was starting to detect an underlying motivation he suspected even Zatham wasn't admitting to.
"He's lying about the Afflicted. You must know that," he warned.
"He is an Inari Conservator," Zatham started to protest incredulously.
Pyresong was not entirely surprised. Some things were built-in to a people. Among them was a respect for certain authorities. Whatever this Conservator was, he and his kind were apparently above Zatham's suspicions for the moment. He very nearly growled in frustration. He didn't have time to argue it, and clearly, he did not know enough.
Speaking of which... he thought, wrestling to put aside his frustration and suspicion.
"If I'm breaking some sacred law of your homeland, I'd like to know about it," Pyresong told him, letting some of his frustration at his ignorance bleed through.
He was tired of being kept in the dark. He had been stumbling from one surprise to another. And now he sensed threat on literally every side. The Terror cultists were but one of many. Zatham's guilty look said much, but he held firm. And the larger scope of repercussions could have far more dire consequences than even the destruction of a single culture. At this point, he wasn't even entirely certain he could trust Zatham's judgment. How much of Zatham's own motivations were colored by his memories of this place, his homeland?
"Would you have come if you had known all that you have learned since arriving?" Zatham asked bluntly.
"I'm disappointed in you, Zatham," he replied with a grin. "I thought you at least knew me better than that. I chased a shard into Hell and confronted a demon lord. Do you think this place frightens me?"
Zatham grinned back and laughed softly. "No, it terrifies you," he shot back. "But I know your heart is true, and you will not allow those potential consequences to stop you from acting now. My apologies for doubting you."
"What else have you not told me? What are the consequences of bringing an outsider?" he persisted.
The sick feeling in his gut refused to go away. He wasn't concerned about whatever consequences to himself, but he would not allow Zatham to pay for it alone. His biggest concern was being stuck fighting against the very people they were trying to protect while the cultists essentially moved around unhindered. Infighting like that would only benefit the cultists right now. Zatham sighed and pointed to the corpses cooling on the ground around them. Not surprisingly, Zatham deflected the direct question.
"Rhyn explained some of this to me, but I am little more than an outsider to him as well. These 'Sanctifiers' have taken it upon themselves to hunt down and murder all of the Afflicted. Those Conservators you met are trying to stop them."
"And yet he sounded...surprised to hear of it. As if the information was new to him," he pointed out. He shook his head before Zatham could argue. "Never mind. What of the Elders and this 'judgment'?"
Zatham appeared to look around at the bodies again as if trying to come up with an answer, furthering his suspicions that his friend was evading something entirely that he didn't want to admit. Pyresong wasn't about to give up. He needed to know what they were walking into. He was about to verbally dig into his friend more firmly when Zatham seemed to come to a decision.
"They all say, 'outsiders bring destruction'. But they have been the seeds of their own destruction since I was a boy. If anyone can purge the Darkness from this land, it will be an outsider. We will talk to the Elders, but we are not beholden to them," Zatham told him firmly.
Not the answer I was looking for, he thought in irritation, noting Zatham's evasiveness.
Yet, he also knew he would get nothing more out of the man for now. Zatham waited as if expecting more questions. Shoving down his irritation and frustration with a mental growl, Pyresong just waved him to lead on. There were no more glowing statue faces to threaten them, and it was near total darkness. Apparently, Zatham at least had some idea where they were headed in the gloom. Switching to magical vision was pointless since the overall magic aura of this place was nearly blinding and a constant fog as thick as the air they breathed.
They crossed through another large, dark chamber unchallenged. Across the way in the distance, he could see another arched entrance that led into a room that was well-lit with numerous candles and braziers. In the center of the room stood a ten-foot slab of carved stone with an image of Lilith. A few feet in front of it was another pedestal with a hole waiting for the Pathstone. Behind it, on the far end of the room, stood another brightly glowing magenta barrier. This one contained numerous sigils that the necromancer could not read, nor even looked remotely similar to anything he had ever seen anywhere else in Sanctuary. Yet, for him, there was no missing or mistaking their powerful warding threats.
"Go ahead," Zatham said, motioning toward the pedestal. "Open it. That is where they gather."
He still had a bad feeling about what was to come. So far, he had not detected a single outright lie from Zatham. Still, he felt there was so much he wasn't being told, either. The one thing he took comfort in was that his friend had shown no trepidation as they moved forward. The man really believed in what they were doing, even if some of it went against the beliefs of his people. Zatham stood beside him, watching closely while he retrieved the Pathstone from his side satchel and placed it into the slot. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the slight smile that curved Zatham's lips. He didn't know what to make of it, but the thought was lost a second later anyway. They watched when the stone slab with Lilith's image carved into it lit up a bright pink with lines of energy flowing through it. Behind it, the magical barrier evaporated while he focused again on opening. When he retrieved the Pathstone from the pedestal, Zatham's previous smile had turned into a downright grim scowl of determination. For a moment, Pyresong wondered if the darker, suspicious parts of his own mind had imagined the smile. He led the way around the carved stone slab of Lilith and toward the now-open exit. He left his scythe on its hooks as he followed a step behind. Seeing Zatham still carrying his bared sword, he opted to leave his shield on his arm for now. He couldn't shake off the feeling he would need it for some reason.
Beyond this area, Pyresong could now see a path that led to a giant area opened to the sky. In place of walls stood a ring of enormous trees that reached far into the sky. Their soaring branches could have held up entire mansions in Westmarch. He would have been amazed had he had any time to do more than glance. In the center of the enormous place was some kind of purple crystalline structure that was definitely not the Husk of Creation. It had a sort of stony, organic quality that very nearly mimicked the Husk of Creation he had seen in Tarzoine's visions; but felt more like some kind of monument. It was still so completely different that he couldn't place it. Yet, to his magical vision, it pulsed with a tingling, familiar power that radiated out beyond his range of sight in all directions. He wondered if it might be source of the Fire of Life.
These only occupied his thoughts for a few seconds, however. All around the center of this open area were nearly a score of people dressed in white robes or black armor. Several were holding more of the staves with halos he had seen the Conservators wielding. At the center of the circle, right in front of the purple crystal structure, was an elderly man with a long, gray beard wearing even more elaborately decorated white robes fringed in gold. On either side of him were two more in similar ornate robes. But he was clearly the one wearing the crown. A flicker of thought made Pyresong wonder how many centuries this man had lived to look that old, given how old he knew Zatham to be. Before him, huddled on the floor, was another twisted person, Afflicted. The elderly man's voice rang out strongly across the expanse, despite being smooth and controlled. Clearly, he was addressing everyone, even the ones off to the side where they could not yet see.
"I cannot," the old man declared. "This is for the good of all."
Pyresong's subconscious was again screaming warnings at him. Something in the man's words felt off. The huddled figure wailed miserably. One of what Pyresong assumed was Conservators in black with another halo staff, used it to send a loop of powerful white light to bind the poor Afflicted.
"Your family will be cared for until you are cured," the elderly man stated more soothingly. "No harm will come to you at the colony."
Pyresong very nearly froze right there, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Again, he could hear the lie. He wondered how no one else could. Yet, all those gathered around nodded at this pronouncement. He was lying about both parts, and he knew it when he said it.
"No! Please!" the bound man wailed.
"Fear is controlling you. Open your heart to the guidance of Inarius," the leader intoned.
"Stay on your guard," Zatham warned softly, his expression still grim. "Ymuthrus lies as much as he speaks."
"I noticed," he whispered back.
As they stepped onto the bridge that led to the large circular gathering area, Ymuthrus caught sight of the two of them. His eyes went wide in speechless shock for a few seconds. Zatham hurried to cross the bridge before they could be blocked. Keeping his own expression serene, Pyresong followed a respectful one step behind his friend, as he would in other places in Sanctuary. Again he wondered if anyone here would even recognize the body language or signs he had lived with all his life. Finally, the old man seemed to find his tongue.
"Guards!" he shouted.
Pyresong nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Already, every eye had turned to face them in silent shock equal to Ymuthrus' own. Calling for guards at this point was utterly meaningless. He did, however, manage to keep his expression serene as they arrived at the carved circular stone platform. Having recovered from their own shock, several of the men and women with halo staves moved to stand between them and Ymuthrus to protect him. Pyresong reflexively put his open hands out at his sides, still not entirely certain they would recognize it as a non-threatening gesture. Beside him, Zatham still held his sword lowered but ready. Ymuthrus' eyes turned to Zatham balefully.
"So, it is you who brings the outsiders. You who brings ruin."
"I bring salvation," Zatham said loudly enough for the entire room to hear.
"The cultists are our enemies. If we guard the Husk of Creation together, we can push them back," Pyresong said, dropping his arms to his sides.
Ymuthrus barely glanced at the necromancer before returning his hateful gaze on Zatham again.
"No! They poison our home...and now you lead them here?" Ymuthrus raged, "You defy our covenant! You spit on the Father's will!"
Now his subconscious suspicions were confirmed, and his anger flared. Zatham had blatantly defied whatever laws and customs of this place to bring him into a zone clearly forbidden to outsiders. Whether it was to evoke a reaction out of these people, or something darker, he couldn't be entirely sure. But he was certain now that his friend had at least some ulterior motives here, even if it was just to spit in their faces. Pyresong didn't give a damn about whatever personal grievances Zatham had with this place and its people, so long as it didn't wind up working against them trying to stop the cultists. Now he very nearly cursed Zatham for such rash actions. They needed to work together, not drive a wedge between them.
The four with halo staves seemed to act on some kind of invisible and unspoken command from Ymuthrus. The light of four thick ropes of power was flung out in Pyresong's direction. He forced himself to hold still rather than try to avoid them. Despite the visible rage he had seen directed toward himself and Zatham, he still had some hope of talking sense into Ymuthrus and the others. And he knew that the ropes of power did nothing more than bind a person. Despite the discomfort of being bound, he fervently hoped they could still talk this out peacefully.
That illusion was shattered a heartbeat after he was bound by their power. A painful shock of raw energy was sent through the bindings. What little his armor could absorb did nothing to stop the agony that danced up and down every nerve. He gritted his teeth against a cry of pain as Zatham's head whipped in his direction. He tried to focus through the pain to calm Zatham but could not unclench his teeth long enough to do so. All that came out was a groan deep in his throat. At the same time, he felt something powerful and completely unexpected that battered down his remaining magical and mental shields. It tore through his mind, scouring his every thought and memory. His shields were obliterated by the dual shock of raw power assaulting him continuously; there was nothing between him and the blinding pain scorching him from the inside out. He closed his eyes as his whole body writhed and convulsed. He was only dimly aware of his own short-lived scream.
Apparently, Zatham had had enough. Seeing his friend bound and tortured was too much for him. Zatham's face twisted in rage of his own as he launched himself blade-first at the nearest two holding his friend. Helpless and unable to even breathe in after his one scream, Pyresong was unable to tell Zatham to stop in the hopes of ending this peacefully. His vision was tingling as he struggled to try to take a breath. He couldn't even think beyond the lancing pain along every nerve. His vision narrowed to a small window while he watched Zatham cut down two of the Conservators and then continue through them right to Ymuthrus.
"The land will judge you for this outrage!" Ymuthrus roared as he met Zatham's sword with his staff.
The shock and pain from his captors eased considerably when the two surviving Conservators turned their attention to Zatham and Ymuthrus as if uncertain who the real threat was. Able to breathe again, when the shocks and the agony lessened, he took a couple of deep breaths forcing back the darkness edging his vision. Again he tried to tell Zatham to stop, but it came out in a whisper. He struggled to focus on what was happening while everyone gasped in disbelief at Zatham's vicious assault. Rather than pressing the attack, Zatham left his sword against Ymuthrus' staff and reached up with his left hand to his face. Zatham ripped the bandage off his eyes and shouted angrily to everyone, no carefully neutral tone this time.
"Do none of you see what he has done? Are you so afraid to speak against him?"
As if unable to face Zatham's fury and obvious scars, Ymuthrus freed one of his hands and aimed it at Zatham. There was a shockingly bright flash as Zatham was flung away by the blast. Pyresong's racing heart skipped a beat when Zatham landed hard on his back. He had seen Zatham take much worse and roll right back to his feet. This time, Zatham lay there stunned for a second. Despite his obvious shock, Zatham struggled back to his feet, ready to launch himself at the old man again. Pyresong could easily see it was a struggle. Whatever Ymuthrus had flung at him had badly stunned his friend.
"Ymuthrus! Stop!" a woman beside Ymuthrus in equally embellished white robes shouted. "Zatham is child returned to his cradle! He deserves our mercy!"
Ymuthrus turned to this woman incredulously. She motioned with her hand to the Conservators, and Pyresong was released. He stumbled briefly, still feeling dizzy and awkward from after effects of whatever they had done to him. But his only thought now was for his friend swaying on unsteady feet nearby. Zatham, his shoulders hunched in pain, accepted his steadying grip. Ymuthrus turned from the woman's glare to Zatham.
"I should never have permitted you to leave. Their whispers have spoiled your soul, boy."
"Entrust them to me," the woman demanded. "I shall measure their claims. We must consider every option."
"Whatever harm they bring is upon you tenfold!" Ymuthrus growled in disgust.
"As you say, Ymuthrus," she agreed firmly. She turned her cold eyes on the pair of them. "Follow me."
Under the watchful eyes of the dozens of people all over this gathering area, Zatham shook off Pyresong's assistance and stood upright. Hoping it wasn't just an act, he walked closely beside his friend, ready to catch him if he stumbled. As far as he could tell, Zatham had most definitely been injured, though nothing was visible on the surface. He followed along beside him, shaking off the residual tingle and twitching he still felt in his own limbs. His concern rose a notch when he heard Zatham stifling a cough a few seconds later. Despite all the eyes on them, he was about to reach for a healing potion.
Ahead of them, the woman crossed another bridge that led into another large, dark chamber where they were alone. Pyresong had already unhooked his most potent healing potion. He wasn't sure if Zatham was just too tired to heal himself or if it was something else altogether. But he wasn't going to let the man suffer whatever damage until he keeled over. Apparently, their chaperone had similar concerns. Only once she was certain they were out of view of the others did she turn on them. Her movements were so fast it startled Pyresong for a moment. But her hands glowed a familiar yellow as she caught Zatham by the shoulders. Thinking it was an attack, Pyresong very nearly reached out to stop her until he saw her sad expression.
"Can you not hold your grievances inside, Zatham? After all this time?" she asked sadly.
Zatham's body glowed with her healing, a very bright spot centered around his chest. He caught sight of the blood on Zatham's lips as he rubbed it away. At the very least, he now knew that cough had been the result of blood filling the man's lungs. He nearly sighed with relief while Zatham was thoroughly healed. When he was finally able to take a full breath, Zatham nodded in thanks to the woman.
"This is why the rot spreads, Geherit," Zatham told her, equally sad. "Unwillingness to speak its name."
Geherit sighed heavily and then turned to Pyresong. "Outsider, give us a moment, please."
"No, he is here to help. He must understand," Zatham objected. "The Lilin only think of themselves. The Inari pretend to care for everyone. Yet they twist their own rules."
Geherit cut him off angrily. "They did not all command you to kill. They did not all silence your objections. They did not all...take your eyes. Only Ymuthrus."
"He is the worst of them...but he is just a symbol. The curse shows us as we are inside," Zatham persisted angrily.
And there was the heart of his concern. Yes, Zatham had brought them here chasing after the Terror Cultists and the Worldstone shard. But now he could clearly see this was also far more personal for his friend. There was a lot going on here he didn't understand. But then, he didn't really need to. He was more certain than ever that the shard being here was almost some kind of excuse for Zatham to return and confront these other issues within his former home. He didn't feel as if he had been tricked into coming. Yet he had one focus here, and it wasn't resolving this society's issues. Once the shard and the cultists were dealt with, maybe there was more that could be done. Right now, despite Zatham's grievances and the imbalance of this place, his only concern was the Bride and the shard. He would not allow them to be distracted from that.
"That doesn't change our obligations," Pyresong spoke up coldly. "Does it?"
Zatham calmed visibly at these words. "I suppose it does not," he conceded.
"Your anger disturbs the song," Geherit said softly to Zatham. "Reserve it for the invaders."
She turned to Pyresong. "I have seen your heart and mind, and you are true. Your strength in this battle is welcome. Your compassion is...unexpected. But do not let it blind you to your purpose here."
He nodded. Her gaze turned hard again as she encompassed both of them.
"Do not make me regret my support," she warned them both.
Zatham bowed slightly as Pyresong nodded again to her.
"Come. I will show you what we must protect," she told them.
She turned on her heel and resumed her trek through the room and beyond into another large, dark chamber. After a few minutes in the gloom, unable to see all the rooms and corridors clearly, Pyresong admitted to himself he was lost at this point. He had no idea how she was able to navigate so easily other than the fact that she'd likely spent decades roaming this place. He suspected, much as Zatham, that she had some other sight that allowed her to see in the near-total darkness. He began to suspect he was the only one who couldn't see, given the lack of torches, candles, braziers, or anything else to lift the darkness around this place. Mentally he sighed; it might be time to ask Zatham how they did it. Even as he was thinking this, Geherit stopped near a wall where a section of floor was carved very differently from the rest of the stone brick.
"We will be safe here," she told them.
She turned to the wall where a forty-foot face of a stone statue looked down on them. Her hands glowed a bright magenta as she raised them in supplication to the face.
"Fire of Life...Song of the Father...welcome us within," she chanted.
He watched as the eyes of the face glowed a vibrant pink in response. When they went dark, the carved section of floor retracted into the space beyond, revealing a set of stairs that descended to another level. To his surprise, Geherit turned to him.
"After you, outsider."
Another test, he thought with some amusement.
He carefully controlled his expression to keep the amusement off his face while he nodded to her graciousness. Then he turned to the face of the statue and bowed, priest to high priest, and descended the stairs. He felt the faint tingle of magic when he crossed an invisible barrier on the floor. Behind him, he heard Zatham's soft laugh. As he had suspected, it was another test, and whatever she had been expecting to happen clearly didn't. Geherit's surprise was obvious to Zatham.
"Do not underestimate him, Geherit," Zatham told her.
Geherit gave no verbal reply to that as they followed the necromancer down the stairs. Only a few steps ahead of them, Pyresong was awed by the spectacle of the chamber. Vibrant pink and magenta flows of energy followed numerous ancient tree roots that clung in random patterns to the carved stone bridge and platform. Below them, an abyss yawned. Far beyond the edges of the circular platform, numerous quiet waterfalls flowed off of rock ledges. The distant walls were raw rock cliffs that channeled the water in fantastic sparkling displays. Lines of white and pink crystals striated the darker rocks, shimmering in the ambient light. The place was beautiful in a way he could never have imagined. Not unlike the ice crystal cavern he'd encountered in the Cave of Echoes, he paused now at the bottom of the stairs to appreciate its beauty. Geherit smiled at his expression of wonder while she moved past them to lead the way onto the circular platform. In those few seconds, he memorized the image. Whatever else was going on in this place, this was something he would remember.
Finally, he tore his eyes away from the magical beauty of the cavern to focus on the platform that was their destination across a short stone bridge. The circular stone brick was lovingly carved with many unrecognizable sigils that somehow seemed to only add to the unearthly beauty of this place. But it was the small three-tiered fountain with pink flowing water that dominated the area. His eyes were drawn to its own unique beauty while Geherit approached it ahead of them. Distracted, he noticed a desk and a multitude of bookcases that lined the outer ring of the platform. Zatham seemed somewhat relieved and less on edge in this place. Pyresong couldn't disagree. There was a calming feeling to this cavern and the natural music of the water that flowed all around them. She paused before the fountain, turning to face them.
"You do not need to present your claim to me," Geherit told them. "I hear the song of the spring, its visions and portents. It has already told me an outsider will preserve the Cradle."
That will certainly make things easier, he thought with relief.
And it explained much of what had happened earlier. She had very clearly taken advantage of his distraction and pain to search him thoroughly to be sure. He couldn't blame her. It was one way to ensure whatever she saw was the truth, neither blocked nor distorted by his shields or even coherent thoughts. And it explained why she had been so willing to put herself on the line to defend them.
"We have the Pathstone," Zatham confessed.
He was surprised to hear his friend say it, but only slightly. At this point, hiding the truth would likely accomplish nothing and could very well hinder any plans Geherit may have for defending this place. He watched warily when Geherit's eyes eyes widened in shock...and hope.
"You do?" she asked, turning to him for confirmation.
He nodded, not quite ready to reveal its location yet. Geherit smiled happily and did not ask for it. Despite the calm peace of this place, Pyresong was prepared if she had tried to take it. He wasn't willing to let his guard down entirely, despite what Zatham may think of Geherit.
"Then we can reinforce the Husk of Creation," she told them. "Make its shields as iron, and make our stand before its gates. When Ymuthrus sees our power, he will accede."
Zatham sighed sadly as he shook his head. But Pyresong decided to head him off.
"Tell me about the Pathstone's capabilities. It could help our defense."
Whatever reservations she had still held about speaking with an outsider were clearly dispelled by the news of the Pathstone's presence.
"The Pathstone is a key to the island's heart. It has always kept us hidden and defended. But...time away from the Cradle will have left it unbalanced."
And being here has left me unbalanced, Pyresong couldn't help thinking dryly. At least, this is something I can understand.
"If it's a key, can't we break it in the lock?" he asked, already considering plans for its use, despite the minute bit of information. "Prevent anyone else from reaching the Husk of Creation?"
"No," Zatham said firmly. "You know the power the Bride of Hell possesses. This is our only advantage."
Geherit, who had seemed to be considering the necromancer's simple but possibly effective idea, slowly nodded to Zatham's words. "He is correct. And...there is no way of knowing what its destruction would do to the island, especially after so much time in Morwith's hands." She sighed, clearly thinking her way through her next words. "To use the Pathstone at the Husk of Creation, we must restore its equilibrium. At the greatest places of power."
He didn't like the sound of that, but he knew also that he didn't have anywhere near enough information to do anything on his own right now. The only thing he knew for sure he could do was use the Pathstone to get through some things. Maybe he could use it to block places as well. But how effective would that be if the Pathstone wasn't even really ready?
Probably not much, he conceded to himself.
After a few seconds, Geherit seemed to have come up with a plan. "Zatham and I...we cannot harness the power of the Commingling Pit at the shrine to Mother Lilith. It is the same for Shieldholm and anyone so connected to demons. But you can take it to both ends of the island, outsider."
No surprise there, he thought with a mental sigh. So predictable.
"How did you do it in the past, then?" he couldn't help asking with a hint of suspicion.
"Lilin and Inari worked together," Geherit explained, seeming a bit taken aback by his forward question. "The union of the Mother and Father made us, made our home, and bound us to it."
He got no sense that she was lying. And, after what little he had learned of this place and its people, that was very likely the case. But that also indicated it had been a very, very long time since the Pathstone had been balanced in such a way. He couldn't help wondering what he was actually in for. Really, though, it didn't matter. He would do literally anything at this point to get ahead of and stop the Terror Cultists. He could feel Zatham watching him closely, expectantly. He shoved aside his multitude of suspicious thoughts...about all of this. One simple task. That's what he could do, for now.
"Show me where, and I'll be on my way."
Geherit's hand glowed again as she turned to face the fountain in the center. It glowed in response to whatever she was doing, and a mixed tendril of their energies reached out toward a table on the right side of the circular platform. A sheet of parchment glowed brilliantly in a rainbow of pink hues as it drifted across the space to them. Geherit motioned for him to take the parchment. For a moment, it still appeared blank when he took it carefully in his gloved hands. A map of the islands outlined itself in pink lines before settling into neat multicolored shapes. In seconds, he found himself staring at the most unbelievably detailed map he'd ever seen anywhere. It was like some kind of painting made while flying high above the islands. For a few seconds, he stared at it in amazement.
"Look here. This is your path," Geherit told him, pointing at two different places that now glowed slightly on the map. "We are here."
As a third spot lit up with a single, faintly glowing dot, he began to get an idea of the layout. One of his destinations was on another island to the northwest. The other was far to the northeast. The main island they were on was long, sprawling to the southwest and northeast, but not very wide in either direction. Still, he suspected it would be several hours to get to the different locations and back again. He could only hope Geherit's protection from the others would hold. Figuring his way around the darkened chambers and corridors would be time-consuming at the very least.
"That scroll is imbued with the Fire of Life. It will guide you," Geherit told him as if reading his thoughts.
She probably is, he thought tiredly.
No matter. He was more than ready to get on with this. Despite it being well into the evening by this point, he wasn't even considering stopping. There was just not enough time for food or rest right now. They were only barely ahead of the cultists and still didn't have a clear idea of their numbers or plans. Images of the destruction wreaked across Stormpoint ran through his mind. No, they had to keep moving quickly before the cultists could get enough reinforcements here to overwhelm the whole place. Silently he prayed something was keeping them from doing so. Maybe even just the magic of this place could stop them from opening rifts. He hadn't seen one yet. Carefully, he rolled the map and placed it in his side satchel with the Pathstone.
"Their devotion... It still rests in the shrines we made in their image," she explained. "You should begin with the shrine to the Father Inarius in Shieldholm. It will be less dangerous. The portal will deliver you close to the destination."
She turned to the left side of the platform and waved her hand. A white, glowing portal appeared near the edge.
"When you have what you seek, the scroll will return you here," she explained.
"And I will search for the fanatics and harry them while you prepare their end. Keep the Pathstone safe," Zatham told him.
Again, Pyresong was not happy about splitting up, about as happy as he was to be wandering this place by himself. But he knew Zatham couldn't follow him some places. It made far more sense to divide their efforts. With Zatham's uncanny sword skills, he would at least be able to put a considerable dent in their numbers. And it would keep them occupied chasing him, instead of the necromancer who was so unfortunately tied to the shards they could easily see him coming. Hopefully, their eyes would not be on him while the worked on this.
"Keep yourself safe, Zatham," he told his friend warmly.
Zatham smiled warmly and nodded. "You too, my friend."
As he walked toward the white portal, he sensed Zatham opening a portal of his own. He never had remembered to ask Zatham how he managed to make portals to places other than waypoints. Now was definitely not the time. Unlike any other portal he'd encountered, this one flashed solid white instead of impenetrable darkness when he crossed through it. When the light faded, he found himself standing in front of a roughly ten-foot arch on a circular platform that in no way visibly resembled any waypoint he had ever encountered. It was no more than maybe six feet in diameter but somehow felt like perhaps it had been the inspiration for the actual waypoints he was familiar with in the rest of the world. When he stepped toward it, there was a white swirling of energy that coalesced into another portal. Without a doubt, this was his way onto the other island they called Shieldholm. At least he wouldn't have to spend precious hours traversing the islands on foot.
He stepped onto the platform and through the white portal. Again, he was consumed with light that seemed to penetrate through everything. Here, in that brief window of time, he felt ridiculously exposed. It was a nonsensical feeling, but he did regret not having his shield and scythe in hand as he crossed the portal.
When he emerged on the other side, he found himself in a place that so resembled the images from Tarzoine's visions that he had to pause. It was beautiful in a way he could not describe. The white stonework was intricately inlaid with silver and gold that he had no doubts was genuine. On either side of the bridge, he saw equally detailed and intricate statues of angels that were easily sixty feet or more tall. Even the wisps of the wings of pure Light were cast in faintly glowing gold and silver. In this one short bridge alone, there was more wealth than in all the country of Westmarch. Much as with the room with the fountain, he paused to take it all in.
Despite it being after sunset at this point, he could see thick clouds and fog below. What he could see of the supporting pillars in the distance told him that the height was such that it would take a very long time to hit the bottom. Whether the fall ended in stone or water, it would be deadly. He got his shield and scythe ready as he eyed the stairs at the opposite end of the hundred or so footbridge. On the platform above, he could see nothing. So far, he'd heard nothing, either. The gently blowing wind was the only movement in this place other than his own.
He walked silently, slowing his steps to appreciate one exquisitely detailed circular design laid into the stone that was outlined with many bands of gold and silver. At first, he couldn't quite recognize the white material in the center that seemed to somehow shift subtly with the light. His curiosity held him in place for several seconds as he couldn't help analyzing it more closely. After a while, he realized why it faintly shimmered when viewed from various angles. It was pearl! A solid piece of real pearl at least three feet in diameter. Again, he marveled, but not at the wealth, just the sheer beauty of it all. He almost wished the moon was out so he could see its reflection on that pearlescent surface. Maybe some day, when this was over, he would have the chance to come back and get to appreciate it truly.
Above him, near the edge of the platform ahead, he heard a loud, thudding footstep. Instantly, he knew it was no human. It was far too heavy. Yet, it also had a chilling familiarity that immediately set him on edge. In the lesser gloom of the open night air, he saw a man-shaped shadow stomping heavily toward him. It took his sensitive ears only a second to realize it was stone. He backed up slightly, sending energy into his scythe while the thing began to descend the stairs. As expected, the intricately carved stone figure of a man came into focus, glowing with magic.
Unlike the constructs he'd seen in Kulle's library, these were no behemoths. This one was only slightly larger than a real man. And, also unlike Kulle's, they had no obvious runes. He stepped backward to keep his distance from the thing. For a heartbeat, he flickered to his magic vision hoping to find anything he could use to disable it. Near the center of the chest, he spotted a red glow that resembled a heart. Hoping he was right, he aimed a blade of energy at it. To his relief, the thing didn't just stop; it shattered when the red object had been hit. He'd flung as much power as he could into that energy blade. He had no idea how many more of the things were still ahead of him. He could easily use up most of his energy just fighting these things if he wasn't careful. Creeping closer to the top of the platform, he decided the next one would be a test of how little he could get away with.
Focused on his surroundings, listening for more of those golems—was all he could think to call them—he shuddered and gasped with surprise. For a heartbeat, he was totally disoriented by the unexpected assault. The nearly overwhelming feeling of the shard's vile presence was terrifyingly close. It wasn't calling to him as it had before. But something inside of him still desperately wanted it, wanted to possess it. Regaining control in a heartbeat, he moved off to the side into some darker edges around the platform. Not even bothering to consider the shrine he needed was in a completely different direction, he followed the sense of the shard to his right. While the opportunity was afforded him, he decided to empty his mind. Part of him had wondered if his thoughts and intents were what led the shard to so easily alert its possessors to his presence. He silenced all thoughts as he fell into his mindless combat instincts and let them take over. It led him up a curving flight of stairs whose beauty he could no longer see in his complete focus on the danger and threat ahead.
Silently, he stalked to the top of the stairs seeing no less than a dozen cultists now lending their power to the priest. The priest was combining their power feeding it to the massive shard. He was using it like some kind of magical focus to try to break through a golden glowing magical barrier. Right in front of the barrier stood another Pathstone pedestal. Very likely, that was his only way to get to the Shrine of Inarius. Only dimly, somewhere far away in his mind, Pyresong realized he recognized the voice of the priest that spoke, the one directing the energies at the barrier in a violent barrage. He couldn't help a flaring surge of rage at the sound of that voice. He was very nearly close enough to attack when Akinees spun around, stopping the barrage.
"The Heart belongs to Him! You will not have it!"
Damn you, Pyresong snarled mentally at Akinees.
He unleashed his first wave of attacks against the cultists, still kneeling in surprise as Akinees vanished with the shard. He cut down at least half of them with his first powerful blade of energy. He followed that up with a darkly satisfying corpse explosion that took out the rest of them before they could even get to their feet. One or two were still groaning in agony, mutilated by the blasts. He just slit their throats with his scythe, again regretting giving them such an easy out after all the suffering they had inflicted. He didn't even need to scan around. He could feel the shard had moved far away. It was still somewhere on the islands but nowhere near enough to be a threat at the moment.
Letting go of the anger, he paused. He stood there, considering the pedestal. He was reluctant to use the Pathstone. Now that he had a second to think, he wondered exactly how and why the cultists were here, of all places. True, Geherit had told him this was one of the places of power. Yet the whole reason behind him being here alone right now was because only the Inari could use this place...or a human untainted by the power of Hell and demons. If that was true, and the Inari really couldn't go to Lilith's altar and vice versa, then how was it possible the Terror Cultists had gotten this far? He could detect no lie in Geherit's words. And clearly the cultists had been unable to break the barrier. Yet he couldn't help wondering how they had even managed to get into this holy and sacred place. And what could they have possibly accomplished had they managed to break the barrier?
Something about this felt all wrong to him. Something here didn't make sense. If the cultists couldn't use the powerful shrine beyond this barrier, why were they even at this location? Staring at the pedestal, all of his senses on high alert, he wracked his mind trying to figure it out. Ultimately, it just didn't make sense. Akinees and the Bride would not have been able to use this shrine to their ends. Were they taunting him, somehow? With a frustrated sigh, he gave up. He wasn't going to figure it out right now. And his target, the shrine, was somewhere beyond that barrier.
Still sensing nothing in the immediate area, he quickly inserted the Pathstone. The second the barrier was gone, he ran through it with the Pathstone still in hand. He focused on raising the barrier again the instant he crossed the threshold. As expected, the powerful chill and dread of the shard materialized right behind him.
Spinning around to confront the loathsome cultist, Pyresong couldn't resist a taunting smile at Akinees, who battered away at the barrier futility with the shard. Now he knew for certain. Akinees had been using him to try to get through. Or, maybe once he realized the necromancer had the Pathstone, he had intended to try to take it. But the man had appeared all alone. Despite his power and the shard, Pyresong found it very unlikely he would have tried to take the Pathstone from him all on his own. It still didn't make any sense to him, but his instincts had been right. He shoved the Pathstone back into his side satchel and waved to Akinees with a gesture considered downright obscene throughout all of Sanctuary. He smiled even more wickedly when could hear the enraged priest's angered scream even through the barrier. Then he, very deliberately and confidently, turned his back on the shard and Akinees, throwing one more obscene wave over his shoulder at the vile priest.
Beyond the barrier was more beautiful white stonework with more gold, silver, and pearl. Every inch of this place was breathtakingly beautiful. He was sad to realize that likely no one ever came here anymore to appreciate it. There were many places where it looked like the stones were beginning to crumble and fall apart from neglect and disrepair. The rest of the world beyond these islands didn't even know it existed. He very much wanted to share this amazing place with Kashya someday. But he hadn't found a single waypoint thus far. He wondered if he ever returned to the Unformed Land and if he could maybe take Oza from the Overlook to come and see it sometime. In that place, anything was just a thought away. Even in the gloom of night, it was amazing to see. He could only imagine what it would look like in the brilliant light of the sun.
Further along the bridge, he found a couple more platforms here and there branching off in various directions. Despite the obvious disrepair, the magnificent and intricate designs held his attention. On this side of the magical barrier, he really did not need to consult the map scroll Geherit had provided him. Already, he was feeling the glorious balm of pure Light energy. It resonated in a part of his soul that still ached for the loss of Yl'nira. His heart slowed to a calm, steady beat in its comforting warmth. Still somewhat wary of the possibility of more of those stone golems, he eyed every shadow. Thankfully, nothing moved to challenge him.
A few minutes later, he spied the Pathstone pedestal that stood a few feet in front of a massive statue of Inarius. As he approached the pedestal, he paused to breathe in the Light through to his very soul. He let his thoughts and suspicions drift away for a few seconds while he basked in that pure Light. Nothing would replace Yl'nira for him, but this did much to soothe those aches he'd not been able to let go of. For now, it would have to be enough to know that the Light still existed somewhere. He said another silent prayer for the soul of Yl'nira, missing her acutely for a few seconds. But a few seconds was all he really had. He still had much to do, and the night was wearing on.
He slotted the Pathstone into the golden pedestal and watched curiously, waiting for whatever would happen next. The statue of Inarius glowed more brightly than the sun as it pulled the Light into itself. Then rivers of that Light flowed from it into the pedestal and then into the Pathstone. Pyresong watched in awe, thinking it must somehow be too much. But it wasn't. The Pathstone absorbed every bit of it and flared briefly as if awakening. When the flow ceased, he was reminded again that it was actually still nighttime. For a few minutes, it had easily been brighter than daylight. Despite that, he'd felt no pain from the overload of light in his eyes. Retrieving the Pathstone from the pedestal, he turned it at various angles to get a better look.
The Light had definitely awakened...something. Yet the energies within still felt very unfamiliar. And there was a part of him that recognized them subconsciously. The energies were frustratingly familiar in a vague way that teased his mind and soul in a way he could not make sense of. He just hoped he could figure out more once it was properly balanced. Somehow, he instinctively knew this Pathstone was capable of so much more than just locking and unlocking. It spoke to him on a level below consciousness of the real Balance that was the core of the existence of their world, their entire universe. It whispered of abilities and needs far greater than this one place. It was somehow connected to something even greater than angels and demons, the greatest powers he knew existed in this world.
He shoved those meandering thoughts aside for now. He placed the Pathstone back into his side satchel and retrieved the map scroll. As soon as he unfurled it, a magenta-glowing portal opened a couple of feet in front of him. Still holding the scroll, he walked through the portal to find himself back in the room with the fountain. Geherit turned to greet him, smiling with excitement.
"You have it! The Father's legacy in true hands again. As they intended."
He rolled up the scroll and put it into his side satchel. He drew the Pathstone. Geherit's eyes lit up with wonder. She extended one glowing hand in its direction, and it flared brightly with the Light it had absorbed, startling him. Geherit never actually reached for it, though. Briefly he wondered if she would be quite so excited about it once it was properly balanced. She was an Inari, after all. Then he recalled her words..."true hands" and "as they intended" and realized she very likely would be. It seemed she understood the need for true balance, despite her one-sided origin. Not for the first time, he was struck by the idea that this place could have and should have been a living example of the Balance in humanity.
"The Pathstone is ennobled," she told him happily. "The song is unbending."
Again with the song, he wondered vaguely.
Then he recalled the musical language he had shared with Yl'nira. And he remembered vividly the musical language of the angels he had overheard. Perhaps his ability to hear music in so many unexpected places was not as unique as he had feared. He almost wanted to ask more, but now was definitely not the time. He slid the Pathstone back into his side satchel as the glow faded.
"Couple it with the Mother's legacy, and we can do more than defend the Ancients' Cradle. We can renew it," she told him hopefully.
"Have you heard from Zatham?" he asked, not seeing his friend.
"No."
Even as she spoke, he felt a portal opening behind him. He spun around, hoping it was his friend and not something worse.
"As I was saying, he is a fierce fighter and a learned traveler. He will return to us alive," Geherit said with a grin as the man himself appeared through the portal.
Zatham grinned in return. "Thank you for your confidence," he replied as if sharing an inside joke. Then he turned to his Pyresong, all seriousness. "Tell me of your progress."
"I empowered the Pathstone at Shieldholm," he told him happily. Then his expression darkened as he recalled what had happened at the barrier. "Akinees was there. I was able to get the barrier back up before he could cross it, but he was using me to try to get through." He turned to Geherit. "Is it possible demonic cultists could use that shrine somehow?"
Geherit shook her head adamantly. "Absolutely not. The Light would not work with such corrupted and filthy souls or a corrupted shard. Only the Mother's shrine would work with them."
"Then why was he there at all?" he wondered aloud.
Zatham frowned contemplatively. "There was no reason for them to be there."
"Unless they're using me in some way, I don't understand," he said softly; vague suspicious thoughts that were fragmented and disjointed ran through his mind.
"How?" Zatham asked. "You know when they are there. They know when you are there. They know we are working to stop them. What would be the motive?"
He sighed in frustration. "That is what we need to figure out. But that was no coincidence. They were not there before I took the portal to that island. And they knew I was there the instant they arrived. Akinees made a good show of trying to break down the barrier, but he had to have known the shrine wouldn't work. I thought maybe once I got through, he would try to follow...and he did. I got the barrier back up in time to stop him. But...why would they even try if they can't use that shrine? Are they somehow...pushing me forward? Could they know our plans? If that was an attempt to stop me, it was the worst I've ever seen."
Zatham seemed taken aback by this reasoning, though Geherit frowned darkly. Pyresong gave up. There was nothing but theory and vague suspicions right now, anyway. They didn't have time to stand around discussing it. Maybe something crawling around the back of his mind would come to the fore later. He was already beginning to feel tired. And, again, his sense of urgency pushed him.
"What did you find?" he asked Zatham.
"I slew a scouting party. Diverted others. But I did not see the Bride of Hell. She must be marshaling her forces."
"No clues there, either," he said.
"The spring might help us find out more about where she is or will be. But its visions are often symbolic," Geherit warned. "Subject to interpretation. Allow me to try."
"Please do," he requested, happily surprised.
Any answer to his dark thoughts and suspicions was better than nothing right now. If his thought about them urging him onward for their own purposes was in any way a real possibility, he knew they would have to abandon this plan for something entirely different. Despite their warnings, he was still considering the idea of destroying the Pathstone as a last resort. None of them really knew what would happen to the island if it was destroyed. In his mind, however, it was still like breaking the key in a lock. If it prevented the Bride and the shard from achieving their goal, he was willing to risk the concealment of this island. For that matter, maybe it was time the rest of the world knew so they could help protect it.
"As if that would ever happen," the dark voice of his nightmare mocked him.
Initially, he tried to silence that voice. But a certain bitterness of his own knew it for the truth. Knowing humanity as he had experienced it, they were more likely to raid it for its riches and power than to help protect it. Along those lines, he thought of the Worldstone itself and Mount Arreat. That had not ended well for the Barbarians, who had sacrificed everything for countless generations to protect the Worldstone itself. Not for the first time, he wondered about all those suffering spirits that still battled in Sescheron. He knew Kientarc would likely have kept his word. If he'd sent a letter to Cain in faraway Westmarch about him going into Hell, he had most likely sent for help to the Priests of Rathma and others. Pyresong prayed for all of them. He still hoped to one day go back if there was ever time.
He shoved all those thoughts aside as Geherit approached the pink, flowing fountain. He watched in fascination while she raised pink glowing hands to the fountain that flashed brightly in return. For a while, she was silent when she delved inside of whatever the fountain was showing her. But it only lasted a few seconds. So great was her shock that she stumbled backward, and Pyresong had to steady her.
"No! That is the chamber of the Heart! The Husk of Creation!" Geherit cried, panicked.
"Geherit, we did not see it," he explained soothingly, trying to calm her. "What did you see?"
"She's taking the corrupted shard to the Husk of Creation," Geherit told them, trying to calm herself. "But it is not yet."
Pyresong sighed in relief. The Bride was not ahead of them. And the fact that she and her followers were headed in that direction really came as no surprise to him. He was still more concerned and surprised by Akinees' attempt to use Inarius' shrine...or possibly himself. At least now, he knew they could not get what they needed at Lilith's shrine. If they could have, they would have done so already. For that matter, they probably already had tried there. Very likely, he would have no end of cultists to get through to reach the other shrine.
"If she reaches it, the power of the Worldstone will belong to the Lord of Terror. We can still stop that from coming to pass. Your vision is not unexpected," he told her.
And it does not answer my suspicions, he added to himself, not able to shake the feeling he was somehow being used by the cultists in this case.
"We must bring the Pathstone to the gate and reinforce it. There is no other option," Zatham told him. "But it must be balanced first, or it will do us no good."
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Fine. I'll head for the second shrine."
"I will do my best to delay them from getting to the gate. Be swift on your journey," Zatham told him.
Pyresong watched while Zatham disappeared through another portal. This time, the portal Geherit opened for him was on the right of the platform, and it glowed with the vile energies of the demonic influences that clearly lay beyond. He didn't like it, but what choice did he have? If the cultists were using him, none of them could figure out how or why. Ultimately, they knew the Bride's goal was the Husk of Creation. He either wanted to find a way to destroy the Pathstone to stop her from getting it. Or get to the gate and use it right now to coordinate a defense plan before the cultists had time to even reach it. He just didn't know enough! And there was no time to learn more, either.
Something here was off. Worse, he was beginning to feel his simple task was somehow a bad idea. He could almost sense the Terror Cult's plans for the shard. Much as the connection disturbed him, he almost wanted to use that. He desperately wanted just a few minutes to stop and think it through. Maybe he could use that connection to the shard to figure it out. He felt like his mind was chasing itself in circles. He forced all those thoughts aside as he hefted his shield and scythe and stepped through the portal.
As he had expected, this one was black, laced with red when he stepped through. Again he found himself standing a few feet away from an arch and a six-foot-wide platform. When he stepped toward it, another black and red portal opened within, and he stepped through. When he emerged on the other side, nothing immediately attacked. It took him a moment to realize he was underground here. In the extreme miasma of evil, it held the feel of literal Hell on Sanctuary. He shuddered but put that thought aside as well. At least, for the moment, he did not sense the shard or any of the cultists in close proximity. Seeing no immediate threat, he hooked his scythe and retrieved the map scroll. The farthest northeastern edge that was his target was clearly labeled.
Caverns of Penance, he thought.
A heartbeat later, a wailing voice in the distance had him shoving the map back into his satchel and taking up his scythe.
"Murderers! Violators! You will not get away with this!"
Before him was a stone ramp angling downward. He ducked into the deeper shadows on the sides to avoid being seen. At the bottom of the ramp was a hulking twisted figure, one of the Afflicted making a desperate run right toward that ramp. Behind it were several more, only partially twisted figures. Afflicted Sanctifiers, as far as he could tell. They flung their power at the largest one ahead of them, and he flopped helplessly to the ground, still wailing in terror.
"Surrender! There is no other way!" one of the Sanctifiers cried.
The Afflicted hulk lay on the floor sobbing piteously. Pyresong had seen enough. There were only this handful. He quickly moved out of the shadows, his scythe leading the charge. As quietly as he could manage, he cut down the six Sanctifiers who did little to fight back in their surprise at the unexpected outsider in their midst. Still wary of others in nearby caverns, he backed a few steps until the sobbing hulk was in his peripheral vision.
"Are you all right? What did they do to you?"
Realizing he was not about to die, the thing struggled to its feet. It only resembled a man in the vaguest sense anymore. Even the face was barely human.
"Said-said they would care for the Afflicted. But they gave us to the Sanctifiers!" it wailed loudly.
Pyresong hooked his scythe and made a calming gesture with his free hand.
"They need to..." the thing started to wail again. "Please, let me back above! This can't continue!"
He nodded and motioned back the way he had come down the ramp. It started to hobble in that direction. Pyresong was still otherwise occupied expecting more Sanctifiers or other Lilin attracted by all the noise. A couple of seconds later, he spun around back to the Afflicted he had just rescued. When it started to wail again, this time, it was in fear and pain. He took several more steps back in surprise as familiar red energy flared around the thing. It felt like the Fire of Life he had seen before. Suddenly the Afflicted was writhing and twisting even more, becoming even less human. When it ended, the thing resembled some kind of giant, demonic pill bug.
At a loss for what to do or even think about the situation, he stared at it mutely for a few seconds. He was startled into dancing further away when it launched itself at him. Praying whatever was human in that thing was really and truly gone, he unleashed and energy blade with his scythe cutting it to pieces. Its soft tissues parted easily with the blade, but it still left him feeling sickened by what he'd witnessed.
The change seems irreversible. If what he said is true...it doesn't bode well for Tarzoine...or Rhyn, he thought darkly.
Moving back into the shadows along the sides of the corridor, he paused. He'd only glimpsed the map a few minutes ago. As near as he could tell, this place was a twisting mess of corridors and chambers. The one he sought was somewhere at the far end. Recalling the map for a heartbeat, he had no real idea underground here which way he was headed. But, something about the organic flow of the place not only resembled and felt like Hell, but it was also uncannily similar in one aspect: no matter what path he took, sooner or later, he would end up in the heart, where he knew the shrine would be. In some ways, the resemblance to the Pit of Anguish was almost too much for him.
Putting aside all his other swirling thoughts, he let himself fall back into his combat mindset, where nothing mattered but the threats around him and moving toward his goal. Even his seeping weariness was pushed back. Creeping through the shadows, he paused outside one larger, circular room. This whole place smelled of the sulfurous fumes of Hell, unsurprisingly. But he'd caught a whiff of something more akin to a charnel house not long ago. And now he knew where it was coming from. The relatively well-lit room ahead of him was littered with dozens of bodies, all in different stages of decay. He was shocked right out of his thoughtless state by what his eyes were now taking in. It wasn't just Afflicted Lilin, either. There were plenty of still visible white robes among the numerous dead just lying around.
So little reverence for the dead. Whoever did this is vile, indeed, he thought, offering up a prayer for the souls of all the dead here.
Knowing he had no choice but to cross through this room, he listened closely. In many of the corridors around him, there were voices and movement. In the immediate area, he detected nothing. Stalking silently around the darker edges, he aimed for the exit on the far side that should be leading him in the right direction. A little less than halfway across the room, he caught sight of a parchment clasped in the death grip of a dead Inari. This was not Afflicted, either. He had not been visibly changed at all. He had clearly been murdered, his throat slit wide open. Looking more closely at some of the fresher bodies, he could see this one was not alone. Others here were not visibly Afflicted but killed and thrown in with the others. Discarded like so much garbage.
Whatever this parchment was, it had been important enough for him to not even let go in death. Curiosity got the better of him. He listened again closely for anything nearby. Once he was certain there were no immediate threats, he carefully hooked his scythe and wiggled the badly wrinkled parchment out of the stiff hand.
The transformation overtakes the Afflicted seemingly at
random. Some are lucid for weeks and speak pleasantly
with their Conservators before they simply...change. In
the dark of night, at the first rays of day...anywhere in
between. In its unpredictability lies the greatest burden of
our escorts. And the Afflicted have not all lost their minds.
Most know we are to take them to the colony, a place of
safety...if not for whom it will be safe. When they begin to
realize it, their protests, their wails...I will never forget them.
I would set my charges loose, yet they have tried violence
more than once and might again. The Sanctifiers have
taken to striking the Afflicted dead at the first signs of
instability rather than letting them live out the rest of their
lives in peace. I cannot know if it is caution that guides them
so...or cruelty. But the Prevailing Wind, Ymuthrus, is firm.
This affliction must spread no further. There is nowhere else
for it to go. May Inarius protect and forgive us all.
—Conservator Toluthu, Shining Diamond
For a few seconds, Pyresong was numb with what he'd just read.
They were just...handing over the Afflicted to be slain. I doubt there's a "colony", he thought sadly, feeling more than a little sick.
Zatham had been right in so many ways, but the Darkness here ran far deeper than just Ymuthrus. He'd been right in his suspicions of the Conservators. He held the proof in his own hands. He shoved the missive into his satchel and took up his scythe again. Right now, this was not his problem. If they survived the cultists' attack, maybe it could be addressed. At the moment, he had to shake off his disgust and find a way forward.
Unlike the Shrine of Inarius, he could not feel this one as keenly. And he did not regret that at all. If anything, it comforted him. Through a few more chambers, he encountered nothing, not even Lilin. Briefly he wondered where they all were, but was overall just glad he did not have to fight his way through every cavern. Something about that was tickling his subconscious thoughts, not quite screaming a warning. Yet he was so hyper-focused on every threat at the moment that he didn't dare take the time to analyze it. Even with Geherit's protection, he was deep in what he felt was enemy territory.
A familiar voice in the next room had him freezing while he clung to a shadow.
"We are nearly there," a smooth voice said in soothing tones. "You can let your burdens go."
Peering around the corner, he watched as a captive Afflicted Inari was led to a wall of thick, black roots. The Inari Conservator, who had been speaking, raised his staff toward the wall. On either side, hellfire flames ignited on the roots as they pulled back to form an open doorway. The Afflicted followed peacefully when the Conservator led the way into whatever was beyond. The burning roots remained open for several seconds after they disappeared beyond. He didn't want to get too close to the pair ahead of them, but he sensed that barrier was his way forward, as well. As he heard the fires dying down and the roots starting to move, he knew he'd lost his opportunity. Still hiding in the shadows, he detected no watchers or guards. Very likely, those roots were enough of a barrier.
He turned his attention back to the map. His heart sank a bit as he realized his suspicions were correct. That barrier of roots was directly blocking his way to the shrine. There was no other path from here that would get him to that shrine. Shoving the scroll back in his side satchel, he crossed the room. Part of him wanted to try using the Pathstone to see what would happen. More out of curiosity than any sense of expectation, he aimed a stream of ordinary fire a the roots on either side. He nearly laughed to himself when they actually ignited with hellfire, and the roots began to pull back out of the way to reveal the exit again. So it was no special magic, just ordinary fire that triggered it.
In the gloom beyond was a much larger cavern. Here, he could see and sense several more presences milling about. From what little he could feel and see with his magic vision, they were all somehow demonically tainted. None of them seemed to be expecting anyone, and there was no particular activity. Here and there, he thought he spotted an Afflicted Lilin. Unlike the Afflicted Inari, they weren't being hunted down quite so aggressively, it would seem. If anything, he now suspected this place, this cavern, was the "colony". They would bring Afflicted Inari here, who would then see the Afflicted Lilin milling about casually; to further the lie of safety.
Wary of being spotted, he made his way around the edges of this larger cavern to his left. He was close now. The sickening feelings of raw energy from Hell practically oozed from this place. For a while, the darkness of these deeper shadows concealed him easily. But then he realized the corridor ahead held no concealment for him at all. It was brightly lit with red crystals and blackened twisted flesh that didn't just resemble something from Hell; it felt like a total crossover with Hell. This wasn't some pale reflection; this was somehow the real thing.
Did losing the Pathstone transform these halls? Or were they always like this?
For a few seconds, he had to wrestle with his memories of Hell and the fear they still instilled in him. He knew his mind could and typically did wander when he was tired like this. But he couldn't help questioning himself and his reaction to this place. He had to firmly remind himself he was not trapped in Hell right now. This was not the same. Trails of demonic and hellish energy flowed through every corridor, making his gut twist. Their familiarity and resonance itched something inside that writhed almost gleefully in response. Meanwhile his mind was dredging up so many memories he struggled to put back in their dark holes.
"Welcome home," his nightmare laughed from somewhere in the shadows of his soul.
Finally, he gave up. He had to just stop thinking. He put away all thoughts and fell back into the combat instincts that would guide him through this without the heart-racing fear. Since there were no shadows to hide himself in any way, he stalked right down the center of the filthy-feeling corridors. For a while, he encountered nothing. Inevitably, though, he crossed paths with a few very surprised Lilin and Afflicted. He didn't waste time on their unspoken questions, either. Letting his instincts guide him fully, he cut them all down as quietly as he could. Whatever else was going on in this horrid place, he knew every single Lilin or Afflicted he encountered was complicit in the murder of so many others. Otherwise, why would all these bodies have just been left here in the open tunnels? No, he had no problem killing every single one he encountered, if for no other reason than to keep them from raising the alarm. Thankfully, he crossed paths with no more than a couple dozen and never more than three at once.
Somewhere beyond this mindless forward movement, he began to feel the shrine growing closer rapidly. Something stirred inside of him at its feel. Something in him soaked its power. Beyond the heart-racing fear, he felt a sick writhing in his heart. Some deeper instinct knew it was somehow related to whatever the shards had done to him. Like everything else, he forced it to silence. When this was over, he could probe and analyze all these gnawing thoughts and sensations. Right now, he had one simple task.
At the end of one corridor, he found it. This opened up into a massive cavern glowing hellish red energy from everywhere that was so bright, it was almost painful even to his normal eyes. Lining the cavern walls in every direction were more of those red, pulsing crystals that he now suspected were some kind of direct link to the Hells and its power, like some sort of conduits. Across the platform lining the opposite side that ended in a sheer drop many, many feet below into more wickedly sharp glowing crystals stood several Lilin. And there were Inari Afflicted. The only Afflicted were Inari. What looked like some kind of demonic high priest stood on a raised platform in the center of the far side, right in front of another Pathstone pedestal. Flanking him along the edges to his right and left were Lilin holding captive Afflicted Inari right on the edge. Every one of those Inari Afflicted were bound and helpless.
Still refusing to let thoughts interfere, he struggled against the reflexive need to stop what he could already see coming. He crouched down in the shadows to the side of the exit. Whatever was going to happen was beyond his control now. The piteous, fearful cries of the Afflicted clawed his soul mercilessly, but he could not give in, not now.
His nightmare laughed at his struggles and chaotic, swirling conflict within him.
"Mother Lilith," the priest in front of the pedestal cried, "accept this gift of your children!"
Pyresong's muscles twitched and trembled as he held himself back from intervening. He knew he had a more important goal. But the screams of the dying Afflicted as the Lilin slaughtered them and then threw them over the ledge made a part of him want to scream. The rage was roiling right beneath the surface, screaming to be let out.
"Ymuthrus promised!" one of the Afflicted screamed. "You can't—"
The rest of the Afflicted's words were cut off with a scream of agony and then a blood-choked gurgle. Many of them were thrown over the ledge into those wicked sharp red crystals before they were even dead. They weren't even given that much mercy. Pyresong's breath was ragged as he wrestled with himself. He was ready to cut down every one of the gathered Lilin. No, he wanted to throw them over the ledge still alive and listen to their screams.
But his goal was that pedestal. He must finish balancing the Pathstone.
"Restore balance to our home!" the priest cried. "Protect your chosen from the curse! Let the strength of the land live on in those who care for it!"
Even just hearing the word "balance" coming from that vile priest was enough to make something inside him fracture. Balance? Pure, merciless slaughter of helpless, suffering people is going to restore some twisted form of balance? He was growling mentally, wordlessly now. Having wrestled his thoughts aside, now he was just cold with rage. But there were still far too many of them. He almost didn't care. He was already unconsciously sending power into his scythe and choosing his first targets. With a mental snarl of pure rage, he was ready to kill them all. A movement literally less than two feet to his left from the corridor made him freeze again.
"I brought you one of the Afflicted!" Rhyn's voice screamed. "Please, shield me from the sickness!"
Impossibly, Pyresong was even colder now...with fear. Rhyn was dragging a struggling Tarzoine toward the priest. He just felt sick now. He watched while the terrified boy threw his sobbing, pleading mother on the ground in front of the priest. As if angry at being interrupted, the priest swung around and grabbed the boy by the collar and flung him over the edge into the crystals below without a word.
"No! Rhyn!" Tarzoine screamed.
Risk be damned. Something inside him shattered at the sound of her heartbroken screams. He wasn't about to let Tarzoine follow her son. There were still too many heavily armed Lilin and the priest to deal with. He could not have cared less. He just couldn't watch this anymore. He'd seen the demonic influence and what the Afflicted could become. He knew they would eventually succumb, but Tarzoine and very likely so many others hadn't turned yet. And they were dying by the hundreds here. Ymuthrus was behind it, yes, but it still took the overwhelming callousness and evil of so many to make this happen. The Balance here wasn't even teetering; it was completely broken, much as he was feeling right now.
In his dance around the room, cutting and slashing at anything that moved besides Tarzoine, he was only vaguely aware of his body taking injuries. He summoned a couple of blood golems to further the chaos; and steal life from the enemy to give to him. But these were no mindless beasts he fought. They were the monsters in human skin. They knew their real target was the necromancer. Each injury he dimly felt only further fueled his cold rage. In his mind, all he could hear were the helpless screams of the Inari Afflicted being slaughtered. In those few minutes he was cutting down the Lilin, he lost track of the priest. But not for long.
"Outsider! You are a blight upon Creation, and I will cleanse you!"
When he turned, the priest was sprouting multiple giant, demonic legs like some kind of giant spider and gaining in size exponentially.
Pyresong's laugh didn't just sound unhinged; it felt unhinged, and he didn't care in the slightest. Now he was trapped in Hell with a demon...again. He couldn't even see Tarzoine somewhere behind the thing, nor did it matter to him in this moment. His entire existence narrowed to this one fight, this one target. He would destroy the demon in front of him. His entire body tingled, and he glowed so brightly it pushed back the looming darkness throughout the entire cavern. The familiar burning sensation of too many restless spirits flowing into him made him laugh all the more. When the power turned to searing pain inside of him, he finally stopped laughing.
With a roar of all the pent-up disgust, rage, and fear he now felt writhing around inside of him, he unleashed the barrage of bone spirits in a flash of light so bright it burned even his eyes. The demon flinched at the light but couldn't hope to block such an overwhelming barrage. Its agonized screams filled the cavern as it was blasted to pieces falling off the ledge, still screaming. Its screams of agony echoing back at him through the enormous cavern were the sound of justice to Pyresong's ears. He cut off the flow of power and spirits reflexively before it was too late for himself.
Feeling numb and empty, he fell to the floor. Until his feet touched the ground he hadn't even realized he was so filled with power he had levitated right off the ground. He landed hard on his right side, gasping for air. His body still tingled painfully, and his twitching limbs were too weak to move. Somehow he managed to roll onto his back, staring up at the wicked crystals of the ceiling. He wished they were stars. He wanted to see the night sky, clouds, even... For a few seconds all he could do was fight back the darkness threatening to engulf him. He was so numb and shocked he wasn't even sure why it was important to stay awake.
The sound of sobbing a few feet away finally dragged him back to reality.
Tarzoine...he thought weakly.
He struggled to roll to his belly and push himself up with trembling arms and legs. He finally began to remember he wasn't actually in Hell; it just felt like it. He wasn't trapped. And he still had something very important to do here. But, first, Tarzoine's heartbroken sobs were pulling at something inside of him he couldn't ignore. He couldn't find the strength or stability to stand, so he didn't even try. His instinctive compassion took over completely in his mindless, exhausted state. He crawled across the platform to where she sat up, facing the ledge. For one terrified heartbeat, he thought she would try to join her son. Unsteadily, he gripped her shoulder.
"Rhyn...why..." she cried, looking out beyond the platform at the carnage; perhaps she could even see him somewhere down there.
"I had no idea," Pyresong said sadly, gently pulling her back away from the ledge. "I am so sorry."
She let him pull her back, leaning into him for a moment. He would have sighed with relief had he not been so completely exhausted. He wrapped his trembling arms around her quaking body, offering what pathetic comfort he could.
"When I got sick...it must have terrified him. I should never have left."
"You were trying to keep people safe. You can't blame yourself for something like this," he told her soothingly, his own heart aching for her mercilessly.
Tarzoine shook her head. "Every mistake a child makes belongs to their parents, first." She tilted her head to look him in the eyes. "You can't know."
He sighed heavily. No, he couldn't know; he couldn't understand. And, right now, he didn't want to. It all hurt too much and made him feel too sick to want to even think about it. He finally found the presence of mind to reach for a healing potion. Now that she was safely back away from the ledge, he could see she had a multitude of minor injuries. He could only imagine what Rhyn had done to her in his madness. He gave her one of his stronger healing potions, which she readily accepted.
For that matter, aside from this pounding headache, he was covered in wounds himself from the frantic, rage-fueled fight. Blood flowed from countless stab wounds and deep gashes. He downed the most potent potion he had, letting the warmth heal what it could. He was still exhausted physically, and his energies were badly depleted, but there was nothing for it. Every second he wasted resting was another second the Bride and the shard were moving closer to the Husk of Creation. When she handed back the empty bottle, he put them both back on his belt for now.
"Let me take you out of here," he told her softly. "There's refuge nearby. I promise. Just...give me a moment."
Feeling a bit recovered and definitely more stable mentally, he pushed himself to his feet and walked the short distance to the pedestal. Taking the Pathstone out of his satchel, he probed it gently. It was filled with the power of pure Light, and he needed that balm now. He'd very nearly lost himself in this place in more ways than one. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he'd done the right thing saving Tarzoine and killing that demon, but he couldn't help chastising himself for what that compassion nearly cost them. Before he put the Pathstone into the pedestal to be balanced by Darkness, he pulled on that Light and let it fill him. Much as he would a phylactery, he took that power into himself. He had only the vaguest idea of how much power it could hold, and it was immense. It could afford what little he took from it now to soothe aching heart and soul and replenish some of his own reserves.
Tarzoine had watched the whole thing in silence. Satisfied and feeling much recovered afterward, he slotted the Pathstone into the pedestal. A massive statue of Lilith rose up out of the floor beyond the platform. Pyresong couldn't even find the will to be disgusted anymore as the bodies fell off of it into the crystals below. Something inside of him shifted subtly again at the feel of such raw, hellish power. Unlike before, with the shrine of Inarius, he reinforced his shields to block out as much as he could of this vile energy. The Pathstone absorbed rivers of it from the shrine. He understood the Balance and the need for balance, but right now, this awful place had stirred things within himself that he just didn't have time to understand. And he wasn't sure he ever wanted to. A part of him already knew. Thankfully, the Pathstone got what it needed, and it was over quickly.
It is done, he thought wearily, putting the Pathstone back in his satchel.
"You restored it!" Tarzoine said in shock, scrambling to her feet.
"Outsiders don't only bring destruction," he told her gently with a tired grin. "I may not understand everything going on here. But, as a Priest of Rathma, I work to maintain the Balance, not one side or the other's ideals."
"I'm past faith in anyone's words," she told him coldly. "But if you will fight for us, you have my support."
"I will," he promised. "Let's leave here. Geherit has a hideaway. Are you ready?"
"An Elder is with you? Do you trust her?"
"She saved my life and Zatham's. She intervened with Ymuthrus. She's been helping us to balance the Pathstone," he explained. "If we can't trust her, then there is no one we can trust at this point. We can't do this alone."
Tarzoine didn't seem as convinced but nodded as he pulled the map scroll out of the satchel. He stepped through the brightly glowing pink portal, more relieved to leave this place than he even wanted to admit. But what he found on the other side jolted him with adrenaline again.
The spring was destroyed! The bookcases were all smashed to pieces. Parchments and shredded books lay all over the platform. Even the magical pink glow that had pulsed through all of the twining roots was gone. The place was in utter ruins.
What happened here? he thought numbly.
He caught sight of white and gold robes beneath a toppled bookcase to his right. Before he could move in that direction, Tarzoine darted forward past him right at Geherit's inert form. Reflexively he hooked his scythe and lifted the bookcase. There was blood on the white robes but nothing that looked fatal at a glance. Tarzoine went to her knees while he shoved the empty and thankfully relatively light bookcase aside. Then he stood protectively over them, expecting an attack that never came.
"She still breathes. They didn't kill her."
He handed her the last healing potion currently on his belt and quickly dropped his shield to get to his backpack. In seconds, he replaced the empty bottles and shouldered it back in place. Tarzoine carefully began pouring the potent potion into Geherit's unresisting lips, a tiny bit at a time.
"How could they have found this place?" he asked, more to himself than Tarzoine.
"She is a wielder of Life's Fire. Perhaps they sensed her power," Tarzoine speculated.
"But what could they be seeking here?" he asked her, his gut twisting with suspicions that it was him or the Pathstone...or both.
"There must be some clue hidden in this mess," Tarzoine told him.
Pyresong laughed incredulously, looking around at the thousands of books and parchments. Many were burned, and most were damaged and running with water. And he probably couldn't even read a single one of them anyway. Some of these looked beyond ancient. Aside from all that, they didn't have all night to sit here trying to figure it out. If the potion didn't bring Geherit around soon, they would have to just move on. Already, he was considering ways to get them out of here while Tarzoine was still working on feeding Geherit the potion. His mind was chasing itself in circles again. And it kept coming back to Ymuthrus. He was the one person that very likely not only knew of this place, but had come to know their plans. Worse, he could easily see the old man doing this to one of his own.
"Ymuthrus was behind the murders of the Afflicted," he told Tarzoine. "Do you think he did this?"
"He used Morwith's theft as an excuse to butcher my people. Why should he deal any differently with his own? When Zatham spoke out against the murders, Ymuthrus sentenced him to the Rite of Purity's Penance. It did not kill him but burned his eyes from his face. Ymuthrus then allowed him exile...generous by his standards," she finished coldly.
"Have you seen any sign of Zatham?" he asked, his mind thinking the worst already. "He was harrying the cultists while I was working with the Pathstone."
Tarzoine shook her head to his question, still focused on Geherit.
Somewhere deep in the darkest, most suspicious parts of his soul, he realized he had not seen a single cultist in the one place on this whole island he would have expected to find them. A chill of fear danced its way up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as it dawned on him consciously. They had been nowhere in or near Commingling Pit, where they would have not only had a virtually uncounted number of avid supporters but they would have had access to one of the greatest sources of power this place possessed. Lilith's Shrine. It was the only place other than the Husk of Creation where they might have found the power they needed to purify the shard. And they hadn't even been there.
Why? he asked himself.
His nightmare laughed back at him. Somehow he sensed he already knew the answer but couldn't bring himself to see it clearly. A sick feeling crawled into his gut. Part of him fervently hoped it was Zatham's distraction that had kept them away from the Commingling Pit. Another part of him knew it was something else altogether. Very likely, if this place had been so thoroughly destroyed, his friend was already dead. The only explanation that made sense other than Ymuthrus was that they had followed Zatham here somehow. Despite the blood all over this place, at least there was no body. Maybe Zatham had escaped, thinking Geherit was dead.
"Then why are there no other bodies?" his nightmare asked smugly.
It was right. There were no other bodies. No Lilin. No Inari. No cultists. Something else had taken place here. This was a targeted attack. Geherit had likely been taken completely off guard. And if Zatham had been here, there would have been several other bodies, even if his wasn't among them. They must have come here looking for the Pathstone. Somehow it was key to their plans.
Tarzoine shook her head, handing the now empty potion bottle back. He waved it off. He had to find Zatham. He just prayed the man was still alive. But, first, he had to get Tarzoine and Geherit out of here. He was about to summon a bone golem to help with Geherit when the whole room began quaking threateningly. The platform rocked so violently that he was thrown right off his feet. A chunk of stone from somewhere high above slammed into his back plates. Ignoring the pain and shock, he rolled the short distance over to Tarzoine and Geherit and covered them with his shield. He ducked his head under the cover as well, but there wasn't enough room for more than that. The shaking went on for several seconds as smaller chunks continued to rain down around them. A flicker of fear made him wonder if the platform or even the entire cavern was about to collapse. When it finally stopped, he felt the throbbing pain of multiple deep bruises all over his body. He took a shaky breath as Tarzoine did the same. Shifting slightly, he was relieved to feel no broken bones.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, already reaching for another healing potion.
"No worse than before. That shock cannot have been far off. They lay siege to the Husk," she told him shakily.
He downed another weaker healing potion and ignored the warmth as it began working on the bruises. He struggled to his feet. There was no time for more.
"You must take the Pathstone and go!" she told him.
"Will you be all right here? What if they come back?"
"If you fail, it won't matter where we are," she snapped. "Go!"
He dropped another healing potion for her and ran toward the stairs. The door was already left open. He let his power flow into his scythe to light the way as he ran. He didn't even need a map. The feeling of the shard so very near assaulted him with cold dread. Mocking laughter echoed inside him from his nightmare. In only a few seconds, he realized his sense of the shard was leading him right back to that gathering place open to the sky where he'd found Ymuthrus and that strange crystalline structure. From the visions Tarzoine had shared, he knew that thing wasn't the Husk. But it must be somewhere beyond that open area.
He made his way through the corridors and rooms completely unchallenged. Ahead, he could hear the sounds of ongoing battle. Beyond the entrance to that open area, he could see the dozens of cultists battling the Inari in the dusky light of pre-dawn. He paused in the shadows long enough to take in the scene of carnage. The area was filled with cultists cutting down the last of the Inari defenders. At least there was no rift, pouring in more reinforcements. Apparently, they had been unable to bring more.
Those thoughts fled when he caught sight of what was happening on the far side of the area. Akinees was on the far side where three remaining Conservators were holding a shield in place with their staves. Empowered by the shard as he was, Akinees cut the three Conservators down easily. Now all that stood between him and the Husk of Creation was a set of doors sealed with a magical barrier.
"Sever the barrier!" Akinees ordered several cultists.
They're not through yet! he thought in relief.
Then there was no more time for thought when he fell into combat reflexes. He already had a couple of bone golems summoned and tearing through the cultists when he left the shadows. Ignoring the magical attacks, he focused on the blades closing in on him. Most of their weaker magic was just being absorbed by his shield and armor anyway. He could afford to ignore it while he and his golems cut them down by the dozen. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a bright white flash near Akinees across the space. He only had a heartbeat to look as Ymuthrus and three more Conservators materialized behind Akinees. He was deep into the fight and could only listen to what took place next.
Though the four of them tried to bind Akinees, the Terror Cult priest laughed mockingly at their attempts. Meanwhile, the others were still battering away at the barrier.
"You would suppress Terror with this?" Akinees laughed.
He felt the explosion of power across the way while he cut down more cultists. With the power of the massive shard flowing through Akinees, he knew Ymuthrus and the others didn't stand a chance. But with his own frantic battles dancing through the numerous cultists, he didn't have any time to help. A score...two scores...Pyresong could even keep count as he cut them down. As long as the barrier still held, they could not get through to the Husk of Creation. He prayed that this assault did not somehow mean they had found another way through without the Pathstone he carried. If he could just find a moment, he knew he could use the Pathstone to reinforce that barrier against them.
Finally, he made his way toward Akinees and the fallen Ymuthrus. A flash of memory from Stormpoint shoved all thoughts of reinforcing the barrier out of his mind. He had seen thousands of bodies on that island. Now his mind saw only Esmund's. And Fern's heartbroken tears echoed in his heart. Consumed with rage all over again at the sight of Akinees so close, he had one target, one motive.
Nothing else mattered.
He'd conserved as much energy as he could, but he would not waste this opportunity to get at the bastard Akinees. He didn't even waste energy on his golems or blades of energy this time. Akinees was all his. He let his rage take over completely. He flung a paralyzing curse at the cultist priest with one hand and unleashed a volley of bone spirits with the other. It didn't take much effort, either. The evil priest had been completely unprepared for the vicious dual assault. Pyresong wasn't letting him get away this time. Even the bit of power Akinees had taken from the shard could not stand up to his rage this time.
The combination first stunned and then destroyed the vile priest. The man's horrified and agonized screams rang in Pyresong's ears, finally drowning out Fern's sobs. Dark satisfaction coursed through him while he watched Akinees die. His rage wished he had time for so much more than this quick ending. Maybe someday he could... He just barely resisted the urge to grip the man's blackened soul and do much worse before it could escape.
With a final snarl, he tugged his attention back to the present. He had more important things to worry about right now than torturing Akinees. His nightmare laughed gleefully at the ideas that raced through his head. Shoving it aside, he flung a long thin blade of energy at the other cultists battering away at the barrier, cutting them all down.
For Esmund and Fern. For Stormpoint, he thought, finally feeling some sense of justice.
There was no time to relish it. Behind him, Ymuthrus had regained his feet. He resisted the urge to cut him down, too. He swung around, still feeling the cold rage of all he'd learned and seen here. Already his arm was twitching to keep his scythe blade at his side and not bury it in Ymuthrus' chest.
"I tried to help your children, Father. With everything I had..."
He struggled to shove the murderous rage back down and took a deep breath. Ymuthrus would pay, but not right now. Right now, he needed the vile man.
"You can still help. Reinforce the gate. Diablo will destroy your home and mine," he growled.
The man's bearded face twisted in anger. "You step foot on our land for the first time, and you believe you know how to care for it? Arrogance!"
"I know what you've done, murderer," he hissed icily. "And so do your people. You have a chance to actually keep them safe!"
"I have kept them safe!" Ymuthrus roared back. "Without the Pathstone, there is nothing I can accomplish here. The Lilin—"
Still wrestling against the urge to give in to his rage and its demanding sense of justice, he just managed not to cut down the old man. Instead, he hooked his scythe and pulled the Pathstone out of his satchel. Ymuthrus sputtered for a moment in absolute shock. Then his face twisted in rage beyond the earlier anger; into something akin to madness.
"You have soiled it! But, if I destroy it, perhaps—"
Whatever else he was about to say was cut off when Zatham stepped through a portal, blade first. He ran it right through Ymuthrus' chest, surprising him just as he had Morwith. Stunned at first, then elated his friend had survived, Pyresong watched as Zatham first kicked the old man's body off his stuck blade and then raised his left hand. The Pathstone flew right out of his grip to Zatham. Relieved as he was about Zatham still being alive, his heart still skipped fearfully at the rage that lingered in his friend's expression.
"I have never killed anyone more deserving," Zatham told him darkly.
"Zatham, I thought—" he started with relief.
"Fire of Life, heed your child this once! Open the way!" Zatham called loudly, ignoring his friend's elated relief.
He watched, frozen in speechless shock, while Zatham turned the power of the Pathstone on the magically sealed doors behind him. Numb and mentally sputtering with disbelief, he saw the Bride and the shard appear before the now-open entrance to the Husk of Creation. His mind literally couldn't comprehend what he was seeing right now.
"None are to follow me," she ordered Zatham.
"Keep your promise, witch. Wipe this place clean," Zatham told her.
No... Zatham... How... What... he finally managed to form an almost coherent thought
His nightmare laughed louder than ever. Pyresong didn't even realize he was holding his breath until he gasped, trying to recover some sense of sanity. This couldn't be happening! Zatham turned back to face him, his expression sad.
"I had hoped we could do this together, my friend," Zatham said. "But you would not accept the need."
His heart stuttered and fell through the floor. The sense of betrayal was incomprehensible to him right now. So many conversations they had shared recently now replayed in his mind. It wasn't the world Zatham wanted to cleanse; it was his home.
"You've been working with the cult," he whispered in disbelief.
Now he saw all the little pieces he couldn't put together earlier falling neatly into place. His nightmare laughed on, loving every second of it. His gut twisted painfully in horror at understanding.
"Outsiders bring destruction. I went searching for them, great of strength and greater of will. I found you...and her. And her will is stronger."
"Zatham... Please, it's not too late to stop this," Pyresong begged, refusing to believe his friend was actually doing this to him, to everyone.
"Let the Bride finish her ritual. We can eliminate all the fanatics once she is done."
"We can still stop this, Zatham. Don't do this!" he pleaded, too hurt and sick inside to even be angry.
"If I had not tipped the scales to help her so many times, you would have already killed her," his friend admitted, clearly with some regret.
"Listen to yourself! What you're doing isn't justice. Geherit, Tarzoine, there are good people here. I know you understand that."
"I am doing exactly as you do, punishing the wicked. And the wicked far outnumber the good."
"Remember the stars, Zatham? The Balance? Yes, the darkness is always greater in number, but the few bright, good souls make all the difference. There cannot be one without the other. Please, think!" he struggled, knowing there had to be something in his friend he could appeal to. This couldn't be happening!
Zatham shook his head sadly. "The Cradle must be destroyed. All the rot burned away at once. It is beyond redemption. I know this in my blood!"
"Nothing is beyond redemption...even you," he insisted sadly, finally gaining an understanding and seeing the suffering that was really going on inside of his friend.
Zatham frowned and turned his sad gaze upon the Pathstone still in his hand. Whatever he was thinking, the Pathstone retaliated. There was a bright magenta flash, and Zatham screamed as he dropped it. Pyresong watched, heartbroken, while Zatham was burned by it...warping into a full demon with bony wings. Zatham's scream of agony as he went to his knees made him feel sick. When it stopped, Pyresong could only stare sadly.
"I have been judged," Zatham said flatly.
"Even now, it's not too late, Zatham," Pyresong tried one last time, something inside of him shattering. "Please... Help me stop this!"
"If you would defend this wretched place, defend it with your life!"
He was ready when the demonic Zatham launched itself at him. He was still numb with shock and sick with grief, but his combat instincts protected him anyway. He dodged Zatham's sword and buried his scythe in the demon's back just below the bony wings.
"Let it all end," Zatham growled through the pain. "Give me a just death."
He couldn't stand it anymore; something inside of him was crumbling. He yanked the scythe with a spin and then followed through that motion with a slice right through Zatham's neck. Zatham screamed with the pain initially but did absolutely nothing to stop his friend. His head rolled away, and then the whole body collapsed. Pyresong hurt more than he could even comprehend right now. Something inside of him was dying, and his nightmare laughed still.
Death will not cleanse you now. Nothing can, he thought sadly, tears burning his eyes.
There was no more time. This had taken far too long already. With a snarl at his nightmare to shut up, he channeled the hurt into rage again. He snatched up the Pathstone and shoved it in his satchel as he ran right through the open door toward the Husk of Creation. On a platform in the distance, he could clearly see the outline of the Bride as she stood before the now brightly glowing Husk of Creation. Knowing he still had no chance of sneaking up on her, he ran full tilt across the bridges. Far ahead of him but only a few feet behind the Bride, Geherit teleported into place.
"You will sully our home no more!" Geherit screamed, aiming her power at the Bride.
Unfortunately, the warning was more than enough. Empowered by the shard, the Bride easily dodged the attack, laughing.
"Won't I?" the Bride mocked.
She flung her staff at Geherit producing a violent red blast of energy backed by the shard slammed into Geherit. Pyresong, still running toward them, watched helplessly while Geherit was flung backward, flying several feet through the air to land painfully in a heap on the platform below those stairs. He skidded to a halt beside her with no small amount of relief that she still lived. He paused just long enough to drop her another healing potion as she struggled to her feet. Meanwhile, the Bride was already working frantically above them.
"Restore the stone to purity! Expunge the forces within!" the Bride cried, triggering an explosion of power on the platform above.
"I couldn't stop her..." Geherit said behind him.
Still trying to get to the Bride, he was pushed back right off the stairs by the force of the powerful barrier she had risen around the thing. Helpless, he watched while the massive Worldstone shard was slammed into the much larger Husk of Creation and shattered it. Desperate, he hooked his scythe and reached for the Pathstone in his satchel. He focused on getting through her barrier but already knew it was too late. The corrupted red Worldstone shard hovered above the shattered pieces of the Husk. The fragments of the Husk formed a hovering circle with a now swirling black portal. The Bride screamed triumphantly as she turned to face him. He'd already dropped the Pathstone into his satchel and recovered his scythe while she laughed at him mockingly.
"You struggle in vain," she said, now protected by a black and red shield from the shard.
He ignored the barrier and threw his most powerful blade of energy. It evaporated while she laughed again.
"You're a pawn with no moves left!"
He swung again and again, even scraping her shield with the physical blade in frustration, trying to get at her. He had no plan here, not even a hope. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill her in any way he could. He couldn't begin to guess what the portal was for. But he was going to keep her busy and away from the portal for as long as he could.
"The Lord of Terror will receive His due!"
When she moved to the other side, he threw bone spears and even summoned a golem.
"It's begun! His will is absolute! Kneel and weep!"
Raging blindly now, Pyresong reached out to the numerous restless spirits. She disappeared before he could even use them and did not reappear to taunt him further again. He'd been completely unable to even weaken her shields. And whatever was going on between the shard and the portal had already been set in motion. The cold rage turned into icy certainty that slowed his thoughts and his heart. He moved toward the portal. Behind him, he felt Geherit approaching.
"The Fire of Life is changing the shard. But...what is this power, expanding it from within?" Geherit asked in horror, staring at the shard.
"I can't hurt her," he told her calmly in an icy voice. "No other choice."
Geherit's wide terrified eyes met his. "You don't mean to..."
"I don't want to," he admitted, "but I'm going to. I—"
"Destruction rises!" a deep, smooth voice called from beyond the portal.
"What was that voice?" Geherit asked in near panic.
In his icy calm of certain death, Pyresong shook his head. He had no idea, and it didn't matter. Something in that deep, powerful voice resonated inside him. But, in this moment, there was no more room for thought, or emotion, or Geherit, or anything else. He violently shook off her terrified grip. He threw himself at the portal, feeling the Darkness sucking him in willingly. The vile, hellish corruption from the shard tied to it assaulted him. It twisted and writhed around his heart and soul. His nightmare laughed and reached back toward that Darkness. When he was at last able to see through the darkness, he knew why. And it mattered as little as his own nonexistent emotions did now.
He was somehow inside the shard.
Before him were many random, floating platforms, staircases, and corridors that resembled places and rooms, he'd seen in Sescheron. Their carved stone pillars were covered in Barbarian tribe sigils and symbols vaguely familiar to his cold and empty mind. It might as well have been Hell. He felt nothing beyond his urgency to move forward and meet whatever threat awaited him. He had to find a way to stop whatever was going to happen. Nothing else mattered. Everything was blanketed in a sort of red and black haze he'd come to associate with the shards subconsciously. It mattered just as little to him. He was here, and he would likely die here. But that didn't matter either.
"A...mortal?" the deep, smooth voice rang out again, resonating inside of the necromancer with something well below conscious thought or feeling. "How have you come to be here?"
Seeing only one direction he could actually maneuver in this fragmented landscape, he ran forward. Two sets of some bizarre tentacles erupted from the stone brick floor. Already he sent his skeletons after them. Their putrid smell was also familiar to him, though he could not recall where from while existing in this frigid state of consciousness. All he needed to know was that it was a threat; he would destroy it. He moved quickly past them along the twisting path, sometimes jumping from broken section to section. The yawning voids all around him made it treacherous.
"No matter how you got here," the voice told him when he didn't reply. "We are trapped in this prism of Creation."
More tentacles. More path. More tentacles. More path. It seemed to go on forever. Yet he knew he was making his way toward something deeper inside. He could somehow feel it. Something was pulling on his sense of urgency until it would have been panic if he could feel anything anymore. He was already badly depleted by his earlier battles with the demon and then the cultists. Though the Pathstone had done some to restore him and his energies, he knew he was using up valuable resources. He sent his skeletons ahead of him. He would waste no more on these distractions.
"I am the Archangel Tyrael. And the Lord of Destruction is winning our struggle."
At that, Pyresong did pause. For one, stuttering heartbeat, he was all too human again. He'd not only gone through a portal into a corrupted shard of the Worldstone, but it had served as a prison for the Lord of Destruction...and the angel that had been the engineer of the Prime Evil's downfall. He was in way over his head. Much as when he'd learned what the Ancients' Cradle housed, he was completely overwhelmed. It only lasted a heartbeat. After that heartbeat, he was again wrapped in the cold, unfeeling combat necromancer who knew he was about to die. All he could do was keep moving forward and make it a good death.
When he rounded a corner, he was nearly blindsided by a formation of ghostly demonic skulls aimed right at him. He ducked back behind the corner and let them pass by.
"This is your army?" Baal's terrifyingly familiar voice rang through the shard, much as had Tyrael's.
His insane laughter would have terrified Pyresong had there been any room for feeling. This was no vision or memory. This was entirely real. But he already knew the Prime Evil was here. Now the Baal knew he was here. Did it even matter? He continued toward what he thought was the heart of the shard in this insane little world, letting his skeletons deal with the clusters of tentacles.
"His power grows by the moment," Tyrael warned him. "I know not how. A force is feeding him from beyond."
At the top of a flight of broken stairs waited a virtual forest of tentacles. He couldn't wait. He pulled from another source of power and burned them all. While they were writhing in agony, he ran right through them.
"Mortal, if you have any strength, aid me however you can. We must keep him imprisoned."
Pyresong's laugh was not unlike Baal's for a moment, completely insane. It was insane of him to have come here. It was insane that such a powerful entity as an angel would ask him—a mortal—for help. It was insane to think he could stand up to a Prime Evil. It was insane to hope they had any chance of succeeding. But he still held it. Hope was all he had now in this place, and he would not let it go.
"He renews himself!" Tyrael cried as Pyresong rounded a corner, bringing the ongoing battle between the two entities into view. "Hurry! There is no time!"
"Time is for the living..." a vague, chilling memory of something dark and familiar skittered through his mind.
Again he laughed. His nightmare laughed with him.
The red, crystalline wall blocking his path shattered at another blade of raw energy from his scythe. As he had expected, just beyond, he could now see the massive, towering form of Baal. He never stopped moving forward. Dimly he was aware that the Prime Evil's head, arms, and torso were solid. Everything else was a vague, ghostly shape, much as Diablo had been when he was freed from Skarn's imprisonment. A flash of Verathiel's final scream echoed through his soul, silencing his dark and insane laughter.
It will not happen again, he vowed.
Whatever came next, Tyrael would not fall.
Tyrael's wings were binding Baal's arms, restricting his movements. Pyresong raced down the broken pieces of floating paths, trying to find a way to get to Tyrael below. He had absolutely no idea what he could even do here, if anything. And it didn't matter. He would do whatever he could to help the angel. He paused long enough to fling a long blade of energy across the expanse. It did absolutely nothing.
"The power of creation!" Baal shrieked happily. "It has been far too long!"
With a motion that he saw only out of the corner of his eye while he ran, Baal flung off the bindings of Light Tyrael had been using. Pyresong skidded to a halt briefly when he encountered a shattered section of stones. Baal, now becoming more solid by the second, laughed maniacally again when he caught sight of the necromancer. Knowing he didn't stand a chance, Pyresong turned to meet the attack with a snarl.
"No!" Tyrael commanded, flying between him and Baal to deflect the attack.
Not again! Pyresong raged.
He ran blindly, this time, to jump off the shattered path down onto another one.
"Destruction is not caged!" Baal screamed as he again threw off Tyrael's attempts to hold him.
Ahead to his left now, he watched helplessly when Tyrael was flung into a random section of floating wall so hard it shattered. Now Baal's attention was on him again. He ran, jumped, and even sometimes fell painfully several feet. Always the pain was a faint and distant thing as he regained his feet in a heartbeat and ran again.
"Flee, mortal!" Tyrael roared. "He is shattering the very walls of this realm!"
"Yes. Run to 'safety'," the Prime Evil mocked.
In his icy rage, he could still hear the echoes of Verathiel's screams. He clung to them. It didn't matter what happened to him. It would never happen again. He would find a way to free the angel. Instinctively, below the level of consciousness, a part of him prayed. He didn't even realize he was praying to anything that would listen that he could at least make up for the loss of Verathiel by saving Tyrael. At that moment, nothing else mattered, not even the world beyond this shard.
Baal's arms and tentacles chased him. More than once, they caught him with a glancing blow that sent him flying to land somewhere. With his reinforced shields, it didn't even slow him down. He felt the bottles of his healing potions shatter after one fall. Much as he likely needed one now, he already knew he would not have time. His only vague and incoherent thought was to do whatever he could to aid Tyrael. There was yet another glancing blow that felt like it would have shattered his spine were it not for the articulating plates of his chest armor absorbing much of the impact. He landed on his shield arm, rolling with the impact back to his feet. Just a few feet ahead of him now was Tyrael, wrapped in a mass of putrid tentacles. The angel writhed and thrashed violently, trying to escape.
Somewhere beyond the icy calm, a part of Pyresong embraced the rage. It was white hot as he pulled from it to pour power into his scythe. In a very few heartbeats, he freed Tyrael, who fell wearily to the ground in front of him.
"His tendrils spread throughout his cage. It will not last much longer."
"I hadn't noticed," Pyresong smirked dryly.
"I will try to keep the walls together. You must cleave through his limbs."
He raised his glowing scythe, still smirking. Had he even been remotely sane at this moment, he would have been terrified. But he was already here; sanity was something other people experienced. Right now, he was under no illusions he would survive this. And, if he could somehow find a way to free Tyrael from this prison, it didn't matter. Of all the angels, Sanctuary needed this one the most. He would not fail. He sensed Tyrael's disbelief at his calm readiness.
"If he breaks free, if he is reborn, it will spell doom for your world," Tyrael told him.
"Probably a good idea not to let that happen, then."
He sensed Tyrael's shock and incomprehension of the necromancer standing before him. Something in his icy calm had completely thrown the angel off. But there was no more time for the angel to consider. The whole place rocked violently again as Baal attempted to shatter the cage. Tyrael threw the tendrils of Light that were his wings out and up in every direction. He gripped various pieces of stone and red crystal all around them, struggling to hold them together. Pyresong didn't waste any time watching. He turned his back on the angel and left him to his task. The pure Light radiating off the angel was soothing but did nothing to banish the chill grip of death he was feeling or the alternating icy and white-hot rage he now embraced. He let the angel's radiating Light and strength wash over him but wished he could send whatever meager strength he still possessed into the angel. He knew it would never be enough.
"I...have to...hold," Tyrael said under immense strain behind him.
He had already summoned half a dozen skeletal warriors. He was ready when Baal's thick tentacles stinking of putrid flesh, came out of the mists around them. He dodged and danced, cutting and slashing in every direction but behind him, letting his weak little skeletons do what they could before they were crushed. Some of the tentacles even managed to wrap around his legs, slashing like teeth anywhere his flesh wasn't covered with armor plating. Already bleeding from too many places to count, these new wounds were filed away for later. Exhaustion was tugging at him while he threw blades of energy around. His head pounded painfully in time with his now racing heart. His earlier battles had already weakened him, and now he was reaching his limits. His breath was ragged, and his vision narrowed to just identifying one threat after another, nearly cutting his own leg off at one point to free himself from the tentacles.
"It's crumbling!" Tyrael warned behind him.
It didn't matter. All that mattered was protecting the angel. When there were enough corpses on the floor, he sent a wave of energy out that blasted in every direction around him except behind. Large as the explosion had been, it was just barely enough. The blast wave took out all the remaining tentacles and severed one massive one that had come directly from Baal. Struggling to even remain on his feet, he stumbled on shaking legs, his chest heaving.
"Futility!" Baal raged from somewhere above them. "The more you cling to, the more I can destroy! Here is your justice, Tyrael!"
He was already looking up when Baal leaped down from above right at them. Tyrael's wings retracted, but too late. With a single swipe of Baal's giant arm, both of them were flung across the small expanse, slamming into several loose stones. Pyresong was momentarily forgotten while the Prime Evil stomped toward the angel, lying helpless on the ground. His mind still struggling to cope with where he was and what was happening, Pyresong dropped his shield off his left arm to get to his backpack. In Baal's distraction with Tyrael, he might just have enough time. He downed the most potent healing potion he'd ever found, chasing it with a stamina potion. It would do nothing for his depleted energies, but it would at least keep his body moving until it literally collapsed dead.
"I will relish your struggle!" Baal shrieked, stomping toward Tyrael, who moved only weakly.
The backpack was hanging off of one shoulder as he took up his shield again and ran right toward Baal's exposed legs. He led the way with his scythe, cutting as deeply as he could with the naked blade. Pyresong laughed insanely again when Baal screamed, reacting violently. He was a gnat to Baal, and he knew it. But it didn't matter; he was still a distraction, much as his skeletons usually were.
"Get through the portal!" he screamed at Tyrael. "Run while you can!"
Baal raged and growled again, swiping an arm at the annoying moral that stung him. Already ducking and dodging, Pyresong was ready for it. He was inside Baal's initial defenses, having been dismissed as a threat earlier. He dumped his remaining power into his one chance. Feeling his own life energies flowing out with it, he stood directly under Baal between all his legs. He gripped his scythe in both hands. He spun. Unleashing everything he had left, he spun, tearing into Baal's legs. Baal screamed in anger now at the annoying pain, but the necromancer didn't stop. He spun again and again. Each swipe of the scythe unleashed not just a blade but a razor-sharp wave of energy. With his meager power and what life energies he had been able to pull on within himself, it was painful and distracting to the Prime Evil but not actually damaging. His only hope now was to buy Tyrael a few precious seconds with this distraction to let the angel escape. Unable to get at the annoying mortal underneath him, Baal finally jumped out of reach and across the growing expanse.
"I hold this entire realm! The Worldstone is mine to shatter! As are your lives!"
Pyresong, on his knees now, unable to even stand after the assault he'd unleashed, was not even really aware anymore. The chill calm of certain death had fled in that last, desperate outburst. Now the pain in his head was absolutely blinding. Everywhere, he felt every throbbing, bleeding wound all at once. There was no thought beyond the pain. His heart stuttered, trying to find a rhythm, but even it was too far weakened by what he had done. He'd spent too much of his own life force in that pathetic attempt to buy Tyrael time to escape. He breathed in short gasps that hurt as much as helped. And now Baal was too far away to reach, anyway. There was nothing more he could give. His one semi-conscious thought was a prayer that Tyrael had escaped. He was dying already; Baal didn't even have to do anything. A few more seconds, and his heart would give out anyway.
Still, some part of him raging against the Darkness struggled, trying to find his legs. A deeper, still rage-filled combat instinct beyond conscious thought wanted to die on his feet. Somewhere beyond the darkness spreading across his vision, Pyresong noticed the violent wave of red power Baal threw in his direction. He sat there on his knees, waiting for it, too exhausted to even try to raise his shield. His mind was going numb rapidly.
He couldn't even comprehend what was happening at first when a white, pure Light suddenly filled his vision. He felt giant strong arms embracing him, shielding him from the blast. Tyrael's powerful Light flooded him, shocking him back to consciousness. A stuttering heartbeat later, Tyrael's pain-filled scream filled his soul.
Gods...no...please... Not again! he screamed mentally in response, feeling that horrific loss and overwhelming grief of Verathiel's sacrifice all over again.
Both Verathiel's and Tyrael's screams faded to silence.
It was already done...again. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Tyrael's Light faded as his screams faded, and Pyresong found himself lying on the ground back in the Ancients' Cradle. He rolled helplessly off the pedestal that had once housed the Husk of Creation. Now it was a blackened void. His mind was raging, screaming incoherently at his own failure and the unspeakable injustice of the sacrifices he could never be worthy of. This whole world was damned because of his mistakes! And the angels that would fight for it were dead because of his failures!
Further away, in the direction of where he'd left Geherit, he could hear Baal's shrieking laughter. He was amazed to realize he was not only uninjured, but all of his strength had returned to him. His fractured, raging mind gave him no time to consider as he found his feet.
"Mortal...stop him..."
He had no idea where Tyrael's voice now came from. He clung to some fragment of shattered hope that maybe the angel had somehow managed to escape after all. Yet, even that didn't matter right now. He could think later when he was dead. The icy calm of death had fled. Now there was just pure, raw rage and a desire to kill—to destroy—the thing that had hurt him. Following Baal's voice and laughter, he ran. Rage fueled his legs. Unlike inside the shard, here in Sanctuary, he had more than enough restless spirits. He didn't stand a chance, and he didn't care. This wasn't about winning or even surviving. It wasn't even about stopping Baal or whatever the Prime Evil was going to do next. It was about retaliating. It was about vengeance. It was about striking back at the Darkness that had caused so much suffering. He called to all of the spirits, opening himself so completely there were no barriers anymore. He dropped his shield and scythe, still running. There was no need for minions or weapons or curses or anything else.
Pulling those countless spirits into himself well beyond anything he could have hoped to ever hold or control, he flooded himself. When Baal came into sight, he screamed, unleashing all of it in a raging torrent of empowered, enraged, and Light-laced bone spirits. The skull-shaped balls of light raced right across the short expanse and exploded onto and into the Prime Evil.
In the first wave, Pyresong was lost. There was no more pain. His body didn't exist anymore to feel the pain. Even his own shattered mind and soul ceased to exist. All that was left of him was that open channel to the spirits that flowed through him. The necromancer had become vengeance incarnate. He gave justice to all those spirits that cried out against the Darkness.
Floating senseless in that river of raw power unleashed, he felt an entire lifetime slide by. And then another life, like a forgotten memory surfacing that he couldn't hold on to. Then, he was floating in a dark and silent void. The screams, the voices, and the sounds of so much suffering that had overwhelmed his entire existence were all gone. He was back in the safety of his own icy, private hell. There was a flicker of thought that he could let go now.
He was ready to go back to Oza now.
That sparked a memory of Kashya that made him feel a flicker of guilt. That guilt lashed at something inside of him he almost couldn't feel anymore. Then he saw Fern sobbing miserably. That inexplicably defiant spark of something inside of him that wanted to live for them rose up, pulling him insistently. He wanted to escape this silent hell. He didn't belong there anymore. That was someone else. He didn't even know where he was right now. His body had been shattered this time. He knew that much. Was there anything left to go back to? Was there anything left to return to Kashya, to Fern?
Before he could decide, before he could even flee his own dead body, he was assaulted with light and warmth. It was so powerful and unexpected that he couldn't resist the compelling pull. The pain consumed him even as the warmth soothed it away. But the light was so beautiful, so loving, he couldn't turn away. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he felt his body spasm as he breathed in. His heart stuttered and pounded painfully in his chest, strangling those early breaths. Almost as soon as it started, the pain was again soothed away by the more warmth. Fragments of thought, and even consciousness, began to coalesce. He remembered who he was gradually as he raced toward the light pulling him back.
When he finally felt his body more thoroughly, he found his eyes and ears. Geherit's sobbing pulled at him. His compassion, his humanity, began to take over again. Gods, how he wanted to turn away! But he couldn't. Her tears fell warmly on his cheeks. She glowed brilliantly as she leaned over him healing him. For a moment, his scattered mind thought she might be another angel. Then he finally began to exert control over his random, scattered thoughts. If she was here...
"You defeated him," Geherit confirmed, smiling through her tears.
He let his eyes close for a minute while he let the healing wash over him. Much as with Zatham, the healing even restored enough of his energy that his head no longer hurt quite so much. Though, at this point, his basis for comparison was literal blinding agony. The thought of his lost friend and the betrayal scorched his heart with a different kind of pain. For a few seconds, he was lost, numb...broken again.
Then he felt Geherit's healing energies fading and pulling back. Much as he wanted to just lay there and let it all sort itself out without him, he knew he had to move. All he wanted to do was retreat to a quiet, private, dark place to be alone with his misery; to embrace his suffering and let it consume what was left of him. He let Geherit help him back to his feet as he began to take in his surroundings. In every direction he looked, Baal's hellish corruption was visible.
"What happened?" she finally asked.
He shook his head, triggering some small explosions of pain. Shoving it aside as irrelevant, he struggled to focus on something, anything, at this point that didn't center around his own misery.
"They...were bound within the Worldstone shard. Baal...and the Archangel Tyrael. Baal broke free, and Tyrael...protected me."
Those first hesitant words finally began to bring the whole thing into focus. No, he still could not cope with the sheer magnitude of everything that had happened. At this point, he was struggling with the idea that he was even still alive. Part of him was even wondering why. What was the point when his failures just kept stacking up? The...sacrifices... No, he couldn't go there. Not now.
"After Baal appeared, the Bride of Hell left through a portal. With the shard whole again. All the pieces came together. She has what she came for," Geherit told him.
Sacrifices for nothing, he thought bitterly. She still won.
"The whole island shook. I thought it would sink. And my people...came from everywhere to kneel before the Lord of Destruction. They wouldn't listen to me. He...took them, and..." Geherit paused and shook her head, looking like she might be sick. "I don't want to spend another second here."
He sighed wearily. He couldn't think, really. He had spent this whole time since Zatham just reacting. And it had done no good. As Geherit walked away, he turned in the opposite direction. Somewhere, he'd left his scythe and shield behind. Though he'd been quite thoroughly healed physically, there was nothing that would heal his fractured heart and soul right now. Numbly, he retrieved the items and put them back in their places. Sleep, right now, he just wanted sleep.
He followed Geherit back out of this corrupted and filthy feeling place. She waited for him back in the wide open area where he an Zatham... No, he wouldn't think of that either, right now. He gave up trying to think altogether.
"Zatham attacked me at the spring," Geherit told him when he finally caught up. "There were cultists with him."
"I know. He's...no longer a threat," he heard himself say hollowly as if his voice belonged to someone else.
"After what Ymuthrus did to him...after what he had to do... I knew there was anger in his heart. But I never expected..."
"Don't," Pyresong cut her off tiredly. "Just...don't."
"I should have stopped Ymuthrus when he called for retribution against the Lilin. All of this could have been prevented!" she insisted.
Pyresong was too mentally exhausted for this. "You're far from the most responsible. Even at his worst, Zatham spared our lives."
Geherit nodded. "Yes, though I would be trapped under rubble if not for Tarzoine. Hers was the mercy."
Gods...Tarzoine... he realized he'd completely forgotten about her.
Still wrapped in the blessed numbness of exhaustion, he followed Geherit. In the gathering circle stood a handful of survivors, possibly all that was left of this island.
"Ruined," Geherit said softly. "There's almost nothing left of it. Hardly enough to rebuild. Maybe...enough to survive."
He couldn't even care. What he'd seen here had shocked and sickened him. A place that could have, and should have, been a living example of the Balance had become the worst living example of the Balance broken. Right now, all he wanted was to leave this awful place to be alone somewhere. To forget completely.
"What will you do now?" Geherit asked him.
"I don't know where to find the Bride. I'll...try to catch up to her... but I think we are out of time," he told her.
A distant memory that almost felt like it belonged to someone else floated to the surface. He dug the Pathstone out of his satchel and handed it to her. Geherit's eyes lit with hope at the sight of it. For just one second, Pyresong considered returning to the shrine of Inarius. He needed that Light right now. Then he remembered Tyrael and felt sick at the thought of almost any Light. He just couldn't. What had he done? What had he caused? He had made another horrific mistake in trusting Zatham. He needed to escape this nightmare now.
He was beyond finished.
"There is no way of knowing how the Fire of Life will scald us now,” Geherit continued softly, gazing at the Pathstone. “If the curse recedes or spreads... Yet, I would rather have ruins than nothing. We owe our lives—and our home—to you. You will always be welcome."
He just shook his head. He had no intentions of ever returning to this place. He knew her words were meant to comfort and thank him, but she didn't know; she couldn't see. He'd failed on a scale so epic... Again! And he'd played right into Zatham's plans. Defeating Baal here, in Sanctuary, hadn't been some great, heroic feat. He'd been rectifying a mistake he'd made while the Prime Evil was still weak enough to be vulnerable. And, if anything, it was sheer dumb luck he'd managed that. That's all there was to it. He had only one answer for her probing gaze.
"I'm leaving, and I hope to never come back," he told her coldly.
Not bothering with pleasantries or further words, he opened a portal a couple of feet away and fled. He just couldn't do this anymore right now. He stepped into the darkness of night in a cold place that was starting to feel more like home than Cain's workshop once had. And now even Cain was gone. The frigid air up here numbed his body to match the icy numbness in his mind and heart. Blindly, he made his way up to and then through the temple complex. Not even bothering with a fire, he pulled out a couple of blankets and fell asleep at the base of Oza's shrine.
Chapter 23: 22 Post Ancients' Cradle
Chapter Text
Post Ancients' Cradle
Pyresong was too tired to fight the nightmares. They came for him everywhere he went. He stopped moving through dreams to try to get away and let them come. Baal's laughter was in them all. Mostly Baal tearing apart everyone he cared about. Even Zatham was not spared. He watched Zatham fighting the demonic version of himself at one point; and be ripped to pieces by it for his efforts. That reminded him of his own Darkness, his own nightmare. When it finally made an appearance laughing mockingly at him in Baal's voice while torturing Kashya, he finally found the strength to wake himself. He knew they were dreams. He always knew. But they were also a reflection of what was in his mind and heart, his own fears. And, right now, neither his heart nor his soul had the strength to fight those horrors. He was tired. And tired of it all in a way he couldn't even really comprehend right now; nor did he have the energy to try.
Instead, he gave up and opened his eyes. His blurry vision showed him he was facing Oza's shrine. Somehow he had to find the strength to deal with all of this. The peace he'd hoped to find was not here. And Cain...was gone. Kashya flitted through his mind, but he couldn't even find appeal in her strength right now. He had no doubts about her strength, just his ability to feel it right now. And Karshun...not a chance. He almost found the strength to laugh mentally at the absurd image of sitting by the fire, talking to the mage openly about anything. He couldn't find the energy to even laugh mentally, and if he did, he might never stop. He didn't know what he would do to the arrogant bastard. Already he could hear Karshun's acidic tone in his thoughts, especially about Zatham. He would have to tell his ally eventually, though. He would need Karshun to help him find the Bride and the shard.
Some distant, darker part of him would not let this be over. He had failed miserably, yes, but the war goes on. Somehow he had to find a way to rectify these mistakes. Sick of it all or not, he would keep fighting. It was all he really had. It was all he had ever had; the next battle, and the next, and the next until he was dead.
Forcing himself upright, he looked around the overlook. It was late in the morning, the sun high in the east. He'd slept in his armor, too tired to even take it off. And now he regretted that. The blankets were now covered in the same sticky, drying gore his armor had been covered with; all mingled with the scent of putrid flesh from the tentacles. He heaved a mental sigh both at this and the fact that he felt filthy. Yet the worst of it all was inside of him right now.
The guilt would never wash away.
That thought finally motivated him. He slammed his mental and emotional doors on all else. His body didn't even ache when he rose to his feet and gathered everything up. He assumed it must have been a result of Geherit's healing. This he could do without thinking, without feeling. He made his way back into the bathing rooms he'd found before. Long ago, he'd turned this simple activity into a cleansing ritual. He did so again.
As the hot water washed away the filth and gore, he began to feel the mindlessness and numbness slipping away. He wanted warmth now. The kind he could not find here. But he could not go to her. Not now. Not like this. He felt like he would shatter at any moment. He clung to the mindlessness and numbness fiercely. He had no idea what he would do next, but it didn't matter. Right now, having cleaned himself and all of his belongings, the only thing that actually mattered was to keep moving. Hands go here. Feet go here. When even that began to fail, he began focusing on his heartbeat and breath. Anything to avoid the thoughts now battering away at the numbness. With the thoughts would come the feelings. And he was not ready for that.
Finally, he was finished with the task. He took everything back to the overlook to let it dry. By this point, he was fighting back his own thoughts as he would the shards' influence. As they were another form of assault he could only withstand for so long. His nightmare's mocking words floated around somewhere in there just above a whisper, but enough to warp it all even worse.
Some part of him had come to a decision. He had to escape. He couldn't function like this, and he needed to; he needed to somehow deal with all of it and keep going. He needed something to hold on to in that maelstrom of memories that threatened to destroy him now. He couldn't even just go running to Kashya. He couldn't just forget for a while and let things sort themselves out. He knew that. But he could seek out Oza. If it were supposedly so easy for him to move between worlds, he would do so now. Oza's warmth and simple perspective would help. It had to, because he felt like he had nowhere else to turn and was completely lost.
He lit a candle and a stick of incense in the shrine; the strong woodsy smell of the spicy incense soothed his senses with its comforting familiarity for a moment. Then he sat with his legs crossed before her shrine. He tilted his head up to feel the sunshine and closed his eyes. Now in his meditative position, he was less likely to topple over. Some part of him screamed that this was insane. He fought back with the idea that this was his tool to use to silence the thoughts. As with other meditations, he focused himself inward, first. He had already pushed away thoughts and feelings and clung to that silence. In a matter of heartbeats, he was in the void. Now he could look for that part deeper down that connected his soul to the Unformed Land. He'd done this unconsciously in the past. Doing so deliberately shouldn't be that hard. He just had to—
"An...anchor? Mortal...can you hear me?"
Tyrael's voice shocked him right out of his meditative state. The flood of recent memories and unacknowledged emotions exploded across his mind making his heart lurch painfully and then begin race. Gasping in shock, he looked around the overlook. He was still alone.
"You're broken," he heard the voice of his nightmare mocking him.
Was he really? Was he so broken he was finally losing his grip on reality? He had lost it completely yesterday, he knew, without a doubt. He'd thrown sanity aside in favor of just moving forward, just fighting, especially while inside the shard. Was he still in some kind of delusion of his own making? He shuddered as the cold horror of that thought assailed him. Was he still trapped in the shard, his mind so broken he couldn't cope with it?
"Tyrael? Where are you?" he ventured to ask in a strangled whisper, his heart pounding painfully.
"In...the cracks of your soul, I think."
He laughed. He couldn't help it. He really was broken, lost this time. His only explanation was that he was still trapped in the shard, and he had failed more completely than he'd even thought possible. All coherent thoughts fled as he laughed uncontrollably. His nightmare laughed wickedly with him, enjoying this immensely.
"I am weak...but...I am...here," Tyrael tried to reassure him.
He stopped laughing. No, he would not accept this level of insanity. Better to be dead.
He closed his eyes and focused again. He was certain if he tried hard enough, he could dig through the madness his own mind was inflicting on him to find the truth. He needed to find his body, wherever it might be. When he could feel his body and all the pain it was suffering, he would find the truth. Forcing back all thought and feeling again, he focused. Yet his senses were still telling him he was on the overlook. He could feel the sun's warmth. He could smell the incense. The chill breeze danced through his hair.
Deeper into the void, he fled, abandoning the physical altogether.
Soft whispers of notes from his flute drifted up through the darkness. But he knew it wasn't his flute; it was his own soul. Again he denied the memories. If he were so broken mentally, then, of course, memories of Yl'nira's gentle words would surface. It wasn't real. Growling to himself with frustration at his failing efforts, he fled from all of them. He turned his focus on the cold. The icy feeling of death he was so intimately familiar with was where he would find what he needed. In the Unformed Land, Oza could help. Oza would see the truth. He could stay there with her this time. That way, he didn't have to worry about being trapped either in the shard or back in Sanctuary insane.
Finally, he found it. The frigid core of power within himself to flee from all worlds and into the land of the dead...where he belonged now.
Despite having no real form here, he felt something grip him. Like a giant, warm hand, it pulled at his soul, his very sense of self. It pulled him right through all the layers of consciousness and unconsciousness. Right through every protective mental shield he'd ever constructed. Right through the memories and their agonizing feelings of loss and failure and betrayal and...
He struggled to hold on to literally anything and not let it drag him away. Wherever it was taking him, he did not want to go. He knew he was broken now, and his body trapped somewhere he could not escape. He'd been so close to escape!
He felt enormous arms wrapping around him, gripping him tightly but so very gently.
No...please... he begged, realizing he was back in the memory of Tyrael dying.
"I did not die, Pyresong," Tyrael told him comfortingly instead of screaming in pain as he had before. "We were connected when Baal destroyed the prison. We were one when the shard expelled us."
Tyrael released him. He felt himself practically slammed back into his body. The jolt was such that he fell backward into the dry leaves. The smells of the chilly mountain air, tinged with woodsy, spicy incense, shocked him all over again. The sunlight above warmed him, yet he shuddered with cold fear. Every sense he now experienced said he was here on Oza's Overlook and not trapped somewhere else. Yet, it was so completely impossible. He was somewhere else, lost and insane.
And he did not want to be here anymore.
All the memories of the last few days crashed down on him like a tsunami. He couldn't stop them now. His shock had been too great. His sense of self was being washed away in the heart-felt agony. The hurt of Zatham's betrayal, his failure to stop the Bride, the broken Balance, and so much unnecessary death and suffering all across the Ancients' Cradle...even Geherit's hope of rebuilding lashed him painfully now. He had freed Diablo and killed Verathiel. He had caused the deaths of tens of thousands of people across Stormpoint. He had...
He wanted none of it to be real anymore. He almost wanted to be insane, so that he didn't have to believe any of that was real. Rolling onto his side, he buried his face in his hands as the first tears stung his eyes.
He couldn't do this. He was just one man! He couldn't even cope with it, let alone fix all of this.
"Justice, mortal. Justice is within you now. And Justice does not rest..."
Tyrael's Light and warmth flooded him from the inside out. It was so very reminiscent of Yl'nira's healing after the Pit of Anguish. He ached for and missed her all over again. But the angel was healing him, healing something inside that was so very broken he couldn't even think about it. The soothing, calming warmth spread across his soul like a blanket. For a while, he was lost in it, drowning in it. Gradually it began to fade, yet was somehow still there.
The memories still assaulted him, but they were somehow...tolerable now. He could accept them. For some time, all he could do was lay there, breathing, listening to his own heartbeat. The memories, the feelings, were still there, possibly clearer than they had ever been before. And there was so much more as they stretched back to his earliest childhood now with unbelievable clarity.
In the span of a few minutes, he relived them all. Some distant part of him wondered if it was Tyrael searching for something. Then they, too, began to fade back into the background.
"Justice does not rest," he remembered the angel saying only moments ago.
"What do you mean, Tyrael?" he asked in a voice still thick with tears.
Silence.
"Tyrael?" he called again, hopefully.
Silence. The feeling of being alone again, as he was when Yl'nira shattered, jolted him. He sat up again, trembling.
Tyrael! he screamed in his mind, his heart racing.
Nothing.
He forced back his rising panic, struggling to slow his breathing and his heart. He closed his eyes and shut off his ears. He needed to focus, to think. He didn't believe he was insane anymore. And whatever inside of him had been broken... Tyrael had done something. He knew his body was here, on Oza's Overlook, and nowhere else. He wasn't trapped in some kind of hell. But, in some ways, this was far worse.
He tried to slow his thoughts and think his way through all of this. Maybe Tyrael wasn't dead. Perhaps he really was inside of his fragmented soul right now. He'd said he was weak, and yet he'd done something that had brought together all the shattered pieces and softened the jagged edges somehow. Pyresong didn't really have words for it. He had been broken; he knew that. It was far from the first time, so he knew what it felt like. But this sort of healing was completely different. Whatever the angel had done had soothed the jagged edges of his fractured mind that had cut at his soul.
And the cracks in his soul?
Oh yes, there had been massive cracks after Yl'nira. All those enormous, empty spaces where she had bonded with him had been left empty voids. Despite the friends he loved so dearly, nothing could fill those gaping chasms. Even Zatham had seen them. He suspected he'd unconsciously left them open, rather than trying to find something to fill them; or even heal them. Zatham had spoken truly. Those with broken souls and large enough cracks would let even the Darkness in to fill them. He had been terrified by that prospect. He'd even convinced himself that his connection to the realm of the dead was what filled them now. But he'd known he was lying, even to himself.
Now, he could feel...something. He felt whole in more ways than one. He hadn't felt like this since Yl'nira, regardless of what he'd told Cain. He hadn't exactly lied to Cain. But the emptiness was something he'd known he couldn't fix or even fill. He knew then that he would just have to live with it, as he had so much else.
"I am weak," he remembered Tyrael telling him.
That explained the sudden silence. Tyrael had used whatever strength he had to heal Pyresong. Very likely, the angel was just too weak to respond right now. But he also knew Tyrael had been searching for something in there. Those memories, even of his childhood, coming all the way to the fore with such clarity were not his doing. He would never have dredged them up when he'd been so recently hurt. He took everything as it came. He went out of his way to avoid forming associations with similar pain from the past. It would only overwhelm him, and he knew it.
He nearly laughed again. Overwhelmed? Of course, he was overwhelmed! The events of the last few days were so... He couldn't find words. There were none for the magnitude of what he'd just been through. The Husk of Creation. A trapped archangel. Baal! He knew he hadn't defeated Baal. It was impossible, whatever Geherit said. And it wasn't his power, anyway. He'd given in to the countless restless spirits. He had become nothing more than a channel for them and their power.
Now he wondered if it hadn't been Tyrael. Yes, he'd taken out a nephalem the same way with bone spirits. But that nephalem was just another sort of human. Baal was a Prime Evil, the embodiment of Destruction. It wasn't his power that had defeated Baal; it was the power of so many spirits screaming for vengeance...likely boosted by Tyrael's powerful Light. He was under no illusions that he'd survived that much power, either. He was just amazed the sheer energy of it all had even left him a body for Geherit to heal. He had been certain his body was burnt to ashes by it.
Yet, here he was. He hadn't survived, though, not really. Geherit had healed his body and replenished enough of his energy that he didn't die from the strain on his life energies. But he hadn't really come out of it undamaged. His sanity hadn't been frayed this time; it was completely destroyed. His mind had been so shattered he couldn't even pull the pieces together. Tyrael had done that for him. But to what end? Why even bother, really? He was just one man. He couldn't save the world. Even thwarting Baal as he had didn't save the world. It was just rectifying a mistake in having trusted Zatham.
Self-preservation, he told himself.
Tyrael had healed him so that he could continue to exist. That was the only logical explanation.
He sighed heavily, opening his eyes. They stared blindly at the shrine. It was done, even if he hadn't wanted it or any of this. Tyrael had healed him, and there was absolutely no throwing that away, even if he could. He was functional now. He could continue the battle, and he would. He knew he'd failed miserably at stopping the Bride. The shard was whole and purified now. He had absolutely no idea where it was going next other than Hell. But, at this point, it didn't matter. Wherever it went, he would follow. Consequences to himself be damned. He was already condemned in so many ways; it just didn't matter anymore. Eternity, even in the Unformed Land had no appeal for him anymore, either. An exhausted part of him prayed he would just cease to exist when it was all over.
But that was stupid and senseless, and he knew it. Worse, the idea of dying while Tyrael still existed inside of him made him feel sick. What would happen to the angel if he died? It was doubtful anyone would have an answer for that. And, of course, he wasn't suicidal. He'd just always accepted the fact that he could and would die. The fact that he'd survived so long really did amaze him sometimes. Oza had spoken truly; no one would ever believe the stories; even if they did come from the great Deckard Cain himself.
The memory of Cain made him smile sadly. He missed the old scholar already. He missed their talks and the old man's insights. Just as he had gone running to the Ancient's Cradle in pursuit of the cultists and shards, Cain was chasing his own work that was also so desperately needed. For one second, he wished he had mentioned the other prophecies to his friend. And it wasn't a matter of trust that had stopped him. He had truly embraced the friendship the old man offered. He couldn't bring himself to taint that with whispers of inevitability and bloody stupid symbolic prophecies that were so much garbled nonsense! He still hoped this could all work out. And he just couldn't bring himself to burden his friend with all of that. But there had to be a way to fix his mistakes!
Pyresong was slightly amused to realize he still held hope. The yawning mouth of Hell awaited Sanctuary and all its peoples. The End of Days was here—thanks to him—and the only ones that were fighting for it were a handful of humans. And one angel trapped in the cracks of his soul. Would it be enough? He had to believe. Just as he told Zatham, he didn't give a damn about all the overwhelming Darkness of humanity. The few bright and beautiful souls were so rare and powerful, but enough to keep the Balance as it should. And he would fight for them against any odds, he knew. He would die fighting.
His eyes finally focused on Oza's shrine again. People like Oza were why he did this, not because it would have any real or lasting effect on the world. Just them.
Maybe we still have a chance, he thought, surprised to realize he actually believed that.
His legs were nearly numb from having sat in such an awkward position for so long. The sun was already moving toward the west. He'd been here for hours. He reached out to close the doors of the little shrine. Somewhere in his now far less jumbled thoughts, he knew he needed to get back to Karshun. Karshun needed to know what happened and be prepared. If anyone were likely to suffer the consequences of his mistake, it would be the mage. He would be an easy target alone in Westmarch. Again, he prayed Karshun's arrogance was justified. He couldn't do this alone, and he had no idea where Cain was now.
There was no point in wasting more time. He sighed and rose to his feet. At least he could face Karshun with composure, basically not giving in to the urge to punch him or worse. There was no doubt in his mind that Karshun would dig into him deeply about Zatham. That one mistake, that one misjudgment in character, had cost them all dearly. And a part of him knew, even now, that he so very much deserved Karshun's expected tongue-lashing. He had trusted Zatham completely.
He could count his entire lifetime of friends on a single hand. He'd never been one to let people get close to him. Even Zatham had been kept at a safe emotional distance, or so he'd thought until yesterday. But there was something about Zatham that inspired a sort of kinship. While gathering up all his belongings that had been left out to dry in the sunshine, he ran through all his memories of Zatham. Part of him was certain he had seen the signs and ignored them. Yet, the truth was, any doubts he had about the man had been obliterated the minute Zatham had healed him from drowning. It had very nearly cost Zatham his own life in the end. The greater part of him just couldn't believe that whole thing had been some kind of act. Zatham really had been willing to let himself die than to let Pyresong risk his own well-being to help him heal.
He couldn't work it out right now. Somewhere along the way, Zatham had begun supporting the cultists. For all he knew, Zatham had been helping them all the way back at Stormpoint. He didn't want to believe it. And he didn't want to believe he'd been so completely blind to Zatham's motives. But, the reality was that it was Zatham who had led him to the Ancients' Cradle, his own homeland. The likelihood of the cultists finding out about the Husk of Creation on their own was virtually nonexistent. Zatham had to have told them about it. And then they'd needed him to balance the Pathstone to get to the Husk of Creation. A part of him had known the truth, and ignored it completely because of that kinship, that friendship with Zatham.
Even Cain didn't see it, he thought,
That thought made him feel no better at all, really. And it didn't matter now, anyway. The damage was done.
Once all of his stuff was safely stowed away in his backpack, he turned his mind to his next moves. Right now, he was mentally tired in a way that would be obvious to anyone who had been through so much so quickly. He'd gone from feeling shattered, to insane, to healed all in the space of less than a day. He was just thankful he could think at all right now. Karshun had to be warned. After that...
He had no idea. Whatever would happen would happen. Steeling himself against the inevitable verbal bashing he was going to get from Karshun, he opened a portal to the Palace Courtyard waypoint.
It was still probably no later than three or four in the afternoon when Pyresong arrived in Westmarch. He'd lost a significant portion of the day. Yet, he had nowhere else more important to be right now. And, to be fair, Tyrael had saved him from what would likely have been days or even weeks of mental and emotional recovery he really couldn't afford. The hunt for the shard would have to continue immediately. At least now he could do that. All he had to do was keep his tongue in check.
He almost let himself in without knocking. With Cain gone, this place had become Karshun's sanctum. He had to break that habit. At least he no longer felt like he was coming home. In a way, he missed that feeling, but it was safer this way. The less time he spent in Westmarch, the better. For one moment, he nearly kicked himself mentally for not donning the robes before coming here. But, he wasn't staying, and he could easily make enough of a spectacle while leaving to ensure word of his departure would spread far and wide.
For that matter, all I have to do is visit Bailey, he thought with some amusement. The whole city will know by sundown that I'm not here.
He knocked and then waited. He inspected the shields. Some of Cain's were definitely familiar to him, and the old scholar had shown him how to get through them easily. Cain had treated him like a potential student. He respected the fact that Pyresong could sense and manipulate various magical energies; much as would an apprentice. He had been patient in his teachings but clearly never expected the necromancer to become too engrossed in those studies. Cain had taught him a few tricks that would help him identify a threat and what he would need to get into and out of the workshop without help.
After nearly a minute, Pyresong knocked again. He wasn't exactly impatient, but he did begin to wonder. Maybe Karshun was out on the Astral Plane somewhere. If so, he could at least peek in this direction to see what was going on, he thought in irritation. Then he sighed mentally. That was unfair, and he knew it. He eyed Karshun's shields more closely. He couldn't tell if the extra shielding and wards were because Karshun didn't want to be disturbed while working on something or if it was just commonplace for him. Either way, they were similar enough to Cain's that he knew he could easily get through them.
He knocked a third time, more roughly.
By this point, he was fairly certain the mage wasn't here. He did not want to delay this update any longer than necessary. He needed Karshun to start hunting the shard as soon as possible, provided it wasn't already in Hell. His gut twisted at the idea that Diablo might already have it. If so, he was too late, and nothing would matter, anyway. But, he had hope, and he had to cling to it, or none of this would matter.
Irritated now and not wanting to hang around the city, he switched fully to his magical vision. After a few seconds, he nodded to himself. Yes, he could easily get through the multiple layers of wards and shields. There was no major barrier for him here. But he did detect the faint traces of illusion magic. He wasn't sure if Karshun had set an illusion to trap someone trying to enter or if the illusion was to cover a more deadly ward. Ultimately, he couldn't see Karshun using a lethal trap here. Despite Cain not being here to stop him from doing so, he felt like Karshun would respect Cain's wishes on such a thing even now.
Stepping back a bit to take in the whole picture, he decided it was time to test some of the skills Cain had taught him. Seeing no one in the street nearby, he backed off across the street. Just in case there was a trap there, he couldn't detect through all the various layers; he wanted to be well out of the way. Sending multiple tendrils of energy outward, he quickly prodded the wards to disarm but not destroy the various shields and other spells. After a minute, huffed a laugh; it was almost too easy. But he wasn't going to stand around here all day or start hunting all over the city. He would leave a note and move on. Where to, he still had no idea. Anywhere other than Westmarch sounded good to him right now.
Still cautious, he cracked open the door while still standing a few inches away, just in case. When nothing happened, he reached through. The tingle of magic was still there, but it felt in no way threatening. There was no sign of Karshun, and the Astral Anchor was inert. The more secure room to his right was also closed and more heavily sealed off. Apparently, the mage must be out doing something.
"Karshun? Are you here?" he called out, just in case.
He closed the door behind himself, not bothering to re-arm the spells since he would be leaving in a couple of minutes anyway. He headed over the Cain's desk. No matter how much Karshun used it now, he would never think of it as anything other than Cain's desk. He located a quill, ink, and an empty piece of parchment. He took them to what had been their dining table but was now covered in various clutter. He shoved some aside slightly and scribbled a note about needing to keep hunting for the shard. He would be back tomorrow with an update; just in case Karshun didn't already know. He nearly scratched out the last part but decided to leave it. He knew it would irk the mage, and that was the point.
He returned to Cain's desk and waved the piece of parchment to let the ink dry for a few seconds. He didn't want to set wet ink on the open book, possibly making a mess Karshun would not appreciate. He wasn't that petty. Curious about what the mage might be working on, he realized the book was open and contained some of Karshun's own extremely flowery handwriting. His hand with the other parchment froze as he took in what he saw.
He is active once again, and yet his trail grows colder every
time I catch it. A remote village in Khanduras. The southern
dunes of Aranoch. There are no patterns, no remnants, only
cold outlines where the bodies lay. I must look into the stars...
and search my own remembrance.
How many more will die in the meantime?
He wondered what he was reading. A journal? Clearly, this was no research project. And that writing could belong to no other. The rest of the page, and the one on the opposite side, were blank. He resisted the urge to look at more and took a couple of steps away.
Karshun is chasing a murderer? he wondered.
Still holding the parchment with the drying ink, he was slightly startled when the door latch was released, and it was flung open violently. Karshun's staff was glowing brightly with ready spells when Pyresong put his hands out reflexively. Still, he was unable to entirely resist a grin. Seeing no other threat, Karshun reclaimed the energy and let go of the spells.
"Just decided to let yourself in, hm?"
"I knocked, and you didn't answer. I was going to leave you a note. It seemed more productive than trying to chase you around the city," he explained blandly.
"You missed the ward that alerts me when the shields are disabled," Karshun told him. "How did you even know to get in here?"
The necromancer couldn't help the wicked grin. He knew he was in for a verbal bashing, but slipping in a few barbs of his own was just plain fun.
"At least now I know how to summon you."
Karshun huffed in irritation at his attempt at humor and closed the door.
"I'll take the fact that you're alive as a good sign," Karshun said, setting aside his staff and heading for the fireplace. "Were you able to intercept them?"
He tossed the piece of parchment he'd been holding onto the desk. Something about Karshun's first remark caught his attention, making him grin internally this time.
"You mean you can't tell when I'm alive or not?"
Karshun threw him another irritated look as he filled the kettle. "I can't find you at all," he finally admitted. "You do not appear on the Astral Plane anymore."
The amulet, he thought, still grinning inside.
"As to your question...in parts," he started, heaving a sigh. "We weren't ahead of them as I had hoped. Turns out that the massive shard contained the essence of both Baal and the Archangel Tyrael. That is why they were trying to purify it. They unleashed the Lord of Destruction on the island. I was at least able to stop him from destroying it. I sent him back to Hell."
The mage would have dropped the kettle had it not already been above the hook in the fireplace. He spun around, searching Pyresong as if trying to find the lie.
"Scry it for yourself," Pyresong told him tiredly. "I'm not here to convince you. I'm here to warn you. And, of course, I need your help."
"You're serious..." Karshun said, his voice faint with shock. Then he shook his head, "Or insane. I don't know which."
"As I said, look into it for yourself. I don't care what you think," he snapped. "The Bride of Hell purified the Worldstone shard. After Baal broke free, she fled the Cradle with the shard. We need to find her."
"If they got what they were after, why wouldn't it already be back in Hell?" he challenged.
"I don't know if it is or not. But if there's any chance it's still here in Sanctuary, we might still be able to stop them. And if it is in Hell, then that's where I go next."
The mage shook his head with a dark laugh. "You really are insane."
He couldn't help grinning wickedly again. "You have no idea."
"Fine, I will see what I can find out. Is Zatham out checking his sources?"
"Zatham is dead," he told him flatly, his gut clenching. "He was working with the Bride. I don't know for how long. Before you said I shouldn't have trusted him, I—"
"You're right," Karshun cut him off angrily. "I did not trust him." Then his expression softened to something almost sad. "But you saw some...valor of his. And it is not as though he killed you in your sleep, despite ample opportunity." He sighed. "You can be both wrong and right at once, you know. Cain...suspected something but didn't see anything overt, either." He laughed. "Perhaps between the two of us, we shall offer a decent judge of character."
He nodded, more than happy to get off without an all-out verbal bashing over Zatham. Nothing Karshun could say right now was going to make what happened any easier for him. But there was no point in discussing it further. His trust in Zatham had led to where they stood now. He couldn't change that, and Zatham was likely in Hell now, paying for that betrayal. There were more important and even less enjoyable things to discuss.
"While you're already entertaining thoughts of my insanity, there's something else you should know," he said with another smirk. "I was connected to Tyrael when we were...blasted right out of the shard."
"You were inside the shard?"
Some darker, pettier part of Pyresong was enjoying the man's utter shock at all of this. But, truthfully, he didn't really care all that much what the mage thought of him. Let the mage think whatever he wants as long as he keeps helping to find and destroy the shard.
"Yes, and now I'm hearing Tyrael's voice inside myself. It's faint...infrequent. But he's definitely there. He said he's in the cracks of my soul."
Again Karshun was eyeing him as if he'd lost his mind. Pyresong couldn't blame him. But he knew what had happened on Oza's Overlook was nothing he had done. Whatever his mental state now, Tyrael had healed him with pure Light. He knew he could never have produced that kind of Light himself. Only if Yl'nira was with him could that have happened. And Yl'nira was destroyed. It was literally not possible, even if there were pieces of her still inside of him as Cain had once theorized, which he doubted. He waited patiently in silence while Karshun's expression turned from incredulous to one of speculation. He eyed the necromancer searchingly before nodding slowly.
"With all that your soul has been...exposed to, I actually do not find that impossible," Karshun said slowly as if feeling his way through his thoughts. "But what makes you so certain this voice is real?"
He hadn't been expecting Karshun to believe him so readily, especially after the earlier statement about taking on a Prime Evil and actual insanity. Yet, he got no sense that Karshun was trying to trap him here with some kind of logic, either. He wasn't so much trying to challenge what Pyresong was saying as to see how much he actually believed. But how to convince the mage?
Sensing this might take a while, he motioned toward the heating kettle. He dropped his backpack by the former dining table. He raced through a dozen different ways to explain, and none of them really made any sense. How to convey something with words that he couldn't even really describe for himself? Karshun sat in Cain's rocking chair watching him closely while he got them both some tea. Once he'd seated himself in his old rocking chair, he had finally decided this wasn't impossible; but wasn't going to be pleasant, either.
"Cain had initially reached out to you for help when I was in a death sleep, correct?"
"Hm, yes, he'd told me your soul had been shattered. Apparently, my reply was lost somewhere and never received."
He grinned, and couldn't help asking, "And what was that reply, if you don't mind sharing?"
Karshun shrugged, completely unashamed of his response. "Let you die."
He nodded, unsurprised. "Fair enough, and you weren't the only one. Cain was too stubborn by far."
"Apparently, a trait you share. You did come back, after all."
He shook his head. "Not stubbornness. I had help."
Despite his obvious curiosity, Karshun kept his peace while Pyresong considered what to say and how to tell him. He wrestled with so many ideas and words he almost couldn't put it all together. Finally, he sighed and took a sip of the nearly too-hot tea. He missed Cain's much stronger tea. It was just one more reminder that he wasn't in Cain's home anymore.
"How much did Cain tell you about me, about all of this? I'm trying to find a place to start that makes sense."
"A great deal," Karshun admitted, "about your work and where you've been. But he left out all the personal details."
He thought about it for a few more seconds. He needed to go further back. "Our first attempt to destroy the shards failed. Did he tell you what they did to me?"
"To you? No, just that the spell didn't work."
"The three shards together were exponentially more powerful. When we failed, and Cain was unconscious, I touched them. I wasn't thinking; I was just...reacting. I picked them up and threw them in the safe. They tried to stop or coerce me or...something by inflicting memories on me. Memories they had obtained through their wielders. I was...broken by them."
The mage's eyebrows shot up. "Broken?"
He nodded. "Yes, mentally. However, I remember none of it now, thanks to Cain. He somehow bound them and shielded those memories in my mind with a Horadric spell he knew. Later, the soul of a nephalem priestess, Namari, cleansed them from my mind.
"That was the first."
The mage didn't seem to have some remark to that, so he continued, staring into his cup. "I think... No, I know I was at the very least unstable, if not unhinged entirely at one point when I was in Hell dealing with Skarn. At the time, it didn't matter anyway. Either I was going to get out of there, or the rest of my existence was going to be in that place. But I had Yl'nira. The angelic blade bonded with my soul. I'm sure Cain explained that much. She healed those wounds, somehow, with her Light. So I know what that kind of internal healing feels like. And, of course, when she was destroyed, my soul was shattered."
"That was the second time," Karshun commented after a few seconds of silence.
He nodded slowly. "Sort of. It definitely had an impact on my mind. The memories that have left their indelible mark on my soul came back, but a lot of memories didn't...at first. Now I have some understanding why. But that's not really relevant.
"I had experienced first-hand healing that I can only describe as angelic. Part of the point I'm making is that Yl'nira's loss left some absolutely massive cracks in my soul that could never be filled."
"And now they have been?"
"Not...entirely. But much has changed."
He sighed, finishing off his tea. There was just no good way to say it. Either Karshun would believe him, or he wouldn't.
"This was not my first stop after leaving the Ancients' Cradle. I was broken, again, in more ways than one. What I'm trying to say is that I know when I've broken mentally and emotionally. I've been there before. And I very much was. But when I was trying to...pull myself together today, Tyrael found my consciousness and reached out to me."
"You can spare me the details, but I ask again, 'What makes you so certain this voice is real?'"
He couldn't help huffing another dark laugh. He should have known it wouldn't make sense to this mage. He was no Cain. And his insight into others only ranged from the suspicious to the outright dark. It didn't matter. As long as he didn't try to stop Pyresong or get in his way, it would have to be enough. He sighed heavily, feeling more mentally tired than he even wanted to admit right now. He had tried, and it only made him miss Cain that much more.
"Tyrael healed me very much as Yl'nira had. I could not have recovered from that entirely on my own. Not that quickly, and definitely not that thoroughly. The Light I felt was real, and I promise you, it did not come from me."
He gave up as he rose from the chair. "Believe what you want to believe. I really don't care. But I'm continuing to hunt for the Terror Cult and the shard. Will you help me?"
The mage snorted, setting aside his teacup. "It seems I have no choice but to rely on a madman."
"Some said Cain was a madman, too," Pyresong pointed out.
That got a smile from Karshun. "I see your point. Very well, I will seek any trace of the cult using the Worldstone to open a pathway to the Burning Hells. Such power must leave a sign."
"Thank you," he said sincerely, relieved.
"It is hardly a victory, but if you really are harboring the essence of an archangel, it may be an advantage they do not expect. Try to commune with your...angel. Let me know if you learn anything useful," he finished, just shy of an outright sneer.
"Earlier today, he was too weak to reply. As I said, it's faint, but the voice is real. I will let you know if I can learn anything."
"Where will you be?"
"Anywhere other than Westmarch right now, for both our sakes," he told him with a smirk.
Karshun frowned. "You are still welcome here. I do not rescind Cain's invitation."
Pyresong shook his head. "I know you can defend yourself. But the more eyes that are on me, hunting me beyond Westmarch, the better. Besides, they're going to have as much of a hard time finding me now as you do."
"And why is that?"
He couldn't help smirking again but said nothing about the amulet he now wore; clearly enjoying Karshun's irritation. But he couldn't resist one final jab.
"We're not dead yet, Karshun. There's still hope."
Karshun glowered at him for that. Pyresong laughed softly, enjoying the mage's irritation. He couldn't help tweaking the mage even now. At least he knew his ally wasn't about to start working against him. He refused to believe Cain had been wrong about this one. And, as far as the whole question of sanity, there had to be at least some trust, or the mage would likely not even be letting him out of his sight right now. An insane Priest of Rathma was the kind of risk no one could afford to ignore.
He retrieved his backpack from across the room and headed for the door. A couple steps away, he paused, eyeing the warding and shields. There, in the very bottom left corner, he spotted it. Just to tweak the man one last time, if for no other reason than he could, he sent a tendril of energy into the spell. He could feel Karshun's eyes on him narrowing as he probed it. Satisfied he'd figured it out and knew what to look for in the future, he passed through the door and closed it behind him. He had no doubt Karshun would change that particular ward the instant he was gone. He would have to be wary of others next time. To Pyresong, it felt like a game. But, then, so did much of the mutual tweaking and verbal sparring. Unlike previous encounters, at least this didn't feel like outright animosity.
Not for the first time, he smiled warmly inside, thinking about Karshun. There was a part of him that really did appreciate the mage as a person. He almost regretted they could not have been friends. At least he could trust Karshun if for no other reason than Cain had done so.
With it not even really being evening yet, Pyresong decided to walk across the bustling city. As he'd said, the more eyes on him, the better. Despite having shown up at the workshop in broad daylight, they could now easily see him leaving. After about an hour of walking through the crowds, he'd had enough. Regardless of Tyrael's healing, he just wasn't in the mood to be around people. He still needed time to process for himself. Now that Karshun was on the alert and searching for their next move, he could do that. He considered where to go while he walked. He had an entire list of places he could go to get lost for a while where there likely weren't any cultists to worry about.
But, if he was being honest with himself, there was only one place he wanted to be right now. He hadn't gone directly to her, and he was glad he hadn't. He'd been too far gone for even her to deal with, most likely. Again he was thankful for Tyrael's intervention. Yet, it did bring up another question.
Tyrael? he called tentatively.
Nothing.
He wasn't sure if he was relieved. He did want to talk to Tyrael some more. Maybe he could find something from the angel that would help them. At the moment, though, he desperately wanted to be with Kashya. He needed to let all of this go for a while. Things weren't nearly as raw and painful, but they could drag him down quickly. He didn't have the time or energy to fall into a funk right now. He needed to keep moving, even though he had no clear direction at the moment. And, if he was being entirely truthful with himself, he wanted to be just a little bit selfish and draw on her strength again. He needed her fierce heart and fiery spirit, even if she couldn't begin to understand where he'd just come from.
At the same time, though, knowing he had an angel literally in the cracks of his soul could get...awkward. Pyresong couldn't help laughing at himself over that thought. There was absolutely nothing in his soul right now that Tyrael couldn't see if he wanted. Hells, he probably already had, he realized. It had definitely felt like the angel was searching through his soul and memories for something earlier.
He shoved those thoughts aside with a mental shrug. He was going to see Kashya, regardless. He made sure the portal was in an open but mostly unoccupied space where others could see. Anyone watching him would have no idea where he had gone, but they could spread the word he'd left the city. And, of course, Karshun would deal with the rest.
His first stop was to give Fern an update. She was apparently out on training patrol and would not be back until the next day. The little girl was training as hard as ever. It seemed no one had yet noticed her other talents. Pyresong still felt it wasn't his place to interfere. She was mature enough to tell them when she was ready. Besides, it seemed she believed in the Great Eye now, as did the other Sisters she now trained with. If that gave Fern comfort, he would not do anything to take that away from her. He just hoped it was enough to at least soothe some of the hurt and burning anger he had seen behind those big blue eyes. He still hoped she could be happy again one day.
It didn't take long for Kashya to catch up with him, as usual. He was on his way out through the Outer Cloister when she came in from her patrol. She took one look at him and then hugged him tightly, but that was all. She sent the other Sisters on ahead into the monastery while she stopped to join him on a walk. He took her warm hand in his as they exited the gates. Only when they were alone on the other side of the closed gates did she stop. She took his face in both her hands and stared deep into his eyes.
"What's happened?"
For a second, he felt a flicker of fear that she was seeing through whatever Tyrael had done to fix his shattered heart and mind. But he couldn't assume. He didn't know how she read him, but he knew it had something to do with his eyes. He delayed responding verbally by smiling and kissing her thoroughly enough that he hoped she would let it go. Clearly, it had at least some effect since she had to break it off, panting and leaning into his chest.
"Okay, fine," she finally said with a satisfied smile. "You win."
He couldn't help laughing softly as he hugged her tightly, letting the scent of her soothe him. But he had to give her something, at least.
"I'll just say I've had a bad week. But it doesn't matter now. I've got you to make it all better."
Kashya smiled and pulled back but kept her hand in his as they walked farther away from the monastery walls. For a while, they were silent, appreciating the sunset around them. They found a short rock ledge that overlooked a brook and decided to sit. The rock was still warm from the sunshine of the cloudless day. Now, pulled out of his thoughts by the scene, he realized the Dark Wood was alive with greenery. The first pale greens of spring were everywhere.
Not for the first time, he wondered at that. Time had come to have so little meaning in so many ways for him. Part of him felt it had been a lifetime ago that he walked into Wortham and met Cain. For that matter, it had been a lifetime ago. He just wasn't the same person he had been then. But, in so many other ways, it seemed like time had stopped. Part of him felt trapped in an endless winter where the sun never gave any warmth. He reveled in the feeling of spring and new growth here. He began to realize how much of it was just his perception and Kashya's influence. Without her, the world really did seem dark and bleak at times. With her, though, it was always warm daylight.
Gods, I've gotten so...foolish.
"What are you laughing about?" Kashya asked beside him.
His arm around her back, he squeezed gently. "Foolishness," he replied and kissed her cheek.
"What kind of 'foolishness'?"
"The best kind," he told her kissing her hair.
"Will you be staying the night?" she asked.
He sighed in contentment, taking in her smell and the smell of the fresh growth of the forest around him. For a few seconds, he considered her question. Part of him just wanted to stay right here forever. More foolishness, he knew.
"I hadn't really planned anything. I just got back today. The only thing I really needed to do was update Karshun. And, with him on the hunt now, there's not much more I can do at the moment."
"Karshun? What about Cain?"
He was surprised to realize she didn't know. If he'd expected anyone to have sent word here, it would have been Charsi. He could only guess she hadn't had a chance yet. Though, he still wondered that Cain hadn't sent a letter to Akara or something.
"I'm sorry, I thought you knew," he told her, unable to keep his own thoughts on it completely out of his voice. He sighed. "Cain left. He's gone chasing after some rumors regarding prophecies."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Maybe Karshun knows. But it's probably better we don't know."
She sighed sadly. She couldn't really counter that. She knew he was right. And she knew just how close he'd been to Cain. She squeezed him comfortingly.
"I'm sorry. I know you miss him."
He smiled and squeezed her again. "I do. He is...like a father to me. But what he's doing is too important not to pursue. I'll catch up to him one day."
"So it's just you and Karshun now? I can't imagine you're enjoying that much."
He laughed softly. "At this point, he thinks I'm completely insane. To be fair, he's got good reason."
"Oh?"
"What would you do if I told you I'm hearing voices?" he couldn't help teasing.
"As long as they say good things about you," she teased back almost reflexively. Then she got serious and pulled back enough to look him in the eyes. "You aren't, are you?"
He laughed again and kissed her thoroughly. "Does it matter?"
Kashya frowned darkly for a minute, clearly worried.
"I'm fine, Kashya. I promise. Stop worrying."
"You better be."
"Actually, 'better than fine' would probably be more accurate. Though, the truth of everything is far stranger than any delusion I could ever come up with. I'm just not that imaginative."
"And you still won't tell me."
This was the part he disliked about their relationship. She really did want to know, to ease his burdens, if nothing else. But he just wouldn't do that to her, especially with all that he had suffered most recently. Instead of replying verbally, he leaned down as if he was going to whisper in her ear. With a wicked grin, he kissed her neck, making her shiver delightfully.
"I can think of so many other things I'd rather do with these lips than talk about that," he finally did whisper in her ear.
Kashya laughed. Oh, yes, he'd definitely won that round. It wasn't long before they made their way back to the monastery for some supper. Then they retreated to her room, where they could indulge in those other things for the rest of the night.
***
The next morning Kashya wasn't feeling well, leaving Pyresong worried. But she shooed him out rather than have him hanging around worrying about her. She promised to get something for her upset stomach before heading out on patrol just to make him stop worrying. Despite wanting to join her on the patrol, he knew he shouldn't overstay his welcome. And, unless Karshun came up with something in the last day and night, he would likely have more time to spend with her in the very near future.
Of course, he could make no promises.
Briefly, he ran through a list of places he could visit or at least spend some time in. He'd wanted to check back on Sescheron for some time now. The problem with that was that he knew he wouldn't likely just be able to get an update and move on. If he found that other Priests of Rathma had come to the aid of those tortured spirits, he would easily get pulled right in to help. Whatever he found there, he would be unable to stop himself from being distracted trying to help both the living and the dead. He couldn't afford to be away from Westmarch that long. Karshun could find clues literally any minute, so he planned on checking in daily. Mornings would likely be best. That way, if he needed to be somewhere, he could get moving early in the day.
He could check back on Sentinel's Watch easily enough. For that matter, he could kill time at Bilefen. He wouldn't mind seeing Cadeus again. He'd just recently seen Tabri and the Amber Blades, though. He probably didn't need to check back with them now that the vampires had been dealt with. And, of course, a nice quiet village like Wortham or the forests around it would be a good place to hide out.
Truthfully, he needed to think of some place where he could stay when he was not on the hunt. He didn't want to drag any innocents into his fight. The attack at the tavern had shown him just how relaxed he'd gotten. What he needed was someplace so far out of the way that cultists wouldn't even think to look for him there. Which, in truth, seemed like nowhere he could think of. Sighing in frustration, he ran through a more thorough list. He had to have some kind of bolthole.
The obvious choice was the now-abandoned Sanctified Earth Monastery. With springtime rolling in quickly, it would easily be warm enough there. And the temple complex was completely abandoned. It was fair to think that sooner or later, someone would very likely come along and check out the complex, even if only out of curiosity now that the black mist in the valley was gone. And, if cultists did ever come after him there, there were no other people that would become collateral damage.
Decision made, he started laying plans. There might still be a considerable amount of wood lying around in the complex. Food was very less likely. He knew they had a water source, so that wouldn't be a problem. There were other items he knew he would need to keep on hand, especially if he was going to use that place as a hideout. Medical supplies, for one. And, of course, now that he was running through an inventory of what he had on him, clothing was likely growing to be a desperate need.
He sighed mentally, clearly he needed to go back to Westmarch first. Even if Karshun hadn't found anything overnight, there was just too much he needed to bother going anywhere else. He could get literally everything he needed and more in Westmarch. Again he debated on the robes and concealing his identity. But he had too many other things to deal with. Much as he had done yesterday, he would just make sure he was very visible leaving the city again.
Since the biggest cluster of merchants outside of the overcrowded open market was always in and around Rakkis Plaza, he decided to use the waypoint just to the west of the plaza that was on a side road. As expected, it was still early enough in the morning that shops were just beginning to open for the day, and the crowds weren't thick enough to feel uncomfortable for him.
Being that it wasn't very busy, he decided to find a quiet corner where he could do a more thorough inventory of his backpack. One by one, he pulled out his remaining healing potions, far fewer than he'd hoped. Then his other supplies. Again, less than he'd hoped. The same goes for his clothing. It was definitely going to be a busy day getting all this setup. For that matter, his backpack was likely to get a real test of its seemingly bottomless capacity.
"Whatcha got there, mister?"
He sighed mentally at that all-too-familiar tone. He continued putting the items casually back into his backpack. He looked up into the face of a thug and a couple of cohorts approaching from the north. He had been aware of someone in the alley just up the street but had paid them no mind. He was only really on the alert for any hellish or demonic sensations that a cultist might give off. Of course, as Hamit and even Zatham had now shown him, not all of them were that obvious. He continued stuffing the contents back into his backpack calmly.
"Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?" he asked, keeping his expression neutral.
"You, uh, got some good stuff there. How's about you share?"
"I'm sure you can find help at the cathedral."
"We got a stingy one here, boys," the main thug said, flinging his greasy hair out of his face.
Tying off his backpack and slinging it back over his shoulder, he rose to his feet smoothly with an acrobatic move he'd learned early in his training, hoping it might clue them into the fact that he was not some helpless citizen, despite his casual, unarmed appearance. Already his hand was itching to reach for his scythe that was currently in his backpack. With untrained thugs like these, though, it really wasn't necessary. And he really did not want to leave bodies in his wake. Whatever street gang wars and such were going on here, he wanted no part of any of it.
Apparently, that little move only served to give him a couple more feet of space between him and them. Now the main thug decided to try to be intimidating with a large silver knife. Again he sighed mentally, slightly frustrated. He was in no mood for this.
"I don't want any trouble. And, I assure you, you don't want any from me," he told them coldly.
"Oh, it's no trouble. You're just going to give us that bag and live to cry about it," the lead thug shot back.
He let his hands glow with green spirit fire as he cocked an eyebrow with a predatory grin. For half a second, the three of them were stunned, only just beginning to realize what kind of mistake they had made. He gave them no chance to recover. With one hand, he grabbed the wrist of the main thug and pulled. With a twist and a sidestep, he kicked the man's legs out from under him. He had the man on his knees, with the knife now in his hand and against the thug's throat. The other two took off running back the way they had come. Content to let them slither back into their filthy holes, he glanced around to ensure there were no other onlookers. The leader whimpered pathetically.
"Please don't... I just..."
"Be quiet," he snapped at him in irritation. "Lucky for you, I've seen enough bloodshed to last a lifetime. Under other circumstances, I'd warn you about the foolishness of attacking someone you don't know. In this case, I'm going to quite simply tell you to go gather your friends and leave the city. If I ever see any of the three of you again, you'll be spending your eternity as undead. Am I clear?"
"Y-yes, sir! Th-thank you for your m-mercy, sir!"
Disgusted by everything from the man's cowering to his stink, Pyresong threw him to the ground. The knife was a nice one, he had to admit. The blade was easily comparable to a large hunting knife. And the smooth, polished wooden grip had a rather delicately beautiful silver inlay. He decided to keep it. More than likely, the thug had stolen it from someone else. And without a name engraved, it would never find its way back to the owner. After the irritation of having to deal with this scum, he considered it adequate payment.
Leaving the man struggling to get back to his feet, he walked quickly into the main square of Rakkis Plaza, where something like that was far less likely to happen again. Why did it seem every other time he came to this city, it was something like this? He'd begun to hate cities all over again. Beautiful as Westmarch could be, he hadn't even come close to leaving this wealthier section of the city in the entire year he'd been visiting, and he still ran into more human scum than he cared to think about. He couldn't begin to imagine just how bad the rest of the city was.
Now in the brighter light of day and away from the human filth that had crawled out of the alley, he took a deep breath and shook it off. He had a list and needed to get it at least started before he checked in with Karshun. His first stop was a clothier. He'd already filled a medium-sized purse in preparation for the day's tasks. He just hoped his continued good name in the city would at least allow him to accomplish everything he needed. He was in no mood to deal with people who had a problem with the Priests of Rathma. Still, if he did run into issues, there were likely any number of kids running around that would help for a bit of gold. And, of course, there was Fizriah or Charsi. At worst, he could always hit up a black market dealer, always the most expensive option.
The clothier's was thankfully empty when he arrived. He'd been hesitant at first, seeing all the fancy displays near the front of the store. But, upon entering, he spied several more display pieces that were far more practical and simple. Along one wall, he spotted bolts of sturdier fabrics that were never likely to be purchased by any noble. This place likely got some custom from the wealthy but at least accepted the working class.
An aging, skinny man with wispy gray hair and a squint came out from behind a curtain. He eyed the necromancer quickly up and down, giving nothing away in his expression. Well, it was a good start, anyway. He hadn't been asked to leave immediately.
"How can I help you, Priest?"
"I need some clothing. Simple and practical," he explained. "I see some fine displays over there. If you're willing."
"Ha! Why wouldn't I be? You're that friend of Elder Cain's, aren't you?"
"I am," he replied reluctantly, not sure he wanted to drag his friend's name into anything at all right now.
"Then you're more than welcome here. That old man has been a loyal customer since he arrived in the city. Just bought new robes a few weeks ago. Said he was headed out on a journey to faraway lands. Besides, your gold is as good as anyone's."
The unconscious clenching in his gut released with an almost visible sigh of relief. He couldn't help smiling at the man's words about his friend. Cain was as regular as a clock when it came to his robes. He wore them until they looked like they belonged to a beggar. But every single one of them looked exactly like the others, give or take a few years of fading. The man eyed him closely again.
"Tall...slight build...dark colors. I should have the fabrics, but it may take me some time to fill the order. I don't have anything quite your length in the arms right now."
He set to negotiate. He so rarely got a chance to restock clothing; he was going to take full advantage of it now. There were times when his clothing could be shredded after only one use. And there were times they could last him years with lots of mending. If he was going to settle in at the Sanctified Earth monastery, he would like to be able to grab more clothing when needed without having to come back here every few months. The old man did all the measurements, writing them down on a parchment. Pyresong gave him a list long enough to make the old man furrow his brow in surprise. He warned that it would likely take weeks to complete. In response, Pyresong dropped a much larger sum of gold on the table than expected. That silenced further protests.
"I'll come by and take them off your hands as they are ready. Or you can have them delivered to Cain's workshop," he assured.
"Very well, then," the old man said, shaking his hand to seal the deal.
By now, it was late enough in the morning that Pyresong's stomach reminded him he'd skipped breakfast. Kashya not feeling well had concerned him. And, of course, with an upset stomach, she had no interest in food. Already the smell of the fresh breads and pastries had his mouth watering. But there was one vendor in particular that came to mind. He stopped by one stall that he recalled made and absolutely excellent meat pasty. Right around the corner was a stall that sold dried meats. While waiting for his fresh pasty to cool a bit, he raided the meat vendor. Now that he knew the food would not spoil in his bag, he could easily stock up. Besides, dried meats weren't likely to mold as quickly at those high altitudes and colder temperatures. While eyeing some nearby vegetables, he wondered if Karshun knew of some kind of preservation spell he could use. But, to be on the safe side, he bought only a few fresh items and then jars of preserved ones he could leave in the monastery. The vendor's eyes went wide as he casually dropped the jars into his bag. He just managed to keep the grin off his face. In the past year since it was gifted to him, he'd come to realize just how very rare his backpack was. Few had ever even heard of them, it seemed.
Slowly he was working his way north along the west side of the now bustling plaza. While he finished off the pasty, he made his way back to the apothecary, where he typically bought his healing potions. As expected, he had very few bottles to return, with so many of them having been broken. But she was more than happy to give him a fair return on what few bottles he could provide. In preparation for his new home, he went ahead and added some extra antidote, antivenin, and other medicinal items. Thankfully, she also sold bandages, poultices, and suture kits, making it a very productive stop.
Hearing Charsi's hammer going full-tilt on the other side of the plaza, he decided he could take a few minutes to stop by. He wasn't even halfway through his list at this point. And he would need to hit the market just south of her before he was done, anyway. Charsi, always happy to see him, was more than willing to give him a few practical items she kept on hand. And, of course, she would accept no form of payment. While giving her a parting hug, he managed to slip a small purse into her apron pockets anyway.
Finally, he was headed to the one place he really didn't want to be, considering how uncomfortably crowded it almost always was. As he headed for the open gates of the already packed market just south of Charsi's shop, he paused when a middle-aged man came running through the swiftly thickening crowds. He took a careful step back to get out of the man's way but was surprised when the guy stopped right in front of him. Not sure what to expect, he fixed his expression to serenity while the man caught his breath. Though the dark-haired man was somewhat very vaguely familiar, he couldn't recall where from.
"I saw you by Charsi's," the man finally said, still huffing. "You're that friend of Cain's, right? The one who knows the mage staying at the workshop?"
"I am," Pyresong answered warily. "Though I'm not staying there anymore. May I ask what this is about?"
"That Karshun fellow. Tell him I've got his bloody order already!"
"I'm sorry. What order?"
The man leaned. "I'm the guy that gets...unusual stuff. Here's what he's after."
Yakin, Pyresong finally remembered the name. The black market merchant.
The man dug into his apron pocket and produced a large midnight blue crystal that reflected the sunlight in purple hues. To his normal vision, it was quite beautiful. The piece looked to have been broken off of something much larger and had razor-sharp edges. But what really caught his attention was the strange energies it emanated. In his magical vision, it was definitely a powerful purple aura. It also made his eyes itch and feel as if they were straining when they weren't. He didn't recognize its energies any more than he had the Pathstone. And, yet, there was something vaguely familiar about it. He felt like he should know those energies, somehow, but couldn't place where from. It didn't feel threatening or dangerous in any way, but Yakin's pale face told another story. He was clearly terrified of it.
"One thousand six hundred and eighty platinum," Yakin said.
Pyresong only barely managed to keep his expression serene. That was over one and a half million gold! Likely he had easily that much in the cache back in Cain's workshop, but nowhere near that amount on him right now. Nor was he likely to ever carry that much at any one time.
"That's a lot of money for one stone. What is it?" he asked, more than a little curious.
"Stellaris Agma. He asked me to let him know the moment it came through, but he's not been by. And he's not paying me for storage," Yakin told him. "They went sifting the Aranoch for weeks to find this rock. Saw it near a bunch of lines in the sand. Shaped like bodies, I heard."
Yakin's nervousness was clear; he was practically dancing from foot to foot. Pyresong was not particularly shy of black market vendors. He'd had to use them more than once in his travels to get what basic items he needed sometimes. But it was very unusual to see one so nervous unless there was a city auditor or watch guard hanging around. Something about this felt off to him. But it wasn't his place anyway. Whatever Karshun was up to didn't matter as long as he was still hunting for the shard; he almost hoped this thing was some kind of answer to either finding or destroying the shard once they had it. Part of him wanted to get the money and come right back. If Karshun had that kind of money, he could pay him back. Maybe he could leave his purse as collateral and come back?
He tossed the idea aside as soon as he thought it. Black market vendors weren't exactly the most trustworthy of people. No, he'd just have to go find Karshun. He was essentially headed that way later today, anyway. And truthfully, Karshun probably wouldn't appreciate him being involved in his personal business.
"I will let him know," he assured, turning to head into the open market nearby.
"No, wait!"
Yakin's face twisted with fear for a second before he turned downright irritated. He seemed to be wrestling with something. Pyresong just cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly. Finally, the man held the stone out to him in a shaking hand.
"Just bring it to him, okay? You can skip the collateral. I'll get it from him later. Just get it away from my shop. Please!"
Hesitant, Pyresong asked, "Has something happened?"
"Look, just tell Karshun to settle soon, all right?"
Not liking this at all, he shielded his hand until it glowed brightly as he cautiously reached for the stone. Worse, he was more than a little concerned by the number of people now watching this unusual and very open little exchange. If Karshun was dragging him into something illegal...
He sighed mentally. There really wasn't much he could do about it at the moment. Clearly, Yakin was holding it without any protection. But some people weren't affected by such things. Being able to see and use magic often made the user far more vulnerable to effects than non-magic wielders. As he gripped it, careful of the sharp edges, nothing happened. Still, he didn't like the idea of holding it bare-handed. Yakin sighed with relief the moment it was out of his hands. Without another word, he turned and practically fled back to his shop. Still uncertain exactly what it was or could do, he carefully placed the stone in his empty side satchel. It just barely fit with the flap closed.
He didn't relish the idea of carrying around that hunk of Stellaris Agma while doing the rest of his shopping. He wasn't planning on stopping near any magic vendors that might react to it, but why take the chance? He would just go drop it off with Karshun and then get back to what he was doing. Besides, he'd planned to head that way to see if Karshun had found anything, anyway. Might as well be now. Though, he seriously doubted the mage had found anything of use that fast. He had hope, but not much in that category.
Almost as soon as he set eyes on the door to the workshop, he could tell Karshun had reinforced the shields and wards considerably. Pyresong couldn't tell if it was because he'd tweaked the mage yesterday or if he was in the middle of something he didn't want to be interrupted. As with before, he knocked and waited, eyeing all the shields and wards closely. Of course, with all the shielding, he couldn't feel anything going on inside. With the overall sounds of the city beyond this somewhat quieter street, he couldn't hear anything going on inside, either. And he had no hope of detecting any other ongoing spells or rituals; that was half the point of the shielding.
Just in case, he knocked again, more loudly.
Still nothing.
Slightly frustrated and just wanting to get that stone off his person, he sent a few tendrils of energy. The one in the bottom corner of the door was gone. As he carefully peeled back a couple of layers of shields, he realized why. Karshun had no need of it to alert him. There was a heavy-duty illusion spell wrapped around a paralysis spell waiting for anyone who crossed the shields. They would be trapped in an illusion in that doorway until Karshun returned. He wondered if that was something he'd picked up from Cain or the other way around. Either way, it was easy enough for him to see while looking for it. His eyebrows shot up a second later when he realized there was a second illusion hidden under that one.
Clever, he thought appreciatively.
But, thanks to Cain's patience and careful tutelage, it was no problem for him to bypass all of them. A few seconds later, he understood why the extra precautions had been put in place. The Astral Anchor was active, and there was a rift standing open in the middle of the room. Most likely, the mage was off hunting on the Astral Plane again. Hopefully whatever Karshun was doing would provide some direction to them. For now, though, Pyresong just wanted to drop off the stone in his satchel. With his magical vision, he could easily make out the bubble of shields around the Astral Anchor that extended almost to the door. They should not be any problem either. Those were mostly meant to contain the energies radiating off the astral anchor, not to stop anyone from crossing them.
His curiosity was piqued, though. The door on the far right, where Cain had kept the most dangerous objects and their wealth, was standing wide open. Maybe he wasn't on the Astral Plane right now.
"Karshun? Are you here?"
The lack of reply almost worried him. It was so unlike Cain or Karshun to leave that other door open that he began to feel on edge. He couldn't picture the mage being so careless. True, there had been several shields on the main door, along with a couple of layers of illusions to trap someone, but still... Suddenly the memory of what he had read yesterday floated to the surface. Karshun was hunting a murderer. What if that murderer had caught up to him here in the workshop?
Scanning again, he realized nothing was out of place. Aside from the thick, powerful energies emanating from the Astral Anchor and rift, it didn't feel like a magical battle had taken place. And there was no smell of blood, either. Of course, Karshun would never mention his other activities to a lowly Priest of Rathma, let alone ask him for help. Quickly he reminded himself, it was none of his business. He would go around the anchor and drop it on Cain's desk, and be gone. He would just leave a note and maybe come back later.
He shielded his hand and wrestled the Stellaris Agma out of his satchel. A sharp edge had gotten caught on the leather and torn a part of it. Pyresong sighed; he would just have to deal with it later. The stone pulsed and seemed to resonate with the energies in the room. Unsettled by this, he was more than ready to be rid of it.
The moment he crossed through the shield around the Astral Anchor, the stone in his hand flashed brightly. Startled, he nearly dropped the thing right there. Despite his hand opening, the hunk of crystal had its own ideas. It clung to his hand!
Before he could process what was happening with the Stellaris Agma, everything seemed to happen all at once. The magical resonance suddenly became a roar that rocked his arcane senses into distortion. And that was not all. An answering wave had come from the Astral Anchor, disorienting him completely. He staggered sideways, trying to get away from the anchor. For a moment, he felt like he was being swept away by opposing ocean waves crashing around him. Instead of getting away, he stumbled unsteadily, now trying to even just keep his footing. The workshop floor tilted and flipped like some kind of crazy see-saw. Out of the corner of his eye, he realized the rift had begun flashing and pulsing as if in tune with the Stellaris Agma. The portal had gone completely unstable.
Panicking, he tried to get back outside the shield again.
Another set of waves swept around him from both sources; this time in sync rather than opposing each other. The energies had harmonized. Caught in the middle, he felt no more substantial than a mist. It was a feeling he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with but was absolutely unexpected. The shock of it made him completely lose sight of the workshop and, for that matter, the entire material world around him. He felt like he was being pulled and squeezed through something. There was a brief sensation of being torn in half somehow. Then the darkness of the rift swallowed him whole.
On the other side, Pyresong found himself standing in an unfamiliar cemetery. Much as with the last time he'd been on the Astral Plane with Karshun, everything was faded, ghostly even. Unlike the previous time, however, everything felt entirely different. He was fading somehow, weakening. The sensation of something bleeding right out of him was so familiar from Hell that his mind very nearly went numb. Reflexively, he tried to shield himself. His attempts to shield himself from whatever was happening only weakened him further. His energy and essence were bleeding away rapidly.
And still, he could not release the stone!
Try as he might, the thing had some kind of grip on his hand that it would not release. He even tried spirit fire, and nothing happened. Looking over his shoulder thinking to go back out through the portal, he was horrified to see it was gone. Distracted, he almost didn't realize he was now moving forward. The stone in his hand was tugging at him, commanding him to move. He knew he wasn't going to be able to stay here very long, but he could see no way out, either. He didn't know how to make a rift here, and he wasn't certain his usual portals around Sanctuary would even work.
Before he could try, though, something appeared in the mist ahead of him. He could hear voices...and a battle? Giving in to the stone's demands in his near panic, he stumbled forward. He tried to ignore the feeling of bleeding away and focus on whatever was ahead, whatever this bloody thing apparently dragged him here for.
Out of the fog materialized some kind of powerful magical construct, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. On the ground was a stone and crystal circle etched in dozens of magical runes and sigils. Hovering above it were several stone and crystal slabs, equally laden with runes and sigils. They hovered around a center crystal that looked exactly like the one in Karshun's Astral Anchor. But this construct resembled some kind of magical flower far more than Karshun's construct. The powerful energies were too similar, though, to be anything else. The central orb was many, many times bigger and more powerful than Karshun's, as well.
As he stumbled toward the thing, the stone in his hand finally released him. It flew across the distance many feet away and went right up and into the central orb of the flower. As soon as it made contact, the whole world around him flashed a bright purple that blinded him even without his magical vision. Disoriented, he stumbled and fell to his knees. He was still bleeding away and trapped. When he finally blinked away the visual distortion, he found he was no longer alone.
A mage in ornate purple and gold robes was reaching toward the flower. Another mage in very similar but less ornate robes was on his knees a few feet away. His elderly face was twisted in pain as he bled freely from a wound on his chest. Other mages in nearly identical robes littered the ground. That explained the sound of battle he had heard a few seconds ago. Having no idea what was going on here, Pyresong just stared at the ghostly images while the still-standing mage used his own enormous power to extract the blue orb from the center of the magical construct.
"Destiny belongs...to the stars. It is not to be twisted...by heretics like you!" the elderly mage wheezed out through pained breaths.
The mage, now holding the damaged orb, slung a fireball at the old mage while he laughed manically. The laughter was so chillingly crazed that it made him shudder mentally. The elderly mage screamed in agony for a few seconds before going still. The vision immediately began to fade after that.
Regaining some semblance of mental functionality again, Pyresong scrambled back to his feet, again looking for an exit. The Stellaris Agma reappeared in his hand, making him swear violently. He was noticeably weaker and already draining quickly. There was no telling where else this thing would drag him if he let it. He tried to fling it away while focusing his mind to open a rift, or portal, or anything to get out of there. If he didn't get out soon, this place would kill him!
"How long have you been in there?!" he heard Karshun's terrified voice all around him. "Grab the tether! Quickly!"
A blue ribbon of energy appeared only inches in front of him. He didn't waste any time questioning. Reflexively, he grabbed it with his free hand and pulled, focusing his mind on getting the hells out of this place. The stone in his hand flashed brightly as he felt his whole body being tugged and squeezed again. He'd been so completely disoriented and distracted he hadn't even realized he wasn't even on the Astral Plane physically. The tearing sensation also made sense; he'd been ripped out of his own body forcefully. Being slammed back into his body now was almost as badly disorienting. He was lying on the workshop floor, clearly having at least bruised his head on something when he collapsed.
"What the hells were you thinking?" Karshun shouted, closing the rift.
He released the stone the second he could feel his hand. But, still disoriented, he couldn't make it farther than sitting upright on his knees. His limbs were still trembling from the jolt of adrenaline. And the dizziness that assaulted him made it hard to focus on anything other than breathing instead of vomiting at the moment. Above him, Karshun went into a full-on rant that he barely even heard at first while he struggled to just calm himself.
"To take even a step into the astral on your own...foolish beyond measure!" Karshun was ranting in full swing now. "The stars reflect the past, present, and everywhere at once! Our minds and bodies cannot endure it for long. Even the magic of the Taan has its limits. You should never take the risk without knowing what it affords you!"
Pyresong was ever so grateful he was on his knees at the moment. Had he been on his feet, he would have punched the mage into silence without a second thought. As it was, he was in no mood to listen to a ranting lesson on his assumed stupidity.
"Damn it, Karshun! I didn't hop in for an afternoon stroll. This bloody thing pulled me in."
He snatched up the now-inert stone and threw it at the mage. Karshun, stunned speechless, only now actually saw the thing. He just barely caught it, dropping his staff to the floor with a clatter in the process.
"How—"
"Yakin said you were searching for this stone," Pyresong cut him off.
Tired of looking up at the mage he struggled to his unsteady feet.
"It made your rift unstable and dragged me in. And it looks a lot like the one I saw in your vision. Care to explain?"
"Vision?" Karshun echoed, eyeing him warily. "What did you see?"
Having regained at least some measure of calm, he decided to forgo the verbal barbs and dancing. At this point, he was involved whether he wanted to be or not.
"I know you're hunting a murderer. And I saw him kill more mages. What was that blue stone he took from the construct?"
Karshun's dark eyes widened as he spoke. Then he seemed to regain his mental equilibrium. His expression turned dark as he looked at the stone in his hands. For once, he forgot to hold onto his arrogant facade.
"You saw the Astral Bloom. An arcane harness of considerable power. What you were holding is a material...key to its construction. A fragment of the Stellaris Agma. With it we can divine others like it. I need this to find him."
"Then let's get started."
Karshun glared at him coldly. "I don't need your help."
"I'm not offering. I'm telling you," he told the mage just as coldly.
The mage's lips thinned angrily. But Pyresong could see there was something going on behind those dark eyes, a twisting of emotions that he could not quite identify. He just waited. After a few seconds, Karshun huffed and held the stone out toward the Astral Anchor with one hand. The other he extended out to Pyresong, who gripped it to share the vision. As the Astral Anchor lit up, he could again feel the waves of energy pulsing between the blue stone in the anchor and the one in Karshun's hand. This time, though, he was prepared and shielded, just in case.
They fell forward into a scene that felt to Pyresong as familiar as their first trip to Stormpoint; no sense of being drained here, he noted with relief. Yet, villagers were being slaughtered by men in some kind of robes. Then he spotted the familiar robes of Terror Cultists. The poor villagers were running, screaming, trying to get away, but there were just too many of these mages. They were cutting and slashing with weapons, and some even using magic like lightning or fire. He could hear their screams as faint echoes across the Astral Plane.
"The town of Tembury," he heard Karshun speaking clearly next to him. "A particularly ordinary place. But one he has threatened before."
The mage paused. Then Pyresong felt Karshun's hand in his own clench painfully hard for a moment. He suddenly struggled to free his hand from the necromancer's grip.
"It is happening now! I need to go!"
"Not without me," he warned, refusing to let them get separated.
They were suddenly back in the workshop. Karshun growled something obscene about Pyresong and then opened an actual rift with the Astral Anchor. He threw the stone at Pyresong as if to distract him. He caught it in his left hand by reflex, not really wanting it. But Karshun was already throwing himself through the portal, and he had no choice but to follow or let go and be left behind. He wasn't about to let Karshun run into danger alone.
The moment they were in the portal on a waypoint just outside a village, Karshun violently twisted his hand free with a strong electrical shock that forced his fingers to spasm painfully. Then he began to run down a path ahead. Muttering vile obscenities about the mage in return, Pyresong shoved the blue stone in his side satchel and shrugged off his backpack. Keeping Karshun in sight, he followed, retrieving his scythe and shield.
"What are you after?" Karshun asked, his voice distracted. "Why here?"
A few seconds later, they approached the outskirts of the village to find themselves confronted with Terror Cultists. Without a second thought, he filled his scythe with energy and began cutting them down. Karshun sent blasts of energy from his staff to do the same. Further away, in the village square ahead, they both heard the cultist priest's voice calling out.
"The flame beyond is lit! The realms will be as one!"
He had no time to question when he and Karshun cut down the six cultists. Surrounding a stone monolith in the town square, they found the source of the voice, along with more cultists.
"Pass through the stars!" the priest called.
A powerful blue orb began glowing in the center of the monolith. All over the ground in the village center surrounding the monolith were dozens of villagers and guard bodies. The priest and half a dozen other cultists disappeared as if they were illusions. One of the badly wounded soldiers reached out from where he lay near the monolith.
"Karshun! More of them this time! Please help!"
Pyresong was already about to reach for a healing potion from his backpack. Briefly, he regretted not having the time to grab his belt so he could hook his scythe. Karshun threw out his arm with his staff to stop him from rushing in.
"It's surely a trap. Hold here. I'll try to save him. Guard this spot!"
For one second, he wanted to argue with Karshun. He paused reluctantly. This whole thing felt wrong somehow. But he knew this was mage business, and he was at least somewhat out of his element here. Karshun walked forward carefully, but it didn't matter. Pyresong was already in motion when the first wave of cultists began materializing in a circle around Karshun. As they moved together to cut them down, more began to appear. And then more.
"Will they never stop?" Karshun growled.
"Get behind me!" he warned, moving into a cover position.
Thankfully, Karshun moved toward the monolith and away as directed without argument. Pyresong began detonating the corpses in every direction but behind him, hoping Karshun was smart enough to keep himself and the guard shielded. It worked to get rid of the thirty or so cultists that had tried to overwhelm them. But then, a set of nine well-shielded cultists appeared. They appeared in sets of three, too far apart for him to reach easily with his scythe. Reflexively he fired off a couple of bone spears at the furthest set. Those were deflected easily off the shields. At the same time, the cult mages aimed thick ropes of power at Karshun, binding him and lifting him off the ground before he could even try to get at the ones closest to him.
"Stop, or he dies!" another priest called.
With a mental snarl of frustration, he pulled back on the rage. He backed up helplessly toward Karshun now hovering well above him.
"Help! I beg you!" the guard pleaded on the ground, only a foot away.
Feeling trapped, he positioned himself protectively over the guard. It was no use. A moment later, the evil mage from his vision appeared on the other side of the guard. He laughed wickedly as he used his power to fling the necromancer away, almost across the village square. Unable to stop his flight, Pyresong curled into a ball to roll with the impact. His shield had apparently absorbed the worst of the magical shock that would have likely rendered him unconscious, if not dead. The impact with the ground still jarred him painfully on his left side. On his unarmored left arm, it felt like the shield might have fractured his arm just above the elbow. But there was no time to check. He went completely limp while he rolled.
Deciding to use this dismissal to his advantage, he lay there as if unconscious, waiting for an opening. He struggled to remain still while the mage sent a slash of energy through the guard, silencing his pleas forever. Karshun still hung helplessly bound in the air, struggling against the ropes of power that bound him.
"Damn you, Othva!" Karshun raged.
The hellishly-tainted mage reached up to the monolith and pulled out the blue stone, intact this time. Then Othva hovered off the ground and around to Karshun's front. He laughed right in Karshun's face, holding up the blue stone orb.
Realizing no one was paying any attention to him at all at this point, Pyresong poured energy into his scythe and rose to his knees. The cult mages nearest him were close enough he could fling a wide, powerful blade of energy. The others farther away could likely be disrupted, if not killed, with some bone spears. And the furthest ones were standing right atop some corpses he could use. Carefully he dropped his shield to the ground beside him to avoid making any sound as he prepared for the triple assault.
"Dear Karshun, my former compatriot," Othva drawled. "The Astral Bloom is ready to open. It doesn't need you after all."
Pyresong swung his blade low. He poured all of his energy into this one swipe hoping to get through their shields and manage to hit all of them hard enough to at least break their concentration on Karshun. With his left hand, he flung a barrage of bone spears at the same time he sent out a wave of energy to ignite the corpses. It partially worked. All nine of the ones binding Karshun were at least wounded, but Othva disappeared before it could reach him. At least the spell holding Karshun had been disrupted.
Ignoring the pain in his left arm, he grabbed up his shield again as Karshun fell nimbly to the ground, already going on the attack. The necromancer quickly finished off the last with bone spears and was already looking for the next threat. When none presented itself, he turned back to Karshun. He was relieved to see there were no obvious wounds.
"Are you injured?" he asked.
Karshun, looking lost for a moment, just shook his head and turned away.
Relieved, Pyresong accepted it for now. Broken or not, his left arm hurt like hell. He took the opportunity to flex it. No white-hot agony or grinding. He could ignore it for now. What he couldn't ignore was the mage's unexpected reaction. The man's shoulders slumped visibly as he looked around at the carnage. Karshun stared in what Pyresong could only describe as heartbroken, taking in all the bodies littering the village square. Guards, men, children, women...they were all dead. There was no sound or sign of life anywhere in the area. The devastation on the mage's face tugged at something in him that bled away his remaining anger. He didn't have the heart to even snipe at the very obvious opportunity when Karshun spoke.
"One more failure," Karshun said, his voice thick with sorrow. "So many more deaths."
"It's not your doing," he said gently, unable to ignore the man's naked pain and guilt.
The mage snapped back to the present, glaring angrily at him. "You always speak this way! Even when you make the wrong choice. It's naive!"
Apparently, the mage didn't seem to have the heart to keep shouting. He stared at the body of a little girl at the base of the monolith, his voice heavy with guilt and grief.
"My failings deserve no special excuses. The souls of the dead don't care how hard we try."
He could appreciate what Karshun was feeling. He'd been there, more than he wanted to think about right now. And he didn't know Karshun that well. But he knew the type well enough. The fact that Cain had considered him a true and dear friend had already clued him into the fact that there was far more to Karshun than just arrogance and skill. But he knew this was no time to fall into that kind of self-flagellation, either. This time, he hoped to not only stab the man verbally but slap him right out of this painful funk. Pyresong snorted in derision.
"Trust me, the souls of the dead care more about their murderers than they do about you."
The mage didn't take the bait. He just stared across the village square as if mentally tallying the bodies he could see. Pyresong gave up on that tactic. With a sigh, he opted to try getting more information. Karshun typically loved to hear himself talk. And everyone was some kind of idiot, except for Cain.
"What is the Astral Bloom? And how do Terror Cultists fit into this?" he asked.
He carefully kept his voice laced with enough curiosity to get Karshun's attention. At least this tactic had a bit more success, though he was still concerned about the mage's obvious suffering.
"Othva and I made the Astral Bloom," the mage replied hollowly. "To amplify our divination. Reach beyond Sanctuary. The Arcanists Juris expelled us. And sealed it away. I can only guess he's using the cultists for manpower. Likely he promised this power to Diablo."
Snapping out of his dark thoughts, Karshun took a deep breath. He seemed to visibly shake himself. He motioned a few feet away, opening a portal that glowed purple to Pyresong's magical vision. Apparently, Karshun's portals could cut through the Astral Plane. He knew he would likely never be able to utilize such magics in the way the mage did, but it was a useful tool to consider. Plus, the kinds of portals he made could not even be opened in Cain's workshop due to all the shielding that had been placed on them.
He followed Karshun through the astral portal back into the workshop. There, the mage set aside his staff and headed to the still-open side room. He recovered some maps. Pyresong set aside his shield and scythe so he could get to his backpack and a healing potion. He needed to deal with his left arm before it stiffened or swelled up. Karshun glanced at him coldly as if he wanted to say something but then appeared to change his mind.
"All of his victims...they are mine as well," Karshun said firmly, throwing him a look that clearly expected some kind of argument. "So long as he stays a step beyond me. Maybe you he cannot predict. I..." he sighed heavily, unfurling a map on the floor. "He clearly wants to reactivate our work. Perhaps he's already succeeded. With so many souls..."
He quickly downed the light healing potion to stop the painful throbbing in his arm. Whatever animosity Karshun had thrown at him in the past, he couldn't bring himself to be so heartless as to verbally stab at him right now despite the many opportunities. He watched silently while the mage tapped the map on the floor with his staff. An image of the map appeared, hovering in the air between them and the Astral Anchor. It was a fairly detailed map of all of Sanctuary, with several larger spots that glowed brightly; and a few more that were more faint.
"These are all the locations where he's been killing," Karshun explained. "Othva can find sacrifices anywhere. Why Tembury? Why more than once?"
He eyed the map, it wasn't detailed enough for him to be certain, but none of the locations seemed to line up with major cities he recalled from other maps. Yet there was something there. There had to be a pattern of some kind with some significance. Organized and detailed mages like Karshun never did anything randomly. There was always a meaning, no matter how irrational to everyone else. And, for that matter, most ritual killers were no different. They found meaning in their kills and sometimes even the locations of the murders. Pyresong had encountered some of those kinds of organized killers in his travels as well. But, at the moment, what he was seeing was just so many sparkling, meaningless lights.
"Tembury isn't unique on its own...but among a group..." Karshun mused.
"It's not about Tembury. It's something bigger to Othva," Pyresong told him, going with his instincts and experience.
"What do you mean?"
"Show me the places he's been, in the order," he replied, still eyeing the map.
Karshun's brow furrowed like he was about to snipe at him. Pyresong cocked an eyebrow in return. This was no time for a verbal sparring match. He did want to put a stop to this murderer for disrupting the Balance in so many places. So very many sparkling dots on the map indicated he'd killed hundreds already. That many lives lost for the mage's own personal gain was bad enough. But now Terror Cultists were involved, making it that much worse. A part of him even hoped this would lead them to the Bride and the shard. One way or another, he was going to help put an end to this. And if Karshun was as remorseful as he sounded, he would let a lowly Priest of Rathma help in whatever small way he could.
Karshun seemed to realize this and nodded. He returned to the other room for a moment and brought back a journal. He flipped through a few pages almost all the way to the end of the journal. There, he had a complete list, by the looks of it. He watched while Karshun used a glowing fingertip on the hovering map. A bright line began to form from near Mount Arreat, then southeast to someplace in the Dreadlands, to the southeast to a place in Aranoch, then east to Kehjistan then northeast Hawezar. Then from there, northwest to the Dry Steppes.
"Wait, go back to Hawezar," Pyresong told him, still listening to his instincts.
Karshun raised an eyebrow this time but backed up, making the line disappear.
"Now, start with the next set."
"How did you know they were sets?" Karshun asked, incredulously.
He couldn't help smirking. "You just told me."
For a moment, Karshun looked furious. But he did return to the map and started drawing again from the Dry Steppes to Ivgorod to Aranoch and another place in south Aranoch. He paused and then began a new line from Khanduras to Aranoch to Kehjistan to Hawezar. Not all of them were different places; many were crossovers. By the time he started the fourth set, Pyresong had a suspicion that itched in the back of his mind insistently.
"The connections are too straight. Try curving the connections."
"What?"
Karshun stared at him like he had just spouted gibberish. Pyresong bit back a reflexive retort and explained. Though his finger didn't glow or manipulate the map, he swung it around in a curve compared to Karshun's straight lines. Karshun scrutinized the map and then swiped across the whole thing, clearing it of all but the sparkling dots. Then he began again with more curvature, carefully referencing the list.
"He's working in specific circles. Look, a smaller one, then a larger one. Then a massive curve so big it can't even be encompassed by a map of the world." But he just couldn't resist at least one verbal jab. "Try thinking like a summoner sometime. They tend to work with summoning circles."
To his surprise, the jab failed entirely. Karshun stared at the map wide-eyed as if he hadn't even heard the obvious sarcasm.
"Not summoning circles...ley lines," Karshun said, his voice faint with shock. "Energy gathers at places of power, and ley lines move between them. The lines drift; they are difficult to follow, even for the Taan. But...sometimes they cross one another. That's why he's returning to specific places."
"It's circles. Regardless, he's working through patterns," he insisted gently. "Significance sometimes only makes sense to the killer, but it is there. He's stealing power from multiple places at once?"
The mage shook his head, still in disbelief at the necromancer's accurate observations.
"From all over the world. That's why his attacks have been erratic. He has been trying to match the stars' alignment. Infuse the calyx of the Astral Bloom with their strength. And there's one more. In the center of that smallest circle, we will find him."
He drew one more circle right in the middle of the Dry Steppes that Pyresong could easily see fell perfectly within all the other circles. When he tapped his finger in the center, it lit up a bright blue. Karshun was pale as he began to realize what was happening.
"How do you know it's not on that circle?" Pyresong insisted.
"That location looks up at one specific place in the sky," Karshun started. Then he shook his head. "No time to explain. It's just too complex. If he succeeds, he will be able to grip any corner of Sanctuary and...peel it back. Expose it to the realms beyond."
"At least now we have an idea of where he's headed."
Karshun's look was both grim and sad, Pyresong noted.
"Yes. Our erstwhile home. Let us pray we are not too late." the mage said, dismissing the map.
"I need a minute," he warned before the mage could open a rift.
He was already pulling from his backpack. He threw the mage a cold look of warning. He was going to follow one way or another. Karshun clearly didn't want to wait, but Pyresong wasn't going anywhere without his armor. The mage muttered darkly under his breath but did wait while he donned his armor. The second he hefted his shield, Karshun disappeared through the portal. Putting aside his irritation with the mage's impatience, he stepped through just as it began to close around him. He definitely had the impression that Karshun would be more than happy to leave him behind at this point.
He found them stepping through to a stone brick walkway. Being on the other side of the world, he wasn't entirely surprised to see the sun had already set in the west, and it was growing darker by the minute. But that wasn't what caught his attention. Already there was blood in the air and bodies littering the ground before them.
"Too late again," Karshun growled dangerously. "They're everywhere!"
The mage took off up the stairs and down another path toward a set of open wrought iron gates. Already the necromancer was summoning skeletal warriors and mages as they ran. Just beyond that entrance to this place, there were easily a dozen cultists battling with a couple of young mages. The two of them jumped in immediately to thin out the cultists.
"Heretic!" one of the mages said, catching sight of Karshun. "We don't need you!"
As the last of the cultists fell, the other mage turned to face them; her staff pointed directly at Karshun.
"You reach beyond your grasp!" she growled.
The young male did the same with his staff. "Speak, then begone. Your presence invites madness."
Karshun had already retracted his staff and put his arms out at his sides. "Othva has charged the calyx of the Astral Bloom. His power will tear the walls between Sanctuary and the realms beyond. Let me into the Observatory, and I will deal with him."
"Arrogance as predictable as the sunrise. Only you can defeat him, is that it? Or do you seek to reclaim your creation?" the young male sneered.
What do you think you sound like? Arrogance is the trademark of all mages, Pyresong couldn't help thinking with amusement.
Though he kept his expression completely blank, he couldn't help smirking inside at the idea of the two arrogant mages trading barbs. But this was no time for it. Right now, he just wanted to defuse the situation.
"Karshun knows the...artifact better than anyone. He's the right person to stop it. And I'll make sure he does," he added before either of them could say more.
The young woman turned to him even as the other one opened his mouth to obviously sneer at a Priest of Rathma. But the woman cut off the young man before he could speak.
"I acknowledge your aid, Priest, but Karshun is not to be relied upon. That is why we exiled him. We will attend to our own defenses," she finished coldly.
"He sees through your defenses!" Karshun jumped in, clearly angry and desperate. "His plans are already in place. You're just waiting to die. If you won't step aside...I will make you."
Pyresong did something then that is an absolutely terrible, and sometimes suicidal, decision in any other circumstances. He grabbed Karshun's staff before he could lower it at them. Karshun stared at him as if he really had gone mad but withheld whatever spell he'd been preparing, much to the necromancer's relief.
"Wait," Pyresong started. "We can—"
He didn't get to finish. Beyond this courtyard near the large wooden doors to the tower, Othva and more cultists materialized through a giant portal that flooded the whole area with hellish energies. Pyresong took note of the two larger arrivals on either side of Othva that looked to be some kind of berserkers. Each of those two carried enormous dual swords that stank of hellish corruption. One touch from those on bare skin would kill, even without it being a fatal blow. Behind Othva were four more cultists who looked to be mages or priests. Every single one of them stank of Hell's corruption, even without his magical sight.
"Always dragged down by the tiny minds," Othva sneered, hovering above the ground as if too good to walk like a mortal.
Pyresong was already sizing up his targets as he subtly sent energy into his blade. Whatever blue crystal construct Othva had in his right hand felt like some kind of phylactery. He had never really cared for them, favoring a shield, but he was well versed in them. His master had ensured his education, if for no other reason than to understand their threat, and the exploitable weaknesses they created. This one clearly had a direct connection to the powers of Hell. Though it hadn't been directly touched or enhanced by the shard as far as he could tell, it was still potent.
"People just don't listen to you, Karshun." Othva laughed darkly. "I can't imagine why."
When Othva's hands began to glow, Karshun reflexively put up a small shield around the four of them. As expected, Othva's attacks were pure hellish energies raining down from above. The wicked mage laughed again when he saw his attacks weren't going to get through Karshun's shield. Instead, he turned to face the doors of the tower behind him. With a gesture, pulling from the phylactery again, he shattered the doors to dust. Then there was no more time to watch. The two hulking berserkers screamed as they dove forward to kill.
Karshun's shield thwarted the first attack. But Pyresong wasn't going to hide. He dove out from under the shield slicing at one's legs with his energy blade. Even as it fell, he used the return stroke to cut its head off. Startled by the necromancer's sudden movement, Karshun withheld his offensive spell and held shield for a few seconds longer. It was all he needed to finish this. The other hulk was now turning its attention on what it thought was the easier, lone target outside the shield. It was sadly mistaken. He hit it first in the face with some blinding spirit fire and then buried the top half of his scythe in its chest and pulled, feeling the satisfying crunch of bones. As it, too, collapsed, Karshun recovered from the surprise and blasted its face off with lightning.
"He sealed it. Damn!" Karshun growled.
Karshun raced past him toward the obliterated doors. Now there was a powerful red barrier with a visible magical seal blocking it. Pyresong was looking for any weak point he or Karshun might be able to exploit. But this one was just too solid, too thick. Carefully he probed it with a tendril of energy and received a painful backlash for his efforts. Thankfully, his armor absorbed most of it. He even looked at the windows above. There had to be another way in!
"The shield is too strong," Karshun told him. "We're losing our lead. Again!"
"Is there another way in?"
"No...but..." Karshun lowered his staff, but not at the barrier. "I can draw the astral power here, through myself. That may make up the difference."
"How?" he asked, still looking up at potential ways to get in, even just a balcony.
The mage ignored him as he took the crystal orb off the top of his staff. Seeing the unusual movement out of the corner of his vision, Pyresong pulled his attention back to Karshun. The crystal glowed a bright, pale blue, even without magical sight. The necromancer had a bad feeling about this. Something about the way Karshun looked both desperate and grimly determined didn't sit well. But he obviously did not know enough to even give an opinion on most of this. He took a step back. He fully expected the mage to use the orb directly on this barrier. Instead, Karshun slammed it into his own forehead, making him freeze in shock.
"What are you doing?" he asked in disbelief.
Karshun was in no condition to answer. He grunted and spasmed in pain for a moment while the orb bonded itself into the flesh. Pyresong dropped his scythe and caught him when his knees gave out. For a few seconds, the mage seemed to be wrestling for control of his own body. Terrified, all he could do was hold the struggling mage and watch helplessly. When Karshun went still and opened his eyes, they were glowing the same pale blue as the bright object now lodged in his forehead.
Without a word, he pushed Pyresong out of the way and then threw himself at the barrier. His whole body glowed a vibrant, pale blue as he actually began ripping away the seal on the barrier with his bare hands. For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. Then the mage screamed in frustration, pulling harder. He caught Karshun as he collapsed for a second time when the barrier evaporated, its seal broken.
"What have you done?" he asked, fearing for the mage.
He glared up at Pyresong and then shoved him away again. No longer glowing as brightly but struggling to catch his breath, Karshun pushed himself back to his unsteady feet and crossed into the dark halls beyond. Pyresong grabbed his scythe off the ground and followed, still not liking whatever it was Karshun had done to himself. He just prayed it would be reversible.
"We trained here," Karshun explained, his voice distant and hollow. "All of the Taan did...to see beyond...to reach beyond. Within reason." he laughed darkly at that last statement before he continued. "Othva is as familiar with this place as I am. He has cloaked the tower in darkness. Turning it against us. There will be ambushes."
"Then it's a good thing I have a real mage with me," he quipped, trying to pull Karshun back from whatever dark place he was now in.
He didn't need to be a mage to know that Karshun was no longer just in this world. Whatever that headpiece from the staff had done, the mage looked to be struggling against whatever power was flooding him right now, and it worried him. It worried him all the more that Karshun didn't take the obvious opening to fire off some snarky remark right back.
"I certainly hope you kept the Stellaris Agma. It should help us find the path."
The mage's voice wasn't just hollow anymore; it had an echoing quality that reminded the necromancer all too much of his encounters with ghosts and other dislocated spirits.
"Would I get rid of something you made such a big fuss about?"
That one worked. The mage's lips quirked into an almost grin. Then his glowing eyes seemed to focus a bit as he visibly shuddered. Whatever it was, he shook it off quickly.
"Come on."
His first steps into the darker darkness beyond the doors were unsteady as if he was having trouble controlling his own body. Hooking his scythe, Pyresong steadied the mage with a grip on his arm. Karshun nodded his thanks but said nothing. That acceptance alone from such a fiercely proud man concerned him. The obvious gratitude downright frightened him. He had more than half expected Karshun to pull away or even lash out. Clearly, whatever was going on either had him incredibly distracted, or he was desperate enough to do anything to stop Othva...even swallow his pride. This wasn't the Karshun he'd come to know. But the mage was clearly focused on something else. Maybe two minutes later, he stopped.
"Both sides," Karshun warned, hollowly.
He maneuvered himself ahead of the mage protectively. In the inky blackness, he could see nothing. Switching to magical vision, however, revealed six cultists hiding behind columns that lined the walls. So far, none of the cultists he had encountered here had been touched by a shard; but were still easy enough to detect. He sent his skeletons ahead to draw them out. When they were out in the open, he cut them down with a couple of blades of energy. He replaced his damaged skeletons with a couple of skeletal mages that would hover rather than walk, making much less noise. Even as he walked silently back to Karshun, he realized the mage's own steps sounded like stomping to his ears. There was nothing for it. The now clumsy mage appeared to only be half-controlling his body as if he was somehow out of sync. He would just have to rely on Karshun to warn them of any further ambushes.
"Turn...left," Karshun said a few minutes later, his voice still hollow.
Pyresong stayed beside the mage in case he lost his balance again. He seemed to have figured out how to control his walking as they continued, growing somewhat more steady. But he was clearly not seeing anything in the space around him. He had the sense that Karshun was seeing well beyond and even ahead of them. His suspicions were almost confirmed when Karshun stumbled on a single stair in the corridor. Again, he steadied the mage but said nothing.
After a minute of traveling down the wide, ornate corridor, Karshun began mumbling something Pyresong couldn't make sense of. It didn't even sound like any known language he had ever encountered. And it didn't matter. When Karshun needed him to understand, he spoke plainly enough.
"Left."
They went down yet another corridor lined with rooms he could not see in the darkness. Whatever else this place was, its dimensions and shape in no way lined up with what they had seen on the outside. Pyresong's magical vision showed him that space here was warped, very much as it was in Kulle's library. Things were far larger than they appeared, even to normal vision. As Karshun led them out onto some kind of circular platform, he was nearly dizzy with the feeling of being out in open space, surrounded by nothing but stars. He switched back to normal vision just to keep the disorientation at bay. But he could see no way off the platform besides going back.
Karshun was silent and still for several seconds while Pyresong looked around uncertainly. Obviously, there had to be a way forward. But all he found was some kind of pillar with a three-dimensional star-like object hovering over it at the far end. Karshun was again murmuring in another language. It sounded to Pyresong like something vaguely familiar, though he couldn't recall where from. After nearly a minute, the mage seemed to shake himself out of whatever else he was seeing. He seemed to sense the necromancer's confusion. He led them toward a pillar at the far end.
"I can bridge this gap. Give me a minute," he explained, sounding almost breathless.
He watched curiously while Karshun reached toward the star with blue glowing hands. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not what he saw next. He wasn't sure if the mage had just lost his concentration or some outside force had assaulted them that he just couldn't see. When the star lit up brightly, a sort of purple glowing window opened in the air in front of them. Karshun staggered and clung to the pillar to steady himself. Pyresong wrapped an arm around his chest to keep him from falling to the ground. In the window in the air, Pyresong could see two mages standing before an Astral Bloom, nearly identical to the one he'd seen when the Stellaris Agma had dragged him into the rift. The voices that he heard from the vision confirmed his suspicions.
"That's...all it took? Our souls are bound to the beyond?" Othva said, clearly amazed.
Karshun's arrogant voice was all too familiar when the dark-haired young mage beside Othva replied.
"The masters always say things will be dangerous...to guard their power."
Karshun pushed away from the pillar, trying to stand on his own. He swayed unsteadily, and Pyresong steadied him again. The window, or whatever it was, faded rapidly. But now, there was a bridge of light forming over the gap beyond the pillar and glowing star. The mage pulled himself back upright, struggling for control.
"My...judgment...was lacking in those days," Karshun said with a dark laugh. "We need to keep moving."
"You're barely standing. Give yourself a moment."
"Focus!" Karshun snapped. "There will be traps ahead on the left."
Resolutely, Karshun walked ahead, his whole body glowing faintly now, even without his magical vision. Pyresong still had a terrible feeling about whatever was happening to the mage, but he was right. They couldn't stop now. He wished he could just go on ahead, but if there were some kind of magical traps, they needed to stay together.
Beyond the platform, they were back into corridors. Karshun motioned to their left and followed only a step behind Pyresong. On the alert for magical traps, he switched back to his magical sight in the darkness. A few seconds later, he was glad he did. The traps were entirely invisible in the murky darkness. Only his magical sight caught them. On the floor, spread out in various places, wicked-looking circles were outlined in violet light. There was just enough space between them and the walls to maneuver around most of them. One was far too large to easily get around. Though Karshun seemed a bit more steady, he couldn't risk the mage taking a wrong step into that circle. Rather than waiting for direction from Karshun, Pyresong sent one of his skeletal mages to trigger it. In an instant, there was a flash of violet light, and the skeletal mage crumbled to dust. These were lethal traps. He'd sensed it clearly when it had flashed a bright purple. They skirted around a few more as they rounded a corner.
"Ambush," Karshun whispered weakly.
He had already spotted them. He threw some spirit fire ahead of himself to blind the cultists and then cut down the four of them easily. The winding corridors already had Pyresong lost. Karshun, stumbling again, led them onward, his breathing becoming labored. His words, though spoken in another language almost seemed possess an argumentative feel as they changed from one language to another. As the light had spread from his forehead, it seemed to be more and more of a struggle to control whatever it was that was happening to him. All Pyresong could do was be close enough to catch him and pray whatever he'd done wasn't permanent.
"Lost in the darkness..." the mage murmured sadly. "So lost... So cold..."
Those were spoken clearly in the Common tongue Pyresong had spoken his whole life. Yet, something about those words and the hollow, distant tone made Pyresong shudder. He couldn't help reflexively wondering what Karshun was seeing. He still all too vividly remembered that time after his soul had been shattered. That familiar feeling... He shook it off quickly. There was no way Karshun could know about that. His suspicious mind was jumping to conclusions.
Halfway down another black corridor, Karshun seemed to lose control of something again. He stood perfectly still and unusually silent, staring at nothing for several seconds. Pyresong caught his shoulders to keep him from falling flat on his face. The mage gasped and groaned, struggling again. When his hands flew to the sides of his head as if in pain, another purple-glowing window opened a few feet ahead of them. He held on carefully when Karshun's knees gave out, and he crumpled to the floor. Again he saw Othva and a much younger Karshun.
"You bound their souls by force?" Karshun asked, appalled. "That's too far!"
"Power doesn't come cheaply to all of us!" Othva shouted back.
Apparently, Othva was ready when the much younger Karshun launched his attack. The fireballs Karshun flung at him bounced right back off Othva's shields. Then he threw something that glowed green, knocking Karshun right off his feet with a cry of pain. The window faded again almost immediately after that.
Still holding Karshun by the shoulders, his heart stuttered fearfully when the mage went limp, his hands falling to his sides. He knelt beside the mage, holding him up to get a better look. With the bright blue glow where Karshun's eyes had been, he only knew the man was maybe semi-conscious because they were still open. He had the feeling the mage wasn't even seeing the present anymore. But he was too still. For a moment, he couldn't tell if Karshun was even breathing. Stifling his rising fear, Pyresong shook him gently.
"Karshun?"
Nothing. He shook harder.
"Karshun!"
The glowing eyes blinked, the lights flickered out for a second. He appeared to take a slow, deliberate breath. Afraid he might have actually lost consciousness, Pyresong smacked him gently on the face.
"Stay with me, Karshun. Are you holding up?"
Recovering himself, Karshun growled and shoved him away roughly. Then he groaned as he struggled to regain his feet on his own. Sighing with relief, Pyresong gripped his arms gently to help him anyway.
"Enough...patronizing. Just carry on," Karshun whispered weakly.
The fading echo of Karshun's voice chilled him. But the mage gave him no time to even consider when he staggered away. A couple minutes and another long corridor later, Karshun stumbled to a stop at the base of a flight of stairs. Not sure if the swaying mage was going to collapse again, he stood closely.
"This chamber...is for the training of predictive senses," Karshun explained, his voice definitely echoing more noticeably now as if he was half in another world entirely. "He will have activated the armaments."
"What are they?"
The mage was quiet for so long, that Pyresong wasn't sure he'd even heard the question. Then Karshun shook himself and blinked a few times.
"Cross...bows. Dis...mantle...them."
The mage's echoing words trailed off. Then he began to murmur in another language entirely again. He didn't like the idea of leaving Karshun alone at the moment, but he didn't see another way. Sensing his hesitation, Karshun turned his blank face toward him.
“Myrrtu... Sie na'ahin akatai koeept Myrrtu.” Karshun said flatly.
Pyresong shuddered physically as well as mentally. That voice that didn't even sound like Karshun's in that moment. Despite not understanding the words, there was something in them that echoed and resonated in his mind and soul with a chilling familiarity. Somehow he knew those words intimately, as if they were some sort of forgotten mantra. Whatever it was Karshun was seeing, he left Pyresong no more time to figure out what had just happened.
"I'll just cheat," Karshun said softly with a grin.
“Death... None cheat Death his due forever.”
The earlier words in that other language jangling around his already frayed nerves suddenly became terrifyingly clear. Pyresong could not explain how he knew them, but he did. Something about them inspired a cold terror he could not comprehend. The chill crawled up his spine and wrapped itself around his heart, freezing him in place. Of course, Karshun wasn't about to give him time to figure it all out, either.
The mage threw up a shield around them and carefully began making his way up the stairs on shaking legs. The necromancer filed away all his questions for later. Right now he had one focus, to keep Karshun safe. Obviously, Pyresong was meant to stay close, but he wasn't sure how much he could really rely on Karshun's shield. The man seemed to be flitting in and out of this reality. He dismissed his skeletal mages and summoned a couple of bone golems. They wouldn't be harmed by the crossbow bolts, and they could smash the crossbows easily. Switching back to magical vision, he could clearly see the halo of magic from each one as they began firing on their own. One after another, he sent the golems after them as dozens of bolts bounced off Karshun's shield.
The mage didn't wait. He staggered forward, seemingly oblivious to the bolts. Pyresong tried to keep up, sending bone spears and energy blades at some of the closer crossbows. Changing tactics, he pulled his golems ahead of them to smash the ones they were approaching. Again, he was uncertain how much Karshun was even aware of at this moment. As if reading the necromancer's mind—which wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility, Pyresong realized—Karshun huffed a laugh.
"Quite the homecoming. We're almost there."
That quip definitely eased some of his increasing fears for the mage. But when he turned to get a better look at him, the glow around Karshun's body was so bright it somehow made him seem almost ethereal now. He resembled much more a ghost than a living person. The necromancer shuddered mentally. He wasn't entirely sure if the mage had just gotten a grip on what was happening to him or if he was losing the battle. Karshun dropped the shield as they passed the last smashed crossbow.
"Karshun...you're fading. You should stay behind. I'll stop him."
Karshun turned his head to face him with an unexpected and sad smile that in no way came off as condescending for oncce. Somehow Pyresong understood he was seeing the man beneath the arrogant mask.
"There is...wisdom in that. But I cannot teach you to contain the Astral Bloom. I must see to its magic myself."
Something in the way Karshun had said that, completely without even a hint of his usual arrogance, put him entirely on edge. His instincts were screaming at him, but he knew the man was right. What could he do? He didn't know anything about all of this. At best, he might be able to kill Othva. But he might not be the only one who understood the Astral Bloom and how it worked. While he was busy with Othva, if one of the cultists got it, the whole thing might still end terribly for all of them.
They approached another circular platform surrounded by star-filled space. In front of them was another pillar with a three-dimensional star waiting to be activated. Though Karshun seemed to be more focused and in control now, he also seemed less substantial than ever. Pyresong's heart skipped a beat when he realized he couldn't even hear the mage's footsteps anymore.
What is happening to him?
"Focus on Othva. Permit no distractions. Keep him away from the calyx."
Pyresong's heart was gripped with icy fear. Karshun's words no longer just echoed; they sounded wispy and distant as if they didn't even originate on this plane. When the star on the pillar lit up, a blue glowing staircase of light formed, spiraling upward. Karshun was no longer staggering or stumbling. He walked firmly up the stairs. Again, he noted with a chill of fear that he couldn't even hear the mage's steps. He wasn't really here anymore. And that frightened him all the more.
But there was no more time for contemplation of any of this. As they approached the top, there was a bright flash of blue and purple magic that Pyresong had felt before. Othva was activating something, and the resonance he felt from the Stellaris Agma in his side satchel only confirmed it. His scythe ready, he moved around Karshun and ran up the last few steps. He flung the blade of energy at Othva, hoping to distract him from whatever he was doing. It worked enough to get Othva's attention, at least. The mage's shields absorbed the energy-based attack, preventing any actual damage. When Othva turned to him with a scowl, he was already preparing another attack. A heartbeat later, he practically dismissed the necromancer when he caught sight of Karshun's glowing form by the stairs.
"The 'great seer' has become a lapdog for people who despise him," Othva sneered and then laughed darkly. "Small wonder this world is falling apart."
Pyresong, watching Karshun out of the corner of his eye, nearly ran back to the mage when the man collapsed to his knees again, seemingly senseless. Othva, looking gleeful, moved to fling a spell at the helpless mage. Reflexively, he again launched himself at Othva, scythe first. Though it stopped Othva from attacking Karshun, now the spell was aimed directly at him. The fireball exploded on his shield, nearly knocking him off his feet with the force of it. Thankfully, the protective enchantments over all of his armor absorbed most of the heat, and he was not badly burned.
Having the evil mage's full attention now, he went on the offensive to keep his attention. Othva's magical shields prevented almost everything made of energy from getting through. Unlike the necromancer's shields that were so tight against his skin as to be almost another layer of armor, his was something more like a small bubble, as Karshun's shields had been. And Othva's did not protect against physical attack, it seemed, only magical. Pyresong danced and swung madly, aiming as much for the phylactery as for the mage himself. Othva was forced to back away repeatedly, almost to the edge of the platform. Again and again, the mage slung spells at him. Lightning that scorched his skin. Ice that burned him. Fire that seared even through his shields.
At one point, Othva froze, staring wide-eyed at something behind Pyresong. He could only pray it was Karshun making his move while Othva distracted. The two of them were now near the far edge of the platform, as far as they could get from the calyx. He used that split-second distraction to swipe his bare scythe at the phylactery, depriving the mage of a source of power. The shock of its powerful backlash nearly blasted the scythe from his hand, but he'd accomplished it. Unfortunately, Othva was not as powerless without it as he'd hoped. When he reversed his blade to aim his backswing at the mage's head, Othva ducked easily away and then retaliated right at his exposed chest while he was in mid-swing. Of all the elemental powers, there was one that had almost no truly effective magical defense known anywhere in Sanctuary. It wasn't so much the power behind the elemental attack as it was the physical concussion that resulted from it.
Enraged, Othva slammed him right in the chest with a blast of concentrated air. The energy from the air blast itself was easily absorbed. But the concussion that resulted underneath his plates was like being slammed with a giant rock. He could audibly hear as well as feel the ribs breaking on his right side with the concussive blast. Part of his chest collapsed inward. The white-hot explosion of pain left him senseless as his body flew across the small space. He was only distantly aware that his head slammed into the floor, nearly rendering him unconscious. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His heart was pounding painfully on the other side of his chest. Something dark flew past him. He turned his eyes to follow it reflexively. He couldn't even shout a warning to Karshun as it headed right for him.
Othva was flying toward Karshun, who had already pulled the glowing midnight-blue orb into his hands. The evil mage was too slow. Karshun screamed as he shattered the orb. Othva's horrified screams became a harmony to that horrific song. Pyresong was blinded by the flash of light, even without his magical vision. When the glow faded after several attempts to force his eyes to focus, Othva lay dead on the floor. The flower construct was in pieces. A ragged tear in the air that the necromancer recognized as an uncontrolled rift to the astral plane was closing around Karshun's inert body. Concerned for the mage taking over, he blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. He had to get to Karshun before the rift closed. It was already fading. He must be hurt!
When he tried to move, the agony on his right side made him gag. His mind was a blur of panic, and he somehow managed to work his most potent healing potion off his belt. Not able to breathe except in short, agonizing gasps due to the stabbing pain in his chest, he held his breath, ignoring the tingling darkness around the edges of his vision while waited for the potion to begin to work. The pain flared and then receded to warmth as expected. But the bones weren't knitting! They only shifted weakly. He was too badly injured for healing potions to save him. He would need a dozen more and a healer.
The welcoming chilly calm of death settled on him again, pushing back the pain. The physical sensations were still there but no longer crippling. He rolled to his left side, unable to even move his right arm without flaring blinding agony in his chest. He struggled to even crawl toward the rift. But it was already almost gone. Pyresong's mind raced in panic.
They couldn't lose the mage! Karshun was just too important. More to the point, he was a good man willing to stand against the Darkness. Sanctuary needed him. Karshun must be trapped on the Astral Plane. He needed an anchor and a tether. Choking on his own blood now, he downed another potent, super-concentrated healing potion to slow the internal bleeding. Then he shrugged off his backpack and chased it with a stamina potion. He would pay for this later...if there was a later. He nearly laughed at the idea of later in general. There was no later right now. Right now, he just needed to keep his body moving. He held onto his shield by a strap and hooked his scythe on his belt awkwardly with his left hand. Then he did something he'd never thought possible before but prayed it would work.
He had only ever opened portals to waypoints, as he'd been taught. The Curator had warned him that a poorly made portal to an uncertain location could strand him somewhere between the planes of existence or worse. But the nearest waypoint was too far away in the Palace Courtyard. He knew he would never make it back to the workshop. Potent potions or not, the internal bleeding would catch up to him before he got there. Zatham hadn't taught him how he opened portals, but Pyresong had seen him do it to any number of places completely without a waypoint. He knew it was possible.
He narrowed his focus to only the stones outside Cain's workshop door. He had crossed them dozens of times. Every crevice, every groove, every detail he could recall, he brought to the fore. He ripped open the portal violently in his panic. As the stamina potion began to take effect, he found he was able to lever himself to his feet without using his arms. He was beyond dizzy from the lack of oxygen already, and he couldn't take more than a partial breath without the bone shards stabbing him. But he wouldn't stop, either. He would not let Cain's most valuable ally fade away on the Astral Plane.
Forcing everything aside but this one task, he clung to the icy chill of the inevitable. A couple of steps later, he was opening the door to the workshop. Wards and shields be damned. He blasted the invisible sigils and wards right out of existence. Then he closed the door. He tore off his gauntlets and gloves as he crossed the room. He had no real idea what he was doing or about to do. He just prayed it would work. The vast majority of magic was based on the will and the mage's desires. The core of his teachings as a Priest of Rathma wasn't about power; it was about will and focus. And he had that in abundance right now in this frigid state of consciousness. He would use that to make it work.
He seated himself in his usual meditative position right up against the base of the Astral Anchor. He pulled the Stellaris Agma out of his satchel, only dimly aware of its sharp edges slicing his palm open. He transferred it to his left hand in his lap and put the other, bloody one on the base of the Astral Anchor. First, he focused inward, and then he sent a tendril of power into the anchor. He focused his entire being on Karshun and pushed himself outward through the rift he could feel opening from the construct beside him.
The pain was gone. He still felt icy calm, but now he wasn't in pain. Nor did he need to breathe here. He was spirit only. He was in the Astral Plane; that much, at least, had worked. The blue and purple hues and so many bright lights were still beautiful to him in a way he couldn't describe. But he was also bleeding away, unable to shield himself in this form. Turning around, he couldn't find Karshun. He'd been focused on the mage when he'd opened the rift. He should be here or close by. He opened his mouth to call out when Karshun's weak voice came from everywhere at once.
"We weren't meant to have a sight like the stars."
The voice was faint...distant...haunted. Pyresong closed his spectral eyes to focus on a direction or anything that would help. Even just a sense of something!
"People always die. Everywhere. No matter what I do. By the time they reach my visions...they are already gone."
Karshun's remorse and sorrow were almost painful for Pyresong to hear. He had felt them himself enough times. This was a side of Karshun he had only vaguely suspected existed all beyond that arrogant facade. He needed that voice to guide him in this place. He still couldn't tell where it was coming from. It was everywhere.
"Karshun! Where are you?" he called out in desperation.
"What... What are you doing here?"
The now focused voice came from somewhere to his left. Instinctively he began running in that direction. Various images, likely Karshun's memories, began to form around him. Ghostly images of battles and murders flitted past.
"This is a grave for all generations," Karshun warned darkly.
Still running, chasing that sense of Karshun's presence, Pyresong saw little of the visions. But he could tell there was much suffering here. The kind of suffering few could even begin to understand.
Keep talking. You always do like to hear yourself talk, he thought when the mage went quiet for a second.
"It devours past and present. Go back before the path closes."
"So you think you're the only one that can travel between realms?" Pyresong shot back, ignoring the sense of bleeding away and the thinness he was now feeling.
"You will be consumed if you stay too long. There is no nobility in sacrifice!"
Pyresong laughed darkly.
No sacrifice this time, my friend, he thought back but kept his mouth shut on that.
The scenes changed again and again, always Karshun's memories. So many deaths, so much suffering. Some part of him took note of them. But they were meaningless at the moment. He was consumed with getting to Karshun. His target was somewhere ahead, closer now. The voice more steady, louder. As expected, Karshun wasn't done talking.
"You have a victory already won. Don't throw it away!" Karshun switched to pleading.
"You said it yourself. It was hardly a victory!" he called back, afraid the mage would go silent.
"Even if you find me, there's no guarantee we can go back."
Catching sight of the still blue-glowing mage ahead, Pyresong laughed again, this time in relief.
There you are! he thought, the icy calm fading with his flood of relief.
"Trying to save people matters," Pyresong told him. "Even when you can't save everyone."
"So naive! You are fading away! Get out of here—"
"Stop being the arrogant bastard for one second, Karshun," Pyresong snarled.
But the mage was right; he was out of time. His hands had gone from spectral to little more than wisps. Stunned by the uncharacteristic outburst, Karshun actually shut up.
"My body is in the workshop. It will be the anchor," he explained.
He put his hands together and envisioned the Stellaris Agma he knew he was physically holding. It materialized brightly with a dark blue tether.
"Take it. Follow it back," he instructed, handing the glowing shard over. "Go quickly! Before my body dies and you lose the tether!"
He threw Karshun one last smirk before he fled. He was far too weak to stick around. And likely would not make it back following the tether or Karshun. Besides, there was no point in returning to his damaged body. The mage would see for himself soon enough. For now, he had one chance at escaping the Astral Plane, and it wasn't going to be with Karshun or his body.
When the chilly sense of tugging in his chest faded, he nearly laughed. Opening his eyes, he was relieved to see it had worked. Given that he didn't really have total control, there had been a sliver of doubt. But, this time, he really, literally, had nothing left to lose, anyway. Better to try anything than sit around bleeding away. Besides, the pettier part of his soul had thoroughly enjoyed Karshun's shock when he successfully managed the tether. Well, now that, too, was over.
He was lying on Oza's Overlook, staring up at the endless sky. Out of curiosity, he lifted his hand to get a look. Yep, it was much fainter than he was used to here. At least he wasn't bleeding away anymore. With any luck, Karshun had made it back to the workshop, at least. Hopefully, that arrogant bastard was too stubborn to give up the fight. A flicker of thought made him wonder if maybe the fight didn't have to be over for himself, either. Maybe—
"Back already?" Oza smiled down at him. "I'm starting to think I should reserve this place for you."
With a laugh, he sat up. He smiled warmly back at her. He accepted her hand up, though he knew by now he didn't really need it. Some physical habits were hard to break.
"Actually, that's a good question. Do you ever leave this place?"
"Often. Why?" she asked curiously.
"There's something I want to show you, but I'm not sure how. Moving around here is just a matter of thought or focus, isn't it?"
"You're learning," she replied happily.
He checked over his shoulder. Yep, the sparkling tether was still there. Briefly, he grimaced. He still wasn't sure what would happen to Tyrael, and clearly, the angel wasn't here with him. But it was too late now, anyway. There was nothing more he could do at the moment. Othva's attack had been too powerful, too damaging. And, he suspected, even if Karshun managed to get back to the workshop, there likely wouldn't be enough time to get a healer. He would just have to wait until the tether faded. Tyrael was on his own now, whatever happened.
"Have you ever heard of the Ancients' Cradle?"
"No."
"I saw something there that was incredible. The place is...well, horrible, mostly. But there was a shrine to Inarius in an area that was beyond beautiful. Want to see if we can get there?"
Oza eyed him speculatively. "Even now, your heart turns to the beauty."
He blinked in surprise and confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Oza smiled knowingly. "You'll figure it out someday. Clearly, you're not dead yet. What has happened?"
"It doesn't matter. My body won't live for long. Not this time. Never mind that. Let's go," he told her excitedly.
Oza, caught up in his excitement, just shook her head and took his hands. Suddenly his mind ran through a few other places he wanted to share with her. He knew that, by comparison to the real thing in the physical world, here they would just be faded echoes, or worse, shifting too badly to see clearly. But, maybe, just maybe, she could catch a glimpse of what he had seen.
"Focus, love, or you'll never get us there."
He laughed for the sheer pleasure of it and the pleasure of being with her. As promised, he envisioned them in Shieldholm. It wasn't so much that they moved, as the world moved around them. When he opened his eyes, they were on that first bridge he'd seen inlaid with gold and silver. It wasn't quite the same. It didn't sparkle or glimmer as it would in the sun the way he had imagined, but it was still beautiful. Amazed, Oza turned a full circle.
"Most of this island is a horror. I...don't really want to think about it. But here was like a jewel trapped in a stone. It's all white stone, silver, gold, and even sheets of pearl. Even without the statue of Inarius that let me soak up the Light, it was...amazing."
Oza smiled warmly, still holding one of his hands. They walked for a while around the various paths and platforms, admiring the detailed work and enormous statues of angels. Pyresong suspected it had all been made with magic. Regardless, it was too beautiful for Sanctuary, really. He'd seen some beautiful things in his life, but something about this being completely hidden from the rest of the world almost made sense. Almost. He liked to believe that if the rest of the world knew about it, they would flock to it and the Light that was its central feature. But he knew better. As he'd thought the first time he'd been there, it was more likely they would tear the place apart for the wealth.
He sighed sadly at the thought. Sadder still was that he couldn't share this with Kashya. And now he couldn't even be there to describe it to her.
"What troubles you?" Oza asked softly.
He smiled at her, shoving all of that aside. Yes, he was human and had human regrets. But it was over now. Right now, he had Oza. Nothing else mattered.
Back in the workshop, Karshun practically fell through the rift. Unconsciously, he closed it behind him by reflex. He just managed to save his nose from being smashed by catching himself with trembling arms. Having his physical body back had been enough of a shock. He felt hollow, too. He'd lost much of himself and his energies when he'd bonded with the crystal in his staff. But there had been no other choice. He'd needed that astral energy to fuel him, or they would have failed before they had even begun. Doing a sort of mental inventory, he felt...empty and weak. At least all of him was there.
Finally able to keep his balance well enough to sit back on his knees, he looked around. A couple of feet away, he found Pyresong. The priest was still gripping the Astral Anchor with a hand that dripped blood. The other hand was on the Stellaris Agma in his lap. His head was down, and his shoulder-length hair covered his face. But Karshun didn't even need to see his face to know something was horribly wrong. His heart jolted with fear at the sight of the blood running down the breastplates, dripping from the man's mouth.
"Pyresong?" he asked, an icy sliver of fear inching into his heart.
Still weak and shaking, the adrenaline-fueled fear gave him strength. He reached across the short distance to grip the priest's shoulder. Somewhere in his jumbled thoughts, he realized the priest should have made it back long before him. The only other explanation for the way he'd disappeared was that he had bled away entirely. There was nothing left to come back.
"Pyresong!" he demanded, shaking him harder.
In response, the necromancer's body flopped backward onto the floor. His head smacked the boards with a thud. For a moment, his heart stuttered painfully. He thought the man was already dead. But then he gurgled, choking on the blood in his throat. Not even thinking at this point, Karshun crawled over and took his hand. It was icy cold and the man's lips were blue from lack of oxygen. He delved quickly using what meager healing skills he had.
Gods...how...
Karshun's mind when numb with what he found. Most of the ribs on one side were shattered to pieces, not even just broken. That lung had collapsed entirely, and the cavity filling with blood. Multiple organs had been laced with bone fragments. His heartbeat was no more than an irregular flutter.
"Go quickly! Before my body dies and you lose the tether!"
The memory of the priest's last words floated to the surface. Now he understood. Despite what he'd said, Pyresong had been right. His rescue was no sacrifice. The man was already dying, and he knew it when he did it. Karshun's shock-numbed mind went from icy cold fear to explosive anger. He refused to accept this. The damned man had no right to do this to him! Or Cain! He was not about to send a letter to Cain with this news.
He stumbled unsteadily past the priest and through the still-open door of the safe room where the worst of the worst items were kept. Cain had left a lot of unfinished business here. Karshun had promised to do what was within his power to destroy or keep them safe. One of those bits of unfinished business was finding a way to destroy the beacons from Namari's Temple. He had inspected them thoroughly for himself. Even after untold millennia, they were the most potent preservation magic he had ever encountered anywhere. He couldn't heal Pyresong, but he wasn't about to let him die, either. If nothing else, the beacons might buy him the precious time needed to find a really good healer...or ten.
The tingling darkness of total exhaustion threatened, creeping around the edges of his vision. Once he'd grabbed the wooden box with the three beacons, he found himself crawling back toward Pyresong. The priest's breath was no longer gurgling. Likely there was too much blood choking him now, and laying down had only made it worse. Karshun didn't waste a single second checking for a heartbeat. If the man's heart had already stopped, all he was doing was preserving the body at this point. But a part of him was screaming against that idea and wouldn't give up, either. He put one beacon in each hand and the third on the priest's forehead.
Then he prayed. What to, didn't matter. There was nothing else he could do right now. He had to find a healer, maybe a small army of them. There had to be a way to keep the stupid priest alive, even if only for Cain's sake. It was far too late for healing potions, regardless of their strength or potency. He couldn't even imagine how Pyresong had made it back here in that condition. And then he'd still had the presence of mind to come up with that insane idea of a rescue. And...
Whatever else he thought was lost when the darkness swallowed him.
***
The first thing he felt as he woke was the aching pain in his right shoulder. He couldn't feel his right arm at all. He groaned weakly as he shifted onto his back unconsciously to ease the pain and pressure on his shoulder. Dimly he was aware his head was throbbing, too. He was already wondering what he'd had to drink that had left him in this state...again. He was definitely getting too old for this kind of irrational behavior. What had even made him do it to himself again?
Opening his eyes carefully to see the Astral Anchor above him brought everything back in a flood of memories.
Pyresong!
He rolled over and struggled to sit up. For a few seconds, the dizziness left him blind. But he shook his head and blinked a few times. The priest was right where he'd left him. He held his own breath as he watched and waited. A few seconds later, he let his breath out with a relieved laugh. Pyresong was still breathing! Karshun wasn't sure exactly how "alive" he was, but the body was still working. That was a good sign. The priest's hand was as icy as a corpse, but he delved anyway.
Yes, he was still alive; the heartbeat was strong and regular. But Karshun was startled, too. Whatever else the beacons had done, they'd healed him. Completely. There was no indication he'd ever had shattered ribs. Reeling, he just sat there stunned for a few seconds. He was flooded with relief so profound he couldn't even think.
Pulling back into himself to focus, Karshun looked to the window over the desk. It was certainly daylight. It had been nighttime when they'd gotten to the tower on the other side of the world. Ultimately, he couldn't tell if he'd slept for hours or possibly days. He'd been exhausted to a point his body would not put up with anymore.
And I'm still paying for it, he thought tiredly.
After sleeping on the floor for who knows how long, he felt grimy. The business of the last, however long, hadn't helped, either. Knowing the priest wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He left him there. First, some wine to take the edge off. Then a bath. Then...whatever comes next. His head hurt too much to think further than that right now.
A few hours later, still feeling tired but more stable, Karshun sat in the rocking chair by the fire, deep in thought. Pyresong still lay on the floor with the beacons. But was it really Pyresong anymore? Had he faded away completely on the Astral Plane? Karshun couldn't tell. The fact that his body was still alive when he'd returned indicated the man's soul was still out there...somewhere. But, he'd also involved the beacons and their preservation magic. Quite possibly, they were the only thing keeping him alive now. The icy chill of the priest's skin gave him some hope. If the stupid man had any luck left whatsoever, he was in the Unformed Land now.
Still, Karshun was reluctant to remove the beacons. There was nothing left to heal at this point, so there was no need to involve a healer. But part of him still wanted some kind of reassurance. Briefly, he considered sending for Akara. But what would that accomplish? If the man were dead or dislocated from his body on the Astral Plane, he would just be wasting everyone's time. Then there was the possibility that... And he might just...
One thought after another flitted around his head. Too many to even really sort through until he wasn't sure he was thinking at all. With an angry mental growl, he shut them all up. He quit letting his thoughts chase themselves around in circles. There really was only one course of action that made any sense. He just didn't want to deal with the outcome if he was wrong. He knelt beside Pyresong again.
Of course, it would be like him to die just to spite me, he thought wryly.
"You had better not have given up that easily," Karshun growled.
He took the beacons, threw them back in their shielded box, and waited. He nearly sighed with relief again a few seconds later. The priest was still breathing slowly but strongly. He delved again, just to be sure. This time, we went deeply enough to feel the chill for himself. He had no experience with souls beyond his studies on the Astral Plane. Pyresong's had been the strongest and brightest he'd ever seen anywhere, despite having been shattered. Some of Cain's earlier words, mixed with his own thoughts of the necromancer's suffering, drifted back to the fore. Not for the first time, Karshun wondered at that. Maybe he was strong enough to survive whatever happened on the Astral Plane. And the icy touch of his skin definitely felt like what Cain had described when the priest had been in his death sleep.
Well, he wasn't about to wait around for weeks as Cain had done. He had no idea how to call the man back to his body, either. With the beacons removed, it would be up to Pyresong now. If he came back before his body died, great. If he didn't, so be it. He would leave that choice up to the priest. Of course, a tiny voice deep inside wondered why the man would even want to come back after all he'd been through.
He was surprised to realize the thought actually made him a bit sad.
That immediately sparked an unexpected anger that shocked even himself. This stupid, stupid man had done the impossible! He'd managed to somehow work himself into the mage's emotional shields. Other than Cain, no one had managed that in all these decades. Karshun cursed Pyresong as much as himself for that. Whatever else the necromancer was, he was definitely a friend now. To be fair, the mage had actually enjoyed their verbal sparring matches almost from the beginning. The man had a wit and acid tongue that he rarely ever saw. And, despite all the animosity he'd shown the priest, the man always came back for more, even with Cain gone.
"Damn you," Karshun muttered.
But now, his legs were cramping, and he had to do something about Pyresong. He couldn't just leave the priest on the floor like a rug. For that matter, the dried blood on his chin and lips was rather disgusting. Heaving a sigh, he took the beacons back to their safe place in the other room and sealed off the room again. He ran through a quick list of potential candidates. Looking around the room, he realized he didn't really want anyone else in here anyway. Besides, who could he trust other than a healer or Charsi? Charsi would likely panic and go running to Akara anyway. And a healer would consider it a waste of time; unless he was willing to spend a considerable amount of gold just to clean up the mess. And that thought didn't appeal to him, either.
"You owe me for this," Karshun told Pyresong.
"And that leaves the score at what? Five to one?" he could hear Pyresong's retort in his mind.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Karshun grabbed a bucket of water and some rags. Muttering obscenities, he somehow managed to get all the armor off and set it in a corner. He wasn't about to clean that. But he did clean up the blood on Pyresong's face and neck and right hand and arm where it had run all the way to his elbow. When he began to take off the man's clothes so he could put him in a bed at least, the answer to one very, very irritating question presented itself against the priest's chest. Seeing the amulet of the Great Eye, he laughed. He probed it carefully and realized not only was it potent magic, but god-blessed by something. He had stood no chance of ever scrying for the man while he was wearing that thing. He could only guess where it had come from and who. He would have a few things to say to Akara the next time they met. Very likely, the High Priestess had thoroughly enjoyed his frustrations.
No wonder I couldn't find you, he thought. Clever.
But, knowing what hunted the priest, he wasn't about to remove it for further study. Maybe Pyresong would let him study it more thoroughly another time. Once he had the necromancer stripped down to his underclothes, he dragged him over near the bed. The priest was thin by most warrior standards, but he wasn't bony, either. Every bit of it was pure muscle. He was far too tall and too heavy for the slightly shorter Karshun to lift the two feet or so into Cain's former bed. Instead, he peeled back the layers of blankets and bedclothes and used his magic to levitate the priest over it. Once he was settled, Karshun covered him up with every layer available and set to waiting.
For now, there was nothing more he could do.
After some time exploring Shieldholm, Pyresong decided it was time for a change of scenery. He was already compiling a list of all the places he wanted to visit with Oza. But this particular one he knew Oza would likely appreciate above all others.
"I wonder..."
Oza eyed him questioningly. He just grinned and took her other hand again. He focused again. This time, they were standing on the wooden walkways that wound around so many natural stone pillars high into the sky. Despite the wispy quality, the place was still breathtakingly beautiful from this height. Oza looked all around with amazement.
"It's near the Silent Monastery."
Her eyes were wide with wonder. Being a Veradani monk, she knew the significance of that name. Looking all around at the scenery, she smiled hugely.
"Shura and I found the source of the curse. The black mists are gone now."
"What? How?" she asked in amazement.
He smiled and started guiding them around the walkways at random.
"The mist suddenly started spreading after whatever Dravec and the cultists had done. It was consuming the whole range, even beyond the valley. Many of the Veradani were forced to abandon their temples and take shelter at Sentinel's Watch. Shura asked for my help, all the way in Westmarch. Shura was... Well, he was an arrogant arse. At least, it seemed so at first."
Oza laughed. "He can be a bit...headstrong."
"I suppose I could have put it that way, but what's the fun in that?"
She laughed again. "So what happened?"
"He got me into the temple complex. I found this place shrouded in the black mist. It originated from that temple."
He paused, considering his words carefully. He still didn't like what he'd found there, and he was in absolutely no mood right now to discuss the nightmare demon or any other Darkness. He was too happy and too free right now to even care about it.
"For now, I'll just say we found the source and put an end to it. I had plenty of help. But this place...once it was cleansed, was unforgettable."
"I can easily see why."
Finally, he spotted what he had distractedly been looking for. Out of sheer curiosity, he reached for his source of fire. He sent the faintest trickle of energy into the globe. It flared brightly in response but didn't stay lit. Most likely, it was the insubstantial nature of this place.
"Ytar's Light!" Oza gasped.
He nodded with a smile. "It helped banish the Darkness. And Zaim guided me through the darkness."
Oza laughed. "Only you, love."
He pulled her in for a tight embrace. "Not just me. Without you, I would never have found their blessings to begin with."
When he started to pull back, she clung to him for a moment, going up on her toes to look at something. Behind him, he had felt a tingle of...something. Expecting it was his tether finally fading away. He had ignored it. Now with Oza taking a closer look, he was just curious enough to check for himself. It was still there.
"What did you see?"
"Your tether...it...flashed."
"What? You've never seen anyone die from this side before?" he asked teasingly.
"It's stronger now."
He looked over his shoulder more closely. It was indeed stronger. Of course, he couldn't tell if he had been in this Unformed Land for minutes or days. And he hadn't seen whatever it was, though he'd felt it faintly. He wasn't entirely disappointed but definitely more curious than anything.
"Karshun must have found a way," he muttered, somewhat amazed.
"A way for what?" Oza asked, definitely not going to be deterred this time.
"He must have kept me alive somehow. Or...maybe it was Tyrael?" he realized.
"The Archangel Tyrael?"
"Now that is a wild story. But, yes, that Tyrael. He's in the cracks of my soul now."
"So that explains the Light!"
"What light?" he echoed in surprise.
It was Oza's turn to laugh. "Not 'light' but 'Light' with a capital L. I noticed you had changed much, but it couldn't have been very long since the last time I saw you. Just like before, you haven't aged. But you're completely different now."
"How so?" he couldn't help asking, not really sure he wanted the answer right now.
"It's a lot of things. You're whole again, in a way, though the cracks and Shadows remain. I can see that. And you're happier. Like your wounds are healed. You didn't even bother to stay on the overlook this time," she smiled warmly. "You dragged me out here, even though the wounds from this place still scar you deeply."
Feeling like an open book again and not embarrassed about it in the slightest, he smiled warmly in return and shook his head.
"You're right. Much has changed, and I don't even know what it all means or how it will affect me. But if it's Tyrael's doing. It can't be bad."
"I'm so very curious, but you need to go back."
He groaned but couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Not again."
Oza laughed at his petulant tone. Then she moved them back to the overlook. "Yes, again."
"All right, if you insist, love." He kissed her forehead.
"Careful, you'll make Kashya jealous."
"How would you even know?"
"I would be," she shot back, returning the kiss. "Be well, my friend."
"I'm sure I'll be back shortly."
She smacked him on the arm. "You just don't listen!"
He laughed again and then turned his attention to the tether. As expected, the glittering trail led him right back to the workshop. Of course, from this perspective, nothing had changed, and he couldn't see Karshun. But he was certain the mage was there. Again, he wasn't sure how long he'd been away. The tether growing stronger just indicated he wasn't dying anymore, most likely. It didn't really give him an indication of how bad off he was. He could only hope that returning wouldn't be both painful and a waste of time. But Oza was right. He knew he had to come back. Karshun needed him, and he wouldn't abandon Kashya if he could help it, among other things. Letting go of all his concerns, he sank back down into his body, glowing a faint blue in Cain's former bed.
His first sensation wasn't even really a sensation, so much as a thought. He was tired. He almost didn't want to wake up. But, as he recalled while returning, he had no clear idea of how much time had passed. Knowing Karshun as he did, it was unlikely the mage would be anywhere near as patient as Cain had been. Feeling the weight of so many blankets piled on him was suffocating. He tried to take a deeper breath and his dry throat made him cough. Not a fun way to return to consciousness, but he'd known worse. At least he could breathe without white hot pain in his chest.
"K-kar-shun?" he rasped, still coughing from the painfully dry throat.
On the neighboring bed beside him, he heard Karshun throwing off his own blankets. Pyresong struggled to throw some of them off himself and sit up. For a few seconds, he was too dizzy to even think. He managed to fight it off and scoot back enough to lean on the small headboard. Karshun sat on the side of his bed, glowering. His tongue felt thick and dry when he coughed again, trying to find his voice. Karshun seemed to understand, anyway, and shoved a cup of water into his hands. After a few swallows. he could finally address the mage's cold glower.
"It worked, I see," he couldn't help saying with a smirk.
"How did you know I'd keep you alive?"
He laughed softly, not awake enough for this, really. He took another sip of water to soothe the burning in his throat. He shook his head. He was in absolutely no mood for a confrontation.
"Do you want a snarky answer or the truth?" he finally offered, deciding to forgo the barbs.
"The truth," Karshun demanded angrily.
"Truthfully, I didn't. Nor did I expect you to," he told the mage flatly. "Now it's your turn. How did you know I was coming back?"
"I didn't. Nor did I expect you to," the mage shot right back at him with a smirk.
"Then we're even," he replied with a smirk in return.
The mage's dark eyes were cold, but he waited for the necromancer to finish his water and even poured him another cup. Knowing the mage was going to have his say one way or the other, he figured he might as well let him have at it. Tired and just wanting to get the hells out of here, Pyresong cocked and eyebrow at him questioningly.
"You have something to say?"
"You are unbelievably reckless," Karshun told him, his tone as cold as his eyes. Then he shook his head with a grin. "But...you have a talent for ignoring me at the right time, it seems."
He couldn't help feigning shock. "Am I hearing appreciation?"
The mage laughed softly. "I have not been...gracious enough, considering." He bowed his head. "Thank you. We are better off for your choices."
He couldn't help shaking his head at that, partially in sheer surprise. Despite what that dredged up, this was a turn of events that could not have been predicted. And it amused him to no end. But he wasn't going to push his luck. He set the cup aside.
"I can name a few thousand who would beg to differ on that account. But I assure you, I won't make them without you...unless I have to."
Accepting this, Karshun moved over to the fire and set the kettle. Tea sounded absolutely divine right now to Pyresong. Looking to the window, he realized it was at least daylight. He was about to ask how long he'd been out when the mage decided he had more to say.
"I get that you knew you were dying, so it was no 'noble sacrifice' or some such nonsense. But I must know, how did you even manage to get back here in that condition?"
Pyresong was startled to realize he had actually done what he had thought was impossible with his meager skills at any form of magic other than necromancy, which wasn't even really classified as magic. He had actually made a portal, just like Zatham had, to a place other than a waypoint. Now he wanted to experiment. At least, knowing Karshun wasn't about to start some kind of verbal sparring match, he decided to go ahead and tell him. Besides, he was still too groggy and lethargic to want to trade barbs. More than anything, he wanted to get out of here before this new understanding between them turned back into bickering or something.
"I made a portal to just outside the workshop door. And, before I did that, I took a stamina potion to keep me moving," he explained, stretching thoroughly.
"No waypoint?" the mage queried, coming back to the bed.
"No. I'd seen Zatham do it, but his magic is so different...and I never thought to ask how. But I knew this place well enough, I thought I could do it," he explained. "Better than sitting there waiting to die, at any rate."
"Interesting. Besides Zatham, I've only ever seen it done with astral rifts," Karshun agreed, then he threw Pyresong a wicked grin, "Oh, and I know about the amulet, too."
He laughed again. He had enjoyed the mage's frustration over it, probably more than he should have. But, well, now that game was over. As they had come to a new understanding, it didn't seem like he would have to tweak the mage quite as much. He yawned again, fighting off the lethargy by stretching thoroughly and testing his legs. Nowhere near as shaky as he'd expected. Had he been out long enough for everything to heal and the healing sleep after?
"How long was I gone?"
"As near as I can tell, only a couple of days," Karshun replied, digging into a canister for some tea.
He located his backpack across the room near the pile of haphazardly stacked armor. He knelt down to dig out some clothing. He was more than a little glad he had more being made. His supplies in that category were just plain slim at this point. His mind flickered to what damage may have been done to the clothing he found wadded up in the corner by his armor. Maybe they were at least salvageable.
"Actually, how did you manage to keep me alive? I was fairly certain I was beyond healing," he couldn't help asking.
"The beacons from Namari's Temple. I had hoped they would keep you alive long enough to find a battalion of healers. Instead, they healed you entirely."
He winced openly at that one when he remembered how poor Owens had ended up. He shuddered visibly and then quickly started tugging on his clothing, feeling an unaccountable chill at the memory.
"Is there a problem?" the mage asked, noticing the shudder.
"I thought Cain destroyed them," he replied, keeping his voice neutral.
"Much as with the shards, some things are not so easily destroyed," the mage explained. "They are kept safely in the other room, and we three are the only ones that know their location."
Pyresong nodded; it made sense. He still didn't like the idea of how horribly they could be misused. He shook it off. He had trusted Cain to see them kept safe. Now he would just have to trust Karshun.
"Have you had a chance to look for the Bride or the shard?"
"Not in the last couple of days. I was still recovering, as well," he replied, settling himself in Cain's former rocking chair.
He nodded, tugging on his boots. "I have some things to take care of, but I can check back again tomorrow."
"In a hurry to leave? But we were having so much fun," Karshun drawled. "At least have some tea and breakfast before you go. Besides, you'll need to clean your armor."
Dressed, Pyresong knelt down to check his armor. Yep, dried blood right down the breastplates and on his cuisses, and the right sleeve of his shirt had been saturated with it. There was more on his trousers. Well, it didn't feel as if Karshun was going to run him out of here any time soon. Might as well take care of it here. Besides, he was starving. No surprise after a couple of days spent sleeping. He sighed and turned away from the mess. Tea, first.
"I can't stay very long. I shouldn't be here at all."
"What do you mean?" Karshun asked curiously.
He shook his head and moved toward the rocking chair. He wasn't actually cold, but it and the ever-burning fire was still comforting to him. He sighed as he settled into the chair, still feeling a bit foggy and sleepy. He hoped tea would help clear his head.
"Despite the amulet, there are watchers everywhere. Even without magic, I am easily visible in the city. Necromancers don't go unnoticed around here," he explained. "Too many people know I was coming and going here. I make you an easy target. And I know there are Terror and Damnation cultists still all over Westmarch. My mistake was getting too comfortable here."
"I can take care of myself."
"Still, with you being such a trusting person..." he couldn't even finish the sentence with a straight face.
Karshun laughed outright. Then he looked like he wanted to argue for a moment but let it go.
"Where will you be?"
"The Sanctified Earth Monastery near Mount Zavain. It's been abandoned."
Karshun nodded. "I assume you'll be checking in regularly?"
"Of course, but..." he trailed off, his thoughts suddenly distracted by something else entirely.
He was silent for a few seconds as he gave the random thought serious consideration. He and Karshun had a new understanding and appreciation, or so it appeared. But how far was the mage willing to take it? After what had just happened, though, Pyresong could not entirely ignore the circumstances. And it was absolutely not fair to the others that he would continue to do so. For a moment, he questioned his next decision. But what choice did he really have?
"But what?" Karshun prompted impatiently, reaching for the kettle.
He sighed heavily, again reminded of his dear friend's absence. Cain wasn't here anymore. Much as he had gotten too comfortable in Westmarch, he'd also gotten to rely on Cain...probably too much. It didn't exactly bother him that he was building something of a life here, but he owed it to Kashya and Fern to at least let them know. He was fairly certain that unless Charsi found out he was dead, they would not have known for a very long time. Sure, maybe Akara would see something. But still... Perhaps he would be better off talking to Charsi about this. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and decided to go with his instincts.
"As I said before, I'd gotten used to having Cain around. Very likely too much used to it. Things have...changed since I met him."
"How so?" Karshun asked neutrally.
He accepted the cup of tea and biscuits Karshun handed him. Part of him really did not want to go there, but he knew he had to, much as he had done the other day about Tyrael.
"When I met Cain, I had no one. I didn't need anyone. The truth is, I just wandered around wherever a Priest of Rathma might be needed. It's a pointless story and likely nothing you haven't heard before from other 'adventurers'. But I've taken on some other responsibilities recently. And I need someone to...possibly, fulfill some obligations if I'm not around."
Karshun, blowing on his tea to cool it, snorted. "Dead, you mean."
"As a matter of fact, yes," he replied. "There are only two things I ask, Karshun."
The mage sighed, putting his cup down. "Wife and kids sort of obligations, or just some unpaid debts?"
He laughed at how very close that snarky question was. "Unpaid debts shouldn't be a problem. And, of course, you're welcome to the bag of treasure any time you need. No, it's actually much simpler. If I'm dead and word hasn't already reached them, I'd like you to send word to Kashya and Fern at the Eastgate Monastery in Dark Wood. Charsi can relay it. So you only have to tell her."
"So it is the wife and kids scenario," Karshun mused teasingly, but Pyresong sensed some warning underneath.
"Neither myself nor Kashya hold any illusions about how it will end. But I don't want her left wondering. It's that simple. As for Fern, she's...young."
"Is that the little girl you saved at Stormpoint?"
He nodded. "I gave her a choice. And I think she's found her place. But I've promised her any life she wants. If she gets older and changes her mind, Kashya or Akara will send for the money from my cache."
"That's all you're asking? A couple of letters and some money?"
He nodded again, sipping his tea. Already, he was reaching for another biscuit. It still amazed him how extended sleep could leave him so hungry sometimes.
"It really is that simple. And I intend to keep it that way," he assured.
"I suppose they inherit your fortune, too?"
He laughed, relieved that was over. "Why? You want me to write you into the will?"
Karshun snorted. "I think I deserve something after putting up with your—"
The angry knock at the door startled both of them. They threw each other questioning looks. Neither recognized the heavy, almost pounding cadence. Karshun set aside his tea and picked up his staff. Feeling a bit on edge himself, Pyresong moved to stand near his scythe, still lying on the floor beside his armor. Karshun opened the door partially but kept his staff out of sight.
"What have you done, traitor?" a semi-familiar voice practically screamed.
Inching to the side a bit to get a better view, Pyresong realized the hysterical voice was from the same mage he and Karshun had confronted in the courtyard a few nights ago at the Observatory. Beside him were two other furious mages. This could not be good.
"The astral connections are silent!" one of the others practically shrieked. "Our window beyond is dimmed to blackness!"
Another one added, "Once again, you play with our lives!"
He couldn't take any more screaming right now. Using the deep resonance and projective nature of his voice, he spoke loudly right over them.
"He nearly died defending that place!" he said, stepping right up behind Karshun. In a more normal tone, he added, "Perhaps you should criticize those who attacked the tower."
Karshun grinned at him over his shoulder and spoke up before the three mages could start screaming again. Pyresong caught something of a wicked pleasure in that grin.
"It's within your capabilities to divine what happened, is it not?" Karshun asked. "The Astral Bloom is gone forever. Othva is no more."
All three looked like they were going to start shrieking again. Pyresong almost wished Karshun would just slam the door and throw up a silencing barrier. But, again, Karshun cut them off.
"Your tower still stands. You have the means to repair it. And I will trouble you no more."
The female was the first to recover from her spluttering shock. "You think you deserve, what, gratitude? For cleaning up a mess you made? Show your face there again, and we will kill you."
Karshun smiled widely again, further infuriating them. Pyresong noticed Karshun's staff glowing already, minus the still missing crystal.
"I would expect nothing less from you," Karshun replied quite happily. Then his voice took on a deeper, darker resonance that even gave Pyresong a chill. "The same goes for you and this workshop. Good day."
The sudden bright purple barrier that appeared in the doorway put an end to it. Karshun casually closed the door. Pyresong suspected, based on the type of spell, that they would have a very nasty surprise if they tried to get through it. Turning back toward him, Karshun sighed, seeming rather pleased. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he smirked at the necromancer.
"I am so relieved I'm not that kind of arrogant bastard anymore."
He couldn't help laughing as he recalled that little outburst he had flung at the mage while they were on the Astral Plane. Besides, the truth was he liked Karshun. Arrogant or not, he was a kind of snarky he rarely got to enjoy.
"No. You're just your own special kind of arrogant bastard," he affirmed with a grin and then added more warmly, "As Cain said, 'Never change, my friend'."
Chapter 24: 23 Wortham / Tristram
Chapter Text
Wortham / Tristram
It only took Pyresong a couple of days to finish setting up his little bolthole in the abandoned monastery. Since he was welcome among the Veradani, he figured if any of them moved in while he was away, his stuff would likely remain untouched for at least a little while. The most critically important items he always kept on him in his backpack anyway. And, of course, he was keeping an eye on the place. Anywhere that remained obviously empty for too long inevitably drew gangs of bandits, thieves, murderers, or worse. He doubted word had spread beyond Shura and his people that he even ever came to this place. It seemed unlikely anyone who didn't know him personally would ever come here looking for him. And if any of the other less-savory people ever showed up, Pyresong knew he could deal with them or run them off easily enough.
By the third day, after having woken up in the workshop with Karshun, he was restless again. The anxiety was beginning to gnaw at him subconsciously. More than once, he reached out to Tyrael during his meditations and even while not meditating, and nothing came of it. With the angel trapped inside of him, he wasn't sure how Tyrael could regenerate. He just knew it must be some kind of painfully slow process. He was fairly certain it could and would happen eventually. Verathiel and the others had managed to replenish or regenerate their Light even in Hell. Though he had had time to analyze more thoroughly, he still couldn't really detect anything all that different about himself, despite what Oza had said. But, then, that part wasn't important anyway.
The the morning of the third day, he began to realize it had been a week. A whole week since the shard had been purified. They had to be doing something by now. In the predawn hours after he rolled out of bed, he decided it was time to see what he could find for himself. He was convinced his restlessness, possibly even some of his nightmares, were somehow tied to that massive shard. It was doing...something already. Rather than using his meditations to dig inward or even try to reach out to Tyrael, he focused on whatever it was that connected him to the shards.
Inside himself, he could find nothing. There was no obvious or visible connection. He'd tried to find it dozens of times, if for no other reason than ridding himself of it. He still feared that connection greatly. Whatever they had left behind was still their weapon, and he loathed that idea. He still considered it a tool since he really had no other choice. Yet, it had been absolutely useless to him so far. Sure, he could feel them within a certain proximity now, but he couldn't control them, and he couldn't conceal himself from them, either.
His hunting for the shard or any indication of what it was doing was as fruitless today as it had been on every other occasion. But, as he rummaged through himself, his nightmares, his feelings of anxiety and restlessness, he was more convinced than ever that the shard was on the move toward something. It was definitely in use and somewhere here in Sanctuary. Somehow he knew it was not in Hell yet. Still frustrated, he gave up. He wasn't going to find anything useful on his own. And it was easily late enough now that Karshun would be up and about. He would go check in with Karshun and then maybe head to Dark Wood to wait some more. Anything to get his mind off this restless anxiety gnawing at him incessantly to the point he felt he was going mad.
Not for the first time, he toyed with the idea of hopping from waypoint to waypoint. That thing was massive enough that he could feel it miles away. Since he had literally nothing else to do right now, that might be about as productive as Karshun scouring the Astral Plane. At least it was something for him to do besides sitting around. He wasn't sure how much more of this idleness mixed with restless anxiety he was going to be able to take anyway. It was like an itch in his soul that he just could not soothe.
Just in case he did follow through with that plan, he decided to go ahead and put on his armor before he left. He never had remembered to ask Charsi about a sword to wear under the robes while moving about in disguise. Maybe he could do that today. He had no desire to draw attention to himself since he was only likely to be in Westmarch for a few minutes. He left his scythe in his backpack. Wanting to avoid people making connections to him and the man in brown robes who would sometimes knock on Cain's workshop door, he opted to use the waypoint just to the southwest of Rakkis Plaza. It extended his walk a bit and would take him right by the western docks. It would give him a few extra minutes to try to focus himself beyond that maddening feeling.
Since it was still early in the day, the streets were mostly empty. It didn't take him long to make his way around to the workshop. Briefly, he wondered if it might be too early for Karshun. The mage had irregular sleeping habits, much as Cain did. There were times he'd be up all night and take little more than a nap until sunrise. And there were days he might sleep til nearly midday. He had explained that much of his work actually became easier when the world slept under the stars. Pyresong didn't bother to question it.
Not being able to hear anything going on inside, of course, he knocked. At least at this time of day he could be reasonably certain Karshun was in. He was slightly startled when the door flew open only a half second after his knock. As usual, Karshun's hand with the staff was behind the door out of sight. But he could feel it at the ready. Karshun's expression went from dark to relief in the span of a heartbeat. Obviously, something had the mage on edge.
"You're early. Good." He backed away from the door, motioning Pyresong inside. Then he closed it quickly. "I hope you've been communing with that angel of yours," Karshun said darkly as he shed the robes.
"You've found something? And, nothing yet, on my end."
"Don't get comfortable," Karshun warned, making him pause untying the robe. "I can sense utilization of the Worldstone shard near Wortham, but I can't get a full picture with the Astral Anchor. I need you to head there and scout it out for yourself."
Knowing he wasn't going to Wortham in disguise, he finished removing the robes and reached for his backpack. He quickly stuffed the robes into the bag and pulled out his scythe.
"Wortham...it always comes back to Wortham," he commented sadly. "Do you think the cultists are using the same cave again?"
"It wouldn't be the first time that shard has been used there, either. That kind of power lingers. But I can't say for certain without any accurate insight," Karshun told him, clearly biting back an entirely different and likely more acidic comment.
Pyresong was already feeling sad and frustrated. That poor community had already dealt with Skarn's cultists decimating their numbers. It was hardly a year ago. Then he'd found some of Diablo's cultists there with another shard, more recently. At least they hadn't had a chance to do any actual harm to the village. He paused as he hung the scythe on his belt. Digging deep inside himself, he was certain that they hadn't just arrived there yesterday. Thinking of his anxiety, he could trace it back at least a few days. They were way ahead of him right now. His sense of urgency made his heart lurch painfully for a moment, but he put it away.
"You saw nothing yesterday, or the day before, correct?" Pyresong asked.
"Nothing until last night."
Karshun threw him a frustrated glare as if he was questioning the mage's capabilities. Not wanting to spark an argument, Pyresong raised a hand to cut him off. Then he quit thinking about it altogether. Much as he had once done with Cain in this very room, he just spoke what was crawling around under the surface. He let his instincts guide him and outlined what he had been feeling.
"They've been there for at least a couple of days...maybe longer...but the shard has only been heavily active since...the night before last," he told him. "Whatever they've set up has begun."
The angry glare faded as understanding dawned on Karshun's face. Suddenly he was exceptionally interested. His mind already raced ahead for how they could use this to their advantage.
"How? What do you feel?"
He sighed and shook his head. "I can't focus on it. It's not in my control. But I've sensed it was not on the move after a few days ago. It...found a purpose, or a place, a few days ago. Likely while we were recovering. But today, I feel it is actively being used. Not just waiting. Even in Mount Zavain, I could feel that. It's a sort of...anxiety or restlessness that I feel. Here in Westmarch, as I got closer to it, I felt it more strongly. I did not even realize I was closer to it until you mentioned Wortham. It's too...vague," he finished, clearly disgusted and frustrated.
Karshun seemed to be considering that. "I believe you. There must be some way we can use that. But now is not the time. If they're using the shard anywhere in or around Wortham, you must be able to follow it from there. Terrible things are happening."
Feeling something shifting inside of him, not unlike summoning his power for a spell, Pyresong froze, startled. There was a warm sort of flash behind his eyes. Karshun and the rest of the room had faded out almost completely for a second. There had been...something rising up inside of him. He was terrified for a few heartbeats, wondering if it had something to do with the shard. But then he felt something familiar beyond his fear and identified the sensation. It only lasted for a moment, but it had been powerful. When he blinked to refocus, Karshun's brows were knitted with worry.
"Your eyes..."
"What did you—"
His question was cut off by another voice.
"Your friend is right. Something vile is occurring in Wortham. No doubt involving demon spawn. We must stop the fiends lest innocent lives fall victim to their cruelty."
He couldn't help grinning at Karshun. "Welcome back, Tyrael."
Karshun's worry faded to something akin to wonder. "If I hadn't seen your eyes flash like that for myself, I'd still believe you were insane. What did he say?"
"He can sense it too. Something 'vile', he said, is happening in Wortham. How he knows, I have no idea. But it just confirms what we already know. I have to go."
Karshun shook his head with a grin of his own now. "Only you. At least try to come back in one piece this time, hm?"
He laughed outright at that, despite the dire circumstances. Only Karshun would find a way to tease him about what he'd confessed and somehow make it sincere at the same time. He was glad to count Karshun as a friend, though he'd never actually seen it as a possibility. He considered it might be time to send a letter to Cain to let them know they hadn't killed each other in his absence.
"Be safe," he said, heading for the door.
He peeked outside and was glad to see no one obviously standing around. Very likely, the watchers had had more than enough time to setup something more permanent, possibly in a building or a window nearby. But there was no hope for it. He didn't want to risk making a portal inside with all the shielding, and he hadn't been seen entering. He could only hope no one connected him to the brown-robed figure that had entered minutes ago. The moment he was sure the street was clear, he opened a portal to the Wortham village center waypoint.
The second he crossed through the portal, he felt it like an overwhelming wave of filth and Darkness roiling across his arcane senses. The shard was close, but not right here in Wortham. He struggled to put those feelings aside as he visually scanned the village center. After the Damnation Cultists, many of Wortham's residents had returned to their homes outside the village. Yet this place was still a bustling community by village standards, even after. Right now, there were maybe a dozen people total out and about in the square. A few tired people threw him a look but then turned away in disinterest. Every face he saw was haggard with exhaustion. Even as a welcome guest in Wortham, people took note of his arrival. This time, they had barely even glanced up. Every face that even turned his direction dismissed him blandly as if too tired to do more.
Wortham is the target!
The sensations of the shard were so powerful he couldn't consciously recognize the thought until he pushed down the feelings of fear and even panic that they instilled in him. Now that they were back under his control and pushed aside, he could sense it. This whole village was under attack, right now. And there were so few people. Had the villagers started abandoning this place? Given the listlessness he saw in them, he couldn't help wondering if the shard was maybe doing something to turn them into mindless slaves. Worse, was he too late to stop whatever was being done to them?
His gut knotting up, he spotted a familiar face passing through the north end of the village square and all but ran off the platform.
"Captain Azmir!" he called, chilled by how his voice carried in the unsettling quiet of the village square.
A haggard Captain Azmir turned, his face painted with irritation for a moment. Catching sight of him, he relaxed into something more akin to relief. He put out his hand in welcome. Pyresong took it, happy to dispense with the formalities of bows.
"Welcome back!" Azmir said tiredly.
"What has happened here?"
Azmir sighed heavily. "You come at a bad time. I've had too many villagers go mad from nightmares, running off into the woods or mutilating their own bodies. I suggest you leave before the same happens to you."
He shook his head. "I'm here to help. What do you know about these nightmares?"
"The villagers sometimes ramble about the deceased prince, Albrecht. Other times, they go on about Leoric's Manor..." Azmir scrubbed his face in exhausted frustration. "I know it's something to do with that cursed manor. But I haven't had a chance to check it out."
"I'll go. Just—"
Azmir shook his head. "I'm headed there now. But before we go, I have to find Noah."
"Noah?"
"A child that's gone missing. His mother is frantic and won't leave us alone. She's actually beginning to cause something of a panic. And she won't settle until I find him. I can't leave Wortham in a panic. There's not enough of us left to stop it."
Frustrated by the delay, Pyresong nodded. He understood. The captain had an obligation to this place and its people. More to the point, the guards and soldiers stationed in this area had been just as badly decimated by the previous attacks as the villagers themselves. More than likely, the vast majority of the captain's men at arms were little more than boys or half-trained farmers. If a mad panic-fueled riot broke out in the village, there would be little to no way of stopping it. It could begin a riotous cascade, making whatever was going on here exponentially worse.
"His father went mad the other day," Azmir explained. "Killed himself by tearing at his body with his bare hands. The child is clearly traumatized. And...I'm worried about him. Could you help me find him? Just a few minutes is all I ask."
He nodded again, understanding clearly beyond Azmir's flatly spoken words. Noah was more than just another village brat to the captain. He couldn't be sure if the captain felt the same about all the children under his purview, but this one definitely had a special place with the guard captain. He wasn't leaving until the child had been found. He growled to himself silently to cut off the chafing feelings of impatience and urgency. He had no idea where this manor was or how to get there. He needed Azmir's help. If this was how he would get it, fine. He would give the man a few minutes.
"Where was the—"
"Where is he? Where is my Noah!"
A woman across the plaza began screaming as several people tried to calm her. Captain Azmir shook his head tiredly and turned toward her.
"Jodie! What did I—"
Pyresong cut him off with a wave of his hand. He was already heading in that direction with slow, deliberate steps intended to loom and intimidate.
"We'll find, Noah," he told her, pitching his voice to be soothing. "But you need to calm down."
Apparently, seeing a Priest of Rathma was enough to startle her out of her wailing. She looked vaguely familiar to him and was clearly very young. He suspected she was one of the many who had been here when Skarn's cultists had attacked. She stepped back away from him fearfully, her eyes wide. While he typically preferred not to resort to intimidation when it came to simple villagers, he simply didn't have time to be gentle right now.
"When was the last time you saw him?" he asked, still soothingly.
His intent was more to get her to focus than believing it would garner anything useful. Besides, if Azmir was on the hunt, likely he'd already asked all these questions. Jodi looked from him to Azmir and back before finally answering, her concern over the boy winning out over her fear of him.
"Last night, I tucked him into bed," she told him in a trembling voice thick with tears. "Only, he wasn't in bed this morning. And his shoes were still there. Please! You have to find him! He's just a child!"
Already she was back to wailing and dissolving into tears. The handful of other exhausted and terrified villagers standing around were wringing their hands or trying to soothe her. Some were already whispering, muttering darkly about a necromancer being in the village as if he were the source of the “curse”. Others looked like they were ready to flee, regardless of his presence.
"Enough!" he barked roughly to silence her.
Choking back sobs, the woman stepped back fearfully again. Beside him, he heard Azmir sigh.
"We will find Noah," he assured soothingly again. "But you need to calm down. Do you want him to see you in this state? What would he think if his mother looked like she'd gone mad as well?"
There were several gasps at his harsh observation. He didn't care. He needed to get to that manor, right now. And he wasn't going to get Azmir's help until they found the brat. And, he could see for himself she was beginning to cause a panic. Whether it was his scowl or just overall fear of Priests of Rathma, she clamped her lips against more wails. Seeing she had listened, he turned to Azmir. Carefully he stuffed his anxiety into a hole.
"Where have you already looked?"
"The northwest is clear. I just came from that direction. But you know kids, they find all kinds of hiding places. I have the guards by the western gates on alert."
Recalling the layout of the village from previous visits, Pyresong told him, "I'll take the northeast road toward the fishing dock. You take the southeast. We'll meet on the other side."
Azmir nodded, clearly willing to take direction here. Pyresong headed in that direction, still hearing Jodie's much more subdued sobs behind him. As long as she wasn't wailing and making more of a scene, that was fine by him. Some tiny part of him felt empathy for her. He could easily envision his own fear if it were Fern missing. But, at the same time, he had absolutely no patience for hysterics. This whole hunting for a kid in a village this big could take hours, possibly days if the little brat didn't want to be found. He again pushed aside his impatient thoughts and focused on what he could do.
Maybe he had a more detailed map of the area somewhere in his backpack that included the location of Leoric's manor. Cain had come from Tristram, right near Leoric's manor. If he didn't have a local map on him, he was sure he could get one from the collection in Westmarch. But the idea of going all the way back to Westmarch and then searching the collection to find one was not appealing. His gut was already knotting up with anxiety. This town was under attack, and he could feel the power of the shard behind it. Hells, he could probably find his way to it across the countryside just by that sickening feeling alone. He didn't have time to ask about the nightmares, but he was certain it was the shard's doing. The why of it was what he could not figure out. What would the Terror Cultists and the shard get out of inflicting nightmares on the population?
While jogging along the path, he could hear several terrified whispers. Many people who saw him coming ducked back indoors and out of his way. Not a single child was seen anywhere. With all this going on, very likely they were keeping the children safe indoors and away from others. But, still, Pyresong knew there was no real safety here. Unlike the attack by Damnation cultists, this was something much more insidious. Not a single person he saw looked like they'd slept recently. Every face was haggard, pale, and miserable. The most frustrating part of all was that he had known. Somewhere deep inside, he had known days ago that something was happening. And he had been completely helpless to stop it.
Off to his left, he heard a frightened squeak and a flash of blond hair ducked behind a fence in some tall, green grass. His eyes had been scanning almost unconsciously this whole time. The movement, as much as the sound, caught his attention. When he paused to turn in that direction, the small boy stood and began running in the opposite direction. Shoving his other thoughts aside, he vaulted the fence. He sighed mentally as he followed. Lucky for him, the kid ran right toward another fence that led to a small crack between two buildings. There was no way he could chase the boy in there, but the kid was small enough he had to pause to climb the fence. It was just enough time for him to catch up, thankfully.
"Noah, wait," he called, grabbing the kid around the waist.
Noah began thrashing and screaming. "I don't want to hurt you!"
"You can't hurt me, Noah," he said soothingly.
He tried to be gentle, but couldn't, as the boy thrashed wildly. When one of the kid's elbows slammed him in the face, he had to change tactics. He turned away from the crack and gripped a handful of the back of Noah's shirt before carefully dropping him to the ground.
"Stay away from me! I don't want to hurt you!" Noah screamed in a painfully high voice.
He looked up to see a few adults coming their way hesitantly. Hopefully, he could hand the boy off to one of them. He kept his grip on the boy's shirt, just in case. He nodded to the few wary people approaching.
"You can't hurt me," he insisted more firmly, lifting him back to his feet. Then he turned to the others. "Jodie is looking for him. Can one of you take him to her?"
Noah's knees gave out, and he collapsed into a bundle of tears. Not wanting the boy hanging limply from his grip and not wanting to risk him to get away, he opted to squat down, keeping his grip. The handful of adults had decided to stop well out of reach. Pyresong sighed mentally, though kept his expression serene.
"I need someone to either take him to Jodie or fetch her from the square," he explained to the others, still milling about whispering.
"You found him!"
He was relieved to see Azmir running in their direction. The boy's own wailing had likely brought him. He finally let go of the kid when the captain approached. The second he released the boy, Noah ran straight for the captain, still bawling. Azmir knelt down to hold him, his relief clear.
"Please! I don't want to hurt anyone!" Noah wailed.
"Noah, what are you talking about?" Azmir asked.
Noah's shoulders hitched a couple of times as he struggled to find words. "I-I had a nightmare. I was big and scary and hurt a lot of people. I don't want to be like my father!"
Azmir's face pinched in pain as he pulled the boy back in for a hug. "You won't be."
The boy buried his face in the captain's neck. "I don't want to hurt mother..."
Azmir pulled him back to hold him by the arms. "Listen to me, Noah. You're not going to hurt anybody. It was just a scary dream."
Given his own experiences with nightmares and the shards, a part of him wanted to contradict the captain. There was a good reason for these people to be afraid. But the little boy's terror gnawed at him. The captain was right. Despite the warning he wanted to share with everyone in the village, this poor child didn't deserve to be this terrified for any reason. He began to feel the familiar, cold rage simmering beneath the surface.
Pyresong approached slowly, careful not to further frighten the boy. He was well aware of how intimidating he looked to others in his gear now. Charsi had more than a bit of fun making this dark-colored set with its bone motif. And he wasn't about to fault her for it. It basically screamed necromancer on every inch of it. He didn't have the heart to tell her it might have been better not to. Besides, it was probably safer to advertise his skills without having to actually use them sometimes.
"It wasn't just a scary dream," Noah insisted. "People are dying! And that is real!"
His heart twisted this time, more so than his gut. Children were always the most susceptible to magic attacks. They had no defense against them, really. Worse was always the consequences that children just weren't equipped to understand fully.
"Yes, that is real. But your dream is not. You're a big boy now, Noah. You can't be scared of dreams. You have to be brave to protect your mother," Azmir told him firmly.
Noah nodded, still miserable. Azmir looked around and then stood up. He glowered at the others, just milling about watching. He took the boy by the shoulder.
"You're going right back to your mother. Someone has to watch over her," he instructed Noah. "I'm going with Master Pyresong to see if we can put an end to the nightmares."
"Master Pyresong!" Noah's head whipped around to the necromancer. "You saved us before! I know you can do it!"
The captain grinned at his surprised expression. He quickly fixed it to serene again, just barely managing not to scowl at the captain's amusement. That was at least part of the reason he didn't typically revisit places he'd done any significant work. He disliked the attention and had never considered himself some kind of hero. Thankfully, the captain saved him from having to come up with something to respond.
"Back to your mother, Noah. Nowhere else. Understand? She's waiting for you in the square."
"Yes, sir!" the boy said, clearly much happier.
Once the boy was safely away and the others had dispersed, Azmir turned his amused expression on Pyresong. "Elder Cain had much to say on that subject. You really don't like being hailed a hero, do you?"
He had no idea when Cain had last come through here but couldn't quite suppress the flash of irritation. While he cherished the old man as a dear friend, there were obviously some things they were never going to see eye to eye on. Much as he missed Cain most of the time, right now, he was glad the elderly scholar was out of reach. He scowled at the Captain but otherwise ignored the comment and question. He was in no mood to engage on that subject, ever.
"How do we get to Leoric's manor?"
"The pier southwest of Wortham," Azmir replied, all business again. "That old manor must have clues as to why the villagers are going mad." He paused, eyeing Pyresong more speculatively. "You know something."
It was not a question, so he didn't bother to answer. Azmir fell into step beside him as they made their way back through the village. For a few seconds, Pyresong debated how much to tell the captain. He had no fear of this man wanting to go after the shard for his own purposes. But he and his men—this whole area, really—had suffered at the hands of another cult with a shard. He was at least entitled to know what they were up against.
"I'll tell you more when we're away from the village," he finally said to Azmir's anticipatory silence.
The captain just nodded. Again the necromancer let his eyes roam every face as they walked. He went over what little he had learned. Apparently, the shard was being used to attack Wortham with nightmares that were driving people insane. What he couldn't understand was why. What could it possibly do to benefit the cultists? They weren't here dragging people off for sacrifice, as had the others. Nor were they in the cave. That much he could sense. The shard was in a different direction, and it wasn't that close. Once their hurried steps passed through the south gates and across the small creek bridge, he finally made up his mind. Azmir nodded to his men as they passed.
"It's another shard of the Worldstone," he finally told the captain. "I've been chasing it. Cain and I managed to hunt down four and destroy them. This one is massive compared to those others."
"And they're using it now to attack Wortham?"
"Yes, I can feel it. But I don't understand why. You're sure there's been no sight of cultists?"
"Not a one. And no one's been taken for...sacrifices, either."
"Then I don't know what they're actually doing," he admitted, following the path through the chillingly familiar forest. "But we're up against cultists that are far more powerful and organized than the ones you encountered previously. Just tell me how to get there, and I'll put a stop to this."
He had paused in the middle of the path. Azmir snorted and kept walking.
"I'm going with you. These are my people under attack."
"You don't know what you're dealing with." Pyresong insisted.
"You're right, I don't. But it doesn't matter. You obviously don't know the way, or you'd have left already."
He put aside his frustration. Truthfully, he didn't want the captain anywhere near the mess he was walking into. But he couldn't stop the man, and he really did need a guide in this case. It would take too long to either find them on his maps or go back to Westmarch. And, he had to admit, Azmir had survived the cultists, Lethes, and possibly many other things. The man was good enough to stay alive through all that; he just might survive this, too. He still didn't like it. Yet, he had tried to give the man an out. The captain would not be swayed. Sensing as much as seeing Pyresong's mind made up, Azmir nodded.
"Ever since Mad King Leoric was slain, his manor has been abandoned. I don't know what could be of significance there after all these years," Azmir told him.
He caught sight of the tiny dock that he knew led out into the brackish swamp that would eventually lead into the Gulf of Westmarch. It was so very different and even inviting in the early morning sunlight.
I never thought I'd be back here again...
He shook off the memories. This is where his hunt for the shards had all begun for him. But he knew he was nowhere near ending this. Some small part of him still clung to the hope that he just might be able to wrest the shard away from the cultists today. It was a tiny flicker of hope, but it was better than going on this hunt with no hope at all. He couldn't catch them by surprise, he knew. And now, without any other ally to use him for bait or distraction, the chances were slimmer than ever. A tiny sliver of hope wormed its way into his thoughts when he considered the captain. Still, the man had no idea what they were really up against. He didn't like using him blindly. His mind made up, he decided to fill the captain in on what they were likely to find and confront. Anything to help tip the scales in their favor right now.
Azmir motioned to a small fishing boat tied to the dock. "I know a shortcut around through the river to the highlands where Leoric's manor stands."
Pyresong nodded and got into the boat. They took turns rowing and seemed to make good time. Thanks to the shallow bottom of the boat, they were able to stay near the edges of the river to avoid the worst of the current flowing against them once they'd left the brackish swamp of the delta. He gave as much detail about the cultists and the Bride as he was able to squeeze in while they were working their way up the river. Azmir grunted a couple of times but otherwise said nothing. The grim determination on his face never wavered. Still, the idea of dragging the man into any of this did not sit well with him.
He didn't even need to ask how far it was. His sense of the shard was too keen anymore. Maybe it was just the size of the damned thing, or maybe his overall senses regarding shards was getting stronger. Whatever it was, he felt it sickeningly. Aside from his sense of the shard pointing him directly toward it, the day seemed to turn into a thickly fogged murk as they approached a stone bridge spanning the river in the distance. Azmir aimed the boat at a small ramp. They hauled it up out of the water and flipped it; Pyresong's nerves jangled with every noise. He shook it off and focused. He could easily detect the faint traces of demons in the area. He was certain he had detected the scent of Khazra among them.
The captain pointed at the rock stairs carved into the cliff that led up to the bridge. Pyresong lead the way up the stairs, listening intently for threats. It didn't take them long to reach the top of the cliffs. Now he was certain there were Khazra nearby, but he couldn't hear them. And, of course, the feeling of shard-touched cultists came from the other side of the river across the bridge.
"This place...the dense air weighs upon my chest," Azmir commented softly.
Despite the fact that the words were whispered, he heard them clearly in the unnatural quiet. Even the sound of the white water rushing over the rocks far below them was somehow muffled. This place was under a dark curse right now; and not all of it from the shard. It blanketed the whole area with vile magic. He couldn't help wondering if it was already here before or if it was the cultists doing. Whatever it was, it was easily as powerful as the curse that had blanketed the Dark Wood, maybe worse.
At the top of the stairs, daylight was gone completely. It was now a moonless night thick with fog. he knew it couldn't be more than maybe midday. This place was cursed to eternal night. And it wasn't just his perception, either. Azmir seemed outright confused as he looked around. Still, he put aside whatever trepidation he might have felt and grinned darkly at the necromancer.
"I doubt anyone bothered to lock the front door," Azmir drawled, gripping his ready sword.
He was right beside the captain when they stepped out onto the bridge toward the heart of whatever dark curse blanketed this area; and directly toward the shard. His walk was silent as always, but he noticed even Azmir's deliberate stomp had taken on a stealthier tone in the eerie silence. Unable to block out the sense of the shard completely, he was at least able to keep all his focus on their surroundings in case of attack. Still, the feeling of the thing was so strong here...so close. He shuddered mentally. Something inside of him squirmed maddeningly at the sense of it so nearby, that simmering rage... The shard wasn't so much battering at him now. It was as if it was caressing him.
Suddenly the caressing sensation in his soul was real and overpowering. Pyresong froze, his heart lurching painfully in his chest with horror. The shard wasn't caressing him. She was caressing the shard! Beside him, Azmir stopped, his face worried. He almost didn't even see it; he was so lost in the sensations he now felt. And the voice...he could hear her!
"If you saw me now, Mother, would you recognize me?" Then the Bride chuckled. "Of course not. He has renewed me. I will never feel fear again. I will become fear itself."
He did shudder—physically, this time—as he wrestled the sensations away. No cold dread this time. It was all cold terror. Already Azmir was gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him. Pyresong gasped a few times and got himself back under control. He blinked to bring Azmir back into focus and nodded. Azmir let go of him.
"I'm...all right," he told the captain, forcing his voice to stay steady.
"If you Priests of Rathma weren't already pale as ghosts, I'd say you'd gone pale," Azmir said, eyeing him carefully.
He took a deep, calming breath. He let out his frustrations and re-centered his mind on the task ahead. He turned back toward the manor.
"I can feel the shards. The Bride of Hell was talking to it."
"Talking to it?" Azmir asked, his eyebrows shooting up. "What happened?"
He shook off his jumbled thoughts. This was no time for detailed explanations. He shook his head and motioned to the bridge.
"I'll explain later. Right now, she's here, and I stand a chance of stopping her. I must end her plans."
Azmir held firm. "Are you going to be all right?"
"I have to be," he said, over his shoulder, continuing without the captain. "If you don't trust me, go back."
Azmir snorted. "Trust isn't the issue. But if that thing can take you out of action that easily..."
"It won't. There's cultists ahead," he warned. "Stay behind me."
He didn't give the captain a chance to question further. He ran forward through the dark fog off the bridge and into the unfamiliar courtyard. He sent a blade of energy ahead of him to cut down three cultists directly ahead that he could sense. Then he turned to his right and did it again. He didn't even need to see in this fog to know where the shard-touched cultists were anymore. Feeling more coming, he turned left and slung another blade. Azmir moved to get around him and engage. As more came up from each of the three directions, he pushed Azmir back behind him with his shield arm and sent out a wave of energy to ignite all the corpses before the rest could get to them.
"Stay behind me," he warned again when silence again settled on the courtyard.
Shaken by the unexpected explosion and its destructive power, Azmir nodded. Neither hearing nor sensing anyone else in this open area, Pyresong hurried down the stairs into the courtyard and right to the manor doors. Again, he didn't need to see through the dark fog to know where he was going. His sense of the shard guided him like a beacon. Just beyond the open doors was a grand entrance hall lined with ornate columns. Something about those was eerily familiar, but he didn't have time to think about it. With no fog in here, he could easily see another half dozen cultists guarding the grand staircases ahead. There were rooms just beside the stairs on either side. Slinging a blade of energy to take down all the ones at the base of the stairs, he turned to the right.
"Go left," he ordered.
Azmir obeyed and turned to take on the three or four cultists in that direction. So far, it seemed no one had raised a cry or gone running to warn anyone else. He just hoped the two of them could trap these few before they could send a warning ahead. In a few seconds, the three cultists in front of him were silenced forever. He was about to turn to join the captain when something flashed on the edges of his vision. Wary of an attack, he spun around with his shield up. There was nothing. Behind him, across the hall, he heard Captain Azmir cutting down another. He ignored the thing for a moment and crossed the hall at the foot of the stairs. Azmir was just coming to join him. The captain motioned toward the stairs. And he was right; the shard was that way. But first...
He motioned silently for the captain to follow him. He turned back to the room he'd just been in. Something on that decrepit table had been trying to get his attention. He had no idea how he knew, but that brief flash of white light had not been an accident. He just hoped it was some kind of clue as to what the cultists were up to. Some tiny fragment of his mind wondered if that light had even been something from Tyrael trying to get his attention. But that didn't make any sense, either. Tyrael could just tell him whatever.
Approaching cautiously, he found a moldering journal open to a specific page. The rest of the table was empty despite the numerous rotting bookcases. He struggled to read the faded writing. Behind him, Azmir stepped right up behind him.
"What did you find?"
"I...don't know," Pyresong admitted. "A journal?"
Tomorrow, I go to war. As a soldier, I always knew that I would
have to venture onto the battlefield, but I never thought that
I would have to fight Westmarch. At the behest of my father,
no less. He had taken me there himself many times, and we
were always treated with respect and cordiality. Moreover,
he knows better than anyone the strength of their army.
His hasty request means there's no time to rally enough troops.
I can only take this as his way of sending me to my death.
My father has changed. He is no longer the great king that I
once knew, that everyone revered. He fears that Westmarch
is plotting against us, yet only his own treachery is evident
in his decision to invade their lands.
I will survive this. I have to.
Mother has protected Albrecht from Father's unpredictable
bouts of anger at great personal expense. And Albrecht
still has much to learn before he is able to defend her. I will
return, and I will fulfill my duty as a brother, as a son, and
as Prince of Tristram.
These were the last pages that contained any writing. He flipped through the rest, not really reading them. He handed it over to Azmir. He had only the vaguest idea of what had happened here, thanks to Cain. Cain had spoken about it, but still seemed greatly traumatized by much of it. There was something about a son sent off to war by the Mad King. Then the boy had returned shortly after the youngest son had disappeared. An evil priest had taken the youngest boy into the cathedral and done something to him. Then the elder boy, this Aidan, had become the Dark Wanderer that contained the essence of Diablo. He had always believed the young man had done what he had willingly. He'd never asked Cain for details of those dark days leading up to the fall of Tristram.
And, yet, this seemingly innocuous journal had flashed white light as if to get his attention. And clearly, the cultists had an interest in it. Looking around the rest of the ruined room, many of the decaying books and scrolls were left untouched. Why this?
"Aidan's journal?" Azmir wondered aloud, reading the entry. "How the hells did you find this?"
"I didn't...exactly. I feel no magic in it, but..." he gave up, trying to think his way through it. "It...caught my attention. And, obviously, it had their attention, as well. I can't explain it better than that. How well did you know them?"
"I didn't. I was just another guard working in Ashwold at the time. I never really patrolled Tristram. And, after what I've heard, I'm glad I wasn't a part of the Mad King's regiment."
He took the journal back and shoved it into his side satchel. Obviously, there was something there, especially in that last passage, that held some significance. He wrestled briefly with the idea that maybe the cultists were behind it. Perhaps they were using him again, somehow. Wary and frustrated, he shoved aside those dark and suspicious thoughts. He was here for the shard. Whatever other things were going on, he would have to figure them out later. He'd wasted too much time here already.
He stepped back out into the great hall and headed for the stairs. That's when the memory struck him. The nearest column, its carving and decorations. He knew them now. When he'd gone through Lethes' portal after King Leoric, they were the columns in the realm of the dead. These weren't wispy and insubstantial, but they were clearly the origin of the ones he'd seen there. Leoric's soul was tied to this place. A part of that was reflected in there. And the grand staircase, he'd seen that, too, in the realm of the dead. He wondered if it was somehow the king's twisted soul they were after.
Then he shoved those thoughts aside as meaningless clutter. Once he was out of here—with the shard—he could think on it more. Right now, the power of the shard was so very strong it felt like a tidal wave of energy flowing against him. But it wasn't calling to him. And it wasn't any kind of assault. He got the feeling it was watching and wary but more curious than concerned about his intent and actions. Even just knowing he could feel it with such detail in such a way made him feel almost sick. Yet he refused to let it deter or distract him. Whatever they were doing, it was happening already. He had to stop it. He ran silently up the stairs and then up a second flight to their right. At this point, he didn't need directions from Azmir.
This place is completely ransacked, he thought.
There was nothing but moldering ruins in every direction. Following his sense of the shard, he led them into a cavernously large room to their right that had once been the manor kitchens. There, they found another handful of cultists. He motioned Azmir to their left while he took out the three to their right. When finished, he turned toward what looked like the exits to a large courtyard beyond the arched exit. They were blocked with a thick, vile-feeling barrier. The shard was right there! He was so close!
The barrier itself glowed a malevolent red with the power of the shard. He couldn't see anything in the courtyard beyond. He looked around the columns, trying to find a weakness, or sigil, or some way to get through the magical shield.
"A barrier," Azmir said, poking it with his sword. "The cultists must be conducting some kind of ritual in the courtyard."
"Are there other entrances?" he asked. He knew he didn't have nearly enough strength to blast his way through the barrier.
Azmir shook his head slowly. "I don't know for certain."
"I just need—"
"I sense a deep curse all around us. It tethers this barrier to a few artifacts. Seek them out and sever their connection."
Tyrael's voice startled him to silence. But Azmir was already reaching for him, clearly worried.
"I'm fine," he assured, waving him off. "That was...something else. There's 'artifacts' keeping the barrier in place. I need to find them."
Azmir eyed him uncertainly. Pyresong was amused for half a second to realize he was getting used to being eyed as a madman but kept it out of his expression.
"Fine," Azmir said a second later. "You seem to know what you're doing."
He couldn't help smirking darkly at that. He had absolutely no idea. But apparently, Tyrael did. Though his sense of the shard had led him here, he had no clue where to go from here. He took a moment to focus. Through the overwhelming miasma of the shard, he could feel tendrils of its power reaching out toward something not far away. Following that sense, he wound his way through a couple of rooms, not even really seeing them anymore. It led him out through some crumbling arched doorways and into another stone-paved courtyard.
"Don't hurt me!"
His jogging steps skid to a halt, his heart racing. That echoing voice could only have come from a little boy. But it was no living boy. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Then there was no more time to consider. The cultists at the far end of the courtyard had spotted them. He shook off his surprise and flung a blade of energy ahead of them before Azmir could engage. Three of the four went down immediately. The fourth, a priest, was too well shielded. He flung some spirit fire to blind the cultist and followed it with a bone spear. He'd still been just a little too slow and had to pull Azmir out of the way of the priest's initial attack. The blazing ball of black lightning danced across his armor painfully. Azmir landed roughly on the flagstones behind him with a grunt. Once he was certain the bone spear had killed the groaning priest, he turned back to the captain.
"Are you hurt?" Pyresong asked the rattled captain.
"No. Keep going."
"It's here," he told him.
He didn't even need his magical vision to see it. The thick rope of energy from the shard was tied directly to a rusty sword lying on the ground right where the cultists had been gathered.
"What happened to you back there?" Azmir asked as they crossed the courtyard.
"I heard a boy's voice. He was saying, 'Don't hurt me'."
"A boy? I didn't hear anything."
He eyed the rusty sword that appeared to be the anchor.
"I'm not surprised. I don't think he's alive. If anything, I suspect a dislocated spirit. A...ghost," he explained to the captain's confused glance.
"This place is likely filled with them."
He nodded agreement but had no inclination to confirm right now. The sword was just lying there. He needed to sever the connection. With the blade of his scythe glowing brightly, he tried to cut through the evil red rope. It passed right through, doing nothing. Motioning for Azmir to step back with him, he aimed his next swipe at the sword and unleashed a small blade of energy. Again, there was nothing. But now he could see it was somehow shielded as well. With mild irritation, he toyed with the idea of just kicking it. Maybe moving the sword far enough away would work. He hooked his scythe and tried fire. The shield would not give, though Azmir took a few more steps back in surprise.
Frustrated, he squatted down inches away from the shielded object. Azmir stood by patiently while he analyzed it for a few seconds. He could so clearly see the little barrier around it, but it was pure shard energy, nothing like what he had learned from Cain. There was no ward or sigil or seal or anything he could break. His gut knotted until he felt like he would be sick. The idea of just kicking it became more and more of a possibility as the seconds ticked by. He did not want to come in contact with that vile power ever again. Yet he had to find a way to break the connection.
Praying he wasn't making another huge mistake, he shielded himself as strongly as he could and reached for the rusty little sword. He shivered with barely suppressed horror as his fingers passed right through the shard's barrier. But, now, he knew the shard would let him pass. Some distant part of his mind felt sick at the very idea it was accepting him. He gave himself no further time to think about it. Holding his mental and magical shields tightly, he gripped the rusted blade and moved to fling it away.
His vision went dark.
He felt as much as saw a burst of white light blinding him. When the light faded, he found himself in the same courtyard in bright daylight. A little boy with dark blond hair and a gold coronet was running at him. The boy's sword was clumsily aimed at him. At the moment, he was too completely disoriented to even react. He felt himself stepping sideways and parrying deftly with a sword of his own.
"You're going to have to be faster than that," he heard the voice of a slightly older boy teasing from his own mouth.
"No fair!" said the younger boy, lying on the ground.
Disoriented, Pyresong's panicked mind finally caught up. He was seeing a memory. Unlike previous memories, he was feeling this one, too. He had felt the arm controlling the sword. He'd felt the amusement of this elder boy. Struggling to focus, he saw the golden coronet with rubies on the younger boy's head and began to piece it together. Before he could really make sense of it, though, the body he was a passenger in bent down and helped the younger boy back to his feet.
"You're not going to learn if I go easy on you," the elder boy said, hefting him up.
"I am learning!" the younger one said in frustration. "I'll prove it to you. You'll see!"
He actually felt the hot flash of irritation as the littler boy ran off to their left and down a forest path beyond the courtyard.
"Albrecht, wait! Don't go in there!"
Aidan/Pyresong chased after him, too surprised to have reacted quickly enough to stop him. His longer legs caught up quickly, but almost wasn't fast enough. A couple of dire wolves launched themselves at the small boy just ahead of him.
"Get back! I'm warning you!" Albrecht shouted at them.
Aidan, fueled by his fear of what could so easily happen, wasted no time in shoving Albrecht to the ground under him while he cut down the wolves. Albrecht sat miserably in the dirt when Aidan turned back to his little brother. Aidan was furious, but his anger evaporated quickly when the boy spoke.
"Aidan...I tried. I really did..."
Aidan sighed, shoving aside his anger. "I know, Albrecht. But that was stupid. You have what it takes to be a great king, but you need to get stronger and faster before you can fight like one."
"I want to fight like one now!" Albrecht said, scrambling to his feet.
"Albrecht, being grown up means more than fighting. It also means protecting the people you love, like Mother."
Aidan knelt down to take his brother by the shoulders. Pyresong could feel the dark fear twisting inside of him.
"I'm not going to be here forever to help you. And there are monsters out there worse than dire wolves."
The white flash blinded him again. Pyresong was almost frustrated by the fact that he didn't get to see whatever happened next. But the jolting feeling of being back in his own body had his full attention when he stumbled to one knee. He was no longer in the courtyard. Hearing something behind him, his hand went to his scythe as he spun to his feet. The feeling of something already in his hand shocked him into dropping it. Captain Azmir backed up several steps as the rusty sword fell to the dirt floor with a clang.
"What the hells just happened?" Azmir asked.
"I...don't know," he replied, still slightly dazed. "I think it was a memory."
He eyed his right hand in momentary shock. The red rust still clung to his glove. He'd brought the sword out here with him. It was no longer connected to the barrier, and he was now standing in the same spot where the memory had ended. Had the memory guided him here?
Aidan, the Dark Wanderer and Prince of Khanduras. I suppose he was a caring brother, as well, he thought to himself sadly.
He took a breath and shook himself. Whatever had just happened, it worked. The rope of energy was gone. There was no time to consider more. He quickly stepped around Azmir, ignoring his questioning looks.
"Come on, there's two more artifacts," he told the captain.
Then he took off at a run, Azmir only a couple steps behind him. His gut-twisting anxiety was something he had to wrestle into submission. Behind it, he could feel the rage crawling around. He still had no clue how he'd broken the connection. But he did now know for certain there were two more. He could feel them clearly now, even through the miasma of the shard's overwhelming aura in this place. For one heartbeat, he considered that he might be able to just walk through the barrier. Azmir had tested it with his sword, but he had not touched it. He shook it off quickly, though. He trusted Tyrael's guidance. The angel had said they needed to find the artifacts, so that's what he would do.
Following that sense to the next artifact, he took them back up the path, through the courtyard, and into another section of the manor. To his left, in some rooms beyond, he could feel the artifact...and the cultists.
"Mother? Where are you?"
The ghostly voice of Albrecht came through for a second time as he crossed the threshold into another large room that looked like some kind of library. As with before, he flung a blade of energy at the four easy targets he found. This time, he caught them so completely off their guard that the priestess with them didn't have a chance to shield herself. He glanced around the room and adjoining corridors quickly. Not hearing or seeing anyone else, he approached the open book on the floor. Another rope of vile energy told him this ordinary book was somehow the anchor for the shield's barrier. He looked over his shoulder at Azmir as he squatted down.
"I don't know what will happen," he warned. "Last time, it was just a memory. Be on your guard."
Azmir nodded grimly and stepped back. Wasting no more time on the how or why of things, Pyresong reached for the book. Even his shielding had done nothing to stop the last one, so he didn't bother this time. Again he was assaulted by the cold shiver of terror down his spine as his fingers passed through the red shield. But he pushed through and grabbed the book.
He never even felt his fingers close around it.
The white light consumed his vision. When it faded, he was walking across this very library. The place was spectacularly decorated and furnished. It gave Pyresong some idea of the incredible wealth that had gone into this place during its building. Every stone wall was now covered with bookcases that stretched the high ceiling. Here and there were study desks. On the floor with a couple of wooden toys sat Albrecht.
"Albrecht, dear. Are you studying?"
The boy dropped his toys and flipped around to grab the book lying ignored nearby.
"Yes, Mother!"
Queen Asylla, he realized.
Just as with Aidan, he could feel her emotions bleeding through as she sighed fondly.
"Oh, Albrecht. You must take the time to study," she told him, not unkindly. "As a prince, you should know the history of our people. That's what makes a good leader."
Albrecht dropped the book on the floor. "But what about studying heroes and warriors? Aren't they also good leaders?"
Asylla shook her head, not entirely disappointed. Clearly, she'd been through this before with her other son at some point. He wondered at that. He wasn't fully immersed in her thoughts or feelings. They were a vague and distant thing, but they were clear enough for him to understand. He put it aside to focus as she spoke.
"Winning wars is only part of being a good leader. You must also know what's the best for your people. Your father became a great King because he read, and you will, too."
"But studying is so boring..." Albrecht moaned.
He could feel Asylla's warm smile. "Well, how about this? We study for just a little bit longer, and then you and I can go pick some fruit for dessert tonight."
"Okay!" Albrecht said, clearly more motivated. "I'll finish studying in no time."
Asylla gracefully scooped up the discarded book the boy had dropped on the floor. She flipped through several pages to find the passage she wanted.
"Here's a good start: The History of Khanduras. I'm sure we'll even get to read a bit about your father."
The last thing he felt was warm pride for her husband, the king.
The white light consumed his vision again, and he was now left wondering. Whose memories were these? The objects themselves were clearly the source of the memories. But now he questioned those memories. Aidan's feelings had bled through, also. But that sword could have belonged to either boy. The book...
He looked down at his own hands to find the book torn in two along the spine. He'd likely destroyed the soft, decaying material unconsciously. It at least broke the connection to the barrier. He dropped the two pieces and turned to Azmir.
"How long was I gone?"
"Just a couple of seconds," Azmir confirmed.
He nodded. Good, he wasn't losing time. He couldn't help glancing down at the book one last time. His heart twisted.
Queen Asylla... Fate can be cruel.
Again the rage rose just beneath the surface. He knew from Cain the queen had been executed. Her own husband accused her of treachery while listening to the lies of the wicked Archbishop Lazarus. The poor woman had stood by her husband as Leoric descended into madness. Had she taken her sons and fled...
He shoved aside his sad thoughts and took off at a run again toward the next object. He knew he'd found the right room when a completely different yet still echoing voice assaulted him still in the corridor.
"We have to find the boy, or it'll be our heads!"
This time, it clearly wasn't Albrecht or anyone else he recognized. At best, he could assume it was some royal guard or another. It didn't matter. He ran right into the large bedchamber, ready for the attack. Unfortunately, none of the cultists were caught off guard. They appeared to be waiting for him. He paused long enough to shove Azmir back into the corridor behind them to avoid being hit. Several wicked spells hit his shield and were mostly absorbed by it and his armor. In retaliation, he flung several bone spears in rapid succession to take out the easy targets all clustered together so conveniently. Then he chased that with a blade of energy. At the same time, he summoned four skeletons to add to the chaos.
"Stay here," he flung over his shoulder at the captain.
He launched himself into the room. The spirit fire he flung with another blade from his scythe had done little more than distract them. The bone spears had at least taken out a few. The skeletons were essentially there to run interference. He danced around the room, only narrowly avoiding various weapons—mostly poisoned ritual daggers—and a multitude of various spells clearly enhanced with the power of Hell behind them. But he had no time to be neat about this. Where the other two objects had been guarded by no more than four, this one had at least a score of cultists. They must know by now what he was doing.
It didn't do them any good. In a couple of minutes, the only living person in the room was Pyresong. He motioned for Azmir to wait as he listened for more. He had no real idea how many had come to the manor, but the Bride hadn't just brought a few. There had to be more cultists here somewhere. He wondered if they were holding back for a more concerted defense elsewhere. Once he was certain there were no more coming, he went to the large doors that opened onto a balcony. Still no one. He motioned for Azmir to come inside. He shook some of the gore off his scythe and then hooked it on his belt, in too much of a hurry for more.
On the floor in the center of the room was the object of the final tether. He couldn't help a reflexive cringe when Azmir walked right through the obvious line of the shard's energy. But the man seemed completely unaffected and unaware of it. When Pyresong passed by the enormous bed on the wall to his left, he froze. For one heartbeat, he could have sworn he had seen a flash of something in that direction out of the corner of his eyes. Azmir spun in that direction with his sword raised. When no threat presented itself, he looked back to Pyresong curiously. He was already searching with his magical vision, which was nearly blinded by the overall haze of the shard's magic. He still saw nothing and switched back to his normal vision. Stepping closer to the bed, he spotted it when it flashed faintly a second time on the floor, just under the edge of the bed. Wary of a trap, he crouched down to get a better look.
Right where he'd seen the gentle flash of white light, he found another journal. This one, too, was open to the last used page. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was somehow meant to find it. Cautiously, he slid the journal out from under the bed and a little closer. He scanned the passage quickly, barely skimming through.
Leoric has been too busy to enjoy Tristram. The crown's burdens
are never light, yet I'd hoped coming here might bring him some
peace. I worry for him. He tosses and turns in his sleep and even in
waking hours, rarely seems to hear me speak. It's as though he
were always listening to the voice of someone else. Someone
only he can see. Once, I even found him quarreling with an empty
room, yet he does little but dismiss my concerns. Is it the pressures
of being King that anguish him so?
I have prayed to Akarat to help my husband, to ease his mind.
We have always been faithful servants, always devoted to the
Zakarum faith. I am beginning to fear we have already drifted
too far from the Light.
Azmir waited patiently nearby while he quickly scanned the passage. Then he handed it over to the captain. Despite the dark thoughts of prayers to entities that weren't even listening, he couldn't help a twinge of sorrow. This whole family, ripped apart so brutally ate at something inside of him.
"The Queen's diary?"
Pyresong nodded. "Something wanted me to find these. They...flashed with light."
Azmir eyed him skeptically. He waved it off. He still wasn't certain if these journals weren't somehow linked to the cultists. He didn't exactly have a bad feeling about them, he admitted. But it was still strange. They had been found where cultists were gathered. The one downstairs had clearly been open and obvious on the table as if someone had actively been reading it only seconds before. This one was in much better condition. Yet it wasn't as if the cultists were actively reading it. It was still lying partially under the bed, well away from the bodies of everyone he had just killed.
But still...why at all? he wondered, almost certain something wanted him to find them.
Frustrated, Pyresong shoved it in his side satchel with the other. That was not why he was here. He turned to the surprisingly well-preserved toy horse sitting in the middle of the floor. That was his anchor and his target.
"Keep watch," he warned Azmir.
A second later, his hand wrapped around the toy, and the expected white flash blinded him for a second. This time, he was walking across the lavishly decorated bedchamber. Near the foot of the large, canopied bed, he spotted Albrecht. There was a sensation of fondness mingled with fear as he laid eyes on the boy.
"There's my boy," he called.
Albrecht dropped his toy horses and came running with his arms open. Pyresong felt the king crouching down to catch him. Compared to Albrecht, Leoric was huge. Still, he hefted the boy under his arms and tossed him in the air.
"Oof! I think you've gotten bigger since the last time I saw you!" Leoric laughed.
As near as Pyresong could tell, the boy was no more than maybe eight years old. From what he'd seen so far, all of these memories were around the same time period. And he knew Albrecht had never had a chance to grow up. Still, even for having an age estimate, he began to realize just how large the King actually was. His only other reference was from when he'd met the Skeleton King in the realm of the dead. And that thing had been massive, most likely empowered by Diablo.
At that moment, he realized he could not connect the two. This happy man, this father who looked so proudly on his growing son...he couldn't. He knew humans were capable of some of the worst Darkness, sometimes horrifying enough to give demons inspiration. But this?
"Father, let's play a game!" Albrecht said happily, smiling up at his father.
"A game?" Leoric asked in amusement.
"I've been playing it with Aidan. I hide, and you try to find me!"
There was a flicker of something dark that ran through the king's mind and heart at the mention of his elder son. It was gone too quickly for Pyresong to really pinpoint what it was. The king smiled warmly at his younger son.
"Well, you'd better find a good hiding spot," the king warned.
"Here I go!"
The king spun around to face away from the child, still laughing inside. He knew full well there were only so many hiding spots in this room. The bed was always the obvious. He heard the smaller feet cross the room in a mad dash. Leoric turned his attention to some of the shelves and tables across the room in the general direction of where the captain and the necromancer had entered. Again there was a dark flash of something, almost like a voice, as the king's eyes found some of Asylla's belongings nearby. It, too, was gone so fast he couldn't identify it. But he could feel it had been something dark and sinister. There was something akin to chaos in this man's heart just beneath the surface.
The smaller footsteps had stopped. It was time to find Albrecht. The king spun around, still grinning.
"Now, if I was a little boy, where would I hide?" he called.
As expected, he heard and answering giggle across the room near one of the doors to the balcony.
"Let me see," the king said, moving toward the left of the giant bed. "The obvious place would be..."
He spun around and snatched up Albrecht trying to sneak up on him from the balcony doorway.
"There you are!"
For the second time, he hefted the child under the arms. This time tossing him onto the bed. Albrecht giggled and then scrambled down off the bed. King Leoric ruffled his hair affectionately, dislodging the gold and ruby coronet.
"So, have you been enjoying Tristram?" the king asked.
"I love it here! There's a whole field of flowers that Mother showed me."
Again something dark, laced with fury this time, raced through the king's mind and disappeared.
"What about you, father? Do you like Tristram?" Albrecht asked with an innocent smile.
Leoric took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Yes, well...In truth, I'm having trouble sleeping, and it's been...difficult to think."
"Is that why you haven't been around?" Albrecht asked innocently with concern.
Leoric ruffled his hair again. "Perhaps I should consult Lazarus."
Giggling, Albrecht fixed his hair and coronet again. "Why did Lazarus want to come here in the first place?"
"He believed it was best for our faith, and I trust his judgment. Lazarus is a wise man and faithful servant of Akarat."
Albrecht gave him a dubious look. Clearly, the boy didn't like Lazarus but would not openly say such to the father he respected and loved. Leoric knelt down to be on the level with his son's eyes.
"As king, faith is essential, as faith unifies the people. It's not a source of power, son. It's a source of community. And community is far more important than even leadership."
The vision cut off so fast that Pyresong was frustrated again. There was something more there; he could feel it. He was still missing something, some piece that would make these visions and journals and everything else make sense. Again, he couldn't help wondering which person these memories belonged to. Each one of them had Albrecht, yes, but they weren't the boy's memories. He'd been inside other people. As the light faded, he didn't have time to consider further anyway. The wooden horse was ablaze in his hands. Startled, he dropped it and stepped back.
"You all right?" Azmir asked.
Looking around, Pyresong was able to confirm the tether was broken. He could only assume he had set the toy on fire himself. Much as with the book, he'd done so unconsciously. And that disturbed him. It didn't matter, anyway. He needed to get moving. He nodded to the captain.
So...he used to be a loving father once, Pyresong though sadly
Still struggling to link that man to the monster he'd encountered in the realm of the dead, he quickly shoved it aside. There was just no time.
"That's all of the artifacts," he said to Azmir, taking off at a run again. "The path to the courtyard should be open now."
His sense of the shard was so overwhelming at this point he could only really detect a direction. It was everywhere, even writhing around inside of him. Had he given it any thought, he knew he would be horrified. So he didn't bother thinking about it at all. His one focus now was the Bride and getting that shard away from her. He followed through numerous rooms feeling frustrated and lost in this sprawling place. He remembered the exit they had found to the courtyard was in the kitchens. As he ran through what looked like a grand dining hall, he suspected he was close. Maybe on the other side...
He skidded to a halt on the rotting carpet. Azmir nearly ran right into him. Another flash of light coming from the dining table had him spinning around, expecting an attack. His eyes quickly took in the empty room. There was no threat here. He was about to run on when it did it again. A gentle white glow near something on the table. It took him a moment to spot it since there was so much other clutter on the table. But there it was. Yet another journal.
"What is going on here?" he whispered.
There was no way this was an accident. The first one, maybe. The second one was less likely. But this third one didn't just flash and go quiet; it was glowing softly even to his normal vision. He wasn't even using magical vision.
"Do you see it?" he asked Azmir.
"See what?"
On a hunch, Pyresong changed to another vision he rarely ever had to focus on these days. With decades of training in necromancy, it was often something done so completely by habit that the Priests of Rathma didn't even think about it anymore. He was no exception. After a while, it came as natural as breathing. The real effort wasn't in using it, as much as turning off the other more normal visual spectrums that could and usually did distract and interfere. When he focused on his necromantic senses, the journal glowed brightly. He pulled the other two out of his satchel. They glowed with the exact same energy. This was no magic; it was a spirit trying to get his attention. He scanned the room again. There was still no obvious spirit here. Whatever was trying to alert him to something had no connection to the shard or its vile power. Quickly he stepped up to the table. This journal was almost perfectly preserved.
No one will tell me where Mother went. The gardener said a
few days ago that she left on a trip, but I don't know why she
wouldn't take me with her. It's been so long, and she still isn't
back. I asked Father, but he doesn't seem to care. He just yells
at me to leave him alone. Why doesn't he like talking to me
anymore? Did I do something wrong?
Lazarus has been acting even stranger. When I ask him about
my mother, he just smiles at me. He smiles like a doll. I don't
like it. Sometimes I swear I feel him watching me. But who would
believe me? Not Father. I wish Aidan was here. He'd know
what to do.
He barely read the words before shoving it into his side satchel with the others. Thankfully the captain didn't protest as they continued on through the room at a run. The one thing about all of this with the journals that he could be certain of was that it had nothing to do with the shard. The shard was his target. Everything else would have to wait.
He ran through a room to their right. There he found an exit to the courtyard. There was no barrier now, but the swirling energies of the shard created some kind of vortex in the center of the courtyard. He switched off everything but his normal vision when he spotted the Bride holding up the shard. He motioned the captain to stay back outside the courtyard in case there was a trap. The Bride stood calmly on the opposite side of the courtyard as the maelstrom died down. She had been expecting him. She stood beside a portal that glowed a wicked red and orange. There were no other cultists.
"Still attempting to deter Terror, I see," she laughed mockingly. "My lord is grateful to you for releasing Him. He offers you a place at our side."
Pyresong pasted on an expression of interested amusement. Inside, he was snarling with tightly controlled rage. The feeling of his nightmare laughing made him nearly scream at it with his pent-up fear. He pulled on the few restless spirits he could feel in this place. Carefully he controlled them and himself so as not to let the glow alert her.
"Did he now?" he said with a smirk, stepping forward casually. "And what would that 'initiation' entail? The murder of a few innocents? Maybe a whole village of sacrifices? Or perhaps just a few thousand tortured souls?"
"You mock now, Priest," she said coldly. "But you will see. He has great plans for all of us."
He didn't let her finish whatever else she was going to add. He launched the bone spirits at her. As expected, she jumped back through the portal and closed it. But not before a couple of the skull-shaped weapons made it through. He knew it wasn't likely to do her any actual harm, not while she had the shard, at any rate. He just hoped it might be enough to slow her down. He muttered vile obscenities under his breath.
"What the hells did she mean?" Azmir demanded. "And what the hells was she doing with Prince Albrecht's things?"
He'd almost forgotten the captain was there. Of course, he'd heard the whole thing. He forced himself to calm down. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He refocused himself and his senses. He had no idea where that portal had taken her, but it wasn't Hell; that much he could be sure of. Now the shard was nowhere nearby. Whatever was happening here had left a filthy taint, but it wasn't active anymore.
"I don't have time to explain," he said tiredly. "But I believe the nightmare curse has been lifted. Let's get to Wortham and check."
Azmir eyed him again, clearly not liking his evasive answer. But his concern for Wortham won out. Pyresong opened a portal and stepped through it, assuming Azmir would follow.
They stepped into chaos.
The village was burning, and there were screams in every direction. Pyresong's gut twisted painfully, and his heart froze in his chest. While they had been chasing the shard, the Bride had sent the cultists here to reap the harvest. That was why there had been so few at the manor. Mentally screaming at his blindness, he now went blind with fury. He ran after the first group of cultists he found. He knew giving in to anger or any other strong emotion in a fight was a bad idea at best and fatal at worst.
The rage didn't care.
All he saw now were the cultists. They were on every road, every path, every alley. They were violating and desecrating this poor village. He wasn't even sure what direction he was headed anymore. Their numbers had been enough to overwhelm Stormpoint and the standing army there. He cursed himself for not having seen this coming. Mostly he cursed them. He cut them down by the dozen. He had half a dozen skeletons mixed in the mess; they could at least tell cultist from villager or guard. Seeing no villagers or soldiers in one cluster, he blasted yet more cultists with corpse explosions. He tore his way across the village square, venting all that rage until he nearly cut down Captain Azmir. He finally reigned himself in as the captain ran past him toward the church. Much as he wanted to continue the murderous rampage, he knew there were likely survivors that would need help if not rescue. Struggling to contain the rage, he followed. Azmir pounded on the barricaded doors with the hilt of his sword.
"It's Captain Azmir! Open up!"
While Pyresong struggled to catch his breath and calm himself, there was a scraping sound of pews being moved and screaming from beyond the doors.
"Captain! They took my Noah!" Jodie was screaming loud enough for them to hear out here.
Someone finally got the door open an inch. "They took the others toward the fishing dock!" an elderly man said through the crack.
"Seal the doors again! We'll save them!" Azmir flung over his shoulder.
Pyresong was already running east when Azmir caught up to him. Only a few feet away, they spotted more orange uniforms fighting with the cultists. He didn't even bother to warn them. He jumped in ahead of their blades. His dance was more controlled now but no less vicious. That darker part of him felt the satisfaction of warm blood and gore spraying in every direction and reveled in their agonized screams. He didn't even stop to finish off the cultists, still writhing in agony on the ground. They deserved their suffering and so much more.
"Guard the church!" he heard Azmir tell the others.
The second the way was clear, he unleashed everything he had on the cultists. There was no more consideration for later. Right now, he had cultists in front of him, and he was sending them to their master as fast as he could. They died by the score, and Pyresong never stopped moving toward the dock. In his near-mindless rage, he could at least keep moving in that direction. Some tiny part of his mind was reserved for making sure Captain Azmir was at least out of the range of his attacks.
"Mother! Don't let them take me!" Noah's voice rang through the smoke so very nearby.
The high-pitched scream from the little dock gripped something inside Pyresong that made him nearly scream in return. His mind was already running through all the dead children he'd ever seen. And now Noah's face was among them. How could he possibly have not seen this coming? How could he have been so stupid? Now they would all pay for his mistakes.
By the time he cut his way onto the dock, the boat was already drifting away down the creek rapidly. It was heavily laden with bound villagers and one cultist. But the cultist was crouched down. He had no way to stop the boat and couldn't risk the villagers by throwing something at the cultist. Snarling in rage, he just barely managed to stop himself from throwing a bone spear anyway.
Behind him, something heavy collapsed to the boards, startling him back to his surroundings. Azmir was on his knees, bleeding profusely from a multitude of deep cuts and stab wounds. One trail of blood ran down from an obvious stab wound under his right arm. He reached for a healing potion. The captain waved off the potion and extended a hand. Pyresong pulled him up to his feet, noting how pale and unsteady he was. He shoved the potion into the captain's free hand.
"Take it," he demanded, having no patience.
"Just a scratch. Quickly, go save the villagers. We'll finish off the rest of these bastards. One of them mentioned the cathedral. It's that way."
When Captain Azmir doubled over coughing, he uncorked another potion and shoved it into the man's unresisting mouth. Azmir struggled only slightly and accepted, glaring at him.
"Which side of the creek?" he asked when the man finished.
"Other side," Azmir whispered, unable to do more as the potion took effect.
He dragged the captain back off the dock and handed him over to some guards. Then he sprinted back toward the small dock. He leaped as high as he could off the end of the dock but didn't quite clear the creek. At least he was close enough to scramble up the rocks on the other side. Not even bothering to try to find a path, he followed the creek north through the forest. The remaining healing potion on his belt he put to good use as he ran.
In his mindless rage, all injuries had been felt but dismissed. If they weren't enough to cripple him, he didn't care. Now he needed to at least stop the bleeding before it did actually weaken him. So far, he couldn't feel any poisons, but he took some antidote anyway. That done, he carried his shield by the strap in one hand while he dug through his backpack for more potions to put on his belt. Never slowing, he struggled to focus his mind. He could not keep fighting as he had. He'd wasted much of his energy already and was just lucky he hadn't made a fatal mistake.
Still running and making way more noise than he would like in the dark forest, he took a moment to consider what had happened. He'd felt the rage building as he'd worked his way around the manor. The injustice of all those innocent lives ripped apart in such an insidious and hideous way likely had a lot to do with it. Yet, there was more. He ran it all back in his head as he followed the creek. By the time he'd gotten to the Bride, he was already nearly engulfed in the rage.
Why? he demanded of himself.
He had to question himself. He couldn't keep fighting blindly like that; it was suicidal. He certainly didn't have time for meditation right now, and he needed to understand the trigger. Was it really all just the injustice of it? Or was there something darker?
"Still trying to deter Terror, I see."
The memories of the Bride's mocking tone gave him a partial answer, at least. Fear. He'd been terrified to his core. The shard was still very much a horror to him. Unlike the others, this one was massive; and exponentially more powerful to go with that size. The others had inspired dread. This one was pure, raw terror. He'd fought it with anger and then blinding rage. And when he'd seen the renewed suffering in a village that hadn't even fully recovered from the Damnation Cultist attacks, he'd just lost control of it. The injustice of that had made something in him snap.
"Those poor people..." he heard the memory of Cain's words.
He had no more time to consider. He had broken through the thick forest to find a path and another small dock to his left. The disused road wasn't too badly overgrown. Still, at a flat run, he followed it toward the massive cathedral he could see ahead in the distance. Already he knew the shard was there. And, very likely, every cultist not currently scouring Wortham was there, too. He had managed to struggle and gain control over his roiling emotions as he ran. For once, he wished for the cold emptiness that certain death brought. He couldn't allow himself to lose his focus again. Somewhere in that cathedral, those villagers were likely being used as sacrifices. They needed him to be focused.
He was nearing a fork in the road, one of which, he suspected, led to Tristram and the other to the cathedral. Suddenly all of his own physical senses were blinded and jarred when the feeling of the shard and its terror overwhelmed him again. She was holding it, caressing it. And she was using it to reach out to all the others. Somehow he knew she was addressing all those touched by the shard. It was part of how she communicated with their unbelievable numbers. Nearly blinded to all else, he was only dimly aware of stumbling to his knees. He fought viciously, growling openly as he tried to take control of himself back. He was too exposed for this!
"They thought to chain the Lord of Terror here," he heard the Bride telling her followers.
He blinked, trying to focus on anything, even the dirt floor in front of him.
"He is what makes Tristram sacred."
These were no mere words. She projected images to go with them, like something out of a book. He tried to find his legs, but they were so far away now.
"Where Albrecht, Leoric's youngest son, was shown rebirth."
He was losing himself in those words and images, just as he had the memories. Somewhere his body choked on the dirt as he fell nearly face-first into it. He rolled onto his back, still feeling completely disconnected. Nothing worked! He couldn't block them. And, at this point, the best he could hope for was to use his magical shields to protect his body from anything that might attack.
"Where Aidan, Leoric's eldest, put his father's corpse to rest again. 'A family lost in the dark'," the Bride sneered. "No, it welcomed them as it will welcome us."
As suddenly as it began, it was over. During the short interlude, his breathing and heartbeat had slowed considerably from the stop in exercise. But now it jolted again with fear. He was amazed nothing had come out of the forest to attack him. It was probably sheer dumb luck, he knew. But the idea that he was now so entangled with the shards that it treated him as one of the cultists sickened him. He was trembling slightly from the jolt of adrenaline as he regained his feet. Initially, at first, his running steps were unsteady, but he continued running anyway. He had to get to the cathedral. There had to be some way to stop her.
Again he turned that fear into anger. It sickened him to think how closely he was now linked to the shards, this one in particular. Not unlike the nightmare version of himself he'd confronted, he would destroy it. He would destroy all of them. There would be no ending to this. Until this point, he had held onto the hope that one day this would be over, that he could walk away from it all. Maybe even spend some of his remaining life with Kashya.
Now he knew that would never happen.
It would never end for him. Until someone or something could confirm there wasn't a single shard left in all of Sanctuary that could be misused, he would hunt them and destroy them. Or he would die. Even then, he doubted he would give up the hunt. If he could cross back and forth between here and the Unformed Land, he would use that power, too, to hunt them. At the moment, he didn't even have an answer as to how to destroy them. And it didn't matter; he would hunt them anyway. He knew now they had done something to him. Even without obvious corruption, they had marked him as theirs. And he would be theirs.
I am their ending.
All of these things raced through his mind in a matter of seconds as he resumed his run toward the cathedral. If there were any survivors from Wortham, he might still have a chance to save them. At this very second, nothing else mattered. There was not a single cultist in sight as he approached the enormous, decaying cathedral. He wasn't entirely surprised by this. They were gathered somewhere, likely with the Bride and the shard. They knew he was coming.
From what little Cain had told him of this place, it could house the entire population of Westmarch with room to spare. What was above ground was only the merest fraction of its actual size. The main hall of the cathedral was larger than most great halls in most palaces. What lay beneath the surface was a system of catacombs and caves larger than most cities. Once upon a time, it had been home to a small army of those faithful to the Light; and many Horadrim. Thousands of people from miles around came daily for multiple services. They had to have services multiple times a day to accommodate so many worshipers. It had been a place of Light that housed possibly the most evil artifact of all time; Diablo's soulstone. Eventually, that evil leaked out and took hold. Now it was a husk. And every inch of it stank of demonic influence to him.
He raced right up the stairs and into the main hall. There, he finally encountered a handful of cultists. Not quite in a blind rage, he flung energy blades around and summoned a couple of bone golems. One he set to guarding the rear in case there were more trying to box him in. The other, he set to swinging at anything that moved. Spotting a couple of priests off to the sides, he changed his tactic slightly. He danced through these with his scythe and narrow blades of energy that didn't need to extend more than a couple of feet. As he spun, he flung bone spears with his shield hand at the priests in rapid succession.
"Somebody help me!"
Noah's terrified screams from further in jolted him again. His already fast moves took on a frantic pace as he switched to corpse explosion. Glancing distractedly toward the front of the hall, he spied Noah lying bound on a blood-covered table. A priest already had a blood-covered ceremonial knife raised over the boy. Acting in pure panic-fueled instinct, he went into wraith form. It was the only way he could move fast enough to stop what he knew was coming. Blazing fast in his ghostly form, other cultists swung at him to no effect. He saw only the knife. He resumed physical form, already swinging his scythe. It went right through the priest's back and out his chest. He kicked the impaled body to finish ripping right through the flesh and bone. The priest was so shocked by the pain that he couldn't even scream as Pyresong ripped him apart. The spray of blood and gore went everywhere. But he was already swinging again. Around the table had been another half dozen or so cultists. Back the way he came, another ten or more were running toward them. His only thought was to protect the boy.
"Stay down!" he barked at Noah when he tried to sit up.
In a few seconds and with a couple of corpse explosions, the room was momentarily clear. His chest was heaving again as he turned back to the boy on the table. He hooked his scythe and pulled a knife off his belt to cut the ropes. Noah was sobbing and shaking almost too badly for him to maneuver the knife in between.
"Noah, I'm here to help. Don't be afraid," Pyresong told him soothingly.
The boy's eyes shot open. Despite all the blood and gore, he seemed to recognize him and began crying with relief.
"It's you!"
Clearly still terrified, the boy rolled over so he could get at the ropes. The knife was wicked sharp and cut them away easily. As the ones around the child's wrists snapped, he moved quickly to the ones around the boy's ankles.
"W-w-w-here's my m-m-mother?" Noah asked, trying to force back the tears.
"She's..."
He didn't get to finish. He dropped the knife and grabbed his scythe off his belt. He spun around to find several more cultists coming from the eastern wing. He cut his way through them as he did the last bunch and then set off another corpse explosion. As he completed one turn with his scythe, he saw Noah had grabbed the knife and was cutting the ropes around his ankles. What he also saw beyond the boy nearly made his heart stop.
"Noah!" he gasped a warning, ignoring the sword now aimed at his own neck.
For the second time, he blazed toward the altar in wraith form. Behind the boy, several more cultists had dropped down from the gallery above. This time, he wasn't fast enough to stop their attacks entirely, but at least fast enough to get between them and the child. The combination of magical blasts and heavy swords knocked him back off his feet. He crashed into the table where Noah huddled in terror.
Freed from the ropes, Noah screamed when the table toppled over. The splayed legs of the table gouged painfully into Pyresong's back plates as he fell, and the cultists were closing in on all sides. He shoved Noah back down to the floor as he rose up, already flinging more blades of energy and bone spears in every direction. He didn't have time to count the bodies as they continued to close in around him. He just prayed it would be enough. He covered the huddled boy with his shield as he detonated the corpses in a circle around them. Some ripped cultists apart, while others were merely maimed.
"Get to the corner," he hissed as he rose to meet more attacks.
One minute he was cutting down cultists closing in on him, and the next moment he was standing near the altar alone. Suddenly the cultists were scattering in every direction. Only then did Pyresong feel the rumbling. As he turned toward the wall beyond the main altar, it exploded outward. Being only a few feet away, the blast and rubble knocked him off his feet. Despite raising his shield, he was hit painfully in a number of places by the heavy stone debris. His magical shields weren't meant to block such physical assaults and only barely lessened the impact. His armor prevented any broken bones, but it was a close thing. His panicking mind had only one thought on it when he rolled to his feet. He nearly sagged with relief when he spotted a terrified Noah curled into a ball in the corner, unharmed.
"More meat to carve!"
The thing that came out of the darkness beyond the shattered wall nearly had him frozen. It was another butcher demon! The last time he'd faced one of these, he had been in its own lair in Hell. At least this time, he didn't have to worry about burning to death. But he also didn't have Yl'nira's aid, either. The thing came stomping at him with unbelievable speed. He didn't have time to consider any options. The only plan he had right now was to back up, drawing it away from Noah. The giant cleaver in one hand and meat hook in the other both swung at him, only barely missing. Despite being occupied by this thing, Pyresong was keeping an eye on Noah in the corner in case anymore cultists came out of the shadows.
He paid for that distraction. He narrowly avoided the hook taking his head off as it came from one direction, but was too slow to avoid the cleaver entirely. It hit his shield with enough force to send him flying across the room. Noah's horrified scream rang in his ears as he slammed into a column. His mind was consumed with images of what was being done to the boy. The jarring force had knocked the breath right out of him. When his feet hit the floor, his knees wouldn't support him. He looked up to see the butcher stomping toward him. Reflexively he dropped his scythe and shield and sent a dual-handed flurry of bone spears.
That slowed it down long enough for the necromancer to reach out. In a place like this that had existed for centuries surrounded by a graveyard, there was no shortage of restless spirits. While the butcher was still reeling and screaming in pain, he flung a barrage of bone spirits. Their power was enough for the demon to explode. Ignoring the darkness around the edges of his vision, he turned his attention back to the corner. Noah was still cowering but with the knife held out. Before he could even feel relief, the sudden intake of breath as his muscles relaxed made him even dizzier. He put his hand out to support himself. For a second all he could hear was Noah's whimpering.
"Come!" he managed to bark. He struggled to his feet. "Are you hurt?"
"The others are that way," the boy pointed toward the altar where the hole now was. "I saw them taken through a door. Please, my mother..."
"She's not with them," he assured. "I'll find them. Get out of here. Head south toward Wortham. Follow the creek."
The boy nodded and took off running. He watched until he was sure Noah was out the doors and gone. Then they turned to the enormous hole. Beyond was a large room lit with candles. In the center of the floor, a moonbeam had created a multi-hued flower of light through the stained glass windows above. He couldn't even appreciate the beauty of that one thing right now as his eyes fell on the trail of blood that cut right through it. Following the blood, he found it ended on a platform that served as some kind of elevator. Looking around, he tried to find another way. There had to be stairs somewhere. This thing was just too exposed. It would be too easy to ambush him, and they knew he was here.
Seeing no other option, he didn't waste any more time. He got on the elevator platform and pulled the lever. He didn't have time to search this place. And truthfully, all he wanted to was get to the surviving villagers as fast as possible. He prayed there were at least some still alive to rescue. He hadn't seen more than a handful of bodies on the upper floor. But that butcher demon... What else had they summoned? The elevator lowered almost frustratingly slowly to the next level; his spells were ready. Nothing. He let it keep going.
He was four floors down, well underground, by the time he spotted the trail of blood again and pulled the lever to stop the platform. Even without the trail of blood, though, he would have known. There were no cultists waiting for him this time. On the landing that led to a flight of carved stone stairs was an unholy six-foot seal. As near as he could tell, it was a spell to trap something rather than summon something. He didn't waste time trying to figure it out. He skirted around the seal along the wall and peeked around the corner. At a right angle to these stairs was another much, much longer flight heading further down. Every bit of it was lit with candles and torches. Even down here, there were fifteen-foot statues of men and women in robes. Something that looked like copper near the neck of one of the statues caught his attention.
Horadrim! Pyresong realized, recognizing the amulet.
Cain had once shown him the emblem of the Horadrim. No one really knew about it anymore. And Cain had explained he was the last. He'd traveled the world looking for others but never found any living. Pyresong had a dim memory of Cain talking about how it was the Horadrim that built this place originally to be Diablo's prison. He'd also mentioned there were Horadric vaults somewhere in here that he had never been able to access. As Diablo's influence had spread, so had the demons below. Briefly, he wondered if this was one of those vaults.
Quickly he shoved those thoughts aside. Following the trail of blood downward, he knew the chances of other survivors down here were slim. Just as they were doing with Noah before he'd interrupted them, they had probably been brought as sacrifices. Not even halfway down the stairs, Pyresong felt that horrific caress again. He shuddered violently, desperately wishing it would just stop. Knowing what he was in for this time, he paused to at least lean against the wall, hoping not to fall. As expected, the Bride's voice rang through his head again.
"Soon, all will burn, and I will revel in the smoke!"
Thankfully this was short, and he was able to regain his sense of awareness quickly. Still running silently, he found raw caves at the end of the flight of stairs. But this place was warped. Even without switching to his magical sight, he could see the space had been crossed and distorted with Hell's influence. Something far deeper, well below the levels of conscious thought, stirred in his mind. A shadow of something danced across his thoughts with chilling certainty. Something here felt chillingly familiar in a way so vague it was akin to remembering a dream. It was as if he had been here before.
He didn't have time to think about it. At least a score of cultists were closing in on all sides. He began cutting through them to create enough corpses to end this quickly when he spotted some of the villagers. All along the walls, they were tied to stakes, thrashing and screaming for help. With corpse explosion out of the question, he began to sling around spirit fire to create confusion while he summoned skeletons to assist. They wouldn't last very long against skilled fighters, but it would have to be enough. By twos and threes, he cut down the cultists until there was an easy two-score on the floor. He felt the stabbing and throbbing pain of so many wounds bleeding from the direct physical assaults. But there had been no other way. He couldn't risk injuring the villagers with a corpse explosion.
Seeing the corridor empty of cultists for the moment, he reached for his knife to cut free the villagers. Feeling the empty spot on his belt, he cursed silently. Quickly he hooked his scythe and dropped his shield to get to his backpack. In a second, he had another sharp hunting knife. He ran to the first man and cut the ropes quickly, ignoring the wailing from him and all the others. The instant the man was free, he started to run for the stairs. Pyresong grabbed him and spun him around.
"Take the knife and free the others. I'll keep the cultists busy."
The man quivered and blinked with shock. He smacked him, but not hard enough to hurt.
"Listen to me! Take the knife!"
Finally, the man seemed to make sense of what he was saying. He took the knife with shaking hands.
"Now free the others!"
He shoved him roughly in the direction of a woman thrashing frantically to escape. He quickly downed a potent healing potion. Once he was satisfied, the man would do what he asked; he grabbed up his shield and unhooked his scythe. He went to one of the others still tied up and used a razor-thin blade to cut through the ropes enough that another man could pull himself free. Working his way down the tunnel, he repeated it. Hopefully, someone else also had a knife, but he couldn't wait to find out. He could feel the Bride doing something. She physically had the shard in her hands. Something was happening right now!
His fear and anxiety took over again as he began running blindly past the others still tied to stakes. He knew where he was going. He did not even need to check the side tunnels. Aside from his sense of the shard directing him, this place was somehow familiar to him. He knew where she was, just not what she wanted with it. Rounding a corner, he soon found out what he had felt happening. In the center of a cavern that was literally covered in a massive seal painted in fresh blood, the Bride was putting the crystalline shard down on the forehead of a dead boy. It was right on the gaping hole where the soulstone had once been lodged in the boy's forehead.
The rotting corpse had been here in this chilly cavern for years, but Pyresong knew it anyway. It was Albrecht.
What has she done? he thought, horrified.
He had no idea what it was intended to do or why Albrecht was needed for it. But he watched, frozen, as a fiery portal opened, and she stepped through it with the shard. Cursing himself and his hesitation, he finally snapped out of the paralysis. Behind him, he was only dimly aware of more bound villagers screaming at him for help. But he couldn't. Albrecht's body was now writhing as demonic limbs began to sprout from his torso. The body warped into some sort of demon with red crystalline growths right before his eyes. There was no scream, no cry. It just rose up, going from boy to demon in a second.
"Must consume!"
He shuddered mentally as he recognized Albrecht's voice. Worse, the thing had his face! Despite the rest of it having been warped and mangled into a mixture of demon and creature warped by crystal growths, Albrecht's young face remained virtually unchanged. A smiling child on the face of such a creature...
"Your flesh will hush the voices!"
The sound of that voice, so brutally warped and the memories of what he'd seen earlier made him snap out of it. Horror and fear were again replaced with rage. This poor child had suffered enough! Unlike before, this was a controlled, icy rage. He poured much of his energy into his scythe, preparing for an attack.
"The eyes! Stop looking at me!"
The thing seemed to wrestle with itself for a moment. Pyresong used that moment. He spun, flinging giant blades of energy off his scythe at the thing that were condensed to razors by his rage. He could almost sense the struggle within the thing. Horrifically, some part of Albrecht remained and survived even now. It was fighting the monster he had become. He didn't have time to feel pity for it. He had to get to that portal before it closed! Right now, all he could offer Albrecht now was another death. Hopefully his last.
“Must get bigger...stronger!”
He had sensed a spirit in that body, something as broken and fragmented as his own. There was just no time. He would have to find his way back here, later. Maybe he could help whatever remained of Albrecht to move on to the Unformed Land. All he could offer was prayers for now. In seconds, the monster with a child's face was cut to pieces on the gory floor. The severed head turned its eyes toward him, tracking his movement. It spoke in that chillingly childish voice, making him pause.
"Your soul... I need its warmth..."
Pyresong felt a sick twisting in his gut. He wanted to do more, to help him to stop that suffering he could so clearly hear. He backed away from it as it writhed and eventually went still. He quickly shook himself. He vowed silently he would come back. And then he put that all away. In front of him was a fiery portal. It hadn't closed yet. There might still be a chance to stop the Bride and whatever she was trying to do.
He had told Karshun he would chase the shard into Hell if he had to, and he had meant what he said. He gave himself no time to consider. Somehow he had to catch the Bride and stop her before she got to Diablo. He didn't even pause to consider how completely insane it was. It didn't matter anymore. He'd been to Hell before, and he was going to do it again.
On the other side of the portal, he paused, completely disoriented. Where he had expected so many different things, he instead found something that was so akin to the Astral Plane he fought to make sense of it. That had been a portal to the Hells. He had felt that power before. Where... How...
A path of almost starry blue light stretched before him. It was as wispy and insubstantial but held him firmly. Beyond was a giant throne room. Confused more than afraid, he walked down the path. The light here was beautiful, and something about it felt completely alien to the energies of Hell. Yet he could still keenly feel the shard and demonic energies somewhere ahead.
Is this place the Worldstone shard's doing? he wondered vaguely.
Then he set aside all of those questions. The Bride couldn't be more than a few seconds ahead of him, hopefully. He had to cling to the hope he would catch her in this bizarre place. She wasn't in the throne room ahead. He ran forward on the path of sparkling blue light. The moment his feet touched the carved stones of the throne room, another invisible voice assaulted him. Making him pause.
"My King, please don't listen to Lazarus. Invading Westmarch is a death sentence for our troops!"
"It's obvious he's praying for your downfall, my King, so that he could rise."
Another memory? But this one's different from the manor, Pyresong realized.
There was something heavier here...darker. But there was no mistaking the hellish energies wound all through this bizarre place. A flash of memory from the Commingling Pit skittered across his mind. No, it wasn't Hell. It was more like an extension of Hell's power. He shook it off. It didn't have to make sense to him. Whatever else was going on here didn't matter. Whatever the Bride was here for was somewhere in this bizarre place. Nothing mattered except finding and stopping her.
As he ran toward the throne, a small ball of bluish-white light came around from the left of the throne and darted down another glimmering path of blue light. He had no idea what it was, but it wasn't the Bride or the shard, so he dismissed it as he ran again. He ran down the winding starry path, not far behind that ball of light. He caught sight of another ghostly memory ahead. This one actually had people. Troops lined up before the manor in the courtyard. One mounted. A wispy little boy running up to the mounted soldier.
"Aidan! Your sword!" Albrecht's voice rang clear in his head.
"Thank you, Albrecht. Make sure to work on your swings while I'm gone. When I come back, be prepared for a sparring match."
The small glowing light raced ahead right through the ghostly images of the people. He didn't stop to consider as the ghostly images faded away. The blueish-white orb of light now felt like it was leading him. Pyresong had already emptied himself of thought and emotion, preparing for whatever he was running into. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that the light was trying to show him something or guide him somewhere. It was somehow trying to make him understand. He was bordering on frustration with the distraction. He found the exit to another glowing path of light to his left. When he ran, the light grew faster, moving ahead of him, urging him on.
"Leoric, what has gotten into you?" he heard Asylla's terrified voice.
He found himself crossing into a memory of that bedchamber now.
"No more of your cursed words, wretch," Leoric replied. "May Akarat have mercy upon your soul because I will not."
Seeing a ghostly image of the much larger King Leoric gripping her arm roughly and dragging her through the room made him pause. Something teased the back of his mind, trying to force him to pay attention. For one moment, he was certain the answer to many questions was right here in front of him. Then the little orb of light flew on to the left and out through what should have been the balcony doors. He chased it again.
Terror runs deep in these memories. It must be Diablo's influence beckoning the Bride towards him!
The thought made his already racing heart trill with fear again. Somehow he knew there was something here the Bride needed to reach Diablo. Yet there was something else here, too. Something that was a key to whatever was screaming in the back of his mind. But there was still no sight of her. He ran toward the ball of light and another path. He had to catch her! He refused to believe it was too late.
"Lazarus, please let me go!"
"Stop your struggling, boy! The Lord just needs you barely alive!"
He could hear the boy's panicked screaming and thrashing. It tore at something inside of him. But he already knew it had done no good. Lazarus had taken him right to Diablo's soulstone. Some flicker of thought trailed through his mind about Albrecht's soul, but he couldn't grasp it. The blue ball of light hovered near that scene for a second while he caught up. Then it again flew toward a path on the left. This path of glimmering blue light was much, much longer and wound a long way. Finally, he caught sight of the dark outline of the Bride ahead.
Snarling, he forced his legs to move faster. She left the bridge of starry light and entered something that actually did look like it was a piece of Hell. Crouching in the middle of the floor was a ghostly vision of Albrecht that blazed with demonic power. The ethereal scene was frozen in place. Albrecht's face was a mask of screaming horror as he gripped his head with both hands. From the poor boy's forehead blazed a beacon of demonic power.
The soulstone! he thought frantically, finally understanding.
The ball of light froze in the middle of the path when she approached the ghostly image of Albrecht with the shard held out before her. The image of the boy suddenly flared with red and black demonic energy. Pyresong realized he was seeing a piece of Diablo's essence, still trapped in that ghostly human form. Some tiny fragment of the Prime Evil had been somehow trapped here in this bizarre place and its memories.
"Ah, I've finally found you," the Bride said, sending the shard into that ball of evil.
He was still running toward her, his scythe glowing fiercely to cut her down, when the shard flared happily, sucking in the vile essence it had found. The sound of Albrecht's anguished screaming echoed all around him. He screamed back mentally in rage. He was so close! He went into wraith form to close the remaining distance. Then the shard finished whatever it was doing and opened another portal just behind the ghostly image of Albrecht. The spell wore off and he came out of wraith from still several yards away. As if sensing his arrival, the Bride fled through this new fiery portal.
Damn you! he screamed silently to her as he ran.
Whatever was on the other side of that portal made him nearly sick with fear. His rage rose to the surface. Blind or not, he would use that rage now. He was snarling wordlessly at himself as his feet slowed. He would not stop here! He threw himself through the portal before he could think or feel anything else that would slow him down or stop him. On the other side, he sighted the Bride only maybe twenty feet away. She was throwing the massive Worldstone shard up into the air away from herself...and right at a ghostly red image of Diablo. It was almost identical to what he had seen in Hell, and the ghost was still massive. It towered over them. She knelt on the ground before it.
Still running, he felt it. The cold calm of the inevitable settled over him again. For a moment, he ignored the maelstrom of power gathering around the shard. His rage targeted the Bride, the direct cause of so much suffering. He flung a bone spear ahead of himself, blindly lashing out.
He was too late. He had failed yet again.
He was still running when he unleashed a blade of energy from his scythe that encompassed all the rage and terror he'd felt up til now. But it was still not enough. She laughed as she disappeared somewhere in the growing maelstrom of power before either spell even hit her.
"Your waking moments will become your worst nightmares," Diablo's all too familiar voice rang through the enormous space.
Pyresong turned his blade to the reshaping form of Diablo as it took on physical form. Somewhere nearby, the voice of the Bride rang out triumphantly.
"My Master! Feed off the Heart of Creation, and you will breed terror in the hearts of men once more!"
He mentally dismissed her entirely. He had nothing left to lose. He hoped there might just still be a chance before Diablo fully recovered. He had maybe one chance, and it was slipping away. Cold and empty as he was now, he gave it no thought. He poured all of his remaining power and a significant portion of his own life energy into his scythe. He ran toward the heart of the maelstrom.
Tyrael, be with me.
There was no reply. He hadn't expected one. As he spun, unleashing the blades of energy in uncontrollable waves, he felt them moving outward. But Diablo just laughed.
"Your blade dulls against my skin."
Nearly exhausted, he finally stopped spinning. The blades of energy had done nothing. And now there were dozens of lesser demons coming out of the floor around him. Diablo's creatures. Still feeling numb with cold, the exhaustion was a distant thing. Fully engulfed in the mindset of a combat necromancer, he swung reflexively through the darkness and swirling power that blinded him. Again and again, his scythe met flesh he could tear.
"Ah...I can already feel them respond to the shard," Diablo said happily.
He was too busy cutting away at all the small demons that kept appearing to even make an attempt at Diablo or the shard anymore. He was surrounded, and more were coming with every heartbeat. He knew he would die here. He'd known that even before he had run through the portal. And he didn't care. Right now, he would take out as many things as he could.
"The Heart of Creation and I beat as one!"
"What, no invitation to join you this time? Pity," the voice of his nightmare quipped.
Some twisted part of Pyresong's mind was amused. He laughed. He laughed at the warm blood spraying out from every demon he cut apart. He laughed at the feeling of being so completely alive in the face of certain death. He laughed that he'd had the audacity for the second time in his life to go after a Prime Evil. He laughed at the fact that his desperate attempts to rectify his mistakes had been so pathetically feeble in the end.
He was feeling it again. He was in way over his head, and all he could do was fight. Again and again, he felt the sting and burn of various weak demons getting through his defenses. Like all else, they were minor wounds that he would not allow to slow him down. Bleeding in a dozen different places, he continued slashing and even burning his way around the room with spirit fire. He laughed as he alternated fire with bone spears. He laughed with every gouging tear he felt in his own flesh. He danced around laughing all the while.
This time, his nightmare laughed with him.
Somewhere along the way, icy calm had been replaced with icy, blinding rage. Feeling the end of his reserves and the weakness tugging at his limbs, he made one last run at Diablo's now partially reformed body. If he couldn't kill it, he would leave Diablo's new body with a mark it would not forget. His scythe glowing with every last drop of the remaining energy he possessed, he slashed at the closest leg. He laughed, realizing how tiny he was comparatively. He wasn't even as tall as Diablo's knee!
His desperate slash never connected. As if seeing the attack coming, Diablo laughed and then blasted outward with his renewed power. Everything, including his own demons, was flung away from him. Pyresong, apparently, was his target, though. He felt the vile energies pushing him as it directed his helpless body through the portal. He screamed in denial and rage. He would not be pushed aside! He wasn't done yet!
I'm not dead yet, you—
There was a moment of darkness when he crossed through the threshold of the portal. Snarling and struggling blindly against the powers pushing him away, he was shocked out of it when he landed on his back hard enough for his head to bounce on the stones. He shook off the shock to his head and staggered to his feet, ready to leap back through the portal. Exhausted or not, he wasn't done fighting! He wasn't dead yet.
The ghostly image of Albrecht's torturous final moments was still standing before the open portal. The form no longer glowed with demonic energy. He froze mentally and physically when he saw it. Something was tickling his scattered, raging thoughts. Something about Albrecht's soul. Something he had to pay attention to right now.
Whatever it was, was lost and forgotten an instant later. Something was pouring out of the portal. A Darkness laced with red flowed like a wave across the landscape of these memories. His head pounded so painfully he couldn't think anymore. So he gave in to his reflexes and ran. Some part of him knew that Darkness was coming for him.
Somehow, he managed to make it back out onto the long path of light. When he paused to look back, the vile Darkness was pouring out onto it, consuming once beautiful starry path. The glimmering blue light faded and took on a filthy purple tint. For one, lurching heartbeat, he was frozen.
Diablo's corruption is spreading!
The terror consumed him. It shattered the paralysis, which was a good thing. But now he was running in a blind panic. Some animal instinct deep inside rose up. The chilly calm of death had fled when he had embraced the mad rage. And that mindless rage had been shocked away by the sight of Albrecht's tortured form. Now there was only the adrenaline-fueled fear and running. The path seemed to go on forever, and the black and red corruption was gnashing at his heels. It was coming for him! He would become the nightmare that had tormented him.
His breath was ragged as he ran, thinking the path would never end. So panicked was he, that he couldn't remember the way. All he could do was keep running. Anywhere away from that spreading corruption. He couldn't let it take him!
"The only escape from fear is death," Diablo said, laughing.
For one stuttering heartbeat as he ran, Pyresong almost considered that an option. If he fled his body now... But what about Tyrael? The vision of the cathedral entrance came into view. He couldn't just abandon Tyrael here. The corruption spreading across every visible surface almost caught up to him as it consumed the rocky parts of the vision. Somehow he managed to find the extra strength to just get around it and onto another path of light.
"Terror will smother hope's meager light."
Now there were ghostly demons blocking his entrance to the bedchamber memory. Growling unconsciously, he flung a weak blade of light, and they evaporated. But, again, he'd lost precious heartbeats. The chamber itself was empty as he tore through it. Somewhere in the back of his terror-ravaged mind, he remembered another portal. Somewhere ahead, there was a way out. He could escape this place! He could escape the corruption. He could escape his nightmare. He just had to keep running.
"Oh, how I relish the fear of a stalwart hero," Diablo mocked.
He wasn't thinking at all anymore. He wasn't even seeing the memoryscape before him. His mind was consumed with the raw terror and the desire to be away from that corruption that spread like an unstoppable tsunami behind him.
"Terror will pervert your soul."
"It already has!" his nightmare laughed back.
No! he screamed back in denial.
Beyond the sound of his ragged breathing and the blood pounding in his ears, he could hear his nightmare laughing gleefully at his horrified denials.
"Mortal...you will be the first to witness the return of true fear!"
Diablo's dark laugh consumed him, mocked him, chased him. Even the sound of his own breathing faded as he ran. Some small part of him knew there was no escape. He would suffer this terror until he died. Then more would await his immortal soul for all eternity. Diablo would have him for a plaything until he was so broken there was nothing left.
A few seconds later, he was proven correct.
Whatever animal instinct had guided him thus far had been horribly wrong. Back in the throne room where this began, he was confronted with another wave of corruption coming right for him. Feeling like his heart would explode with that terror, he turned. There was no way out! It was closing in on all sides. He was trapped, and the corruption would not only get him, it would consume whatever was left of his already damaged soul. He stood, paralyzed in the center of the room, as it crept toward him.
"Yes...let the panic wash over you."
"No!" he screamed reflexively to the Darkness, to himself, to Diablo.
Finally something inside of him flared to life. This was not happening! He would not let himself be consumed by corruption. He had one trick left. It had kept him alive, and now it would keep his soul safe. He reached inside for that icy core that would take his soul safely away from this place.
His focus was shattered a heartbeat later when the ball of bluish-white light he'd seen earlier flew up to him in the middle of the room. The first tendrils of the corruption were already crawling up his boots, locking his feet in place. Something in him was writhing and screaming, reaching back gleefully toward that corruption and Darkness beckoning him. The wicked, sadistic laughter of his nightmare mocked his fear and horror.
He could only stare in mindless shock as the little bluish light turned into a ghostly form of Albrecht. As soon as his eyes understood what he was seeing, the sickening corruption that had reached his legs also found its hold. It was pulling him into itself, embracing the Darkness. He could feel himself being dragged into it, becoming a part of this awful place. There was a sensation of something inside tearing itself to pieces. His mind was shattering with the horror of understanding what awaited him.
He was too late, he could not escape it now.
"No! Follow the light!"
Lost beyond any hope of sanity, Tyrael's voice commanding him made his arm move even without his knowledge. Pyresong watched his glowing hand as if it were someone else's reaching out to grasp the small glowing orb within the ghostly image of the boy. His entire existence became blinding white Light. He ceased to exist as anything other than energy. No more pounding heartbeat, no more ragged breathing, no more pain, no more fear. All that was left was Light and warmth. Some small part of his consciousness that was not completely overwhelmed by it wanted to stay here. He knew he was safe here.
Of course, he was not in control. And, some small eternity later, he felt his body hit a solid surface face down. There was a brief explosion of something behind his eyes. Then the bright lights turned to darkness behind his closed eyes. His heart still pounded painfully as he gasped for air. There was something cold and solid beneath his cheek. And there was a voice. Someone beyond the darkness was calling his name. They were trying to bring him back.
The selfish part of him didn't want to. He wanted to flee, still. In his mind, he was still running from Diablo's corruption. He wanted to be with Oza, where the one thing that mattered to him about his own existence would be protected. He didn't care about his body anymore. He just wanted his soul to flee and be safe. His body hurt. It had been touched by something filthy. He didn't want it anymore. He turned inward. There was a sense of something waiting...watching to see what he would do next.
"P-p-please don't b-be dead... I'm s-s-s-s-sorry... Please d-d-don't be dead..."
The little boy's tears finally penetrated his still lingering, mindless terror. Pyresong's eyes flew open reflexively. Pain flared in too many places to count as he became more fully aware of his body. Noah was on his knees a couple of inches away. His dirty tear-stained face twisted in fear. Something closer to the surface of his consciousness pulled at him. Somehow, he found the strength to reach out with a shaking hand and grip the boy's much smaller one.
"I'm here...Noah," he managed to whisper.
He was too tired for more. He felt more than saw the boy moving, reaching for something on his belt. A part of him wanted to tell the kid to be careful, don't do that, it's not safe, anything. But he couldn't find the energy right now. He was face down on a cool surface. Some vague thoughts prayed that cold chill would sink into his pounding head and numb it as well. He missed the icy calm and the numbness that came with the cold. All he could do was listen to his breathing slowing to something more like normal again. He wondered at the fact that he had never thought to hear that again. He didn't have to listen for his heartbeat. His head pounded painfully in sync with every heartbeat. The pain left no more room for thought. As the terror faded, he just drifted. Not quite conscious and not quite unconscious.
Distantly, he was aware of his body moving without his input. He could hear Noah's grunts and straining. He had no idea what the boy was doing, but tried to help. He just didn't have enough strength. His body was so heavy now, he just wanted it to go away. The vile taste of something began to mingle with the taste of blood in his mouth. He choked and gagged, trying to turn away, but something small and warm on his cheek held him in place and forced it into his mouth. There was a flash of something through his dull thoughts, a memory of warmth and green eyes. Reflexively he swallowed the horrible, syrupy thing that was somehow familiar to him. It was gone in seconds, but then another appeared. He thought he was going to vomit from the horrid taste.
As warmth began to spread through his body, his mind cleared slightly. He realized it was a healing potion. Noah was still pouring one into his mouth when the warmth concentrated into burning pain on his face. He pushed the boy's hands away. He groaned as something near his nose and forehead began to shift back into place. He must have broken his nose at some point. He couldn't even remember it happening. When the pain turned to warmth again, he blinked several times. Noah's pale, fearful face swam into focus. Other places all over his body tingled with warmth as numerous cuts and ragged gashes began to heal. After a moment, he nodded to Noah. The boy tentatively reached forward and gave him the rest of the healing potion.
His mind was clearer now, but the body's exhaustion was far from gone. He was lying half on his shield, his left arm pinned under him. He needed to get to his backpack. Noah backed up a little bit as he struggled to roll over again.
"I need...my backpack," he told the boy, rolling back onto his belly.
Noah set aside the empty bottle and pulled at the strap on his right shoulder. With that hand unoccupied at the moment, it was easy enough for the boy to fold his arm and move it through the loop of leather. Laying there, soaking up the cool, numbing feeling of the stones under his face, Pyresong nearly lost consciousness again in his exhaustion. He couldn't think beyond the pounding misery in his skull. But the boy seemed to know what to do. Noah carefully wrestled the shield loops off his left forearm. Then he tugged at the backpack until the leather strap slid down. Noah untied the top of the bag and then held it out. Pyresong struggled to force his arm to move. What seemed like an hour later, he finally managed to reach in with his left hand, and the stamina potion came to him. He'd almost considered it a waste of money to buy a second when he hadn't even used the first. Now he blessed his own foresight. With the boy's help, he was able to roll onto his side again. His numb fingers wouldn't cooperate with the cork, so Noah took it from him and then carefully poured it down his throat, the same as the healing potions. The bitterness tingled almost painfully on his tongue after the healing potion. Finally, he had the energy to take a full, deep breath. The lingering dizziness he hadn't even realized was still there receded rapidly.
"Thank you."
"Are you all right? You look horrible, still."
He couldn't help a grin at that. Aside from all the layers of blood and gore he'd acquired that still clung to his skin and armor he'd apparently broken his nose. Likely, there was his own blood now all over his face. Feeling the strength returning to his limbs and knowing it was very temporary, he sat up. They were right outside the open doors of the cathedral. He shuddered. Until now, he'd had no idea where the Light had taken him. He quickly put his backpack back on and the still gory shield on his back.
"What are you doing here? You should be back in Wortham," he told the boy, quickly gathering his things.
"I was worried you wouldn't make it, so I stuck around," Noah told him fearfully.
He hurried to his feet, more than ready to get out of there. The merciless pounding in his head made it hard to think. Seeing the wide-eyed look of fear on the little boy's face made him realize he'd been harsher than he should have. It wasn't the boy's fault what this place had done to him. He softened his expression and ruffled the kid's hair.
"Thank you. You did well. You're a brave boy, Noah. I wouldn't be standing now without you. But the potions won't last long. We need to get you home. Did the other villagers make it out?"
Noah nodded. "They ran right past me. They didn't see me hiding. I was afraid more of those freaks would come out."
His relief was short-lived, though. He knew the stamina potion wouldn't last more than a few more minutes, and then he would have to rest, even if only for a couple of hours. Somehow, he had to get the boy home. Jodie was likely beside herself now since the others had returned without him. He dug deep. While his body now felt fine, thanks to the temporary effects of the potions, he was completely depleted. Though the bleeding had stopped for the moment, there were still dozens of open wounds that needed stitches. He might, maybe, drawing on energy reserves in his life force that he didn't really have, might be able to...
He had to try. It might just kill him, but there was no choice.
Had he been on his own, he would have found a dark place to hide and rest. But he couldn't leave Noah like this. He didn't have a portal scroll, and he knew he wouldn't make it back with Noah walking all the way. He would have to stop along the way to rest, and given what was in these forests, that might be downright stupid. He shoved everything aside and pulled. His heart literally stuttered painfully as the portal opened. He staggered through, dragging Noah by the arm. Pulling from his own weakened life force was more than even the stamina potion could cope with. He fell through the portal, pushing Noah ahead of him.
He realized he'd made another critical mistake even as he fell to the hot stones beyond the waypoint. The last thing he remembered before darkness engulfed him was the scent of smoke and screaming.
Noah, run...
Even that terrified thought faded away when something grabbed him and dragged him across the hot coals of the Hells to his nightmares.
***
As usual, his first return to awareness was the voices. They were whispering. Reflexively he checked his mental shields. They were still up. This brought confusion as he struggled toward consciousness. Something was wrong. He had no idea what, but it was. He wasn't where he should be. But, at the same time, he couldn't remember where he should be, either. Finally, he began to feel his heavy body again. He blinked several times as the light of the candles assaulted his eyes.
"Welcome back, Priest," a woman's voice greeted him softly.
Gradually, Pyresong began to realize he was in a wide room. He turned his head to see an old woman reaching toward him. Reflexively he flinched back. She laid her fingers on his head anyway, ignoring his confusion. There was a brief shudder as the warmth of her delving spread through him. He realized he was in a large building with makeshift cots all around him. He was just one of many.
"You're well enough to get out of here," the healer told him, pulling back on her delving.
"Wortham?" he asked, still not quite certain.
"Yes, the church survived, but not much else," the woman told him as he struggled to sit up.
"How long?" he asked, fighting off the dizziness of being upright again after too long prone.
"You returned yesterday. Jodie wants to speak with you."
His last memory floated to the surface. "Noah!"
Sensing his panic, the woman patted him on the arm comfortingly. "The boy is fine. And so are the others you rescued. They were the lucky ones."
He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. His momentary jolt of panic right after waking up had scrambled his thoughts for a few seconds. As he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, he tried to force his thoughts to focus. Some bitter part of mind struggled with the “lucky ones” comment, but he just couldn't focus on it right now. Later. There would be time later. After all, he had survived, yet again.
"Thank you," he finally managed. "I'll get out of your way."
He threw off the blanket, spotting his gear and backpack under the cot. His torn and bloody clothing wadded up beside him.
"Where is Captain Azmir? I need to speak with him," he asked the healer as she started to move away.
The old woman sighed. "He didn't make it. The procession of the dead is gathering at the west gates."
Pyresong's heart sank, but he could only nod. The captain had been in bad shape the last time he'd seen him. And, knowing the captain as he did, the man probably hadn't stopped fighting the cultists until he had no more to give. A flicker of thought made him wonder why he was still alive. He knew he shouldn't be. He didn't deserve to be.
He viciously crushed all of his meandering thoughts to silence. He had work to do. Quickly, he dug some clothes out of his backpack. He was relieved to find his armor had been thoroughly cleaned. As he donned it, he began to feel the eyes of so many wounded and dying in this room. Part of him wished there was more he could do. But this was the part where they had to ask for his help, or he would not interfere. Still, he sent up a silent prayer to ease the passage for those who would not walk out of this room. A part of him wanted to question if anything was even listening anymore. There was just too much...
He turned his attention to what lay ahead. He did a sort of mental inventory again. He was still exhausted and his energies badly depleted, but he was at least marginally functional. Given the shadows lurking in his mind, he would gladly take it for now. The rest...he would have to find a way to deal with it later. Karshun likely had already seen what happened here. Right now, he just wanted to get away from this place. But he couldn't. Not yet.
He practically fled out the open doors of the church. As expected, the village beyond those doors was in complete ruins. As near as he could tell, every building had burned. Even the church hadn't been entirely spared. He jogged through the debris still littering the roads until he found the dozens of bodies lined up, ready for transport to Ashwold. All around were grieving family members. Many stood beside the charred or mutilated remains of loved ones.
This was where he was needed.
At least being welcome here now, he was not turned away as he checked the bodies. So many had died so suddenly. Not surprisingly, there were a few who did not want to let go. He opened the door. Words were not needed; the feeling of the invitation to peace and rest was usually enough. A few of the villagers watched him curiously when he paused to do this. They could not see the lingering spirits or the door. He ignored their stares and curious looks. He was just too tired emotionally right now to explain. Let them believe their loved ones were already gone. There was just one woman he could not convince so easily. Though he knew the others gathered around could not see it, he held open the door. When she still refused to go, he knelt down beside the body, beside the wispy mist of the lingering spirit. He lowered his mental shields.
"My babies! Where are my babies? I can't go without them!" the woman's voice wailed in his mind.
"I will help find them," he assured her spirit, drawing more curious looks. "Where were they?"
"The church! Korrin carried them to the church!"
"What is your name?"
"Waymarda..."
He turned to the others. As expected, he had drawn a crowd. There were too many charred bodies here, even children, for him to be able to identify anyone.
"Where are Waymarda's children?"
"Korrin was watching them this morning," someone volunteered.
"They're alive?" Pyresong asked, startled by that news. "Somebody fetch them, quickly."
He had been expecting bodies, likely empty ones. Children didn't typically have any reason to stay around. And their natural curiosity was always a benefit in those cases. They would go to the Unformed Land without looking back, even when they hadn't yet realized they were dead. He had just hoped they weren't charred so bad their mother wouldn't recognize them. Knowing now that they were alive almost made things worse. Very likely, the poor children had been badly traumatized. And now he would have to facilitate this woman's passing with their help. While he waited, he dug a sheet out of his backpack. He used it to cover her charred remains. He could at least spare the children from having to see her again in that condition.
"Master Pyresong!" Jodie was weaving her way through the crowd.
Focused on what he was doing, he raised a hand to stop her. A few seconds later, the wailing of a couple of toddlers came from his left. He turned to see Korrin carrying one on each bulky arm. They couldn't be more than a year apart, and neither was more than three years old. His exhausted mind and heart were flooded with relief. At least, they would be too young to remember what happened here today.
"What's going on?" Korrin asked protectively.
"Waymarda wants to see her children before she passes on," Pyresong explained, keeping his expression serene.
"What?"
There were gasps equal to the blacksmith's shock in all directions. He ignored them all. Right now, he didn't give a damn what any of them thought about any of this. He was here for the dead, not the living. He motioned for Korrin to kneel beside the burnt corpse.
"Just hold them; I will do the rest," he instructed.
He laid a chilly hand on each small leg and then closed his eyes. He reached in and then projected outward. He touched their souls, reaching gently to form a connection that Waymarda could see. Through his physical ears, he could hear their wailing and crying for their mother ceased. When he opened his spectral eyes, he could see them clearly, as could Waymarda. The mist reached out to her children, caressing them. He couldn't break his connection with them, or they would disappear to her.
"Be good, my babies," she told them. "You will be big, strong men like your father." He sensed more than saw the mist pulling back. "Thank you for this blessing, Priest."
He felt her moving away through the still-open door and pulled back into himself. His still recovering body and energies made him feel unspeakably tired and heavy. Korrin was eyeing him curiously, as were so many others. The two children babbled happily about their mama.
"She's at peace now," was all he was willing to tell them.
Beside him, someone helped lift him to his feet. Feeling unsteady, he gladly accepted. He used his necromantic sight to scan the rows of dead again. The others were well and truly gone. And he was just too tired for more right now, anyway. He motioned for Jodie to come closer. She nearly knocked him off his already unsteady feet when she threw herself into his arms.
"Thank you! Thank you!" she cried, not quite hysterically. "You brought my boy back."
He recovered enough from the surprise to pat her on the back tiredly. "You're welcome. But Noah was the real hero. I would not have made it back if he hadn't helped."
"I became brave, just like Captain Azmir said I should," the boy beamed up at his mother.
Jodie finally detached herself to drop down and hug her boy fiercely. He used her distraction to escape quietly. No one seemed inclined to stand in his way, thankfully.
Pyresong was done.
After what he'd seen here, this poor village ravaged and nearly demolished by cultists for a second time, he just wanted to tell every one of them to get out of there. But, what he knew would happen is that these few dozen survivors would cling to their homes. They would bury their dead and rebuild. Already he'd heard whispers of the ongoing building of a new village nearby called New Tristram. These were a hardy and stubborn people. They would not abandon the lives they'd built here, even after it had been completely destroyed.
His gut was knotting up again. There was nothing he could say that would convince them. They would be miserable, but they would survive. Through all of this, their sense of community survived. He appreciated that, but a darker part of him knew this land was cursed. The taint of the shards still lingered here; he could feel it. All he could do was wish them luck and offer up prayers to anything that might be listening right now. He questioned bitterly why he would even waste a thought on those prayers. He very much doubted anything was listening.
Seeing Jodie occupied with her son, he moved to slip away through the crowds. He had no desire to go back into the square or even look at the burned and ruined village. He nodded to the other villagers as they made their way to let him through. He wove through the rows of bodies tiredly. In a few hours, they would begin the procession of the dead on carts toward Ashwold cemetery.
Another cursed land, he thought tiredly.
At the head of the procession arrangements stood several guards. Many were milling about the rows of dead guards. Just inside the gates, one body lay apart from the others at the head of the procession. Pyresong knew without looking it was Captain Azmir. His distinctive sword lay atop his body in his clutched hands. He barely glanced around. Aside from being too exhausted and heartsick to look more closely, he knew soldiers and guards were typically ready to die and didn't linger. He nodded to the gathered guards as he made his way around them and toward the open gates, where he could safely make a portal out of the way of everyone gathered.
"Master Pyresong!"
The echoing, ghostly voice startled him. He paused in mid-step. Switching to his necromantic vision reflexively, he spotted it right beside him. Captain Azmir's fully formed, surprisingly powerful ghost was standing beside his body.
"Captain?" he asked hesitantly.
"Don't open it," the captain barked in his gravelly voice. "I'm not going. But I have a favor to ask of you; since you're the only one that can see or hear me."
He nodded, letting go of the energies he had about to use to open the door. Several of the gathered guards were now watching him with the same curiosity as the villagers had earlier.
"How can I help?"
"Take my sword home to Ashwold. I've...well, I guess I've linked myself to it. I want to be able to guard my post."
Pyresong's heart sank impossibly even further. He knew what the captain was asking, and it was not an uncommon request of those who were dedicated to something with their entire heart and soul. But this man had no idea what he was asking, not really.
"Eternity is a long time, my friend," he said sadly. "No one will see or hear you but a few."
"It doesn't matter. I want to go home and to guard my home. That is all."
The necromancer's heart was heavy, but he could not deny this request. He would send a missive to one of the monasteries to check back on the captain in a few years. That was all he could do. If Azmir were so determined right now, he would not leave, nothing he said would sway the man at the moment. He nodded reluctantly.
"Thank you, friend."
He turned to the curious guards. "The Captain has asked me to bring his spirit and his sword to Ashwold so that he may stand his post, even in death," he explained.
"Bloody stupid, stubborn man," one of them said fondly.
"Were it that we all showed such dedication," another whispered sadly.
The one that had commented initially took a step back and pulled his sword to salute the captain's body. Every guard within sight offered the same honor. Pyresong knelt down and retrieved the sword from the stiff, cold hands. He slid it carefully through his belt. He could feel Azmir following, not that the captain really had a choice. The guards continued their honor salute as he fled through the nearby open gates.
The moment he was beyond the gates, he opened a portal to the waypoint he recalled in the Outskirts. He had to pause for a few seconds to shake off the dizziness. Even that small use of his power felt like it drained him. This was another place he thought he'd never return to. It, too, had suffered much in the wake of Lethes' use of the corrupted shard. Now, it was silent, still. He passed through the south gates and closed them behind himself. He would not be coming this way again...hopefully ever.
"Guard's Watch in The Ossuary was my post," Azmir told him. "Head west."
He followed Azmir's directions, jogging, if for no other reason than to hear his heartbeat right now. He was tired, physically, still. His energies certainly hadn't had enough time to recover. And emotionally...not now. He couldn't. Someone needed him right now. He had a task. That was enough to keep him moving.
Knowing where he was going this time, it was a matter of minutes before he spotted the ten-foot tall walls that had once served as a safe zone for survivors of Lethes' attack. There were few indications of that occupation left now. The building that led underground to the main ossuary was cold and still, as he passed through the unlocked gates.
"Right there beside the door," Azmir told him.
He pulled the long, sharp sword out of his belt. He only now noticed was covered in various runes. For a moment, he stared at it sadly. It felt as if it grew heavier with each passing second. A part of him did not want to leave the captain's soul stranded here alone.
"Are you certain?" he asked one last time. "What about grave robbers?"
Azmir laughed. "After cultists and rogue necromancers, I think I can handle a few grave robbers. Might even be entertaining."
He couldn't help a partial at that; no more than a flicker of his lips. He nodded. Heavy or not, this was his responsibility and he would give the dislocated soul its last request. He shoved the blade into the dirt to the left of the door. Then he stepped back as Azmir looked around appreciatively. Pyrsong bowed low, priest to honored knight.
"May your spirit thrive, Captain Azmir."
The captain's ghostly expression took on a serious note as he rose from the return bow.
"I hear them, you know. Their whispers, their shared understanding," Azmir told him, a hint of wonder in his voice. "The dead don't have all the answers, Priest. But I do know hope is not lost, even now. Keep that hope alive within you. You can't move forward without it."
Pyresong's own words echoing back at him from another voice startled him. He'd said the very same thing to Cain once. And now they were aimed back at him by a man who had died fighting cultists in an ambush he should have seen coming; another he had failed to save. Numb with shock, he just nodded. Azmir faded away from his vision. But it wouldn't have mattered, anyway. All he could see now were the countless bodies of all the people that had now paid for his mistakes. And there would be so very many more.
When had he lost hope?
Then he shook himself thoroughly out of those thoughts. He couldn't, not yet. He couldn't even face Karshun right now. He was too tired, and too many things were roiling beneath the surface. Dark things...things he didn't want to acknowledge. He needed to be alone. He needed to get away from this awful, cursed land.
He opened a portal blindly and fled from all the things threatening to consume him.
Chapter 25: 24 Post Wortham
Chapter Text
Post Wortham
On the other side of the portal, Pyresong muttered a vile obscenity. He'd intended to go to the Sanctified Earth Monastery. Instead, he'd taken himself to the Eastgate Monastery in Dark Wood. He was so tired and struggling with all the dark thoughts and feeling creeping around inside of him, trying to get out he had lost his focus. And he hadn't even noticed the time. The late afternoon sun on his face momentarily blinded him.
"I told you," he heard Fern say off to his right.
Startled by Fern's unexpected voice, he spun around to see the little girl was walking away toward the buildings and Kashya was approaching. Her face was pinched with worry. He barely noticed Fern as his eyes locked on Kashya. His heart stuttered painfully in his chest feeling so heavy he almost couldn't breathe.
"Fern said—"
He absolutely didn't care. Right now, he couldn't fight the fact that he needed her. Now that he'd seen her, now that she was so very close... He needed her strength and warmth. He needed her to make him forget. He silenced everything and clung to her. She seemed surprised but embraced him just as fiercely. For a few seconds, he tried to lose himself in her smell, her feel. But it wasn't enough! He could still smell the burning bodies. The terror of the corruption chasing him. Something clutched at his heart, strangling him with Darkness. He struggled back to the surface beyond the Darkness and took a deep breath. He kissed her with everything he had. When he finally came up for air, his heart racing, he buried his face in her shoulder again. It wasn't working! He couldn't...
"What has happened?" she whispered, clearly shocked by his greeting.
He pulled away, but only so he could get a good look at her. He took a shaky breath. With his eyes, he begged her.
"Please, I need you," was all he could manage to whisper.
Kashya's face relaxed slightly. "Of course. I'm off duty. I—"
Again, he didn't hear whatever she was about to say next. His mind was filled with anguished screaming from so many villagers and Albrecht and others. Decades of screams overlapped in his mind. And lacing through all of it was Diablo's laughter. He opened another portal. This time he ripped it open much as he had to the street in front of the workshop, forcing it to open in a place it was not otherwise meant to be. Still clutching her hand as desperately as a drowning man clinging to a rope, he pulled her through, straight to Oza's Overlook. Here, the sun was a bit lower in the sky but still warm. The overuse of his already depleted energies left his legs shaking and his knees weak.
He couldn't stop them!
He couldn't stop Diablo's mocking laughter. He couldn't stop the screams. He couldn't find the silence he needed to make it all just stop, so he could feel the warmth and strength he needed from Kashya. He'd failed again. And now...
They were alone. Right now, that's all he wanted. To be alone in a place of safety with Kashya. She caught him when his knees gave out and lowered him carefully to the ground.
"Pyresong, please, talk to me. What's wrong?"
“I didn't see it,” he whispered, babbling unable to face her. “I was... I chose... It's... I did this.”
There was so much he couldn't tell her. So much he needed to confess. So much he needed to confront. And so much he absolutely did not want her to know about his blackened soul. It all twisted itself up inside of him until he couldn't find words at all. He just shook his head and turned to cling to her again.
The smell of fresh grass mocked him much as the sunlight had. He was here, on the Oza's Overlook with Kashya, and he still couldn't banish the memories. The terror of those hours—that lifetime—spent in the memoryscape chasing the Bride consumed him anyway. The horror of the corruption catching him and reaching inside of him. Worse still, the realization that something inside of him had reached back to that Darkness. And now all of that was beginning to mingle with thoughts of what would happen to everyone now that Diablo had the power of a massive shard.
He couldn't stop the wracking sobs anymore than he could the flood of tears. For her sake, he struggled to find some semblance of sanity, of control. But his mind and heart swirled in a spiral he could not escape. He clung to her, desperate for her strength yet unable to find it, to feel it. Some part of him knew this was all wrong. He couldn't tell her, and he couldn't forget. He wanted to curse himself for dragging her into this when he was such a mess. Yet, he still needed her, maybe more now than ever before. It was all wrong, and made the whole situation that much worse.
Kashya, clearly terrified, had no idea what was happening. He'd never been this completely emotionally out of control before. Her heart pounded painfully with fear for him. Not knowing what had happened to him left her without even words to offer comfort. Never in her whole life had she felt so helpless as she did right now. All she could do was hold him and pray.
In his mind and heart, everything was twisted up. He couldn't begin to sort through it. The shard had accepted him as one of its own. Diablo had offered him a place at his side. Now the Prime Evil knew him, knew his face, knew his soul. He'd made everyone he cared about a target. He had made so many mistakes. If he had just done the right thing to maintain the Balance with Skarn, none of this would be happening now. He'd failed again. He failed to stop the Bride. He'd failed to stop the shard from reaching Diablo. He'd failed to even protect one village. How could he possibly protect his loved ones from the Lord of Terror if he couldn't even accomplish one thing?
He watched Diablo burning children and torturing their mothers. He saw Karshun being ripped apart by cultists in the workshop. He could hear Kashya's screams as the cultists dragged her away, too. He listened to his own mocking laughter from his nightmare self weaving through it all. Fern's screams echoed Kashya's while the nightmare laughed all the more. Even Oza's screams. With the kind of cultists that followed the Prime Evil, it was not beyond Diablo's power to go after the dead, either. Just to punish him.
And he would be punished, he knew. Oh, yes, he knew. They were coming for him now.
There was no hope of stopping Diablo now. He'd failed, and so many would pay the price for that failure and all the mistakes that had led to this. Again he thought of Fern and Stormpoint. All of them, the entire set of islands practically destroyed, was all because he had made the wrong choice. How many tens of thousands more would pay for his mistakes?
Somewhere beyond the horror and Darkness that felt like it was consuming his very soul, he felt the real Kashya holding him. He could almost feel her warmth and her strength, but he couldn't connect to it right now. Even that was beyond his reach. And a part of him knew he didn't deserve it, either. He'd failed so completely. His many mistakes had brought them here. He had violated his oath to protect and uphold the Balance. A part of him knew he deserved this hell.
He had no idea how long it went on. But the flood of Darkness he felt within himself fueled it. Literally, his only comfort was that he was still alive to fight. And, even then, it felt so horribly wrong that he was still alive when so many had paid for his mistakes already. He hadn't even managed to escape the corruption and terror...not really. It had touched him directly, nearly taken him completely. Even Kashya's warm, soothing presence hadn't been able to make him forget this time. He was not broken; he knew that much. But he'd lost all hope somewhere along the way. And now he didn't know how to get it back.
Too exhausted to continue, his sobs finally tapered away. He began to come back to reality. Kashya had somehow pulled his head and shoulders into her lap as he lay beside her. He could feel her warm hands running soothingly through his hair. Slowly, reluctantly, the images and sounds faded. The horror and terror remained. But now he was just too hollow, too worn out to even care. He rolled over and buried his face in her belly; clinging to her in the hopes of feeling anything other than his own misery.
It wasn't fair to Kashya. Why did he have to bring her into this? Why couldn't he have just done one thing right and fled to the overlook? The memory of this same action with Oza right here in the same place struck him. But he was just too miserable to even appreciate it right now. A greater part of himself wished he was dead now and this was over for him. At the same time, he knew once more that it wouldn't be over for him.
There was no escape anymore.
He held her, not even aware he was bruising her in his desperation to connect with her and feel anything at all beyond his misery and hopelessness. Kashya kept silent, just stroking his hair comfortingly. All he could do was listen to his breathing and try to find some kind of focus beyond the madness of terror that had flooded him.
Feeling his arms relaxing around her back, she leaned down carefully to kiss his head. Then she pulled his shoulders gently to detach him. He offered no resistance. She slid around and lay beside him, holding him tightly. If this was all she could give him, she prayed he would take everything. She still could not fathom what had happened to break him so utterly, but it didn't matter. Her questions didn't matter. He had told her he needed her warmth and strength, and she gave them completely now. He held her more gently as she rolled him onto his back so she could put her head to his chest. His heart was slow and steady now. She silently wished he would sleep. Anyone would need sleep after an emotional cleansing that painful.
"I love you," he whispered, now stroking her hair.
"I know," she whispered back. "Rest now. I will be here when you wake."
She was facing west now. The sun was falling rapidly toward the horizon. Soon his deep, regular breathing slowed, and his hand on her hair stilled. She watched the spectacular sunset alone, in a way. She still felt glad she could share it with him, even now. It was still cold up here to her, even in the springtime air of daylight. With the sun setting, she struggled to keep from shivering, not wanting to disturb him. As exhausted as she expected him to be, she didn't think he would wake up anytime soon.
While he wept, she had prodded him carefully to get all of his gear off. She doubted he even noticed. But she had kept the backpack nearby. She reached behind herself, slowly and carefully, with her left arm. With one of his arms still wrapped around her back, she knew too much movement would likely disturb him. For a moment, she wrestled with the top flap of the backpack blindly before she finally managed to slip her fingers inside. Ever so slowly, she pulled two blankets and covered them both.
Slightly warmer now, as the sky grew truly dark above them, she let herself drift, not quite asleep. Despite not knowing what had happened to him, she knew enough about nightmares. He'd never had one while with her. Yet she expected that was about to change. She felt his hand and arm twitching on her back. When she raised her head slightly to look, his eyes were fluttering, and his face was pinched. She moved her free hand up to caress his face. His face relaxed as he moaned wordlessly at her touch. He seemed to settle, and his eyelids stopped fluttering.
He looked so old to her now. Something had aged him in a way she could not understand. She'd never actually asked him his age. It didn't really matter. But the man she'd met in Dark Wood only a year ago looked decades older now. Her heart broke for him, but she kept it in check. She was here for him now. Her own feelings didn't matter.
Repeatedly throughout the night, he would begin to moan or twitch. A couple of times, names came through. And, more often than not, it was hers. Whatever he was experiencing, though, she was able to soothe away with a caress and some soft words. She dozed, much as she would when on longer multi-day patrols, but didn't allow herself to sleep. She knew it probably wasn't the best choice, considering her other circumstances. But right now, he needed her; refreshing sleep would have to wait. And that was all that really mattered to her at the moment. She knew they needed to talk, but she very much doubted he would be in any condition to hear what she had to say right now. If she were lucky, he would wake up at least sane. She sighed heavily, holding him fiercely. It didn't matter; she would do what little she could for him. They could both worry about tomorrow after the storm had passed.
***
Pyresong was lost. He had so many nightmares he couldn't even count them all. His body had been too exhausted to fight off sleep for long. And his mind had been too ravaged by terror and guilt to find any semblance of calm. More than once, as he struggled through his dreams of carnage and horror, he felt Kashya like a warm light guiding him through them and into other places. Somewhere beyond all of this madness, he knew she was there. She was with him. He wasn't alone.
Gradually, he found the strength he needed to begin fighting them off himself. When his own nightmare-self caught up to him in some horrific scene of torture, laughing gleefully, he managed to run away. He escaped into a more pleasant place. Once, he was even in Cain's workshop, discussing something about hope and its effect on people. Then his nightmare image showed itself again, slitting the old man's throat. He ran again. Beyond the workshop door, he was in Wortham. He was a simple farmer now, enjoying the growth of new spring; until he realized it was fertilized with the bodies of all the people he had murdered by upsetting the Balance.
That time he gave up. He pulled himself out of sleep altogether. Aware of Kashya's warm presence hugging his left side, he carefully waded through the darkness behind his eyes back to the surface. He blinked crusty eyes to find himself staring up at the stars. Hearing Kashya's soft, slow breathing he was fairly certain she slept. Much as he wanted to listen to her voice right now, he knew she needed her sleep, too. He didn't have the heart to wake up after how selfish he'd been yesterday.
Physically, he felt at least partially recovered. But everything else... He couldn't even find the energy to feel shame over it. Not that he ever really would with Kashya. Still, he'd frightened her terribly, he knew. He hadn't intended to. He'd meant to come here to the overlook and sort it all out first. But once he'd seen her, he couldn't let go. He'd needed her in a way he'd never needed anyone or anything ever before.
That thought alone terrified him.
He didn't want it to be this way. He never wanted to do that to her. He had never intended for any of this to hurt her, as he had known it would. He stared blankly up at the stars, not even seeing them anymore. What would he do now? The best thing he could do for her was walk away again. But it was far too late for that. The hurt that would be inflicted would be worse than if he died. Dying in the fight, she could understand.
And what about Fern?
She was just a child. Yes, a very mature child, but still a child. A child who had lost literally everything she held dear. Could he walk away from her, as well? No, he couldn't do that to her, either.
He couldn't help questioning what would happen if he didn't. He already knew the answers, though he hadn't wanted to admit it. He had seen them again and again in his nightmares. Just because he was safe from prying eyes didn't mean any of them were safe. He'd dragged them into this. They would pay for his mistakes.
Gods...even Oza, he realized consciously for the first time.
He had failed miserably again. He didn't catch the Bride before she got to Diablo. And now the Lord of Terror was reforming with the help of a massive shard. He had no idea how long it took a Prime Evil to reform after being banished back to Hell. But there had been absolutely no sign of Mephisto since his soulstone was destroyed. Diablo's regeneration had been halted by Skarn for at least a few years. Now it was unbelievably accelerated with the power of that Worldstone shard. How much time did they actually have left? Days?
Part of him wanted to just cling to Kashya and wait for it to all end. But a tiny spark somewhere wanted to fight that thought. And it was tiny. No more than a whisper somewhere deep inside. Was it enough?
"Not likely," he nightmare mocked.
He nodded, listening to that awful voice. He'd failed to stop the shard from getting to Diablo. He'd failed to stop the Prime Evil from rising again. He'd failed in so many ways... What was there left to hope for? A quick end? Even that would not give him peace now, and he knew it. There would be no refuge from Diablo. And there was no way to stop him, either.
"Our hope should be no louder than a whisper."
He nearly laughed bitterly at that memory. Were it not for Kashya sleeping in his arms, he would have. And he was fairly certain the unhinged laughter would follow soon after. He might not ever stop this time. Karshun had been right all along. Hope was something other people had. He should never have trusted in it, believed in it, followed it.
"We're not dead yet, Karshun. There's still hope."
Had he really believed that even when he said it? Of course, he did. So what had changed?
"So few speak for the Balance, now. The world is toppling. I cannot save the world, but I can set some things to rights. Who else but me?"
His own words tormented him now. They weren't just distant memories fading away. They were spiked lashes on his consciousness. Right now, in his arms, was everything he needed to go on. For Kashya, he would not give up. For Fern, for everyone out there like them. It seemed no one else was paying attention; no one else was fighting. But he would. Fighting, even meaningless battles against the overwhelming powers of Hell, was all he knew, all he could do. It was not as if he had ever really had a choice.
Vaguely he recalled at the peak of the terror when the corruption had begun to claim him, the angel had guided him out of it somehow. The angel had been silent since then.
Tyrael? he asked tentatively.
He felt something shifting inside. He couldn't quite describe it, but it was like something unfolding within him, awakening. For a second, the stars above him faded to be replaced with a golden glow. Then that faded, and all he could see was the myriad stars above. For a moment, they were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he didn't know why.
Do we still have a chance of stopping Diablo? he asked the angel, certain now he was listening.
"No mortal is capable of harming Diablo while he has the Worldstone shard, let alone defeating him."
Tyrael's all but defeated tones sparked something defiant in him. It was one thing to listen to the shadows within his own heart and soul, but coming from an angel...
"This cannot be the end," he whispered.
Beside him, Kashya's head shot up at the sound of his voice. He stroked her hair comfortingly but was lost in his thoughts at the moment.
"There must be something we can still do," he told Tyrael, willing to accept literally anything in this moment.
No matter how minute or ludicrous, he would take it. Silently, he knew what he was actually doing was begging the angel to give him anything to hold on to, anything to even hope for.
Tyrael seemed to consider for a few seconds. He could almost feel those thoughts, just below the level of consciousness. Kashya opened her mouth and Pyresong sat up, putting a finger to her lips gently to silence her. He could feel Tyrael...rummaging. He was not quite looking for something inside of him so much as running through options. The angel was trapped inside a mortal, but that didn't mean he had to be helpless.
"When I shattered the Worldstone, my sword, El'druin, disappeared. But I can sense it somewhere north. A pulse of hope," Tyrael finally said, almost wryly.
Better than no hope at all, he agreed with a grin.
He felt Tyrael's warmth and pride. Apparently the angel hadn't been entirely unaware of what had transpired in the last day and night. Then he felt that power folding back in on itself within him, leaving him alone. By this point, Kashya's brows were furrowed with worry. He turned and pulled her toward him until she was in his lap.
"I'm sorry if I frightened you," he told her, burying his face in her shoulder.
"What just happened?" she asked. "Your eyes...they were completely different."
He laughed softly as something clenching his heart painfully fell away. He pulled back to look at her. He caressed her face, almost lost in those emerald eyes.
"You're still not going to tell me the differences, are you?" he asked with a grin.
Kashya seemed completely taken off guard by his genuine smile. She frowned darkly, searching his gaze. Very likely, she'd read it in his eyes. It was real, as was his renewed hope. Feeling something so strongly again, other than raw terror, guilt, and hopelessness, made him feel almost giddy. He couldn't help teasing her when she didn't respond.
"Remember when I asked about hearing voices?"
She nodded, clearly still worried.
"The Archangel Tyrael is currently residing in the cracks of my soul," he told her with a grin.
Her expression didn't change. He nearly laughed again, more darkly this time. How did he keep ending up in these situations where convincing others of his sanity was harder than convincing himself, even? Instead, he sighed and kissed her gently. At least she didn't pull away.
"I told you, Karshun has good reason to believe I'm insane. I told him when it started. But he didn't believe it until he saw something happen to my eyes. Very likely the same thing you just saw. I still don't know what that 'something' is. But when he...awakens, I guess, is the word...I can feel him as well as hear him."
Kashya's face relaxed slightly; then she forced a grin. "Well, if and arrogant arse Karshun didn't have you hauled away and locked up, it must be real," she told him dryly.
That stung a lot more than he had thought it would. He groaned and dropped his head back to her chest. His mind scrambled to find something to keep from losing her. The truth was all he had, and he was afraid that would only make it worse.
"Please, Kashya," he begged, holding on to her desperately, part of him praying he wasn't about to lose her despite all that had gone through his mind recently. "I need you, of all people, to believe me. I don't care what anyone else thinks. But I promise you. I'm not insane. And Tyrael has just given me something I can do to fight back. I...I failed. I didn't... I couldn't..."
He grimaced. He wouldn't tell her, he knew. But how could he make her understand? Realizing she'd wounded him, Kashya bit her lip. Hurriedly she wrapped her arms around him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." She heaved a sigh and lifted his face to hers. "I believe in you. I don't give a damn about angels or anything else. Just you."
He couldn't help kissing her. Those lips were so close. He could feel her warmth now, that fierce heart that beat in her chest. He could feel that fiery passion within her that would never bow to the Darkness. The nightmares from yesterday became little more than a dim memory while he held her. And the world itself faded to nothing when he kissed her.
As the sky to the east began to turn a dark blue, he realized she was shivering again. Mentally he kicked himself as he pulled the blankets back up around her.
"I'm so sorry. Yesterday, I was... It was just..."
He gave up with a sigh and a mental growl of frustration. While he very much appreciated her presence, a part of him wished it had never happened. He didn't know what to tell her now other than the truth and that he would never do. She ran her hands through his hair.
"Stop apologizing. You did only what I asked, and I'm glad I could give you that," she told him, kissing the top of his head.
"How soon do you need to get back?" he finally asked, willing the dawn to hold off just a little longer.
"Fern asked me to take a few days away from my duties."
"Fern...she was in the Outer Cloister. What was it she said?"
Kashya grinned as if enjoying a secret of her own. "I don't remember. But she dragged me out there, saying you were coming."
He wrestled with his thoughts for a minute uncertainly. Had she already told the Sisters? Was it his place to say?
"What is it?" Kashya finally asked, seeing the struggle on his face.
He finally shook his head with a grimace and a sigh. "I can't. It's just...I worry about her too much, she says."
"Not surprising," Kashya told him, kissing him briefly again.
When he felt how cold her hands were, he decided he'd been more than selfish enough. Apparently, she'd gotten him out of his gear and stowed in his backpack. Wrapping her in both of the blankets, he guided them into the monastery and to his new temporary residence. Relieved to be out of the wind, she curled up on the bed while he got a fire going in the small fireplace. As she began to attack some of his visible food supplies, he felt all the more guilty. He had likely deprived her of supper the night before, among other things. For that matter, it had probably been a couple of days now since he had eaten. He quickly tossed that thought aside. He had no real appetite of his own right now.
His mind racing forward with the next steps, he just held her on the bed while she ate. He slowed his thoughts to bring them into focus. He realized there were some things he could tell her.
"I'm...sorry I worried you."
She threw him a dangerous look, but her mouth was too full to reply. He took advantage of that. He stifled a grin and dove forward.
"I had a bad day," he finally told her. "And, thank you."
"I told you, there's nothing to apologize for. I'm glad you came to me. At least I know you can keep your promises," she added with a grin.
He couldn't help grinning at that. He would never tell her how completely accidental it had been. Or worse, maybe not an accident at all. He kissed her cheek.
"The truth is, I'd...lost hope. What you saw earlier was me asking Tyrael what our next move is," he confessed. "Sometimes I miss Cain being able to just tell me where to go and what to do. Things are so much more complicated now."
"Are you sure it isn't just your perception making them more complicated?"
For a moment, he stared at her in surprise. The thought hadn't really occurred to him. But he knew she was likely right in some way he just wasn't seeing. As if seeing the question in his surprised expression, she grinned. He ran through some of it in his head. For him, things had always been so simple. Find evil, and put an end to it. Move on. What was actually making it more complicated?
"How old are you, by the way?"
Her question startled him right out of his thoughts. She laughed at his look of surprise.
"That was not a complicated question," she teased.
He couldn't help laughing. She was right about that. As old as he felt, as many lifetimes as he felt he'd lived through at this point, it really wasn't complicated; just very unexpected.
"Early thirties. Maybe thirty-three, I think. What brought that on?"
"How do you not know?" she asked. "I'm twenty-eight."
"Priests of Rathma usually come to us for training as adults. We're a serious bunch and don't typically throw birthday parties. I was six when I started my apprenticeship. I guess I've lost track,” he couldn't help a smirk. “Why? Are you worried you've tied yourself to an old man?"
Kashya's eyes were wide. "Six?"
His smirk disappeared. He nodded with a mental sigh. In truth, he had no good reason for keeping the information from her. He'd learned much about her and her life in the Sisters of the Sightless Eye in the few times they'd been able to spend together. But he rarely spoke of his own background. He began to realize just how much that must bother her sometimes. Yet she had never prodded him, either. Part of him didn't want to go there. Still, he could give her so little of himself; she deserved that much. He toyed with her hair, not really able to meet her eyes as he ran through these thoughts and so very many memories. She curled more tightly against him, shedding the blankets as the fire warmed the room.
"I was six when I summoned my first skeleton. It was...a sort of...an accident," he started hesitantly. "There was a voice giving me instructions, and I listened. My parents didn't know I had summoned it. They tried to rescue me from it. I couldn't control it and it killed my parents,” he said softly, glad she wasn't looking directly at him. “A Priest of Rathma showed up later that day and took me away. Apparently, what I did was foreseen but not quite preventable."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, trying to pull back and face him. "I didn't mean to—"
He squeezed her gently to keep her from moving, and kissed her head again. She gave in, settling against his chest, feeling tense.
"It's fine,” he assured softly, running his fingers through her hair again. “It was a long time ago. But, to answer your initial question, I've lost track. I'm fairly certain I learned from someone I was born in winter. So I suspect I'm thirty-three, now; or there about. Not likely to be over forty. I stopped keeping journals at some point after I left the monasteries. For most of the twelve or so years leading up to all of this, I just kind of wandered around Sanctuary. Time wasn't really all that important except for finding a safe place during the worst winter storms. I usually just moved somewhere south to avoid them."
Kashya was quiet for a while, seeming to process that.
"What? No more questions?" he finally prodded her.
"Just surprised, I guess. Since you seem to be in such a sharing mood: How come you left the monasteries? I didn't think Priests of Rathma had monasteries."
He laughed softly again. "We don't exactly. But we are typically welcome in various monasteries founded by different orders. And...I don't mean to be secretive; not like that. There's just a lot I don't want to talk about. And I left because I had to."
He sighed and shook his head. He was already here, and some part of him had already decided. While there was so very much he would not tell her about his work, himself, and the present; he could at least give her something of his past. To his relief, she remained silent, giving him a precious few seconds to organize his thoughts. The last thing he wanted to do was blurt out the deeper truth. Not yet, at any rate. Maybe some day, if he lived that long.
"To preface this little story: I've learned to loathe prophecies."
"Prophecies?" she asked, clearly startled.
"There were dreams, visions, I guess. What I did to my parents was foreseen but not quite preventable. That's why a priest was already coming to collect me. Apparently, there has never been anyone with inborn abilities like mine. It's hard to explain, but there is no such thing as a natural-born necromancer. And, yet, I was able to understand all of it as a child; before I was even trained."
He struggled to recall those early days he had done so much to erase.
"The voices of the dead were always there. I don't remember if my father ever said anything on the subject. But my mother understood, I think. I vaguely remember her saying something along the lines of spirits are always with us." He shook his head. "Even after my apprenticeship started, I had no idea there was anything special about me. I just knew I was the only child apprentice anywhere Master Z ever took me to. No one ever mentioned anything...different. Yet, I was a Master by the time I was old enough to join a military regiment.” He laughed softly. “From there, I was planning on a nice, quiet life studying any book I could get my hands on and going out occasionally when requested for some duty or another."
"Oh, so you were a scholar," Kashya teased, leaning on his shoulder.
He could almost hear the wicked smile. He paused, not sure what to say. Then she prodded the muscles on his ribs, making him squirm as it actually tickled.
"You're definitely not a soft bookworm anymore."
He laughed and kissed her again. "Thankfully, no. Though Cain, at least, appreciated my 'softer side'," he teased right back.
"Karshun probably still thinks of you as the village idiot."
"Not so much, actually," he told her, still somewhat surprised by some of the recent revelations. "He's still an arrogant bastard on the surface, but he's...not what I thought. He's not a bad person. We just don't get along for more than a few minutes at a time. Besides, Cain trusted him. That's enough for me."
"I still think he's an arse. But go on."
Pyresong sighed heavily, forcing himself back to his momentarily derailed train of thoughts. Slowly he pieced it back together, reluctantly.
"I don't know how many others Rathma has told about some of his dreams. There have been more than a few, but he tends to keep them locked away. Apparently, the one about my parents and my inborn abilities wasn't the only one regarding me.
“A few years after I was cut loose, he paid me a visit one night. Said I couldn't hide in the monasteries anymore. Even before then, there were...the other dreams that I had. Master Z chalked them up to night terrors. But now I know they weren't. I still don't know what they meant. But Rathma's..."
He paused, trying to find the words. After a few seconds, he sighed, giving up. He really didn't want to speak the words. The majority of it still made no sense to him. And, like most prophecies, involved too much symbolism for his logical mind to deal with. And the dreams had become all too real in recent months. Then there were other things. Bringing all that to the fore, he wondered all over again if he really was a madman underneath all this. Those memories were impossible. They literally could not have happened.
"What did he say?" Kashya finally asked.
Shoving all the rest of it aside, he struggled to remember where he had just left off. He quickly latched on to the excuse to forget the dreams all over again.
"Most of it was the usual garbled and symbolic nonsense you hear in any other prophecy. I really do hate prophecies. But people like Cain see more in them than I do. I guess I'm just not that imaginative. They never make any sense to me. But one line actually did, and still does to this day.
"'Once the cradle is broken, and the Balance is renewed, you will be Justice'," he quoted, then he began laughing uncontrollably.
Kashya sat up to face him, looking confused. "What?"
For a few seconds, he laughed all the more at her confusion. Until the moment he said it, he hadn't realized that maybe that one line had been literal. Worse, in light of recent events in the Ancients' Cradle, he actually understood it! Kashya started to look worried, so he struggled to get himself back under control and tried to explain. But that last part... He coughed to stifle another outburst.
"I'm so sorry," he said, caressing her face. "I just realized how literal that last part was. And I can't see Rathma even knowing about that. But...maybe."
"What are you talking about?"
"Justice has been... Let me back up. Everyone looks at the Balance differently. There are many aspects of the Balance. Some see the bigger picture, like Heaven and Hell. I've always focused on the small. I'm called into a village because there's a demon rounding up followers and killing people, for example. I can't undo what the demon has already done, so I seek justice for the victims. That's all I can really offer. And, to be honest, that's how I've always seen that line of the prophecy. Something simple I can focus on.
"And now the Archangel of Justice is literally inside of me," he struggled not to laugh again, not quite failing. "And, yes, it happened in a place called the Ancients' Cradle. It was possibly the worst living example of the Balance..." he sighed and shoved the memories aside, all humor gone. "Never mind. Let's just say that one line, at least, was far more literal than I would even like to think about right now."
Catching on, Kashya's eyebrows shot up. She still seemed a bit worried about his outburst but appeared to accept this. Clearly, she didn't want to pry deeper into something that so visibly still haunted him. He caressed her face and hugged her to him again. A stray thought floated to the surface that he just didn't have the mental capacity to filter out right now. Besides, it was just them. Hopefully, no one would ever find out, either.
"One of these days, I'm going to have to find Rathma, wherever he's hiding," he told her, still grinning. "As blasphemous as it may sound, I almost want to punch him. He sent me down this road with no idea what I was in for. But, I knew it began when the stars went out."
"What's the rest of the prophecy?"
Pyresong groaned. "Does it matter? Or are you fishing for something about us in there?"
"Just curious. What do you mean 'the stars went out'?"
"Exactly what I said. I was just looking at the stars one night, about a year ago now, and they disappeared. I was somewhere on the Gulf of Westmarch. The sky went solid black as they all came together and fell into the area near Wortham. I blinked. Then everything went back to normal. Somehow I just knew something had begun."
"And here we are," she said. "So why do you hate prophecies so much?"
He'd had years to think about that. And the more recent subject of the End of Days had finally decided him on it.
"I hate them because they never make sense. There's just so much symbolism and nonsense. By the time anyone figures it out, the events have come and gone, and suddenly everyone sees how they made sense." He laughed softly again. "Myself included, as that little piece just proved. The whole thing about a cradle..." He sighed as he ran his fingers through her hair. "I just wish there was a prophecy that would give us concrete answers without all the garbage. Something we could use before I..." he froze, unable to tell her any more than he had Cain. "Something that would help prevent things before they happen."
"Maybe some do," she said with a yawn.
"I'm sorry. You must be exhausted," he pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "I wish I had more time."
"What do you mean?" she asked sleepily.
"I need to update Karshun. If he sensed anything with what just happened, he's probably driving himself to distraction right now. I can say the amulet Akara gave me is working, though. Frustrated him for a little while, at least. He found out about it, recently. He still can't find me."
"Good," Kashya said and then groaned as she stretched.
He couldn't stop himself. The moment her arms were above her head, he prodded the same place on her ribs that she'd gotten him earlier. Her surprised squeal was enough to tell him his suspicions about her ticklishness were correct. She'd aimed perfectly on him earlier. And he hadn't even known he was ticklish until then. He grinned wickedly as she glared at him. Instead of the expected retaliation, she tackled him flat on the bed. Then pinned him down with a very thorough kiss. After a few seconds, he began to rethink his plans. Then he wasn't thinking at all anymore.
Karshun could wait a little longer.
But Kashya's payback was always far more viciously creative than his own. She left him panting and almost wanting to beg when she crawled off of him and moved toward the fire with a wicked grin of her own. Pyresong could only lay there breathless for a moment.
"That...was cruel," he told her.
"Just a promise for later," she told him innocently. "Besides, you enjoy the teasing."
He couldn't help laughing. She was right, and he knew it. He did enjoy it. If nothing else, it took his mind off everything else. With a disappointed groan, he finally pulled himself up off the bed. Kashya was warming her hands by the fire. Reaching for a robe in his backpack, he briefly toyed with the idea of warming her in other ways while she stood close to the fire. He quickly shut that thought away for later. Not seeing the need for his armor at the moment, he decided to leave it in the bag. He could always put it on once he was safely inside the workshop.
"How do you stand the cold up here, anyway?"
"I don't really notice it anymore," he confessed, shrugging on the robe. "After some of the places I've been, it's just not as obvious to me, I suppose. This is chilly, yes; but, to me, the real cold is places like the Tundra."
"Or death..." his nightmare snickered.
For a moment, it looked like she was about to say something and then changed her mind. A few seconds later, he used his affinity for fire to literally pull the fire out of the fireplace, effectively stopping it. She looked amazed by this. Instead of commenting, she just took his hand as they exited the room. In the corridor, he made a portal to return her to the Outer Cloister. He had no idea how things were about to play out, so he kissed her one more time and let her go. Right behind that portal, he made another one to the south entrance to Westmarch, Wolf Gate. Now that he'd taken to using random waypoints, he thought it might be at least less likely for them to catch on to his comings and goings.
Silently he braced himself. While dealing with Karshun wasn't nearly as odious as it once was, he had a feeling this was not going to be pleasant.
As expected, only maybe a couple hours after sunrise, Rakkis Plaza was already bustling. He had a considerable walk to get to Karshun but still wanted to stop and ask Charsi about something he could easily carry unnoticed under his robe. Happy as she was to see him, he could tell she was just too busy. He gave her a quick idea of what he was looking for and then let her get on with her work. Hoping Karshun hadn't worked himself into a frenzy, he knocked on the workshop door. It flew open almost immediately. The relief on Karshun's haggard face was obvious.
"About time," the mage muttered angrily
Happily, Pyresong moved to shed the heavy, uncomfortable robes. Once the door was closed, Karshun stomped across the room and headed for the fireplace and kettle.
"How? How could this happen? Diablo is reforming as we speak, leaving us little time. I could sense his revival even without using the Astral Anchor!"
Pyresong sighed mentally and headed over to the rocking chair by the fire. Not so much needing the fire's warmth as to encourage Karshun to calm down. He wasn't surprised. If anything, he was astonished at his own calm. Less than a day ago, the same knowledge had destroyed his own hope.
"Sit down, Karshun," he said gently.
Karshun slammed the kettle back over the fire and handed him a cup of tea before practically flinging himself into the other rocking chair. Seeing the mage struggling to get himself back into his usual facade of cool, magely arrogance, Pyresong focused on his tea and waited patiently. Clearly, the man had not slept, possibly in days. He felt more than a little guilty, having left him to worry this long. But he knew full well he couldn't come back here like that. Not that he could see Karshun being deliberately cruel or anything. He just knew his own bitterness and emotional state would cause him to say something that he knew they would both likely regret. And they could not afford that kind of infighting; especially now.
Recalling what he had to speak of next, he nearly sighed openly, wishing it was Cain in that rocking chair. He covered it by sipping the too-hot tea. He so very much wanted Cain's insight and gentle encouragement. Not for the first time, he considered ways he might be able to find his friend; if for no other reason than to warn him. Again, he shoved those thoughts into a deep, dark hole. They could not risk it. If whatever he and Karshun were working on failed, Cain might be the only hope of stopping all of this with whatever information he could dig up and piece together. Despite his personal opinion of prophecies, he still had hope in that category. If anyone could make sense of those prophecies, it would be Cain.
Seeing Karshun had settled and calmed himself considerably, he set down his tea and stared into the soothing flames in the fireplace. At least he would never have to worry about Karshun prodding him for all the personal details. Considering some of what he'd discussed with Cain, this would be downright painless by comparison.
"I arrived at Wortham to find the shard was already in use against the village. I thought it was some kind of...gathering sacrifices. I traced the shard to King Leoric's Manor with some help. The Bride was after something involving Albrecht. I don't know exactly what she got from there, but she took the shard to the cathedral in Tristram. Wortham..."
He paused, his chest tightening at the memories. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Karshun turn that penetrating gaze on him with a dark scowl. To cover his swirling emotions, he heaved a sigh and pushed forward, his voice flat.
"Wortham was...harvested. But that was not what she was there for. She found Albrecht's body beneath the cathedral and used it to link the shard with Diablo's essence. Then, she was finally able to take it to Diablo in Hell. I followed. Not that it actually accomplished anything, as you well know," he finished, unable to completely keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Karshun stared at him incredulously through most of it. "Just like that? You just hopped blindly right on through—"
"Yes," Pyresong cut him off roughly. "I almost had her more than once. I wasn't going to give up if there was any chance of stopping her."
"Pointless effort seems to be a theme with you," Karshun snapped.
Sipping his tea, he just managed to keep from throwing an acidic remark right back. And it bought him the time to come up with something he knew would irk the mage that much more. As he set his cup back down, he calmly cocked an eyebrow at the mage. Karshun's face flushed, clearly more angered by the lack of response.
"And what would you have done? If I may ask?"
He didn't bother concealing the chill in his voice. Karshun blew out a frustrated breath, and then smoothed his own expression.
"The same."
He just nodded and let it go. He was not in the mood for a verbal sparring match.
"I'm glad you're back," Karshun finally admitted. "Though I can't imagine how."
He couldn't help frowning darkly. Honestly, he hadn't even really considered that too closely himself. In the mess of thoughts and emotions that had consumed him the previous day, he had almost forgotten it. In some ways, it was just another case of he'd somehow survived the impossible. And he really had not expected to survive when he went through the portal. Only one idea came to mind when he thought about it now, though.
"I think...I've...attracted Diablo's attention," he realized
Karshun snorted in amusement. Feeling a sick twisting in his gut, Pyresong ran through the sequence of events again. Even just voicing that vague suspicion made his stomach churn and his heart stutter. Somehow, he knew he was right, though. His instincts were convinced. He dove in with his thoughts before the mage could make some snarky remark. Running with this random chain of suspicions actually disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.
"The Bride said he offered me a place at his side. And...he could have easily killed me. I was in Hell. I was trying to stop him from reforming. He already had the shard and was calling to his minions and...and all he threw at me were a bunch of minor demons and... Then he flung me through a portal...alive. He..."
Those memories of running in blind terror... There had been...something else, too. He took a deep breath, trying to push them aside. He did not want to go there. It would likely just give Karshun more to stab him with verbally. He was in no mood. He glanced to the mage, half expecting something to be thrown at him.
Instead, Karshun seemed to be considering this new information, though; as if they could somehow use it to their advantage. Yet he couldn't quite see how. Pyresong wrestled the gut-twisting feelings back down as he considered further. Something told him he was on the right track. Useful or not, he'd survived the impossible. Only barely, but that was all the more reason he was convinced. He was so completely exhausted after trying to stop the Prime Evil from reforming that it would have taken almost nothing to kill him. Instead, Diablo had chased him back through the memories with his corruption and terror. He could only guess that his own adrenaline-fueled fear had kept him moving.
And it had almost worked. In the end, he'd nearly been lost to the Darkness. Had it not been for Tyrael and... Yes, he had felt the corruption crawling up inside of him, and something reaching back. A soft laugh from his nightmare rolled around his head for a moment, echoing the memory of Diablo's laughter. He could only theorize that Tyrael's intervention had saved him. He was far too weak to have fought back.
"What are you thinking?" Karshun broke into his thoughts after he'd been silent for several seconds.
Pyresong shook himself out of those memories and then sighed. His hand on the teacup trembled slightly. Oh, yes, those memories still haunted him. But, what if it wasn't too late? What if the choice he had made with Skarn could now be rectified? What if...
Then he remembered Tyrael, and Verathiel, and all the others. No. It was far too late for that. He had made his decision, and now he had to stay the course. But there was something else there, too. Tickling the back of his mind. Something about Albrecht. He shoved them all into a dark hole for later inspection.
"I lost in more ways than one," he finally said. "I'd like to leave it at that. Tyrael saved me again. And he's given us a direction."
"How so?" Karshun asked, looking surprised.
"He said as long as Diablo has the shard, there's no mortal that can stop him. But, Tyrael also told me his sword is somewhere to the north. With it, we have a chance. We need to find it."
Karshun huffed a dark laugh. "Just a chance? Well, I suppose we can't be too picky."
He grinned. At least the mage wasn't dismissing it out of hand. It was Karshun's turn to go quiet for a few seconds as he considered.
"Arreat Crater," Karshun finally said. "It would be wise to start searching there."
He nodded, pretty much what he'd expected. He finished off his tea, hoping its warm comfort would further settle his churning stomach. There was still just too much for him to sort through. At least he had a direction to keep moving for now; keep it at bay for a little longer.
"I'll see if the Black Bower is in port. Or I'll find another ship headed that way. Unless you can get me there quicker?"
Karshun eyed him almost angrily as if challenged by that last remark. He was a bit surprised, considering he hadn't intended it to be any sort of challenge.
"There's no more room for miscalculations now that Diablo is out there," Karshun snapped. "Take the time to prepare yourself, as I'm sure the demons that infest Arreat Crater have begun to stir."
"'Begun'? What makes you think they ever stopped?" he couldn't help asking in surprise.
Karshun's face flushed for a moment. He looked like he'd been caught out in a lie, making Pyresong all the more curious. After a second, the mage huffed angrily and then sighed, seeming more tired than anything. Very likely, he hadn't had any sleep at all in the last few days. Pyresong couldn't blame him. Without Kashya, he likely would not have been able to sleep at all due to his own nightmares.
"The Astral Plane there is...distorted," Karshun confessed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "So the truth is, I don't know. It is true they were Baal's minions. But with Baal so recently banished back to Hell, who knows for certain? Since they're already in Sanctuary, they would make easy fodder for Diablo."
"In other words, I'm taking a ship," he affirmed, carefully refraining from adding anything the tired mage might take as a barb. "You can't get me there, and trying to do so would likely wind up with one or both of us almost anywhere but where we need to be."
Karshun shook his head. "No, I can't. But my words still stand. I doubt your journey will be easy. Yet you must do everything in your power to claim the sword of Justice."
"I know," he said, letting some irritation come through. "Even if it was just hunting shards, we would need it. Unless you've come up with a way to destroy them that you haven't shared?"
Karshun shook his head again, clearly angry at the admission. Pyresong decided it was time to retreat before this got ugly. He rose from the almost too-comfortable rocking chair and moved across the room. The mage was unusually silent while he donned the itchy, heavy robes again. Still, much as he hated the robes, it was better than taking a knife in the back...again.
When he turned back, Karshun was staring tiredly into the flames looking both exhausted and grimly determined. He had at least some idea of what was going through the man's head. Failures and mistakes aside, the hope was tiny. He put a hand on Karshun's shoulder comfortingly. He offered a warm smile to the mage's startled gaze.
"You once said, 'Our hope should be no louder than a whisper.' It is only a whisper now, but it's still there, Karshun. It hasn't been silenced."
Karshun actually grinned halfheartedly at that. Pyresong could understand all too well. Only hours ago, he'd thought this whole mess hopeless. He just wished he could share more of that renewed hope with his friend. More than likely, the mage was just too exhausted right now.
"This will work. Get some rest. I'll be back tomorrow," he said, moving toward the door.
"Do you ever actually lose hope?" Karshun asked softly, still staring into the fire.
He paused with his hand on the door latch, ready with some snarky comeback. Then he immediately changed his mind.
"Of course. I'm entitled to a bad day once in a while," he replied flippantly.
Karshun huffed a dark laugh at that, as he had hoped. Despite likely believing it had been nothing more than a quip, it was all too true. And he accepted that. Regardless of everything he had done in his life, he was still very much human. Yesterday had only confirmed that. He was still human enough to feel hopelessness. Yet that stupidly stubborn defiant spark inside of him refused to give in to it.
As expected, anyone wearing anything even remotely resembling a missionary's robes was eyed cautiously, if not with outright suspicion. Pyresong was in no way surprised after what had happened with the vampire cultists in black robes gathering victims through here and likely all over the rest of the world. Since he was moving about quietly, he was trying to avoid having to ask Bailey directly. Once Bailey realized who was asking for Captain Rehm, the whole city would know by sundown that he now went around in nondescript brown robes.
By midday, it was clear either nobody was going anywhere near the direction he was headed, or they didn't want him on their ship at any cost. Finally, someone who had yet again turned him down mentioned Captain Rehm should be back in port in a couple of days. They had crossed paths in Kingsport not too long ago. And, of course, word had spread far and wide that Rehm was even willing to take on a Priest of Rathma as a guest aboard his ship. Pyresong started to wince internally at that, thinking it couldn't be good for the captain's carefully manicured reputation. But then this sailor's drunken babbling demeanor actually took on a sort of awe for the roguish captain. Rehm was completely unafraid of the necromancer. Apparently, that priest had even earned a place on the man's crew as some sort of hero to them.
Not wanting to hear another word, Pyresong shook his head. He quickly put away his disgust and thanked the man for the information. He would just have to hope he could catch Rehm in a couple of days and beg another very large favor. Right now, he just wanted to get away from here, away from the whole city.
At loose ends, he decided he was long past due to give Fern and update. He recalled seeing her when he had arrived the day before at the Eastgate Monastery, but she had walked away almost before he had noticed her. Feeling a bit of twisting guilt, he wondered if she was angry with him for some reason. He hadn't had a chance to update her since before going to the Ancients' Cradle. Maybe she thought he was avoiding her again.
Besides, Kashya had essentially promised him more enjoyable activities that night if he returned. Knowing he was likely to be gone a long, long while on this voyage, he decided to make the best use of his time there while he still could.
When he arrived at the Outer Cloister in robes, he was immediately challenged, as expected. What he hadn't expected was Fern waiting for him as well. Usually, at this time of day, she was deeply engrossed in her training; sometimes even out on patrol with the other Rogues. She was already jogging across the yard when he threw his hood back, giving the Rogue sentries a good view. As with most Sisters, at least one of them recognized him and motioned the other to stand down. He happily knelt down to scoop up Fern in a hug.
"Feeling better, I see," she whispered in his ear.
He couldn't help laughing softly, partially in relief. At least she didn't appear angry or upset with him. Yep, this one was going to be trouble. No hiding anything from her and the Great Eye. He kissed her on the cheek and set her back on the ground.
"Do I even need to bother telling you what happened?"
"I don't see everything," she told him, slipping her hand in his as she tugged him back toward the main buildings. "Kashya's back to patrolling. I warned her you would be back. They're still hunting something."
Now that they were well away from prying ears, he just had to ask. "Have you told them?"
She smiled impishly. "Not yet. They will know when it's time. In the meanwhile, I'm not wasting time covering up what I can see. You needed her. I just made sure she was there when you did."
He squeezed her hand warmly. "Thank you. Where are we going?"
"I found a fountain I don't think you know about. Come on, it's a soothing place. It'll make it easier for you to talk there."
He grinned again. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around it. Fern had gone from a devastated child to a most insightful little adult almost overnight. He could only assume they didn't know about what she could see because they overlooked her in her smaller body. Clearly, Fern herself had no problems with it, so he wouldn't either.
In a matter of minutes, she led him out through a long corridor and into an inner courtyard that had obviously been restored recently. There was a three-tiered fountain in the center that shimmered in the sunlight. Here and there were the early shoots of flowers rising up from freshly tended beds that still smelled of earth and sunshine. The grass was so thick and soft that he almost wanted to take his boots off to feel it. She led them right up to the edge of the fountain and then plopped down on the grass.
He gladly shed the heavy robes and tossed it aside, along with his side satchel and backpack. It felt good to just relax here with the sound of running water. But, he suspected something of an ulterior motive here, too. She smiled happily, seeing him relax.
"How much do you see?" he finally asked, more than a little curious.
"What I need to see. Nothing more."
That was too vague for him. Given his own nightmares, he shuddered internally at the idea that she had seen even half of what he'd seen; even just in the last few days.
"Do they...give you nightmares?" he asked tentatively.
For a moment, Fern looked almost sad. "We all have nightmares, Pyresong. But they do not frighten me anymore. I know better now."
"Know what?"
"They can't harm us," she told him cheerfully. "Stop worrying. The Sisters take good care of me. I am not alone here."
"I know. I just...wish you didn't have them."
Fern smirked smugly. "If I didn't have them, I wouldn't be where I am now."
"What do you mean?"
"It was through my nightmares that the Great Eye spoke to me."
He was glad she had faith in something. Nightmares didn't seem the best way to communicate with anyone. But if that faith gave her comfort and assurance, he wouldn't take that away from her. He nodded and let the subject go. Given what he'd been through in the last few days, he wasn't particularly keen on discussing nightmares right now anyway.
"So...are you going to tell me?"
"Tell you what?" he asked innocently.
Fern's blue eyes bored into him. That look of absolute seriousness on that cherubic little face almost made him grin, wanting to tease her further. Recalling what he had to tell her, though, froze it before it could reach his face.
"Of course," he finally said, knowing he could not delay any longer. "I don't know how much you saw or what you know. But, essentially, the Bride purified the shard at the Ancients' Cradle. Then she gave it to Diablo. I failed."
Fern's blond eyebrows furrowed at this news. Her eyes turned darker than he'd ever seen.
"But you killed many of them, right?"
Slowly he nodded, not sure he liked where this was going.
"And you saved the villagers, didn't you?"
"As many as I could," he conceded.
"Then it was not a total failure. The only 'total failure' is in not trying at all."
He just shook his head. He would not push the issue. Besides, it didn't matter. This whole mess was his fault. He had made so very many mistakes. What could he possibly say to any of it that would make it better? Absolutely nothing. He knew the truth, and he would not shy away from that truth. And if Fern didn't want to accept that, it was up to her. A part of him was just relieved the Great Eye hadn't shown her the deeper truth yet. Even Stormpoint was on his hands. If he had just...
"Why else did you bring me out here?" he finally asked, not really wanting to continue that line of thought. Besides, he sensed something behind those intense blue eyes.
Fern smiled mischievously, all darkness gone from her cherubic features. She rolled backward right to her feet in an impressive move. Pyresong could almost recall a time when he had done the same thing. Now? He might manage it, but only when flooded with adrenaline. He wasn't exactly feeling old, but definitely not as light as he had once been. Fern reached behind the stone fountain a few feet away and produced a couple of wooden swords.
"Teach me," she said simply, tossing him one.
He caught it easily, despite the surprise. With his greater height, it would be difficult at best. She barely stood as tall as his waist. He considered for a few seconds, hesitant. Something inside of him decided before he could consciously do so. Wanting to test her, he rolled sideways to his knees, taking a swipe at her legs. He was more than a little impressed when she deftly parried and even returned with a jab at his arm. She was definitely quick. He would have to remember that.
On his knees, he didn't have anywhere near the maneuverability he was accustomed to. And Fern had clearly been studying her footwork. She was still amateurish, at best; but he didn't care. She danced around him easily, taking every opening she spotted. For a little while, they just traded bruises and forgot everything else. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noticed eyes on them. Likely some of the Sisters had stopped to watch their sword play. Enjoying himself thoroughly, he ignored the stares. Fern was smart enough to know that if she was supposed to be somewhere else, she shouldn't be here with him.
For a while, he was so engrossed he lost track of time. He was easily fit enough to go on for hours. And Fern had worked herself hard to gain what stamina she had. Plus, she learned fast. As soon as he got through her defenses, she changed tactics. He would change again, and she would learn again in seconds. It didn't get nearly as tiresome as he would have expected with someone at her level. And there really were few words exchanged. She learned almost entirely without verbal instruction. They spent more time laughing over some mishaps than they did talking. By the end of a couple of hours, they were both covered in bruises and sore spots. It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do it without padding. But he was controlled enough to ensure she felt it without actually hurting her. And, for her part, she wasn't really strong enough to do him any serious harm aside from his face; which she avoided entirely.
Finally, he had had enough. The awkward position of balancing and even dancing around on his knees for so long had his thighs cramping threateningly. He had been working one-handed all this time—clearly suffering for not having a shield on his left arm—and now used that free hand to attack her as she danced sideways. He slipped his hand right under her sword arm and grabbed her by the shirt, pulling her to him. Reflexively, she dropped the sword before she bashed him in the face with it. Both of them were breathing heavily by this point and laughing at the unexpected move.
"You're fast, little one," he told her, pulling her into his lap.
"Not fast enough, obviously," she replied, wriggling around until she was seated comfortably in his lap.
For a few minutes, they just sat there catching their breath. She leaned into him, as if needing his support. He gladly held on to her, vague memories of similar moments with his own parents drifting through his mind. He wondered, too, how much of it was wishful thinking and how much of it might have been real. Despite the throbbing spots all over his body, he was reluctant to move her even just to get some water.
As if reading his mind, she suddenly scrambled up and retrieved his backpack. She tossed it to him neatly before coming to sit beside him. Gratefully, he dug out a water skin and a light healing potion. The water skin he handed to her, first. Figuring he'd use the water to wash out the vile taste of the healing potion, he downed half of the bottle. Feeling the warmth concentrating to heat in places he didn't even realize were bruised, he laughed softly. Either he was out of practice with swords, or she was better than he thought. Thankfully Fern accepted the other half of the bottle without argument as she handed over the water skin. He nearly laughed again at the face she made.
"Blech," she said, reaching for the water skin again.
A roll of thunder somewhere in the distance made him look up. Until now, he hadn't noticed how dark it had gotten. Now that he realized it, it actually looked more like early evening than mid-afternoon. As Fern handed the water skin back, a thought struck him. For so many, many years, rain was something he avoided or even hated. He could almost, very vaguely recall staring for hours at the falling raindrops beyond a window. But that was so long ago he couldn't even be sure that memory was real. When living on his own, traveling around Sanctuary, rain was a nuisance at best. And flash flooding had nearly killed him once. A couple of times, he'd used it as part of his cleansing rituals. But that's not what he wanted to think about right now.
Here in the safety of the monastery, an entirely different idea struck him. Everywhere he'd ever been, children seemed to love playing in the rain and puddles. Quickly he moved over to his side satchel and other stuff and shoved them all safely into his backpack.
"Have you ever just played in the rain for the fun of it?" he asked Fern as she rose to her feet to follow.
"Play in the rain? Like a child?" she asked dubiously.
He nearly laughed at her expression. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow at her.
"There are tribes in the east that worship the rain. They don't just come out to play in it; they revel in it. But, sure, if you want to think of it as childish..."
"You're serious?" she asked, unable to completely mask her rising hopes.
He grinned at her mischievously.
"I love the rain. It reminds me of home. But Esmund used to get so mad at me for muddy clothes," she told him sadly.
For one heartbeat, he almost wished he hadn't asked. Clearly, she was still homesick and missed her brother. Despite the feeling that a lifetime had passed for him since Stormpoint, it had only been a very short while for her. He hated reminding her of that this way. But he'd already made up his mind. He slung his backpack over one shoulder. As the first fat, heavy drops hit his head, he scooped her up. He tossed her through the air to help her dispel that heart-wrenching sorrow he'd heard. As he had hoped, she gave him a squeal of surprise as he caught her in mid-air. Then he pulled her in close.
"Then I guess Esmund will just have to be mad at both of us," he told her, hugging her closely.
Fern giggled more like the child he had expected and kissed him on the cheek. Then she wriggled to be let down.
"Come on. I know where some of the best puddles are," she told him as the rain began in earnest. "Let's go."
He took her hand and followed her. For one moment, he even considered taking his boots off as he had wanted to earlier. Before he could decide, though, she'd guided him around behind the buildings to a disused courtyard that looked almost completely abandoned. The brickwork here was so heavily mortared it seemed nothing really grew in the cracks. Just as she promised, there were already large puddles forming in the depressions. She ran up to one and spun around, kicking a wave of water at him. A few seconds later, she was squealing as he chased her around the puddles sending much larger waves that sometimes even went right over her head. He always gave her a chance to retaliate but made sure she paid for stopping.
Already tired from the earlier swordplay, the puddle play didn't last very long. But Pyresong cherished every second of it. When he sensed she was slowing down, he scooped her up again. They took shelter under a covered walkway to drip dry a bit before taking their mess indoors. She sat comfortably in his lap again while they caught their breath. After a few contented minutes, he sighed happily, surprised by the wide-ranging events of the day.
"Are you happy here, Fern?" he couldn't help asking.
"Yes," she answered promptly.
He squeezed her gently. "Good. You know, if that ever changes, you can tell me, right? My offer still stands. Even when I'm not here. Just tell Akara or Kashya. Anywhere in the world."
"I told you. I know my path, and I'm not afraid of it," she told him. "I'm not just here because you need me to be here."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Fern giggled again. "Never mind. I'm good here. And that's not likely to change."
"As long as you know."
She nodded and leaned into him. They were still sitting like that when Kashya found them a few minutes later. He grinned up at her foolishly as she eyed the two of them. Very likely, he was as much of a muddy mess as Fern was. Kashya put her hands on her hips and cocked an eyebrow at him.
"She started it," he said, pointing to Fern in his lap.
"No, I didn't!" Fern shot back, scrambling to her feet.
She bowed respectfully to Kashya, her official Commander. "I need to speak with you a moment, Commander."
Surprised, Kashya nodded, motioning her away. In the heavy rain even Pyresong's acute hearing would not hear their whispers a few feet away. Kashya bent down to listen.
"I know your secret. You can't tell him right now. It must wait."
Kashya nearly shot up straight in shock, eyeing Fern. There was only one other in this whole monastery that knew her secret. And that same person knew she planned to tell him yesterday, and it hadn't worked out.
"What do you know?" she finally asked, still whispering.
Fern motioned for her to lean down again. Reluctantly, she did so.
"I know you don't trust me. I'm just a child. But if you don't believe me, ask Priestess Akara. Tell her I said it, if you must. Please, just wait until you've spoken with her. I can explain another time."
Slowly Kashya stood back up. A chill had crawled up her spine when Fern had spoken. But there was something else, too. She was as devout as any Sister, maybe more so because of her closeness with Akara and those experiences they had shared. But something was happening here that she somehow sensed would have repercussions for years to come. Somehow she knew without a doubt the Great Eye was involved. And that she would not question. Her eyes flickered to Pyresong, standing respectfully a few feet away. His white brows furrowed with concern when he saw Kashya's expression. She waved him off and turned to Fern.
"I will take your advice," she told Fern in her Commander's voice. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention."
Fern smiled and bowed again. She ran back to Pyresong for another hug before disappearing around the corner.
"What was that about?" he asked, clearly concerned.
"Something...private," Kashya told him, quickly putting aside her shock. "Girl stuff."
He couldn't help huffing a short laugh at that. His relief was obvious. And she knew that was a subject he wasn't about to touch. Still, he had noted how pale Kashya had been for a moment. He hoped for both their sakes it wasn't anything serious. He took her face in his still-wet hands and kissed her; no embrace this time.
"Playing in puddles?" she asked afterward, clearly amused.
He laughed. "What? You never did that when you were a kid?"
"I'm just surprised you ever did," she said, taking his hand to lead him to her room to get changed.
"I didn't," he confessed.
"Next time, invite me," she told him. "I was an expert puddle jumper, much to Akara's frustration."
He laughed again. Gods, it felt good to laugh! Whatever he was walking into next, he would carry this day with him. Even just yesterday, the idea of ever laughing joyfully again had seemed impossible. Yes, days like this were exactlywhy he would keep fighting, to whatever end.
Kashya led him back to her cell. He was still dripping slightly and mentally grimacing at the mess. Of course, she wasn't about to let him off easy. She decided to use methods other than a towel or fire to warm and dry his cold, wet skin.
He enjoyed every second of it.
Afterward, Kashya confessed she was starving and had no intention of waiting another couple of hours until supper. Once food was mentioned, Pyresong realized he hadn't had dinner or breakfast that day. Prior to that...he couldn't even remember. It had probably been at least a couple of days at this point. He followed her to the kitchens, where the cooks were already making headway on the dishes for the night. Kashya swiped a couple of plates, and they got out of the way. “Commander's privilege,” she claimed, much to his amusement.
It didn't take long to realize Kashya wasn't exaggerating about being starving. She wolfed down her heavily laden plate as if she was the one that hadn't eaten in days. He couldn't help teasing her lightly when she offered to finish off his as well. Since he started it, she decided to finish it with one concise parry. She shot back about how skinny he was and what those bony hips felt like at times. Feeling his face flush, he shoved the plate over to her conceding her victory on that round.
Having had a fair amount of exercise today, he was more than willing to remain in the quiet of Kashya's room for the night. He considered picking up where he had left off with some of their conversation from that morning. But when he glanced to her, hesitantly, he couldn't help noticing Kashya was distant and quiet now. Obviously something was on her mind.
"Is something wrong?" he finally asked.
"Hm?" she said, coming back from her thoughts. "Oh, sorry. I'm just tired."
"No luck hunting that thing?" he asked, taking a guess at where her mind had been wandering.
Kashya shook her head. "No, but never mind that."
"I've got a couple of days while I'm waiting on Captain Rehm to be back in port. Do you want to get away from here for a bit?"
"The other monastery?" she queried, now that she was paying attention.
"Actually, I was thinking the Shassar Sea might be a good holiday destination."
"You are insane," she told him with a smack on the arm.
"What's not to like? Warm sands, plenty of sunshine..."
"Bugs the size of small animals with lethal stingers..."
He couldn't help laughing. "Okay, so maybe it has some downsides. But, really, do you want to get away for a while?"
Kashya sighed and pulled him down onto the bed and then draped herself along one side. As was her habit, she laid her head on his chest.
"Nope. I'm fine right here. Like I said, I'm just tired. Stay with me."
"As if I could refuse."
"Right where I want you."
Still clinging to the sense of contentment and hope he had found today, he stroked her hair as she fell asleep quickly. Knowing the nightmares that awaited him, he struggled to stay awake a bit longer. Clearly, he'd deprived her of sleep the previous night. He had no intention of doing so again. Still, he was tired as well, just not exhausted. As the sky beyond the window turned black, he let himself doze off.
This time, there were no nightmares waiting for him.
***
Unexpectedly, Kashya fled the room almost as soon as he woke. He had the feeling she had been stirring well before him; which was unusual in itself. He typically woke well before her and used that time to think or just enjoy her warm presence. When she returned a short while later, she looked at the very least irritated. Not knowing what to make of this, Pyresong let himself be shooed out, agreeing to come back in a day or two before he left. Realizing she'd been snappish, Kashya's expression relaxed, and she held him tightly for a minute.
"It's not you, I promise," she told him. "I have...other responsibilities I've been neglecting. Now, go. Before I change my mind and have you take me across the world."
Relieved he hadn't done something to upset her, he kissed her tenderly and then opened a portal to the waypoint just west of the Sanctified Earth Monastery. He knew Rehm wouldn't likely be back in port until tomorrow at the earliest, but he had every intention of checking this evening, just in case. Likely Charsi didn't already have anything matching the sword he'd asked for ready. Knowing Charsi, it would be something special. And, of course, he would have to check in with Karshun. He would have to go back to the bustling city at some point today. At the moment, though, he just wanted to be alone.
He made his way right to Oza's Overlook. The events of the previous day still clung to him, filling him with love and hope. Yet, he felt the need to process everything, too. There were still many dark thoughts crawling around the back of his mind. He had overcome his terror and hopelessness for the time being. But he hadn't really sorted through all of it. For Kashya's sake as well as Karshun's, he'd just put it away for a while. And he knew he would have more time to deal with it while on the ship to Arreat Crater. And there were some things he didn't want to take with him.
For a few hours, he meditated, digging deep. It was far from the first time he'd confronted his fears and nightmares. Some of what he'd experienced still filled him with dread. At least at the moment, he could control it. And he knew his anger could combat it. But there was one fear he could not so easily address or resolve. He felt the need to warn Oza. He wasn't sure why this was such a powerful urge, but he listened to it. He'd learned to trust his instincts over the decades; they had done far more than just keep him alive.
While still deep in his meditations, he sought out that icy source of power he'd finally come to recognize consciously. Now that he knew where to find it and how, he could experiment more thoroughly. It took a few tries, but he was finally able to grasp that painfully cold feeling and follow it. It triggered something that had the feeling of tugging in his chest he vaguely recalled from when Akara had told him to go. When he opened his spectral eyes, he was relieved to realize he was standing right beside the blue glow of his body. For a few seconds, he looked around, half-expecting Oza to be there waiting for him. When she didn't appear after a few minutes, he called out.
"Oza!"
The sensation of something warm behind him came at the exact same moment he felt something hit the back of his head gently.
"You don't listen!"
Pyresong couldn't help laughing as he wrapped her in a tight embrace.
"I did listen. I'm not dead. I came here intentionally this time."
He pointed to the blue glow on the ground beside him. She eyed it speculatively.
"Are you just experimenting, then?"
"Partially. I also came to warn you."
"Warn me? About what?" she asked in surprise.
He sighed. "I failed to stop the Bride of Hell from using the shard to reform Diablo. He's back, and...I don't know what he can do. But I've...caught his interest."
"What?"
He couldn't help wincing at her shock. "I know. I don't like it, either. But he had ample opportunity to kill me multiple times. Instead, he offered me a place at his side. And then just...tormented me."
Oza eyed him sadly for a minute, finally understanding why he'd really come to her. Then she laid a hand on his chest.
"I stand by what I said. If evil enters your heart, you will know it, and you will fight it. He has no power over you, my love."
With that simple sentence, she brought to light the core of his fear and why he so desperately wanted to see her. With her, he could confront what he dared not confess even to himself. He had been certain Diablo had seen something in him, some potential. He already knew it hadn't been some desperate tactic meant for survival alone. The Prime Evil had no need of such a thing.
And, of course, the simplicity of Oza's statement made him feel foolish all over again for such fears. He barked a laugh, half in relief. She reached up on her toes and kissed his forehead with a smile.
"You have a real talent for making me feel foolish, love," he told her, still grinning.
"I know. And you have not stopped questioning yourself. So you didn't even need me to say it."
"My other, very real concern is you. I don't know what Diablo is capable of. But having his attention means you could be a target."
"To my knowledge, they cannot reach this place. It is somehow protected from them. But, I will keep that in mind."
"Please, don't take this lightly," he begged.
"I'm not. But, right now, nothing has threatened me, and you have better things to do."
"What do you mean?"
"As fun as this visit has been, time moves differently. This few minutes to us may be days on the other side. Better not to take the risk."
He couldn't help smiling. She knew how much he wanted to stay, most especially with her. But he knew she was right. An entire day might have gone by already, and he wouldn't know it. Besides, he'd left his body unprotected. It probably wasn't the smartest move given everything going on. He hugged her fiercely again. Then she stepped back and faded into a golden orb and shot off away from him. He reached for his body, willing himself back into it.
When he opened his eyes, it was still only midday. Given he wasn't exactly starving, he was fairly certain no more than a few hours had passed since he had started meditating, even. Hopefully, with this new control, he could find a way to measure time between the two more accurately. Pulling himself more fully out of his meditations, he was able to sigh in real relief. Leave it to Oza to expose what he had not even been willing to analyze too deeply for himself.
He had been nearly sick with fear at the idea Diablo's invitation hadn't been simple self-preservation like so many other demons; but more of an indication of some kind of hold the demon already had on his damaged soul. After all, the shards had left something inside of him that so deeply connected him to the one Diablo now had that it even treated him as one of the cultists in some ways. Worse, the wave of corruption from the Prime Evil had touched him before Tyrael helped him escape...and something inside of him had felt welcoming, familiar.
He shuddered and put that thought away. It was obviously a baseless fear. Oza would not have lied to him, even by omission. If she had seen something, she would have warned him.
Aside from the obvious connection to the shards, he still felt tainted somehow. It was something he absolutely could not shake off entirely. At one point, the idea of using that connection against Diablo flickered through his mind. That made him quake with terror all over again. He shied away from it quickly and thoroughly. He couldn't even find whatever was inside of him that connected him to the shards. What hope did he have of controlling it enough to spy on a Prime Evil without being caught and punished for it? No, he would not even entertain that thought.
It was well past time he got moving. But there was one more thing he could do.
Tyrael?
Again, he felt a sort of unfolding inside of him. This time, his vision didn't so much as flash, as warm for a moment. It was a bizarre feeling behind his eyes that he couldn't really describe or make sense of. But it was definitely stronger than previously. Part of him wondered if it was just a sign of Tyrael's growing strength. He hoped so. Feeling the angel was listening, he pushed on.
Do you have any idea how we can find El'druin?
"As we draw closer to the sword, I will feel it more keenly. You will have to get close enough for me to sense a direction. But your friend is right; we should start near Arreat Crater."
Thank you. I will try not to bother you again until we are there. Rest well.
"You are no bother. I simply give you the privacy you need while I recover. You mortals are...interesting in that way."
Are all angels somehow connected through the Light? he couldn't help asking.
Tyrael was quiet for a long time. Pyresong almost took back the question.
"We feel...many things. We are not so different from humans, though most of my brethren would disagree. But we are able to feel each other more keenly in proximity. There are few secrets among us when we are near each other."
Pyresong was silent, thinking about this. He knew his every thought would likely be read by Tyrael, and he only felt a small amount of shame at the idea. But, he was very much mortal.
"There is no shame in being mortal. I believe it is your mortality that gives you a kind of strength we immortals will never truly understand. Some of the bravest warriors I've ever known were mortals."
He got the feeling Tyrael was looking for something again. A stray thought flickered through his mind and was gone again before he could grasp it.
"I know what happened to Verathiel. I know how she affected your decision, and the outcome. Keep in mind, she would do it again if given the choice again. She and I were...close in our appreciation for humans. Your choices were not wrong, and you did not fail her."
Pyresong still winced and flinched physically at her name. It still stung. Yes, he'd moved beyond that anguish, but it still hurt. He knew Tyrael's words were meant to be comforting. Yet it still felt like a spiked lash across his heart.
Thank you, he finally said lamely.
He got the sense of Tyrael receding again. He was alone.
That thought hung in his mind, silencing everything else for a while. He realized, there was some part of him that came to understand and truly accept that even without Tyrael's presence in his soul, he wasn't really alone anymore. Cain, his dear friend, was out there, somewhere; still fighting in his own way. Karshun, Akara, Kashya, Fern, Oza... In a way, they were with him always. He still felt some shame for the many fears he let nearly cripple him recently. But, as Cain had said, he always overcame them. What he realized now, was that he never did so alone. And he would never have to.
Finally, the crippling loneliness that had haunted him his whole life was laid to rest for good. Whatever he faced in the future, he would not be alone ever again. He took some time to fully appreciate that thought, and let it sink in.
Feeling the daylight slipping away, he donned the itchy, heavy brown robes reluctantly, and made his way back to Westmarch. This time, he started at the Palace Courtyard waypoint and made his way south to Rakkis Plaza. He began with the apothecary. He was pretty well stocked up on healing potions, despite recent events. But he was definitely wanting more of those painfully expensive stamina potions. He bought three. Leaving a very happy merchant behind, he considered what else he would need.
At a guess, the ship voyage would be at least a few weeks. Depending on the weather, possibly as much as a couple of months. From what he recalled of his talks with Captain Rehm, few ships sailed as far north as Entsteig on a regular basis. Most of the ships to and from Westmarch headed south or east. No one would go as far north as Arreat anymore. There were too many dangerous things that still lurked up there. Pyresong had no desire to put the captain or his crew in more danger than they had already faced, but he was becoming desperate.
He had essentially been banned from Entsteig and the Sharval Wilds a long time ago. People there followed the Zakarum faith, but even with all their pagan beliefs mixed in, the ones he had encountered could not tolerate a necromancer in any capacity. They were supposedly bad luck, among other things. After being chased out of a handful of villages quite thoroughly, he'd never attempted to go back. And, being as out of touch with the other Priests of Rathma as he was, he'd never really bothered to ask if anyone else knew the territory. It just never seemed important. Now it meant he could not cross that country overland; at least not easily or legally.
Realistically, it would take too much time, anyway, going overland. His best hope was a ship. But, if he couldn't convince Rehm to take him to or even past Arreat Crater, his only other real option was to start at the Frozen Tundra and work his way overland from there. He might be able to get there from Sentinel's Watch working west, but the rough terrain of the mountains would take almost as long as traveling by boat anyway. Maybe longer.
He was still running through an inventory of whatever else he might need and assuming he would not have a chance to acquire more once he'd left Westmarch when he knocked on the workshop door. Again, Karshun answered almost immediately. At least the mage looked like he'd had some sleep since the last time he saw him. Again, Pyresong quickly used the excuse of being in here to shed the awful robes. He was thankful for Akara's insight, but he almost wished he'd had time to have something more comfortable made. At least after the next few days, he could leave them behind for a good, long while...he hoped.
Karshun was already pouring some tea by the time he joined the mage by the fire. He wondered if this was some sort of habit he'd picked up from Cain. Pyresong couldn't help feeling amused with himself as he realized the comfort of tea in this place had become something of an expected ritual even without Cain present. There was something inherently safe and calming about this little workshop.
"Have you learned anything?" Karshun asked impatiently. "Any luck finding a ship?"
"Tyrael needs me to get close to where El'druin might be so that he can pinpoint it. As for a ship, I'm still waiting on Captain Rehm. Anything on your end?"
"Actually, yes," Karshun replied, almost smugly. "It's in the southern part of the Dreadlands. It must have been flung from the mountain. Ideally, there will be witnesses in that area."
"That is good news. Do you have a path in mind?"
"Yes, and you won't be needing a ship. How well do you recall the waypoints in the Frozen Tundra?"
He frowned, thinking furiously. There was one for certain he knew of in Bitter Hearth. He vaguely recalled one in what was now called the Plains of Blood that had once been the heart of the Barbarian tribes' city just outside Sescheron. He didn't think he could recall that area well enough to attempt it. And he had no desire to find out what happened when a portal failed to connect to its intended destination. Besides, that whole area had been overrun with frost horror demons.
"I know of one, but it would likely take me at least a day to cross the tundra. Where is this path to the Dreadlands?"
"There is a dock just south of Sescheron. I don't know if it's still in use, but it's there."
"The Plains of Blood, they call it now. I know what you're talking about. And, no, there's no chance I could get a ship from there across to the Dreadlands. Nobody from the Dreadlands or the Barbarian tribes wants to get that close to Sescheron. I'd still need a ship to get there. That's if I can convince Captain Rehm to sail past Arreat."
Karshun blew out a sigh of frustration. "Maybe it would be easier to start in the east, then."
"I've considered that, too. It could take months to cross the mountains, even if I started on Mount Zavain. At best, I could start..."
His words trailed off as he realized he might just have an alternative. And one that would likely not hurt his cache nearly as much. He froze with the teacup halfway to his lips as he ran through the idea. It had said...
"What are you thinking?" Karshun prompted, again impatient.
He took a sip of his tea and then set his cup down slowly, just to irritate the mage. But he kept the mischievous expression off his face.
"Truthfully, I just need one waypoint I can memorize, and then I can go back and forth. But getting to that one waypoint is the hard part. I have one other possibility. And I can't promise, but I'll try."
"Will you please get to the point?" Karshun snapped, clearly not in the mood to be toyed with.
"The Curator in Zoltun Kulle's library told me it could transport me anywhere in the world. It got me within walking distance of Namari's Temple on Bilefen, and no waypoint needed."
Karshun, looking hopeful for the first time, sat back as he considered. "It would certainly save a lot of time. When can you get there to find out?"
"I can go today and then return to let you know."
Karshun practically launched himself from the rocking chair excitedly and pulled a map off the desk. He had already circled the area where he believed the sword to be. Pyresong eyed it closely. It was a dishearteningly huge area. And, as with most everything within several days in every direction of Arreat Crater, it had changed massively in the years since the maps were made. He wasn't sure there were any communities even still in existence in that area. Even if there weren't any communities that might indicate a waypoint, he would need to locate camps of survivors to see if anyone knew of the sword in the area.
"Did you find any villages or towns in that area while you were hunting?"
"Yes, Staalbreak, they call it. Right around here," Karshun pointed to a spot on the map.
Pyresong took the map over to the desk and marked that area. He wasn't sure what the Curator could or could not see or if it would even matter. But better than having to hop back and forth to ask later. Quickly he rolled up the map and set it aside as he reached for his robes. Karshun waved him off.
"You can use the room upstairs. I've removed the shielding up there for the time being."
"Why?"
"Unnecessary waste of resources. If they manage to get in up there and make their way down here, I've got better surprises waiting while I sleep," he finished with a wicked grin.
"Glad I haven't tried it, then," he replied with a grin. "Thank you."
He really was grateful. The less he was seen, even in robes, coming in and out of this workshop, the better. As far as he knew, Charsi didn't even come around anymore. Neither did Akara or some of the others who had regularly visited Cain. Karshun typically went about his business unbothered by the isolation, it seemed. In the small room upstairs, there was just enough space for a narrow portal. He quickly stepped through into the Private Archives of the Library. As expected, the Curator materialized within a few seconds to challenge him.
"Oh, it's you again," the Curator drawled with exaggerated disappointment.
"Don't pretend you didn't miss me," he tossed back.
For one second, he considered just how entertaining it would be to watch the Curator and Karshun trading barbs someday. But now was certainly not the time for it.
"Well, I suppose I could tolerate you for a few more minutes. I assume your friends got the scrolls."
"They did, and apparently, they were of greater help than even I imagined. One is already off chasing information from them. Thank you."
"You're welcome. So what is it this time? Looking for a way to stop Diablo himself now that he's back?"
"Do you have some sort of divinational tools that you use to scry events?" he couldn't help asking.
"Many. Why?"
"You're not far off the mark. I'm hunting Archangel Tyrael's sword, El'druin, somewhere in the southern portion of the Dreadlands."
He unrolled the map and laid it out on the floor. He squatted down near it, pointing to the areas he was discussing.
"We know it's somewhere in this area, and I have a way I can detect it once we get closer. My friend, Karshun, thinks there might be a community where there may be witnesses or at least somebody that knows something right here on this spot."
The Curator's eyeless orbs flashed through a few colors as it appeared to be thinking. "Most of the area in and around Arreat Crater are mangled through all spectrums. Everything is distorted at best. Something is still interfering with almost all divinational tools in that area. I doubt I would be able to narrow it down any further than what your friend has accomplished. My compliments to him for that much."
"Could you possibly get me as far as Staalbreak the way you did Bilefen?"
"Certainly."
Relieved by this news, he rolled up the map quickly. "Then that leaves just one question: How much do I owe you?" he asked with a teasing grin.
The Curator's laugh rang through the room. "Unless you intend to chronicle all your experiences and knowledge to add to this collection, there is little you can offer of value."
Unlike Cain's requests, this one actually held some appeal. For one thing, it wouldn't involve him looking like some kind of hero that he wasn't. Nor would it be biased with his own thoughts on the subjects. And another point, if he didn't survive to tell the tale, somebody might one day use the knowledge of the shards and other things to continue the fight. Most importantly in all of this, he wouldn't have to write it all himself. He'd already given the Curator a detailed account of everything up to the point they began hunting for prophecies regarding the End of Days. He could easily stop by here again another time to update the Curator.
"I've told you enough to get started, I believe. Can you write it all down?"
"Easily."
"My problem is a matter of time,” he explained, running it all through his mind and feeling more certain with each thought. “I just don't have it to spend on such an endeavor. If you haven't already recorded them somewhere, you're welcome to do so with my blessing. And I will be happy to return to add anything you may need. However, I just have two requests."
"The great hero needs his legend," the Curator drawled.
"Absolutely not. I would like my name left out of it entirely, for one."
The Curator was clearly taken aback by this, eyeing him like a madman for a moment. Pyresong grinned internally. Yep, he was definitely getting used to being eyed as a madman. He carefully kept the amusement out of his expression, though, as he cocked and eyebrow, expectantly. Slowly the Curator began to realize the truth.
"You actually mean that, don't you?"
"Yes. Otherwise, the deal is off the table, and I'll have to spend weeks on a ship. Which does not appeal to me in the slightest."
"Then why would you bother with recording it at all?"
"Because..." he sighed, struggling for something that didn't sound quite as selfish as he was feeling at the moment. "Because, maybe someday someone else will find this library and find the information useful. Which leads to my second request. There is one person I would like to know received a copy. Deckard Cain. Again, without my name."
"Interesting," the Curator mused. "Your Horadric friend but not the rest of the world."
He couldn't help laughing softly. "Hard as you find that to believe, yes. I have no desire for a legend or legacy or anything else. I'm just another mortal, one that has made some massive mistakes. All I'm doing is trying to keep the Balance and rectify those mistakes. So, do you agree to the terms, or am I chartering a ship?"
"It is a simple enough request. I agree."
"Thank you. I will need the day to prepare. I can return in the morning. Besides, it's not as if I have to worry about waking you up."
"At least I don't suffer from night terrors," the Curator shot back.
He winced visibly, recalling one particular incident here in the Library when he'd allowed himself to sleep too deeply. Still, he couldn't help grinning at the shot.
"That was a low blow, my friend."
The Curator's return smile was wicked and entirely unrepentant. It disappeared in a haze with another laugh as Pyresong shook his head. Having spent weeks living in the room above Cain's workshop, he had no problem recalling every inch of that room. As with before, he struggled but was able to force open a portal. He made a mental note to ask the Curator if it knew why when he returned. But, for now, it was time to get ready to leave in earnest. He likely had more than enough basic supplies since he wouldn't be taking a ship, but he wanted to at least have enough time to see Kashya before he left.
"Any luck?" Karshun called up the stairs, likely having sensed the energies of the return portal.
"Yes. The Curator can get me to Staalbreak. That will be a good enough place to start. I leave in the morning," he explained, coming down the stairs.
Karshun nodded. For a moment it looked like he wanted to say something, then he turned away with a sigh.
"What? No last-minute advice? No touching goodbye?" he couldn't help teasing.
Karshun snorted. "I wish I could accompany you. Yet...something has told me time and again there are some things you have to do alone."
Pyresong understood, including all the things Karshun wasn't saying. "I'm not alone, and that makes all the difference. But, I agree, you belong here in case the worst happens. As I once told Cain, someone has to keep going."
"You say that so easily. It's almost infuriating."
"The part where I know I'm going to die, or the part where you know I'm right?" he couldn't help asking with another wicked grin to prod his friend.
Karshun flashed him an irritated look. "Both." Then he sighed heavily. "Remember, if there's anything Diablo fears, it is that sword. Be safe, if you can. But be victorious no matter what."
"That's more like the Karshun I know and love," he teased, earning another cold glare. "Take care of yourself, Karshun."
Karshun waved him off as he grabbed the robe off a nearby chair and headed back up the stairs.
He quickly stepped through a portal back to the monastery on Mount Zavain. It was time to finish packing. Once he was sure he had everything he could possibly need, he stopped to have a late dinner. He decided to settle on the overlook again while he ate. Despite being ready to leave, his mind kept spinning itself back around to lists and plans and other things. It didn't take him long to realize why. As per usual, he was avoiding something else.
His mind wandered to Kashya. He had every intention of spending some time with her before he left tomorrow; especially since he might be gone weeks or even months hunting for El'druin. But the incident this morning concerned him. As he allowed his mind to settle more firmly on that chain of thought, he gave up pretending to eat and just eyed the beautiful vistas in the distance.
He still wondered about her irritation and unusual behavior this morning. He almost reconsidered his plan to go to Dark Wood later when he recalled what she'd said about neglecting some of her duties. When this all began with her, he hadn't expected more than a rare day here and there spent with her. He'd seen a lot of her lately. His gut twisted slightly at the idea maybe she'd seen too much of him lately. His feelings for her were stronger than ever, and he looked forward to every second he got to spend with her. Maybe she didn't feel the same. Perhaps she had had some expectation of it being more like a tryst. Ultimately, all he could do was ask her outright. That didn't appeal to him much, either; at least, not tonight.
Frustrated with his thoughts chasing themselves around his head, he gave up. He trusted she was an outspoken and straightforward person. If she had something to say, she would say it. He had to trust in that if nothing else. For now, though, he would wait until he was fairly certain she would at least be off-duty and back at the monastery to visit. Sitting around here, even on the overlook, wasn't all that appealing, either. So he decided to go visit the Dark Wood. Unless someone told him where she was patrolling, he wasn't likely to encounter her. Besides, the Dark Wood really was a beautiful and serene landscape now that the curse had been lifted.
Having what he needed in his backpack—he still hadn't found its limits—he dug out his belt and his scythe just to be on the safe side. That reminded him about the short sword he had asked Charsi for. Considering how many hooks he had, he was fairly certain there would be plenty of room for a small sword. At least he wouldn't have to give her more work. He wondered what she was designing. He was likely to be gone for quite some time. Hopefully, she would drop it off with Karshun, and he could collect it later.
Needing some peaceful quiet both inside and out, he stepped off the waypoint at the former battle camp. The smell of fresh growth and spring sunshine quickly calmed his swirling thoughts.
As expected, it wasn't long before one of the Sisters caught sight of him. He explained he was just out for a walk but did learn that Kashya hadn't actually gone out on patrol or hunting that day. According to a rumor, she wasn't feeling well. But no one seemed concerned. He quickly accepted it and stuffed his earlier concerns into a corner for now. Anyone could have a bad day or just need a break. He'd put her through a lot in the last couple of days. And, of course, Akara was a phenomenal healer. If anything were seriously wrong, Akara would know what to do.
He continued his walk for a while longer, just enjoying the beauty of the day. Realizing he was actually drawing near to the Tree of Inifuss, curiosity got the better of him. He hadn't gone anywhere near that tree since before he'd gone after the Countess. At the time, it had taken Hemlir's life and soul; he had been angry. Even then, some part of him knew it wasn't an unwilling sacrifice. Hemlir had given himself willingly to provide the great tree what it needed to help cleanse the Dark Wood. And, by the looks of things, it had been a well-kept bargain. Still, he missed the Druid. The man's jovial personality was sorely missed.
Approaching the waypoint that sat on a cliff above the tree, Pyresong realized he had nearly forgotten this waypoint entirely. He wondered briefly if he just didn't want to remember after what had happened. A few seconds later, he regretted that he had not bothered to come back this way much sooner. When the gnarled branches came into view, he almost couldn't believe what he was seeing. The tree wasn't exactly alive. It had been dead for centuries, as far as he knew. But now it radiated something that tugged at his soul. The dead tree seemed somehow out of focus. Feeling as if he was looking at it in some way that wasn't quite right, he reflexively switched to his magical sight, trying to figure it out.
Immediately he froze in his tracks, unable to comprehend at first what he was seeing. He was all but overcome with a sense of awed wonder. He almost couldn't believe what his magical sight was telling him. In the normal visual spectrum, it was still very much dead; the trunk hardened almost into stone. To his magical vision, it was alive and thriving.
There were thousands more branches. And every single one of them had leaves. Most of the branches only went up a few inches and then looped downward. It was a giant willow of some kind, and the leaves drifted lazily in the breeze he could feel with his own skin. It also radiated an inviting peace in a way he'd never felt before.
Still awed by the sight, he made his way around the waypoint and down the path. He couldn't help staring at the seemingly living trunk and its dark bark. The bark that had consumed Hemlir's face was now covering the entire trunk to his magical vision. The tree also pulsed with life and vibrancy...just as Hemlir himself once had. He had never actually touched Hemlir's soul, but now he felt like he was. Inifuss had accepted the Druid's willing sacrifice to cleanse the forest. And now it didn't feel like so much of a sacrifice. It felt more like Hemlir had just taken on a form that was more comfortable to him; almost like a reincarnation.
For several minutes, he just stood amid the lazily waving branches, touching the living tree and soaking in its energy. In a way, it felt like the Great Cycle incarnate. Death had fed the tree, but it gave Life also. And, to him it was beautiful and complete in a way he couldn't even really describe, but felt so very right to him in this moment. The faint glow of so much raw energy and Life was soothing. Basking in the sense of completion here, he turned to sit between a fork in the roots. From that vantage point, he could see the energy that flowed in the roots under the surface, extending in every direction. They extended so far he couldn't even see an end to them. Inifuss was somehow the living heart of the Dark Wood.
He was still sitting there, soaking in the feeling of it all, when Kashya found him a while later. She wandered down the path from the waypoint above him. He rose to his feet almost reluctantly as she approached. But he knew he could come back any time. Besides, Kashya was his main reason for being here.
"I wish you could see it," he told her, his voice filled with wonder. "Inifuss is alive."
Kashya cocked her head, looking curious.
At least she's more curious than concerned about my sanity, he thought with some amusement.
"I see it in the magical spectrum," he explained; having already told her what had happened to his eyes some time ago. "I don't even know why I came this way. I haven't been here since Hemlir appealed to Inifuss to help cleanse this place. And it worked. But...it's more than that. The tree looks dead, but its living energy extends through the whole forest. It's a willow. I can see all the new spring growth."
"Whatever you're seeing, your eyes are glowing...literally," she teased warmly. "But I'll just have to take your word for it."
He laughed as he embraced her tightly. "Emily said you weren't feeling well. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. They just can't seem to live without their Commander for more than a day," she told him, dismissing his concerns.
"I leave for the Dreadlands in the morning. I may be gone for a long time. Can they live without you for a few hours tonight, at least?" he wasn't quite ready to beg but was more than a little hesitant to even ask.
"As long as you get me back here before we fall asleep. I do not want another morning like today," she replied.
She eyed him with more than a bit of curiosity; as if she had sensed his hesitance. He smiled as the tightening tension in his chest eased off.
"Fair enough," he agreed, instantly.
Now that he knew it wasn't his frequent presence that had irritated her, he was willing to put up with any boundaries she wanted to establish. Still feeling the lingering peaceful yet vibrant energies coming off the tree, he forced open a portal straight to the overlook. It seemed the best place for a quiet evening. It didn't take Kashya long to get cold, even in the bright light of the afternoon sun. Opting not to hang around to watch the sunset, they retreated to his room, where he could light a fire. Kashya had other ideas of how they could stay warm, and he certainly wasn't complaining.
Chapter 26: 25 Southern Dreadlands
Chapter Text
Southern Dreadlands
After sending Kashya through a portal back to the Outer Cloister, Pyresong dozed for a little bit, well aware of the time difference between here in the west and the distant lands to the east where the Library was hidden under the desert. He'd told the Curator morning, just not how late in the morning. Trying to work out the difference between Westmarch and the Dreadlands, he took a guess at it being at least a couple of hours difference. For him, there was no need to short himself on sleep. He slept until just before sunrise, as he usually would. By now, it was well into the morning in the Shassar Sea. Of course, being underground, it wasn't even noticeable in the Library. Besides, the Curator didn't sleep. And, with any luck, he would be arriving in the Dreadlands no more than a couple of hours after sunrise.
He made a quick stop in Westmarch for the one thing he hadn't been able to acquire at the various vendors. He wasn't disappointed. The old man at the clothier's shop he'd visited already had some ready. He was much relieved, considering recent events. And, for the rest of the order, he decided to just have them delivered to Karshun in Cain's workshop. He knew that despite the shortcut, he might still be gone for weeks or possibly even months.
His plan for the morning was coming together perfectly; until it didn't. He arrived at the library to find the Curator more than just a little irritated. It turned out the area near Staalbreak was far more warped than it had anticipated. Something was actively interfering with both divination and porting magics; as if trying to isolate that specific area for some reason. It was unable to establish a connection through the terminus in the immediate area near the small city.
"I have been able to establish a connection roughly three to five days south to southeast of Staalbreak," the Curator admitted with no small amount of frustration.
"Then that will have to do," he agreed, more than willing to take whatever he could get.
It would still shave weeks, possibly months, off the trip. And, at this point, he was feeling a sense of urgency pushing him like never before. He had absolutely no way of knowing if Diablo was aware of their plans to locate El'druin. If there was any chance that Diablo or his minions would try to beat him to it, he had to act quickly. At least, this was one time when his anxiety wasn't tied directly to a shard in use. Not that that was much of a comfort, either.
Not unlike his trip literally halfway across the world from the Shassar Sea to Bilefen, he was again broken into bits of energy and re-formed somewhere else. Despite the shorter distance traveled making the time as nothing but energy particles much shorter, it was no less unsettling. At least this time, he was prepared for it when his feet touched down on the rocky path. He stumbled but managed to keep his footing. The nausea took considerably longer to dissipate than he would have liked.
He looked around the unfamiliar landscape to realize he was on what looked like a well-established road in some foothills. Behind him, at least a day's walk or more should be the sea. Orienting himself despite the heavy cloud cover, he knew if Staalbreak was as large as the Curator indicated, there should be at least a few roads leading to it. Despite not knowing exactly where he was and having no good maps of this area since the damage to Arreat, he suspected the road he was on now would lead him right to his target. It was too soon to bother Tyrael.
The well-established road had been an unforeseen blessing. Periodically along it, he found ancient stone monoliths that pointed to various places at forks in the road. But, it was also further away from Staalbreak than Pyresong would have liked. Instead of the Curator's estimated three to five days, it was more like a week on foot, based on the markings on the stones. Following the road through the foothills and up into the mountains was a long and winding path. Sometimes they were outright switchbacks through the mountains. He spent most of his days jogging. It was something he could do for hours at a time, even at these elevations. But, just as often, he was walking at a steady pace he could literally keep up from sunrise to sunset. Much as with the area around Mount Zavain, he had to fall back on his breathing techniques as he climbed. Unlike Mount Zavain, it was at least warmer here. Of course, as he climbed, it would get colder; but he suspected nothing on the level of the Tundra. For that matter, this place got far more rain than he recalled around Mount Zavain as well. By the end of the third day, he was glad he had spent the extra money on canvas and poles he could easily put up to keep off the rain while he slept, at least.
Were it not for his sense of urgency driving him hard to keep his pace, it would have been a very pleasant week. He started every day just as the sky was turning blue and didn't stop until it was too treacherously dark to continue, even on the safe roads. Though the rain was almost daily, it was not constant. It would blow through in a couple of hours and then leave the sky a brilliant shade of blue. The water droplets sparkling in the sun seemed to only enhance the earthy beauty of this serene land. The land around him alternated from long rolling hills covered in bright green grasses to thickly forested mountainsides. Rarely did he encounter any unnatural animals. Even the worst predator he encountered was no more than a normal bear, easily frightened off by some stinging spirit fire.
It took him a week to get within sight of Staalbreak. As he walked up a ridge that one passing traveler had told him was the last before Staalbreak, he was warned away. Many caravans and lone travelers he had passed in recent days mentioned wild, magic storms in that valley that turned people and animals into monsters. Shardborn, they called them. Hoping to reach the valley at least before he would have to stop for the night, he pushed the last little bit uphill at a jog. At the top, where he could see the large valley sprawling out below him, he paused to catch his breath and get a better look.
Now he began to understand. In the misty distance off to his right, he could just make out the high walls of a settlement he assumed was Staalbreak. But what lay between this ridge and the city was unbelievable. He wondered how anyone could have survived the devastation, let alone the subsequent storms that ravaged the land.
What an utter ruin, he thought sadly.
Everywhere were partial stone walls and what had likely been grand manors and entire villages. So very many signs of human habitation nearly blasted clean off the mountain range. Everything had been flattened by the blast from nearby Arreat. And, what hadn't been flattened had simply been blown apart in pieces. For a minute, he just stood there, finding it hard to envision such devastation. He had seen less damage to the land after an army from Hell had walked through. Entire chunks of mountainside had been blasted or fallen away to reveal fresh rock underneath. His mind just couldn't encompass it all.
Unexpectedly, he felt Tyrael coming to the fore again; as if awakening. Being in a relatively safe place at the moment, he was content to let the angel look through his eyes. His mind had been so completely occupied by the devastation he was now seeing he almost hadn't even seen the movement of so many creatures ahead. When he turned his eyes on them, he began to realize that every form of animal here had been somehow twisted. Many of them sprouted dark, blood-red crystals or growths that resembled Worldstone shards. They didn't just resemble the shards in appearance, either. He was too far away to be certain how they felt, but his magical vision confirmed the same type of corrupted energies he had seen around other shards and even cultists. Very likely, whole chunks of the shattered Worldstone had been flung across this and many different areas, becoming a part of the land itself. The creatures ranged from what looked like rabbits or hares to larger ones like dire wolves or even bears; one possibly had been a deer. They roamed in packs as if hunting.
He hadn't spoken with Tyrael since before arriving in the Dreadlands. He had decided to let the angel rest and recover while he did the footwork. Now that they were closer, he had planned on getting to a safe place where he could be distracted without worrying about an attack before asking Tyrael if he could feel a direction. Having seen all this, he suspected it would be several hours before he would find another safe place to be distracted. Since Tyrael had saved him the trouble of calling on him, he just waited where he was.
Do you feel the sword? he asked after Tyrael had been silent for a few minutes.
"It is much closer now, yes." Tyrael's words were distant and distracted.
You are troubled? he asked hesitantly.
"Everything touched by the Worldstone has been...corrupted."
He got the sense of something both sorrowful and dark in there, though it was vague. He didn't presume he knew anything about an angel or how an angel thought and felt. But, what Tyrael had said was true. He could see it for himself. Despite the unimaginable physical devastation to the land and its peoples, there were dozens of what the locals called shardborn creatures in the valley below. Nothing had been spared. It was...disheartening. But, supposedly, people still survived here. Staalbreak was still inhabited. Hopefully, someone in the city had seen something.
"I can feel the weight on your soul. But El'druin is within a few days' walk. I know it."
He smiled sadly, appreciating Tyrael's compassion. This was far from the first time he'd encountered a devastated people or land. Within the last couple of months alone, he had witnessed the devastation in Wortham. Before that, Stormpoint. Much as he wanted to help in some meaningful way, sometimes things were just too broken for one man to fix. He would, of course, do all that he could to help. But his priority was still El'druin. If he could not recover that, in the long-term, nothing happening here would matter anyway.
And that thought terrified him enough to motivate him to put the rest of it away. He had to stay focused on the one thing he knew he could do. He pulled his shield off his back and unhooked his scythe. Unlike before, Tyrael seemed to still be alert and watching. Pyresong certainly didn't mind. It was already after midday, and after the sights he'd just seen, he had no appetite for dinner. He reinforced the magical shields close to his skin. Having not needed much in the way of magical or spiritual energies since arriving in the foothills of the Dreadlands a week ago, he was definitely at full strength at least. But, by the looks of things ahead, that wouldn't last for long.
As he wound down the path, he could see it branching off in several directions. He summoned four skeletal warriors to aid him since these seemed to be relatively mindless creatures. He quickly cut down several of the shardborn creatures that came to block his path. He was relieved to find that they were no harder to kill than any other magically twisted creatures he'd encountered anywhere else in Sanctuary. Though, he shuddered when he encountered his first few dreadmites. They resembled giant spiders almost too much. At least they didn't spit webs and venom. They were just a disgusting nuisance.
The road he'd come down on did something of a switchback into the shallow valley below. Then it quickly branched off in several different directions. Here, he could see the foundations of previous buildings. And, amazingly, even some partial stone cottages still standing. Most of the wooden ones had been blasted apart. But, here and there, he noticed a few places that might provide someone shelter in a desperate situation. If these shardstorms the other travelers had mentioned were to blow through, at least he might be able to find a place to wait it out. So far, he hadn't seen or heard a single person. Based on the destruction and so many partial buildings in ruins, it seemed more likely that this village had been abandoned for the safety of Staalbreak's towering walls.
He was cutting down yet more shardborn when he heard the first human screams. His heart lurched as he realized some of these particular shardborn actually looked like they might have been human once. They were just mindless monsters now, filled with corruption. He prayed whatever souls had once possessed those bodies had managed to escape the corruption. The screams from ahead and to his left had him rounding the corner on high alert. He ducked under a giant appendage from a behemoth of a shardborn and then spun around to cut it down quickly. The terror-filled screams were coming from a man in a crumbling wooden stone nearby. Three more shardborn were already closing in on him when the unexpected happened.
Out of nowhere, a magical wind stinking of vile corruption assaulted his shields. Though most of it was blocked out by his magical shields, there was a sickening feeling sweeping through him along with that wind, as if not all of it had been successfully blocked. Something sharp and dangerous clawed at his shields as if it would shred them. And there was something familiar in that corrupted wind that clawed at his soul with icy talons. Despite the ongoing battle, he shuddered with the raw sensations of violence and terror that the wind stirred inside of him. Struggling to keep his focus, he just managed to avoid the wicked red claws of another shardborn and cut them down.
"What are you doing out there?" a woman screamed behind him. "Over here! There's shelter!"
Reflexively, he ran the few feet toward her voice. Within the crumbling stone walls that still stood, he was at least out of that horrible wind. The large woman's blue eyes were wide with fear as she looked him over worriedly.
"Are you hurt?" she asked from where she knelt by a man writhing and moaning on the floor.
"No, what's happened here?"
Three other people were lying nearby, appearing to be unconscious. The man writhing on the floor in front of her began screaming in wordless horror. Apparently, his was the scream the necromancer initially heard. Seeing Pyresong wasn't injured, she turned her attention back to the man bleeding from countless shallow wounds. Already his shirt was nearly saturated. He reached for a healing potion on his belt.
"I can carry Yesenka back to camp, and then I'll come back for you. Just hold on. Don't try to take the splinters out for yourself," she instructed the man.
Panting but at least able to make sense of what she was saying, the panicking man nodded. Pyresong handed her the healing potion; she waved it off.
"I can't until the splinters are removed," she told him, turning to kneel beside the others.
"What happened to them?" he asked, realizing they were all sliced up nearly identical to the man she had been tending.
"This...storm, we call it. There's a red haze in the air, and then it sweeps through. It cuts like broken glass. Whole villages just...turn."
He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as she essentially confirmed what he had suspected. Some of those shardborn had once been human.
"Into those monsters...shardborn."
It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway. Delicately, she pulled aside the blood-soaked vest of one of the unconscious men. A moment later, Pyresong sensed something that made him react reflexively. Much as with the vile wind, he now sensed a surge of corruption mingled with violence. He gripped her by the back of her cloak and yanked her behind him roughly. Already the three bodies were twisting and spasming. No screaming from these. Just an eerie silence as they began to warp and twist into more shardborn. The silence somehow only enhanced the chilling quality of the moment. Though that was soon shattered when the still-conscious man behind him began screaming once more, seeing the others changing. Even as the red pustules and crystalline structures were erupting through their skin, he cut the three apart before they could finish changing. He could only pray the corruption had been in body only.
"Don't let it happen to me!" the man was screaming, clutching at the woman.
"Stop moving, Marcus!" she commanded, struggling to hold the man in place.
"Please! I don't want to be like them!" Marcus dissolved into wordless sobs from there.
After a few seconds of him settling, she told him soothingly, "It doesn't look like any of the splinters pierced your skin. We should check twice, put salve on those cuts."
"Are you hurt?" he asked the woman, seeing more blood on her clothing under the cloak.
"No," she told him, still focused on the wounded man. "You did the right thing."
As the man, Marcus, curled up into a terrified ball of quaking tears, the woman took a deep breath, shaking off her momentary fright quickly. She looked up to Pyresong.
"My name is Marenna. Listen, I need to treat him right now. I got separated from my boy when the storm struck. Will you help?"
He nodded.
"Jacob, he's at the old church. He should have taken shelter there from the storm. It's not far. He went to pray with Evie. Could you bring them up here if the storm is still calm?"
"Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma. Which way?"
Marenna pointed to the east. "When the path branches, turn south. The ruins are easily visible. I...I don't want to burden you, but there's nobody else out and walking right now."
"I'll find him," he assured. "And then maybe you can help me answer a few questions."
Marenna nodded. "I will. I'm in your debt."
She quickly returned her full attention to Marcus. Still uncertain of their safety, he checked the immediate area over one more time. At least the wind was gone, and he couldn't hear any movement from other shardborn nearby. Clearly, she lived in the area and knew the dangers. He hadn't seen any weapons on her, but he had no more time to really consider. If there were others out here, especially a child, he needed to find them quickly. Given how fast the other three had changed, he didn't think the boy would last long out here if his companion had been affected by the shardstorm. A part of him resolutely refused to consider that the boy himself had been changed. And another part of him wondered why anyone would want to live in such a cursed place. To be fair, though, he had thought the same of Dark Wood once. Maybe there was a way to rid this place of that awful storm.
He jogged down the path, wary of more shardborn anything at this point. But it seems the area had been cleared by his earlier fights. As she had described, almost as soon as he turned south, he could easily make out the circular, crumbling stone walls. This church had likely been huge and included several buildings. Now, though, the only thing left mostly intact was a tower-like structure that had probably once been a bell tower. Before he rounded a corner near a collapsed wall, he could already hear the stomping and growling of more shardborn. There were two that looked to have once been human and a body on the ground. The body had been badly mutilated, nearly torn apart. He quickly cut down the two shardborn and then squatted down to check the corpse. It was empty, and he could tell it was no child.
Damn. At least Jacob's not here, he thought with some relief.
Moving forward silently, he couldn't hear any other movement in the immediate area. The enormous piles of wooden debris that had once made up the main building were leaning dangerously. He was about to scan the other building to his right when he caught sight of something that made his gut clench. Just beyond where he'd killed the shardborn were three small footprints in the dirt and mud. Jacob had definitely been here, and recently. Silently he followed a short ways. Peering around the area, he was relieved to see no more bodies, small or otherwise. But where could the boy be?
He returned to where he had found the other body. No, there were no little footprints leading away from this area or back in the direction he had come from. He turned back to where the little prints had been headed. That's when he spotted them. Apparently, Jacob had started running. They were just far enough apart that he hadn't seen them before. Now he could clearly make out a set of small, muddy prints on some boards that lead down into what had likely been the first floor of the church tower. From this side, the back of the church and the likely bell tower had been built into the hillside. The leaning wall left something of a gap that was easy enough for an adult to step over. Then the front end of the building would have been above ground from the other side. Further along the rotting boards, he spotted one more small boot print in thick mud.
Maybe he made it, he hoped.
Beyond the tracks on the board that had been left in mud, the collapsing wooden structure still had a rickety staircase that hugged the circular wall. That had likely been the boy's path. He eyed it carefully. From this vantage, he could neither hear nor see anything below. He inched his way out onto the boards. If the boy had been trying to take shelter, this seemed the most logical place. It would have been below the level of the wind.
Brave boy, he realized.
Briefly, memories of another brave boy ran through his head. He quickly shoved those aside while he inched further around toward the stairs. There was a flicker of something from Tyrael at this, but he did not comment. He hooked his scythe on his belt and his shield on his back. Just in case the stairs did give out, he at least wanted his hands free. Right now, his entire focus was on one careful step at a time. Testing each stair slowly, he was able to work his way down enough to get a better view of the shadowy room below. Here there were piles of wood, broken furniture, and other debris all along the edges. Possibly some kind of library, he wondered. It would have provided shelter from the storm, at least, and lots of places for a frightened boy to hide.
Still testing each of the stairs slowly, he finally inched his way almost to the bottom. He very much expected all this rotting wood would dump him right onto the floor some twenty feet below at any moment. That wouldn't have been so concerning were it not for the fact that the bit of floor he could now see looked even more rotted and unstable than the stairs he now tested.
He was actually holding his breath when he took his first tentative step to test those floorboards closest to him. At least here near the walls, they seemed to hold his weight. Until now, the area had been silent. No movement or even growling from other shardborn. Now on floor level, he could see a bit better into the shadows of many broken tables and bookcases across the room.
"Jacob? Are you here?" he called softly.
A frightened squeak and a scraping sound across the room drew his eyes to the deeper shadows under a broken table. A boy with honey blond hair and wide, dark eyes slithered out from under the wreckage. He held his hands out and spoke soothingly, hoping not to further frighten the boy.
"Jacob? Your mother, Marenna, sent me to find you."
The terrified boy let out a relieved sob and leaped out from under the table.
"Wait!"
His heart lurched the moment the boy dashed out from under the table. Whatever ideas he had about coaxing the boy out or carefully moving around the edges were lost in that first terrified leap. Jacob ran right out into the middle of the rotted floor before he could even really react. He was already too late. With a few weak groans and cracks, the whole section of floor caved under the boy. Reflexively, he tried to grab at the boy's arms or clothing or anything. Of course, he was now too overbalanced to stop himself once he'd caught the boy. Still reacting with adrenaline-fueled instincts, he pulled the boy to his chest and rolled. His head clipped something painfully on the way down, instantly stunning him. By some miracle, he'd managed to flip himself just in time to land on his shield-covered back with the boy in his arms. The boy's weight, even on his breastplates, was heavy enough to hurt and knock the wind out of him. The sensations of his body swiftly became a distant thing as he fought to remain conscious through the sudden, blinding explosions in his head. He was only dimly aware when Jacob rolled off of him.
The boy's terrified sobs pulled at him, giving him something to focus on. With a shaking hand, he reached up to try to calm Jacob. His whole body spasmed when he was finally able to take a breath again. The darkness encroaching on his vision backed off but was still filled with painful bursts of light. Almost impossibly, the breathing sparked even more pain in his head. Whatever he had been about to say came out more of a pained groan than words. More out of habit than any conscious thought, he reached for a light healing potion on his belt as he struggled upright.
"Are you hurt?" he finally managed to ask.
The boy's tear-stained face was pale, but he shook his head immediately. Relieved, Pyresong downed the potion himself. Immediately, the warmth concentrated into an almost burning sensation on the back of his head. After a few seconds, he was finally able to shake off the disorientation.
"Can you see if it's bleeding?" he asked, bending down.
Jacob quickly stood up. "Who are you? And I don't see any blood."
"Master Pyresong. Your mother, Marenna, asked me to bring you back," he explained, taking a look around. "She mentioned someone named Evie. I think I found them up above."
"They got her," Jacob said, his voice quavering on the edge of tears. "I ran and hid like she said."
"Why were you here at all?" he asked curiously, recalling Marenna saying they had come here to pray.
In this ruin? he thought skeptically.
Looking at the collapsed floor now some twenty feet above them, he began to consider options. Clearly, this had once been some kind of cellar or basement for the church. Much of its walls, even underground, had now collapsed. There was no chance of getting out the way they had gotten here. And, very likely, any adjoining rooms would be heavily covered with debris. If he had any luck at all, they might find a pile of rubble tall enough to climb. At first glance, that seemed very unlikely. Even for all the rope he carried, he didn't have a grappling hook in his bag. If they couldn't find another way out, he would have to hope Marenna would come looking for them. As the worst of the pain subsided and he could think more clearly, he got to his feet to get a better look around.
"Father Benford was helping people. He has medicine," Jacob explained, his voice now steady. "Mum's always looking for more. I want to help too."
Over the sound of the boy's voice, he heard movement in the darkness beyond this now-open room. The shuffling, groaning, and even chains rattling chilled him. It was almost as if he could sense whatever it was, like a chill wind seeping through a window seam. He shook off the feelings quickly as he grabbed his shield and scythe. In this one area, the dusky light that filtered through the clouds only illuminated a couple of feet in every direction of the hole they had opened in the floor. Based on his triggered senses for threat, he could tell there was far more to this space in the darkness beyond; though it was no labyrinth. Still, whatever it was that had made those sound felt awful to him in a way he couldn't quite identify.
"Listen to me," he whispered to Jacob. "You need to hide. I'll try to find an exit. But do not come out until I tell you to. No matter what you hear. Understand?"
Jacob's dark eyes widened with fear, but he nodded. He scrambled off into the shadows near one of the collapsed stone walls and disappeared. Once he was certain the boy was safe, he turned his full attention forward toward the darkness in the rooms beyond. The shuffling and moaning hadn't come toward them, but it wasn't far off, either. Switching to magical vision, he could see the same evil reddish glow of a shard somewhere ahead. It was faint compared to what he was accustomed to from shards but obvious to him. Reinforcing his magical shields was more of a habit than for any real hope of effectiveness. He knew nothing he could do would ever completely block out his sense of the shards' corruption. It still disturbed him that he could literally feel whatever it was ahead of him. It oozed a filthy feeling of vile energies that was similar enough to shard to make him want to shudder. When he crossed into the complete darkness, he let his scythe glow faintly. The rough, rocky floor turned into stone brick leading off toward a room on his left. A few feet directly ahead was another collapsed section. There was no way of getting past that pile of rubble.
There was a creeping tension that increased gradually as he felt out the source of that corruption coming from his left. Beyond an entrance made of rotting wooden beams was more stone brick. He could faintly make out rotting furniture and bookshelves on either side of him. The source of whatever he was feeling and the rattling chains was coming from the far end of the long room in the deepest shadows. It glowed a vile red in his magical sight. For several seconds as he approached, it was silent and still, like a predator waiting for the prey to come close enough. Sensing something just below the level of conscious thought, he paused. Something about whatever was hiding in the shadows made his skin crawl. His every instinct was screaming at him not to get any closer. Frozen in place with his heart pounding in anticipation, he increased the glow of his scythe, holding it ready above his head.
The instant the light from his scythe glinted on the reflective surface of the many crystalline growths, the thing at the other end of the room launched itself at him. Reflexively he swiped with his bare scythe blade at the same moment. He caught nothing but air when the thing jerked to an unexpected halt, still a couple of feet away, just out of reach. His ragged breath caught in his throat as he took in the whole scene. Now he could understand the sound of chains. His already twisting gut filled with sickening fear and pity as he took in the monstrous thing before him. It snarled and growled at him with feral madness when it realized it couldn't get to him. It was chained to the wall behind it, unable to escape. The chest had been burst open and filled with more red growths. Out of the shoulders and arms were yet more growths that looked like red crystals. Imagining it had once been a human, his mind couldn't help considering just how hideously painful the transformation must have been. The large golden icon still around its neck told him he'd just found Father Benford. When the priest began to change, he had likely chained himself up so as not to harm anyone else.
Gods...how long has he been down here? he couldn't help wondering in pity.
The thing that had likely once been a good man was now warped beyond anyone's recognition. It alternated between threatening growls and something that almost sounded like garbled words as it flailed at him menacingly with its enormous fangs, trying to get at him. The only thing he could do was offer up a prayer and end the priest's torment. Sickened and saddened, he took a couple of steps back. He flung a blade of energy that was razor-thin at its torso. With the return swing, he sent another. Even as it was cut to pieces, its growls turned to chilling laughter, making him shudder. Not able to watch anymore, he turned to leave the room as it went still.
Suddenly a wave of something vile washed over him, stronger even than the storm. Its sickening feel made him want to gag. Woven into that filthy feeling were sensations of horror and rage. He was caught so completely off balance by the overwhelming sensations that he staggered and went to one knee. Unconsciously, he reinforced his mental and magical shields trying to combat whatever it was that was trying to disorient him.
When the initial darkness and dizziness passed, he leaped to his feet again. His heart stuttered at the sight, and then pounded painfully in his chest. Out of instinct, he staggered a few steps trying to get away from the source of whatever had just happened. He froze when his mind caught up to what his eyes were seeing. Confused, he spun around. He was no longer in the church basement. A dark, chilling memory rose up, filling him with cold dread.
Is this...Blackstone? How...?
He didn't have a chance to question further. A few feet away, he caught sight of a pink dress and dark hair. In the faded blacks and grays of this cursed landscape, the bright color stood out like a flag waving in a high wind. But the air here was so still it was downright oppressive. His heart nearly froze in his chest when he realized who he was staring at. Alyssa was trembling with fear and looking around wildly with her terror-filled eyes.
"Papa told me to hide...but he won't come back.”
While his mind lashed him with memories of his failure, the rest of him was frozen in absolute shock. In the space of a heartbeat, he relived his every nightmare and the reality of it all over again. The dread had gone only to be replaced with chilling horror and fear. Part of him absolutely could not process what he was seeing and hearing. And the rest of him knew it was real, as was the raw fear.
“I'm going to find him myself!"
The crushing heartache of his failure was like something physical squeezing his chest. Seeing her turn to run away, his desperate need to prevent this nightmare from happening again jolted him with adrenaline. Before he even realized what he was doing, he launched himself after her. She took off running toward the village square.
"Alyssa! Wait!"
Almost as soon as his feet started moving in her direction, the little girl's all too familiar shrieks of terror rang out. Those evil vines were chasing her across the ground! She was headed right for the same well in the center of the village.
"No!"
He wasn't sure if he screamed in denial at the vision, or out of pure terror. Some tiny part of his mind was screaming that this couldn't be real. But the rest of him was already too consumed with the icy fear stabbing through every artery. Her screams had haunted his dreams for months. And now he lived them all over again. Just as they had in his many nightmares, the vines had caught her. He skidded to his knees painfully as he dropped his scythe. Completely ignoring the pain of the wicked thorns digging into his flesh, he began ripping at them frantically with his gloved hands. Her screams of fear had turned into ones of agony he remembered all too vividly. They tore across his soul, nearly making him scream with her.
In a panicked heartbeat, the vines were suddenly gone. Again, he was left holding Alyssa's mutilated, drained corpse in his shaking, blood-soaked hands. His heart squeezed in his chest until he couldn't breathe. For a moment, he was lost in the renewed agony of those memories. How many times...
His heart nearly stopped altogether when those cloudy dead eyes blinked at him.
"Why? Why didn't you save me?"
"Alyssa..." Tears stung his eyes, making everything waver. "Gods...I'm so sorry."
"You could have saved me. I'm so cold now..."
Something inside him went so cold he could feel his blood-shattering in his arteries. There was some tiny part of his mind still screaming that this couldn't be real. But, at this moment, it was very real. He could feel her cold arms even through his blood-soaked gloves. He knew the chill of the grave, both literal and figurative. He did this. He failed. He had killed her again. She...
He gasped, his mind reeling as something hot and defiant inside him began to reassert some semblance of sanity and control. Alyssa stood to confront him more directly. Shaking and horrified, he flung himself back to his feet and stumbled backward. Still staring into those accusing, dead eyes, he heard Diablo's laugh echoing out around him.
"Your failures outnumber your breaths," Diablo mocked.
Still sick with grief now turning into rage, he grabbed his scythe off the ground. He screamed as he flung energy blades around himself in a maddened frenzy. He would shred this illusion, or vision, or whatever the hells it was. Instead of destroying the scene, his attacks began cutting through terror demons, Diablo's favored minions.
It didn't matter. If he couldn't get out, he would kill them all. All around him, wave after wave of terror demons came at him. Blind rage and combat instincts took over completely as he danced through all of them. The satisfying sounds of their high-pitched screams rang in his ears as he began cutting his way through them with the naked blade of his scythe. In his earlier shock and confusion, he has lost his shields. Dozens of wicked sharp claws raked his face and tried to pierce his armor.
Then another instinct born of his many experience came to him. There were enough corpses. He didn't even bother to shield himself from the blast. His raging screams turned to laughter at the idea of taking himself out, along with the dozens of demons still clawing at him. If he couldn't escape one way...
"Come on! Wake up!"
His eyes flew open as he reflexively flung himself off the floor backward. He'd crawled several feet back before he realized he was back in the church cellars. His heart was still racing painfully in his chest as if he'd actually been through a battle. He gasped raggedly, trying to find some semblance of sanity again. A few feet away, Marenna and Jacob were staring at him wide-eyed. The small boy clung to her cloak. On the other side of the room was a blazing fire where the shardborn had fallen. He closed his eyes for a second, struggling to slow his heart and breath.
"M-my apologies. I-I don't know what happened," he told them. "I'm all right now."
Marenna came closer, offering him a hand up. He accepted gratefully, almost startled to see there was no blood on his gloves. He had felt the thorns piercing through through his hands. He had felt the claws raking his flesh. He shoved those thoughts aside while he forced his legs to keep him upright.
"It's this rotten haze,” Marenna explained. “It's everywhere. It affects everyone differently. We need to go."
She motioned to a ladder against the far wall that she had apparently used to get down here. He retrieved his shield and scythe from where he had dropped them near the burning corpse. With one last prayer for the priest, he hooked his scythe and shield. Still struggling to slow his swirling thoughts, he tried to force his limbs to stop trembling. He couldn't even begin to understand what had happened to him, and he wasn't ready to try. For now, he put it away as he followed them up the ladder back into the dusky early evening light.
"There's a refuge south of Staalbreak's walls. It's not much shelter, but the monsters leave us alone. You should come with us. We'll give you all the aid we can," Marenna offered.
Pyresong, now transitioned out of horror and into a sort of cold numbness, just nodded gratefully. Staalbreak had been his destination. But since the day was already gone, he might as well take shelter for the night somewhere. Already, he was feeling the sort of weariness that warned him he would be pushing his luck to go much further. Besides, he was still hoping someone around here had seen El'druin or had heard of it somewhere nearby. Whatever community she was leading them to was as good a place to start as any.
Marenna herself seemed just as tired, if not more so, as she led them silently down the darkening paths. He followed along behind them, still alert for any more shardborn to come at them. Alone with his thoughts for a moment, he tried to sort things out, if for no other reason than to not be distracted by them later.
Clearly, he'd been asleep. Marenna had to wake him. Yet, he couldn't remember actually collapsing. And it was far from the first time he'd had nightmares regarding Alyssa and his failure to keep her safe. But this hadn't even felt like a nightmare. He knew his nightmares and what they felt like. He had lived with them all his life. This was definitely something...different. Undeniably, it had roots in his memories and memories of his nightmares. Logically, Diablo and his terror demons made sense, too, in that light. If the influence of the corrupted Worldstone haze, miasma, storm, whatever the hells it was affected everyone differently, then it made perfect sense it would dredge up not just his own usual nightmares but ones that now included Diablo himself. He wasn't ashamed to admit just how much he feared the Prime Evil and what Diablo could do to him.
"Not a nightmare, Pyresong."
Tyrael's soft voice correcting him startled him, though he was able to cover it quickly without drawing the attention of Marenna and Jacob just ahead of him. He had actually nearly forgotten the angel was even still lurking behind his eyes. Tired and startled as he was, a part of him wondered why the angel hadn't intervened. He quickly shoved that thought into a hole. It wasn't fair to Tyrael, for one thing. He was still recovering and even trapped inside this weak, mortal body, little more than a prisoner. He refocused his thoughts where they should be, almost apologetically.
What do you mean by "not a nightmare"? he asked, keeping his eyes on the path ahead.
"For Diablo to whisper to you so clearly...it must be connected to the Worldstone shards."
His gut knotted up again with icy dread. That also made sense, more than his nightmare theory. And that was exactly why he was trying so hard to convince himself it had just been a nightmare and nothing more. Now he knew Diablo could play with him directly through his connection to the shards. Worse was the understanding that there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it or block it out. At least now he knew. Then another more chilling thought chased that one, one which made his blood run cold all over again.
Does he know what I'm doing?
"I...don't know. But we have to expect he does."
At the moment, Pyresong didn't even have the energy to think up vile expletives in response to that. He had suspected that one day his connection to the shards would become more than just a minor inconvenience. He had wondered on a couple of occasions if it would turn him into a liability. Right now, if Diablo knew he was after El'druin, he would send waves of demons as if the shardborn weren't enough in this place. Armies of demons would leave no survivors. Part of him wanted to flee, to get away from all of these poor people. Memories of Wortham blasted through his tired thoughts.
Then another thought wormed its way to the surface, beyond the heartache. It was hot and defiant and would not bow down to this knowledge. What if Diablo somehow didn't actually know what they were doing? Then they still had a chance. Abandoning his task could wind up doing more harm than good. But there was more to it than that, and a darker part of himself didn't want to admit it. If Diablo was toying with him, torturing him as a game...
Maybe he doesn't know. Perhaps he's just taking advantage of the sense of me he found from the shardborn or storm, he told Tyrael. Or, maybe, he's still trying to break me down to use me for his own purposes. It wouldn't be the first time something has tried.
He felt Tyrael's renewed wave of warmth and pride, if only faintly.
"It doesn't matter if he knows or not. You're still going after my sword."
Of course. As someone recently told me, the only total failure is not trying at all, he affirmed.
Tyrael went silent again, but Pyresong could still feel the angel watching through his eyes when they approached some cobbled-together gates. Up to this point, he had only paid enough attention to his surroundings to scan for threats. Beyond these rickety gates and still-standing stone walls was a large camp. There were a dozen sturdy tents that looked to have taken on a permanent feel. There were many more smaller tents scattered in various places. A central cooking fire in the middle of the camp was surrounded by crates of supplies that looked to be communal.
He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts and conversation with Tyrael that he'd lost track of time and location. They had climbed considerably. Here, he could see a light dusting of snow on everything out in the open. He hadn't even noticed the cold. Likely, he was just too used to it anymore. But now it was fully dark. He was surprised to feel his stomach unknotting enough to actually be hungry. When he thought about it, he wasn't entirely surprised. His last meal had been a quick breakfast of trail biscuits, water, and an apple.
He hung back, watching while Marenna led Jacob to a tent near the fire and whispered some instructions to him. All around, weary men and women sat around with lost looks, as if they didn't even know why they were there anymore. A few, like Marenna, moved with purpose. From what little he could tell, it appeared Marenna served as the camp healer. She motioned him toward the fire and a split log seat. He gratefully approached and sat down, waiting for her while she checked on some people in another tent. Even from this distance, he could make out Marcus' voice. At least he'd survived. He let his mind drift silently as he stared into the flames for a while. It felt good not to have to think for a few minutes.
"Let me see your head," Marenna spoke up behind him.
"Jacob said there was no blood, and I took a healing potion," he told her.
"But it's still pounding painfully if the tight lines around your eyes are any indication."
He couldn't help grinning. So he hadn't concealed it as well as he thought. But, then, he'd pretty much dismissed it after the healing potion. Yet, he knew, just like any other healer, she wouldn't be satisfied until she'd checked it for herself. He was impressed when her delicate fingers probed around the bump on his head without causing further pain. There was only a brief tingle as she delved with her healing magic.
"Not fractured, but it was a hard hit. I'm amazed you were still conscious after," she admitted. She set aside a satchel and joined him on the split log seat.
"I've had worse."
"I don't doubt it," she said as she extended her hands to warm them by the fire. "So, tell me, Priest. What brings you to the Dreadlands? And how can I help?"
Tyrael flashed an image of El'druin behind his eyes. He blinked for a moment, glad he wasn't looking right at Marenna. He still wasn't certain how much of what happened with Tyrael, and his eyes were visible to others.
"I'm looking for a weapon that fell nearby. A sword that gleams like the sun. It would have appeared when Arreat broke."
Marenna's head whipped toward him, startled. He leaned back a bit, wondering what he'd said that had shocked her so completely. After a moment, she seemed to recover herself but still appeared a little surprised by his question.
"I've not seen a 'gleaming sword', but I see that Light in my dreams..."
Sensing there was more, Pyresong kept silent. After a few seconds, she seemed to regain her composure and stared back into the fire.
"When Mount Arreat broke, we broke, too. No meaning. No home. Just ruins and ashes. I wanted to believe in our salvation. But...I can't see it down here. Nobody can. All we see is what we will never have again."
"Baal would have twisted every human on Sanctuary with the Worldstone's power. There was no other choice." Tyrael told him, filled with sadness but not regret.
I know.
She shook her head as she fell silent. He reached out and took her hand, drawing her eyes back to his.
"Baal would have destroyed humanity with the power of that corrupted Worldstone. Tyrael did what he did to save us all. Believe in that," he told her gently.
Marenna's pale blue eyes were sad. It was as if she wanted to believe but just couldn't. He could empathize. But he'd said what he could. She took her hand back with a sigh.
"The Light shone from somewhere deep in the Gully. But the storm's even worse there. It could turn you in minutes. Unless..." she paused as a thought seemed to cross her mind.
He waited patiently for her to work through whatever it was.
"My husband, Geoffrey...he's scouted the tunnels more than once. He has a lot on his mind, but...if you tell him it's for me, he'll help you."
"Thank you. That is more than I had when I arrived," he said gratefully.
"You're not going anywhere tonight. Do you have camping supplies?"
He nodded.
"You might find Geoffrey and his crew outside Staalbreak, waving their swords at bandits. Or down in the Gray Words, doing the same. You never stop being a guard, I suppose."
A memory of his last conversation with Captain Azmir flitted through his mind. "No, I suppose not," he replied with a sad smile.
She pointed to a section of wall across the camp. "There should be a spot along the wall over that way where you can pitch a small tent. You're welcome to make a fire of your own if you choose. Come find me in the morning. I'll be making my rounds early."
"Thank you. Rest well."
"You too."
Feeling the need for some semblance of privacy to be alone with his thoughts, he basically set up the canvas with the sticks against the wall and the backing blocking him from view. At one end of the little triangular setup, he put together a small pile of wood and set it ablaze, more for the comfort than the warmth. He knew he wouldn't sleep much tonight. Once he was as comfortable as he could afford to be while still in his armor, he dug out some of his trail rations. Again he'd let his mind drift empty for a while.
Sometime later, he became aware of the multiple snores sounding out across the camp and realized it had gotten later than he had intended. He was tired physically, but a part of him still dreaded sleeping deeply enough to dream. Now he knew it wasn't just a nightmare; he couldn't help wondering what else would come for him while he slept.
At first, the knowledge of it being a direct attack had changed everything. Now that he'd had a few hours to sort through some of it numbly, he'd come to realize it had changed nothing. Had he been anywhere in Sanctuary where a Worldstone shard could break through and influence him, Diablo would have likely done the same. It didn't mean Diablo knew exactly where he was or what he was doing. Not for the first time, he desperately wished he could find the part of himself tied to those shards and sever it...destroy it, whatever the cost to his soul. Thus far, it had done him absolutely no good. He couldn't even consider it a tool anymore. It was their weapon and always would be.
He shoved his frustration back down into a deep dark hole in his mind. That frustration often led him to wonder about how he could use that power against them. And it could not end well. Worse, he was certain if he did anything to encourage or strengthen the connection, it would only begin giving Diablo more information. It was a risk he was not willing to take. The Prime Evil could see too much already. His one dark hope was that it was all just some kind of game to break him down, and Diablo didn't actually know what he was out here seeking. He actually hoped Diablo was still "courting" him in the hopes of winning him over.
Dark and terrifying as that thought was, it was still a hope he could hold on to because anything else would not just lead to his death but failure to get the sword. If Diablo wanted him dead, he knew where to find him. And Diablo would not spare a single person in this camp if he did decide he was done playing with his new toy.
Pyresong heaved a sigh and forced all of this away. He refused to believe it would come to that. He would find the sword and he would use it against Diablo. There was no alternative outcome for him. It would happen. He had to fix what he had broken.
With that in mind, he wrapped himself in a blanket to buffer himself against the icy wall at his back. He lay his scythe to his right and his shield to his left. He immediately decided against a skeletal guardian. Likely it would only frighten these poor, beaten people. And, being in an open tent as he was, he could easily hear if anything got into the camp. He'd seen a couple of people standing guard near the gates. It would be safe enough for him to sleep lightly. Besides, he couldn't afford to be dragged into another nightmare. Not yet.
***
He woke with the sunrise, just a bit later than was his norm. That immediately led him to check over himself quickly. He was still a bit physically run down from his near-constant jogging and walking the past week, but everything else was fine. Even the throbbing in his head was no more than a dull ache at this point. The lingering shadows of yesterday's events would have to wait. He wasn't about to spend time meditating when he had daylight to use. And a part of him had realized something else, too. Maybe the sword would be able to protect him from Diablo's direct assaults. Granted, he still felt the shards keenly when he had Yl'nira with him, but they had never been direct assaults like what he had experienced yesterday.
The only way to find out would be to get to the sword as quickly as possible.
Before he could get otherwise distracted, he decided to go ahead and eat something. He knew the moment he left his tent, he would forget, or something would make him lose his appetite, as was more commonly the case. Sometimes he wondered how he managed to hold on to what weight he had. He couldn't help a smile at remembering Cain's good-natured ribbing about it and his eating habits. Even Charsi had poked fun at him over his custom-made gear and his thin frame. To be fair, though, he hadn't lost any noticeable weight since his death sleep. He had easily regained his lost bit of weight in only a few weeks.
A few minutes later, he pulled the remaining heat out of the embers of his fire and buried it. He wasn't sure if he would be coming back this way anytime soon. But, considering he'd seen people sleeping as many as six in a two-person tent, they likely would need every inch they could squeeze out. And, even for all of that, there seemed to be no more than three score people in this camp. Why they were out here instead of within the safe walls of Staalbreak was a mystery to him. He suspected he wouldn't like the answer when he did find out. Right now, though, Staalbreak wasn't even on his list. Geoffrey and the Gully were his targets.
As she had said, he found Marenna making the rounds of the injured and sick. More than once, he had to stop himself from reaching for a healing potion to help. It wasn't a matter of being selfish, but he knew he didn't have one for every person here who needed it. Unless someone was dying, it seemed rather cruel, and even then, maybe. This dismal place, with its overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, tugged at him. But he would not fall into it. Not now, not when he was so close to real hope. Maybe once he had the sword, he could do something about the storms or otherwise help these people.
Catching sight of him waiting patiently for her outside another tent, Marenna pulled out a small scroll and unfurled it.
"This place is a mess since Arreat was destroyed. Many roads and villages are gone completely. Here's a rough map of the area. I know, it's little more than curvy lines. I'm not much of an artist, I'm afraid. But it should help." She pointed to a spot to the south. "That's our camp, and that, just to the north, is Staalbreak. Follow this path southwest out of the camp and then immediately head north. It winds down and around through the valley to the main gates. Keep following it north and then west to find the Gray Wards. Geoffrey will be one of those two places."
"Thank you, this is most appreciated."
She handed him a folded piece of paper. "Give this to Geoffrey when you find him. But be careful, Priest. You are an outsider. The people of Staalbreak aren't as...welcoming as they used to be. They believe everyone who isn't one of them is a 'plague bearer', even those who don't show any signs. I don't know how they will react to someone in full armor. They might even welcome you. But be wary."
"Thank you again. Be safe, Marenna."
She didn't get a chance to respond as someone from another tent cried out for her. She waved him off. He shoved the map and the note into his side satchel absently. As she had told him yesterday, the main path leading up to their camp was kept well clear of any shardborn creatures or people. Almost the minute he crossed into more open territory where the path turned north, he was immediately attacked by some shardborn wolves and a bear. And, of course, the seemingly endless armies of dreadmites that made his skin crawl. Most of these were easily dealt with using his skeletal warriors and a couple of mages. Not knowing what lay ahead, he wanted to conserve as much energy as he could. From here on out, there was no telling how much rest he would be able to get.
This morning he got no sense that Tyrael was watching but wasn't concerned. He knew he could call on the angel when needed to check their target. For now, he was content to focus on his walk and surroundings and let all else fade into the background. Rounding a curve in the path, he heard raised voices. Not sure what kind of reception he would get, he dismissed his minions. Down the hill, he finally caught sight of what was happening.
"You were warned! Tread not within our halls, plague-bearer!"
"Cut them down!"
Still many yards away, Pyresong was helpless to intervene. Two very well-armed and armored guards cut down a young couple. Their screams and pleas for mercy seemed to have gone unheard by the soldiers. He struggled but managed to force his expression to neutral as he approached. He could already tell from a distance neither of the two people had any sense of a shard or of being shardborn. As he came closer, he could see for himself as well. Raggedy as the couple looked, neither of them carried any visible pustules or crystal growths.
Humans killing humans for no good reason still sickened him, but now it made him angry, too. Had this ravaged land not seen enough death? There was a smoldering desire to cut down these two soldiers that he only just managed to resist by gripping his scythe handle so tight it was painful. The two guards had already caught sight of him. They kept their bloody swords raised when he put his hands out at his sides in a non-threatening gesture.
"What do you want, stranger?" one of them challenged when he stopped just out of their reach.
"Just passing through," he told him coldly.
"You don't look plagued," the other said.
"Neither did they," he replied coldly, almost wishing for an excuse to kill these soldiers.
"What do you know about it, outsider? They're all plagued, except those within the walls," the first one said. "The Laird keeps us protected. Move on!"
Entertaining thoughts of what he wanted to do to them, he offered a chilly smile. They were alone out here. He could likely cut them down and no one would know until he had already passed right through and out the other side. Apparently something of these thoughts came through in his expression as the two of them hurriedly backed away after a few seconds. Usually such tactics were a deliberate move to intimidate on his part. This time, he struggled to remind himself there had been enough death and bloodshed. Obviously, there was more going on here. Marenna's camp had held dozens of beaten down refugees when there was a city with tall walls less than a half day's walk. He could already sense there was something going on that he knew he would not like. The Balance was teetering, at the very least, and killing these two would not fix it.
But it would certainly make me feel better, he admitted to himself.
Finally, reigning in the desire to serve justice here, he stalked between the two unnerved guards. He took a few calming breaths as he continued to walk. From a logical standpoint, he'd done the right thing. Given that he was about to walk right past the gates of Staalbreak, killing two of its guards would not gain him welcome; and might turn every hand against him. So far, he had not been outright turned away as a Priest of Rathma. And he was not about to start a war here, either. He needed the sword, and he would get out.
Having calmed himself again, he rounded another curve in the road and spotted two more guards a little further ahead. Just beyond them, he spotted something that made that cold rage rise to the surface again. It was bad enough to kill quickly and cleanly with no good reason, but torture was a whole other matter. A young man, little more than a boy to him, was hanging from some kind of iron cross. Even from a distance, Pyresong could see he was bleeding from dozens of wounds and had been badly beaten. He had absolutely no idea what the young man could have done to earn this. But he'd already sensed these weren't the kind of people who gave anyone a fair trial to begin with. He didn't bother with the serene mask this time. He let his cold rage show visibly when he stalked right past the two challenging guards in silence. Seeing he wasn't about to stop, one of them backed up to let him through. Whatever came out of their mouths, he didn't want to hear. All he could hear was the young man on the cross.
"Somebody...mercy...please..."
He hooked his shield on his back as he passed the two guards. The other jumped out of his way, thinking the moving shield was aimed at him. Still ignoring their shouted demands and orders for him to stop, he walked right up to the construct and cut the ropes above the boy's head with a swipe of his scythe. Then he caught his body with his left arm as he fell. Even just having his arms freed from the weight made the delirious boy cry out in pain. Off to his left, he could hear the guards were yammering about something. As long as they didn't actually come at him, they would live for now. He well knew they were soldiers who just took orders from a higher authority. Still holding the young man with his now unoccupied shield arm, he hooked his scythe and pulled a healing potion from his belt. The dark-haired youth was nearly unconscious from the pain as he carefully tilted the bottle.
"Thank you," the young man whispered, shuddering when the healing potion took effect. He struggled to sit up. "I need to get this to Geoffrey—"
The crossbow bolt that exploded through the young man's back and out his chest stunned Pyresong. He stared in disbelief for a couple of seconds. The youth's eyes glazed over in death almost instantly. It had been a near-perfect shot to the heart. Icy, with rage, he murmured the prayers while he lay the body aside. At least the spirit didn't need help freeing itself.
Something inside of him had snapped. Quietly, like a thin rime of ice on the surface of a winter pond, it cracked and then fell away entirely. He didn't even care if they were alone out here. His compassion for someone's suffering had incited one of the two guards to outright murder. He was done. When he rose to his feet, the one with the crossbow already had it reloaded and aimed. He went into wraith form. The guard wasted his one shot. He blazed right through the two men. His scythe was already in mid-swing when he materialized behind the pair. One's head fell away off to the side of the path. With the return stroke, the other's head joined it.
No prayers for them.
He left the bodies where they lay and returned to the young man he'd tried to save. There was a crumpled piece of parchment in one hand. He carefully took it from the hand that now clenched it in death. Not hearing anyone raise an immediate cry at what he'd done, he took the time to read the short missive.
Call me a fool, Landric, but I've never once regretted staying by
Constable Staalek. You've heard him say it: when evil men want
to see us dead, we're doing the right thing. And doing the right
thing costs. More than I wish it did.
Aymer's men caught us taking supplies out to the wards. It's
probably just a matter of time for me. But, you know what?
They didn't catch us sneaking people in uniform right through
the front gates. Those people will live the rest of their lives safe
from the storm. Because of us.
I don't begrudge you wanting to keep out of it. But if we're
fighting an unwinnable war, it isn't because the Laird has good
people outnumbered. It is because too many of the good people
won't stand up.
Give the girls my regards.
—Alpert
He calmly folded the missive and added it to his side satchel. He was looking for Geoffrey in this mess anyway. This was not his fight. He had to stay focused on the sword. A very tiny part of him disliked what he'd done. But reading that missive had told him he'd done exactly the right thing. Whatever else that young man had done in his life, he didn't believe it warranted the torture and murder he had witnessed. His failure to save Alpert was only soothed by the immediate justice he'd dished out.
He just wished hadn't had to do it at all.
A few minutes later, he rounded another bend in the road to find himself at the gates of Staalbreak itself. Dozens of people looking worn and tired were gathering more closely near the closed gates. Directly in front of the gates, blocking these people from entering, were roughly a dozen soldiers, armed and ready. Above them, an old man in a chair was being carried up to the parapets by more soldiers. He moved off to the side near some stacked carts, glad for the distraction that left his movements unnoticed. He turned north to follow the path Marenna had indicated while everyone else was occupied, relieved to pass by unchallenged. The group of gathered people at the gates grumbling angrily went quiet as the old man began to speak above them.
"Vandals! You would tear down our home to steal the bricks!" he heard the Laird practically screaming from above the gates. "Dark hearts will never supplant the faithful!"
He froze in mid-step when the terrified screaming began a couple of seconds later. When he spun around, he almost couldn't believe what he was witnessing. All those people not in armor who had been milling about the gates as if hoping to be let in were now being cut down, even the ones who tried to flee the slaughter. The well-armed and armored soldiers didn't hesitate even for a moment. No one was allowed to escape, even a toddler clinging to his mother's decapitated corpse. Pyresong couldn't help noticing one of the soldiers even grinned as he cut the little boy in half. All those unarmed people were dead or dying in seconds. For half a heartbeat, he was back in Mount Zavain, seeing all those unarmed monks hacked to pieces.
He did the same thing now that he had done then.
His sense of justice was spiraling, twisting itself up in his blind rage, which curled itself around his combat instincts. Seeing no more unarmed people standing, there was a part of him that wanted to use corpse explosion to end it instantly. Blast the damned gates open, even. Instead, he gave in to the darker urges. He began dancing, thoroughly enjoying the feel of tearing flesh with his glowing scythe blade. With as much power as he poured into his scythe, cutting through their armor was almost too easy. Something beyond the rage in him needed to feel these men paying for what he'd just witnessed. There were no more than maybe a dozen of them. He knew he had given in to those urges too far when one of their swords glanced off his shield and slit his left cheek open to the bone. He barely even felt it. Their pained screams were justice to him.
As he struggled to force himself back to calm, he heard one of the soldiers still moaning. He bent down and ended it quickly with a slash across the man's throat. He didn't even bother to glance up at the others he knew were watching from the walls above. Some part of him, not entirely consumed by the rage, almost wished they would take a shot at him; just so he would have the excuse to go after them, as well. Reigning in the many thoughts of golems slaughtering everyone on the parapets, he spun around and away from the scene. Then he continued stalking north, following the path again, knowing he should never have stopped but unable to do otherwise. Feeling the blood running down his face and neck, he shook the gore off his scythe and reached for a healing potion. Only when the tingling warmth concentrated itself into heat in a few other places did he realize he'd taken more than one sword strike. They had been well-trained.
He was cold now. It was the only way he could calm the rage. Again, he'd stepped into something that was beyond him, beyond his scope and reach. He'd come for the sword and nothing else. This place's problems weren't his to deal with. He couldn't afford the distraction.
It's the Ancients' Cradle all over again, he realized, feeling sick.
Further along the path, he was alone. He needed a minute. He knew he had been out of control. And that bit of justice he'd meted out was utterly meaningless. He'd even endangered his own mission over it. He needed to recenter himself and focus. He leaned against a tall rock warmed by the morning sun and struggled to clear his mind. He had no idea if the Laird had been watching when he'd cut down the soldiers, and he didn't care. He wasn't headed into Staalbreak anyway. But he had been seen with Marenna, and now there was no way he could go back to that camp without endangering her and everyone else there. It had been a bloody stupid thing to do.
"But it was the right thing to do."
He nearly laughed. He hadn't even noticed Tyrael had woken up or come forward or whatever it was he did. He had no idea when it had happened. He'd been too wrapped up in the rage again. Forcing his heart and breathing to slow, he let his ears guard him for a minute. Thinking back, he could recall so many other incidents. Even just weeks ago, he would never done that. He would not have let himself get that out of control. Now he'd given in twice. He couldn't help feeling like something had shifted massively inside of him, and he wasn't sure he liked it.
From an emotional standpoint, yes, Tyrael was correct; it was the right thing to do, and he felt it. But from the logical perspective, he'd interfered in something that was beyond his control. And he'd jeopardized his whole purpose here by doing so. He couldn't let it happen again. He fell back on some of his earliest training to find calm again. After a few more seconds, he was able to focus. He'd had no words for Tyrael but was certain the angel had felt and heard everything going on inside of him anyway. Finally feeling focused, he continued his trek.
A little further along the path, he spotted a rickety wooden bridge. Recalling what Marenna had told him earlier that morning, this section led into the Gray Wards. He hadn't thought to ask what they were, and it didn't matter. He doubted he'd crossed paths with Geoffrey yet. And if he had been one of the soldiers he had cut down, he didn't need his help that badly anyway. Besides, Alpert had been trying to get to Geoffrey. It didn't make sense that he would be hanging from a cross if Geoffrey was one of the soldiers who had helped put him up there.
Slowly, he was beginning to find logic again. He clung to it. Cold logic. That's all he needed right now. When he crossed the rickety, creaking bridge into the first section of tents, he spied a few people in rough skins looking like direct relatives of the Barbarians of the Tundra. But these had a nastier look and feel about them, more like a gang of thugs than a tribe. Beyond the tents were a number of crude buildings that looked to have been cobbled together with the scraps of previously destroyed buildings. A handful of ragged but large men stepped up to block his path as he crossed the bridge. One of them leered openly at his armor.
"Hello, new blood. Leave your coin on the ground, and you'll get your very own warm blanket."
He cocked an eyebrow at them and let the chill come through his voice. "I've killed at least fourteen men in the last hour. Would you prefer to be number fifteen or not at all?"
"Oh, ho! We've got a live one! Let him through, boys," a new voice called out in amusement.
Still wary of an attack, he glowered until the men backed well away from him. The voice had come from somewhere beyond the nearest buildings. As he passed through this group, the voice of this supposed leader called again, further in.
"Let's jabber."
He spotted the hulk of a man seated in the shade of a tent casually. Still, Pyresong was aware of dozens of men all around him in this sprawling little village. Many of them inching oh so casually toward him. The darker part of him had analyzed these likely untrained thugs and was already choosing his targets when he approached this obvious gang leader. He did not like bandit thugs and murderers, but he would at least give them a chance to survive.
"I'm looking for Geoffrey. You know of him?"
"Oh, Geoffrey. Riling up people like he's the law around here." The man easily hefted his bulk to his feet. "Afraid he's a mismatch for the Grays. And if you're looking for him, well, then you are, too."
His smile to the thug was downright predatory. A tiny part of him didn't want to do this. But, based on what he'd seen, these men were bandits, thugs, and likely murderers. He was already tired of the bloodshed. Yet, he was more than willing to make an exception for them. His nightmare's faint laughter almost made him pause. He kept his hand off his scythe while he waited for the others to close in. A couple of corpses and a corpse explosion should be enough. Maybe he wouldn't have to kill them all.
"Who's volunteering to be fifteen?" he asked them, still smiling.
"Fifteen what?" someone asked.
He spun with his blade so fast that the speaker didn't even have a chance to try to dodge. Three bodies fell to the ground, wounded on the backswing. He turned to parry the hulk's blade with his own, his smile still frozen in place. Spinning out of the way of others, he was about to set off the corpse explosion when he caught sight of a dark-haired man running right down the path and into the gathering group. The hulk laughed.
"Geoffrey! Excellent! I'll carve you both up."
He muttered a filthy expletive under his breath, dancing around, cutting off arms and legs and even heads. Geoffrey's presence excluded corpse explosion and likely anymore energy blades. He got in behind the hulk and hooked his scythe blade around the man's spine, and pulled. Then the backstroke cut across another's belly. His return stroke took off the hulk's head. Catching sight of Geoffrey more than once in the melee, he was impressed. He cut down these men just as fast and with nothing but a sword and skill. The smartest of the bandits saw where this was going and began running away from the fight. In less than a minute, the only people left alive in this section of the camp were himself and Geoffrey. Geoffrey glanced down at the hulk's corpse with a grin.
"You did my job for me there, stranger. And I appreciate it. He was pinching supplies at every opportunity."
"You're Geoffrey?"
The man nodded.
"Master Pyresong. I've got a letter to show you. Marenna said you could help me. And—"
Geoffrey motioned him to silence. Then pointed toward the path behind him. "Not here. I'd like to keep her name quiet around these parts. She's...still trying to make a bloodless go of things."
He followed Geoffrey down the path a ways. When they were at a safe distance, he paused and turned back, drawing Geoffrey's curious gaze. He hadn't really needed to turn back, but he didn't want to miss out on the satisfying destruction he was about to unleash on the bandit camp. There were easily two dozen corpses, many of them close enough to buildings and tents to do real damage. Beside him, Geoffrey gasped at the unexpected blast.
"I don't like bandits," he explained, a little too mildly.
Geoffrey laughed. "Neither do I."
Again, he followed while Geoffrey led at a quick pace. Once they were far enough away from prying eyes and ears, the man explained.
"I've got somewhere safer. It's...through somewhere worse. But it is out of the storm. Let me see the letter."
"I also have something from Alpert," he told him, taking both folded parchments out of his side satchel as delicately as he could, considering all the blood still dripping from his gloves.
Geoffrey's face was dark with grief for a moment as he scanned the longer one from Alpert. Then he quickly shoved both into his own satchel and continued their trek.
"Damn cruel about Alpert...but thank you for letting me know. I'd rather hear the bad news than wonder."
"I killed the two soldiers that killed him."
Geoffrey's dark eyebrows rose appreciatively as he nodded to the news. A little further down the path, his sensitive ears caught raised voices. Apparently, so did Geoffrey's, or he had some sort of sense for trouble. He was only a step behind when Geoffrey took off running. Just around another corner, they spotted an elderly couple surrounded by three more bandits wearing what appeared to be some kind of trademark animal skin capes.
"Get away from them!" Geoffrey roared.
Seeing Geoffrey running right for them, the three young bandits took off running. Not fast enough to outrun their blades, though. Not wanting to risk hitting anyone else, Pyresong took careful aim with a bone spear at the back of one running bandit while Geoffrey cut down the other two. Then Geoffrey turned back to the elderly couple.
"Are you hurt?"
Shaken, the elderly man struggled back to his feet, pulling his wife up. "Thank you, Constable Staalek. You and your friend were right on time."
"Just Geoffrey. Head to the south; my people have room for you there."
"Bless you," the old woman cried as her husband led them away.
Geoffrey continued on down the path, heading toward what looked like a crevasse in the side of the mountain. A short way into the tall, thin tunnel, he was surprised to see a waypoint out here, of all places. But, from what he'd learned thus far, they weren't far from an abandoned gaol that once stood near here. He suspected the waypoint had been in use and essentially stood forgotten now. He paused only long enough to fix it in his mind before continuing on behind Geoffrey.
"At first, it was just the crooks and the heathens Laird Aymer sent here to the Grays," Geoffrey explained. "Then it was the Barbarians, the refugees. Then 'disloyal' guards. Now us. We're almost there. Beware the spiders and dreadmites."
He nodded, scythe still in hand. "You'd best stay behind me. It's easier that way."
Geoffrey cocked an amused eyebrow at him but did as requested. "Follow the cave to the left and then the first left."
As Geoffrey had warned, just ahead in the huge torch-lit tunnels, giant spiders began crawling down the walls and even dropping from the ceiling. Already lining the floor was a couple of too-similar dreadmites. He flung a couple of blades of energy to cut through the nearest and then set off a corpse explosion to take out the others. Then he sent a couple of skeletons to finish off the ones still squirming. Geoffrey nodded appreciatively. Nothing else came out of the darkness to challenge them as they approached the guarded and barred entrance to another cave.
"I'll have to lead from here," Geoffrey told him. "Watch yourself."
He stepped back and let Geoffrey go ahead of him. He hooked his shield and scythe so he could present as non-threatening. So far, despite being easily recognized as a Priest of Rathma, no one seemed particularly bothered by that fact. The guards easily let Geoffrey pass but eyed the necromancer warily, almost threateningly. He put his empty hands out at his sides, but likely the gore covering him from head to foot did little to sway them. He had no idea who Geoffrey was in the midst of this group, but clearly, he had some standing. Geoffrey made a motion with his hand for them to stand down, and they finally let him through with nothing worse than threatening glowers. Pyresong maintained his serene facade, though couldn't help being amused by their attempts to intimidate him.
In the caves beyond the guarded entrance were dozens of people. Every one of them looked just as ragged as the ones he'd seen in Marenna's camp. Some even lay in groups, clearly injured. Not a one of them looked beaten down or hopeless, though; just tired and defiant. Most of them looked like they'd been through recent battles. There was not a single child or elderly among them. At a glance, he got the impression they were some sort of militia. If so, it didn't look like they would be for much longer.
"Here we are," Geoffrey said, turning to his guest. "It's a bit rough, but we've got a few former guards here and a little food and space to share. We're almost ready to—"
"Crawler in the camp!" a voice deeper in the caves shouted.
"Circle it!" Geoffrey called back, only a step behind the Pyresong, already running in that direction.
He already had his scythe out and two skeletons summoned by the time the giant spider came into view a few seconds later. This one was easily as big as the one he'd seen when getting the crimson arach's eye for Hemlir. Worse, it was shard-warped, just like so many other creatures in this area. Numerous red pustules and crystalline growths sprouted all over the thing. It swiped one of its giant legs at the man who had called the warning, sending him flying into a wall.
"Get him out of here!" he barked at Geoffrey while he sent his skeletons in to distract the spider.
Geoffrey, clearly more accustomed to giving orders than taking them, skidded to a halt beside the fallen friend and stood over him protectively instead. Frustrated, Pyresong was forced to change tactics since they were still too close for most of his spells. He summoned two bone golems and then worked his way around toward Geoffrey. While the thing was occupied with the golems, he managed to get an opening with a vertical blade of energy to slice off its head. Instead of going limp, the thing's body went berserk, writhing and kicking for several more seconds before his golems kicked it enough for it to stop.
Behind him, Geoffrey managed to get the fallen guard back on his unsteady feet. Seeing the gash in the man's forehead bleeding freely, his own anger and frustration evaporated away. Very likely, Geoffrey would have had to carry the man out of the fight anyway. He reached for a healing potion by reflex. The man took it gratefully.
"I have my own supplies," he told Geoffrey, returning to their interrupted conversation. "And I'm willing to share."
"Seems you can fight almost anything. We're wasting you on insects," Geoffrey told him.
The friend handed back the empty bottle and turned to resume his post. Clearly still pale and shaken, Geoffrey quickly stopped him.
"Go get some rest. Send Byers to cover you," Geoffrey told him.
Geoffrey turned back toward Pyresong and eyed him speculatively for a moment. Though he had no sense of deception, he didn't like the look in the man's dark eyes. He was clearly planning something. Then the former guard motioned to another part of the cave where they could be alone.
"Why don't you tell me what it is you need?" Geoffrey asked him, taking a seat on a bale of hay and motioning him to have a seat on another. "Nobody comes to this place for the enjoyment of it."
"Your wife said you knew the tunnels in the Gully. I need to get through them."
Geoffrey nodded slowly as his brows furrowed. "I won't promise you safety. But I don't much mind. I can get you there, and soon. Just...do you know what you're asking? How much do you know of what's going on here?"
Pyresong sighed heavily, already having some idea where this was headed. "More than I would like, already. It's quite possible, Laird Aymer has men out looking for me. I killed several of his guards this morning. As for the Gully, I know I have to get in there."
"So you're the one that caused the fuss at the gates this morning," Geoffrey said appreciatively. Then his eyes grew hard. "Now, why would you go and do something like that? He didn't want to let you in?"
He eyed the man across from him. This he had not been expecting. Already he had the sense that Geoffrey was setting him up to use him somehow, but to what purpose? None of this was his fight, and he wanted no further part of it. But he needed to get to the sword. The idea of asking for help from Laird Aymer was clearly off the table at this point. Geoffrey was his only option. And if judged the man correctly, he was no friend of Aymer's either. Yet, he had been horribly wrong before. For a few seconds, his thoughts chased themselves around his head while Geoffrey waited patiently, clearly expecting an answer. He couldn't risk being wrong again; especially with a sword that powerful.
"The truth is...I saw them murder several unarmed men and women on the Laird's orders.” He let a chill creep into his voice. “And I didn't like it."
Geoffrey nodded, his expression still hard. "Laird Aymer's keeping most everyone out of Staalbreak. His favorites are safe and warm, while the rest of us suffer and die. With the right plan, we can take the city back from him. You'd make all the difference."
He nodded slowly. He had begun to suspect as much. And he could appreciate the man's directness and honesty here. While he needed Geoffrey's help, he had to now decide what he was willing to do to get that help. Now that he was confronted with it from an outside source, he had no choice but to seriously consider it. It was not his fight, true. But what little he had seen had roused his cold fury. Unarmed people were murdered. Others were forced to live outside the walls to suffer the storms and become shardborn. By the looks of the city walls he had seen from a distance, it could easily house everyone he'd seen and probably half the surrounding countryside. There was no reason for this beyond one man's selfish and insane desires. One man's callousness caused so many deaths. It just felt wrong to him. And, to be fair, he'd involved himself in more than one case where the fight wasn't his to begin with. What was one more at this point?
"Fine," he agreed, knowing his decision was already made. "I'll help. But not just because I need to get what I want."
"Oh?" Geoffrey asked, cocking and eyebrow at him curiously.
"As long as Aymer is in power, the Balance teeters."
Geoffrey's dark laugh surprised him. "However you want to look at it, Priest!" Then he looked serious and cold again. "I don't care what your reasoning is. All I want to do is find safety for our people, not just the privileged ones. We aren't going to find it out there. And these caves? A death trap waiting to happen. You saw as much for yourself."
"What did you have in mind?"
"I'll need a day or two to gather the men. Then we can finalize a plan,” he explained. Then he sat back and crossed his arms. “What about the Gully? What do you know of that?"
"Nothing," he admitted.
"Those tunnels are near the source of the storms. Aside from every nasty thing you can imagine underground being twisted into shardborn, there are creatures there that you can't even imagine."
He couldn't help a dark smile. "I can imagine a lot."
Pleased with this, Geoffrey nodded. "Good. Right now, I've got to start working on organizing final preparations. You're welcome to clean up and find any available space to rest."
He followed as Geoffrey led him back toward the main cavern. He pointed toward a couple of different areas. Pyresong knew he was absolutely covered in gore, and a significant amount of the less visible stuff was his own blood. Of course, no one here looked pristine, but he'd never been one to enjoy the feeling of sticky blood, especially under his armor.
"Before you go, would you do me a favor?" Geoffrey asked, taking a familiar folded parchment out of his satchel. "Would you give this letter from Alpert to Rusk over by the door? He's the one on the left. He used to serve with Alpert. He deserves to know, and it would be better coming from the man that gave him justice."
His initial reaction had been a flat-out no. But, he still stood on uncertain ground with Geoffrey. He took the parchment with a nod. He wasn't entirely sure if this was some kind of test or if Geoffrey actually meant what he said. Only briefly did it cross his mind that the man might be using him to get out of giving someone bad news. That idea lasted for less than a second, though. He did not get the sense that Geoffrey was a coward in any way. The only ulterior motive he could even consider was that maybe Geoffrey was looking for a way to have him bond more tightly with his men so he'd be more willing to fight. Yet, even that didn't make sense.
Frustrated, he stopped questioning. He knew where it was coming from. All this questioning of motives was leftovers from Zatham. He'd actually considered the man a friend and had been betrayed. Now he was looking for motives in everyone. And the trigger? He liked Geoffrey. Geoffrey seemed like a good man and a capable fighter. Under the right circumstances, he could see them being friends of a sort. And, right now, all he could see was how Geoffrey would be willing to use him to get what he wanted in the end.
Damn you, Zatham, he thought bitterly, not for the first time.
Approaching the tall, blond Barbarian at the door, he put it all away. Looking completely relaxed, the man eyed him. Pyresong wasn't fooled. He put his hands out at his sides.
"Geoffrey asked me to bring this to you. It's from Alpert," he explained, handing over the parchment. "I'm sorry. He didn't make it."
"Damn..." Rusk muttered, scanning the letter. "I hope I find the bastard..." he paused as he looked up. "Never mind."
"The men who killed him are already dead. I took care of that."
Rusk's expression softened from hard anger to sadness. "I'm glad to hear it. Will you tell me what happened to him?"
"He was hung out as an example on some kind of cross along the road. When I tried to free him, they shot him with a crossbow bolt. I cut their heads off," he said, keeping it as simple and flat as possible, not wanting to let the anger that had driven him come through here.
"At least it was quick. Alpert disappeared four days ago. I didn't like sitting around imagining what Laird Aymer was doing to him. Thank you for the news and for saving me the trouble. Would you do me a favor if you get the chance?"
He barely managed to restrain a sigh of irritation. "If it's within my power."
"Keep this letter. I won't be leaving here anytime soon; too many people looking for me. If you're cutting through the Gray Wards any time soon, can you leave this for his brother, Landric? He used to be a guard, too. But, he couldn't stand the idea of turning against the Laird or fighting his former comrades. I don't know if he knows about Alpert yet or not. You can ask anyone in the Wards. They'll know where to find him."
He took the parchment back. "I will try."
"That's all I ask. Thank you."
Feeling as if he was digging himself in deeper here by the minute, he just wanted to be alone. And, for that matter, it was easily at least midday. He'd regained enough calm and composure to feel hungry; that was a good sign. The events of the morning had left him shaken in more ways than one. Now he wanted to wash away as much of it as he could; and hope it never happened that way again. He headed toward the common bathing area. It was crude, little more than buckets of water. He had certainly dealt with worse. Once he and his gear were clean, he found a quiet place in deep shadows in a nook that was basically just a crack in a wall.
Alone with his thoughts, he decided to let his mind drift a bit. He didn't really want to analyze further what had happened that morning, and it would be pointless. He'd made his decision. He probably could have found another way to accomplish his goals without Geoffrey, but this was just the right thing to do. How many times had he gone out of his way to help others in otherwise unrelated battles? Too many times to count. Much as he wanted to just get the sword and get back to the fight with Diablo, he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life if he didn't do something to at least try to help these poor people. What was happening here was just wrong. Even if Geoffrey hadn't asked him directly to help, he likely would have found an excuse to do so after seeing Marenna and the other refugees.
With nothing constructive to do, he watched. In the large cavern, every voice seemed to carry. It was easy enough to pick up a conversation halfway across the floor. So far, he'd picked out at least two score people here. He had no idea how many were in this little resistance group, and they very likely had supporters outside this hideout. But he couldn't help thinking it would not be enough. Every single man and woman he spotted looked ready and capable of heading into battle, even the ones serving as cooks and healers. On the other hand, though, he had no idea what Laird Aymer's forces numbered, either. For all he knew, they were evenly matched. At least the people here in this cavern were armed, mostly. He spotted some that didn't have weapons at the ready. He also noticed there were no standing racks for armor or weapons, either. Most likely, they were in another small cavern somewhere nearby.
Mostly what he saw was people, though. People who seemed just as weary as those he'd met on the surface. These storms decimating their people and wildlife had worn them down emotionally and mentally, far more than physically. He didn't know how long the Laird had been kicking people out of the city, but he got the feeling it was a fairly recent change. The people milling about the gates of Staalbreak indicated many had hoped it was a temporary thing and the Laird would change his mind. The Laird's actions seemed to have motivated these people to fight back, even if it was only to get back into the safety of the city.
He considered the storms. Maybe if he was close to the origin, he could figure out what was causing them. If so, he might be able to recruit Karshun to see if anything could be done to stop them. Maybe even El'druin could help put an end to them.
For hours, he sat watching, listening. More than once, he overheard conversations about the food shortages and tight rationing. Laird Aymer expended everything he had to make sure the people in the city were well-fed and happy. And he made sure he intercepted as much of the supplies to those outside the city as he could. When he couldn't easily lay claim to them, he destroyed them. Apparently, the Laird was determined that if his people couldn't have them, no one would. In this place growing food was a dangerous endeavor at best. Even if they had some small fields of crops, tending them with the unpredictable storms was almost suicidal. And all of the natural animals and livestock in this area were now twisted into shardborn. After struggling to survive for almost seven years since the initial blast that had decimated the region, the stockpiles were long gone. Everything had to be brought in from the outside. And, of course, those were growing more expensive by the month. Everyone in the neighboring countryside offered up what they could sell, but even they had suffered many losses.
Famine was a threat that no longer loomed; it had already begun.
More than once, he caught sight of Geoffrey walking back and forth across the cavern. His posture and stance screamed competent and confident leader. Pyresong wasn't exactly sure what his darker thoughts were trying to find, but he watched the man closely. Here, Geoffrey would stop and discuss guard rotations. There, he would stop and discuss supply distribution. Once, he was even visibly frustrated by something but made a point of stopping to reassure everyone present. He even made time to visit the wounded in the small nook near the entrance. He took note that Geoffrey wasn't just visiting a friend, either. He was speaking with everyone there while helping the healer work.
That's when it finally hit him. Much as he had with Tabri, he was looking for that ulterior motive in Geoffrey's grab for power. Tabri, he suspected, had her own darker agenda from the beginning, and she'd proved him wrong. She really had been trying to build a better life for those she thought of as her people. Her desire to obtain the Scepter of Fahir was just her way of doing that. Even more surprisingly, the scepter really did seem to unite them.
Now that he was watching Geoffrey, he realized his initial suspicion of a man trying to seize power was wrong. Many of the people in this cavern spoke highly of Geoffrey, not even knowing the necromancer was there listening. Geoffrey wasn't just their leader, he was one of them. And there was absolutely no indication the man was putting on a good show just for his benefit, either. Essentially, after finding a shadowy nook to hide in, Pyresong had been completely dismissed in everyone's minds. No one had even looked in his direction. He knew he was far from invisible. Even in this dark nook, his white hair and face must stand out. Yet, no one approached him. Everyone seemed to have better things to do. There were always a few people sitting idle and even some sleeping wherever they could find a pallet. The majority of them were kept busy in some fashion by Geoffrey. And he began to feel an air of excitement spreading through the cavern. Likely Geoffrey had started to give the word of the coming attack on Staalbreak.
He watched closely when another Barbarian armed with a giant hammer came through the entrance and went right for Geoffrey. He motioned for their leader to come with him away from the others. Apparently, whatever news he'd brought wasn't good. After he nodded and thanked the man, Geoffrey walked away from the others, almost directly toward the hidden necromancer. Seeing no one in the immediate area ahead of him, Geoffrey took a deep breath and scrubbed his face tiredly. Still, the expression of exhaustion and frustration was visible after.
"Is there a problem?" Pyresong asked.
Though he hadn't intended to startle the man, Geoffrey spun around with his hand on his sword. Realizing it wasn't a threat, Geoffrey relaxed with a frown, muttering to himself. Then he shook his head with a grin as Pyresong rose to his feet.
"Whenever isn't there a problem? The only question is whether or not I can do something about it."
Geoffrey sighed and sat on a barrel, clearly thinking. After a few seconds, he rubbed his eyes tiredly again. Pyresong waited. He'd had more than enough time to rest and recover. And the sense of being useless right now did not sit well with him. This whole bloody place and the storms and the effect the shardborn had on him had unnerved him. At this point, he'd happily be an errand boy if it gave him something to do other than sit with his thoughts.
"A couple of our best men went missing near the old prison. If they're alive, it'd be good to have them back. But I don't even know where to begin looking. That place is crawling with shardborn. And our supplies have not come through. There's a dealer in the Grays, Larkey, who smuggles for us...but he's been quiet for a week. Aside from the food shortage, this shipment has the weapons we need. I can't take my men in there unarmed. I won't."
As if just talking about it had sparked an idea, his dark eyes turned to him, hopefully. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to brave the dangers of the Gray Ward again?"
"Rusk asked me to take Alpert's letter to Landric. I might as well," he replied with a shrug.
"Landric..." Geoffrey said, looking sad. "He's a good man. He just didn't like the idea of fighting what he considered to be his brothers-in-arms. Hells, none of us like it. But those people aren't our brothers anymore. Aymer has twisted them and their loyalties as much as the shard storms twist our people."
He sighed heavily again and stood. "If you go back out the way we came in, Landric is almost right outside. He's taking care of an older couple. He managed to smuggle his girls back into Stallbreak for now. There's an old stone shed they're using as a cottage that'll be on your left. As for Larkey...let's just say you can't miss him. He's the only one who dresses like a noble but hangs out on the outskirts of Staalbreak. Just look for a gray fur cape."
"Understood."
"Master Pyresong..."
When he paused and turned back, he caught a flash of something in the man's expression he couldn't quite figure out before it was gone. At first, Geoffrey seemed hesitant. But when he realized there was no one else around listening, his expression softened.
"I know we didn't meet under the best of circumstances, and I meant what I said when I told you I don't care what you think of what we're trying to do here. But someone told me you saved my son, Jacob, yesterday after a shard storm. Thank you. For that alone, I owe you more than I can repay. I will take you to the Gully tomorrow."
He shook his head. "And I meant what I said when I told you the Balance teeters here. Even if I got what I'm after tomorrow, I will not abandon you in this if it can be avoided."
"But it's not your fight," Geoffrey stated, obviously curious.
"The larger sense of the Balance, and my purpose for being here at all, has no meaning if the smaller Balance is ignored. Does it matter if someone saves the world when there are no people in it left to save?"
Geoffrey's expression was far less calculating and more curious. "You're not just after treasure in those tunnels, are you? You have a...higher calling."
As much as he wanted to trust Geoffrey, he just couldn't. Not after Zatham. Not completely, anyway. Besides, Diablo was not Geoffrey's fight.
"The only 'treasure' that matters is a sword. It might return this land to stability, and it could do the same for many others."
Geoffrey could tell he wasn't speaking the whole truth and smirked. "Well, helping people counts as a 'higher calling'; even if it'd get you stabbed in the Grays. I have a feeling your fight is much larger than this. Maybe someday you can tell me more. Be careful out there."
He just nodded and turned to leave.
It was already turning dark when he made his way back out through the caves. Thankfully the few spiders and mites they'd killed earlier seemed to have cleared that short section of tunnel for the moment. Almost as soon as he reached the natural stone ramp that led out into the open, he could hear the raised voices ahead.
"Pay up, Landric. Amends for your time in the guard."
He sighed mentally, almost a growl. More of those bandit thugs. Whatever else they were, they were a nuisance right now. He summoned a couple of skeletal warriors and peered around the corner. One man stood in front of a broken wood door surrounded by seven men in animal skins. None of them looked to be large enough to have come from the Barbarian tribes. It had to be some sort of ridiculous gang affiliation dress-code. He quickly revised his plans, dismissing the skeletal warriors. He could see Landric was concealing a crossbow behind his back. Since all the bandits were clustered so close together, he decided to use spirit fire instead.
The initial blasts of spirit fire were enough to give Landric an opening. He quickly dove into the confusion with his scythe and cut down three more. With his shield hand, he sent some real fire to harass the others. By that point, there were already five bodies on the ground. A sixth soon joined them, and the other two fled. Apparently, there had been a couple more hiding nearby that he hadn't seen. As long as they kept running, they would live for now.
He wiped his scythe clean and turned to face this Landric. The first thing he noticed was the man was much older than Alpert, possibly by as much as two decades. He hooked his scythe and put his hands out non threateningly while Landric eyed him with curiosity.
"Well, that's one less problem for today. Thank you, Priest," Landric offered, already having lowered his crossbow.
He nodded and retrieved the missive from his satchel. "I spoke with your old comrades. They wanted me to bring this to you. It's from Alpert. I'm sorry."
Landric's hand froze for a heartbeat. His expression flickered to one of grief. But he covered it quickly and nodded his thanks. He scanned the letter for a second before turning back to Pyresong, his expression cold.
"They sent you to try to reel me in?"
"Not at all. Rusk wanted you to know. Nothing more."
Landric smirked coldly. "You don't look like someone's page, at any rate." He sighed as he glanced at the folded parchment in his hand. "Sounds just like he did when he started on about this 'resistance' nonsense. Pissing in the wind, knowing it's gonna hit him. If I'd been there..."
"It was the Laird's soldiers. Those two paid for it. I saw to that," he told him. "Geoffrey means to take the city from them."
Landric snorted derisively. "Staalek. Doesn't matter how many he loses; he just keeps on. You tell him..." He sighed heavily, clearly changing his mind about whatever he was about to say. "Tell him...I need time. But I'm thinking on it."
"No one's trying to 'reel you in', Landric, least of all me. They just wanted you to know about your brother. That's all." He eyed the man, clearly seeing the conflict. "I'm an outsider, I know, and it's not my fight. But what's happening here is wrong. And I intend to do what I can to help. If you don't want to fight to retake the city, you don't have to. Marenna and the others could use some help. They could use someone capable of defending the camp."
Landric's dark eyes flashed dangerously for a heartbeat before he again schooled his expression to cold calm again. "Thank you for this. Better to know than wonder."
He just nodded and turned to walk away. Behind him, he could hear Landric picking up the shattered pieces of the broken door. He turned attention ahead. In the fading light of evening, he saw many campfires spread throughout the winding paths of the Wards. Apparently, word had spread about him and his earlier fights here. The few bandits he did see hanging about didn't challenge him this time. But he quickly began to revise his numbers. He had no way of knowing how many soldiers or people in general were inside the city. Yet, what he could see out here clearly numbered in the thousands. There were too many campfires, tents, and shacks to even begin to get an accurate count. After only a few minutes, he was fairly certain there were more people outside than inside the city walls.
It was well after dark by the time he wandered into the more heavily populated eastern edge of the Wards on the outskirts of Staalbreak. Here and there, he found several people clustered together around fires, tents, and cobbled-together shelters. These looked more like the people milling outside the city gates that morning. More people thrown out of the city with little more than the clothes on their backs? By the looks of things, the bandits here were only slightly outnumbered. But it likely had more to do with the fact that these people had nothing left to steal. They weren't quite as ragged as those he'd seen in the Wards or even Marenna's camp. However, many of the faces he found were close to it. The mingled sense of hopelessness and desperation in all of these people stirred his fury all over again. Even had Geoffrey not asked him directly, this second walk through the Wards would have convinced him of his need to help these people in some way.
For a while, he just worked his way around the campfires, on alert for any city guards. Thankfully, this close to the Gray Wards, he encountered none. He was certain his presence had been marked after his encounter that morning in front of the gates. More than likely, the Laird himself had watched from above. His armor was far too distinctive out here. He suspected at least some of the more desperate people out here would be eager to sell him out in return for getting back into the safety of Staalbreak's walls. Luckily, it didn't take long for him to find this Larkey. Just as Geoffrey had mentioned, the man carried himself like a noble and wore the finest fur cape. As expected, he was eyed both warily and as a potential customer the moment he was noticed.
"I need to speak with you privately if you don't mind," he started politely.
Larkey's businessman smile widened. Having seen the fine armor, he was clearly expecting good money out of whatever deal they made. Pyresong was more than willing to play that angle for as long as he could.
"Come with me, friend," Larkey led them to an out-of-the-way corner that seemed to be his usual business spot as no one else would come near it. "How can I help such a fine gentleman as yourself? Needing to get into the city?"
"Geoffrey says your delivery is late, Larkey. People are worried," he replied softly.
Larkey's greasy smile vanished in an instant to be replaced with wide-eyed fear.
"Me? No. I-I don't think Luthon Larkey would be caught dead in the Grays. You're...you're surely mistaken. I don't think I can help you."
He spoke loudly enough for his voice to carry across half the camp. Instantly Pyresong was on edge, suspecting an ambush to come up behind him. He carefully shifted his stance to keep everyone around him in his peripheral. For a moment, he had the distinct impression there was a trap here. He threw Larkey a warning look, surprised that the man was obviously more afraid of something other than the necromancer reaching for his scythe right in front of him. He hesitated when Larkey's roving gaze passed over him and then back around the camp again. No one had moved.
Once he was certain no one was within hearing distance, Larkey whispered through his greasy smile, "Meet me at the north well in two hours."
Pyresong nodded with a warning glare, not quite sure if he was being set up. Larkey didn't give him a chance to respond as he spun on his heel and sauntered away. He knew the fear he'd seen was genuine, though. So there was likely more to this than a missed shipment. Whether the smuggler was just trying to cover his ass or was setting him up for the city guards was all that remained to be seen. What he had seen of the city guards thus far left him with little concern that he could get out of any traps. As for the well... He recalled passing a couple earlier in the day. There was one he suspected was close to the northern edges. He could only hope it was the one Larkey was referring to.
In the darkness, it was a bit harder to retrace his steps. But he found what he thought was the place on the far northern edge of the Wards. Here, there were few people. Clearly this old well was long dried up. And the few bandits he did see quickly found better places to be once they caught sight of his armor. In a small space between two collapsed shanties, he found a shadow to hide in. Still half expecting the city guards to show up, he was almost surprised when a much more raggedly dressed Larkey wandered into the area, looking around curiously.
"Over here," he called softly.
Larkey looked like he was about to jump right out of his skin. After a moment to recover himself, he did come over to join him. Pyresong approached with his hands out to calm the man.
"Don't approach me like that again. I can't afford it," Larkey warned fearfully. "I'm in a spot already."
"Talk. And maybe I'll help," he offered neutrally.
Larkey sighed. "I'm just a smuggler. I can only do so much. The last two shipments for Geoffrey were taken by Tregal's gang. Said if I didn't share, they'd take my toes. I happen to need my toes. If you can get back what they stole...that's a permanent discount to our friends."
He very nearly sighed. Of course, he should have seen this coming. Briefly, the thought of something else going on here crossed his mind. He couldn't shake the darker thoughts that he was being used on all sides. But Larkey's fear did seem genuine.
"How many and where are they?"
"Due south, one shack, two tents. They're a small gang, but that's likely to change with what they've taken," Larkey told him hurriedly. "I have to go before I'm seen."
"Wouldn't want to ruin your...stellar reputation, now would we?" he couldn't help saying.
To his surprise, Larkey spun on him, his face twisted in anger. "Not everyone who fights wields a weapon."
"My apologies. That was out of line," he offered sincerely.
"Just get on with it," Larkey muttered in disgust.
He watched the smuggler disappear into the darkness beyond. He hadn't expected such a reaction. But, at least now, he knew the man was not about to set them up for some kind of trap. Still, it didn't really matter. His focus right now was the supplies. Without them, whatever Geoffrey's plans were likely to fail. He stalked silently south as Larkey had told him. It took him less than half an hour to locate the bandit camp described. By the looks of things, there were no more than maybe ten people in the camp. Half of them looked to be sleeping already. He found a deep shadow around the corner against a broken bit of wall to watch and wait. It didn't take long for a few more to trickle in to settle down for the night. And, under the canvas of one of the crude tents, he spotted the crates he suspected were the stolen supplies. There were at least two large crates. By the looks of it, one was likely food, and the other was the weapons. He had no idea how much had already been taken. If he were lucky, the remaining would be enough.
That left only the need for a plan. His initial instinct was to go in blade first when it came to gangs of bandits. The idea of being outnumbered wasn't even a problem. He could easily summon a couple of golems or some skeletal warriors to create chaos or maybe even take some of them out. No, what made him pause was some deeper instinct. Something about these people did not feel right to him. Subtle clues he could not bring to the fore were screaming in the back of his mind. And there was something else he gradually began to realize.
He wanted to avoid more bloodshed.
He was beginning to see similarities he did not want to contemplate too deeply right now. None of these gang members appeared to be overly violent men or women. None of them were Barbarians or even looked to be trained warriors. None of therm wore the trademark animal skins, either. If anything, they looked like ordinary people now dressed in the rags they'd been kicked out of the city in. And he'd thought at one point he heard children in one of the tents, but it could have been from further away. If anything, he saw similarities to the people of the Shassar Sea, following one leader or another in the hopes of survival, nothing more.
Giving in to his instincts, he hooked his shield on his back and scythe at this side. He stepped out of the shadows toward the light of the fire. It took a few seconds for them to even realize he was there. The four men were on their feet with swords raised. None of them looked like they knew what they were doing. One gripped his sword so clumsily he very nearly dropped it. This further confirmed his growing suspicions. He put his unoccupied hands out to his sides, palms out.
"Who is Tregal?"
"I am," said a woman off to the right near a tent. "What do you want?"
"I've come to negotiate for the stolen supplies."
"Who sent you, Priest?" the woman asked suspiciously.
"No one. I have money to buy them off of you."
Tregal laughed incredulously. "You think money does us any good out here? We're just going to walk into the market and buy what we need?"
Just as he had suspected, it wasn't about greed. It was pure survival. He kept his thoughts out of his expression while he turned all this over. At least none of them looked to be in a hurry to start a fight.
"Keep the food. I just need the weapons," he agreed quickly.
The dark-haired woman was quiet for a long time. "I can't tell if you're insane or just arrogant walking into here and demanding our weapons."
"All I want is to avoid unnecessary bloodshed," he told her more soothingly. "I have gold and medical supplies I can offer in trade."
"And how long will those last? A week? Less? What are we supposed to do, then?" she demanded. "We're dying out here. If the Laird's men don't get us, the bandits will."
"Wait, because things are about to change," he told her. "And you don't have to stay here. There's a camp to the south where others have gathered for protection. You can tell them Master Pyresong sent you."
Now her cold glare took on a more speculative look. She was quiet for a long time. He gave a mental sigh of relief. At least she seemed to be listening and considering. One way or another, he was going to get those weapons. If safety was all she wanted, he would gladly help.
"I need to speak with the others," she finally said.
He bowed slightly and backed away from their campfire to give them some privacy. Their whispered conversations were animated but didn't seem angry. If anything, they sounded more afraid to him. He pretended to hear nothing. He remained within easy viewing distance so they would not grow more suspicious or afraid. After only a few minutes, Tregal hailed him again.
"We've made a decision, but there will be terms," she called to him.
"I will hear the terms," he agreed, more curious than concerned.
She motioned to an empty place by the fire. Two of the older men from earlier remained one on either side of her. He sat across from her.
"Tell us about this other camp."
"I encountered it yesterday when I first arrived in this area. There are survivors living in tents in a relatively sheltered place out of the storms. Follow the road south from Staalbreak's main gates, and there will be a safe path to your left that leads up to the camp. It's cramped but safe."
"Are you the one that took out the Laird's men at the gates?" one of the older men asked, earning a glare from Tregal.
"I am," he answered. Then turned back to Tregal. "What are your terms?"
"You are a warrior," Tregal told him. "We are not. Get us to the camp safely and the supplies are yours. All of them."
He shook his head. "Keep the food. We can take it to the other camp. I only need the weapons."
Tregal looked to the others, who slowly nodded. Clearly still uncertain about her decision, she finally nodded.
"We are agreed. You will spend the night with us, and we leave in the morning."
He gave her a seated bow that she returned. He had hoped to get back to the cave and Geoffrey, initially, preferably with the weapons. But the moment he agreed to guide them to the camp, he knew it would likely play out like this. They didn't trust him to keep his side, and he didn't blame them. It was warm enough and there was no rain at the moment. He decided to forgo the tent and at least get some rest by a nearby piece of crumbling wall. Tregal posted guards that would likely be busy watching him all night. Knowing he would be a less-than-welcome guest, he set his shield on one side and scythe on the other, ready in case of attack. Then, just to make a point, he summoned a skeletal warrior to guard his rest. This drew some startled gasps he pretended not to hear. As long as they knew he was guarded, they should at least leave him alone.
***
Of course, something as simple as guiding some refugees to another camp could never possibly be that easy. While he dozed lightly in the hours before sunrise, he heard the first stirrings from the largest tent. He had initially suspected a couple of young children. The reality was more like a small field orphanage. There were at least five toddlers too young to walk and a half dozen others that didn't even look eight years old. The older ones who looked like they might at least be double-digit ages, were helping to corral the younger ones with the help of a handful of elderly adults.
At the first sounds of children stirring, he'd dismissed his skeletal guardian so as not to frighten any of them. His only relief at the sight was that the number of adults had been sorely underestimated, as well. He had seen no indication of Tregal sending anyone to gather others, so they had all likely been in the tents or shanty when he'd been watching. He had held some small hope that the adults who still looked strong enough might be able to carry the crates of supplies. With this many children, that would not work.
Considering this many people and the supplies, he would have to come up with an entirely different plan. He knew he could summon a couple of bone golems, but they would likely be too much of a drain for the hours that he would need them. Besides, he fully expected the need to summon them to help against any shardborn creatures they would encounter. Spying Tregal walking among her people as she got them ready, he caught her attention. Once she was separated from the others, he did a quick head count.
"Do you have any carts?" he asked.
"One, for the youngest of the children," she told him.
"Is there somewhere I can buy more?"
"There...may be some who still value gold over food near the outskirts of Staalbreak," she told him hesitantly.
"Good enough," he assured her. "I need three of your strongest men to come with me. Pack as much of the food and other supplies as you can into slings. Everyone able to walk needs to carry as much as they can. Don't worry about the weapons."
Thankfully, Tregal didn't argue. No matter how this plan worked out, even if he could get another cart—let alone three—it was going to be more like a small caravan. But there was no going back at this point. Even had he not needed those weapons, he could not abandon these people this close to the Wards and the likely hundreds, if not thousands, of bandit thugs. Worse, he didn't need to ask to learn that none of the children he'd seen had living parents. Whatever else happened, he would see these people to safety.
Tregal gathered three relatively healthy young men and sent them in his direction. They glared at him coldly but said nothing. That was fine by him. They walked the short distance around the winding paths to the outskirts. Here and there, he found a couple of what looked like abandoned carts; all of them badly damaged. It took him nearly an hour to find a couple that looked like they just might hold up enough to get to their destination. With a mental sigh, he approached the well-dressed but dirty older man sitting near them.
"Who owns these carts?"
"I do. Bugger off."
Having already expected, at the very least, negotiations, he pulled a small but well-filled purse from his belt. "Two hundred gold for the both of them."
The man's eyes lit up. "Two hundred for a couple of rickety old carts? Never mind. It's a deal."
He very nearly sighed with relief as he held the purse over the man's filthy outstretched hands. "Another hundred if you can tell me where to find another."
"Ha! Good luck with that."
He had expected as much, and he didn't have all day to scour the outskirts. Maybe they could find another when they passed through. He dropped the purse and motioned to the others to get the carts before the man could change his mind. One last time, he scanned the visible area. He really did not want to get any closer to the gates until there was no other choice. His armor was just too easily recognizable. He couldn't afford to cover them with robes to conceal himself, either. If it came to a fight, they would just be awkward and in his way. He fully expected the Laird's men to be on the lookout for him. And, just as with before, every other cart he spied was either visibly broken or otherwise in use. Some of them had been turned into covered wagons for people to take shelter from the storm. He quickly led the young men and carts back to Tregal's camp.
The activity in that lonely corner seemed to have attracted some unwanted attention. A handful of bandits in animal skins were already rifling through the supplies. Tregal was on the ground bleeding from a head wound. Two older men were on the ground, clearly dead. The remaining adults were standing between the thugs and the closely gathered children huddling in a corner by a section of crumbling wall.
He didn't waste time on words. His one verbal response was more akin to a snarl. These nearly helpless people becoming a target for yet more thugs and bandits brought forth that cold rage he'd been struggling with. This time, he didn't care to reign it in. He motioned for the other three to wait with the carts. His only warning to his targets was his silent unhooking of his scythe and shield. Not even slowing his deliberate stalk, he walked right up to the first three and left them gutted on the ground. The remaining six tried to get at him with their newly acquired weapons. Careful of the people huddling fearfully beyond these bandits, he withheld his spells and simply cut them all down. Besides, the darker part of him appreciated the feel of his blade in flesh right now. A couple of others that had been in the supply tent tried to run. He spared none of them. He flung bone spears at their retreating backs. Then finished them off quickly. The melee lasted no more than a minute.
Ignoring the shocked stares all around him, he unhooked a healing potion and knelt by Tregal. His voice was still frosty as he struggled to reign it back in. She took the potion gratefully while he reached into his backpack for some bandages.
"That will stop the bleeding for now. Can you walk?"
She nodded, making a face at the vile-tasting potion, but downed it quickly. A few seconds later, he wrapped her head with some bandages. The rest would have to wait. She was back on her feet quickly, if somewhat unsteady. She swiftly finished the organization and allowed herself to be tended more thoroughly. He stood back and waited. He was surprised to find out that there were actually three crates of weapons alone. Somewhere between a mental sigh and a growl, he realized had to change plans again. One crate of weapons taken all the way up to Marenna's camp and then through a portal to the waypoint by Geoffrey's hideout was one thing. But three? He couldn't leave them here unguarded, either. Another complication, another delay. He put aside his frustration as he turned to Tregal.
"I can't leave these here unguarded. Will you give me a few minutes to gather some men to collect them?"
Tregal eyed him warily but eventually nodded. He walked quickly away to find a fixed location he could memorize. He wound up going all the way back to the dry well where he'd met up with Larkey the night before. At least that was something he could fix in his mind as a return point. A few seconds later, when he opened a portal to the waypoint he recalled near Geoffrey's hideout, he could hear the disappointed cries behind him. All he could do was be as quick as possible, and hope they didn't get attacked again while he was gone.
Thankfully, there were no more spiders or mites as he ran flat out for the hideout entrance. A few minutes later, he was forcing open another portal back to the spot by the old well. For once, a plan worked without a hitch. He quickly directed the half dozen men to the crates. In minutes, they were gone through another portal. Then he returned his attention to Tregal and the others.
The one crate of food and medical supplies they could not distribute, he loaded on a cart with a couple of people who could not walk very well. For now, he would use manpower to transport everything. He led the way with a couple of men who at least looked like they could handle themselves with a sword. Those experienced with bows he positioned around and behind the carts. The walk took most of the remaining morning and part of the afternoon. More than once, they were attacked by shardborn creatures. By some small miracle, he was at least able to keep everyone alive.
The bigger problem had been the guards. Since his little outburst in front of Staalbreak's gates, the road leading south had been lined with soldiers. He just barely managed to keep from having to kill them all by explaining that these people were leaving, not trying to get into the city. So, plagued or not, they were no threat. Even then, he'd had to kill a few.
Tired and frustrated, he was more than a little relieved when the final turn to the east toward Marenna's camp came into view. He stood at the fork in the path until the last person passed onto the safe section of the road. He nodded calmly to their many thanks while internally wrestling against hiss impatience while he watched the sun falling lower by the minute. Despite losing most of a day, he still had some hopes Geoffrey could get him into the Gully today. He was absolutely certain that the sooner he got his hands on El'druin, the better things would work out. One the last person was safely on their way up toward the camp, he wearily opened a portal back to the waypoint near Geoffrey's hideout. He was surprised to find that there was a general air of near celebration as he was ushered through the entrance. It didn't take long for Geoffrey to find him, either.
"Welcome back! We're in a much better place, thanks to you," Geoffrey told him with a genuine smile. "I'm hearing a lot about how you handle things. Did they make it to the camp safely?"
Pyresong nodded.
"Well done,” Geoffrey congratulated with a warm smile. “I've been trying to convince Tregal to get them out of the Wards for weeks. She was too afraid of the shardborn to risk the children. Thank you."
"Is there still enough time to get to the Gully today?"
Geoffrey eyed him and nodded. "If you're up for it."
"I am."
"I'll meet you outside in a few minutes, then."
Truthfully, he was tired due to lack of sleep and numerous short battles today. But that was something he knew he could easily put aside when needed. More than anything, he just wanted to get to that sword before anything else could distract him. Once that was secured, he could help these people in their fight. Until that was done, he just didn't feel right being pulled in one direction and then another. Until El'druin was at least safely stowed in his backpack, he didn't want to risk anything else. Some deeper instinct was pushing him forward, telling him he was already out of time. Like everything else, he silenced it.
As promised, Geoffrey appeared at the cave entrance a few minutes later. He led them left, away from where they had initially come in. It was well-lit and patrolled up to the point where it descended down into a much larger open cavern. The place echoed with running water. In the distance, they could see light, as if the cavern was open from above.
"The Underdeeps, we call them," Geoffrey explained. "All manner of slimy and crawly things down there. At least we can see them coming. Some of the roof caved in during the blast when Mount Arreat was destroyed. Before that, I used to play down here as a kid. Now, it's the second most dangerous place in the region, second only to the Gully itself."
"Understood," he replied calmly to the warning.
At this point, he didn't give a damn if an entire army from the Hells stood between himself and El'druin. He was going to get that sword at any cost. That slowly tightening feeling of tension had gone from a vague sensation to something that very nearly clutched at his heart, but there was no time to analyze it or whatever subtle cues has set his instincts to screaming again. Whatever had begun, whatever was going on, whatever was coming for him, he was convinced that the only correct action now was securing that sword.
"The storms have been a menace for a while,” Geoffrey spoke just above a whisper as they headed deeper into the caverns. “But lately, it's gotten worse. Twisting people into...those things. Good people or bad, strong-willed or meek, it doesn't matter. If not for the storm, I wonder if Aymer would've still shut his gates."
Geoffrey, sword already in hand, led the way down through the short dark ramp. At the bottom was ankle-deep water that covered most of the visible area. Likely there were many deeper patches they would have to be wary of. But Geoffrey seemed to be confident of the path he'd chosen. As expected, in the distance, near the center of this enormous cavern, was a brightly lit section where daylight filtered down. He went silent as they made their way across the cavern. It seemed whatever still inhabited this section of the cave system didn't like the light filtering down from above. They could hear the creatures sloshing around in the water on all sides, mixed with ominous hisses and growls. Pyresong's imagination gleefully supplied any number of horrors. Thankfully, none of the creatures came out to challenge them. It wasn't until they moved further away from the light at the far northwestern edge of the cavern that a handful of slimy lizard-like creatures came out of the deeper shadows ahead. Of course, Geoffrey didn't bother remaining behind the necromancer as repeatedly requested, so he opted to use skeletons and blades. At this point, he wasn't going to complain too much. Geoffrey saved him half the work. But it didn't stop him from muttering darkly under his breath.
It only took about half an hour to cross the cavern into a much narrower piece of tunnel that led down with a small stream of water, like a waterfall. Up til now, Pyresong had wondered how they would navigate in the deeper, darker tunnels. Geoffrey hadn't brought any torches. He didn't need to ask now. Below them was a soft glow that illuminated everything with magic so thick and heavy it radiated its own visible aura. The visible stone bricks indicated it was a man-made structure of some kind. Yet the overwhelming feeling of cold terror that emanated from there forced him to repress a shiver. Geoffrey was right; the source of this shard storm was somewhere ahead. When he switched to his magical vision, he could clearly make out the torrential flows of raw and corrupted shard energy that flowed from somewhere beyond. They were like a raging river to his vision.
"Is something wrong?" Geoffrey asked, hearing his steps pause.
"I can see the flows from the shardstorm ahead,” he explained, taking in the disturbing view. “I...I wonder if we can't find a way to stop it at the source."
"You'd be the first to try."
"What was this place?"
"Nobody knows. It's far older than Staalbreak. If there was any part of it above ground, it's long gone now. "
He nodded and resumed walking behind Geoffrey. This place didn't just make his skin crawl; every hair stood on end. Somehow, he could sense he was walking into something much worse than he could have ever imagined, despite what he'd said to Geoffrey the day before. As they approached the stone brick path that stood at the bottom of this little waterfall, the greater expanse of it all came into view surprising him. Absolutely massive caverns stretched in every direction. What he had initially thought was a stone brick floor was actually a chunk of wall. There were many chunks of walls, floors, and even ceilings all around them. Whatever this underground place had been, it was a ruin now, and so much of it was just open space. The similarities to the shattered spaces inside the shard were uncanny. Geoffrey stopped to gauge his reaction and caught something he hadn't expected.
Tyrael had been watching silently through Pyresong's eyes. The necromancer was awed by the sight of so much magical warping of space and structure, in addition to the unbelievable raw power flowing everywhere. The sadness of Tyrael's reaction distracted him almost completely for a moment.
"The power of creation...gone mad."
He nodded, silently. He could only agree. This place was so warped it almost didn't feel like a part of Sanctuary anymore. Worse, the corrupted power of the Worldstone here had found some kind of hold that was flaring out those storms that warped every living thing they touched.
"Your eyes... Are you all right? We can turn back if something's wrong."
Geoffrey's words startled him out of his distracted thoughts. He sighed. Clearly, whenever Tyrael became more active, it came through visibly. He almost wished he had time to experiment with a mirror.
"It's nothing like that. I know my eyes can be...unsettling," he said, trying to come up with something. "They can see in different spectrums. I was just looking ahead. I don't see much of a path."
"Nothing stays in one place for long. Don't worry, we'll find one," he assured. "Beware the pebble skins. They're like some kind of tiny troll, and their skin is rock. But they bleed, so they can die."
He just nodded to the warning. It was no use trying to keep Geoffrey behind him. Not certain how steady the paths would be when considering the warped places and broken sections, he decided to summon a couple of skeletons instead. If these pebble things weren't too bright, the skeletons and skeletal mages with spirit fire could at least serve as a distraction.
Geoffrey wound his way unerringly toward something in the distance. Whatever it was, he seemed to consistently find a path that wasn't broken beyond usability. Only once did he have to have them backtrack to another place. Every so often, they were jumping across what looked like miles of open space below them. Not for the first time; the thought of falling forever made him shudder mentally. At least there were only a few of those rock-like little creatures to challenge them along the way. This treacherous path made it all too easy to step wrong and fall into the voids below.
As they wound their way around, Pyresong could feel it more and more strongly. Where earlier his hair was standing on end, now his heart was racing, and he was struggling to control the feelings that came from that storm. It was like a creeping horror burrowing into his mind, building strength with each minute. He didn't even dare switch to his magical sight again. He didn't need to. It was like struggling against a raging river already, despite his shields.
"We're close. We'll need to stick close to the ground. Cover your eyes if it kicks up," Geoffrey instructed.
Again, Pyresong just nodded. At this point, he felt like his teeth would be chattering if he tried to open his mouth at all. His gut was so twisted up with fear he was glad he hadn't eaten recently. Whatever lay at the heart of these storms wasn't just powerful; it was terrifying in the same way the shards exuded terror. He followed only a step behind Geoffrey while he led them down what looked like it might have once been stairs. Below was a sort of platform with gaping holes in it. Radiating up out of the holes was a vile reddish light that actually resembled the light from shards. For a second, he wondered if it might be another even more massive shard at the heart of this storm. It certainly felt like it could be.
He struggled against the creeping horror and the similarities that were telling him he was trapped inside another shard. The broken terrain and filthy feeling of corruption had him even looking for clusters of tentacles. His magical shields were already as powerful as he could manage without draining himself completely. He was so preoccupied with these things he almost didn't sense it at first. When they reached the bottom of these stairs, he couldn't have missed it had he wanted to. A sickening feeling of power gathering as if to attack stopped him in his tracks. It was like a wave of energy and corruption washed over him. And this time he knew it wasn't just his own imagination. There was something sentient in the storm; something malevolent that wanted them, waited for them. It was about to pounce on them like a predator. His gasp startled Geoffrey into stopping.
"It's getting worse," he warned.
Geoffrey just nodded and then turned to their left. Pyresong resisted the urge to grab him, stop him from walking right into whatever horrors lay beyond. For that matter, he resisted the urge to run for himself. His every instinct was screaming at him to run, anywhere but here. While something darker slithered under the surface with dark, insane laughter at the whole situation. For several seconds his legs were frozen in place.
"If we can...just reach that ravine..." Geoffrey said, heading right into the raging rivers of raw corrupted power he couldn't even see.
The power of that flow of energy was so strong Pyresong swore he could feel it physically pushing against him. And, yet, there was something there that was drawing him forward. It tugged at a part of his soul he knew must somehow be connected to the shards. He couldn't explain how he knew; he just knew. It wanted him in there. Now he gave in fully to his screaming instincts. That was enough for him. If something related to the shards wanted him in there, something was very wrong. He grabbed Geoffrey by the arm and started to tug him away from whatever was beyond the exit ahead. Angelic sword or not, there was something incredibly wrong here.
"Geoffrey! Fall back!"
Too late. Whatever had been waiting for them wasn't about to let its opportunity slip away that easily. Whatever Geoffrey's reply was, he never heard it. Another, even stronger wave of vile-feeling power rolled over him like a small tsunami. The last thing he saw was Geoffrey's dark, terror-filled eyes turning toward him. When he blinked, the world went black. He was swallowed by cold terror that consumed all else.
He was shivering with cold when he opened his eyes. It only took him a couple of seconds to realize it was because he was lying on ice and snow-covered stones. His last memory of the shard storm and Geoffrey jolted him fully awake and back to his feet in a heartbeat. Through the raw fear, his mind began to slowly comprehend. He turned around, trying to force his thoughts to focus.
Another vision? Where?
He didn't have to wait long for an answer.
"My home...trampled to nothing. Again!"
Navair's voice startled him, making his heart stutter with a jolt of adrenaline. As he spun back in the direction he'd been facing, he caught sight of her surrounded by four demons only thirty yards ahead. His feet were already racing in that direction before he had time to process what he was hearing and seeing. Some part of him was reflexively desperate to save her, to make up for his failure. Unlike his memory, this time, she screamed in agony as she was cut down. It was enough to almost shatter the illusion, at least in his own mind.
Not real! he screamed at himself.
His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he forced his feet to stop, still several feet away from her. He skidded on the ice, nearly losing his balance, staring at her blood-covered corpse. The demons rapidly faded away like mist on the wind. His breathing was ragged, and he was shaking while he struggled to focus beyond the illusion.
"It's not real!" he growled at Navair's corpse. "Come out and play demon!"
Instead of the expected laughter or attack, Navair's body rose up off the ground. It creaked and popped and crackled as if already half-frozen. He took a step back, still expecting an attack.
"Because you couldn't save it. Because you couldn't save me..." Navair told him, her dead eyes locked on him accusingly.
His gut already twisted up with cold fear, he forced his feet to move again. He was determined not to give in to this. Beyond the fear, he gripped his icy rage. When he stepped toward Navair threateningly, the expected attack finally came. His first blade of energy was slung right at the terror demon that began to materialize to his right. The backswing was aimed at the ones on his left. He spun fully around to catch another trying to come up behind him. This one, he hooked with his raw blade and kicked right off it, tearing its chest wide open. Sensing something behind him, he spun back toward Navair, parrying her spear stab with his scythe. The force and speed of the stab were too great, and it slid neatly along his chest plates to bury the blade of her spear tip in the underside of his left arm.
For a moment, he was too shocked to comprehend what was happening as he stumbled backward. Her dead eyes bored into him inches away from his. Her face contorted with rage. She pulled the spear back for another thrust, and his instincts kicked in. Reflexively he flung a blade of energy at her. Hearing her agonized scream when it severed her arms and cut through her torso froze him with horror. The rage evaporated as he began to comprehend what he had just done. For one heartbeat, he would have given anything to take it back.
Some part of him knew this wasn't real. It was the tiniest part. Right now, all he could see was Navair's mutilated corpse. His mind went numb with the realization he had done that. He'd killed her. In that second, he wanted the terror demons to take him. But now they were all dead, too. Some twisted part of his psyche was laughing darkly at the whole situation.
Finally, that tiny, sane part of himself managed to scream through the numbness and silence. As Navair's body evaporated into mist and disappeared, he remembered Valla. Now he understood. Now he could feel it. Now he could comprehend the ways the insidious terror and horror gripped the mind and heart, leaving no room for rational thought. He had thought at the time he could empathize and even understand. He had been so horribly wrong. Now he could empathize with the tortured Demon Hunter.
Not real. It's not real. This didn't happen, he told himself repeatedly.
When his heart was finally slow enough he could actually breathe and not just gasp. He gave up on thinking altogether. As if sensing him falling into a state of emotionless battle instincts, the world went dark around him. This time, he did not close his eyes. He waited. As it had happened in Hell with Aeshama, the scene changed itself. He tried to pull again on that familiar, comforting, blinding rage that only wanted violence and bloodshed. Within that shield of all-consuming rage, there was no room for fear.
"You won't break my will!" he snarled darkly.
Somewhere, faintly, he thought he heard Diablo's laughter in the distance. His heart stuttered when he realized his nightmare's laughter echoed it. He shuddered and pushed it all away. All he needed right now was a target, something to kill.
When the scene finished reshaping itself, he was in a warped version of the warden's office that was many, many times larger than the real one. Some sixty feet away, in the center of the room, stood Esmund. Even without thinking, something in his heart fractured at the sight of the young, healthy boy crawling desperately up to the decorative metal grate on the floor. He froze again, the rage replaced with heartbreaking grief.
"Fern! Fern! I won't let you take her!" Esmund screamed.
That all too familiar high-pitched, panic-stricken voice broke whatever momentary sanity he'd found. His feet were already running toward Esmund, knowing he'd never be able to save him. But he couldn't let it happen. Not again!
"Esmund, don't!"
This time, the slimy appendage came out of a pool of blood to snatch the boy up instead of Fern. Already beyond thinking, just reacting to his emotions gone berserk, Pyresong screamed as he flung a blade of energy at the thing. It did absolutely nothing. The boy was dragged away, still screaming. He watched with anguished helplessness as the thing took Esmund into the pool of blood and out of sight. He was ready to jump in after the boy when six terror demons materialized between him and the pool where Esmund had disappeared.
Still screaming, he tore into them with his scythe blade. His upper left arm was still so badly wounded he couldn't use his shield effectively. And, at the moment, he didn't even care. He didn't even waste effort on energy blades. He was so lost in the terror and heartache of reliving this he needed the feeling of the demons dying on his physical blade. One by one, he cut them down, barely even feeling the claws that raked across his forehead and face. He finally stopped screaming as the last one fell without a head.
"It's...so...cold..."
That painfully familiar voice coming from the pool behind him stopped him more thoroughly than any demon could ever have. The grief was so raw, so powerful, he just couldn't. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't even turn to face this vision of Esmund. If it attacked...he would let it take him. He deserved it. He needed it. He needed to pay for that failure.
"I...can't...breathe..."
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, he thought, going to his knees, crushed by the weight of his guilt and grief. I can't...I just...can't.
Hearing the pool of blood behind him sloshing, he waited on his knees with his eyes closed. He'd rather die here and now than to attack this vision of Esmund. His heart was shattered all over again, and his mind was too numb to fight back. And a part of him was just so very, very tired of it all. Somewhere deep down, he knew there was no end to any of this. And there never would be for him. Eternity suffering for his mistakes, his failures; where everyone he cared about paid for his mistakes. The bright light beyond his eyelids startled him into opening them. There was an even brighter flash that blinded him for a moment before it formed into an image of Tyrael. The anger and determination from the angel rolled over him like a warm embrace. But it held a hard edge to it that nearly blasted him right out of those dark, miserable thought. He struggled back to his feet, trying to hold on to that tiny spark of sanity.
"You fight for Justice. Do not give in," Tyrael commanded.
Tyrael reached toward him, enveloping him in Light. Pyresong let it fill him as the vision began to fade into whiteness.
Still shaken but at least feeling stable again, he opened his eyes. He was back in the twisted realm of the Gully that was as shattered as he'd felt only moments ago. He had been lying on the cracked stone bricks. Quickly he scrambled back to his feet, looking around.
"Geoffrey! Where are you? We need to fall back!"
"Marenna! I'm sorry!"
He spun in the direction of the anguished cries. There, he found Geoffrey on his knees a few feet away. He was gripping his head in both gloved hands. His eyes opened and closed, but Pyresong could tell he wasn't seeing the present.
"Jacob! Forgive me!"
He grabbed Geoffrey by the arms, pulling him to his feet. When this got no reaction, he shook the man roughly.
"We have to leave!"
"I'm so sorry! Please! Forgive me!"
Knowing nothing he said now was going to get through; he began dragging the man toward the broken stairs and away from the flow of the storm. Whatever the man was living through right now, at least he wasn't fighting against him. Once he had Geoffrey at least out of the main flow of the storm, he let go of his arms. Immediately, Geoffrey began clawing at his face with his gloved hands. Reflexively, Pyresong gripped his arms again to stop him. He didn't know what else to do or how to get him out of those visions. He couldn't even save himself from them! But he couldn't let this man fall to madness. Too many people needed him. And some part of him was cursing himself for ever having talked Geoffrey into bringing him here. He had sensed it long before they had even gotten here. He should have listened to his instincts! He could even hear Karshun ranting about his stupidity, and he was right. He couldn't let this happen.
"He is lost. We may be able to free him...but I have not much strength left."
Please, Tyrael! Save him. You must! he begged frantically.
He felt Tyrael's strength and power flowing down his arms and out through his hands. Geoffrey's eyes closed while his whole body began to glow with Light. After a few seconds, the glow faded, and the man's haunted eyes opened again, looking around in fear. At least he was aware now. He let go of Geoffrey's arms as the last of the glow faded.
"Where..."
His own heart still pounding but no longer out of control; he didn't waste time on words. He stood and pulled Geoffrey to his feet again.
"We have to get out of here."
Geoffrey seemed too disoriented to argue. He kept his grip until they were well away from that area. He led them back down the broken bits he could remember for several minutes. Thankfully none of those rocky creatures came out in the time it took to get away from the main torrent of the storm.
"Marenna...gods...what..."
Geoffrey's voice sounded so distant and hollow Pyresong finally paused.
"It wasn't her. She's safe. You were seeing exactly what he...he wants you to," he explained.
Shaking visibly, Geoffrey shook his head, not comprehending. "She...said I would never take her fire away. Then...she turned her axes on me...and her face split open."
He gripped him by the shoulders and shook him. "Look at me, Geoffrey! I promise you. They were only visions. Nightmares. They were not real. Marenna and Jacob are fine."
The shock finally beginning to fade, Geoffrey blinked a few times before rubbing at his blood-gummed eyes. Realizing the touch on his face burned, he paused in confusion at the blood he found on his gloves. Pyresong pulled a light healing potion off his belt.
"Take this. You were...not aware. But the wounds are superficial."
"I...what?"
"They were visions. He wanted you to see...whatever you saw, to torment you," he explained as Geoffrey downed the light healing potion. "You were gouging your face."
The potion was enough to stop the bleeding and seal the shallow cuts, but Geoffrey was still pale and trembling.
"I...I'm sorry. I don't think I can bring you any further."
He took the empty bottle back and put it on his belt. He took a deep breath and let it out as much to reign in his frustration as for the need to breathe. Geoffrey would be okay. For a couple of minutes, he'd been afraid whatever the man had seen had left him much worse off.
"Whatever you did to help me...can you push through this?" Geoffrey asked.
Tyrael, are you there?
Nothing.
"It wasn't just you. I was ensnared, too. I had...help getting out."
Tyrael? he asked again.
"But if you can..."
Pyresong shook his head tiredly. Weariness crept through his every thought. He knew there was no way he could get through that storm alone. And now he knew that shard storm was like a direct connection to Diablo. He swore he'd heard Diablo's laughter more than once in those visions. And there had definitely been terror demons, the Prime Evil's favored minions.
"I can feel the storm under my skin. I don't think I'm going to make it through," he finally told Geoffrey.
Geoffrey nodded but was clearly thinking about something. "Laird Aymer...keeps saying that the Light of Zakarum is the only shelter from the storm. What if he's right? He's always carrying an icon around."
He shook his head slowly. Weary but not exhausted, he knew they weren't going to get any further in here today. He would just have to find another way. The idea of even approaching the Laird with anything other than a bared blade was not appealing, especially after what he'd seen of the man. But he had to consider all options. Geoffrey pulled him out of his thoughts.
"Let's...regroup back at the camp. We can try again. I...won't let you down," Geoffrey promised.
"You didn't let me down," he assured. "I appreciate the attempt. Now I know what I'm up against. There was nothing you could have done. And I'll...just have to find another way."
Geoffrey nodded, still seeming uncertain but willing to accept that vague answer for now. He was glad to see the light of genuine curiosity behind those dark eyes. Given what he had been through, his greatest fear was that Geoffrey had taken the kind of emotional and mental beating people just don't recover from. Hopefully, whatever Tyrael had done to break him free had also helped with the recovery.
"I'll get us out of here," Pyresong told him as the man turned to find a path.
He opened a portal to the waypoint that was near the resistance hideout. Geoffrey looked both grateful and relieved.
The moment they stepped into the tunnels, they could hear it. The sounds of raging battle echoed at them from all sides, but there was only one place it could originate. Geoffrey took off at a run. His weariness forgotten, Pyresong was only a step behind him. Any thought of spiders or mites was forgotten as they raced toward the hideout entrance. Even there in the entrance, the smell of blood filled the air, along with the screams of the dying.
"The guard!" Geoffrey growled, fighting his way through the ones right in front of the entrance.
In every direction they looked, Staalbreak guards in their shiny armor were cutting down resistance fighters, most dressed in little more than rags. Every one of the resistance was armed, but it made little difference against the thick armor of their attackers. There were at least three soldiers to every resistance fighter still alive. Bodies littered the cavern. To their left, where the wounded had been kept, nothing moved. They had already been murdered while helpless. Seeing this, his rage reared up, and he had no intention of reigning it in right now. Whatever Geoffrey was thinking about the numbers, he clearly didn't care. He dove right into the nearest group of guards, cutting off heads, stabbing beneath the plate, and even just slashing arms enough to stop the guard from fighting back. Pyresong was right there with him.
To the right of the entrance, there were bursts of light and lightning when a mage joined in the fight. He only needed a heartbeat to realize it was aimed at the resistance fighters. He followed the visible magic with his scythe. This was no place for mindless skeletons; they likely wouldn't be able to tell friend from foe in this mess. With the multiple battles in so many tight pockets, the best he could do was some carefully aimed spirit fire and his plain blade. The moment he spotted the mage at the far end, he headed in that direction. He went into wraith form when a couple of spells were flung in his direction. As soon as he materialized, the man lost his head. Then he turned his attention to more guards nearby.
He returned to Geoffrey's side as quickly as possible in wraith form. They began working their way up toward the central cave where the bulk of the fighting now took place. Again, they were in small clusters battling each other. But it didn't matter. It was already too late. The few remaining resistance fighters were falling. The score of remaining guards stood no chance against his rage and Geoffrey's skill. Empowering his scythe blade, he used that energy to cut through their armor like parchment. A few seconds later, he and Geoffrey were the only two left standing in that larger area.
"How many people will you starve by scavenging from my table?" Laird Aymer's voice rang out from near the entrance.
When they spun around, they found the Laird being carried in his chair, surrounded by another score of guards. Geoffrey backed up as they approached. This was too many, and several more poured into the cave as they watched. Even if there hadn't already been several crossbows aimed at them, there were just too many for a melee. For a heartbeat, he considered a volley of bone spears in the tightly packed men. As the guards fanned out across the cavern, Geoffrey motioned for him to back up. He let go of the spells as they took a couple of steps back.
"There's an exit on the back wall of this cave," Geoffrey whispered over his shoulder.
"Surrender, and your men can go back to the Grays. Your wife and your mongrel boy, too," Laird Aymer called from behind the still-growing wall of soldiers.
As they backed toward the exit, Pyresong could now make out the sound of several voices behind him. Until now, he'd thought most, if not all, of the resistance had been slaughtered in this cavern. By the sounds of the voices behind them, the others were working on trying to ambush the nearest guards. They were trying to buy the two of them enough time to escape into the tunnel. When Geoffrey didn't reply to the Laird's words, the crazed man decided talk was done. Pyresong caught the motion as the Laird's hand went up and then came down, signaling the guards to attack.
"Scatter through the tunnels!" Geoffrey called, turning to run along with the rest of them.
Pyresong turned to flee into the tunnels when Geoffrey signaled him. A heartbeat later, he spun back around when he heard a pained grunt. Geoffrey was clutching his right leg with a crossbow bolt sticking right through it. The same instant his eyes fell on Geoffrey, two more crossbow bolts caught him as well. One screamed past his right cheek as the other buried itself on the inside of his right elbow. He was already beyond pain at that point as the mindless rage gripped him. Somehow he managed to keep his grip on his scythe despite the bolt in his arm. Reflexively he moved to drop his shield and switch hands.
"Go! Keep moving! Tell—"
By that point, Pyresong was being dragged away by a couple of Barbarians more than capable of hefting his thinner frame. Frantically, he fought them, trying to get back into the fight. One large Barbarian was holding each arm. Short of injuring them, he wasn't going to get them to let go. Just as he was about to fill his arms with spirit fire, they rounded a corner into another tunnel. His last sight was of Geoffrey fending off several guards approaching with their swords. A second later, the sound of armored men chasing them through the tunnels turned to horrified and agonized screams when the tunnel entrance was collapsed. Finally, it sank in beyond his rage and need to lash out at anything visible that Geoffrey was beyond reach. Even if they hadn't been massively outnumbered, there was no way back now.
Reigning in his blind rage, Pyresong quit fighting the two that dragged him down the tunnels. Sensing this, the two let him go. While he ran only a couple of steps behind, he yanked the bolt out of his elbow and then downed a potent healing potion. He'd almost completely forgotten the bolt that had slashed across his cheek until he felt the heat of the healing. When he was certain he would not drop it, he finally hooked his scythe on his belt carefully. A few minutes later, he downed another thick potion to finish sealing off the wounds. It was tender and still ached when he moved his arm, but he could fight now. He followed along behind while they led him and several others out of the tunnels. It was already well after nightfall when they exited. Having no idea where he was at this point, he listened to the others talking about various places to hide.
He wasn't hiding.
"How do I get to Marenna's camp from here?" he asked one of them.
"Don't worry, we'll take care of her and Jacob," one of them assured him.
"That's not what I'm asking," he replied, his voice sounding frigid even to his own ears. "I will tell Marenna. You follow whatever plan Geoffrey had for this. I'm sure he had one. This is not over."
The few men still standing around looked at each other before one of them shrugged and pointed. He didn't wait for further talk. Given what he was feeling right now, he didn't want to know what their plans or hideouts or whatever were. Had he been close enough to the city, he would be blasting down the gates and walking right in with a small army to kill every one of them. He knew full well how reckless that would be but was beyond caring. Having even just a few minutes to breathe and walk helped.
Heading in the direction indicated, he breathed slowly and forced his rage back down. He would not let this be over for them. One way or another, he was going to kill Laird Aymer and put an end to this sickening madness. In only a few minutes, he realized he was in slightly familiar territory. It didn't take him long to find the path that led to Marenna's camp. It was even later than he thought. He'd had no idea how long he and Geoffrey had been trapped in those visions, but it had been late afternoon when they had passed through the Underdeeps. Now he walked toward Marenna's camp to find all but the sentries sleeping. He put his hands out at his sides non threateningly.
"I need to see Marenna," he told the men when they blocked his path.
"I'll get her. You stay here," one of them said.
He just nodded. He took the opportunity to clean his blade and hook it and his shield. By then, he'd managed to at least put his mind in order. He'd successfully wrestled the rage down to a simmer, and it was getting murderously colder by the moment. When Marenna came running through the darkness with a torch in hand, he began to realize that his blade wasn't the only thing that had been covered in gore and blood.
"You look horrid. What is it? What happened?"
Whatever he thought he was going to say flew right out of his head as the last of the rage bled away. Just the sight of Marenna and her pale-faced fear tugged at something that made his own heart ache in empathy.
"Geoffrey...his camp was raided," he started to explain.
Marenna's free hand went to her mouth in shock as tears filled her eyes.
"The resistance is scattered. I don't know if he's been captured or..."
"No..." she stopped him.
He could tell it was not to deny the truth of his words. Something else altogether stirred behind her dark blue eyes. Marenna's hand came away from her mouth as her expression turned cold and hard. She swiped at her eyes.
"Come with me."
He followed silently while she spun on her heel and headed back through the sleeping camp. She led him to the far end of the now much more crowded camp. She pointed to the nearby fire.
"Wait here."
He nodded, and she disappeared into what looked like a supply tent that was beside the one he'd seen her in before. There was no sign of Jacob at the moment; very likely asleep. His rage not quite entirely gone, he began to feel tired. Beyond the physical tired, there was a weariness of the soul he could not so easily put aside. But there was no time. Whatever was about to happen, they had to move quickly. If his suspicions about the Laird were correct, Geoffrey was still alive. Twisted, power-hungry people like Aymer preferred to make very visible examples of people they felt had defied them.
Marenna exited the tent a few minutes later, a completely different person. Now she was a fully armed Barbarian warrior ready for battle. Her expression promised death in the very near future.
"I tried to live beside these people. Bandaged their wounds. Hung up my axes to make them feel safe," Marenna told him coldly. "Lair Aymer will never feel safe again."
He nodded with a chilly smile of his own. As he'd hoped, this was not over. Even if Geoffrey was dead and the resistance scattered, they would find a way to end this.
"The clear-headed among my old tribe are still in the hills. Their camps are within a day's ride," she explained. "The Owl don't care what happens to the city. Or me. But if they hear it from someone new...Staalbreak could be a home for them. It should be. If you're willing to help, rally as many as you can. I'll gather the resistance and meet you when I'm done."
"Wait," he said as she turned to leave. "I don't think someone like Aymer would kill Geoffrey so quickly. If we move fast—"
"He's alive," she cut him off. "They better pray he's still alive when I get there."
He nodded. At least now he knew this wasn't a grief-driven move on her part. A person suffering from such a loss could easily throw away their own lives along with many others. Reassured by her statement, he watched while she dug through a nearby trunk. When she turned back to him, she had a rolled-up scroll of parchment.
"Here's a general map. I know it's not very good. But the circles are the last known locations of Owl survivors."
"I'll be back within the day," he promised. "We'll make our move the day after."
He glanced at the map and then rolled it up quickly. With a final nod to Marenna, he ran back down the path and toward the Wards. Having been cleared so recently, there were no more than a couple of shardborn creatures wandering through the night that crossed his path. Despite the need to conserve energy, right now, he was more than happy to have something to kill. At least at this time of night, the Wards should be mostly sleeping as well. A few minutes later, when he was maybe halfway through the Wards and headed north, he was surprised when someone in the shadows called to him.
"Priest, over here!"
He stopped beside a tent where the voice had come from. "Larkey?"
"Shhhh! Don't tell the whole world," the man hissed. "Come here."
He moved toward the shadowy tent entrance warily. Larkey's pale expression was a mask of fear. Clearly, he knew what had happened to Geoffrey and the rest of the resistance.
"Our...comrades are trying to reclaim more stolen goods. We were interrupted by some new arrivals. They need everything they can get right now. If you can deal with these bloody bandits, they should be able to carry the goods away," Larkey explained almost too fast for Pyresong to keep up.
"What—"
Larkey shoved his way out of the tent and past him. "Over there," he pointed to a campfire to their left. "I'll go get the attention of the others to keep them away from you."
Catching on, he nodded.
"See? I'm helping," Larkey couldn't help saying with a smirk before he turned toward a much larger group of bandits coming from the other direction.
He ducked away in the shadows in the direction Larkey pointed. Behind him, he could hear the smuggler hailing the other group in an overly friendly manner, offering a drink. At least for the moment, he wouldn't have to worry about them. Ahead of him, three burly men wearing the trademark animal skins stood around a campfire, sharing a bottle of something. Pyresong had no more time or patience. He walked right in and cut down the three of them. They were so stunned by his appearance and unexpected attack that they didn't even have a chance to call a warning to anyone else nearby. As soon as the third one fell, he turned to the surprised voices in the much larger tent behind him. It appeared to be some kind of stockpile.
"You're clear. Go," he told them.
"Thank you!" one of them called as the four men ran past him carrying crates.
As soon as they disappeared into the darkness beyond that area, he turned back to where he'd last seen Larkey. A minute ago, he thought he'd heard a commotion behind him, back the way Larkey had gone. Sticking to the shadows, he inched around the camp. Now he could hear several men and women laughing nastily.
"String him up with the others!" one man hollered.
"Nah! We'll take his fingers!" called another.
"You'll regret this!" Larkey shot back. "I don't make bad bets!"
The crowd gathering around roared with laughter at this. A moment later, Larkey's pained cries rang out when someone began hitting him. Finally able to inch around a shack to see what was actually happening, he counted maybe ten people within sight. Larkey was tied hand and foot on the ground. They didn't bother to gag him as they began punching and kicking him. Several were already cheering loudly and making even cruder suggestions about what to do with the helpless smuggler. Having been on the receiving end of a couple of mobs in his life, Pyresong was more than happy to disperse this one. He summoned two skeletons and began throwing spirit fire. With Larkey down and not able to get out of the way, a corpse explosion was out of the question. Between himself and the skeletons, it was more than enough to kill all but two that fled in terror.
When he turned his attention to Larkey, the man was badly beaten and bleeding from a head wound. His dark eyes rolled up to Pyresong for a terrified heartbeat before rolling up into the back of his head. Posting his skeletons around them as a guard, he pulled a hunting knife off his belt and began cutting away the thick ropes. Once Larkey was freed, he grabbed a potent healing potion off his belt. By the looks of those vicious kicks, the man likely had at least a few fractures. Almost as soon as the vile liquid hit Larkey's tongue, the man began to gag and cough.
"What the bloody hells..."
"It's a healing potion. Finish it. It will stop the bleeding and take care of the superficial wounds," he explained, helping the man to sit up.
Larkey, pale and shaken, did as he was told. He made a face at the awful flavor and shuddered when the warmth of healing spread through his body. He blinked at Pyresong in evident surprise.
"I didn't think you'd come back," Larkey said softly, still dazed. "Thank you."
"Now you owe me,” he replied with a wicked grin. “You're going to help our friends get into Staalbreak.”
"What?" he asked, coming back to full awareness.
"That's the price of freedom. Unless you want me to go round up some more of your bandit friends here."
"All that...for a couple of knots?" Larkey protested in disbelief.
"And eight bodies."
Larkey looked around at the multiple corpses, some of them in pieces. For a moment, his wide eyes flicked to the skeletal warriors standing nearby. Pyresong could almost hear the whirring of the thoughts that must have run through the smuggler's mind. As expected, the man's shocked expression was quickly replaced with a greasy businessman's grin. With no small amount of amusement, he met the necromancer's eyes.
"Fine. I see this is very important to you, and clearly, I am the best person to solve your problem. So, I'm at your disposal."
With an amused grin of his own, Pyresong helped him to his feet. He eyed Larkey closely, unsure if he might need an escort out of the Gray Wards. Other than a couple of pained grimaces, the man seemed steady enough.
"Marenna's going to work on getting the resistance fighters organized,” he explained. “I'm going to get more help. It shouldn't be more than a day or two."
"Wait. This late at night, I know something that will do a lot more good than just stealing back supplies," Larkey told him with a grin. "Won't take more than a few minutes."
"I'm listening."
"I know where the main weapon storehouse is on the outskirts. And I happen to know the guard tonight is rather distracted elsewhere at the moment."
He couldn't help another wicked grin. "Lead the way."
They cut through the Wards back to the east, using shortcuts he had never even noticed before. Sticking to the shadows and shortcuts, Larkey had told the truth; the warehouse was only ten minutes from where they had stood. Larkey peered carefully around a corner. Just as he'd said, there was no one guarding the large wooden structure that housed the guards' weapons stores out here.
"Let's cut their bowstrings and soak their fletchings. Quietly, so the other guards aren't alerted," Larkey whispered.
"Are you sure? I was planning to yell the whole time," he whispered back.
Larkey laughed softly as they came around the corner. "You're the expert."
He couldn't help a chuckle in return. A moment later, they'd cross the few feet of relatively open space and into the door. The warehouse was absolutely full of weapons. It would take them all night to work their way through even half of it. For a second, he considered just setting the whole place ablaze. Before he could consider any further, though, the door opened again.
"Shit..." he heard Larkey hiss as he ducked behind a rack.
"Who's there? I saw someone come in here!" a young man called, creeping directly toward Larkey.
Pyresong, having hidden behind the open door, was already sneaking up behind the soldier. Silent as a shadow, he raised his scythe.
"Wait!" Larkey hissed, coming out from behind the rack. "Werner, listen to me. You can't tell anyone we were here. Just please...keep quiet."
"Larkey?"
"Yes...and I have a friend. Look behind you."
The young man nearly tripped over himself, trying to get away from terrifying sight of the necromancer ready to strike. Pyresong held perfectly still, waiting for whatever would happen next.
“Light, spare—" Werner started, stumbling back right into Larkey.
"Listen to me," Larkey said, catching the guard. "We're just...having some fun. You didn't see anything."
"The Laird's gone mad," Werner said, clearly terrified. "Just...whatever you're doing, do it quick."
"Thank you, friend," Larkey said.
"I have to get back out there before someone comes looking," Werner said.
Still blocking the door, Pyresong cocked an eyebrow at Larkey questioningly. The man nodded in return, so he stepped aside and let the guard out. As soon as the door closed behind Werner, he held up a hand to stop Larkey. He listened for a minute in case the young soldier changed his mind. If he had, then Pyresong was just going to set the whole place ablaze, and the two of them get away in the chaos.
"What? He's a good kid, just...scared, like a lot of us," Larkey said, finally catching on.
He eventually nodded. Each of them picked a side and began running down the rows of weapons. Anything they could easily damage, they did. He cut entire racks of bows to pieces with a swipe of his scythe. Seeing how effective and fast Pyresong was, Larkey opted to go after the crates of arrows. He began pulling out a handful at a time and stomping them in half. With carefully controlled energy in his scythe blade, he cut right through several racks of swords and other solid weapons. It was more noise than he would have liked, but it was effective. They managed to put a sizable dent in the multitude of racks of weapons. He could only hope it was enough. He still needed to get back through the Wards before sunrise. He had no idea how late it already was. After what felt like an hour, he called a halt.
"I'll be on the outskirts of Staalbreak when you're ready. The bandits know I'm working the other side now. I can't venture into the Wards again," Larkey warned.
"I'll meet you there when we're ready," he agreed.
The sky was already beginning to turn a dark blue in the east when they left the storehouse. Larkey disappeared somewhere in the direction of Staalbreak's gates while Pyresong headed west and north again. No longer fueled by adrenaline, he began to feel the exhaustion creeping in. He hadn't had much sleep the night before, and almost non-stop walking or fighting all day, and now another night. He had no choice but to stop for food and rest. He just wanted to get out beyond the Wards, where it might be marginally safer.
The sun was already above the horizon when he finally found a shallow cave on the side of a broken hill. He set a skeletal warrior at the entrance as he crawled into the tiny space. It was just enough for him to sit in if he took off his shield and scythe. It would have to do since it was the only shelter from a possible shard storm. He quickly ate some of his rations and then began to doze. With everything that had happened, he wasn't about to let himself sleep deeply enough to dream, not yet. He would have to deal with everything later. Right now, his body just needed enough rest to get him back on his feet without stumbling.
***
A few hours later, still well before midday, he crawled back out of the small space. He consulted the map Marenna had given him. There were three locations. If he was lucky, he only needed to get to one of them. The closest, he guessed, was only a few hours away. He began jogging in that direction at a steady pace he could keep up for hours. Occasionally, he encountered more shardborn, but thankfully no storms. He made better time than he'd hoped. Well before sunset, he encountered the first Barbarian sentries.
"I need to speak with the Chieftain," he told them when they barred his path.
"What do you want, outsider?"
"I'm no stranger to your people. I've worked with the tribes in the Tundra. I may be able to help the Owl tribe as well," he explained.
They eyed him warily as he reached slowly into a pocket under his breastplate, where he kept a couple of specific items. One was the locket he'd found on Lucian. The other was Navair's ring. He didn't have all day to explain. If this didn't convince them, he would move on to the next camp.
"Here. This belonged to a daughter of a Shadow Wolf tribe Chieftain. Her name was Navair. Her father was Torr. Torr fell in the battle against Baal's army just outside Sescheron."
The younger of the two guards eyed the ring but easily recognized it as an heirloom of the tribe chieftains. The older eyed him more suspiciously.
"You've been to Sescheron?"
"I have. And used the blessings of the Ancients to free several of your people so they may go to their rest in the next world. I left the signet of the Ancients with Chieftain Kientarc to give other trapped warriors their rest."
"It's him!" the younger said. "We must get him to Vargild!"
Slowly the older Barbarian nodded. "Vargild is on the path up there. You'll have your say, but he may not be willing to listen."
He nodded gratefully. It was better than being turned away completely. He shoved the ring back in his pocket and hooked his shield on his back. The path wound around and up to a clifftop where more shacks and tents had been erected. By the looks of the strong, proud people here, they were in no better shape than the first camp he'd seen. These people were hungry and weary but not broken. They still struggled to live as their traditions demanded. Clearly, as many of them had been claimed by the shard storms as the others, anyone left out in the open unprotected could be turned, he knew. Given how badly broken the tribes of the Tundra were when he'd last seen them, he was glad to see these fierce warriors still clinging to their traditions in this broken land. He hoped they would be willing to listen and accept the safety of the city walls.
He bowed low to the graybeard that led this camp, priest to chieftain. He was in no mood for further pleasantries. He knew the Barbarian ways, and he didn't have all evening to get to the point. Hoping the elder chieftain wouldn't take it as an insult, he jumped right in.
"The Laird of Staalbreak won't let your people into the city, no matter how bad the storm gets. Marenna wants to attack Staalbreak and open the gates up. Will you fight with her?"
"Marenna?” Vargild scoffed in disgust. “She traded her dignity to be coddled in a house of stone. One that eats more of our land every day. Tell me, how many of us should die for her city?"
"It is not her city," he shot back, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "No more than it is the Laird's city. A city belongs to the people...all of them. Everyone who needs shelter should be welcome there.”
He paused for a heartbeat. He didn't have time to cater to their pride or reluctance, nor did he have the patience. Instead he decided to drop any pretense of diplomacy. He never really had the knack for negotiation anyway.
"I am no stranger to the tribes," he continued before the man could argue. "Some deaths are proud. Many of your tribe died trying to enter Staalbreak. Do you believe they did so for nothing?"
Vargild barked a laugh. "She sent you to rattle your jaws at me, so you must be worth something."
Sensing more in the elder man's coldly calculating gaze, he waited. Briefly, there was a flicker of something behind those eye, but he couldn't make it out before it was gone. The resolute gaze that followed told Pyresong he had read this one accurately. There would be a decisive test before any determination would be made one way or the other. Buried beneath that fierce pride was a desperation to find a way to save his dwindling people.
"One of our young bravos, Wulfric, was twisted by the storm,” the chieftain explained in a flat voice. “He deserves mercy in death, and I won't ask my own to take on his curse. End him, and if you return to us, the Ancestors will show me the truth of your words."
Relieved, Pyresong bowed formally again, this time warrior to chieftain.
"I will see that he dies an honorable death in battle and ensure he is at peace. His sacrifice for the good of the tribe will be honored."
When he rose from the bow, Vargild's eyebrows had shot up near his hairline.
"You do understand the tribes."
"As I said, I am no stranger to the tribes,” he replied neutrally. “I am friend to Chieftain Kientarc and the others of the Tundra. I was able to obtain the Ancestors' blessing to give peace to some. I have not had a chance to return to see that all have found peace. But word was sent that others may help."
"We will see what the Ancestors say about you, Priest." Vargild turned to point toward a ridge in the distance. "Follow that path to the north beyond the camp borders. You will find him near the cliffs. Go. I will speak no more until you return."
With a final nod, he took off at a jog. The winding path through the lower sections of the camp obscured the view of the cliffs beyond. Within minutes, he spotted two more sentries along the north path in an area that was virtually devoid of tents. Yet there were lingering signs that once this camp had been much, much larger. Many had retreated to the safety of the cliffs above where he'd found Vargild. Many more had likely been claimed by the shard storms.
Only minutes after leaving the old and now unused outskirts of the tribe's camp, he found the cliffs looming almost directly overhead. Knowing he was likely being watched from the camp, Pyresong did not summon any skeletons or golems. Though he had not made a formal oath to Vargild, he would keep his word as a warrior. He would face this shardborn Wulfric man to man in honor of his strength and courage, as was proper among the tribes. There would be no magic, no necromancy used in this battle. He hefted his shield and unhooked his scythe.
He crept along the path all close to the rock wall, listening for movement. He didn't have to wait long. A shifting of dirt above alerted him to Wulfric's approach. The thing that dropped down off the cliffs was clearly once a large, strong Barbarian. Now it was covered in red pustules and shard growths to a point it seemed much larger than the man had once been, very nearly a giant. And now it bore wicked claws instead of hands. It roared a screaming challenge as it jumped down from the cliffs above, aiming it's massive claws at him.
He quickly rolled out of the way when it dropped down from above, missing him by only a couple of feet. It was fast, almost too fast. The first swipe of claws he managed to catch on his shield. It was powerful enough to send him slamming into the rocky cliff face. Dazed but not entirely stunned, he dropped down low and swiped with his scythe at its legs. Again, it was too fast. It dodged away from his scythe, kicking with the other leg. He just managed to pull back in time to avoid the clawed foot taking his face off. But it was at the cost of taking another blow from one of the thing's powerful hands on his back plates. He turned the jarring impact into a roll back to his feet, blade first. This time, he caught an arm aimed for his throat just above the wrist with his scythe, shearing it off. When the thing stepped back, screeching in pain, he didn't give it a chance to recover. His back swing was aimed right at its chest. It leaned back away from his blade, turning it into another kick. The kick from the monster slammed right into his breastplates hard enough to make him think they were dented nearly knocking the breath from his lungs.
By this point, he'd fallen into the battle instincts that had kept him alive for so long. Reflexively, he rolled again when he landed painfully in the dirt. He didn't bother standing up. He launched himself at its legs as he was still coming at him. He hooked his scythe around one leg just above the knee and pulled when it hit him again. The force of his pull combined with the force of the hit on his shield from the still-intact arm was enough to cut clean through the thigh, sending the enraged shardborn to the ground.
It was still far from helpless. As Pyresong rolled to his feet again, it wriggled across the ground almost too fast for him to back away. When the still-intact arm came too close, he managed to cut it off as well. But the maddened thing still managed to kick him in the side of his leg hard enough that he felt the bones breaking sideways behind his greave. The powerful sweep had knocked him right off his feet. He barely felt the impact of the ground beyond the blinding explosion of pain in his leg. On the ground with it now, he instinctively rolled sideways along the path. The thing caught up to him, still screaming and raging in its madness.
Bereft of its arms, it screamed and gnashed at him with its fangs. Still rolling in a desperate attempt to get away from those fangs, he dropped his shield in its path to slow it down. Then he switched hands and reversed both his blade and his roll. He just barely managed to bury the tip of his blade in the thing's neck. The move shocked the thing for less than a second. That was all he needed to roll away again, pulling the blade and nearly severing the head. He continued rolling for a couple of seconds until he was sure it wasn't following. Sitting up, he watched while it twitched and spasmed in the dirt for before finally going still.
Now the pain and shock of his many injuries began to make themselves known. For a moment, he was too dizzy to think. Looking down, he realized his leg was definitely broken. The bones hadn't quite managed to come through the flesh, but it was clearly bent at an unnatural angle in multiple places from the knee down. Even his knee was bent sideways. The only thing keeping the lower part of his left leg straight at the moment was the greave still buckled on. Given the strength behind those blows, he suspected there may be actual dents in his front and back plates as well. Taking a deeper breath to try to focus, he realized there were other fractures. At least there were no other major broken bones he could feel.
Instead of using the weaker potions hanging from his belt, he got one of the most potent—and vile-tasting—ones out of his backpack. It was thick like some kind of syrup and almost always made him gag. Still, he managed to force it down. A few seconds later, the pain of the bones moving back into their places had him holding his breath and then biting back screams. The white-hot, flaring agony in multiple places along his leg as the bones and connective tissues shifted made him choke and gag. This, combined with the dizziness already assaulting him, nearly sent him into unconsciousness. Still operating solely on adrenaline and instincts he downed a second potion that was just as powerful, that intensified the pain in his leg exponentially.
Sometime later, when the pain began to ease to intense warmth instead of white-hot pain, he forced himself to breathe to fight off the encroaching darkness. He was again lying flat on the ground with the clouds above him painted in vibrant oranges and purples from the setting sun. His weary mind latched onto those glorious colors and natural beauty for a second. Vaguely his mind wondered about the stars beyond those clouds. He wanted to lay there until they came out again. His eyes slowly began to blur and then darken. Just a few minutes' rest...
Suddenly he remembered where he was and why. He struggled to force his mind to focus. He rolled over and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Anything to fight off the dizziness and darkness. The flaring pain in his leg told him the two potions had not been nearly enough. Though the leg was straight now, the bones had not entirely knit, and the muscles were still badly damaged. For several seconds he sat on his hands and knees just breathing, and trying to force his sluggish mind to move. While the pain wasn't quite as intense, now, it still left him clutching at what few shreds of consciousness he still had. After what felt like another small eternity, he was finally able to sit back on his knees without the world tilting around him.
He turned his attention to the twisted body just a couple of feet away. Sticking out from under it, he could just make out the silvery pommel of a large sword. Not really thinking so much as reacting, he rolled the body over to get a better look. Without a doubt, the etchings and craftsmanship indicated this was a very old heirloom blade. As the last twinges and warmth of healing settled in his leg, he sat back on his knees for a moment. Part of him knew this was a valuable weapon to the tribe for many reasons. He was unsure whether they would come out to bury the body in traditional fashion on the battlefield or not. Clearly this ancient weapon had been handed down or earned by its bearers through the centuries. Even if there was no living family to pass the blade down to, it would be cherished as a tribe treasure. If they chose to bury the warrior with his blade, they could bring it with them.
His hand glowed faintly as he checked to ensure Wulfric had indeed gone to his rest. The corpse was empty. He prayed the spirit had not been as twisted as the body. Relieved he would not have to do more for the fallen warrior, he pulled the blade out of its damaged sheath and carefully slid it through his belt. There was just barely enough room for such a wide blade, but he managed.
After recovering his shield and scythe, he carefully got back to his feet. His left leg felt like it wanted to cramp up after such recent and incomplete healing, but it would hold him up for now. He knew he could make a portal back to the area around Staalbreak. He wouldn't have to walk all the way back. it was already growing late, and he just needed to get back to the Owl's camp. Geoffrey had been taken almost a day ago. If they could manage it, he'd like to see about launching the attack in the morning.
Trying not to limp visibly, he began walking back toward the camp. As expected, the sentries let him pass without challenge. When he looked up, he could clearly see Vargild watching from above. The man nodded that he should come back up.
A few minutes later, he crested the rise, pulling the giant sword from his belt. He went to one knee before Vargild with the blade in both open palms, as was the traditional surrender of a weapon. He bowed his head as he spoke.
"Wulfric fought well to the end. I return this part of his soul to the tribe."
When he looked up, Vargild's previous surprise at his knowledge of tribe traditions had now become smoldering anger. He had clearly been out-maneuvered by someone he considered an outsider. And now he could not break tradition without insulting his own people. Pyresong waited patiently for the man to think his way through it. The elder had not survived to have gray hair in this unforgiving environment by being rash or impulsive.
"You do us much honor," Vargild finally said grudgingly, accepting the sword. "More than Marenna, at any rate."
Too tired to entirely reign in his temper at this point, he scowled darkly. Rising to his feet, Pyresong was not about to let that slide.
"Marenna did not give up your ways out of weakness. Hers is a strength of compassion and adaptability. She stands now as a proud warrior leading those people in a battle she does not want to fight. If you cannot respect her strength, respect the fact that she is trying to make a better life for all people, including yours. Your people need shelter from the storms as much as theirs."
Vargild seemed taken aback by his vehemence but seemed to at least consider what had been said. After a few seconds, he nodded.
"Fine. Tell Marenna she will have our axes for one raid. The Owl do not kill and die for a promise. She had best succeed."
"I will see the Balance restored," he promised. "Gather your people near the outskirts of Staalbreak. If all goes well, we move in the morning."
The elder man nodded. Concealing his relief, Pyresong bowed low again, priest to chieftain. He walked a few feet away to an open spot and quickly opened a portal. He exited near the former resistance hideout. At least from here he could easily cut through the Gray Wards back toward Marenna's camp. As exhausted as he now was, he just prayed he could get there with enough time to get some real rest before the battle tomorrow.
Before he even got to the part of the tunnel that led up and out to the Wards, he was surprised to find Rusk standing guard. Further down the now-darkened tunnel, he could hear more.
"You're back! I hope you've got good news," Rusk greeted with a grin.
"What are you doing down here?"
"Marenna's in the hideout along with a few others. Final preparations."
"Is it safe?"
"Probably not, but it's the one place we can gather that Aymer isn't likely to check any time soon," Rusk admitted.
"I need to see Marenna."
"You know the way."
His leg still threatening to do ugly things to him if he didn't get another potion soon, he quickly made his way though the entrance into the mostly destroyed cavern. Everything had been either burned or broken. He stood in the shadows for a moment to take in the scene and gauge the reactions. On the stairs directly ahead of the entrance, Marenna stood before a group of roughly a dozen or so men and women. Many of them looked more than a little doubtful, and half of them looked defeated already. He was not about to let that happen.
"No one else is going to save these lands. Only us," Marenna was insisting, sounding as if she was repeating herself for the hundredth time.
Several of the people gathered shook their heads. He decided to make his move.
"We move on Staalbreak in the morning. The Owl tribe will bring their axes,” he called to them, startling several near the back.
Marenna smiled widely as all of them began talking with renewed hope. Now they were no longer alone. Now they might actually stand a chance. There were a few who still looked hesitant.
"I am an outsider, and I can see what is happening here is madness. I stand by Marenna to take back the city. Will the rest of you?" he challenged coldly.
Many looked to their comrades. Some nodded instantly, others more slowly. In the end, they all did, though. The moment of rising tension that had gripped him bled away slowly as they began to file out. Apparently, whatever other discussions had already concluded. He could ask later about their plans. Right now, he wanted to get them all out of there before anyone found out. With the other exit sealed, this place could be a death trap. He turned his attention back to Marenna. With the others leaving, Marenna's expression saddened.
"I'm sending them to fight the ones they're supposed to live with...” she said softly. “How did Geoffrey do it? How do you? I don't see how that can possibly turn out right."
"Fighting is never easy," he told her, honestly. "But it was this, or watching everyone wither away in the storms. He didn't think he had any other choice. And I agree. What's happening here is wrong."
"So you're just here to fix the Balance?" she asked with a wry twist to her lips.
"Partially," he admitted. "But you don't have to be a Priest of Rathma to see that people are suffering and dying needlessly out here while Laird Aymer and his people steal what little you have and hide behind their city walls. Geoffrey saw that and wanted to do something about it. No one said it was easy for him to make that decision, either."
"What if he's..." Marenna couldn't even finish the thought.
"Do not dwell on his end before you are sure of it. Think of his life's purpose."
Marenna nodded slowly, her expression hardening again. "You're right."
"We need to get out of here before someone comes looking," he told her. "And I will have to rest before the battle. Do you have a safe place we can shelter?"
"Landric's offered his cottage for the night. What happened to your leg?" she asked, leading them out of the cave.
"It was broken. I took a couple of healing potions that knitted the bones and repaired the muscle, but it's not fully healed yet. Another healing potion and some rest will take care of it."
She seemed to accept this as she fell into silence. Likely her thoughts were chasing themselves around her head. At this point, he was just too tired to even ask. He knew there was plenty for him to sort through as well. For the moment, it was all quiet in his head as he focused on the one thing he could do. He needed food and rest to be prepared for the battle the next day. Everything else would have to wait. Once this was over, he could return to the problem of retrieving the sword. Hopefully, by then Tyrael would at least be able to speak again.
***
He woke before the others. The tiny cottage was cramped with nearly half a dozen people. He'd slept sitting upright against a wall near the door. He was glad Marenna had finally managed to get some sleep. She had shifted restlessly for most of the night. Quickly, he did a mental inventory. He'd been so tired the night before that he'd fallen asleep in minutes. His dreams were plagued with nightmares, as he'd expected. But normal nightmares of his own mind's conjuring he could handle. They still disturbed him and hurt more than he would like to admit, but they were just nightmares. After having been in so many of Diablo's visions, his nightmares almost seemed tame. And, at least, he could escape his own nightmares, even if it just meant losing sleep.
Putting that aside, he refocused his attention when the others began to move. There was a light tap on the door, and the overnight sentry whispered something. A moment later, he lit a candle on a table nearby with a tendril of fire as everyone began to wake. Within minutes, runners were sent in every direction. It was time to gather their forces on the Outskirts. Pyresong stuck with Marenna as they began their march eastward toward Staalbreak. Not five minutes away from Landric's cottage, Larkey came out of a tent in the Wards, grinning from ear to ear. No sign of the beating he had just taken, either. Marenna paused alongside Pyresong when Larkey approached.
"I promised you my services, and I shall deliver. If you can make it to the western parapet, there's a pathway through. The gates should be open in short order," Larkey told him proudly. "I'll take you there myself. At risk of my own life and limb."
Pyresong couldn't help smiling. "That is good news."
"Oh, and, Marenna, I've shared your words with a few folks. As it turns out, plenty of people are tired of the Laird. Your forces will be easily doubled by the time you get there."
"You're a grub, Larkey," Marenna told him with a wide smile, "but you're a good man. The city will need people like you when this is over. Stay safe."
Larkey gave a flourishing bow more often seen in a palace as he took her hand and kissed it. "I am honored by your kind words, my lady."
Marenna laughed outright at that. Then she turned to all the men and women that had stopped to watch.
"Onward!" she shouted, earning a cheer in return.
"Come with me," Larkey told Pyresong. "We're taking a different path."
Feeling more hopeful than he had in quite some time, he gladly followed. The smuggler led them through several shortcuts along the southern areas of the Wards. It seemed the place had been nearly abandoned this morning. When they crossed a bridge over a dry creek bed and up to a nearby southern section of the city wall, he began to understand why. To the north of them on the outskirts, just out of range of bows and crossbows from the walls, Marenna was now addressing the assembled people. Her voice rang out clearly, echoing off the city walls.
"These walls don't belong to one Laird! They belong to all the north! Through the gates! Take our city back!"
The roar of so many people in return was nearly unbelievable to him. There were many, many more people than he'd thought possible. He had no idea how many of the Owl had shown up, but he doubted they were the bulk of the cheers he was hearing now. Given how empty the Wards now appeared, Marenna likely had the backing of anyone capable of wielding a weapon. Much as he hated the gangs of bandits and thugs that had taken over the Wards, if they bulked out the forces needed to take back the city, he could forgive them for the moment. And his mind still wondered how many had turned to such a life out of sheer desperation.
A second later, he returned his attention to his surroundings when he caught sight of a couple of soldiers hiding behind a wooden barricade. His heart leaped into overdrive as he reflexively grabbed Larkey by the cape and tugged. Larkey gave a surprised squeal while the crossbow bolt went right over his head. Another skimmed off Pyresong's rerebrace. He returned fire with some spirit fire to blind them and force them to retreat behind their barrier. He chased that in wraith form to avoid taking another bolt from another soldier he spotted off to the side as he sped toward them. When he materialized again behind the little wooden barrier a few seconds later, he cut down the two guards with his scythe. Knowing Larkey was exposed, he quickly went wraith form again and blazed over to two guards waiting behind another barricade nearby. They were already aiming at the exposed smuggler. Not seeing any others in the immediate area, he raced back to Larkey, who was just now scrambling back to his feet.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
Pale and shaken, Larkey had to clear his throat before speaking. The man shook his head and shot him a reassuring grin. Then he twisted his expression to one of arrogant disgust.
"I didn't realize there'd be so much, ugh...fighting. Why don't you go on ahead of me?"
He nearly laughed at Larkey's disgusted tone and mocking tone of nobility. At this point, he knew the man was no coward. Besides, it was always safer to be behind a necromancer in any case. He quickly jogged forward, hearing Larkey only a few steps behind. Being way out here, about as far from the gates as one could get to the south, there were no more than a handful of guards. Thankfully, Larkey took cover when he ran ahead to engage. Conserving as much as he could, he kept a couple of skeletal mages to throw around spirit fire to create confusion. It didn't take long for them to reach the walls.
Larkey retook the lead when they climbed a short, rough stone wall that led to the wooden section of walls. Off to the north, he heard Marenna's people marching toward the gates now, roaring with anger and battle cries. The timing could not have been more perfect. Larkey walked a couple of feet to their left and then kicked a board that easily shattered, creating an entrance. He ducked through before Pyresong could stop him. Fortunately, there were no guards on the other side of the wall. Larkey ducked to the side and behind some bushes as he followed through the impromptu door.
"I'm just passing through. Don't say I never gave you anything," Larkey quipped from his hiding spot. "Good luck."
"Stay safe," he called over his shoulder, already running for the gates.
He could hear the roar of battle on the other side of the gates as the small army engaged. Inside the city walls, everyone seemed to have taken shelter. There were no people and, initially, no soldiers at ground level to challenge him. Everyone was either on the other side of the gates trying to get back in, or on the parapets and battlements above, fighting the hordes down below. At a flat out sprint, it only took him a few minutes for the gates to come into view. His luck ran out when he caught sight of the barred gates. He was spotted by what looked like some kind of foot patrol in the area. The shouted alerts to others. Thankfully the noise of the battle did not attract any attention from the soldiers with crossbows lining the top of the walls. Aware that other soldiers patrolling the city were now coming his direction, he sent his skeletal mages after them while he summoned a golem. The sturdy bone golem had no problem lifting the locking bar off its hooks. A couple of seconds later, he dismissed the golem when the resistance army began to pour through the open gates, Marenna leading the way.
"Mercy for any who throw down their weapons! Send the rest to their gods!"
Marenna's scream rolled over the wave of charging people in true Barbarian fashion. She led the charge, as was expected. Pyresong soon found himself surrounded by others against only half a dozen guards that had been headed in his direction. Now he was one of hundreds battling. Unable to use his minions or his spells without possibly harming allies, he resisted the urge to fall fully into his combat instincts. He worked his way close to Marenna at the head of the charge as they battled their way through the streets heading for the main keep at the far eastern end of the city. Apparently, the Laird had the bulk of their forces on the walls, not expecting a full breach. Here, within the city, were no more than a few scores of soldiers, mainly around the keep. When they rounded a corner into a plaza that stood before the keep doors, Pyresong's heart twisted painfully. He could see Geoffrey hanging from a rig that was meant to dangle corpses out for the public to take as a warning. Had he been mistaken about the mad Laird?
"All are damned because of violence like yours!" the Laird was shouting from a balcony above the doors.
Pyresong ignored the rest of the battles around him and cut his way through the guards toward the platform. Behind him, he knew the moment Marenna spotted her husband as well.
"Geoffrey!" Marenna screamed, going into a berserk frenzy.
Well ahead of Marenna at this point, he was able deftly dodge around most of the ongoing battles. He got up to the platform before her with no real plan other than to spare her and the others having to see Geoffrey's mangled corpse hanging there like a sickening banner. With a thin blade of energy, he cut the chains holding Geoffrey up. He caught the body as it fell, startled when Geoffrey gasped in pain at the sudden release of pressure on his arms and shoulders. By the time Marenna got to them, he was unhooking a healing potion from his belt. Badly beaten and delirious with pain, Geoffrey's eyes rolled as he mumbled her name.
"He's alive. Watch our backs," he told her, overcoming his initial shock.
He quickly dropped his shield to better support the badly injured man. Careful of broken bones, he lifted Geoffrey with one arm, pouring the thick syrupy potion into his mouth. At first, he groaned and tried to turn away.
"Drink it. It will heal you," he insisted.
Shocked by the sound of a familiar voice, Geoffrey's swollen eyes flew open and blinked several times. He took advantage of that surprise to shove the bottle in Geoffrey's mouth. The man nearly gagged but managed to start swallowing the vile liquid. His pale face twisted in pain when the warmth of healing began to spread. Pyresong had no idea if the man had any broken bones, but it seemed very likely as he started to groan in pain and turn sideways, clutching at his ribs weakly. Wary of possible archers on nearby rooftops, he covered Geoffrey as best he could with his shield. The former guard groaned in pain and seemed to be slipping in an out of consciousness. One potion would not be enough. Letting Geoffrey go for a moment, he shrugged off his backpack. When Geoffrey began to breathe more easily, he pulled out another couple of strong healing potions and a stamina potion. He pulled Geoffrey back toward him.
"Take these. Hurry!"
Still somewhat disoriented, Geoffrey did as he was ordered and downed another healing potion and chased it with the white bottle of bitter stamina potion. He coughed a couple of times after that. Pyresong was relieved to hear his breath didn't rattle. He quickly replaced his backpack and retrieved his shield. When the stamina potion began to take effect, awareness returned to Geoffrey's dark eyes. He looked around at the battles raging all around them.
"The potions won't last long. But it should be long enough for you to get to safety," he started to explain.
"Marenna..." Geoffrey called, scanning the many ongoing battles in the streets.
“Geoffrey!” Marenna gasped, hearing his voice.
She spun around, tears in her eyes, at a loss for words. Geoffrey's own head swiveled so fast he nearly fell sideways. Pyresong steadied him gently.
"Been a while since I've seen you like this. Not that I'm complaining," Geoffrey said accepting the necromancer's help getting to his feet.
Marenna dropped her axes with a ringing clang and engulfed him in an embrace. Pyresong backed away to stand guard over them and give them a few seconds. And a few seconds was all they really had. The battles in this area were nearly past them, but they still raged throughout the city. He counted them all lucky that the Laird hadn't posted any archers on the nearby rooftops or balconies. Maybe his forces weren't as great in numbers as they had feared. While the rest of the men and women cleared the streets of guards and soldiers, the resistance fighters and all the others were now gathering around the plaza to the keep entrance. Many of them cheered and howled happily at the sight of their leader alive. After a few seconds, Geoffrey let go of Marenna.
"Master Pyresong..." Geoffrey coughed to clear his throat; clearly, he'd been choked with tears as much as his wife. "That icon Aymer has. It's his shield from the storm; I know it. He's all but lost the city. Maybe...he'll hand it over."
"I doubt it," Marenna growled.
"I agree. But we have to try," Pyresong said. "You need to get to a place of safety. Those potions won't last more than a few minutes. When it wears off, you're going to be even more exhausted."
"Geoffrey, go to the others. We'll take care of this," Marenna told him.
"My brave, beautiful wife," Geoffrey said, clearly not wanting to part with her. "Go, save our people."
Marenna kissed him quickly one more time while Pyresong turned his attention to the keep doors. They were easily twenty feet tall and very likely barred from the inside. He knew a couple of stone golems could serve as a battering ram, but it would take too long. In the few minutes he had been tending to Geoffrey, the Laird had disappeared from the balcony above. Hoping for just a little bit of luck, he slipped the blade of his scythe between the crack in the doors and moved it up and down. Right about chest height, he felt it catch on the locking bar. He poured as much energy as he could into the blade. Then he pulled with his full body weight as he released the energy in a small explosive blast. The doors rattled for a moment and then began to swing open slightly. He kicked the doors in, expecting more soldiers.
The main hall beyond the doors was alight with braziers almost all the way down. And not a single guard or soldier awaited them. Every column held a lit lamp. Lit candles stood atop every table along the walls. Nothing moved. Sensing a trap, he motioned for Marenna to wait just outside.
"No one else has to die, Aymer. You can leave," he called out.
There was silence in return. Despite the noise still going on outside, he didn't hear anything in there, not even the rattle of soldiers in armor. There was no movement at all, which only made him feel more on edge. There was a trap here. He could sense it. The tension tingled along his skin like faint traces of static. Fairly certain at least this area was empty, he began to walk forward cautiously. He summoned a couple of skeletons to go on ahead. They made it all the way to the wall at the far end of the hall without a single challenge.
"Where are you hiding?" he wondered aloud.
"He must still be upstairs," Marenna offered softly as if afraid to disturb the quiet in here.
Instantly he shook his head at her suggestion. Something he was seeing was making his mind fixate on this one room. There were heavy wooden doors standing open both to the left and the right. Yet his instincts were screaming that the trap was somewhere right here.
"I'll get some men. We'll search the place," Marenna offered.
"No, wait," he said softly, trying to bring to the fore whatever was tickling his brain.
"What? Do you see something?"
That's when he realized it wasn't something he was seeing, but what he wasn't seeing that had triggered his gut instinct about something being off in here. At the far end of the hall, near an unadorned stone wall, were two braziers, one on either side. Neither of them was lit, but all the others were. And, when he looked more closely, the long rug down the center had clearly been disturbed at that end. He ran down to the end of the hall, Marenna right behind him.
"Why light all the rest and not these?" he asked, kicking the rug.
He was looking for a trap door. But there was nothing hiding under the rug. Turning his attention back to the braziers, he switched to magical sight. There was a faint green glow around each of the braziers. Acting on his instinct, he motioned Marenna back a few feet and sent two tendrils of fire. Both braziers jumped to life with magical blue flames. The wall began to open like a giant door. The scent of rotting corpses and the feel of shard corruption was an outright assault on his senses. His heart sank at what he already could envision in the rooms beyond.
"Stay here. I'll deal with Aymer."
Marenna just nodded, her face twisted in disgust at the smell. Beyond the entrance, the stairs were dark. Whatever lay at the bottom of that staircase was well-lit with a multitude of braziers and candles. He dismissed his skeletons as he walked silently down the stairs. In the flickering light of many more braziers, a circular room came into sight. All over the room were the scattered, rotting corpses of shardborn people. Dozens of them. Some looked as old as several weeks. In the center of the room was an unholy seal of some kind carved into the stone of the floor. Every groove and sigil was filled with blood that reeked of shard corruption. In the center of that seal sat Laird Aymer in a chair, calmly watching him approach. He half expected a magical barrier to go up behind him as he entered. When it didn't, he eyed the Laird warily.
"These corpses... You've been...collecting the shardborn?" he asked, not bothering to mask his disgust. "Why?"
"You already know the truth," Aymer smiled at him madly. "The visions. The voices. You have heard them, too."
The Laird's words triggered a memory of dark laughter that made Pyresong repress a shiver. Somehow the madman saw it anyway and smiled wickedly.
"Hundreds fell to the storm. Oh yes, it reaches us all, even here."
Now he could see the glowing talisman that Geoffrey had mentioned. It began to flare brightly when the Laird flung off his lap rug with a wicked smile on his face.
"If they can endure it, we need only become them."
Pyresong quickly stepped back several feet as the old man's body began to twist and writhe. The icon was still glowing brightly, as if denied the filthy corruption coming off the old man. Aymer's legs split into four bloody appendages covered in vile red pustules. The Laird's mad smile never ceased while a fleshy tail covered in shard growths sprouted from his back. The man's mocking laughter took on a whole new level of insanity when he rushed at the necromancer. Pyresong had just enough time to see the madman's eyes glowing red before he was slammed into the wall.
Pinned to the wall, he reflexively unleashed spirit fire, blasting away at the creature. Painful as the assault was, Aymer's mad laughter continued, reminding him very much of Baal. He started to feel for the restless spirits he knew must be nearby, but the thing was just too fast. He had to go into wraith form to dodge the tail when it lashed at him. Wraith form was the only way he could get far enough away to even have a chance of getting a hit in. As he retook solid form, he threw a blade of energy at Aymer, who was already rushing toward him yet again. The blade hit the madman across the chest. For half a heartbeat, Pyresong had hopes of stopping the thing.
It worked, just not in the way he'd thought.
Aymer froze when the glowing icon shattered and fell to the floor in pieces. The laughter had ceased, and the already distorted face began to twist in horror.
"The grace of the Light...broken..."
He was already pouring power into his scythe and was prepared when Aymer's mad rage returned a second later.
"Then the storm must take me whole!"
Instead of attacking, Aymer returned to the blood-filled seal in the center of the room. Again he was almost too fast for Pyresong to track visually. The moment Aymer stopped, though, he felt the powerful surge of energy almost instantly. Whatever Aymer had done, the seal on the floor began to glow a violent and filthy red. He felt the hellishly twisted necromantic energies going out from that circle in a blast wave, not unlike a corpse explosion. Where those powerful ripples touched the corpses, the shardborn began to rise. In response, he began summoning skeletal warriors to fight them off. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a red swirling portal forming. Whatever was beyond that portal reeked of shard corruption and raw power. He shuddered and reinforced his shields when he felt the winds of the shardstorm pour out of that portal. He could already guess where the Laird was headed.
He muttered profanities under his breath as the shardborn Laird disappeared through the portal. He was too far away to stop Aymer. The rest of the shardborn corpses were now rising all around him. Dozens of them. There were too many for him and his skeletons to take on alone easily. Quickly he began to dance his way through cutting and slashing in every direction. At the moment, he had no plan other than to survive this. Wherever the Laird had gone, he was not going to be able to follow, not without Tyrael's help. The angel was still silent, likely too weak to be of any use right now.
Somewhere near the door, he heard the sounds of others battling the undead shardborn with him. He had been just about ready to unleash a corpse explosion to at least put a dent in their numbers. He shoved down his rage when he heard Marenna's battle cries a moment later. Instead of a corpse explosion, he unleashed a string of filthy expletives. It seemed no one around here would listen to his commands. Now they were just in his way again.
"Go after him!" Marenna called.
Though Pyresong had never doubted her prowess in combat, he knew there were just too many to handle alone. And, somewhere in the melee, he could hear Geoffrey, too. The damned man should be away from here. Those potions wouldn't last! He was going to get them both killed.
"Go!" Geoffrey called. "We'll hold them off!"
"I'm not leaving you!" he shouted back. "There's too many!"
Together, the three of them moved in separate directions. Pyresong felt more than a few of the numerous blows but spared no thought for them. He just hoped the shard corruption didn't spread like an infection. If it did, he was already dead. Angrily, he shoved that fear aside. Distantly he was aware of the portal closing and muttered another vile obscenity, but there was nothing he could do about it. With the other two in the room, he couldn't just unleash a corpse explosion, either, to end it quickly. Still muttering obscenities, he sent his skeletal warriors and mages to help the other two.
By the time the last shardborn bodies fell to the floor in pieces, Geoffrey was on his knees, swaying while Marenna stood over him protectively. Pyresong was already reaching for healing potions for both of them. They were in worse condition than he felt.
"I warned you it wouldn't last," he growled told Geoffrey.
"Long enough," Geoffrey said with a grin, still trying to catch his breath.
"Look, a piece of his talisman," Marenna said, pointing to the glowing shards on the floor that somehow managed to survive the battle. "'Shelter from the storm,' he said. It was keeping him...human. With this...we could protect more of them. The Grays. What's left of the Owl. The whole city, maybe."
Geoffrey shook his head. "That fragment? It can't be enough for everyone. But...it's enough for you, isn't it?" he asked Pyresong.
"It will have to be," he said, taking the fragment from Marenna. "The Laird went into the storm. I felt it when the portal opened."
"It's yours," Geoffrey told him. "Whatever you need is yours. We owe this city to you."
"No, you and your people took this city back. This was not my doing. I wouldn't even have gotten to the gate without everyone working together."
"Find your sword," Marenna told him. "Find its Light. Even if it's been smothered...find it anyway."
She turned back to the seal on the floor. Her face twisted in disgust and anger.
"This circle was magic stolen from our tribe. It's just one more thing he stole from us," she said darkly. “I can reopen the portal.”
He helped Geoffrey back to his unsteady feet and pulled him back away from the vile feeling circle.
"Filthy, corrupted version of our magic," Marenna growled. "I'll be damned if it stays like this."
Marenna's hands glowed a soft golden color as she reactivated the circle. The portal opened after only a few seconds. Her struggle against the darker elements was obvious, as was her disgust. He let go of Geoffrey and quickly ducked through so she would not have to hold it a moment longer than necessary.
On the other side of the portal, he stumbled at the immediate assault. He had had no idea exactly where the portal would take him, though he had suspected somewhere near the Gully. His dark and fearful suspicions were now brutally confirmed. Instantly, he was battered by the shard storm, more powerful than he'd ever felt before. The wind was so fiercely powerful, he had to shift his stance to stay on his feet. When he slitted his eyes just enough to see, he realized he was back in the place where the storm had nearly claimed both him and Geoffrey. Despite the fragment of the icon in his hand, he felt the storm blasting right through him. It wasn't just physical sensations. Within him was the feeling of something clawing with icy talons at his very soul. He froze for a moment when the sound of Diablo's laughter resounded through his mind, echoing along every massive crack in his fractured soul. Paralyzing terror tingled along every nerve.
"You belong to me," Diablo told him. "As you have always."
The grip of Diablo's power on his soul was crushing. Instead of just fear, Diablo filled him with a sense of welcome anticipation. The Prime Evil was more than ready to accept this damaged soul into his flock. His heart pounding painfully in his chest, Pyresong gasped and trembled. His mind was going numb. He could feel Diablo reaching around inside of his soul. The paralyzing fear from his nightmares was now his reality. It was coming...
Then the stubborn defiant spark within him flared to life with a blazing fury.
No! I have to do this. Even if the talisman doesn't hold...
And then he knew. Beyond any doubt, he knew. That fragment would not be enough. Nothing would ever be enough. The momentary hot fury cooled into the icy calm of welcome death. It settled around his heart, slowing it. Still trembling, but only slightly, he shoved the fragment of the talisman of Light into his breast pocket under his plates. It didn't matter anymore. He was going after the sword, whatever lay ahead. On some instinctual level, he knew El'druin could protect him. He just had to get to it.
Somewhere in the heart of the storm, Laird Aymer was lurking. Diablo was watching. El'druin was waiting.
The torrents of shard power raging all around him were pulling him now instead of pushing. With his scythe in hand, he walked right into them. In the area beyond where he and Geoffrey had failed, he could clearly see the swirling vortex of the heart of the storm. With a frigid smile, he leaped off the edge and right into the vortex.
The abyss swallowed him gladly.
He landed a couple of seconds later on another shattered path of stone brick that led to a section of raw stone. He turned the fall into a roll back to his feet easily. The air here was so still, so calm, that there was no sign of the storm. This place was so warped; it reminded him very much of the space inside the shard where he'd found Tyrael and Baal. But even those thoughts were dull and far away. In the calm of certain death, there was no real thought. He was ruled entirely by battle instincts. He stalked forward, his scythe already glowing brightly.
In a darker area beyond where he stood, he spotted it. El'druin's grip and pommel stood proudly out of a crack in the rock. Laird Aymer was racing toward it as if to take it. Pyresong nearly laughed at that. He wasn't worried. From what little he knew of angelic weapons, it was not likely to let itself be taken by an evil shardborn like Laird Aymer. As expected, when the creature that had once been Aymer approached, the sword flared pure white Light.
"What is this sword?" Aymer cried. "Why...would the Light burn me so?"
"You gave soul over to evil and corruption. Murdering your own people, Aymer," Pyresong called across the small space. "Now, you will answer for it."
"No!" Aymer screamed defiantly.
The monster screamed in agony moments later when his body twisted even further into something far more demonic than even shardborn.
"I walk through the storm. I am chosen!"
He watched calmly while the already deformed creature grew more limbs and began to flame with red fire. Already his scythe held as much as it could possibly hold. He wasn't going to waste time trying to fight this thing again. It was far too fast. He just needed to get close enough to ensure his strike would connect. He continued stalking slowly forward.
"You defy the Light. You are guilty!" Aymer screamed.
The instant Aymer began to move toward him, he spun. With his scythe in both hands to maintain the flow of power, he unleashed wave after wave of that energy. Aymer wasn't just stopped in his tracks; that soft, fleshy body covered in shard pustules and growths was cut to pieces. When it finally fell to the rocky floor in large chunks, he stopped, swaying slightly from the expenditure of so much of his own energy. All the various parts of Aymer were still twitching and flailing on the floor between him and the sword. Were he not already enveloped in icy calm, he would have shivered a second later. Aymer's laugh had gone from insane to something as dark as Diablo's.
"I have seen what is to come...for us both..."
The bits of the shardborn and demonically twisted Aymer began to dissolve into red mush that still stank of corruption. He didn't bother to watch. El'druin flared again invitingly across the expanse. Pyresong's heart soared. The icy chill was banished by the Light of the sword he could see and feel so clearly now. He knew without a shred of doubt, that even the raging flows of the storm could not batter him through that Light. He smiled widely. Diablo would not be able to get at him again as long as he held that sword.
Finally, El'druin awaits, he thought happily, soaking up that familiar warmth and Light.
He hooked his shield and scythe to free up both hands as he approached. He stood a few inches away, basking in that Light, that inviting warmth. That glorious angelic Light was a balm that banished all his lurking fears and hidden terrors. The sword would protect him from the storms, from the nightmares, from all of it. He fervently hoped that El'druin would be able to help restore Tyrael once he had it.
When he raised his hands to reach for the sword, something else gripped him instead. Deep in his soul, somewhere beyond the protection of the Light, Diablo pulled on that connection through the shards. He literally felt the tugging sensation, like he was being ripped in half as the world around him went black. That beauteous Light was smothered with suffocating Darkness again.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing in Hell. And it wasn't just any part of Hell; he was in the heart of the Black Citadel, where he'd killed Skarn. Where he had freed Diablo.
Not again... he thought in frustration rather than fear.
He'd been so close to claiming El'druin!
At least he knew it was just another vision. He just had to suffer through it and find a way out. Before he could even really let that calm certainty settle his racing heart, Diablo made his move. Several feet in front of him, in the center of the room, another form took shape. His heart stuttered and nearly stopped entirely at the sight. His mind screamed against what he was seeing.
Verathiel!
Black and red chains pouring corruption and terror into the angel had her writhing in agony. Her cries of pure suffering shredded Pyresong's heart, tearing it to pieces. Unhooking his blade, he ran toward her, his mind awash in pure panic. Yet, he never seemed to get any closer! Like some kind of nightmare, he couldn't reach her no matter how hard he tried. Beyond her, the solid image of Diablo rose in the background laughing at this pathetic attempt to save the tortured angel. Her cries turned to screams that pierced through him, making him scream in frustration and horror.
"I will not obey you!" Verathiel screamed through her agony. "Never! Ne—"
"Do you see?" Diablo asked in clear amusement. "This is the price of your defiance."
Finally, his frantic running allowed him to move forward. By the time he got to Verathiel, she'd faded away...her screams still echoing off the gaping chasms in his fractured soul. In a mindless frenzy, desperate to lash out at his tormentor, Pyresong screamed again as aimed for Diablo, instead. Diablo's amused laughter filled the chasm like a suffocating pressure as he disappeared long before he could even unleash a single spell.
"You are broken, just like your world."
Standing alone in this massive room, Pyresong froze as that crushing truth settled in his heart. He knew Diablo was right. He'd been broken more than once. Sanctuary was broken. The world was falling into the gaping maw of Hell, and so few were willing to fight. He was just one man. He could not keep the Balance for the whole world. He couldn't even save the few souls he'd tried to protect. All the memories, the futility of his entire life crashed down on him. Verathiel's remembered screams echoed faintly again. His own life compared to that of an angel...it was all wrong. Hewas the one who had broken the Balance. It was his fault for unleashing a Prime Evil. Names and faces flitted through his mind, lashing him with searing spikes. There was no room left for terror. It was all swept away on a tsunami of despair.
Diablo's laughter chased him into darkness again.
This time, he was falling through the icy black abyss that was his own private hell. Despite a momentary flash of fear, he knew in his heart this was where he belonged. Diablo's laughter cut off only a heartbeat before he slammed into something hard. He'd hit the ground so hard he felt bones cracking and breaking all over his body. And he couldn't even find the will to care. The white hot explosion of pain were a penance to him now. He'd failed again. He desperately wanted the darkness to engulf him, hide him, take him away to that cold empty place. His own private hell where he had been for long. Where no one cared; no one knew he even existed.
He wasn't even given the mercy of unconsciousness this time. Now he was as broken in body as he was in heart and soul, and all he could do was wait for Diablo to take him now. Knowing there was no escape from whatever came next, he closed his eyes. He'd failed again, and the real torment hadn't even started yet.
Forgive me...
He didn't even know who he was asking forgiveness from anymore. And it didn't matter, anyway. Nothing was listening.
The pure white light that came from above startled him enough to open his eyes. Above him, Tyrael was drifting down on his wings of Light. Possibly the most beautiful thing Pyresong had ever seen. A tiny part of him wondered. Maybe something was listening.
"Whatever shadow darkens your soul...do not fear," Tyrael commanded him.
A flood of Light and warmth flowed into him from the angel. He felt his broken body rising up off the floor, healing. He reached desperately for that Light with his whole being.
"Justice is yours. You have proven it again and again," the angel told him, reaching toward him.
Breathing in that Light, taking it deeper into himself, Pyresong reached toward Tyrael. When their hands met, he felt himself being pulled out of this vision. Something deep inside was fighting back, trying to pull him back toward the Darkness. Furious, realizing just how much of a hold Diablo had on his soul now, he forcefully denied that tugging. He willed himself toward Tyrael. This time, it was light that blinded him as the darkness faded away. When he opened his eyes, he was on the ground, inches from El'druin.
"I...I am still with you. Take the sword," Tyrael told him, his voice frighteningly faint, barely even a whisper.
The handle of the sword was easily two feet long, longer than even some of the biggest Barbarian swords he'd seen. Still keenly feeling its radiating Light and warmth and drawing strength from that, he reached toward that long, inviting grip. With it, he knew he would defeat the Darkness, even Diablo. There was still hope. And he would use that to gain justice for all the lives lost in this long, and bloody road to battle. With El'druin's help, they could fix the Balance he had broken. He had never been more certain of anything in his entire life.
The moment his fingers touched the grip, his world shattered again. He was on fire from the inside out! Crying out in shock and pain, he fell back away from the sword. When the shockingly painful burning sensation all over his body gradually faded, he found himself on his hands and knees, trembling all over. He stared up at the sword in confusion, totally disoriented. His entire world had just flipped itself inside out. Struggling to make some sense of it, he reached out to Tyrael.
I...couldn't touch it. But...why, Tyrael? Have I pushed the Balance too far?
"It cannot be so," Tyrael replied, much more strongly, as if he'd managed to gain some strength from that brief contact with El'druin. "I have watched you. Whatever you have done, you have always striven for justice. Justice requires sacrifice...and, sometimes...retribution."
Shaken, Pyresong struggled to his feet, afraid to get any closer to El'druin. His shock-ravaged mind was almost too numb to even make sense of what Tyrael was telling him.
"It's your sword. Can't you make it listen?"
Tyrael's heavy sigh and feelings of sorrow came through clearly. His heart twisted painfully in his chest until he felt like he couldn't breathe as the angel spoke.
"No. I...see now. Your soul has been...poisoned. By breaking the shards, denying evil their power. It has changed your very essence. And El'druin...disagrees."
It took him a few seconds to even form a coherent thought. Even then, his throat was so tight and dry he couldn't speak. His stomach filled with a lump of icy fear until he thought he would shatter just standing there.
So I am corrupted. How could you not see it before? What...I...I didn't...
Fumbling and feeling sick, he felt Tyrael sending waves of warmth and comfort through him. He just couldn't accept them, though. Part of him refused to accept this was even happening. His mind was going numb with the shock. His literal worst nightmare was now his reality.
"All you have done is what you have been required to do...by what I set in motion."
The sadness and even regret in Tyrael's voice finally broke through the shock. He shook his head in denial. A rebellious spark of angry defiance ignited.
No. This is not your fault. No more than it is Cain's or even Rathma's. I know we can become the things we fear or hate. I've...I've always known it was a possibility.
He got the sense that Tyrael was listening but not really buying it. He laughed mentally, refusing to give in to the despair and terror that lurked.
"You can do everything right...and still find that it doesn't work out. And I haven't done everything right," he said, if for no other reason than to hear his voice steady again, not babbling in incoherent fear.
"Mortals are the balance of their deeds, not the least of them. I envy you that."
He couldn't help a dark smirk. Balance. Some darker part of his mind wondered what the balance for him would really be. How many mistakes, how many failures would stack up before the scales just flat broke? But he shook this off. He could sort all of this out later. Right now he had one, simple task to keep his focus. He needed to get the sword and get out of this place. Now he just had to figure out how to get the sword out of here without it killing him.
"Carry the sword with you, and carefully,” Tyrael said, reading his thoughts. “We do not falter here."
Pyresong nodded. Having a task to focus on helped. Coming up with an idea, he unhooked his shield and set it aside. He shrugged off his backpack and reached inside for one of the robes. Hopefully, El'druin would at least allow him to take it with more than just gloves as a buffer. First, he wrapped several layers of the robes around his gloved hands. Instead of reaching for the grip, he reached under the crosspiece. He let out a relieved breath he didn't even realize he was holding when he was able to pull upward easily. It was easily as long as he was tall, and as wide as his thighs. At the moment, it weighed far more than he could have ever imagined. And something about that weight made this situation somehow all the worse to him; like some kind of symbolism he couldn't even begin to deal with right now. Once it slid neatly out of the stone, he carefully lowered it into the open backpack blade first. Still half-expecting a backlash, he was flooded with relief when it slid into the backpack's bottomless depths neatly. He knew he'd never be able to get it back out. But maybe Karshun could. For now, it was enough that he had it, and he could get it away from this awful place.
Pushing aside the sick, twisting dread in his gut, he opened a portal to the one nearby waypoint he could recall. He couldn't leave just yet. Exiting the caves, he realized it was only a little past midday by the looks of the sun. Somehow, that felt wrong to him. The creeping weariness told him it should be late into the night. But it wasn't, and he was all the way on the far side of the Wards away from Staalbreak, near the resistance hideout. He had a long walk ahead of him to get back to the others.
He decided that was fine with him. He needed time to put all of this away for later. Right now, he had to at least let Marenna and Geoffrey know he had survived the storm and Laird Aymer was no longer a threat to their city. As vague thoughts and creeping terrors chased themselves around his mind, he was thankful Tyrael had once again retreated. He was glad the angel had regained at least some strength from the sword. But, right now, he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
The Wards were a ghost town. Everyone had either gone to join the fight or had packed up what little they had to move into the city. He was able to walk in brooding silence. He focused just enough on scanning for any threats, human or otherwise, but left his shield and scythe hooked for now.
Much later, when the city walls came into view, a part of him had gone deliberately numb with cold. It was easier to just not feel anything right now. He would have time, he knew. Later. Right now, he just had to keep moving. He wasn't spending another night in this place. He had done what he could; more than was asked of him, even. Now, he just wanted to be alone...maybe with Kashya.
Yes, definitely with Kashya, he thought
He was desperate to feel her warmth and strength right now. He was so cold. So afraid. He couldn't even begin to figure out what he would tell her, let alone what he would do in the days to come. As if awakened by recent events, his nightmare laughed and mocked his fears of how Kashya would likely react. He almost listened. Then he silenced that voice, too.
Cold. Hard. Silent.
He kept his feet moving toward the outskirts where there was a general air of celebration going on. Everyone was either dragging stuff into the city or hollering invitations from atop the city walls. Every parapet was lined with people crying out their victory. He very nearly stopped to open a portal right there. He wasn't a part of that joy. He couldn't be. Not now, and likely not ever. And the idea of mixing with that many people...absolutely not.
He turned his steps to the south toward Marenna's old camp. Rather than following the road, he slipped quietly around some still-burning piles of rubbish and even some shanties and storehouses. No one wanted to be near the fires. Right now the idea of walking through hordes of shardborn was more appealing than all those rejoicing people. Everyone was either at the gates waiting to get in or just roaming around celebrating. The one or two that did catch sight of him slinking away paid him no mind. With any luck, he'd make it all the way back to Marenna's former camp before word got into the city. He was certain he could find some ink and parchment at the camp. He would leave a note to let them know. But he was getting out of here as fast as possible. Let them rejoice in their newfound shelter and safety. They deserved it. He was not about to ruin that for any of them if he could help it.
When he neared Marenna's former camp, he could clearly hear the excited voices ahead as everyone worked to break down the camp and move all the supplies to the city. He nearly groaned openly at this. He hadn't realized they'd moved so fast. At least Marenna and Geoffrey weren't likely to be here. They would probably be overseeing things in the city.
Well, maybe I'll get lucky, and there will still be—
He didn't get to finish the thought when Marenna caught sight of him coming up the path. He cursed himself silently. He had been so certain she and Geoffrey would be organizing everything within the city walls. He forced his expression to remain steady. She beamed a smile as she came running up to him. He just nodded. As if not even seeing his serious expression, she took him by the hand and started dragging him into the camp. There, he spied an exhausted Geoffrey sitting against some crates. Jacob was nearby throwing more stuff into a crate almost carelessly. He beamed a smile that almost perfectly matched his mother's.
"You're alive! It worked!" Geoffrey called, happily.
Despite his dark thoughts and cold calm, Pyresong couldn't help noting the smiling faces all over the camp. Just days ago these people were wallowing in visible, almost tangible hopelessness with nowhere to turn. Now they all looked alive again. He was glad for them, but in a distant and detached way that only further reminded him how far apart from others he really was. And a whisper of something much older that almost sounded like his deceased master firmly reminded him that that was how it should be. He quickly silenced those haunting echoes.
"The Laird is dead. He'll never trouble Staalbreak again. But...I think the storm is here to say," he confessed, unable to completely keep the disappointment out of his voice.
His hopes to end the storm with El'druin had been destroyed along with most other hopes. He couldn't help feeling almost bitter about it. He couldn't even accomplish that one thing. He silenced those thoughts viciously. He would have time for that later.
"I know we'll endure it," Marenna said, still smiling. "You've given more than we could have possibly asked for. Thank you."
Before Pyresong could refute that, Geoffrey jumped in.
"We're assembling a ruling council. And one of their first acts will be to hold a feast in your honor. If you can stay, that is. Did you find what you were searching for?"
Now he was certain he was escaping in the next few minutes. The idea of a feast had him fleeing already. But he couldn't bring himself to knock them down for it. Let them have their celebrations. These poor people deserved whatever joy they could find in this broken land. Let them think whatever they want. He was no hero. He had already told them it was their own work and desire as a people that had accomplished it. Their resistance had been nearly destroyed. They rose up from that and took back their city from an evil man. Not him. If it made them happy to think otherwise, he didn't care. He'd be gone in a few more seconds.
"I did," he answered Geoffrey's question, carefully keeping his voice flat. "But...I cost myself too much in the process. It's useless to me."
Before Geoffrey could say anything, Marenna retook Pyresong's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.
"You've made the north a safe refuge. Not just for us, not just for one tribe. For hundreds. Thousands."
He knew she was trying to make him feel better, but he just couldn't. He didn't want to destroy their hopes and excitement, so he just shook his head. Geoffrey spoke up before he could, anyway.
"We'll expand the city. Make Staalbreak big enough to encompass all of the Gray Wards. It's thanks to you as much as any of us. We could not have done this without your help."
As ever, it was his uncontrollable mouth that did it. Whatever dark, bitter, cold part of him that was still trying to come to terms with what had just happened snapped something inside of him.
"And that's a good thing for now. Until your wall can't keep the Hells out any longer,” he snapped.
The cold edge to his voice clearly shocked them. Realizing he was taking things out on them that were in no way their fault, he backed away. Equally shocked by his own angry and bitter words and still struggling against the dark revelation of his own corrupted soul, he shook his head at them to stop them from speaking.
"I'm sorry,” he fumbled. “I have to go."
He spun around and flung out a hand to open a portal before either of them could say anything else. More than anything, he did not want to ruin their newfound hopes and dreams. Frustrated with himself more than anything, he fled through the portal.
Chapter 27: 26 Post Dreadlands
Chapter Text
Post Dreadlands
When Pyresong stepped through the portal into the rainy afternoon, he paused. He had come out intentionally on the waypoint west of the Sanctified Earth Monastery that he now lived in; though he couldn't even begin to see it as home. Just like his trek through the Wards, he needed some time. He knew he should get the sword to Karshun as fast as possible, but he just wanted to stop; even if only for a few minutes. Just make everything stop; around him, and inside of him. His verbal lashing out at Marenna and Geoffrey had shown him quite clearly he was not in any condition to be around people at the moment. His bitterness had shocked even himself. As much as he wanted to get to Oza's Overlook and just meditate or sort things out, he knew he needed to get that sword to Karshun, though. First, he just needed to wrestle everything back down and shove it into a deep, dark hole for later. Despite his budding friendship with Karshun, he was just too volatile, and he knew it.
Feeling a wave of weariness wash over him, he sat on one of the steps of the waypoint platform. He crossed his arms atop his knees and put his head down on his arms. For a few seconds, he just focused on the sound of the rain and his own breathing. So many frightening and sickening thoughts were battering away at the back of his mind he couldn't even hear them all. It was a cacophony that felt like it would drive him mad if he didn't sort it all out soon. Carefully, he shoved everything back into its deep, dark holes for later. Right now, he had to find a way to get himself back in some semblance of working order, and get the sword to Westmarch. He couldn't even touch it! And some voice deep inside, was telling him it wasn't safe with him. This wasn't over, but it couldn't stay with him.
Gods...I can't even trust myself.
“How is that any different from before?” he heard Karshun's retort in his mind.
He actually laughed bitterly at that. No, it wasn't the first time he'd suspected corruption had taken hold. On more than one occasion, he'd even reminded himself that Cain was there to watch him just in case. And he trusted Cain. Now he would have to trust Karshun.
“You already knew, you pathetic sac of meat,” the voice of his Nightmare mocked him. “Now Diablo owns you.”
That thought silenced all others. He couldn't feel Tyrael at the moment, and was actually glad for it. He needed to be alone right now. He needed to accept what he already knew. Yet, a part of him was still frustrated that no one else had seen it. Even Verathiel had seen the shards' influence. But she hadn't told him it was corruption...poison, whatever the hells it was. Had something changed?
“If evil enters your mind or heart, you will know and you will fight it,” Oza's voice reminded him, yet again.
For once, he couldn't accept that. A part of him had known. It had come through in his nightmares. He just couldn't confront it until he now had no choice. Now the confirmation of its existence was battering away at his will. How long before it would become noticeable? How long before his warped thoughts twisted themselves into justifications for... He couldn't even finish the thought. His stomach churned, but there was no escape from this.
“I am you.”
That last, laughing echo of his Nightmare self was enough. He couldn't sit here thinking about it. He needed help. He needed insight. He needed...hope.
“One word: Shaddox,” the Nightmare laughed again.
Snarling mentally at his Nightmare self, he got back to his feet. Despite being thoroughly soaked all the way through with the chilly rain at these elevations, the cold barely registered. He shook it all off and forced his stomach to settle. Turning back to the waypoint, he opened another portal to the Palace Courtyard waypoint. He wasn't going to bother with a disguise. Let them see him. He was done hiding. At this point, he would welcome a fight, if for no other reason than to silence his thoughts and all those damning voices lurking in the shadows of his heart.
A few minutes later, he paused in front of the workshop door. A part of his gut not already twisted up with fear, lurched sadly instead. He missed Cain more than ever in this moment. He wanted so badly for Cain to be waiting for him by the warm fire with a comforting cup of tea. But now... He couldn't even consider it Cain's workshop. It was entirely Karshun's. Cain was never coming back, and he knew it. Maybe Karshun would know where to find him. No, that might be even worse. He couldn't risk leading Diablo and the Terror Cultists right to Cain. He took a deep, calming breath and knocked...half hoping Karshun wasn't even there.
Karshun opened the door a few seconds later. The smile that had begun to form faded instantly to concern as he waved Pyresong inside.
“You look miserable. What happened?” Karshun asked, all magely arrogance gone.
For a heartbeat, Pyresong was taken completely off his guard by the mage's sincere concern. In that moment, he finally really saw what Cain had likely seen in Karshun that the man worked so hard to cover up and even outright deny. For that one heartbeat, Karshun was a friend he could trust and believe in. He desperately wanted to tell the mage everything; just to have someone to talk to about all of this, as he once had Cain. He shook it off quickly, though. His whole perspective of this situation had changed. He would have to follow his instincts here. And they were screaming at him; telling him he should not allow anyone to trust him with anything. Not able to meet the mage's dark, concerned eyes, he moved to unhook his shield and get to his backpack.
“I have El'druin, but...I cannot wield it,” he confessed, struggling to keep his voice steady. “When I tried...it burned me. Tyrael says my soul is...damaged, poisoned. From breaking the Worldstone shards.”
“That's not entirely surprising,” Karshun started, reassuringly. “Wielding angelic weapons is never straightforward. And your soul is...a complication.”
He was already shrugging off the straps of his backpack. He couldn't help laughing darkly at those words.
“I do not mean that the way it sounds,” Karshun replied quickly and compassionately to the dark laugh. “You have taken on a burden. A truly uncertain one.”
Again he was struck by the stark contrast between his first impressions of Karshun, and the man that stood before him now. He nodded slowly to show he understood and appreciated the mage's compassion. Still, he tightly kept his teeth clenched on all the things he wished to say. He held the dripping backpack out to the mage.
“It's in there. I can't...”
Karshun took the backpack, but paused, forcing him to meet his eyes.
“If you're having second thoughts...I understand.”
Somehow he knew Karshun was absolutely sincere; in some ways that actually made it worse. He smiled sadly and shook his head. More than anything, he needed to sort all this out and get back to the fight. He wasn't done.
“No. I knew I'd be at risk when we began this. I wouldn't take it back,” he admitted honestly. Then he huffed another dark laugh. “Not that I could.”
“Onward, then,” Karshun said with a grin. “Give me time to research. There may be a way to undo what's been done to your soul, though... At the very least...we might...convince El'druin.”
“That plan's as good as any I've got. I'll try not to lose my mind in the meantime,” he quipped tiredly.
Karshun laughed softly at that, clearly relieved by the remark.
“For now, just take the sword. Hide it where I cannot find it,” he warned.
“Hide it... Why?” Karshun asked, clearly startled.
“Diablo has a hold on me now, through the shards. Maybe it was just the...shardstorms, but I doubt it. Better not to take the risk. Just find somewhere I can't reach it,” he insisted, struggling to keep his warning from sounding like a hysterical overreaction.
Karshun nodded slowly, his brows knitted in concern. Pyresong just could not ignore his instincts screaming at him over this. He knew he could trust Karshun and the mage's judgment far more than his own right now. Despite Karshun's apparent lack of concern or suspicion, a part of Pyresong was absolutely certain he had become the greatest threat to their plans. If he was right, the mage was still their best hope. He couldn't even begin to sort it all out at the moment, and he needed to desperately.
He paused to watch while Karshun reached into the backpack and called the sword to hand. He almost felt envious when the mage took it easily by the handle and carefully withdrew its full, enormous length. Karshun held it easily in one hand. Pyresong couldn't help remembering how very heavy it had felt in the few seconds it took to heft it into the backpack. The Light radiating from it was soothing, but only for a few seconds. A part of Pyresong knew he was not entitled to that Light anymore. As Karshun turned to place the sword on a table, he quickly closed up his backpack and slung it back over his shoulder. Karshun spun back toward him, surprised.
“Where are you going? Come, tell me what happened,” Karshun invited, motioning toward the all too inviting fire.
“Not now. I...I need some time,” he said, hooking his shield back on his back. “And a bath.”
Karshun's worried expression softened a bit at that. “Fair enough. If anyone knows something useful, it'll be Cain. I will—“
“No,” Pyresong told him, still listening to his instincts. “Don't tell Cain.”
“Why not?” Karshun asked, clearly taken aback.
Having said it out of reflex, it took Pyresong a moment to understand why he'd even said it. He ran a hand through his hair as if wiping away some of the dripping water to buy himself a couple of seconds to think it through. The knotting feeling in his gut writhed once more as he considered it seriously.
“If Cain has an answer, it'll be here in this workshop,” he finally said, glancing around at all the book cases. “He already blames himself for much. He doesn't need this, too.”
“But—“
“Karshun, please. I don't want to argue this,” he begged wearily. “Just, look around here. Use whatever resources you have. We may not even have enough time for a letter to reach him.”
Karshun's open expression of shock and worry made him want to kick himself. That had very likely sounded like an overreaction. He had no intention of discussing it further, either. Right now, he was running on instincts. He couldn't even entirely explain why he felt this way to himself. At the moment, he just wanted to get out of here. He quickly thought up something that at least sounded like a logical argument so he could escape.
“Every day we delay, Diablo grows stronger and consolidates more of his power. We need to move quickly,” he said, his voice now completely flat.
Karshun clearly wasn't convinced, but he respected his request not to argue. He searched his friend with his eyes, as if looking for something more. Pyresong kept his expression as flat as his voice. Finally Karshun gave in and nodded slowly. At this point, Pyresong would take it. He really did not want to argue right now; or even talk at all, for that matter.
“Thank you,” he replied, not bothering to mask his relief.
Feeling the need to escape, he quickly fled out the door. The moment he was on the other side, he ripped open a portal, this time right to the Oza's Overlook. It was still pouring rain that was a lot colder than he would usually like. Right now, he needed the cold. He needed the calming feel of the rain cleansing the earth around him; as it could never cleanse him. For several minutes, he just stood there, his face tilted up to the sky. No more thinking. No more feeling. Just let everything wash away until he was as cold and numb inside as his body was starting to feel.
He felt himself actually shivering from the cold. By then, the weariness of it all had begun to take over. He finally made his way back inside the temple and bathing facilities. At the very least, he could feel clean outside again; if never again inside. Then he could get some sleep. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept away the dark shadows clouding his mind and heart. And tomorrow he would seek out Kashya. If rest and meditation didn't make him feel better, he knew she could.
As he had expected, his Nightmare came to the fore in every dream. Sometimes as a separate entity, and sometimes it was himself doing the horrific acts. Over and over again, he fled. Sometimes he fought back. Most of the time, he just rose up out of the layers of sleep until he could hear himself breathing again, and slowly began to descend once more.
As was his usual habit, he woke just a bit before dawn. At least, he didn't feel as depleted as he had the day before. The part of his mind that had been reeling from the shock of confronting such a thing had settled. Now it was just one more thing he would have to live with. All he could do was hold on to some hope that Karshun might find a way to cleanse his soul of whatever the shards had done to him.
More than anything, he had to be wary. Wary of every stray thought that leaned toward Darkness. Wary of every motive. Wary of every nightmare that might become his reality all too easily. He already knew he had struggled more than once in the Dreadlands. Despite the justice he felt in having cut down all those guards at the gates, he wondered if it wasn't really some other, darker motivation that had led him to it. Had he enjoyed it too much? Had it felt too good to cut them all down? Had it really been about justice at all?
He meditated for a while, but it really didn't help. There was no way to forget what he had learned. Worse, it would be downright stupid and reckless to ignore it, right along with his instincts screaming at him about it. He had known. It was that simple. He just hadn't wanted to confront it. And there were no answers; at least, not yet. Maybe some day. One thought did give him something clear to hold on to. Despite the fact that he would not give up the fight or give up hope, there was a part of him that had come to understand something new in all of this.
There was nothing that said he had to be the one to wield El'druin.
There was no prophecy here, no rules, no precedence for this. Part of the hope he clung to was that a solution would be found, yes. If he was too corrupted to use El'druin, maybe there was another out there willing to pick up where he left off. That gave him more comfort than anything. It didn't matter what happened to him, if there was another to continue the fight. He would not let this be over. Not for himself. Just because he couldn't use the sword, didn't mean he couldn't still fight. While Cain was out chasing prophecies of the End of Days, he and Karshun were on their own in this. Things could go any direction, and they must be open to any solution. After all, it wasn't the first time someone had gone after a Prime Evil. If he couldn't do it, maybe someone else could.
That thought almost made him want to seek out Rathma. But, really, he didn't want to know what else Rathma had seen for him. He already knew too much when he took on this new life. And it had done him absolutely no good, thus far. He just wanted to live his life as much as he could, now that those events had passed. And, if the corruption took over, he knew he could rely on Karshun to see that he was no longer a threat.
At least...he hoped Karshun would. Their budding friendship might be a problem in that category. No, he convinced himself, Karshun wouldn't be that sentimental. If anything, his self-preservation instincts would take over. Right?
Disgusted with himself, Pyresong gave up on meditation as well as trying to think his way through things. It was only getting darker in his head with each passing thought. And, right now, there was literally nothing he could do except wait. He would give the mage a couple of days to hide the sword and then check back with him. At the moment, he just wanted Kashya's soothing presence and strength. When he was with her, he could at least put it all away or forget it for a short while. He still hadn't figured out what, if anything, to tell her. He knew he had to tell her something; if for no other reason than to warn her to be wary of him. But his heart twisted fearfully. He trusted her, completely. Yet, the lingering fear she might reject him would not go away. He knew his fears about her and the future were a foolish waste of time. To be fair, his whole relationship with her was foolish under the circumstances. And there was a tiny part of him that hoped she would reject him; if for no other reason than to keep her safe. As terrified of that prospect as he was, it was also comforting.
He knew he was such a mass of contradictions, he didn't even make sense to himself anymore. He almost considered seeing Oza, instead. Her simple perspective had a way of making him feel downright foolish for such fears; and he very much needed that now. Just someone to convince him things were not nearly as bad as he feared them to be.
“Even angels can be corrupted beyond redemption. What makes you think you're any better?” his Nightmare asked, sounding almost serious instead of mocking for once.
Memories of Shaddox zipped through his mind. Instead of feeling sick or angry over it, he just went for silence, emptiness. He forced himself to calm, again. He wrestled all his thoughts to silence, or at least background noise.
It was late in the morning by the time he opened a portal to the former battle camp. He nearly laughed at himself when he realized he just wasn't quite ready to barge in on Kashya at the monastery. He'd been gone for maybe two weeks. Probably not even that long. It felt like months to him. Much as he wanted to see her, a part of him was still not looking forward to what he had to tell her. He was procrastinating. Yet, he still hoped to find enough mental and emotional stability he wouldn't scare or hurt her with the revelation. He was nowhere near that state right now as all his gnarled fears twisted themselves around in his head and heart.
Giving up, he wandered out of the former battle camp and around the crumbling walls. He vaulted the low fence in the direction of the ice cold spring that fed the creek. It was here he had first really begun to notice his feelings for Kashya. He sighed mentally. He had tried so hard to crush those feelings out of existence. Now a part of him regretted the time lost. A greater part of him clung to her and this foolish fantasy life with a desperation that terrified him. And that darker part of him just wanted to run from her and never look back; just to protect her.
With all of this and more swirling around inside of him in a chaotic mess, he lowered himself down to sit on the edge of the spring. Here was as good as any place to think. If anything, it was better. It was almost as peaceful here as it was on the overlook. The sun was high and warm here. All around him, the forest was alive with springtime. Speckling the greenery were every possible color of flower dotting the landscape. Dark Wood had its own charm and beauty he could appreciate. It definitely helped to calm his swirling thoughts.
Bit by bit, he finally began to relax; letting himself be absorbed in the world around him instead of what lurked inside of him. Just for the sheer enjoyment of it, he took off his boots and pulled up the legs of his trousers so he could dangle his feet in the chilly water that came from far underground. He had no doubts he would be spotted by one of the Rogues on patrol. Sometimes they stopped and spoke with him, and sometimes they didn't. After a while, he was content to just sit there, adrift in the sounds of the forest around him. And if they did spot him, he was certain they would tell Kashya. Either she would show up eventually, or he would make his way to the monastery later. For now, he was feeling the Darkness clutching at his mind and heart fading in the springtime sunlight and birdsong.
After a while, he was so relaxed he almost missed the series of whistles that most definitely had not come from any bird species around this forest. He couldn't help grinning to himself. He still didn't fully understand the Rogue's whistle signals, but at least he knew they had seen him. Given that it was their own private language in the forest, he'd never dared to ask. And, it didn't really matter. They knew he was here. He always made himself easily visible. By now, most of the Sisters patrolling the forest or even in the cloisters knew him by sight, if not by name.
A couple hours later, his heart leapt happily in his chest when he heard her soft steps approaching. He knew the cadence of her steps and the sound of her breathing so intimately, he knew it could be no one else. He turned to look at her over his shoulder with a smile. As if sensing his almost serene mood, she squatted behind him, massaging his shoulders softly for a few seconds. He groaned happily at her warm touch. Then she sat behind him wrapping her arms around his chest.
“You look tired,” she told him, resting her chin on his shoulder.
He gratefully leaned into her embrace, letting her warmth engulf him from the inside out. He sighed happily. For a moment, he just wanted to stay here forever.
“I am,” he admitted. “But it's no more than I expect.”
“I'll keep away the nightmares tonight. Deal?”
He laughed softly. “Sounds like a plan.”
“How's Tyrael?”
He grinned with amusement. “He's not present, if that's what you're asking. He...retreats, I guess is the word. I can feel when he's watching through my eyes.”
“Interesting,” she commented vaguely.
He laughed outright at her tone. “'Disturbing' is what I heard you say. Don't worry. He gives me plenty of time alone, I assure you.”
“I'll just have to take your word for it. It's after midday. You up for some dinner?”
He laid his head back on her shoulder to he could kiss her cheek. “Now that you mention it, I forgot breakfast.”
“Good, I'm starving. But first, a proper greeting is in order.”
He was only slightly surprised by her sudden and graceful shifting out from behind him. Then knelt to give him a very thorough kiss. He leaned in to it happily. While the world faded away, he resisted the urge to let his hands roam, needing more of that warmth and strength. When she finally pulled back, he couldn't help smiling with genuine pleasure. Every other worry had evaporated just being in her presence. Until that moment, he hadn't realized just how desperately he missed being with her. When he was with her, he knew things would somehow work out right. He quickly dried his feet and got his boots back on. Once he was finally on his feet, he crushed her to him in a fierce embrace.
What the...?
Feeling something unexpected in her now familiar curves, Pyresong jumped back an inch, his eyes wide. His heart now racing, he almost couldn't find a coherent thought. For one second, the world around him tilted sideways and then flipped his head inside out. His hand and voice shook as he gently gripped her shoulder to steady himself. His voice was little more than a strangled whisper, but he finally managed to get the question out. A question he dared not ask, but was almost too terrified not to.
“Kashya...are you...”
Briefly she looked terrified but nodded. Pyresong's whole world shattered instead of just tilting crazily around him. As his mind absorbed what he couldn't even speak aloud, his heart stuttered and then stopped. As if confused, it then began pounding painfully as too many things to even comprehend raced through his mind. Kashya, clearly startled, only caught the part where he smiled and hugged her to him again—more carefully— burying his face in her hair. She should feel him trembling violently as she clung to him just as fiercely. For a few seconds he just held her in desperation as if she were the only thing keeping him from drowning in the maelstrom. Kashya tried to stifle her own swirling emotions to focus on what needed to be done, no matter how unpleasant it may be.
“I know I promised I wouldn't ask—“
He pulled back, still smiling hugely and silenced her with a kiss.
“No, no, no, not now. We will talk, I promise. But right now...”
For a moment his face shifted and twisted as if he couldn't figure out what to say next. Giving up, he buried his face in her shoulder with a barely suppressed sob that was almost a laugh. His breaths coming in short gasps as he struggled with his maelstrom of emotions. He had thought he'd been left reeling in the past. Those cases were absolutely nothing compared to the chaos of emotions that spiraled his head and heart in every direction all at once right now. Finally, something he had never even realized was skulking beneath the surface rose up to be acknowledged.
“Just one pure, good thing...born of love...that I helped to create...” he whispered, not even realizing he was actually speaking.
Caught somewhere between tears and joy, he coughed to clear his throat. Instead, the Darkness clawing at his heart and soul fell away entirely. Joy won out, and he laughed, choking on the lump in his throat. He laughed again, unable to stop himself, as he went to his knees. He didn't even care if he sounded like a babbling madman right now. He carefully felt the still tiny lump that was only harder when compared to the rest of that area. His smile nearly split his face as he looked up at her, the tears completely ignored. She stared down at him, almost confused. He laughed again at her expression. Then he took her by the waist and pulled her down until she was sitting in his lap. He was still trembling visibly.
Realizing he wasn't upset or angry, Kashya began to relax. Initially she had been afraid of his reaction. Then outright confused as tears and laughter mingled through his voice and expression. Now? He had one arm around her back and the other feeling the bump gently as he laid his head on her shoulder. She ran her hand through his hair soothingly; not wanting anything to ruin the joy that was practically radiating off of him.
After a few minutes, he seemed to get himself back under some semblance of emotional control. He scrubbed the tears off his face with his free hand, as if only just now noticing them. He had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could speak, but was still grinning, almost foolishly.
“Have you thought of names?”
“I'm sure you'll give me plenty,” she said dryly.
He laughed happily again. “Too many.”
“What if...what if I don't want to keep it?”
For a heartbeat he was frozen, unable to even comprehend her question when he met her eyes. His puzzled expression nearly made her laugh. But the weeks of building fears inside of her won out. She hadn't meant to ask, not like this. Now she couldn't help needing to know and that whole stupid ruining his joy over her own stupid fears... It was too much. She couldn't keep these damned tears from spilling over. How had she gone from feared commander to a sobbing bundle of silly emotions to fast? It was all so...so...so stupid! Damn him!
The tears that welled in her emerald eyes struck him painfully. Only then did he begin to realize how scared she was. He kicked himself mentally as he groaned openly. Of course she was afraid! Their whole lives going forward depended on these decisions. The welfare of an unborn child depended entirely on them. Still, the tears made him feel the slightest bit of guilt at his own joy over all of this. Was he wrong to want this? A part of him instantly said “yes”. But a much older, defiant part of him that had never truly accepted his role as Pyresong screamed against it. Caught somewhere between twisting guilt and overwhelming joy, all he wanted right now was for her to celebrate with him. Let her—let both of them—hate him for it later, if it came to that.
Right now in this unbelievable moment of revelation, he had realized and seen many things. The first was that he was still more human than he probably wanted to be under the circumstances. He was human enough to want children and a family, despite everything else. The other multitude of revelations revolved around the countless possibilities he had never dared consider in his life. The idea that he might one day get to spend an evening telling bedtime stories to a child of his own... The fleeting image of all the things he could give this child that he had never had... The simple desire to have any kind of life with the child... Gods, it was all such a foolish fantasy!
And still he wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire existence. And that was entirely unfair to Kashya. Finally he managed to find a coherent string of thought that didn't evaporate in half a second.
“I'm so sorry, Kashya. Please don't be afraid. We'll work this out together. I swear it,” he promised, kissing her cheeks. “I love you. And I love this child. We will figure it out.”
Kashya, coughed, trying to rid herself of the lump in her throat that kept strangling her every attempt to curse him. He laughed softly again with an almost rueful grin.
“We knew this could happen. Though I don't think either of us really considered it seriously. And if there's no room in our lives to raise a child, I'll help you find a family. Or you can pick one. Just tell me who, and I will see the child is provided for.”
“You're not...” she had to stop as her breath caught in her throat.
“Gods, no. Not at all. I'm happier than I can even tell you right now. But I'm not upset. And definitely not angry.” A dark shadow flitted across his expression before it was quickly replaced with another unconscious smile. “I'm in no...condition to raise a child. And it's not fair of me to expect it of you. I promise, we'll work it out.”
The fresh tears that overflowed her eyes and ran down her cheeks stung him. Whatever he had said had left her growling in frustration, but still too choked up to reply. And it still could not stop the overwhelming joy he felt right now. It was like a cascade that swept away everything else. He didn't know what else to do. His mind was still spinning. He wrapped his arms around her tightly as she buried her face in his neck. He refrained from further laughing while she wept; but only barely. There were so many images of possible futures dancing through his head, he couldn't stop them. It was like some kind of flood gate had just been smashed to splinters and he was carried away on the wave. He wasn't entirely sure if Kashya's tears were fear or hurt or something else completely that made her cry. So he just held her. Right now, he never wanted to let her go again.
“You know, pregnancy can really ruin a hard woman's image,” Kashya sniffled a few minutes later.
He did laugh at that, partially in relief. A tiny part of him had been afraid that she would be the one angry with him over it. He was happy all over again when she laughed with him. He kissed her cheek and then began kissing away the tears.
“Never,” he assured her between kisses.
For a few minutes, they sat in happy silence, just holding each other. In that few minutes, Pyresong had seen so very many things in the future he'd never been able to envision before. All of them good things, happy things. Things he never truly believed could exist for him, that were now a very real possibility. He couldn't begin to guess what Kashya was feeling, but at least the tears had stopped. And the rest of what had haunted him, even earlier today? Didn't matter at all right now.
Then, of course, Kashya's earlier suggestion about food came back in the form of an unhappy gurgling in her belly. He laughed all the more. He knew exactly nothing about pregnancy. But if she was hungry, he would see she got food; for both of them. Pulling himself together, he reached into his backpack and threw her an apple.
“Your monastery or mine?” he asked.
“Yours,” she said. “It's quieter. And I'm sick of the gossip at mine.”
He happily opened a portal. This time, it seemed almost as if no extra effort was involved as he opened it right to the overlook. Maybe he just didn't care. Right now, he just wanted to be with Kashya and his soon to be child. He may never see the child in person, but he knew it existed; and that was enough for now. Everything else could wait.
He and Kashya were laying out on the grass on the overlook a couple hours later. The sunshine was still warm to him up here, but Kashya was covered in a blanket with her head nestled on his shoulder. His initial overwhelming joy had faded to a sort of happy contentment now. Fantasy or not, he wanted this. He wanted to keep this sense of contentment, make the budding dream a reality some day; if it now. Yet he'd spoken truly about being tired. Physically, he was still recovering; even if the rest of him felt better than ever. Feeling safe and content, he was beginning to feel sleepy.
They had discussed things, somewhat, and she had decided she wanted to keep the baby, whatever gender, to raise as her own. Pyresong was downright ecstatic with that news. Aside from the fact that he would likely not be completely shut out of its life, both the baby and Kashya would have lots of love and support from the Sisterhood. He'd seen how they treated and loved Charsi, even after she left their ranks.
Now, he just sort of dozed as she lay along side him in the sunshine, enjoying the beautiful spring day. Yesterday, in the rain, he hadn't even seen it. Today, he and Kashya were greeted with a spectacular view of the valley below in full bloom. Despite the chill, even she did not want to leave this spot. So he'd wrapped her in a blanket. He was again running his long thin, calloused fingers through her hair soothing himself as much as her.
“What's your real name?”
Her soft question didn't exactly startle him awake, but definitely pulled him back from the edges of sleep. Some part of him was surprised it had taken her this long to ask directly.
“Hmm? Pyresong,” then he laughed softly and kissed the top of her head. “It's the only name that matters. The little boy who killed his parents all those years ago died with them. Why? Thinking of baby names again?”
“That, and I'm just curious. I still feel sometimes like I know so little about you. You won't tell me what else is happening now. Why not ask about the past?” she told him, settling her head on his chest with an arm around him again.
He thought about it for a minute. There really was so much he didn't want to tell her. And there were so many things he wanted to tell her and couldn't. How to even really begin?
“I tried to forget, with a fair amount of success. Master Z gave me the name when I think I was about eight, maybe. I also think he knew I didn't want to remember my life before my training. Names... Names were really important to me, once,” he explained softly, digging deep and going way back to those vague and fuzzy memories. “Honestly, I didn't even remember my own birth name until recently. Maybe a year ago now.”
“What happened?”
“Which part?” he teased.
“All of it,” she said firmly, squeezing him with the arm that was around his chest.
Despite the digging into things he still wasn't sure he actually wanted to remember, he couldn't help the smile stuck to his face.
“I really don't remember much about my childhood. The one thing that stuck with me was that I was lonely. My parents built a farmstead deep in the forest in a clearing. There were no other children. Even the farmhands that came and went didn't have any children. It was just east of Ashwold and northeast of Wortham. For decades, the only thing I remembered was that my parents went to a village that started with a W to trade goods. Like I said, even my name was forgotten.”
Slightly more focused now, he recalled the chain of events that had lead him back to that place and all its memories.
“About a year ago, not long after the Damnation Cultists attacked Wortham, Cain asked me to check on them to see how the recovery was going.”
For a few seconds, he paused. His mind was flooded with the most recent memories of that poor, ravaged community. His memories of Wortham now overlaid entirely with images of being the burnt out husks of so many buildings. Terror Cultists having destroyed the village. All the dead lined up waiting to be buried.
“Wortham is damned,” he heard Eskara's voice echoing in his memories.
She hadn't been wrong, he realized. Hearing his heart stuttering painfully, Kashya's head shot up so she could see his eyes.
“What's wrong?” she asked.
“Wortham...has suffered much. I...I was there when it...burned recently.”
Kashya scooted up toward his head and kissed him, feeling guilty. “Never mind. You don't have to tell me anything.”
He took her hand off his cheek and kissed the calloused palm. He smiled softly and tugged her back down to lay against him. Sometimes it was just easier when he didn't have see those gentle, emerald eyes boring into him. Somehow he knew that no matter how carefully he controlled his outward expression, Kashya could some how feel the truth behind his words. He didn't want that right now. There would be time enough for regrets over Wortham later. Then again, he had no intentions as of right now to ever tell her the truth of his epic failures. Maybe he was as wrong for that as he was for wanting this precious life she now carried.
Later, he firmly reminded himself.
He reordered his thoughts, shoving aside the recent memories.
“They were clearing out nests of twisted creatures left in the wake of the Damnation Cultists when I joined a group going after what they thought were demons,” he continued when she was again settled “They were holed up in an old, abandoned farmhouse. Turns out, it was some enslaved grave robbers. When I was inside the house, I found a baseboard my father carved with angels. For a minute, I remembered everything; even my own name. I remembered...”
He huffed a soft laugh, remembering more details than even he had anticipated. Well, he could give her so little of himself. At the very least, he could give her the embarrassing truths.
“When I was a pathetically lonely child growing up without other kids to play with, I named everything. Literally, everything. Every mouser, every hunting dog, every farm animal, and even every single angel on those baseboards...all the way around that room.”
He laughed softly, remembering as he stroked her hair.
“I talked to everything. If it had a name, I'd spend hours in conversation with it. Naming things made me feel less lonely. And, yes, I could literally spend an entire afternoon talking to a wall.”
“That's actually adorable,” she told him, poking his left side with a finger, making him squirm for a second.
He prodded her ribs under her arm where he had his arm wrapped around her back, making her yelp in response. That earned him a wicked glare and they both silently called a truce. After a few seconds, he decided he might as well finish what he'd started.
“When it was over, I burned farmhouse and other buildings down. In a few years, the forest should reclaim the land. As far as I was concerned, it was that little boy's long overdue funeral pyre,” he told her simply.
“So, you're not going to tell me,” she said with a hint of challenge.
Still in a good mood, he couldn't help laughing softly again. “Stubborn much? Fine, I'll tell you, but—“
“It won't be in the list of baby names, I promise,” she cut in, already knowing where it was going.
“Rylan.”
“Rylan...” she said as if tasting it.
Then she shook her head, as if she couldn't wrap her mind around such an ordinary name. He craned his neck to kiss the top of her head. He almost wanted to say something along the lines of 'I told you so'. He had never had a chance to even be ashamed of his birth name; not that he ever would. But he could easily see why such an ordinary name could be a let down for his friends. It seemed everyone had some idea of where his current name came from or how he'd earned it. Unlike so many others that adopted various names, he really had learned not to care at all anymore. Hells, he was just happy if others looked at him and saw a human at all. Before all of this, he'd gotten used to being just a nameless necromancer. And that's if they were being polite about it.
“And I've been called worse, I assure you,” he couldn't help adding.
“Some of them by me lately,” she admitted with a laugh.
“I'm sorry,” he told her, slightly more serious. “I probably should have seen it. I knew you weren't feeling well even before I left.”
“I think Fern knew even before Akara. She told me not to tell you the last time we met,” she confessed. “Besides, you seemed to have bigger problems on your mind.”
His sudden move surprised her when he rolled to the side and hugged her tightly. He buried his face in her chest for a moment.
“I don't care about those things when I'm with you. Tell me anything. I could listen to you talk nonsense all day and night, and I promise I'll hear every word of it.”
“You're not surprised about Fern?” she asked curiously when he relaxed again.
Caught, Pyresong couldn't help the brief flash of guilt that flitted across his face. Kashya's eyebrows shot up when she caught it.
“You did know!”
“Not...exactly,” he tried to explain, with a grimace. “I knew she discovered some abilities. And she told me the Great Eye had shown her her path. That's all I really know. It wasn't my place to say. She said the Sisters would know when the time was right. Sisterhood business.”
Kashya's hard, accusatory glare softened. That much she could understand. Pyresong understood he was still an outsider to the Sisters and always would be, despite his frequent visits. He knew when to stay out of their way. The Great Eye and her faith was not something he would question. She believed the Great Eye was a force for good and that was enough for her. She had already felt him out on the subject and he didn't seem to care one way or the other on the subject of her religion. She had already figured out he didn't have any real faith in anything that considered itself a god; despite some of his experiences.
“Well, Akara's on to her now. But she's refusing training as a priestess. She wants to learn how to 'be ready for what's coming' first, she said.”
He relaxed considerably at that. He hadn't liked keeping that from Kashya. But he trusted Fern and her new faith, too. Besides, what harm would it do to give her a few more years to grow into her training? If anything, he wished she could be more of a child, just for a little longer. That last part of Kashya's statement almost made his gut twist. He shoved aside. There would be time enough for that later. Right now, he was happy and content.
Part of him wanted to stay there in that moment forever. And a logical part of him knew he would carry it with him forever. He wondered at that. He had never in his life wanted children of his own. If anything, he had always worried about bringing life into this world that he could not care for. Worse, there was a tiny part of him, even now, that didn't want to have children in a world with such dark threats looming over it. Again, he shoved that aside, viciously. Not today. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, after he'd been quiet for a while.
He couldn't help huffing another laugh. Sometimes he really did feel like she could read his mind. And then there were these moments when she just outright asked him.
“I'm trying not to,” he admitted, honestly. “But I guess...I'm just amused with myself.”
“How so?”
“After so long wandering around, nothing to tie me down or ground me... I didn't expect anything out of life,” he huffed a soft laugh. “Priests of Rathma aren't supposed to want such mundane things. We're supposed to be outside and above all of this.”
He said them with a snicker and not a single trace of bitterness, surprising even himself. He pulled her closer and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
“And now you've given me so much I didn't even know I needed.”
“Needed? Or just wanted and weren't willing to admit it?”
He laughed again. “Probably both. It doesn't matter. It's happened, and the timing... never mind that. I'm happy. I just...I wish I could tell Cain.”
“Grandfather Cain...”she tested out the idea.
“Grandmother Akara,” he shot back.
Kashya snorted. “She's already been that to a lot of kids. What's one more?”
Their conversation was then rudely interrupted by Kashya's growling belly again. Her cheeks flamed almost as red as her hair a second later. He just laughed all the more. She buried her face in his chest for a minute, laughing with him.
“At least five times a day. Only...what...four months in maybe, and this baby wants me to eat non-stop,” she admitted.
“We should probably get you both back to Eastgate, anyway,” he admitted, only slightly reluctantly. “You'll be more comfortable there than here. And definitely better food than I can offer.”
Kashya groaned at this, but eventually nodded. She still was not accustomed to the cold up here on Mount Zavain. Despite the blanket, she had almost suggested a fire. She shed the blanket with a shiver as she sat up. He quickly stashed it back in his backpack and opened a portal to the outer cloisters. He followed her to the kitchens where she swiped some of the supper being prepared and then retreated to her room. The sun was already setting, leaving the sky painted in purple and red clouds by the time they got to her room. Almost as soon as she finished eating, she yawned hugely.
“Sleep, that's the other thing this kid of yours wants. Like they're trying to make up for all the sleep I'm sure you don't get,” she teased.
“Would you prefer I settle down and become a farmer? Karshun might have something to say about that,” he teased back as she crawled onto the bed to curl up beside him.
“Karshun would probably have a lot to say about it. And how incredibly foolish this whole situation is right now.”
His mind flickering to recent conversations with Karshun, he actually didn't agree with her this time. She didn't know Karshun as he knew the mage now.
“Maybe. But he does know about us. And about Fern. If you guys ever need anything, he'll be there for you, if I'm not.”
She reached up and smacked him gently on the nose. “None of that talk, sir.”
He smiled in agreement and kissed her hair. Completely relaxed, all other thoughts shoved aside, he was only awake another couple of minutes after Kashya dozed off. He fell into a blissful sleep where not even nightmares could haunt him.
***
Still hours before sunrise, a knock on Kashya's door jolted them both awake. Kashya was on her feet almost before he'd realized what had woken them.
“Commander, we have it. It's trapped in its lair in Blackstone,” he heard Flavie telling Kashya.
“Finally,” Kashya growled. “I'll meet you at the gates.”
“The thing you've been hunting?” he asked, already reaching for his backpack.
“Yes. We've figured out it was nesting somewhere near Blackstone, now. It's moved several times. I almost can't believe it's taken us this long,” she told him, already reaching for her leather armor and weapons. “We've been so close to trapping it in its lair so many times it's infuriating. Hopefully we can finally put an end to this.”
He quickly dug out his armor, shield, and scythe. Already finished and waiting on him to finish buckling all of it on, Kashya tapped her foot with exaggerated impatience. Then she grinned mischievously.
“I could make a jab about you taking longer than a woman, but I'm above such petty things,” she told him.
Buckling on the last of it, he laughed and then kissed her thoroughly. Despite her being pregnant, he wasn't worried about her going after the thing. Only the tiniest part of him wanted her to stay behind. But he knew she would never even consider it. Above all else, she was their Commander. She would never send her Sisters into danger she wasn't willing to face for herself. At least he could be there with her, this time. He knew he couldn't protect her from everything or forever. He shoved that thought aside for later.
He was somewhat surprised they hadn't caught it before now. The Rogues knew every inch of their lands. They were some of the best trackers and hunters he'd ever known. But that thing was terrifyingly fast. Inhumanly fast. Of course, the obvious would be sort of vampire since it lived on animal blood. Even after the tiny bit of research he had done in Cain's workshop, he'd never found mention of a demon that lived on animal blood alone. There were so many things he could rule out just by knowing it moved in the daytime rather than night, too. Since all the Bloodsworn had perished when the Countess was killed, they could at least rule out one of them. Yet, there still had been no answer found on his end; not that he'd had much time to invest in it.
They were met by at least a score of other Sisters at the gates; every one of them armed and ready. A couple carried heavy nets over their shoulders. They scattered a bit as they crossed the forest so as not to make too much noise on the approach. Kashya had already discussed a plan with Flavie as they stalked through the dark forest. He followed the rest of the Sisters through the shadows. Kashya returned to his side as they approached the outskirts of Blackstone. The sight of the well had him reflexively looking for the darker spot on the ground where he had burned Alyssa's body.
His failure still haunted him. And it always would.
Again, he shoved everything else aside. With Blackstone still abandoned, they were all extra careful about even the slightest sound. Moving like shadows, they tightly surrounded one house. They were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Two of the Rogues with nets stood ready at the door.
“It's in the cellar,” Kashya told him. “We're going to fill the house so it can't get out.”
He just nodded, keeping his scythe on his belt for now. Apparently he and Kashya were going to wait in the main room near the front door. Two more Rogues stood in the next doorway near the kitchen where the cellar door was situated near a pantry. And there were two at each of the two windows in that room. Two more at each window in the front room with them. If this thing could escape through all that plus the Sisters standing shoulder to shoulder in a tight circle around the house, it must have a skill similar to wraith form. Now that he was prepared, he could easily use that to follow it, at least for a few seconds. Just in case it might come in handy, his left hand tingled faintly with a prepared paralyzing curse.
He couldn't see through the others, but he felt a slight tingle of magic as someone released the latch on the other side of the trapdoor. Clearly this cellar was for more than just storage. Much as with the cellar where he had found Alyssa, this one locked from the inside as well as the outside to serve as a safe shelter. The moment the latch clicked open, the two with nets jumped through the hole. A few seconds later, he heard a terrified squeal and then a scream.
“Please don't hurt me!”
His mind froze. Whatever sounds he had expected to hear, that was not among them. Growling, snarling, screaming, even voices distorted by magic were all things he had expected. But that terrified voice was far too young to belong to any of the Sisters he had seen with them on their trek.
“We've got it!” one of the two in the cellar called up. “Take the net!”
Several of the Rogues closed in around the trapdoor and grabbed hold of the net. They roughly hefted it up through the trapdoor and dropped it quickly onto the floorboards nearby. Tangled up in multiple layers of thick netting, a dark haired girl sobbed miserably.
“Please...don't hurt me. I don't want to go to Hell. I never hurt anyone!” she squealed struggling in the net.
“Wait,” Pyresong gasped reflexively as they aimed their weapons at the mess of nets.
“What?” Kashya asked.
“She's...gods, she can't be more than fifteen,” he whispered in shock.
“She's not even human anymore,” Flavie told him bluntly.
At the sound of those flatly condemning words, the girl completely stopped struggling. She just curled up in a sobbing ball of misery in the net, shaking with terror. He felt sick. This was not some monster. Suspecting maybe he was being manipulated by some sort of magic, he even scanned her with his magical sight. Nothing more than a faint exterior trace of the curse. Her terror and helplessness was real. Too real.
“We can't have a threat like this running around Dark Wood,” Kashya explained patiently.
His gut was twisting. He couldn't let this happen. She was just a child!
“But all the Bloodsworn were—“
“I'm not Bloodsworn!” the girl screamed. “I never took the oath. Lily...did something to me.”
“You can't do this,” he told them, his resolve hardening. “You said it yourselves, she's saved your lives.”
“She is an it now,” another Rogue told him, coldly. “At least we can stop it from spreading.”
Kashya made a motion for everyone to move out. A couple of Rogues began dragging the net toward the door. He moved to follow. Kashya took him by the arm firmly to stop him. He couldn't take his eyes off the sobbing girl as they dragged her away.
“We can give her a clean death,” she told him softly.
“What if it was you?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“I would expect the same,” she told him calmly. “We all run the risk hunting these things.”
Hearing that echo of his own earlier words to Karshun, his heart stuttered and squeezed. He finally turned to face her, desperate to know; unable to completely cover his fear. And too afraid to tell her the truth.
“And when it's me?”
Not “if”, he realized an instant too late. He closed his mouth so suddenly on the rest he nearly bit his tongue. It didn't matter, anyway. Kashya sighed as if exasperated, thankfully missing his slip.
“Pyre—“
She didn't get to finish. The terrified squeal from outside jolted him. He escaped Kashya's grip by going wraith form. Then he used it to blaze right through the sisters at door. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had knocked aside a sword with his scythe and was standing protectively over the girl cowering on the ground behind him. Though most of her was still tangled up in the nets, her head and neck had been exposed. His eyes blazed.
“I won't let you kill her,” he growled at them. “She's hurt no one.”
“Pyresong!” Kashya snapped from the doorway angrily. “This is not your concern.”
He struggled to keep the cold rage in check. This was wrong. He wouldn't let it happen. He relaxed slightly when Kashya motioned for the others to back away. Ignoring them for a moment, he turned to the girl and knelt down. Gently he raised her chin until she would look at him. Her white cheeks were covered in bloody tears. The red eyes searched him fearfully.
“Have you ever tasted human blood?” he asked her, an icy edge to his voice.
Too terrified of him to even speak, she shook her head.
“I won't harm you. I know some people that might be able to help,” he told her soothingly.
Before he could say more, Kashya gripped him by the pauldrons angrily. With the force of her carefully contained anger, she pulled him roughly back to his feet.
“This is Sisterhood business. I shouldn't have brought you. Leave. Now,” she growled.
Almost as soon as the words left her lips, she regretted it. His expression was so hollow, so devastated, it was as if she's just told him to never come back. That had absolutely not been what she's meant. Her tongue froze to the roof of her mouth, unable to even backpedal. And, in this moment, that expressionless mask made her feel like she was looking at a different person, entirely. Something in that carefully empty expression terrified her. Despite the circumstances, her heart squeezed painfully. She could almost see something behind those pale glowing eyes. Something inside of him had just fractured and broken. His eyes darkened to a softly glowing shade she'd never seen before.
“Is she one of yours?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
“No. And it wouldn't matter if she was. Flavie's right. She's not human,” she replied angrily.
Reflexively she tried to cover her fear with anger. She couldn't let the others lose confidence in her. There was no way in hells Commander Kashya was going to let his interference and emotional manipulation get the better of her, especially with so many witnesses. Instead of the expected flare of mirrored anger or some kind of irritation or literally anything else she had expected, she found herself startled into wordless silence again; a chilling sensation crawling across her heart.
He couldn't help the reflexive flinch. The angry and dismissive reply from Kashya combined with the Nightmare's laughter at her response made him feel as if he'd just been caught in a backhanded slap intended for someone else. He could hear the mocking laughter of his Nightmare echoing in his mind and heart. It knew. It already knew where this was going, even if he couldn't admit it to himself. Already he could hear the same words being aimed at him. His hollow expression twisted for a moment before he carefully put his mask firmly back in place. But he wasn't backing down. That girl was not a monster, and she didn't deserve this. He clung to his sense of justice, pushing away the dark fears threatening to creep in.
Kashya's heart stuttered at how very cold his expression became. It was as if he didn't even see her anymore. Caught somewhere between frustrated tears and burning hot temper, she let the anger win out. Something inside of her flared almost white hot. Her Sisters were not about to see him scramble her head and heart. First he interfered, and now he treated her like the problem? Quickly she stifled that hot anger before she would say something they would both regret. She just barely managed not to outright slap him and send him on his merry way.
“What are you going to do?” Kashya demanded, tired and frustrated.
“I'll take her to the Blood Knights. They can help her learn to live with the curse, or...make sure she never hurts anyone,” he told her flatly, his voice rimed with ice.
He carefully avoided her gaze, hooking his scythe carefully and deliberately. Kashya's emerald eyes narrowed. She saw something dark and painful there in his eyes she didn't like. He didn't give her a chance. He had to get away from here...from her. He turned back to the girl and gently lifted her to her feet, removing the layers of netting. She was shaking from head to foot but managed to keep her feet with his help. The others still stood in a tight circle around them. He cocked a chilly eyebrow at the Commander, not Kashya.
Now she knew he wasn't seeing her at all. She was just a temporary obstruction to whatever he wanted at the moment. Her hand twitched, wanting to slap that icy mask until it shattered. Kashya very carefully took a slow, deep breath to reign in her raging emotions. That anger was quickly spinning itself into a chilly ball of terror in her chest. There was more going on here than some simple disagreement. She knew that. And her subtle instincts were screaming at her that something had just shifted massively between them. Worse, her instincts were all but convinced she had lost something precious tonight.
She glared angrily, almost hoping he would bend just slightly. Silently she begged him to just give her the tiniest bit of a hint that her Pyresong wasn't storming out forever. Right now, he was just the unbending, inhuman Priest of Rathma he'd been trained to be. Beyond his blatant act of mercy and justice, there was nothing warm enough to be considered human under that mask right now. He was so utterly still in that composed, frigid expression, she knew whatever else she had seen underneath was gone; at least for the moment. Despite her earlier resolve and anger, now she was chilled to the bone with cold fear. Had she entirely misread his reactions earlier today?
She finally did motion for them to let him through. The other Rogues moved aside to give him room. He walked a few feet away and opened a portal. Behind him, Kashya was saying something to the others. He couldn't even hear it through the thoughts chasing themselves around his mind. He forced himself to focus. He had a task. The only thing he needed to think about was that one simple thing.
The girl was still choking back sobs when they emerged into morning sunlight at the waypoint near the Oasis of No Return. For a moment, he let her cling to him as he turned a wary eye on their surroundings. No immediate threat. Some part of him realized the real threat was something else altogether. Something he had just walked away from. A threat that would destroy everything he had been stupid enough to believe for one moment might just be real.
He shoved it down. At present, he was still battling the sound of Kashya's cold voice ringing in his ears. The girl's miserable, stifled sobs brought him back out of those thoughts.
"...not human."
Feeling cold and hollow, he slowly managed to push it away. Later. He would deal with Kashya later. Right now, he had to help this girl if he could.
"You're safe enough now," he told her soothingly, wrapping his arms around her protectively for a few seconds.
Now that he could get a look at her, the dark hair and the shape of her lips and eyes vaguely resembled Alyssa. A distant cousin, maybe? Still, it was enough that it sparked something in his heart that fiercely wanted to protect her; as if to make up for failing Alyssa. But this girl was maybe thirteen to fifteen years old. Too old to be a child and too young to be a woman. And now she would be trapped like this for the rest of her existence.
“She's not human.”
He struggled to shove their voices and callous words aside. Part of him knew they weren't aimed at him. And something he had said or done had made Kashya afraid, as well as angry. He'd seen it in her expression. But he couldn't think his way through it, not yet. First, he would do what he could for this poor girl. Then...maybe...
"...not human."
He took a deep breath and gently detached the girl. She hugged herself when she took a reluctant step back. Her sobbing slowed as she thanked him over and over for saving her life; babbling about how she didn't want to go to Hell.
"Listen to me," he told her a bit more roughly than he intended. "We're not entirely safe here. What is your name?"
"Myra," she said, struggling to pull back more sobs.
"I'm... Just call me Pyresong. Myra, we're in the Shassar Sea, all the way on the other side of the world right now. You can never go back to Dark Wood. Do you understand?" he asked her more gently.
She nodded miserably.
He took off one of his gloves. "Will you let me touch your soul?"
She started shaking again but nodded her head. She took his hand tentatively, clearly terrified. He wrapped his long fingers around her hand gently and reassuringly so as not to scare her. Carefully he felt inside of her and found exactly what he'd expected. Her soul was twisted up with fear, but a strength too; one that could help her through this. She had survived the curse this long, all on her own, and even turned it into something good. He'd learned from other Sisters that she had killed scores of demons, as well as saved some lives. There was no Darkness there beyond the curse in her blood and body. Satisfied, he pulled back and took her by the shoulders.
"I'm taking you to some people that call themselves Blood Knights," he told her soothingly. "They live with the vampire's curse, just like you do. They never drink human blood. They fight against vampires who do. But you don't have to go. I promise you, right now, you are not going to Hell. I can help you cross over. But it's your choice. I won't tell you what to do."
"But I'm cursed. Lily killed me, and I came back," she said, not daring to hope.
"The curse is in your body, not your soul. As long as you don't embrace the Darkness, your soul will not be touched by it. If you don't want to live with this...you...you don't have to."
His gut clenched at the idea until he felt sick, but he would not take that option away from her. He wanted to reassure her that death was not the end and so many other things. But, right now, it was a struggle not to vomit just thinking about it. In his mind, she was just a child...a victim. Gods, it was worse than confronting his own problems. He knew he could do it if he had to; if she asked him. Yet, all he saw was a terrified little girl, not the monster.
"I'll go with you," she finally said. "I'm...scared."
Now that she'd made her decision, he could finally breathe again. It was nearly a sigh of relief. He kept it to a mental sigh instead as he nodded with a sad smile.
"Death is not the end. It's just another beginning," he told her softly. "But Life is precious too. It shapes our souls. If you're not ready yet, that's all right."
She nodded slowly. Seeing no immediate threats, he set aside his shield and shrugged off his backpack. Her face was smeared with bloody tears all the way down her neck. He pulled out a water skin and a rag he would usually use to clean his gear. It wasn't much, but he couldn't image that blood all over her face and neck was very comfortable.
"Here, clean yourself up a bit. We've got a long walk. They say you move about in the daylight. Are you able to walk in the full sun?"
She gratefully accepted the items. She actually barked a laugh when he asked.
"I'm still afraid of the dark and what's in it," she told him, beginning to relax. "I can't even sleep in a cellar without a candle lit."
His heart had calmed, but cold fury rose behind it. Oh, yes, she was still very much a child in so many ways. He didn't know this Lily, but he hoped she was burning in Hell. It was just one more example of why he didn't want children. So many horrible things could happen to destroy their innocence and childhood. And, soon, he would have one of his own. What had made him joyful only hours ago now filled him with dread. He couldn't help wondering what he would do if this were his own child. He quickly shoved those thoughts into a deep hole. He needed to stay focused. Myra needed him.
While she cleaned herself up, he pulled out his maps. He had recognized the carving on the outside of Fahir's monument where the Blood Knight's hideout had been. He wasn't entirely sure if anyone had come to check on the place since he'd been there. Yet, it was still the best place to start. He had no idea where else to begin looking for them in the world. He had definitely recognized Mariki's and even Bellon's accents as Fractured Peaks. But a couple of the others he had seen in the chapter house definitely were not from the same region. If they had abandoned this sanctuary altogether, it might take him months or years to find another. The best he could do was chase down rumors of other vampires and pray he encountered another Blood Knight. And he knew he couldn't do that with his other priorities. Yet, he couldn't just leave Myra like this, either. Again he silenced the many concerns and focused himself. Start here. Go from there.
Using the map to orient himself, he knew they had several hours' walk to the east to start with. He prayed there was someone at least watching the chapter house. Worst case, maybe he could get Karshun to help find some other Blood Knights. With a mental growl to silence his other scattered thoughts, he found the map he was looking for and checked it carefully.
Chamber of Sacrifice, he recalled the name as he scrutinized his map.
It was far to the east of here, near the northernmost corner of his map. It would likely take them all day to get there. With a mental review of his supplies, he was confident they could get there by tomorrow at the latest. Already the heat coming up off the rocks and sand all around them was brutal. It was going to be a long day.
Once she was finished cleaning up, he set out a moderate pace that her shorter legs could keep up with easily. He almost wanted to grin. With her speed, she could likely easily outpace him even in wraith form. Unlike his wraith form, she could keep going for a lot longer. He quickly outlined some of the dangers of the deserts and reminded her to stay behind him if it came to a fight. She was silent through most of the walk. She clearly had no more fear of him, for which he was thankful. He was tired, having had nowhere near enough sleep the last several of days. The heat wore him down quickly, and he had to stop several times for water and rest. Thankfully, he still had a few water skins left in his bag that hadn't been used up on his trip to the Dreadlands.
On several occasions, he had to stop to fight off various creatures that called the desert home. Once while he was distracted by some dune wolves, Myra even managed to slip away from him, using her speed to scatter some lacuni, preparing an ambush. At first, he'd been terrified when he sped off without warning. But the growls and screams of the desert predators quickly told him she hadn't run away from him. She beamed at him when he thanked her for saving him the trouble of having to fight them himself.
Though it had still been relatively early in the morning when they set out with the sun in their faces, it was late into the afternoon and nearing evening by the time they reached the shade of Fahir's monument. He was relieved to realize his memories had been accurate. Mariki had brought him there with a portal. Were it not for the carvings on the tomb entrance he had noticed, he might never have found this place again in the vast deserts. For a few minutes after arriving in the cooler air of the tomb, he rested just inside the entrance shaking off the mild dizziness from the strenuous walk and heat.
Myra looked terrified, hearing the shuffling and moaning of the shambling undead in the darkness beyond. She was visibly trembling again as she hugged herself. Once again, he could not see the monster. All he saw was a frightened child needing comfort and reassurance. He put his shield on his back and his arm around her shoulders gently. With these kinds of mindless undead, he could fight easily enough with just his scythe and a couple of skeletons if needed. She looked up at him gratefully.
"Don't worry. I'll protect you," he assured her. "Besides, the last time I was here, the Blood Knights kept the main path clear. I doubt that's changed much."
She still looked uncertain, but he urged her forward with him. Once he felt a little steadier out of the heat, he lifted his scythe above his head and let it glow brightly. Myra still stuck right to his side. He was surprised at how clearly he remembered the path Mariki had led him down. He had been completely ready for an ambush at the time and only took note of his surroundings in the sense of expectation of the worst. Now he had come back to a place he'd never thought to see again in the hopes of actually being ambushed, so to speak. With every step, he hoped one of the Blood Knights would come out to challenge him. By the time they reached the wall where Mariki had opened the portal to enter the chapter house, they had seen no one else. Tired from both lack of sleep in the last few days and the heat, he decided they would just have to wait. If they still used this chapter house at all; someone would have to come through here eventually. He had enough supplies for at least a few days. Besides, food was the last thing he wanted with the way his gut was knotting up.
"We can't get in?" Myra asked.
"The last time I was here was a few weeks, maybe as much as a couple of months ago. We worked together to put an end to a vampire lord. I...don't know if any of them survived. But it was a well-established and long-used chapter house. I believe they'll be back. We may just have to wait a while. They're not exactly welcoming to outsiders," he explained, moving off to the side in a darker corner to sit.
"They fight? Like the Sisters?"
"They have their own styles and weapons. And pursue vampires, mostly. But I got the feeling it wasn't just limited to vampires. Mariki was incredible. And I think you're even faster than her," he told the girl.
Myra smiled happily as she sat against an adjoining wall with him. She was quiet for a few minutes, watching every shadow. Though she had lost some of her fear, she was still wary.
"Why did you save me?" she finally asked.
He sighed. He had expected this. If anything, he was surprised she had not flat-out bombarded him with questions during the day spent walking. He had been grateful at the time, struggling against all the other things swirling around his mind that he fought to keep at bay; including the taunts and laughs of his Nightmare. And now, so many things flitted through his mind that he wasn't even sure anymore. None of which he wanted to think about right now. So he kept the answer simple and truthful.
"It was the right thing to do."
"I don't blame them,” she murmured sadly. “The Sisters, I mean. I was even afraid I might curse others. So I stayed away from people. I was just too scared. I didn't..."
"How did it happen?" he asked after she'd gone silent for several seconds.
Myra pulled her legs up and curled into a ball. In the faint illumination of his scythe, she looked more like a frightened child than ever.
"My sister, Lily. She was training to be a Rogue. She went to join with Lakrii and the Countess. When I wouldn't, she..." she sniffled for a moment. "She killed me, and cursed me. She tried to get me to take the oath afterward, but I ran away. I hid in the forest until it was over."
"You did the right thing," he assured her. "You're a tough girl to have made it this long. And clever enough to outsmart the Rogues for a year."
She smiled faintly, relaxing. They lapsed into silence again, which he was grateful for. He was tired in more ways than just physical. It was hard for him to believe that only a day ago, he had clearly been overwhelmed with joy over something. And today, it was like it had all been ripped right out of him. Kashya's words had effectively gutted him. He couldn't really hold it against her, though. She didn't know—couldn't know—what he hadn't told her. She had been angry with him for interfering. He knew that much. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to believe that's all it was. He knew she had seen something more. And he had seen something, too. Her green eyes so remorselessly hard and cold...aimed at him when she learned of the monster under his skin.
He shook it off. Later. He would figure it all out later.
"What makes you so sure there will even be a 'later' with her?" his nightmare whispered gleefully. "Why not just show her the monster you really are?"
Just...go away, he told it silently, too tired to even really argue. It laughed again.
It was well after sunset when he finally felt the energies of a portal opening on the wall across from them. He quickly got to his feet and motioned for Myra to stand next to him. He practically squeezed herself between him and the wall fearfully. Three fully armed Blood Knights exited the portal. He carefully kept his glowing scythe out to the side, blade pointed behind him. One of them leveled a polearm at his chest, only inches away.
"You have been out here for hours. What do you want, Priest?"
"I was the one who helped Mariki put an end to Bellon. She brought me to this chapter house to assist," he explained calmly. "I have brought another who has been cursed to see if you might help her. Teach her to live with it."
The black-haired Knight glared balefully with his red eyes as if looking for the lie. After a few tense seconds, he slowly pulled back his weapon. The others stood ready. Myra was clinging to Pyresong but visible enough they could see her red eyes and pale face for themselves.
"Come forward, child," the Blood Knight commanded.
Myra trembled slightly but found the courage to step around him without further urging. He was still wary of these closed-off people, but they were at least some hope for her. When she was finally close enough, the Knight took one step toward her and gripped her small face in his much larger hand. He could see some kind of magic going on as the Knight forced Myra's eyes to meet his. He resisted the urge to interfere, not sure what was going on. He'd brought her here. That was all he could do. Attempting to intervene now might do more harm than good. He just didn't know enough about them. Still, his hand on the scythe tightened with each passing second.
After a few horribly tense seconds, the Knight released Myra. Whatever passed between them left her glaring defiantly and standing proudly with her head high. The Knight smiled approvingly and then turned to Pyresong.
"I am aware of what transpired in this chapter house. We are in your debt for the aid you provided to Mariki. If you ever have need of us, you know where to find us."
Relieved, he bowed low, priest to honored knight. "I only came to give Myra a chance. It was more than she would have had where she came from. There are no debts between us."
The Knights all bowed respectfully in return and then disappeared back through the portal, taking Myra with them. Once they were gone, he sent up a prayer for Myra and another for Mariki. Heaving a tired but relieved sigh, he walked a few feet away in the darkness he felt like he now belonged in. He quickly opened a portal of his own, back to the Sanctified Earth Monastery where he could be alone. Tired beyond even thinking anymore, he removed his dusty gear for later cleaning and practically fell into bed.
As he fell through the darkness into sleep, Kashya's cold gaze bored into his soul. Something inside of him writhed in fear, knowing that anger would soon turn to disgust when she no longer considered him human. He thought he heard a faint echo of Diablo's laughter. He didn't even have the will to care anymore.
***
"You belong to me. As you have always."
Diablo's words chased him through the darkness as he fell deeper and harder into sleep than he had intended. And a part of him didn't care. A part of him knew he deserved whatever would come with the darkness. He was a filthy, corrupted soul now. He didn't deserve the Light.
The falling sensation of the early stages of sleep suddenly became a violent tug on something inside of him. Then, even that disappeared to be replaced with horrors. These weren't his nightmares. He knew his nightmares, knew what they felt like. There were all the usual torments he'd come to expect from his own memories and even imagination. But they were so much more, too. There was a feeling of sifting, searching through them. Like Diablo was actively hunting for something. Sensing something was different, Pyresong tried to pull himself back out. The part of him not already numbed with terror nearly went into a complete panic when he realized he couldn't wake. He couldn't even flee to another dream!
Trapped in a nightmare involving murdering Charsi slowly in Cain's workshop, he began to realize he wasn't in control. Something was horribly wrong. Again and again, he tried to flee to another nightmare, wake up, anything other than sit there helpless, watching his Nightmare self at work through his own eyes. His Nightmare version wasn't a separate entity anymore. He was trapped inside of it instead of the other way around. And he knew it savored the looks of horror at the betrayal from each one of his friends. It looked like him. It sounded like him. It was him. They could not see the monster inside until it was far too late. Somehow, he was truly trapped in here. And his mind began to blur with terror of what he was seeing, what he was doing.
This time, Kashya wasn't dragged away screaming by cultists; she was disemboweled by his own hands! Esmund he drowned himself to shut the cheeky brat up. And then he used that reanimated corpse to torture Fern. Alyssa...gods, he snapped her neck and laughed at the terror in her eyes. Wortham...he laughed while the screams of the villagers burning alive rang in his ears.
He could actually feel the Darkness wearing a path in his mind, entrenching itself in his heart despite his overwhelming feelings of horror at it all. His Nightmare self was in control; showing him all the things he could so easily become if he just let himself. Just listen to the Darkness, listen to the desires that existed within his own heart. He thrashed against the visions, screaming denials. But he was helpless in his own body.
Nothing worked!
For as long as he could remember, he'd been a very light sleeper; partially because he'd always been tormented by what his master assured him were just night terrors. After a point, he could always pull himself out of them by at least partially waking. He always knew their feel. They weren't always neatly organized or made sense, but they were always his own. These were not his doing. Something else had control of them. Some tiny spark of his mind that was always at least partially aware of his surroundings was screaming warnings at him.
And then it was his turn.
Absolute darkness swept over him. There was a sensation of tearing inside of him instead of tugging. It was like the fabric of his entire reality was shredded slowly. Then it all stopped. He was aware, but there was only silent darkness, the void of his personal hell. For a few heartbeats, he was relieved, thinking it might be over, and he was finally waking up. But then the darkness faded to reveal the real Hell. He was back in Skarn's throne room. He was naked, chained to a wall. The black and red chains he had once seen binding Diablo now burned against his own skin.
Even that scorching pain was forgotten a heartbeat later when he realized what he was seeing. Twenty feet away, he could see himself bowing, prostrating himself, before Diablo's partially reformed body in the distance.
"Yes, my Lord. I serve only you."
No... Gods... It...I can't...
Diablo's laughter rang through the chamber as this thing that looked like him stood up and turned to face him. Those seals on his eyes...red like the shards. His terror-numbed mind finally understood. It wasn't himself. It wasn't some possible future he was seeing. It was now. He was seeing his Nightmare submitting to Diablo. The Prime Evil laughed again as if reading Pyresong's horrified thoughts. His Nightmare smiled wickedly as it approached. The same seals that covered his own eyes stared back at him in filthy red spectrums from this thing he confronted.
"Oh, yes," the Nightmare said happily in his own voice. "He found me, at last. He will give me all that you would deny us."
Something ignited inside of him as that blinding rage rose up against this whole scene. Furious now, he thrashed mindlessly against the chains. He could feel them burning right through his skin and into the flesh. The pain only made him snarl instead of scream. The rage consumed him. He would not let this happen! There was no more room for fear as he vowed to destroy this vile thing he had spawned. His Nightmare laughed all the more, enjoying his rage.
"Yes..." it hissed, savoring the feeling. "We have always felt it so very keenly. It feels so good without the guilt or fear, doesn't it?"
Some fragment of his mind that was still at least struggling to stay sane whispered to him. Realizing he was playing right into it and Diablo's desires, he struggled to calm himself. His chest heaved as he wrestled the rage back under his control. It smirked back at him with his own familiar expression of amusement.
"You could enjoy it again, you know. You have enjoyed it. The feeling of all that warm blood, all that suffering. I am you, after all. I would know," the Nightmare told him, all seriousness.
Somewhere beyond the rage, a sick feeling of doubt crawled its way up his spine and into his heart. He knew the truth of those words. Only days ago, he'd felt them for himself. He knew when directed at the right targets...he had enjoyed it. All those people he had viciously cut apart. It was—
"No," he growled, refuting its mind games. "It was justice."
"It was petty, meaningless payback because you didn't like what you witnessed," the Nightmare corrected confidently. "It was unnecessary bloodshed you knew you could get away with. You can lie to everyone else, if it makes you feel better; even that little angel of yours. But you can't lie to me."
The rage was bleeding away in the horror of understanding. It wasn't wrong. He had felt it. He had questioned even then, despite what Tyrael had said. Was he so far gone? Had he become the monster?
"He will reward us. My Lord is generous. You will see."
"Never," he snarled, giving in to that defiant spark. If it wanted rage and bloodshed, he would be happy to oblige, starting with it.
The Nightmare sighed as if in exaggerated disappointment. "I expected nothing less from you." Then it smiled with wicked glee; the red seals over its irises flashed. "But you'll come around...eventually."
The Nightmare's sadistic smile made him want to claw that face right off of it. Its taunting laugh in his own voice made him envision ripping its throat apart with his bare hands. It pulled a large hunting knife from its belt. The cold tip of the blade was dragged slowly down his bare chest, making him repress a shudder. He would not give it or Diablo the satisfaction. Knowing himself as he did, he could guess what was coming next.
"I will break your heart and destroy everything you love," it promised softly in an almost seductive whisper. Then it stepped back with a smirk. "But first, I'm going to enjoy ripping your heart out. Literally."
Pyresong, eyes already locked on his mirror's, didn't even flinch when the cutting began. It ran the knife from navel to sternum, ever so slowly. He welcomed the chilly embrace of the inevitable that he knew so intimately. It enveloped him in an icy blanket of detachment. He was beyond thought, beyond feeling, beyond sanity at this point. He smiled as the razor-sharp knife slit right through the skin. Over and over, it cut slowly, layer after agonizing layer. His wicked smile never wavered as he embraced that searing pain again and again. Oh, yes, he was enjoying this; possibly even more so than his Nightmare.
The Nightmare's expression of gleeful anticipation turned into a dark scowl. Furious at his lack of screams, it shoved its long, slender fingers into the open wound, staring right into his eyes.
As his organs were exposed and began to slide out through the opening, he could no longer entirely prevent reactions to the agony. Reflexively, he gagged and choked back screams. The hand slid through his flesh, reaching upward behind his ribs. Some truly twisted part of his mind couldn't help being amused at this inane attempt to hurt him. This thing knew how to actually hurt him. Ripping out his heart was just a pointless statement.
He was the one laughing when it found his heart and pulled.
***
When he finally woke, gasping for air and covered in sweat, he remembered everything. Every second of every dream. He remembered there was no escape, either. It took him a few seconds to even realize he was back in his own room in the Sanctified Earth Monastery. He was certain his Nightmare had actually managed to kill him. He wanted it to kill him.
That would have been far too easy, he thought with a shudder as reality settled in again.
His door was still closed and locked. His shield resting against it, undisturbed. There was no foul feeling of demons. No lingering traces of magic. Not even the sense of vile corruption from the shard that had once been housed in this place. There was only one explanation.
Diablo had found him again.
As he struggled to slow his breathing and calm the pounding of his heart, a shiver of fear settled over him. They had not been dreams. Those had been visions. Diablo had found him through the connection to the shard. And, this time, he hadn't been near anything Worldstone-related or shard-touched. His suspicions had been correct. The Prime Evil had some sort of direct link, a hold on him. It wasn't as strong here, but it existed. At least it had been limited to nightmares, Diablo's favorite. Had it been anything more, like searching for what he was doing or where he was staying, Pyresong might not have even had a chance to stop him in that state. For a while, he had been so consumed with the horror and terror that anything could have come through, and he likely would not have even thought logically enough to stop it.
He had been incredibly lucky.
He took several deliberate slow breaths. Forcing all of his thoughts into the background, he cracked open the door to the corridor. It was full daylight. He had gone to sleep in the late afternoon or very early evening; expecting to wake well before dawn. He rarely slept past sunrise. And now he had lost at least half of a day. He resisted the urge to call on Tyrael. The angel could pull him out of such visions, he knew. But for how long? Did Tyrael even know what had just happened?
He wanted to check back with Karshun. Diablo must already know about his involvement with the mage. The question was, how much did the demon lord know? Had he just made Karshun that much more of a target? Had he made them all targets? What did the demon want with him?
Tyrael, he realized. He wants Tyrael's power that's inside of me.
It was the only explanation he could think of other than Diablo toying with him just because he could. But that didn't feel right, either. Why bother with a mortal? He wasn't even a real threat anymore. He couldn't wield the angelic blade needed to defeat the Prime Evil. But did Diablo know that? Did Diablo think he could use Tyrael's power against him somehow? Were those visions another courting tactic? Was it meant to prove he was capable of serving the demon lord in some fashion?
His thoughts were spiraling. Frustrated, confused, and downright terrified, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Spectacular bursts of color flared, almost drowning out the images of horrors he'd seen. He fought for something akin to calm. He needed to focus. He turned his attention to his now steady breathing. Bit by bit, he began to find quiet in his head. Once this was accomplished, he tried to sort it out. But there really were no answers or solutions. There was no way to completely block Diablo. The corruption of his soul by the shards had no answer...at least, not yet. Maybe with time, Karshun could come up with something. Until then...
He reached for some fresh clothes. He needed to get out of this dark, silent place. It was starting to feel like a prison cell. The warden, of course, his own seeping terrors.
Until there was a solution or confirmation of no solution, he would just have to live with it. All he could really do was pray he could withstand it. Diablo hadn't bothered him the first couple of days. Maybe that meant something. More than anything, he hoped it suggested it wouldn't be a nightly occurrence. He couldn't avoid sleep altogether. At least it hadn't happened while awake. That was another thing in his favor. If the connection was so weak Diablo couldn't assault him while awake, it might buy him some time to recover in between.
Right now...
"'Right now', what?" the Nightmare asked in amusement at his spiraling attempts at logic and calm. "Where do you think you're going to run? How long do you think you can last? Who's going to protect you against—"
"Shut up!" he snarled at the voice of his Nightmare.
Then he realized what he'd just done and laughed unsteadily. He'd literally just told himself to shut up! Gods, this was getting worse by the minute. He needed something outside himself now to ground and re-center himself. He'd been shaken badly. But he was not broken, far from it. If anything, now he was getting angry. He would not allow himself to fall into this madness, either. Tyrael might be able to help, but the angel was too weak. He didn't need to use what little strength he'd regained.
He would check in with Karshun; not that he really expected anything so soon. But Karshun needed to know. He had to warn the mage. In case Diablo could learn more, could figure out their plans and where they'd hidden the one weapon that might work against him. Then he needed to deal with Kashya. However it would fall out, she had to know. This he would not conceal from her; he couldn't, especially now.
He exited the portal at the Palace Courtyard waypoint. By now, his flaring anger had gone cold again; a compact ball of icy rage in his chest, near strangling him. Let the cultists see him. Let them come. At this point, he would welcome it just to have something to fight back against. Fortunately—or maybe not—he made it to the workshop door without incident. Many jumped right out of his way in fear once they saw his expression. He wrestled the anger back to a simmer. He needed to tell Karshun what was happening, not start raving like a madman.
He nearly laughed at that. He felt like a madman. First Yl'nira, then his Nightmare, then Tyrael, and now even Diablo. All those voices inside of him. Maybe he was insane. A whisper of something deeper almost prayed that it really was all just a delusion. At least then, he wouldn't have to live with it all. He wouldn't have to keep fighting. Wouldn't have to keep watching people die for his mistakes. He was just so tired again.
Instead of laughing—which he suspected might never stop—he rubbed his eyes tiredly. It felt as if he'd had no sleep at all in days. And he was definitely in no mood to pick apart the wards and shielding. He'd been standing outside the door for several seconds now; likely drawing stares. He wanted to walk away and never come back. But he knew he couldn't do that, either.
He took a few more seconds to force his mask into place. If he couldn't feel calm, he could at least rely on his training to make himself look it. Finally, he knocked on the door. Karshun, clearly working on something, took a minute to answer. The mage's piercing gaze searched him thoroughly.
"You actually look worse than last time," Karshun commented, closing the door.
He did laugh at that. So much for the well-practiced, serene mask. "It's nice to see you, too."
Karshun's expression relaxed somewhat at the snap back. He motioned to the rocking chair by the fire. Pyresong nearly refused, but he could tell the mage was already on edge about something. Acting out of character or getting himself worked up now would likely only make it worse.
"Are you going to tell me what happened in the Dreadlands, or am I going to have to divine it for myself?" Karshun asked, already pouring some tea.
"And here I thought you'd earned the right to be an arrogant bastard," he shot back with a grin.
Whatever else was going on, Karshun's chuckle was sincere as he handed over the tea and took a seat. Pyresong was surprised to realize he was beginning to relax just being here, just not being alone. Despite Cain's absence, this still felt like a safe place. It certainly didn't feel like homecoming anymore without the elderly scholar. Yet, there was a part of him that knew he was both welcome and safe in this little workshop; and he always would be. His anger faded to background noise while he jabbed Karshun verbally. Even the mage seemed to relax as they settled into their chairs by the ever-burning fire. After a couple of minutes, he began to actually feel calm and not just pretend. As if sensing this gradual transition, the mage kept quiet for a while; for which Pyresong was unspeakably grateful. He needed that time to organize his spiraling thoughts. Finally, he felt like he could speak without losing his mind.
"Whatever else happens, don't tell me what you're working on, and don't mention El'druin or wherever you've hidden it," he warned.
"You really are that convinced he has a hold on you?" Karshun asked, heaving a sigh.
"I know it," he replied tiredly. "I just don't know how much he knows."
He went on to quickly recount the relevant events that had happened in the Southern Dreadlands. The mage was quiet throughout the retelling. He was glad Karshun didn't take advantage of the many opportunities to throw barbs. He was just too tired for it right now. This version was much abbreviated, if not sanitized; unlike his recountings to Cain. He knew Karshun really had no interest in his personal thoughts or opinions. He didn't bother to detail the visions; just that he had been dragged into them. And, truthfully, he wasn't sure he even wanted to go there with the mage, ever. His emotional reactions in the visions were something he knew Karshun would likely scoff at. But he could never understand without having been there, either. Hells, he'd been there with Valla and clearly hadn't understood; not in the way he did now.
Most importantly, Pyresong knew he was a liability. His instincts had been accurate once again. And he needed Karshun to understand that. Taking this friendship any further than a working relationship could only create deeper problems later if the worst happened.
"You mean when it happens," the Nightmare corrected blandly.
Pyresong couldn't disagree. He nodded in silence to acknowledge the correction. Karshun was quiet for a while after he finished. Both of them were wrapped in their own thoughts as they stared into the fire.
"You're convinced he wants you for some reason?" Karshun finally asked.
"Again, I know it, Karshun," he replied wearily. "He's after Tyrael's power or El'druin, or both. He hasn't killed me yet, and he pulled me into more visions last night."
That seemed to startle the mage. "Where were you?"
"At the Sanctified Earth Monastery. I was nowhere near anything shard-related. Now I know he can still reach me. So far, it's just been...nightmares, if you will. But I don't know how much he can see. If he can see anything through me, he will know our plans. If he wanted me dead, it would be easy enough to accomplish while trapped in a vision. Just send some demons or cultists. No, he wants something more."
Karshun seemed to absorb this and nodded slowly. "What will you do?"
"The only thing I can do: wait."
"Tyrael can offer no protection?"
"He's weak. I think he might have regained some strength from the brief contact with the sword, but he's been silent ever since. And, honestly, I agree. The more he intervenes, the weaker he'll be. There may be a time when we really need him. I will hold out until then."
For a second, it looked like Karshun wanted to argue or even snap at him but changed his mind. His dark eyes roved back to the fire for a few seconds, his expression hard while he considered those words. Then he relaxed slightly and nodded to himself as if coming to a decision. Pyresong waited as patiently as he could manage; which, admittedly, wasn't much.
"I may...have something. But I need some more time," he finally said carefully. "Why don't you stay here? Maybe observing one of these 'visions', as you call them, will give me some insight."
Pyresong frowned, turning his eyes back to the fire. He hadn't considered that. The part of him that was still irked by Karshun's arrogant attitude shied away from it. The part of him that had never really trusted anyone other than his master and Cain screamed against it. He had no desire to share his personal torments with the mage. Yet, the logical part of him said it made perfect sense. Maybe if Karshun could see the connection active, he could at least find the source of it; perhaps even sever it. There was a part of him willing to do almost anything to be rid of the vile connection.
"Just trying to detect the connection from the outside while it's active?" he finally ventured to ask hesitantly.
"Possibly. From the inside, if necessary," Karshun admitted firmly, watching him closely.
That sent his tired mind reeling again. That was the part he'd been afraid of. He wasn't ashamed of his fears or even that he was tormented by such things. Yet he was reluctant to share them with someone he so recently wanted to punch rather than talk to. Now he was considering letting the man possibly witness his heart and soul being tormented mercilessly by his own actions and failures. If nothing else, the Nightmare version of himself would likely convince the mage he was a madman. Another chain of thought tugged at him, and he absolutely didn't have the strength to filter it out at the moment.
"Why do you do it, Karshun?" he asked softly.
The mage frowned with irritation. "Can you be more specific?"
"Why even bother hunting cultists or trying to stop any of this?" he asked, not entirely sure where his tired thoughts were going.
Karshun's eyebrows shot up, clearly caught completely off guard by the question. He scoffed for a second before eyeing him more closely.
"You're serious," he said in evident surprise.
"I am," Pyresong agreed, his mind twisting itself into knots. He could feel the words coming to the fore; all the things he had never told Cain. Yet, somehow, he knew that's not where this was going.
"Why do you want to know?" the mage asked, more than a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.
"We all have our reasons. Was it a vision? Some prophecy? Cain's influence? Personal run-in with some cultists? A—"
"Because it's the right thing to do," Karshun snapped angrily. "What more do you need?"
"I don't," he said slowly, wondering for himself where these thoughts were trying to take him. "Fighting for the Balance—for justice—is what got me into this. I don't..regret it, even now." He paused and sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "And yet, there's a part of me that wonders what I would have become...if he hadn't..."
Realizing what he'd nearly said, he froze for a moment. No, all of this went even further back then that night, that one discussion. A sort of vague understanding tingled across his exhausted, sluggish memories. There was a pattern under it all. Some piece of something bigger. Caught up in those bits and pieces of memory, his mouth went where he knew it had actually begun; almost forgetting Karshun's presence altogether.
"If I hadn't...killed them," he murmured.
Pyresong struggled to keep his various memories and thoughts in the right order as they all spun through his head in a matter of seconds. Why did they make more sense out of order? How could his choice of walking into Khanduras some quarter of a century later have anything to do with... Something darker crawled behind all of this. Something that made his Nightmare snicker in amusement.
"Killed who?" Karshun snapped, clearly not liking where this was going.
Pulled back out of that twisting mess in his head, Pyresong blinked as if surprised he had said anything at all. As his vague thoughts came into a dark sort of focus, Pyresong nodded to himself, still staring into the fire. He didn't have the energy to confront the mage outright; not to mention he didn't seem to be listening to the warnings, anyway. But now he was at least beginning to understand what might have been for him.
Divergent prophecies. Divergent lives. Choices.
And he loathed it all as much now as when the Nightmare was first brought to the fore. His entire life was spent trying to rectify his mistakes. Any other path, and he would have become the monsters he now hunted. He shook it off and answered Karshun's expected and worried gaze. He was so very, very tired of it all. He was almost too weary to even care what Karshun thought at the moment.
"I killed my parents when I was six. I was already a necromancer and didn't know it. I would like to believe I would have made the same choices had I grown up...without that. But now I know I wouldn't."
Karshun's face relaxed considerably as he began to understand what was going on in his friend's mind. His voice softened with surprisingly genuine compassion.
"I don't care what Diablo tries to use against you. We all have our fears, our personal torments. I only want to analyze the connection and possibly its source."
Shaking off those other thoughts, Pyresong heaved another sigh. There was a brief flash of irritation, but he was just too weary for it to take hold. He just couldn't understand Karshun's stubborn refusal to see how much of a threat he was now. He threw Karshun a dark look.
"And if there is no solution to my problem? Have you considered that my part was just to retrieve the sword and nothing more?"
"So I'm just supposed to just—what—start scouring the Astral Plane for a hero willing to take on a Prime Evil? Or are you suggesting I should make a go of it?"
Pyresong couldn't help grinning at that one. The mental image of Karshun with that giant sword...
"That would certainly be entertaining," he quipped before getting serious again. "No, not you. But we do need to be open to all possibilities. What was done to me was done by the Worldstone shards, the thing that created our world. There may be no way to undo it. I may not be able to wield El'druin, but another might. It's worth looking into and keeping in mind."
"So you have given up," Karshun accused darkly.
He shook his head tiredly. "I'm still here."
"No, you're in a dark place, and you can't find a way out. There's a difference," the mage insisted angrily. "You're not just some tool to be cast aside when broken."
"Karshun, I'm not giving up," he insisted, letting his own anger slip through. "I've got..."
He hesitated again, not ready to speak about Kashya. For all he knew, that part of his life was over, and it wouldn't matter, anyway. He quickly forced himself to focus. The last thing he needed was to give Karshun a reason to dig at him right now.
"I've got more reasons now to keep fighting than I've ever had in my life. But I'm a liability now, as well. We have to consider—"
"We will find a way to fix your soul," Karshun assured him stubbornly. "Whether you decide to continue or not."
He stifled another frustrated sigh and just nodded, actually appreciating the mage's stubbornness and confidence for once. As tired as he felt right now, he was not without hope. Karshun could help him keep that hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to somehow make this all work out. He just couldn't see it right now. He was too tired to even try. For a few minutes, the two of them sat in comfortable silence, wrapped in their own thoughts. Finally, he pulled himself out of it. He still had other, even more unpleasant things to deal with today. Tired or not, he could avoid them no longer.
"It took a couple of days for Diablo to seek me out again. Are you sure you can tolerate me for that long?" he finally asked with a tired grin.
"I'll do my best," Karshun shot back with a smirk.
He set aside the teacup. "There are some things I need to do first. I'll return later."
The mage just nodded, seeming deep in thought. Compared to where he was headed next, dealing was Karshun had been almost easy. It was already late in the afternoon by the time he left the workshop. By this point, he was too tired mentally and emotionally to even be angry anymore.
Now, he was just afraid.
He exited the portal in the Outer Cloister. Whatever had been said since the night he took Myra away, at least no one stopped him as he entered the buildings and made his way toward Kashya's room. He wasn't even sure she would be there. But he would rather wait for her there where she would feel safe, than to have her chase him down somewhere else. He had no doubts that word was already flying ahead of him among the Sisters that he'd arrived.
He didn't even make it to Kashya's room before Fern intercepted him. She smiled happily as she ran up to him. Seeing her cherubic, genuine smile made something clutching at his heart ease slightly. Reflexively, he knelt down to catch her in an embrace.
"I've missed you," she whispered, kissing his cheek.
"I've got all the time in the world for you," he assured, warmed by her smile.
"Kashya, first," Fern insisted as she pulled back. "She needs to know. But, more to the point, you need to tell her. You won't feel right until you do."
"You know?"
His heart squeezed painfully. Fern's blue eyes darkened for a moment, despite the smile. At least she wasn't visibly afraid of him. Had that happened...
"Just wait. She'll see the truth soon enough," the Nightmare snickered. "Do you really think the Great Eye won't warn her what kind of monster you really are?"
"I know what I need to know," she told him simply. "What you need to know right now is that what you've learned changes nothing. You're not running away. I won't let you."
The final, childish statement caught him so off guard he couldn't help laughing. He kissed the top of her head and then stood back up.
"Very well, then. Maybe we'll just play hide-and-seek instead," he teased.
"You'll lose," she promised, reaching up to touch the amulet under his shirt.
"That's cheating," he shot back with a grin.
She grinned up at him mischievously. That cherubic face reminded him all over again just how very young she really was.
"Just be sure you come back when you can so I don't have to chase you," she warned playfully.
He couldn't resist. He ruffled her hair, making her giggle. Somehow, despite the dark undertones of their brief conversation, and all the things weighing on him in this moment, her childish behavior and sincere smile gave him a kind of hope he so needed right now. At least she was safe and happy. Whatever happened to him, she had her place here with the Sisterhood. He was almost willing to come back for Kashya later and just take Fern away for a while. But he knew the little girl was right. Until he spoke with Kashya, things were only going to get worse in his mind. He watched while Fern walked away down the hall in the opposite direction.
Clinging desperately to what little hope and Light he could find inside himself right now, he knocked softly on Kashya's door. He had not really expected her to be there, but she was. He could smell the leather and oil from whatever she'd been working on at the table. For a moment, her emerald eyes darkened when she saw him as if uncertain. He couldn't take it right now. His heart squeezed, and his gut clenched painfully until he felt downright glad he hadn't eaten anything. He could barely breathe at this point. Not giving her a chance to speak, he wrapped his arms around her; hugging her fiercely.
"I don't blame you, Kashya," he told her softly. "I know you were doing what you thought was right. Let's just agree I found another way and leave it at that. Please."
Her whole body relaxed with relief as she held him for a few seconds. When she pulled back, it was only so that she could kiss him quite thoroughly. But he couldn't let that go on for long. He couldn't afford the distraction; at least, not yet. He needed to tell her. He closed the door behind them as she moved toward the bed. Sensing something was wrong, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at him in worried silence. Instead of sitting beside her, he got on his knees in front of her.
For a heart-twisting moment, he just couldn't do it. He couldn't look her in those worried emerald eyes. He couldn't bear the fear, or worse, he would see there. Yet, he would not shy away from this. She had to know. He laid his head in her lap instead. His throat was clenched in a stranglehold, and his mouth was so dry he couldn't speak. He shook his head, trying to find something he could possibly say.
"...not human..." he heard her voice echoing in his heart with disgust.
"Please tell me. Whatever it is. Don't leave me like this," she whispered, running her hand through his hair.
Her real voice pleading with him penetrated the memories, the terror. Guilt twisted inside of him so powerfully, it was a physical sensation stabbing him mercilessly. Gods...how could he do this to her?
"...not even human anymore..."
Why hadn't he just listened to his instincts and stayed away?
"I...I..." he coughed, trying to force the words out. "I retrieved Tyrael's sword, but I couldn't wield it. El'druin...rejected me," he finally managed to whisper. Then he dove forward, desperate to get it all out. "My work with the shards has damaged my soul. Tyrael says 'poisoned'. But it's more than that. Diablo...has a hold on me now, through my connection to the shards." Needing something to hold on to in the maelstrom of fear and darkness, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I'm sorry. I came to tell you the other day. But I...I couldn't...after... Gods, I'm so sorry."
Her fingers running through his hair soothingly froze for a few heartbeats before they continued. Yet her voice was steady when she spoke.
"What will you do?"
For a few seconds, he struggled just to breathe, to process what she'd asked. He had more than half expected her to pull away. Had he heard disgust in there?
The Nightmare snickered.
"All I can do is wait. Karshun..." he struggled against the crashing waves of despair and heartache. "Karshun thinks there may be a way to undo the damage. He's looking for something that might help."
He couldn't take the flood of images his mind conjured. He had to know. He pulled back and looked up at her, finally willing to see for himself. Whether it was fear, disgust, hate, or anything else; he had to know. He was ready to let her go now. Her expression was sad and clearly fearful.
"I don't know where this will end," he whispered, feeling tears stinging his eyes. "If you're afraid, I'll—"
"No!" she told him fiercely, taking his face in her warm hands. "You are not abandoning me or your child." Then her voice got softer and she smirked. "You'll have to come up with something better than that to get out of this one."
Despite the tears, he laughed. For a few seconds, he was dizzy with relief. But it very nearly turned to sobs anyway. He inched closer and pressed his face to her belly as he hugged her. Then he carefully touched the small hard spot that was such a source of hope and strength for him right now. She massaged his neck and shoulders and let him be for a minute. Finally, he found the strength to say what he really wanted, needed, to say.
"I love you, Kashya. I'm just...so afraid right now. Sometimes it's so dark...I need this. I need you. As long as you believe in me, I know I can fight this."
"Good. Now get your ass up here," she said, pulling on him.
Happily, he climbed up onto the bed so she could curl up against him. Cold and afraid, he curled himself partially around her, desperate for her warmth. He ran his long, slender fingers through her thick, silky hair, soothing himself as much as her. Gradually, his hands became steady as he finally began to believe this was real, she hadn't turned away in disgust. She hadn't told him he wasn't human. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to hope. He had been too scared and tired to even think through what he was going to say. But he had spoken truly, and he knew it now. With her strength and her belief, he could beat this. For her and their child, he could and would.
For a while, they sat in silence. She seemed to be deep in thought, so he clamped his mouth on so many things he wanted to say. He was still caught somewhere between relieved babbling and sobbing. He was just too tired, and he knew it. But he knew keenly, too, that she needed to process it as much as he had earlier. He prayed silently in thanks to whatever was out there that had allowed her to be in his life. He buried his face in her hair, letting the comforting smell of her wash away the tears.
"I'm not afraid of you," she finally said. "I'm afraid for you. What do you mean he's got a hold on you?"
He sighed heavily, tiredly. "He can pull me into visions. Torment me. Nightmares mostly. Karshun wants to study the connection. See if anything useful can be learned from it. I'll be staying at the workshop again, at least for a while. It doesn't happen every night. But it...it happened again last night."
"I thought you could get out of dreams. You said you wake yourself."
"I can't with these. And that's the biggest difference. Tyrael has had to pull me out of some of them. But he's too weak. He can't protect me forever."
"If Karshun's half as good as his arrogance makes him out to be, he'll find something," Kashya told him confidently.
She squirmed around and rolled over in his arms until her face was buried in his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed almost painfully. He huffed a soft laugh at her remark, his gut finally unknotting the slightest bit. He squeezed her more gently but just as fiercely. Then he went back to stroking her silky, thick hair.
"I'm sure he will. If we don't kill each other, that is."
Kashya barked a laugh. Then she sat up to look him in the eyes, her brows furrowed with worry.
"Thank you for telling me. I knew something was wrong. You know I didn't mean—"
He silenced her with a kiss. After a few seconds, he pulled back.
"You didn't know. And, like I said, you were doing what you thought was right. I can't blame you for that. I just did what I thought was right."
She seemed to accept this readily. They both lapsed into comfortable silence again. For now, he was content to just sit there soaking up her warmth and strength. He marveled at that. Even in the Darkness crawling around his head and heart, when he was with her, so much of it just didn't matter. He wanted so much to just stay here. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't pretend it didn't happen. He couldn't pretend it didn't exist. He couldn't run away from it or from Kashya.
And it was getting later. As the relief settled, the exhaustion began to creep in. He needed to get back to Westmarch. Reluctantly, he sighed and shifted to kiss her one more time. As if sensing his desire to leave, she rose up and pinned him down with a wicked grin.
For the next hour, the world beyond that room ceased to exist for both of them.
***
That night, Pyresong slept in Cain's former bed. Karshun, wanting to study the connection, sat nearby but was otherwise engrossed in a book. He had warned the mage that it wasn't likely to happen again so soon. Exhausted after so little real sleep in the last few days, he was at least able to fall asleep in minutes. He had more than half expected all his twisted, gnarled thoughts to start chasing themselves around in circles. And, as he fell gradually into sleep, a tiny part of his mind was wary. He was watching and listening for the echo of dark laughter he expected to hear as the darkness dragged him away. He was so certain he would feel that tugging sensation again as he fell through the layers of sleep.
Nothing.
And, apparently, he had been too tired to even dream this time. Given the fact that he felt as if he hadn't slept at all in several days, it was more of a relief than a surprise.
He wasn't completely surprised when he woke some hours later, feeling at least a bit refreshed. The window over Cain's desk was still dark; so he hadn't slept through the night. But, then, he wondered vaguely why he had woken. Karshun was by the Astral Anchor doing something, but the construct itself was inert. The part of his mind that always monitored his surroundings, even in sleep, hadn't heard anything that would have woken him. Still foggy with sleep and still considerably more tired than he would like, he shoved it aside. He was safe in the workshop, and Karshun was doing...whatever. Going back to sleep seemed like a pointless endeavor. Besides, a cup of tea sounded better than more potential dreams.
"You're awake. Excellent! Time to get started," the voice of his Nightmare spoke up almost gleefully as if summoned.
Shut up, he told it wearily as he moved to throw off the blankets.
His Nightmare laughed wickedly. A heartbeat later, Pyresong's thoughts tingled with icy fear as he realized he could not move his arm. Again he tried to throw off the blanket, kick his legs, anything!
"My Lord has given me power. Now you are the helpless one," his Nightmare explained after letting him struggle for several seconds. "Now it's my turn to have some fun."
Mentally he thrashed and screamed, trying to take back control of his body. But there was nothing. He could feel his body but could not control even his own mouth to warn Karshun. His heart was slow and steady despite his rising panic. Even that was controlled by his Nightmare now.
While he struggled in vain, he saw through its eyes when it casually rolled out of bed to approach Karshun. The mage, clearly engrossed with something, glanced over his shoulder at him with a nod and then went back to what he was doing. A second later, Karshun was on the floor unconscious when his Nightmare bashed him over the head.
"Now the real fun begins," the Nightmare said openly, as if enjoying the sound of its own voice now that it had control.
Horrified, Pyresong stopped screaming and thrashing around blindly.
What do you want? he asked, struggling to form coherent thoughts around the terror.
"I just wanted my freedom," his Nightmare explained, sounding oh so innocent. “You don't seem to appreciate my presence anymore. At least, not the way you used to. What I want... hmmm...”
It pulled out a thin-bladed ritual knife from Karshun's belt, holding it up for inspection. It enjoyed the way the light of the lanterns flickered off the shiny blade. Pyresong shivered mentally when he realized he could actually feel what it was feeling, even if he couldn't hear its actual thoughts.
"My Lord wants El'druin. Since he is the only one who knows where it is, we'll have to get him to tell us," it explained, still smiling.
What are you doing?
The Nightmare ignored this question while it cut apart the mage's robes. It hummed a little tune that sounded vaguely familiar to the necromancer. But he couldn't think beyond the terror. He could literally feel how sadistically happy it was to be free and finally in control.
What are you going to do?
Despite his efforts to sound more demanding, he couldn't keep a tinge of fear out completely. He already suspected what was coming. Once Karshun's chest was exposed, it began cutting delicately. His suspicions were accurate. He knew himself well enough to know exactly where this was headed. Again, Pyresong nearly went into a mindless panic as it carved neat sigils across the mage's skin. He knew those sigils better than he would have ever liked to admit.
Tyrael! Tyrael! Stop this! he screamed.
His Nightmare never stopped cutting while it laughed openly. Hearing his own dark laughter just enhanced the horror of the whole situation.
"Tyrael is no longer within your reach. I control this body now. And, soon, I'll control his, too," the Nightmare said, pointing the tip of the blade at Karshun's face.
Please... just...
It laughed again. "Oh no, torturing him would be too much fun. You don't like torture. So I'm just going to enslave him."
By this point, he was nearly numb with helplessness. This thing was about to bind Karshun's soul to the body and then kill the body. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. As if sensing his helpless passenger was falling into that sort of numb despair, the Nightmare paused.
"You could have made this easier, you know," it said with no small amount of amusement. "You could have listened to me and just given in to the true desires of your heart."
I will destroy you, he responded immediately. That is all I “desire”.
Beyond the mind-numbing horror, a sliver of icy rage rose up. That icy cold sensation gave him an idea. Instead of watching while the Nightmare continued its work while laughing and mocking him, Pyresong dove deep inside. He sought out that frigid connection within his soul that tied him to the Unformed Land. He would drag this thing with him and never come back.
"You can't," it told him with another chuckle, knowing his every desperate thought.
By that point, the sigils were carved and ready. The primary seal covered Karshun's chest. The secondary sigils all around it gave it permissions that were precise and entirely restrictive. Karshun bled from dozens of shallow cuts. Each sigil was perfect. How many times had he been forced to practice them himself? His hands, his very own hands! Oh, yes, he would never forget the horror of understanding what they could do; especially as a child.
"My Lord will have what He wants," the Nightmare told him gleefully.
It paused, and he could feel it being utterly serious with its next words.
"I would have worked with you. And we still might, eventually. You gave me life, and I am grateful for that. The shards gave me independence. But my Lord gives me power. In return, I will give him the sword. A simple exchange. And then you and I can negotiate."
Seeing it had finished, Pyresong was desperate. He couldn't escape. He couldn't stop it. Tyrael couldn't help. His Nightmare had only one step left to finish the binding.
Stop! I'll do whatever you want. Please, just don't do this! he begged.
"Oh, really?" it asked, relishing the panic. "And what exactly will you do?"
Give him a potion. Heal it. Cover our tracks. Then we can convince him to give up the sword, Pyresong said, loathing himself for even considering it. We can explain it as a...a delirium, a nightmare, something. Please! Just don't do this!
"You're right. We could," it said, as if considering. "The fool thinks of you as some kind of friend, after all."
I swear I'll get you what you want. Just, please, don't do this.
He could feel it smile again wickedly. It was winning, and it knew it. Then it shrugged with another dark chuckle.
"But what's the fun in that?" it asked.
Before Pyresong could think of anything else, it plunged the thin knife blade neatly through Karshun's ribs and into his heart, stopping it forever. With its other hand and his own voice, it triggered the spell that would bind the soul to the body for eternity. The mage's dark eyes flew open and then locked on his. The horror of betrayal was soon lost to the distant gaze of death. In seconds, those familiar, brown eyes refocused on him with murderous hate.
Gods...no...
He only had a moment to be horrified, though. Whatever power his Nightmare had was apparently used up. He felt his body collapsing onto the hard wooden floor beside Karshun's an instant before he realized he was back in control. He just managed not to smash his face into the floorboards. But the real damage was already done. And he could not undo it. For one thing, he didn't have time. He knew what he had to do. On his hands and knees, he nearly vomited while Karshun's lazar continued to stare at him in hateful silence. It did not even have permission to speak! His racing mind flew through dozens of possibilities. But it all came down to one thing. He had to act before the Nightmare regained enough power to retake control.
"Karshun... I'm sorry... it... gods..."
Shaking with horror, he did the one thing he could.
"I order you to find a Priest of Rathma to release you. Tell them what happened here."
Before the lazar could even sit up to obey, he snatched up the bloody knife and slit his throat wide open. Reflexively, he turned away from Karshun and the Astral Anchor as the first spray of blood erupted from his neck. He watched the blood spilling into the rug in a river. Even if his Nightmare regained control, he would ensure it could do no more harm to his friend or anyone else. It would die with him. The pain in his neck was no more than a bee sting compared to the agony in his heart. He watched the pool of blood grow around him while Karshun rose and headed out the door. His racing heart slowed with icy relief.
At least no one else would suffer.
He woke with a jolt, sitting bolt upright in the bed, his heart racing painfully in his chest.
"You're—" Karshun started, reaching for him.
"Tyrael!"
Panicked, Pyresong did the one thing that came to his scrambled mind. He felt the warmth as Tyrael came to the surface. The relief of that sensation almost scrambled his brain even further. Beside him, sitting on the edge of the other bed, Karshun went silent, watching intently. Struggling to overcome the blind panic, he covered his face with trembling hands. He could not even look at his friend right now. He could still see those hateful, dead eyes glowering at him. Was any of this real? For a few seconds, all he could do was try to find some semblance of order in the chaos swirling around his mind; he just struggled to slow his ragged breathing.
"Is it possible?" he finally managed to ask, his voice muffled by his hands.
He heard Karshun shifting. The mage moved from the other bed to stand beside him. When the mage's hand rested on his shoulder comfortingly, he couldn't help flinching away. Karshun pulled back his hand but moved to sit on the edge of the bed beside his legs. Despite the utter chaos and horror lingering in his mind, the angel seemed to understand the vague question.
"Your will is stronger. We will not let that happen."
I think...I know what happened. Is it possible the shards gave it consciousness? Was it telling the truth? That it is somehow separate from the rest of my soul? Could that be why the effects on my soul were...not obvious? Is that why no one could see it?
He knew he was practically babbling, but he had to know. Somehow he had to at least try to make sense of all of this. A part of him was still sick at the idea that he had spawned this thing. But what if... Gods...was it even possible?
Tyrael was quiet for several seconds after the barrage of questions. There was a feeling of consideration that Pyresong could detect. In many ways, it was almost as if the angel's thoughts were just below the conscious level. He could feel them but not see them. It was so similar to the sensations with the Nightmare that he couldn't help another shudder. His own mind was such a swirling mess he couldn't even begin to sort it all out. Whatever it was that Tyrael was considering definitely felt dark. But there was also a sensation of the angel's Light spreading through him; almost like a warm embrace. He was finally able to take a deep, calming breath as Tyrael retracted that Light.
"It is possible," Tyrael admitted. "But that does not mean it can control you. Fight it, and I fight with you."
He nodded, as much to himself as to Tyrael, as he lowered his hands.
"Thank you."
He opened his eyes to see those blood-covered hands for a moment and shuddered. He blinked, and it was gone. There was the sensation of the angel retreating again inside of him until he couldn't feel Tyrael at all. He almost wanted to call him back. He shook it off. Tyrael needed to rest.
He took another deep, calming breath as he turned to face Karshun. For a second, all he could see was Karshun's dead, hateful eyes. Then he blinked and forced himself to focus. The mage's look of irritation mixed with genuine concern somehow seemed so out of character nearly made him laugh darkly. But he was still so badly shaken he was sure the unhinged laughter would follow. Instead, he turned away and threw off the blankets. He scrubbed his face. He just wished the feeling of being so very exhausted would let up long enough for him to think clearly.
"I know what happened now."
Karshun relaxed considerably but appeared no less irritated. Pyresong was very appreciative of the mage's restraint in that moment. He was still trembling visibly as they made their way to the fire and rocking chairs. Only then did he notice the window above Cain's desk and the blue sky beyond.
"How long was I asleep?"
"Roughly twelve hours. I knew something was wrong when I couldn't wake you," the mage explained calmly.
He sighed heavily as he leaned back into the rocking chair. "You can't see the shards' corruption because it's not...where we think it is."
"Would you care to elaborate?" Karshun asked gently.
Karshun's gentle prodding was so unexpected he nearly laughed. He was beginning to feel like he was hallucinating or something. When he glanced at the mage, he realized it was a sincere concern. He couldn't help a twinge of guilt at the almost reflexive anticipation of sarcasm. He knew full well that Karshun was not just the heartless, arrogant bastard he had once believed. And, more than anything, he needed to believe Karshun was a friend right now. He needed someone to...
His thoughts were meandering away from what he needed. He scrubbed his face again for a moment, trying to shake off the last of the lingering horror. It was just so hard to focus! Gradually, he found the semblance of sanity he needed to actually work his way through all the swirling thoughts.
"I thought it began with our failed attempt to destroy the shards, but I was wrong. Something Tyrael said and what...it...told me makes more sense now."
"I wish you would make sense," Karshun snapped.
He was actually comforted by Karshun's typical irritation; though it was entirely unintentional. His gut still twisted painfully, knowing what he had to ask.
"Did you see anything of what was happening? Were you..inside the vision?"
"No."
He was almost too relieved for words. He sighed openly with relief this time as he rested his head against the back of the chair. Staring at the ceiling now, he forced out the rest, despite how sick it made him feel.
"The corruption happened when I destroyed the shards with Yl'nira. At least, that's when I think it began. That's the first time I remember waking with the feeling something was stalking me or chasing me through my dreams. But I was never able to see it.” He paused, thinking back on the many dreams defined by the paralyzing fear. “It wasn't until just before I met you when I was facing a nightmare demon, that the...corruption, for lack of a better word, came to the fore. I was finally able to confront it, understand it."
The mage listened intently as if sensing so much more beneath his plainly spoken words. He carefully reigned in his impatience when Pyresong went silent, staring into the flames again for a while. As expected, after a few seconds, his contemplative gaze flinched as if recalling something. Karshun took note of every detail. He'd begun to suspect something beyond just potential madness here, and he didn't like it. A mad necromancer was bad enough. A necromancer falling to corruption was something no one could ignore without very dire consequences. He knew where he could find help, if needed. But he refused to give up on his friend until there was absolutely no other options.
Finally, Pyresong seemed to pull himself out of whatever dark hole he'd been exploring. He heaved a sigh and turned to the mage.
"We all have a spark of Darkness. I've never denied its existence. I've...dealt with it by making other choices," he told the mage firmly.
As if distracted by another related thought, scowled. Then he sighed heavily again, letting his head fall back against the chair again. His face flitted through several emotions before finally settling on something dark and flat.
"The shards...retaliated by giving consciousness to my Darkness."
Karshun's eyebrows shot up in surprise before he frowned thoughtfully. "Making it more like its own entity. More like possession than corruption."
"Maybe," he agreed hesitantly, not really sure what that meant in the mage's context. "Regardless, it's aware, and it's inside me. And now Diablo has found it. He's feeding it, giving it power through that connection to the shards. It is me and everything I chose not to become."
He glanced to Karshun, hesitant to meet his eyes. He couldn't even quite understand why at the moment. But the mage was silently staring into the fire for a long time while they waited for the tea. Pyresong was relieved that Karshun seemed more contemplative than concerned. He hoped it meant there was a viable solution with this new information. He left the mage alone to twist his mind around the problem. In the meantime, he struggled to just reign in his swirling thoughts of what could happen. Maybe it was time to seek out other Priests of Rathma. Only they would be able to deal with him and his abilities if the worst happened. Still, as he took his first sips of tea, his gut clenched fearfully. If the worst did happen, and it took control, how could anyone know it wasn't him?
"Do you think it can gain enough power to wrest control?" Karshun finally asked the dreaded question.
He sighed deeply. "Tyrael seems to think it's possible but unlikely," he admitted. "But I...I can't risk finding out. It...It wants..."
"Good," the mage cut in, looking more hopeful, more confident. "Then I have a direction to begin further research."
"Karshun, don't... There's no visible way to tell us apart. Just don't...take any chances."
Karshun's smirk was downright wicked as he raised a glowing hand.
"You said it yourself, we all have a spark of Darkness. You just need to make sure I don't have an excuse to listen to mine."
He very nearly laughed but just couldn't find the energy. He grinned momentarily. He was still terrified and not entirely certain it couldn't take control. But, at least Karshun seemed more confident there was a solution to be found. Now he just had to wait and hope he didn't lose his mind in the meantime; which now felt like a very real possibility in his growing exhaustion. While the mage was working on his part, the best thing he could do to play it safe was not be here. The thought of being alone with his Nightmare self did not appeal. Yet, the idea of staying here in the workshop and the possibility of this most recent nightmare becoming a reality made him sick. He finished his tea quickly and then forced himself out of the all too comfortable rocking chair.
"Where are you going?" Karshun asked, finally pulling out of his own thoughts.
"The less I know of what you're doing, the better," he reiterated.
Karshun set aside his tea and rose with a frown. "While I might agree with you on that to some degree, you do not need to be alone right now."
"I thought we had already established the fact that I'm never alone anymore," he couldn't help teasing darkly.
Karshun grinned at the quip but shook his head. "I don't know to what extent it can influence you. Even if it can't take control of your body, it can clearly still torment your mind. If you won't stay here, at least stay with—"
"No," he cut in harshly, already knowing where this was going.
"So you believe you are a threat?"
Pyresong couldn't help laughing darkly. "I'd be a fool not to." Seeing Karshun about to argue, he quickly came up with something. "I'll go to Kulle's Library. I need to update the Curator on recent events anyway. Will that suffice?"
The mage bit back whatever sharp retort he'd been about to make and nodded. "Give me a few days if you can. If you can't, come back anyway."
He nodded. He suspected the mage had more than a few spells that would ensure he was no longer a threat. But, for right now, he just wanted out of this place. The still lingering shadows of his most recent vision wouldn't let him do otherwise. And, he'd spoken truly, he was overdue for a meeting with the Curator. At least if something went wrong, the Curator could transport him right back here just outside the shop; he'd done so with the prophecy scrolls, after all.
Once again, all he could do was wait...and cling to a shred of hope.
After leaving the workshop and Karshun, Pyresong did actually keep his word to go to Kulle's Library. Tired as he was, he knew it was something that needed to be done. A part of him very much wanted Cain to know what had happened. In some strange way, he couldn't bring to the fore, this little side project was his way of sharing his life with his friend. He had no doubts the Curator could find Cain, wherever he was. He almost asked the Curator where Cain might be, but the mocking laughter of his Nightmare reminded him how bad of an idea that was. It wanted to meet Cain for its own purposes.
As if it had just woken from a sleep of its own, the Nightmare began speaking nearly non-stop while he was recounting recent events. Updating the Curator on events took less than half a day, despite the near-constant distractions from the Nightmare. Aside from its incessant and even inane comments interrupting his thoughts, it even began using other voices, and other memories, to torment him. That startled him so completely that the completely forgot his train of thought. At that point he had to stop and explain his current situation to the Curator; if for no other reason than to try to convince the construct he was not a madman. Not yet, at least. These other voices, some from precious memories made him wonder, though.
While he was updating the Curator, another vague thought began to form. Again, it was something he did not have the mental capacity or strength to filter out. And, despite the Nightmare's yammering, it made a sort of sense he could not ignore. While Kulle was most likely not the type of person to have ever researched or even taken an interest in rituals or lore involving soul cleansing, he had worked intimately with the shards of Worldstone that would eventually become the soulstones of the Prime Evils. Being such a liability now, he began to wonder if there might just be a way to save Tyrael. If there was any chance that a pure shard of Worldstone existed anywhere else in Sanctuary, he hoped it might just be enough to serve as a vessel for the angel. After all, Tyrael was so weak now a human body could contain his essence. If there were no pure shards, perhaps another vessel might suffice.
Getting the angel out of himself and into the shard would be a whole other set of research. Even if he did manage to cleanse his soul of the Darkness and destroy the Nightmare, Tyrael was still trapped. He refused to believe there was no way to safely free Tyrael and get him back to Heaven for help. Maybe he could find help somewhere. There had to be someone out there that knew or could find a way to contact other angels.
The moment the thought began to form, he set the Curator to look into it. Both the finding of a pure shard or other vessel, and the methods to possibly extract the angel. In his tired mind, it couldn't be all that different from expelling a possessing demon. If this could be accomplished at any point, maybe Mikayel or Andalon were still watching him. Maybe they could take the shard and the angel inside back to Heaven for help. That thought gave him a ray of hope, despite the Nightmare's constant torment. Just as he had mentioned to Karshun about maybe finding another to wield El'druin, the idea that Tyrael could be saved was a comfort. According to the Curator, it was a very logical and likely solution to Tyrael's problem. However, finding a pure Worldstone shard would be the real problem. And, of course, the Curator considered his plan to release Tyrael a waste of power that he could be using.
He couldn't entirely disagree. Right now, Tyrael was helping him fight the Nightmare and keep it in check. They would likely need the angel's strength and power later in the fight against the Prime Evil. And that power could be used in so many other ways. The Nightmare even had a few suggestions disguised as Master Z's advice that made him shudder.
It was only late afternoon by the time he gave up sitting around the Library. He was just too distracted to focus on anything for too long. Reading anything was out of the question. And it was a clear struggle to ignore the Nightmare chattering away in his head. Hanging around the Library for the Curator to find something was a waste of time. Besides, he hadn't exactly told Karshun he would stay there; just that he would go there.
He desperately wanted to feel Kashya, her warmth, and her strength. But he just couldn't. And the Nightmare's suggestions of what it could and would do with her, if allowed, made him feel downright sick. Aside from how worried she would be with all his apparent distractions, he still very much feared the Nightmare would somehow find the power to actually take control of his body. Despite Tyrael's reassurance, he just couldn't shake off that fear. There was something even more deeply terrifying about the whole idea of something taking control of his body that actually felt sickeningly familiar in a way he could not make sense of. It had never happened that he could recall. But it felt as if he should remember when it had happened. He chalked up that deranged sense of deja vu to his exhausted mind dredging up things best left alone. As for the Nightmare, it hadn't actually tried yet, but he was certain it was just a matter of time. The most likely opportunity would be while he slept. He couldn't risk it.
Alone in the Sanctified Earth Monastery again, he knew he would have to sleep eventually. He was so tired, it was impossible not to. The problem was that he wasn't actually sleeping. Every time he tried, the Nightmare would take him. And then he'd wake up later, even more exhausted. He knew he could go a few days without sleep, but it would just continue wearing him down. Instead of sleep, he decided to try meditation. Even that respite was denied him. The voices the Nightmare threw at him inevitably broke through whatever peace he found in the void. Sometimes it would even let him settle entirely in the void of meditation before shattering it with a laugh or a scream. No, he would not find rest there, either.
Eventually, he gave in and let himself fall asleep. As expected, the Nightmare took him where it wanted. The one thing Pyresong knew he could do was not react at all. Some part of his mind latched on to the fact that none of this was real and clung to it tenaciously. He let the Nightmare do whatever it wanted, waiting for an opportunity to end it the one way he knew how: his death. His complete lack of horror and fear seemed to anger it even more.
He was the one smiling when he felt its growing outrage at his persistent defiance and lack of reaction. He laughed when it finally came after him directly again. At this point, Pyresong had already figured out that all he had to do to escape was die. A part of him that was so weary he couldn't even really fight back actually enjoyed that secret knowledge. He was more than happy to let it kill him in its rage. Despite the very real-feeling pain it inflicted, he was still laughing when it crushed his skull into the ground with its boot.
Time blurred and ceased to mean anything beyond the next memory, the next voice, the next torment. By this point, the Nightmare had begun using all the different voices he could remember. There was nothing it wouldn't use. Somehow it had even managed to dredge up his parents' voices. Nothing and no one was spared. Faceless, his parents begged him for their lives, screamed for mercy, or simply expressed how agonizingly disappointed they were in their son. They were better off dead. The shame of it all would have been a much worse death. Some still sane part of himself knew it was all meaningless babble, none of it was real.
“Then why does it still sting so much?”
He wasn't even sure who had asked that question. Himself? The Nightmare? Some other memory? He struggled to ignore all of them now. He couldn't even trust Oza's once comforting words. And the struggle to ignore them all wore him down almost as much as the physical exhaustion. Already, he had completely lost track of time. He knew Karshun had said to give him a few days. Had he been here two days? Three? When had he left the workshop? Did he even actually go to Kulle's Library, or was that just another dream? Everything began to blur in his mind almost as badly as his gritty eyes blurred his surroundings.
Unable to completely block the voices and unable to sleep, in desperation, he considered escaping to the Unformed Land. At least there, he wouldn't have to feel the weight of his exhausted body dragging at him. But what would it do with his body while he was away? The Nightmare loved the idea! It was more than willing to meet this oh-so-beautiful soul, Oza, in person. Pyresong nearly wept in frustration. Just because he'd gone there before and it hadn't followed didn't mean it couldn't. It was far more powerful now with Diablo feeding it. He considered it more than just possible; it was very likely it could follow. It probably just didn't know how to get there on its own. And he wasn't about to show it how. But, gods, he needed something to help him hold on for just a little longer!
"And you still trust her. How endearing," the Nightmare sneered. "You do realize she knew about me the whole time, right?"
"Even now, you're heart turns to the beauty," Oza commented.
"How adorable," the Nightmare drawled. "And you think Zatham betrayed you?"
"There was no betrayal on my part, my friend," Zatham told him. "I saw your potential, the truth of your vile heart."
Shut up! he all but screamed in his mind, staring at the ceiling above his bed.
There was no rest, no escape, and no peace.
Closeted in his room at the monastery, he was not even able to completely ignore the voices anymore. He caught himself actually talking back to them more than once. When he forced himself to focus, he realized he wasn't in the Ancients' Cradle. He was lying in his bed, not quite sleeping. But was he dreaming? The Nightmare hadn't tormented him this time; not in the usual way, at least. Were the voices just his memories? Was he dreaming now that he was in the monastery? Maybe he was sleeping in Kulle's Library. Had he already gone back to Karshun? Or was that from another day? Had he fallen asleep talking to Karshun? Yes, the monastery was the dream, and the Nightmare was coming for him. He just had to wait... No. He was supposed to wait in the Unformed Land. Akara had told him to go there. He needed to...
"Yes, let us go play with our friend Oza," Dravec drawled. "I have some friends just dying to meet her."
He couldn't even form coherent words anymore. He just snarled mentally back at all of them. Struggling against his painfully heavy body, he sat up in his bed. Almost immediately, the Nightmare began laughing at his pathetic efforts, taunting him. He lost what little focus he tried to grasp. He just couldn't figure out how long it had been since he had last seen Karshun. He couldn't fight it anymore, either. He knew he was on the edge of delirium from exhaustion and lack of actual sleep. And he was fairly certain some of the voices and even people he saw were just his own hallucinations. Not all of them were from the Nightmare. He was struggling to tell what was real, even. He had to go back. Maybe Karshun could help.
"He has to," he heard himself mumbling as he rubbed his burning, gritty eyes.
Vaguely, he wondered if it was really his own voice anymore. The Nightmare had stolen his voice, his laugh. Was he mute now? It had stolen his face. Did he even really exist anymore? Maybe he had become a hallucination.
"Oh yes, the arrogant bastard has to give you something to do, or you might just go mad sitting around like this," the Nightmare prodded.
"You never did learn how to listen to proper instruction," he heard Master Z's disappointed voice. "He said to give him a few days. You've only been here hours."
Random thoughts and lists of what he needed to take with him, where he would go, and how he would get there all began to blur again in his mind. He couldn't even find the focus to make a portal. The constant barrage of voices from the Nightmare... Wait, was it his own mind? Had he just been remembering the voices this time? What was he supposed to be doing?
He was on his feet, swaying unsteadily. He found himself staring at an empty patch of floor in the corridor; he paused in confusion. Why was he even out here? The Nightmare laughed again; that awful, wicked laugh. Gods, had he really sounded like that before all this? The sound made him feel sicker. He never wanted to open his mouth again.
Cain appeared in the corridor a few feet away, leaning heavily on his staff. He looked older, more tired; always that faint expression of worry when he looked at Pyresong. For a few seconds, all the things he never told Cain rose to the surface.
"You're tired. You're not getting enough sleep again. Come, get some rest," Cain told him.
Pyresong growled wordlessly in frustration, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Not real. Cain is...is...somewhere.
"But I am real," Kashya whispered in his ear as she wrapped her arms around him from behind. "You need some rest, and I miss you. You don't—"
Enough! he snarled at all of them.
He needed something. He was going somewhere. Every time he tried to latch on to a thought, it was interrupted or drifted away. Needing something to focus on, he listened to his unsteady breathing. That spawned an idea he hoped wouldn't wind up being counter-productive. He knew his mind was slipping from all the days on end without real sleep, but his body should be at least somewhat rested physically. More than likely, the physical sensations of weariness in his limbs were just as much a result of being so mentally tired. He let this twisted sort of logic guide him. Focusing on his breathing and nothing else, he began to run. First, he sprinted through the corridors. Then he ran through the courtyards. Finally, set a steady jogging pace as he headed down the western path, following some kind of subconscious instinct. When he caught sight of the waypoint at the end of the western path away from the monastery, he sort of remembered. It was his turn to laugh.
The Nightmare laughed with him this time.
Before it could find anything more to throw at him, he opened a portal to Westmarch without stopping to consider which waypoint. It didn't matter. He just had to get there, and he could find help. He ran through the portal before it could slip away along with every other sane thought. He laughed mentally at that. Sane. What did that even mean anymore? And why did it even matter?
Still breathing heavily from his run, he stepped onto the comfortingly familiar stones of the waypoint just west of Rakkis Plaza. It was further away from the workshop and Karshun than he would have liked, but at least he'd managed to focus well enough to get here. From here, his feet could easily take him to the workshop without conscious thought. If this little trick could keep the Nightmare at bay, he would use it. He just needed a few more minutes to get to Karshun. He didn't like the idea of drawing attention to himself running through Westmarch, even without being in his full armor. But being able to focus on the physical and his breathing had worked.
He slowed from a run to a jog again when he rounded the corner into the busy plaza. It never even crossed his mind to take the less crowded western road up past the docks and tavern. Then again, in his condition, a confrontation with drunken pirates would not have ended well for them. At least out here, he might make it to the workshop without leaving too many bodies in his wake. Of course, it didn't matter which way he went. They would see him, and they would come for him, eventually.
Focusing entirely on his breathing, he scanned the bustling plaza. He wove his way carefully through the bundles of people gathered all around the various shops and vendors along the sides. Everywhere, he felt eyes on him. The burning eyes of cultists were the strongest sensation. They were coming for him again. He forgot the robes. They could see him out in the open now. He was a perfectly tempting target. Knowing the center area closer to the monument was less heavily trafficked, he worked his way a bit east and north. At least out in the open, his spells would be less likely to hit an innocent. But were any of them really innocent? How many dark secrets did they hide in their basements? How many bodies? Just as he passed the monument in the center, his concentration was all but shattered.
"Pyresong! Wait!"
He very nearly stumbled to a halt when Charsi's voice penetrated the constant babble of voices all around him. Were they around him? Or were they inside of him? Only when he stopped to face her did a stray thought inform him that Charsi was real and it wasn't just a voice in his head. The second thought bounced in on the first one's heels as if trying not to be noticed. The Nightmare had gone silent at some point.
Before he had time to really process either one of those things, Charsi had caught up to him. Somewhere in his muddled thoughts, he realized she was coming at him from the opposite direction of her shop. Or had he been going the wrong way? He couldn't hold on to that thought any more than he could why she was chasing him. He was only slightly startled when she launched at him in a full embrace. Still breathing heavily, he held her for a moment; somewhat uncomfortable with the stares they were drawing. When was one of them going to finally make their move with their poisoned blades and filthy magic?
"I'm so glad you're here. I've been worried about you," Charsi said, finally backing up a bit to look at him more closely. "Karshun won't say anything, but I know he's worried, too. What happened? Are you all right?"
Heaving a sigh as much to slow his breathing as to try to focus his roaming thoughts, he just shook his head.
"I've...I've had a lot going on," he told her, not wanting to involve her any more than she was already. "I'm fine. I just—"
The Nightmare's laugh froze him in mid-sentence.
"Let's show her how 'fine' you really are!"
"Mortal, steel yourself. I...cannot...hold," Tyrael called a warning at almost the same time.
Tyrael, what's—
"Your eyes..." Charsi said, her face a mask of fear.
There had been a flash of white and then red behind his eyes. When he blinked his eyes again, Charsi's own eyes were wide, and she was backing away from him. Something in his heart twisted painfully at the sight of her fear. He couldn't bear it...not from her.
"Charsi, please..."
Distracted, he was shocked all over again when he realized he could feel it! He could actually feel the Nightmare surging, reaching, tapping into his own energies, trained through decades of using necromancy. He closed his eyes again to focus within. He could feel it along every nerve, struggling to wrest control of his energies. If it couldn't control his body, it would control his source of power. He felt the muscles twitching and spasming all over his body while the two of them battled for control. Somewhere in all of this, he felt Tyrael struggling to help him. The world around him became a blur of meaningless noise. Growling, he forced his power back down and wrenched his hands into fists. Somewhere outside of this chaos, he was dimly aware of his knees slamming into the paving stones.
Just as suddenly as it began, the fight was over. It backed down again, snarling filthy phrases that would have made most sailors blush. For several seconds, he was almost too stunned to comprehend that it was over. He began to regain awareness of his body and his surroundings; his ragged, gasping breaths and the pounding of blood in his ears. Was it even really his body anymore? Was he just some kind of fleshy puppet? Had that whole thing even really happened? He struggled to focus again on the fact that he was on his knees in the plaza. People were staring. So much loathing. And Charsi was...she was...
He felt something inside of him releasing, like a shield being blasted to shards. The unexpected explosion of power burst out of him in all directions like a filthy wave of his own corrupted power. He gasped again in horror, realizing just how much like a corpse explosion it felt. His heart nearly froze solid in his chest when screams erupted all around him. Panicked beyond conscious thought, he opened his eyes and lurched unsteadily to his feet. He couldn't even find relief at realizing he hadn't just killed everyone around him. They were all running and screaming in every direction, trying to get away from shadowy demons chasing them across the plaza.
Gods above...demons...I...
His shocked mind reacted reflexively. Just like Charsi, he swung his bare fist at one. It went right through the shade. The lack of physical impact shocked his mind so completely that he wondered all over again if he was hallucinating. What was happening? Was any of this real? The screams sounded real enough. But...
While his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing, the Nightmare struck again. He felt it condensing the power in his arms and hands. The same instant Pyresong realized it was actually almost controlling his arms, he pulled them in against himself. He again balled his hands into painfully tight fists. Desperately, he hugged himself while at the same time praying it would actually do it, unleash the spell on himself. It had nearly thrown bone spears at these people! This can't be happening.
Struggling against the Nightmare, he nearly stumbled to his knees again. Somewhere in his twisting guts, he felt a clawing, tearing sensation as it tried yet again to wrest physical control from him. He could feel Tyrael fighting back just as viciously. The flash of blinding agony in his belly made him double over. Charsi caught him by the shoulders. Not able to even breathe around the flaring pain, he could only stare at her, lost.
"They're only shadows! They can't hurt anyone!" she insisted. "We have to get you to Karshun!"
When Charsi tried to pull one of his arms over her shoulder, he pulled it back desperately, clenching his fists. He couldn't let go! If he did, it would kill them all. Part of him still prayed it would actually do it. Send those spears right through his own body to end this nightmare. He knew if he died, he would wake up, finally. This nightmare would be over, at last. Given the white-hot agony twisting and flaring across his abdomen and chest, he almost wanted to look down and see if it already blasted him with his own bone spears. Maybe this was almost over for him. He closed his eyes praying incoherently to anything that would listen.
Please... Just make it stop!
Instead, Charsi wrapped an arm around his waist and dragged him toward the stairs at the north end of the plaza. The screaming all around the plaza became another mindless blur to the screaming echoes in his mind. His incoherent thoughts began to coalesce somewhat as the pain faded into the background. A deep cold started to seep in behind the pain. But not the numbing cold that brought relief, the kind of cold that chilled him to the core with terror. So far, he still had control of his necromantic abilities. How long would it last? When would it try again? He had to keep his focus on it and his body. He was only vaguely aware of Charsi practically carrying him up the north stairs out of the plaza and into Central Square. The shadows were everywhere, chasing people. More screaming. He smelled smoke. Burning bodies!
"Yes! Wortham is burning! Listen to their glorious screams!" The Nightmare laughed, thoroughly enjoying it all.
Halfway across Central Square, he felt it coming; like some parasite inside of him trying to crawl out through his throat. The thing in Bilefen had infested him with toxin! The larvae were eating away at his insides, just like poor Owens! He pushed away from Charsi and opened his mouth to vomit. His mind froze in absolute mute terror at what he saw next.
He was unable to process the blood. His hands! They were covered in the blood of innocents! It was real! He could smell it, the coppery tang. All those people he'd failed to protect. Their blood stained his hands, stained his filthy and corrupted soul. He could still hear their screams. Alyssa's high-pitched squeal tore at his heart. Someone was tugging at him, trying to pull him away. No! He couldn't let the cultists take him! He flung his fist blindly at his attacker. No shadow, this time. There was a meaty thud and a grunt that startled him.
"What's happening?"
Karshun's familiar voice finally pulled him almost back to reality. He realized he wasn't in Wortham or Blackstone or Bilefen. This wasn't some torment in a vision from his Nightmare. He was in Westmarch. Charsi's horrified voice... Gods... What had he done?
He had become the monster, at last. He had become the thing he always knew lurked beneath the surface.
"It's bad. They're coming from him. You have to help him!” Charsi all but screamed at the mage.
Karshun ignored Charsi and the demonic shadows. He turned his cold glower on the necromancer swaying on his knees unsteadily. Pyresong almost remembered now. He was here because Karshun could help. The mage offered hope; something to cling to in this insanity. Where was Cadeus? He needed Cadeus to help him against the toxin and maggots eating away at his insides. No, that wasn't right. He needed...
"I...I can't... Gods... please...make it stop," he coughed; something was strangling him.
Still on his knees, he felt them wriggling and crawling up his throat again. When he looked down to gag and retch up more maggots, he was startled by Karshun's hand gripping him painfully by the hair and yanking his head back up to face him.
"Are you even bothering to fight it anymore?" Karshun asked, towering over him, his staff glowing threateningly.
For a moment, he just blinked, unable to comprehend. Karshun was supposed to help him. He'd come here for help. Now the mage was threatening him and accusing him of... A spark of vicious anger rose up, bursting inside of him.
"Yes! Damn you!" he gagged on more maggots. Then he snarled, "You son of a—"
"Then prove it!" Karshun didn't give him a chance to finish.
Before he could even process what was happening, the mage gripped both sides of his head with hands that glowed a pale, blindingly bright blue. The energy was a torrent that poured into him, scraping at his already raw mind and soul. The burning light and power were crushing him from the inside out. Some instinct told him it was an attack. Karshun was finally killing him! He reached for spirit fire to fight back. And then he froze.
I am the monster.
Karshun should kill him and end this threat. He began to relax. It was finally almost over for him. He could let go. He was just too tired to care anymore. Whatever happened next, he could figure it out once this body was gone.
His welcoming thoughts of the end were shattered a heartbeat later when the mage's face erupted into Diablo's visage. The demon lord laughed mockingly. No, he would never be allowed such an easy out. Death was only the beginning for him. Diablo had claimed him and his filthy, broken soul.
"Your world is mine!"
Gods...no...Kar...
Charsi's dying scream chased him into darkness.
"Karshun! What the—" Charsi started to protest.
The mage caught the unconscious priest by the shoulders. The man was still on his knees, inches away from a pool of blood, and more of it dripping from his now slack mouth. He prayed the spell had actually worked and the man hadn't just passed out from blood loss. The moment the spell took effect, the shades all around them vanished. But there was no time for relief. The amount of blood had terrified him. Reflexively, he delved into his friend. His own gut twisted painfully with what he found. The blood visibly drained from his face as the world tilted slightly under him. Shaken, he turned to Charsi, struggling to at least sound calm.
"Charsi, get a healer. Hurry. I'll get him into the workshop."
Still supporting the priest with one hand, he reached for his staff. A moment later, he used it to levitate the unconscious necromancer off the ground. Half a block away, he kicked open the door and brought him in. Already, the screaming across the square and plaza was dying down now that the shadows were gone. Still, he knew if anyone had seen the cause if it, they would be coming for the priest any minute. He had to get the man out of here. There was no more time for planning or research. His friend was losing the battle; if not mentally, then definitely physically. After what he had found while delving, he almost couldn't believe the man had even been conscious. How could he even withstand that much pain?
Careful not to cause further injury, he gently placed Pyresong on Cain's former bed and slammed the door. Setting aside his staff, he returned to the locked room to get his journal. His frantic research was entirely incomplete. It had only been three days. How could it have gone so badly in just three days? He prayed it wasn't already too late for the priest. The details were just too vague. He needed to be certain. There was no more room for error or guesswork. Karshun growled in frustration, feeling icy tendrils of fear gripping his heart. There was nothing but guesswork and vague references here! He looked at the unconscious necromancer lying helpless in the bed. There was just no more time. It would have to do. Any hope was better than nothing right now.
He spun around when the door flew open a few seconds later. Charsi had brought Byron. He very nearly sighed openly in relief. Byron's healing abilities were near legendary in Westmarch. If anyone could repair the damage, he could. And he knew Pyresong had more than enough energy to facilitate the healing. The priest had more power than Karshun had ever seen in a single living person! He motioned to the bed behind the door. Immediately, the burly healer set to work. The instant he touched Pyresong, his eyes went wide.
"Internal... What the hells..." Byron started asking over his shoulder.
"Just heal him as much as you can," Karshun snapped.
Charsi stood by anxiously, looking to the mage for comfort. Karshun kept his expression carefully neutral but sighed heavily. The damage had been extensive. They sat in absolute terrified silence. After several minutes, Byron sat back on his knees, shaking his head.
"He'll live," he told them, sounding utterly exhausted. "He has ruptured—"
Ready for this, Karshun tossed a hefty purse on the floor beside the healer.
"He's on death's door and may not survive. If he does, it'll be at least three days until he wakes and can get out of bed. Understood?"
Not entirely unused to such instructions, Byron nodded. It was none of his business how it had happened. And, given how much he'd earned out of the people in this one workshop, he could easily retire. He wasn't about to give them a reason not to ask for his services. He quickly took up the purse and headed for the door, almost staggering with exhaustion.
"Charsi, go deal with the watch. Keep them busy as long as you can."
Charsi nodded and followed the healer out the door.
Flooded with relief that his friend would survive, he turned his attention back to his next task. Alone now, Karshun returned to the locked room and took El'druin out of its hiding spot between realms. He set it on the table beside the inactive Astral Anchor. Distracted, he put the journal beside it. He blessed his own foresight that had lead him to prepare for just such an incident only the day before. He had somehow just known they would likely have to leave in a hurry. He had planned to find the priest in the monastery if he hadn't checked in soon. If for no other reason than to reassure himself, they had more time. The fact that the man had shown up in such a condition...
No, he refused to believe it was too late for his friend.
He was already packed and ready. He set his satchels on the floor beside the table. Desperately hoping for one more piece of information to confirm his research before they had to flee the workshop, he began flipping through one more book. The part of his mind still occupied by the condition of his friend prayed the man would at least have time to recover in healing sleep. He just needed a few more minutes to confirm they were headed to the right place, and then he could get the both of them out of here through the Astral Anchor.
Diablo's laughter chased Pyresong through the darkness. Charsi was screaming. He remembered something about Karshun. The mage... Something horrible had happened to him. He struggled to recall what it was. Something was wrong. The mage was killing him. Had Diablo possessed Karshun? That didn't make any sense. Then again, almost nothing he thought or remembered did make sense anymore. He was just too tired. And it was all just a mixed-up mess anymore. Maybe he really had lost his mind in Hell, and nothing since then was real. Diablo was just enjoying his new toy.
The disgusting part was how very much he wished that were true!
The feeling of something hard pressing into his shoulder blades made him realize he was laying on something rough and hard. It finally brought him out of the darkness. Feeling the weariness in every limb, he opened his eyes reluctantly. He was just so tired! Why wouldn't they just let him sleep? Slowly his vision cleared to show him he was in some kind of magically warped cavern. He couldn't remember where he was supposed to be, but he knew this wasn't it. Startled, he rolled over and got to his feet. A spark of memory flickered to the surface of his vague and fuzzy thoughts.
The...the Gully?
He turned around. Yes, there it was. Half of El'druin's wide blade and its towering handle were sticking out of a crack in the rocks. It was just a few feet away. His heart sank as he began to remember. Karshun was doing something when he turned into Diablo. It must have been some kind of spell. And, if he was here, trapped in yet another vision, it had likely failed.
He stared at El'druin, at its radiating Light, desperately wanting to feel it. It flared at him threateningly as if reading his thoughts. He couldn't feel it at all anymore. There was no more Light for him, not anymore. Only the Darkness held power now. Either the Nightmare or Diablo had likely brought him here to torment him further. There was nowhere to run here, anyway. Unlike the actual location, this was just a hunk of rock floating in a void at the center of a maelstrom of corrupted energies.
He waited for what he knew was coming. Still staring at El'druin, he almost wished... As expected, it was only a matter of seconds before he heard the soft footsteps crunching in the dirt behind him. He didn't even care what it was anymore. He didn't bother to turn around. Let it have him.
"El'druin recoils at the touch of your filthy soul. Do not pretend otherwise," his Nightmare stated calmly in his own voice. "I am not the only corrupted part of your soul. And, yet, you still cling to the delusion that you will wield that sword."
It laughed softly, in his very own laugh.
"Then prove it!"
The memory of Karshun's cold, challenging words floated to the surface. It was a spark that ignited something defiant in him that no amount of discipline or experience had ever been able to tame. He shoved aside the sick feelings of twisting fear in his gut as he turned to face his Nightmare.
"You are a fish swallowing a hook," it told him in his own mocking voice. "Lured by your hopes and dreams."
"Then prove it!"
That arrogant bastard had accused him of not fighting anymore!
"...you will know it, and you will fight it," Oza affirmed yet again.
"I believe in you," Kashya whispered.
To hells with Karshun and his arrogance! He didn't need the mage to believe. He had his real friends, and they believed. They knew he would never stop fighting. He smiled wickedly back at the Nightmare. For one heartbeat, he wished it was Karshun standing there. He was going to enjoy this next part; however it played out.
"I will use El'druin. And I will destroy you," he vowed again calmly, his exhaustion falling away.
"Then prove it!"
That final echo of the mage's challenging words still rang in his head when he threw the first bone spear and then chased it with spirit fire. He was unarmed here, and it didn't matter in the least. He would cheerfully tear the Nightmare apart with his bare hands. He wanted to claw its face off and rip its throat out. He was only slightly disappointed when it laughed and dodged and didn't even really fight back. He chased it around the small area. In this vision, there was no way off this hunk of rock. It didn't matter. He wasn't running anymore. He didn't know if Karshun was watching or not. And that didn't matter, either. All that mattered to him as he fell into his comfortingly familiar dance was that it was right here in front of him. It was something he could see and feel and fight against. All he wanted was to find a way to end this Nightmare version of himself.
After several minutes, he gave up on his useless spells and fell into punching and kicking. He needed to feel flesh and bone breaking, even if it was his own. Now the Nightmare fought back, but only mockingly. It knew his every move, his every defense. It enjoyed evading his every attempt to hurt it. Yet that was not Pyresong's real goal. Oh no. He just wanted to get close enough. Fists were a great excuse. Within a couple of minutes, it had done exactly as he hoped. It danced right to the edge. Standing inches from the ledge, he turned another punch into a grab. He latched onto its arm with both hands. It was his turn to laugh when he threw himself off the edge of the cliff into the abyss, taking it with him.
"You know what awaits you!" the Nightmare screamed angrily over his laughter.
In the seemingly endless fall into the abyss beyond the cliff, Pyresong had enough time to realize he did know what awaited. His laughter ceased with that dark thought. No revelation there. No surprise. He was the monster now. There was just the cold certainty of his eternity in Hell. Then the darkness swept him away.
He was disappointed not to feel his body shattering on the ground somewhere below.
The first thing he became aware of in the darkness was the silence. It terrified him. He couldn't remember a silence so complete it left him struggling toward consciousness. Something was wrong. He was alone! He had to get out of there and find his friends. They were...
As he became aware of his body, he found his eyes first. Bleary as the sight was, he could at least make out Karshun standing calmly by the Astral Anchor with a book in his hand. He was back in the workshop. But it wasn't safe here anymore. He shouldn't be here! He needed to warn the mage. It had nearly taken control of his power and his body. He tried to call out a warning. Feeling something thick and sticky in his mouth and throat, he coughed.
Startled, Karshun turned to him with a frigid glower. One moment he was flinching away from whatever spell the mage had thrown at him, and the next moment he was paralyzed. His heart stuttered in panic. He couldn't connect the two. He was sure the Nightmare had taken over completely this time, even though he couldn't hear it taunting and mocking him. Staring helplessly up at the ceiling, he had a few seconds for the images of what would come next to dance vividly behind his eyes. He wrestled against his body, his racing thoughts, his own horror at what might happen next. It was going to kill Karshun! Turn him into a lazar!
Run! Get away! he screamed at the mage in his mind.
Karshun, still glowering, gripped a handful of his hair and pulled his head up to face him. The other hand glowed threateningly while the mage searched his eyes. Slowly Pyresong began to realize he was trapped in another vision. Karshun's eyes were too cold. His expression was too hard. A part of him couldn't believe the real Karshun would ever torture him so. This wasn't real. No more so than his fight with the Nightmare. That thought was almost comforting. At least this time, it was going to torture him instead of his friends. And the idea of being trapped in another vision being comforting would have had him laughing if he could move at all. Gods, he really was losing himself!
"Call Tyrael," the mage instructed.
For a moment Pyresong was so confused he could only stare at the mage. He couldn't call Tyrael in the visions. The Nightmare wouldn't let him. Was this some sort of twisted game? Was it trying to find some way to trap and torture the weakened angel instead of him? Karshun's hand in his hair pulled painfully as it shook him.
"Call Tyrael, now," Karshun demanded coldly.
Confused, disoriented, and well beyond exhausted at this point, he didn't know what to think anymore. So he stopped trying.
Tyrael? Are you there?
He was so startled by the Light he felt within and the flash behind his eyes, he blinked several times. Was he hallucinating that, too? Karshun's hand in his hair relaxed and set his head down gently on the pillow. His expression of relief seemed genuine as he let go of the prepared spell. Helpless and paralyzed, Pyresong stared at the ceiling in total confusion.
"I am still here," Tyrael replied faintly, little more than a whisper.
"The Darkness feeds off your fear and doubt. I had to be certain which of you woke up," Karshun explained. "I've warded your soul...for now. I don't know how long it will hold. But the surer you are, the more likely the invocation succeeds."
He whispered something and motioned with his hand. Pyresong felt his whole body tingle for a moment. Then he tasted the sticky, coppery blood in his mouth again. He gagged and coughed, trying to breathe around it without vomiting. He shuddered, remembering the maggots and larvae. Was that even real?
"At least you've proven to them that you're still willing to fight," Karshun said dryly with a weak grin.
Gently, he tugged on Pyresong's arm to help him upright. Still trying to make sense of what Karshun was telling him, he forced his twitching, aching muscles to obey.
"There's a bucket of water beside you. You'll want to clean up quickly before we leave."
Sitting up now, he caught sight of the blood that absolutely covered his hands. His heart stuttered and clenched. Vague recollections of having been in Rakkis Plaza and even Central Square floated to the surface. An icy tendril crawled down his spine. Demonic shades everywhere, coming from him. People were running from him and screaming. It had nearly wrested control of his powers! It was going to kill everyone. Staring at his blood-covered and shaking hands, he began to understand.
Charsi!Oh gods, no...
"I-is anyone hurt? Did I—" he struggled to get the words out through the strangling feeling in his throat.
"I'm sure you'll be happy to hear it's all yours," Karshun said with a smirk.
Flooded with mingled relief and confusion, he stared for a moment longer at Karshun. He could not detect a lie there, but the blood and the memories... He finally nodded and sighed heavily, trying to slow his pounding heart. He couldn't remember. His own blood? What had happened? Karshun patted him on the shoulder comfortingly and motioned to the bucket again. Then he headed toward the locked room.
"The powers vying for control of your body are literally tearing you apart. We must move quickly. I have the beginnings of a plan."
Relieved both that he hadn't hurt anyone and by the fact that Karshun sounded so confident, he quickly scrubbed the blood off his shaking hands and rinsed out his mouth. Only now did he begin to realize it was quiet inside of him. For the first time in days—or was it weeks?—there was silence again. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the familiar Light of El'druin sitting on the table by the Astral Anchor. Still feeling Tyrael near the surface, an idea began to form; one he was just too desperate not to consider. Karshun was in the other room talking and doing...something.
If I touch El'druin again, can you take strength from it? Will it help?
"It...It will. But El'druin will retaliate," Tyrael warned. "Your body cannot sustain much more."
His hands still dripping bloody water, he crossed the room. While Karshun was occupied, it was the perfect opportunity.
Take as much as you can. We may not get another chance.
Wrestling aside his fear of the pain he knew was coming, Pyresong gripped the sword blade with both hands. It was wider than his entire palm so he just barely managed to curl his fingers around one edge of the blade hoping it would be enough of a grip that he didn't get thrown off immediately. The shock was instant. Between the powerful flare of Light and the sense of his body burning from the inside out, he was nearly knocked senseless. He couldn't even unclench his jaws to scream. For a few seconds, he was back on the floor in the Black Citadel, the beam of Skarn's icon tearing right through him.
"What the blazing hells—"
He felt Karshun's powerful grip on his arms just below the shoulders. The moment he released the sword, his whole body shuddered. The sword flared threateningly one more time as it clattered to the wooden table. Gasping and shaking, Pyresong stumbled back a couple of steps trying to keep his footing. Through the shock of lingering pain, he felt his knees give out. The mage caught him and carefully lowered him to the floor. While he was still trying to refocus his eyes, Karshun took his still-burning hands to inspect them. They were red and swollen, visible blisters already torn open. The skin of his palms was almost shredded. Considering what he'd felt in the rest of his body, he felt like he got off lucky.
"Have you actually gone mad?" the mage asked angrily, reaching for a healing potion.
Realizing the mage was badly shaken, Pyresong almost felt bad. But Tyrael had needed it, and it was worth the pain if it could help keep him from killing everyone.
"I had hoped it would just burn the Darkness out of me," he joked with a smirk.
Karshun paused with the healing potion in hand to glare darkly at his friend as if actually questioning his sanity. Pyresong just sighed tiredly and shook his head.
"Tyrael needs the strength. And I need Tyrael."
The mage looked like he didn't entirely buy the explanation but nodded slowly. He upended the healing potion for Pyresong since he couldn't hold anything now. Unfortunately, it wasn't strong enough to heal his hands completely. At least the sense of them still being on fire had dulled. Shaking his head and muttering darkly, Karshun reached into a nearby satchel and pulled out some thin, clean bandages. The rest would have to wait.
"As I was saying, Charsi is dealing with the watch. Byron is telling everyone you're not likely to survive and won't be in any condition to see anyone for at least three days," Karshun explained while expertly wrapping his hands. "I've paid a hefty amount to keep Captain Rehm in port these last couple of days. I'm sure he'll smuggle us out of the city. The entities that guard where we're going interfere with the Astral Anchor. I can't make a stable rift directly to the location. Even if we get close to it on the mainland, we would need to find a ship. And that could be far more difficult in foreign lands than I care to consider."
He nodded, struggling to keep track of what the mage was telling him. Right now, with the blessed silence going on in his head, he just wanted to sleep for a month. He didn't even care if it was in a prison cell. Karshun helped him back to his unsteady feet with a gentle tug on his arms. He shuffled carefully across the room back toward the bed and his backpack. Which one he was really after was something of a debate.
"Are you listening?" Karshun snapped.
"Yes," he sighed. "I need to get the robes, and we need to get out of here before the watch comes knocking down the door."
Karshun huffed but continued. "It appears I have it contained for right now, but there is no telling how long my enchantment will hold. We must repair the damage before it gets worse."
Sincerely grateful for the Karshun's help, Pyresong bit back a bitter remark along the lines of already knowing that much, with a bit of profanity thrown in. Instead, he just growled silently. While he retrieved the heavy, itchy brown robes, he glanced up at Karshun. That's when it dawned on him, his friend looked almost as bad as he felt. The pale, pinched expression and worried brows were nothing compared to the shadows under the mage's eyes. He paused what he was doing to give his friend his full attention. He sat on the edge of the bed to steady himself.
"What do you have in mind?" he prompted when Karshun went silent.
Karshun heaved a sigh to cover a growl of frustration. Of all times, he had to speak confidently now. He was so completely uncertain about this plan he almost didn't want to even try it. There wasn't nearly enough information. The place was too far away. The entities might reject him. They might even destroy the priest rather than help him. It was just too much of a risk! Yet, he had no other options to offer. And, right now, Pyresong looked like he was about to collapse right there on the bed. If he gave voice to his doubts...
To cover his likely visible doubts and fears, he hefted El'druin and moved to put it in the open backpack. He noted the man's obvious, if unconscious, flinch when he got too close to the sword. Having had a few seconds to steady himself and his voice, Karshun forced his expression to calm certainty.
"In my studies, I learned of an islet, far to the north, whose inhabitants practice a rite to strip away the soul's...impurities. Their sacred site lies within the lost Pelghain Empire. We should depart at once," Karshun explained calmly as he shoved the sword into the backpack.
For a second, Pyresong's tired thoughts latched on that name. Pelghain? The lost nephalem empire? Did that even still exist? Then Karshun's last words sank in. He put the rest aside.
"'We'? The shards did this to my soul. I won't risk both of us dying to it," he snapped, standing and forcing his wobbling legs to hold him. "I'm going alone."
Knowing that the stubborn priest was not even thinking clearly, Karshun forced down his own anger and frustration. He already knew from experience, that Pyresong would only dig his heels in deeper in response to an angry tone. He forced out a slow breath.
"Pyresong, stop and think for a minute," he said softly. "I know you're tired and confused."
Not about this, he snapped mentally but managed to keep his mouth shut.
"We are in uncharted territory, and you're...volatile. Someone should watch over you," the mage said in softer tones, trying to sound more reasonable than frightened.
That unexpectedly gentle tone from a man who was far more accustomed to bitterness and arrogance very nearly broke through Pyresong's defenses. But he just couldn't. Someone had to stay safe, stay sane. In his struggle to keep his own voice carefully modulated, he came out sounding downright frigid.
"It's my problem to solve. The sword, the shards...all of it. This isn't up for debate."
Karshun's face twisted angrily, but he didn't get a chance to respond. Charsi came through the door frantically, nearly bashing the necromancer with it. Seeing him up and moving, she quickly closed the door and threw herself at him in a fierce embrace. Pyresong's own relief at seeing her alive and unharmed was nearly crushed right out of him.
"You're okay!"
He thought he heard his ribs creaking. "For the moment," he grunted.
Charsi quickly detached herself, thankfully, and turned back to Karshun. "The guards are getting pretty restless. What's all this? What's happened?"
Pyresong just sighed and shook his head. He turned his attention back toward sorting out the awful robes. The fact that he was struggling with even this simple task made him want to mutter obscenities. Besides, Karshun was going to have his say no matter what; might as well let him.
"Oh, nothing new. Our friend insists on rushing off alone, heedless of the consequences. We're all to sit on our hands here so as to avoid the slightest injury," Karshun told her acidly.
"It's not like that, and you know it," Pyresong growled, finally getting the robe situation in the right direction.
"I understand," Charsi told him, smiling sadly. "You don't want to put anyone else at risk. And I'm grateful for that. But if you fail, it'll hurt a lot more than just your friends."
Weary and frustrated, his thoughts spiraled repeatedly around what would happen to them if he lost control again; he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He was too tired to argue, too tired to even feel anger anymore. All that was left was the raw terror of so many horrible outcomes. As his Nightmare had shown him all too clearly lately, there were worse things than death when dealing with a corrupted Priest of Rathma. For a moment, he just rubbed his eyes tiredly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Finally, he forced himself to focus.
"I'm sorry. I can't..."
"If we lose you, we lose everything," Karshun snapped. "You're the only one that can do this. Let me help."
"Karshun... You have helped, my friend," he said softly, staring at his bandaged hands. "But there are some things..."
His words trailed off as a vague idea began to form. Not bothering to even try to think it through, he went with his instincts. He dug the Great Eye amulet out from under his shirt. A moment later, he tossed it at the surprised mage. Karshun caught it deftly in his right hand, clearly about to argue futher.
"There, now you can watch over me," he told Karshun with a smirk. "I'm sure you can handle that much on your own."
Instead of smirking back, Karshun's lips thinned as if he wanted to say something but changed his mind. In his own mind, Pyresong considered the issue settled. He turned his attention back to the stupid robes. As soon as he put his arm through, he remembered he needed to cover the small but distinctive backpack as well. Muttering darkly, he let Charsi help him get the backpack in place and then cover all of it with the robes.
The mage, still looking for some way to convince his friend that he should let him come along, turned his attention to the amulet in his hand. Something about it itched in his mind. There was a familiar vibration from it that tugged his attention away from the two standing by the door. Staring down at it, he opened his mind to it curiously. To his shock, he saw far more than he had ever expected. He was too surprised to even question where the images had come from. What he saw was a myriad of possible outcomes for his friend, and only one of them would succeed. His heart stuttered and nearly stopped while the visions swept over him.
"Karshun? What is it? Is something wrong?" Charsi's voice finally shattered the images.
The mage blinked a few times before recovering himself. "I...I saw..."
Scowling, he glared first at the amulet and then at Pyresong. He shook his head in obvious frustration.
"Very well, only you can see to your soul," Karshun agreed grudgingly. "But remember, no one else is going to wield El'druin against Diablo. No one is more important to the mission than you. It's time you started acting like it."
He knew full well the mage's views on self-sacrifice and what he considered such foolishness. The anger flared hotly again. What the hells did Karshun think he was doing? He was still fighting. He'd proven that much. What more did he want?
"Karshun..." he growled, but he couldn't find the strength to hold on to the anger. "I understand. Now, just give me—"
"No, you don't!" he snapped, tossing the journal at the necromancer. "You have no idea. And you won't survive this unless you learn to be selfish. Put aside your self-sacrificing attitude. Just once in your life, be entirely selfish! Or you've already failed!"
Startled by the uncharacteristic outburst, both Pyresong and Charsi stared wide-eyed for a moment. Not giving either of them a chance to recover, Karshun flung a spell angrily at the priest. It changed his robes from a muddy brown to a deep, midnight blue. Though he seemed to have reigned in his emotions, there was still a lingering terror lurking behind the mage's dark eyes.
"Use the upstairs room for a portal. Rehm will smuggle you out of the city. Just..." Karshun seemed suddenly at a loss for words.
"I know," Pyresong said warmly with a soft smile, understanding all the things the mage couldn't or wouldn't say. "It will work. It has to. I will come back."
He was gratified by the mage's own half-hearted grin and more muttering about the stupidity of hope. He gave Charsi another quick embrace.
"Just tell Kashya I will be back as soon as I can. She already knows. Just...don't tell her what happened here. Please," he whispered desperately.
Before the blacksmith could reply, he released her and headed up the stairs two at a time. Even as he stepped through the portal, the first pounding knocks on the door informed them they were now completely out of time. With a quick prayer for his friends, he ducked through the portal and exited on the waypoint west of Rakkis Plaza. Had it really only been an hour since he'd been here last?
Shaking it off, he started walking as slowly as he could manage north through the side streets away from the still chaotic plaza. It was more than a bit of a struggle to keep from running. It didn't take very long to get to the western docks from here on the smaller side roads, but the sheer number of watch guards scouring the city had him on edge. They were looking for a Priest of Rathma in plain clothes. With the now blue robes and his hood pulled down low, all he could really do was hope they didn't catch sight of his white hair and face to question him further.
When he passed the street where the workshop was located, he couldn't help glancing in that direction. There were more than a dozen heavily armed and armored city watch guards. He froze in mid-step when he caught sight of Karshun and Charsi being led away in shackles. For several seconds, he was torn. If they were being taken away... Gods, what had he done? Karshun had indicated he hadn't hurt anyone. But the two of them were obviously under arrest. Had Karshun lied?
"About time they caught that nasty death mage in the act," someone muttered beside him. "Whole lot of them should be banned from the city. Am I right?"
Startled, Pyresong turned toward the voice angrily before recovering himself. The half-drunken sailor offered him a gap-toothed grin. He kept his head down and muttered something that might have passed for agreement. Part of him desperately wanted to help his friends, but he knew the best help he could offer now was to get away from here without being caught. All he could do was pray they would be all right. Maybe Karshun knew some legal trick that would get all of this settled. Karshun might not have Cain's influence as a city Elder, but he was definitely charismatic and intelligent enough to play the nobility and possibly their little minions in the legal systems. Still, he swore to himself that if they were still imprisoned when he returned, he would turn himself in. To hells with whatever Karshun thought of his role in whatever was happening with Diablo. He wouldn't sacrifice his friends over this.
A few minutes later, he spotted Rehm on the deck of the Black Bower, along with most of his crew. The docks were absolutely crawling with guards. Rehm and most of his crew were staring toward the rest of the docks and the city as if watching a show. Pyresong already knew they were looking for him. Keeping his eyes on the boards directly in front of himself so as not to meet any suspicious eyes, he carefully wound his way around to the Black Bower's berth. Seeing an unknown set of robes approaching his ship, the captain threw him a dark look and kept his plank up.
"I don't care who you're looking for, stranger. But they're not on my ship."
Knowing there were many prying ears well within hearing range, he got right up to the edge of the docks. Ensuring no one on either side could see around the edges of the hood, he tilted his head back so Rehm could get a look and pitched his voice lower than usual.
"I believe we have a mutual friend that has set us up to conduct some business, Captain."
For a moment, Rehm looked confused but quickly recovered. Recognizing the face, he kicked the plank over and stood back. Putting on a show for the others milling about the docks, he happily shook Pyresong's hand and then guided him below decks.
"You're the one they're looking for?" Rehm whispered while they walked.
Pyresong nodded. "Yes, I'll explain later."
"In that case, let me get you down into the hold. I have a place you can hide that they're not likely to find, even if they search the ship. It's not very comfortable, but it's hopefully only for a few hours. I'll get us out of here as fast as I can."
Despite the adrenaline, Pyresong's tired, muddled thoughts had trouble keeping up with whatever the captain was saying. Somewhere in there he felt something expectant. Finally Rehm's words untangled themselves. Hold. Hide. Hours.
"Thank you," he murmured with a nod.
A couple of minutes later, and near the bowels of the ship, Rehm and some others shifted some huge wooden crates that sounded very full of something. He couldn't even find the energy to be curious what that stuff might be. He leaned against another crate, forcing his trembling legs to keep him upright just a little longer. Behind those front crates, one of the wooden boxes opened sideways like a door. He climbed in clumsily, shaking visibly now. If he folded his long frame, he could just manage to sit inside sideways with enough room to breathe.
For a moment after they closed the little door, he felt a surge of panic. He had been so used to all the voices, and all the memories that being sealed up in black silence frightened him more than the thought of going mad. Even without the cacophony of memories thrown at him lately, he could all too clearly remember being trapped in frigid, empty, darkness with a silence that resonated through eternity like a reverberating echo. His own private hell.
Carefully controlling the rising panic and desperate need to breathe, he let his hands glow softly around the bandages. Gradually the panic subsided, but only to be replaced with absolute relieved exhaustion. He was alone. It was quiet.
He was asleep in seconds.
Chapter 28: 28 Ewon Tull
Chapter Text
Author Note: This was something I fought them on viciously for literally months. I had no intention of ever including anything like this. Needless to say, as the meat puppet in all of this, I lost the fight. Rehm was absolutely hell-bent on seeing this happen at any cost.
Full credit for the lyrics included in this chapter goes to Nightwish. It is from a song called "The Islander" on the album "Dark Passion Play". I own nothing, not even my own soul, at this point.
Voyage / Ewon Tull
Pyresong had no idea how long he'd been curled up in that small space when the sound of moving crates and muffled voices startled him awake. He had actually slept—no Nightmare visions. No torment. Not even normal dreams. Just blissful, regenerative, healing sleep. He very nearly told them to go away and leave him alone. But his back was aching, and his legs were almost numb. The only thing he could feel below the knees was acid-covered needles. When they finally opened the door, he was nearly blinded by the light of the single candle.
"We're approaching Stormpoint now," Captain Rehm told him, extending a hand to help him out. "I doubt they'll search the ship again."
Shaking off the combined dizziness and disorienting weariness, Pyresong climbed out carefully. He tried to make sense of what the captain was telling him.
"Again?" he finally managed to ask, stretching carefully to ward off the lingering numbness in his arms and legs.
"Three times. Twice in port and once just after we left," Rehm explained, eyeing him carefully. “Some mage was insisting he had seen you on the ship today.”
"Did they..."
He was interrupted by a huge yawn. Leaning against a wall to help keep his balance, he stifled it. He growled to himself as he rubbed his gritty eyes.
"My apologies. Did they say what it was about?"
"Something about a necromancer friend of mine summoning demons in the city," Rehm told him with a clearly amused grin as he led them back up to the cabins topside.
"Not demons, just shadows," he explained tiredly. "Did they say anyone was hurt?"
Rehm was still eyeing him curiously but replied. "No, just violating city laws or some such."
He was too relieved about no deaths to think further than that. He still couldn't remember what exactly had happened. Seeing the Karshun and Charsi hauled away in chains had almost convinced him that Karshun had lied to keep him from doing something like turning himself in. He couldn't help the relieved sigh as his chest finally loosened enough for him to breathe again. The captain's eyebrows shot up curiously, but he made no further comment.
As soon as they reached the small cabin, he shed the robes and tossed them on the floor carelessly. Still feeling awkward and clumsy, he shrugged off the backpack and dropped it on the robes. Despite the precious sword it contained, he was just too tired even to care what happened to it or himself right now. Rehm took a seat in the chair by the table, eyeing him more closely now that he could actually see his friend.
"Karshun said something about the northern isles. Tempest country, I think he said," Rehm started hesitantly.
Pyresong nodded. He hadn't even had a chance to check the journal Karshun had given him.
"Things got...complicated too quickly to ask," he explained. "I've got a journal. For now, we just need to head north."
"What happened to you?" Rehm finally asked bluntly. "Karshun was tight-lipped about it, but I can see you're in bad shape, my friend."
He huffed a laugh. "I know. I just...haven't slept in a while. And I was just healed. I'll tell you more later."
"Can I get you anything?"
He just shook his head and yawned again. This time, he didn't even bother to stifle it. Now that he knew he could actually sleep, his only plan was to sleep for a week. He just prayed whatever Karshun did would hold out long enough for that much, at least. He didn't even have a clue as to how long the voyage would take. Maybe after some sleep, he could think again.
"I'll let you rest. Let me know if you need anything."
Too tired to even speak, he just nodded. The moment Rehm was out the door, he lay flat and enjoyed his first real sleep in too long even to remember.
When he finally began to dream, he was certain he was trapped in another vision. Just because the Nightmare couldn't get to him didn't mean Diablo couldn't. He found himself running through the empty streets of Westmarch. He didn't even know if he was running from something or to something. He just knew he had to keep running, keep fighting. If he stopped, it would all be over in the worst possible way. They would all pay for his mistakes, his failures. The space across Central Square had grown exponentially. The palace began to look as though it was shrinking and getting taller at the same time. The road to Cain's workshop was at least a mile away. It seemed like every step he took, he was farther and farther away from the workshop. Karshun was in danger. He had to get to him!
Suddenly, the image of Karshun battling Diablo with El'druin in one hand and his staff in the other nearly filled the square. The buildings all around the square erupted in flames. People on fire stumbled out of open doors and flung themselves out of windows. Everywhere he turned, people were burning alive, screaming at him to save them. In his horrified distraction, he lost sight of his friend. But he didn't need to look for long.
The angelic sword landed on the ground a few feet away with a clatter that sounded like death bells. It flared threateningly at him, at his failure to stop all of this. The Prime Evil across the square laughed as he grew in power, feeding off of Pyresong's terror. Diablo grew in size exponentially, soon towering higher than the palace in the background. Diablo raised his clawed fist and slowly squeezed Karshun to death. Karshun's agonized screams became the leading melody in the horrific chorus of suffering all around him. The demon lord's all too familiar laugh sounded across the city. Seeing Pyresong standing there in paralyzed horror, the Prime Evil threw the broken, mangled body of his friend on the cobbles of the square in front of him. Pyresong was consumed by the mage's dead eyes staring at him accusingly. He knew he had done this. He had freed Diablo and failed to stop him.
"The price of your defiance!" Diablo roared across the city.
Then Diablo reached down into the buildings. He came back up with Fern in one enormous, clawed hand and Kashya in another.
"Choose!" Diablo roared.
Consumed by the mindless terror, Pyresong gave in to his instincts. He ran.
The moment he turned to flee the burning city, it became Wortham. It was the Wortham he remembered from before the Terror Cultists. It was a prosperous, bustling village. They had proudly rebuilt and cleansed the very land itself. He was one of them now. Somehow, he instinctively knew he was a wood carver, like his father. He made a peaceful and comfortable living by creating beautiful yet practical pieces. His fence post toppers were always in high demand. He loved carving angels the most.
Again, he froze, confused. This was all wrong. He wasn't... He couldn't be...
He jolted awake in the dark cabin, shaking. Despite the sticky heat of the closed cabin, he was shivering with cold fear. Was he really awake? He sent a trickle of flame at the candle on the table. It flared to light. The robes were still piled carelessly on the floor with his backpack atop them. Apparently, at some point, he'd actually taken his boots off, though he couldn't remember doing so. But this was real! The mild headache, combined with the heavy, tired feeling in his body, told him it was real. He was really here, on the ship.
He couldn't help laughing in relief. Not only had he actually slept, but he'd escaped the nightmare! He'd even woken himself up. And it was still silent inside of him. He would have wept in relief had he had enough energy. But he was still just too tired. Rolling over, he let himself fall back into sleep. Let the nightmares come; at least, they were ones he could actually escape.
***
It was nearly two days later when he finally woke feeling well-rested for the first time in what seemed like months. His head was clear again, though most of his recent memories since returning from the Dreadlands were still a blur. He listened to the blessed silence inside himself for a few minutes. Not sure where they were at this point, he glanced out the portal window. All he could tell was that it was a cloudless, sunny day. He very much wanted to meditate on everything that had happened lately. At the moment, though, he knew he needed to talk to the captain.
He almost couldn't believe just how stiff he was. Before cleaning himself up and changing clothes, he took several minutes to thoroughly stretch every muscle. He groaned with combined satisfaction and irritation. He had definitely spent too much time sleeping, though a part of him wanted to argue that there was no such thing as too much sleep, given the circumstances of his little nap. Not sure how long this reprieve would last, he was still grateful for what time he was given.
By the time he got around to staring at himself in the mirror, he almost didn't recognize his own face. Aside from what looked like a week's worth of white stubble, his cheeks had taken on a hollow look. Even his eyes looked sunken. He'd lost weight, somehow. At the same time, he honestly couldn't remember the last time he had eaten an actual meal. At best, he guessed it was the day after he returned from the Dreadlands.
And how long ago was that? Yet again, he wasn't sure. It felt like a month. Maybe his sense of time was more distorted than he thought. It didn't seem possible he'd lost so much weight in such a short amount of time. He scrubbed his face with his hands and then shook it all off. It didn't matter. He could recover now, hopefully.
For one brief moment, he considered keeping the early beginnings of the beard. It might just help with his disguise when he returned to Westmarch, which was inevitable. Unlike his longer hair, which he could tolerate, he had always hated the itchy feeling of being unshaven. More to the point, there was nothing he could do that would disguise his unique eyes. A beard would just be a useless annoyance all around. And what would Kashya say about him starting to look like Cain? With a mental grin, he set to work.
Afterward, he nearly laughed at his reflection. Without the stubble, he actually looked even worse! In the end, he sighed and decided to make the best use of his time, recovering as much as possible. With any luck, there would be time enough to really recover once this was all over. Briefly, a dark thought of how long Diablo would let him recover flickered across his mind like a creeping shadow. He shoved it aside. He was doing the one thing he could right now. That would have to be enough. And as long as he didn't wind up looking like one of his summoned skeletons, it didn't much matter anyway.
And, even then, it probably wouldn't matter, he thought with no small amount of dark amusement.
He dug the journal out of the pocket of the robes and flipped through it. Karshun had taken a number of notes on where they were headed and a bit about the culture. Pyresong only vaguely recalled the mage mentioning the Pelghain Empire. How a lost nephalem empire could help was beyond him. But if Karshun thought it was worth checking out, he was more than willing to give it a try. The map he found near the back of the journal was actually very well done. He couldn't guess where the mage had gotten the information for such accuracy. The patch of islands didn't resemble anything he'd ever seen on any map. Likely, Karshun had gotten it while surveying the Astral Plane. The rest of the notes consisted mainly of historical references rather than concrete details. There were no specific instructions he could find that indicated what he needed to do; only where he needed to go. The few notes he did find spoke more about the religious aspect and the Tempests of that area. It didn't sound particularly encouraging. At least Karshun didn't mention any laws against necromancers. He would just have to figure it out when he got there.
When he finally made his way out onto the deck and into the warm sunshine, he drew more than a few concerned looks. Several of the crew smiled and waved at him. They were clearly glad to see him up and about again. Rehm was standing around chatting with a couple of his men when he caught sight of the necromancer. For a minute, Pyresong just relished the feel of the fresh air and sunshine on his skin.
"You're certainly looking better," the captain commented, shaking his hand.
"I am much improved, thank you. I have some things to tell you," he admitted.
Rehm's usual grin slipped slightly as if sensing something in those words. He noted the captain didn't actually look afraid of him, at least. Whatever they had learned in Westmarch, and whatever happened there, didn't seem to have fazed them. Rehm just nodded and motioned toward the rear deck, where no one else was currently working. They took seats on some crates.
"Do you know where the Pelghain Empire is?" he asked, handing over the journal.
"Karshun mentioned something about the Northern Isles—Tempest country. I've never been there, myself. However, I recall that the empire used to sprawl all the way to Xiansai. It could be a lot of territory for us to search."
"I don't know anything beyond some vague history. But he made that map of some islands. I don't recognize them," he admitted.
Rehm took the journal and turned it a couple of times, looking at the sketched islands from different angles. The target was somewhere near the middle of the cluster of islands and circled. After a couple of minutes of scrutiny, he gave up on that and flipped through a couple of pages, reading the notes. Pyresong waited patiently, hopefully, content to feel the warm sea air soothing him.
"Maybe..." Rehm said after a couple of minutes. "I've got a couple on my crew from the northern regions. They may recognize it better than I can.” He lowered the journal as his dark eyes sharpened. “You didn't drag me all the way out here to show me a map. Why don't you tell me what's really going on?"
At least the captain's dark eyes were more concerned than afraid.
"I'm going there in the hopes I can cleanse my soul. I'm carrying a...a dark entity. It's contained, for now," he assured the captain. "The incident in Westmarch was caused by it projecting demon shadows. By the sounds of it, no one was harmed. But it did cause a...commotion."
Rehm eyed him carefully as he digested this. "How long has this been happening?"
Pyresong let his eyes roam across the soothing waves.
"It's been with me for months. Since I returned to Westmarch from my voyage to the Shassar Sea, it has only gained enough power to...cause a problem in recent weeks."
The captain was quiet while he considered all this. After a minute, Pyresong sighed. His best plan for all of this wasn't great, but it was at least something.
"Captain, I won't endanger your crew," he promised. "If we stick close enough to land, you can put me off the ship if it becomes a problem again."
To his surprise, Rehm cocked an eyebrow at him with a grin. "You'll have to do much worse than shadows to convince my men to just throw you overboard, friend."
"Captain—"
"You're a friend in need," Rehm told him more seriously. "We take care of our own. Just do what you can to keep it contained. If we have to alter course, we will. Until then, get some rest. And this time, dinner's on me. I don't know what you've been up to, but you look like one of your skeletons."
He couldn't help grinning at the echo of his own earlier thoughts. He accepted Rehm's comforting pat on the shoulder with a nod. At the moment, he was content to sit and enjoy the warmth of the sun on his skin on the summer day. After the captain took the journal and map to his crew, he settled himself to meditate.
Gods, it felt so good just to be able to think again!
Thanks to some of the older, more experienced crewmen having been in places even Captain Rehm had never explored, it only took a couple of days and a dozen maps to figure out where they were actually headed. One of the men was absolutely certain he could name at least three of the southern islands in the cluster. He did warn the captain that it would be a long voyage and that the conditions would become deadly cold near the end. They made plans for an additional stop to resupply on the mainland and make the ship ready for the icier climate.
Feeling better than he had in weeks, Pyresong enjoyed spending time with the crew. Though he wasn't much for games or gambling, he did enjoy watching the others play. For them, it was all in good fun, even when actual money was lost. He even got around to sharing some of his "adventures" with Rehm, as he had promised on more than one occasion in the past, and the first week rolled by almost faster than he could have imagined. He was definitely feeling more like himself. He nearly laughed at the idea when he wondered what that even meant anymore. Even that dark thought couldn't bring him down for long, though. None of the crew left him enough time to fall into brooding anyway.
As Pyresong had suggested, they remained within sight of land. The voyage almost seemed somehow blessed to the more superstitious of the sailors. The winds were steady in the right direction, and the weather was clear. Everyone's spirits were high. It took him a couple of weeks to find out that this extended voyage had paid every man on the ship a year's worth of gold. That explained much of the sudden desire to gamble it away that seemed to have infected everyone on board. If it wasn't dice or cards, they were betting on how long the weather would hold. To say spirits were high was an understatement. There was a general air of celebration throughout the entirety of the voyage. Briefly, he wondered where Karshun had gotten so much money. Whatever else happened, he would have to repay his friend. He just hoped there was still enough in his own cache. Rehm even teased about retiring after this run. But Pyresong knew better. The sea was the captain and crew's real love. None of them would abandon it for any amount of gold.
Since his first couple of days of blissful silence and real sleep, he didn't want to know where they were or how long it would take. He knew the longer the voyage took, the more likely the Nightmare was to break loose again. Tyrael also remained silent. He hoped the angel could conserve what strength he had gained from the sword for a more dire need. Instead of dwelling on his thoughts or worrying, he turned his attention to meditation, relaxation, and enjoying what he could. Some part of him was convinced that spending time worrying would only make Karshun's warding wear thin. Besides, the crew wasn't about to let him sit around brooding. When they weren't engaging him in casual activities, they were more than happy to have him share the workload. He certainly wasn't complaining. He needed a way to gain back the weight and stamina he had mysteriously lost. He didn't entirely forget why he was out there, but he wasn't going to dwell on it right now, either.
He and Rehm were again trading anecdotes while the sun began to set behind them. They were standing along the rails near the front of the ship while they skirted around some rocky barrier islands. After sharing a good laugh over some awkward tavern experiences, they both settled. Pyresong soaked in the feel of peace out here as he stared out over the gently rolling waves, now flickering in a myriad glorious colors with the setting sun at their backs. The first flare of light atop one of the rocky islands caught Pyresong's attention. It took him a few seconds to realize it was a lighthouse on the darkening horizon.
"An old man by a seashore
At the end of day
Gazes the horizon
With sea winds in his face"
The captain's smooth voice singing those words actually startled him at first. He had never actually heard Rehm sing before. His voice was smooth and rich to the ears. It held a soft, practiced resonance that was strangely soothing and somehow also engaging. Pyresong could only liken it to a bard in a tavern. A second voice joined in behind them on the other side of the deck a second later. Rehm threw him a grin as he turned away from the rail to face this other crewman singing along with him.
"Tempest-tossed island
Seasons all the same
Anchorage unpainted
And a ship without a name"
Many more voices joined them, spreading up and down the deck. Apparently, this was a familiar song to all of them. Though he had heard many a song while sailing with this crew, this one sounded utterly different from the usual shanties and ditties. Typically, it was just a handful of men at work singing some bawdy ballad or otherwise unsavory tune twisted by bored sailors at sea. This sounded more like a story unfolding. It had a much more melancholy feel, despite the upbeat pace. After only a few seconds, it seemed the whole crew was on deck, joining in the familiar song.
"Sea without a shore for the banished one unheard
He lightens the beacon, light at the end of world
Showing the way, lighting hope in their hearts
The ones on their travels homeward from afar"
A few of the men had rushed to grab their instruments and return topside. Somewhere on the other end of the deck, Pyresong heard the gentle beat of a couple of drums. A moment after that came the sound of panpipes and a flute. Underneath that, a violin took up the melody with darker notes that perfectly complemented the higher pipes and flute.
"This is for long-forgotten
Light at the end of the world
Horizon crying
The tears he left behind long ago"
Pyresong was enthralled. Out here in the darkening waters, as the sun fell below the horizon, he witnessed a side of the Black Bower's captain and crew he'd never seen before. Sure, there were times when a handful of men would gather around and enjoy a good song or a couple of tunes with various instruments. He had never seen or heard of them all being so involved before. The music and chorus of voices made all else fade away. For a heartbeat, he almost wanted to get his flute and join in. At the moment, though, he was more interested in listening to and learning the words.
For several seconds, the instruments alone rang loud and clear across the deck; and there were more than his sensitive ears had initially caught. Then Rehm continued singing the lead.
"The albatross is flying
Making him daydream
The time before he became
One of the world's unseen
Princess in the tower
Children in the fields
Life gave him it all
An island of the universe"
Rehm was grinning widely at his look of open wonder. Pyresong couldn't help smiling back genuinely. It really was a fantastic display. And, very likely, it wasn't for his benefit. But he appreciated it more than he could express at the moment. Something had awakened in his soul at the sound of the music that surrounded him. For once in his life, he actually wanted to be a part of what was happening all around him. This was like an audible light in a sea of dark silence he'd lived in his whole life.
"Oh, now his love's a memory
A ghost in the fog
He sets the sails one last time
Saying farewell to the world
Anchor to the water
Seabed far below
Grass still in his feet
And a smile beneath his brow"
Pyresong had never actually tried singing. For the first time in his life, he was actually disappointed by that fact. He wondered how his deeper voice would mingle with this incredible chorus. He shook it off quickly, though. Much like his flute playing, he probably had no real talent. And it would become another thing he kept to himself. He could already imagine Kashya's merciless teasing. Even that was forgotten a heartbeat later when the entire ship sang out the following lines. A single, mournful chorus of voices raised into the darkening skies now glittered with stars watching in approving silence.
"This is for long-forgotten
Light at the end of the world
Horizon crying
The tears he left behind long ago"
Catching the general theme and story of the song, he practically felt the instruments sounding out loudly across the deck in the break. He felt them in a place deep inside he had nearly forgotten existed. He was certain he'd played such sounds from his own soul on more than one occasion. Yet, there was hope as well as melancholy in there. And that he was familiar with, too. The captain's following mournful lines were a solo that made his own soul resonate.
"So long ago
So long ago"
For a few more seconds, the instruments retook the lead, sending their notes out across the lonely waves. He was lost in the music, all else forgotten. For right now, they were in their own place, untouched by the rest of the world.
"This is for long-forgotten
Light at the end of the world
Horizon crying
The tears he left behind so long ago
So long ago"
One by one, the instruments trailed off their last notes until the sound of the waves gently slapping the sides of the ship was all that could be heard. It almost felt like the whole ship was holding its breath, waiting for something.
"My friend, you are going to have to learn how to sing if you're going to spend so much time on this ship," the captain told him with a grin. Then he turned to the others. "What do you think, men? Is it time for a lesson?"
The cheer that went up must have easily carried all the way to the distant lighthouse. This time, the instruments lead the way from what must have been the actual beginning of the song. About halfway through, he joined in at the captain's insistent urging. His voice was hesitant at first and definitely soft. But the crew wasn't going to let him get off that easy. Within twenty minutes, they had him singing the lead. By the end of the hour, they were already teaching him other ballads. For once in his life, he didn't find something beautiful he wished he had someone to share with.
This time, he was a part of something beautiful that others shared with him.
***
Of course, the peace couldn't last. It never did.
He was disappointed, though not surprised, when the first whispers caught his attention. They were faint but definitely there. He'd been sitting on the deck with his legs crossed and a book in his lap; once again enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. At this point, he'd had weeks to recover and was more than just a little grateful for that. Aside from a mild thunderstorm they passed through recently, their trip had been uneventful. Even the storm hadn't lasted more than a very few hours. Despite not asking the captain about their progress, he was certain they were practically flying up the coast. Whether it was good luck or the blessings of some sea god, he couldn't guess. He was reasonably certain it was at least mid-summer, and the wind had taken on a decidedly chilly feel to him lately.
When he closed the book with a sigh, he let his eyes roam out over the waves. The water seemed much darker up here. Definitely not the blue-green waters he was used to in more southern climes. He could only hope that meant they were getting closer. He had no idea how much longer the enchantment would hold, but it likely wouldn't be long enough. He sat for a few more minutes, trying to ignore the whispers. They weren't strong enough to make out words, but they seemed to alternate between agonized screams and angry raging. After the initial surge of fear, he let his eyes roam across the soothing waves while he let it sink in.
It was time to talk to the captain.
He found the captain going over some maps in his cabin. At least they didn't have to worry about being overheard. At this point, he had no idea how much the crew actually knew. Not one of them had treated him like anything other than a friend and one of their own. He would cherish to memories regardless of what happened from here on out.
"Come on in," Rehm called cheerfully through the open door.
He motioned him toward the only other available seat, the bed. When Pyresong closed the cabin door, he looked up in surprise. Sensing this wasn't a friendly chat, he set aside his pencil. A shadow flickered across his features, but was gone quickly.
"It's happening again?" Rehm asked.
He nodded. "How far out are we?"
The captain sighed and glanced at the maps. He shoved them aside. He had been attempting to plot a more accurate course around the shallow waters and rocky islands that would get them on a winding route directly to the island Karshun had targeted. It would likely add at least a few more days to the trip. Now he knew it would be a waste of time. They would be lucky to make it to the southernmost island in the little archipelago. He knew Pyresong would not look so grim if it weren't urgently serious. Cursing silently, he turned back to the priest.
"A week, if the weather holds. But the weather this far north is unpredictable at best. Storms often as not. How long?"
Pyresong shook his head and scrubbed his face in frustration. Already, he looked distracted and frustrated. Rehm quickly shoved aside his own frustration. They were so close!
"I don't know," Pyresong confessed. "It might be tomorrow or it might be a couple of weeks. Either it's getting stronger, or the warding is getting weaker. The one thing I can warn you of is that it can and likely will pull me into visions where I cannot wake. If that happens...just leave me. The longer I'm trapped in those, the less time I have to suffer the more...visible effects."
"Buying us time to get closer. But what happens to you in there?" Rehm asked, clearly not liking the idea.
He wasn't about to explain that part. "It doesn't matter. As long as I keep it occupied, it's less likely to cause problems on the ship."
The captain's expression was dark as he nodded. They were in agreement, though. Neither he nor it could be allowed to rage out of control on the ship. Rehm ran a hand through his dark hair. He didn't like the idea of abandoning his friend out here in these icy waters. But he knew the priest well enough to understand that if he didn't let the man go with a boat, he would throw himself overboard. These waters were already deadly cold. They would be filled with ice floes by the time they got anywhere near the islands that they were aiming for.
"Do what you can to keep it contained. Is there anything we can do to help?"
"Just...warn your crew. Best if I keep to myself from here on out."
Rehm nodded sadly. But what else was there to do? He watched the priest let himself out. He heard the man's cabin door closing behind him and prayed. While he didn't know the whole story, he'd known the priest long enough to see the man carried a burden most others couldn't begin to imagine. All he could do was try to find a way to get them through this last stretch as quickly as possible.
***
It took two more days for the Nightmare to really catch up to him. He had gotten as much sleep as he could while he still could. While shut away in his cabin, he read, meditated, and slept. He knew once it began dragging him into the visions again, he wouldn't be getting any sleep at all. He fell asleep that night to the chorus of voices the Nightmare enjoyed throwing at him. As they gradually got louder and clearer, he struggled to keep them all out. When he was dragged into the horrors on that third night, he was ready. So, too, was his Nightmare.
It had been given weeks to plan its retaliation.
Just as he'd told Rehm, he kept it occupied for as long as he could. Much as with his visits to the Unformed Land, time moved differently in the visions. He recalled the one in the workshop with Karshun. It had only taken maybe twenty minutes from start to finish. But Karshun had told him he had been out for a lot longer. He prayed that the seemingly endless hours of torment meant days were passing on the ship.
While he had been enjoying a pleasant voyage on the ocean, it had been digging through the deepest shadows in his soul. All those lovely gaping cracks left a lot of room in there. And there was so much more than either of them had expected. It had found some new toys to play with. Those memories, buried so deep Pyresong didn't even know they existed at all, were going to give the Nightmare hours, maybe days, of fun.
The truth is always more painful than any delusion.
By the sixth day after hearing the first whispers, it had been over three days since he last slept. The voices were nearly constant again, and he was definitely feeling the effects of the lack of sleep. More than once, he had thought he heard Tyrael, even. As he grew more tired and his mind more blurred, he couldn't even trust that once comforting voice to guide or protect him. He was on his own against all of them; against it and the torment it threw at him. He knew he might be able to hold out another day, possibly two, before the hallucinations would begin to blur with everything actually going on around him. Once he reached the point where he couldn't keep track of reality, it would already be too late. He wasn't going to let that happen here on the ship.
Rehm had told him the day before—or was that a week ago now?—that they had a short trip across the open ocean from the mainland to the southernmost islands in the group they were targeting. He'd already warned the captain to just aim for the first island. He wasn't going to make it to the one Karshun had indicated. He would have to figure things out from there on his own. And, even if he didn't figure it out, at least he wouldn't be near any people. The crew had warned him repeatedly that many of those islands were nothing more than ancient ruins, long abandoned. But he was out of time. He needed to get off the ship and away from the crew before the monster inside of him could actually try to take over again.
Exhausted, his mind completely bombarded with random memories and voices, he struggled just to sleep. Let it take him into one more vision where he could keep it busy for another day. But it wouldn't even give him that. It knew that's what he wanted now. He sat on the edge of the bunk with his face in his hands, trying to focus on his breathing, his heart, anything but the voices and images screaming their way through his mind. Somewhere far away, there was a gentle tapping sound, like someone trying to break into his shell of misery.
He could feel it now, reaching. Sometimes there was even a tingle along his arms as it tried to use his power for a spell. Or was he doing it himself? Did Karshun really just knock on his door? The cultists! They were coming for him again!
Reflexively, he threw himself at the shadow in his doorway before he even realized what he was doing. The captain's startled grunt as they slammed into the wall in the small corridor shocked him back to reality. He let go and stumbled unsteadily into the wall opposite. He was on a ship. He was...heading somewhere. He...he had to focus.
"I'm...I'm sorry," he shook his aching head to clear it and forced a slow breath. "I have to go."
Rehm scooped his hat off the floor and brushed it off theatrically. "Well, you could have just said..."
Pyresong couldn’t have missed the slight tremor in Rehm’s voice or the pale expression. He rubbed his gritty, burning eyes. He knew the captain was trying to make light of the situation. But he also knew the captain wasn’t stupid. He knew just how close a brush with death that had actually been.
"I just need to get my backpack."
"Don't bother. We're still a day away."
He shook his head again, trying to clear it, struggling to think beyond the voices yammering at him. "I...I can't stay here. It's... You saw what I almost did."
"Yes, and I'm rather glad you didn't. I just came to check on you, after all," the captain told him with another grin. "No need to be so grumpy about it."
He leaned against the wall and tried to hold on to why he was even there. "Just...just give me the boat and—"
"Not going to happen, friend. Would it make you feel better if I tied you up? Not usually my thing, but could be interesting with a Priest of Rathma," Rehm teased with a grinning leer.
"It's getting worse!" he hissed in frustration. "I'm-I'm hallucinating."
The captain, despite being nearly a foot shorter, loomed as he squared his shoulders. He was all icy seriousness now. His eyes were hard as flints. For a few seconds, Pyresong thought he was hallucinating again. He had never seen Rehm anything other than relaxed and jovial or outright charming. Pyresong stared at him as if he'd never seen this man before.
"There's ice floes out there as big as houses," the captain told him darkly. "That water is cold enough to kill you in seconds, not even minutes. I'm not putting you on a boat in the middle of the night and leaving you to die out here. You will hold until we're in sight of land. This is my ship, my crew, my rules."
Gods, he was too tired to even think of an argument! He slid down the wall until he was curled up. He rested his arms over his knees and put his aching head down, praying for it all just to stop. He just needed a few seconds to think of something. He had to get the captain to put him off the ship before he hurt someone. Rehm copied his movements more smoothly on the opposite wall, looking far more relaxed. There was no mistaking the deliberate attempt to block the only path out onto the open decks. Despite the hard, dark look in his eyes, Rehm was back to grinning widely when Pyresong finally looked up blearily.
"Did I ever tell you about the time Cain got caught in a harem?" Rehm asked.
"What?"
The voices came to a complete halt, leaving a ringing silence. He tried to mentally link the old scholar with a bunch of half-naked women and just came up blank. Even the Nightmare went silent for several seconds in shock and surprise before it began outright cackling. He stared at the captain, wondering if he had even actually heard that.
"No, you're not hallucinating," Rehm assured, reading his expression accurately. "The old man really got himself in a bind that time. Meshif and I have never let the old man forget it."
Despite the cacophony of voices in his head, he couldn't help laughing. For the next several hours, he listened as much as he could. Some of the captain's more wild stories were things he'd heard before. But, at least he wasn't alone with the voices and those awful memories. Much as he struggled to keep track of Rehm's tales, he still sometimes wandered off.
Seeing he was distracted, the captain would simply pause here and there and then patiently repeat something when it seemed his friend was distracted by some internal voice. Tired as he was from pushing his crew relentlessly this past week, at least he could do this for his friend. The priest already looked exhausted and defeated. He wasn't about to let Pyresong get around him and out onto the open deck. Even without the obvious distraction and occasional confusion, Rehm knew the priest's ultimate goal was to protect the Bower and her crew. Once again, he shuddered mentally at the idea that the man really would throw himself overboard before endangering this crew.
Somehow, they made it through the long night together.
Shortly after sunrise, the lookout in the crow's nest called that land had been sighted, and so had a storm that was brewing threateningly to the east. The tiny island was little more than a white speck on the northern horizon. But the black storm clouds were gathering to the east. The captain smiled warmly at Pyresong, where they still sat in the small corridor.
"Now you may debark," Rehm said, pulling him up to his feet gently.
"Thank you, Captain. For everything," he replied sincerely.
"I'll meet you topside."
While the captain made his way back up onto the main deck, Pyresong quickly shoved aside his growing exhaustion. He hadn't made it all the way to the island Karshun had indicated. But he knew he would not last another two or three days. From what the captain had been told, these were shallow, rocky waters that only the locals knew how to navigate. And the storms here could batter a ship apart on the ice floes or the nearly invisible rocks just under the surface. Even if the spell hadn't begun to wear off, he might not have made it that far. He knew Rehm would do everything he could to get him there, including spending days finding and hiring a guide. Even if that part had worked out, the storms might have caused other problems. He knew it just wasn't safe here for the Black Bower or her crew.
Despite being possibly days away from his actual destination, Pyresong was relieved. A little two-man boat would be a lot safer in these treacherous waters. More than anything, he just wanted to get away from the Black Bower before things really got out of control. At least once he was away from the ship, if the Nightmare managed to take control, he wouldn't be near any people. If the worst happened, the icy waters would take care of the problem. He hoped Karshun was watching. He didn't like the idea of losing El'druin in the ocean, but it was still better than harming innocents. And he was confident the mage could find some way to retrieve it.
Now wearing his armor with his shield and scythe hanging comfortably, he felt at least somewhat better, almost focused. He was just minutes away from ensuring the safety of his friends and the crew that had adopted him as one of their own. By the time he got to Rehm, the boat was ready. The storm was rolling in swiftly. He couldn’t help wondering if there was some sort of magic involved, though he had no time to really check. He knew the captain had to get the ship turned around and away from the storm and the floes. No time for long goodbyes.
"I expect I won't see you much around Westmarch any time soon," the captain commented, shaking his hand. "You know where to find me if you ever need me. Oh, and you owe me supper for another boat."
The exhausted necromancer couldn't help smiling; comfortingly typical of Captain Rehm.
"Tell Karshun, drinks are on me. Be safe, Captain."
"Take care of yourself, friend."
He hopped in the little boat, and it was practically dropped into the water below. He wasn't surprised. The storm was looking nastier by the minute. But he'd spotted the white and gray lines of the island on the horizon for himself. He knew where he was headed. He took up the oars and shook off the exhaustion. He prayed the captain could get them out of there before the storm broke. Still rowing steadily, it was only a few minutes later that the icy rain began to pour down on him. Each droplet stung what little exposed skin he had. He was amazed to see it begin to coat his armor in a thin layer of ice as it froze on impact.
Directly ahead of him, still within his line of sight, Rehm and the crew had managed to get the ship turned and were now sailing rapidly into the distance. Pyresong couldn’t help but feel a nearly overwhelming sense of relief. He already knew what that kind of icy rain could do to the sails and the men on the deck. He offered up a prayer for the crew, and another one along the lines of praying that something out there was listening.
Despite the ice accumulating on his armor and the boat, his frantic efforts to get to the little island at least kept his blood moving. It wasn't long before the waves began to rock the boat seriously. He had lost sight of the Black Bower at this point due to the thick fog and downpour. Looking over his shoulder, he knew he was at least ten minutes out from what looked like a pebble-covered beach. But it was what he saw jutting out from that beach that made him freeze more thoroughly than the weather up here.
Now that he was close enough, he could easily make out a small wooden pier covered in ice and snow. Reflexively, his eyes roamed upward from there. Now he could easily make out structures, and they weren’t just ancient stone ruins that Karshun had mentioned. They were snow-covered cottages, by the look of them. There were people on that island! People he would put in danger if he went there. For one exhausted second, he stopped rowing, almost turning the boat around right then. The voices were no longer a roar while he was so focused on his breathing and rowing. But it was so hard to think! Where else would he go? How could he get help without people?
The decision was taken out of his hands entirely a few seconds later. A wave rose out of the nearly black waters. Instead of rolling the boat violently, like a small tsunami, it picked up the boat and gripped it, flinging it toward the rocky island. He lost the oars when he instinctively grabbed the sides of the boat to hold on. So startled and shocked was he that he couldn't even comprehend what was going on. Just as he was beginning to form a coherent thought about the situation, the little boat was slammed into the rocks, throwing him almost right out of it. The boat shattered around him like kindling but dumped him onto the pebble beach as the wave receded.
Reflexively, he scrambled up the low shelf of rocks to get above the next incoming wave. Almost as soon as his boots found purchase on the icy rocks, a high-pitched scream pierced right through the chaos going on inside of him. It tugged at something inside his soul on an instinctive level he could not ignore, even if he had wanted to. No longer even feeling the icy rain in his instinctive need to get to the source of those screams, he unhooked his scythe and shield.
"Uncle! Uncle! Get up!"
Following that terror-filled screaming, he skidded on the icy, muddy ground and around the corner of a ramshackle wooden building. In his nearly blind panic to get to the source of those high-pitched screams, he very nearly lost his footing. The pause it required to regain his stance afforded him the heartbeat needed to take in and assess what was happening. Through the sheets of icy rain, he spotted a handful of what looked at first like giant blue spiders but were somehow wrong in proportion. On the ground beneath a few of the monsters was a mutilated human body in a pool of blood. In a small nook between some loose boards was the tiny source of the screams.
"Uncle! Uncle!"
The moment he'd regained his stance, he was carefully picking his targets. Afraid the energy blades might penetrate the monsters and hit the little child cowering behind, he waded in, cutting at them with his naked blade. The clacking of their many thin, hard legs again reminded him keenly of the countless disgusting spiders that he'd killed over the years. Now that he was closer, though, he could see they were much more like some kind of giant spider crab. Their dying squeals as he cut through the central bodies were almost identical to the spiders. Shoving aside his disgust, he cut down the last of them. Still on high alert, he could hear many more clacking away elsewhere in the village. At least there were no other screams or frantic shouts for help in the immediate area.
He summoned a couple of skeletons to stand guard while he turned his attention away from the village. He hooked his scythe and shield and squatted down by the mangled body to peer between the boards. Inside the tiny space, a girl was curled up and shaking in terror. The small space appeared to have once been a storage crate. From what little he could see, the dark-haired child was no more than maybe five. She was curled up in a tiny ball of sobbing misery. She cowered away from him with wide, terror-filled eyes.
"Are you hurt?" he asked soothingly. "I have healing potions."
Bawling all the more, she buried her face in her knees. Around the edges of her torn blue skirt, he could see the blood flowing freely from a gash in one of her legs.
"Uncle Benki! I wanna go home!" he wailed.
"It's all right. You're safe now," he tried again, keeping his voice soft. "I won't hurt you. But I need to get you out of there to get you home."
"Uncle!" she shrieked in terror, making him feel like his ears would soon start bleeding.
Frustrated, certain more of those things were going to close in at any minute, Pyresong gave up trying to talk her out of there. He wasn't about to leave the injured and traumatized child here. He gripped a couple of the rotted boards and pulled. After the initial resistance, they gave way with a snap, making him fall back on his rump. Even as he scrambled back to his knees, the little girl started frantically crawling out of the hole as if to get away from him. Reflexively, he snatched her up and pulled her to him protectively.
"It's all right," he told her softly, stroking her hair and shifting so she would not have to see what was left of her uncle beside them. "I've got you now. You're safe."
After only a few seconds, her wailing and thrashing stopped. Instead, she clung to him, shaking in terror, her tiny fingers finding places to grip around the edges of his armor plates. He shifted her gently to his left arm while stroking her hair soothingly. Still letting his ears and the skeletons guard him for the moment, he took a healing potion off his belt. He pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it out. As if knowing what was coming next, she had her face pressed up against his chest plate. He set the bottle in the snow nearby and tried to turn her gently. She clung to him, refusing to let go or be shifted. Her sobbing turned frantic when he tried to detach her carefully.
"I'm not going to let go of you, I promise. You're safe," he told her gently, stroking her dark hair again. "I have a healing potion that will make you better. It tastes awful. But it will make the pain go away."
After a few more hitching breaths, the tiny girl went completely limp in his arms. His heart twisted painfully in fear. His nearly scrambled mind already envisioned holding her cooling corpse. He rolled her sideways into the crook of his left arm, looking for other injuries he must have missed. Her tightly squeezed eyes banished his fear so thoroughly that he nearly laughed with relief. He took the opportunity to check her legs, where he'd seen the blood. One leg was bleeding from a deep, ragged gash on her shin that exposed the meat. The other... It took his fuzzy mind a moment to realize she had a club foot. She couldn't walk. He didn't see any other immediate injuries or blood. His heart still pounded painfully from the momentary fright. He took a deep breath to force it to slow down as he reached for the potion again.
"My name is Pyresong; what's yours?" he asked softly.
Her dark eyes opened slowly as if afraid to look at him. He felt her whole body tensing up, ready to flee, as she finally gave in and looked at him through squinted eyes. He offered her a gentle smile of encouragement. Seeing that he wasn't going to bite her, she finally blinked up at him with wide, dark eyes.
"G-g-gwalnne."
"Nice to meet you, Gwalnne." He held up the little red bottle. "This is a healing potion. It tastes horrid, but it will make your leg stop hurting.
Her fearful eyes never left his, but she didn't try to pull away while he tilted the bottle. The first taste always being the worst, he expected it when she gagged and coughed. As soon as she recovered, he carefully and insistently gave her some more. The tears kept pouring down her cheeks, and her whole body flinched, but she did not pull away again. When she began to shudder from the warmth of the healing, he stopped.
"Better?" he asked after a few seconds, watching the wound seal itself.
The tears had stopped, though her breathing was still irregular. Now her dark eyes were open wide in wonder instead of fear as she nodded. He couldn't help smiling again in relief. She eyed him more in curiosity than fear now, for which he was thankful. But he still had to get her out of there and into a safe place. In the very few minutes this had taken, his ears detected the sounds of several more of those creatures clicking and tapping their way around the village, getting closer. In the unfamiliar place, he didn't even know where to begin looking for any other survivors. Thankfully, no more screams rang out in the village. He was so absorbed with this that even the voices screaming in his head had been pushed back to muttering.
"I need to get you somewhere safe. Do you know where the monsters came from?"
"They c-c-come with the s-storms. M-ma-maarohzi. Granpapa is out here," she sobbed again. "We w-were going to f-f-find him! They got Uncle Benki!"
He couldn't afford to have her more worked up again. He needed her to settle and stay calm. He stroked her hair and rocked her soothingly for a few seconds. She trembled and sniffled but did not continue wailing, at least.
"I'm sorry about your uncle. I will find your grandfather," he assured. "First, I need to get you home. Can you show me where your home is?"
She sobbed miserably once at the mention of home and pointed off in a direction. He shifted her slightly in the crook of his left arm to make sure he had a good grip on her. She was so tiny her legs barely extended to his wrist. He opted to cradle her more like an infant. Trying not to startle her too much, he shifted from his knees back and up to his feet by moving only his upper body. She gave a surprised squeak and then gripped his chest plates again. He quickly surveyed the area and then sent his skeletons ahead of him in the direction she had pointed while he unhooked his scythe. Fighting like this was going to be difficult at best. He even considered using his shield to cover her tiny body. But he couldn't keep a steady grip on her and the shield. Really, she wasn't much larger than a baby. He would just have to find a way to make this work. He summoned a few more skeletons in the hopes they would be able to keep any more of the creatures occupied and away from him. He could only hope there wasn't something worse waiting for him further in.
Gwalnne's fearful whimpering and shudders brought his attention back down to her. Her dark eyes were huge and fixated on the man-sized skeleton only a couple of feet away. Only then did he begin to realize, mentally kicking himself. Of course, she was terrified! He hooked his scythe again and gently turned her face to his and away from the skeletons.
"It's all right, Gwalnne. They won't hurt you. They're...friendly skeletons. Understand?"
She shook her head and again tried to bury her face in his breastplates. He heaved a mental sigh and tried to consider another tactic. Her fear of him stung somewhat in a way he couldn't quite comprehend. She wasn't fighting him or trying to get away, at least. He didn't have any more time to consider how to make her less afraid, either. It wasn't long before more of those spider crab monsters came around a corner. He set his skeletons to attacking and keeping them occupied until he had a quick opening. He sent out thin blades of energy to cut them down in batches. In the brief melee, it seemed as if he cut down as many of his own skeletons as he did the creatures. He tried to keep from jostling Gwalnne as much as possible, though she helped considerably by clinging to his plates. With his focus split between summoning and slashing, he all but forgot the little girl's terror of him and his summoned minions. His only concern was making sure they got nowhere near her; either the maarozhi or the skeletons. There were dozens of those creepy little spider crabs, but they died quickly enough. He was beyond thankful that they didn't seem to have any kind of venom or projectiles.
"Over there," she pointed with a shaking hand.
Following her pointed finger, his attention was drawn to a much larger building that appeared to be some kind of large tavern or village gathering hall. If these storms brought monsters regularly, it would make sense that they had some sort of central shelter. He nodded to her as he turned to cut down the few remaining creatures in the immediate area. A quick visual survey looked like it was mostly clear for the moment. He headed toward the large set of wooden double doors. Reflexively, he looked up to the roof above the porch, half expecting more of those things to try to drop down from above them.
"Do they talk to you?"
Entirely focused on getting her to safety, his steps stuttered for a moment at Gwalnne's unexpected question. At first, he couldn't comprehend what she was asking. He stared down at her uncertainly. Her dark eyes were again glued to one of his skeletons nearby, though they were not as wide and terrified.
"You said they're friendly," she reminded him, looking back up at him with innocent curiosity.
He couldn't help a soft laugh as understanding dawned on his still somewhat scrambled mind. As a child, he recalled spending more than a few lonely hours conversing with them, despite knowing they were nothing more than dust held together by his will and power alone. He shook his head at the memories with a grin.
"No, they don't talk. They're more like a...tool than friends."
Her eyes grew wide again when he gave the closest one a mental command to turn around. It dropped its spectral sword into the snow, where it evaporated into dust. It took a step toward them, and Gwalnne shuddered away again, pressing herself into his plates. On another mental command, it began running its bony fingers up and down the rib cage like some kind of musical instrument. As he had hoped, Gwalnne paused in surprise and then giggled at the silly dancing and sounds.
"They won't hurt you any more than I would," he promised.
He dismissed the closest of the skeletal warriors and set the others far off to the sides in case more of those spider crabs came around. He didn't want to frighten any of the villagers, likely sheltered inside. He hooked his scythe and knocked on the door. There was the sound of raised voices before a locking bar was removed. Knowing how intimidating he would appear, he stepped back slightly and extended his free hand, palm up.
"Auntie Haadaza!" Gwalnne squealed at the familiar face in the door.
The young woman's eyes barely saw him; all she saw was Gwalnne. Seeing the squealing and squirming little girl in his arms, she threw the door open.
"Gwalnne! You're alive! Mehrwen's breath!"
Relieved there was a familiar face to greet the traumatized little girl, he let the woman take the squirming toddler off his hands. He waited patiently while she held and soothed the little girl. A few seconds later, Haadaza nodded to him in sincere thanks and backed through the door where there were a couple of dozen others gathered in the warm, fire-lit hall. She motioned for him to join them inside. Until the heat of the fires washed over him, he hadn't even realized he was nearly numb with cold. But there was no time for relief.
"Where's Benki? Where's Baaz?" Haadaza was asking. "And who are you?"
"The maarozhi!" Gwalnne wailed, clinging to Haadaza. "They g-g-got Uncle B-benki! He s-saved me!"
"I'm just a traveler," he started to explain, keeping his hands out at his sides as the people backed away from him fearfully. "The creatures had already taken her uncle when I found her."
The woman's dark eyes filled with tears at the news. Despite their obvious trepidation, his tired mind couldn't help noting the complete lack of loathing in the fearful faces all around him. Some detached part of his mind realized that either these people had never seen a necromancer, or they were entirely unafraid of them for some reason he couldn't quite figure out at the moment. Nor could he figure out why that would even matter., Haadaza nodded to him again before turning away and taking Gwalnne closer to one of the blazing fires.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he told them.
"You...you're not responsible," an older woman told him gently. "Leave the sorrows to us, traveler."
"Gwalnne mentioned her grandfather might still be out there."
"Baaz," Haadaza sniffled from where she sat, rocking a quietly sobbing Gwalnne. "He didn't make it here with the rest of us."
He could tell by the mixed looks of immediate grief that they had already counted the old man dead. Some part of him didn't want to accept that.
"I'll go out and find him. Will you be safe here in the meantime?" he asked them.
"Safe?" another young woman spoke up bitterly. "Depends on how hungry the maarozhi are. I think we can survive the weather if that's what you're asking. Most of us, anyway."
"Enough, Tanyth," growled an older man.
"The sages haven't sent a Tempest to us in years. They must figure we're doing perfectly fine," another younger man spoke up with only a bit less bitterness.
"Pah!" Haadaza spat, still clutching Gwalnne. "Welcome to Ewon Tull, traveler."
Whatever else was going on here, these people were suffering these storms. A part of him wished he could do more. He was here to cleanse his soul, but his weary mind could not help drawing similarities to the storms and the people he had seen in the Dreadlands. Before he could ask more, there was more frantic pounding on the doors. He backed away from the door while others moved to unbar it again. Another younger man stumbled through the door, struggling to catch his breath.
"Help! Baaz and I went to the north shrine! We got separated! The maarozhi..."
"Just tell me how to get there," Pyresong said when the man fell into wide-eyed silence at the sight of him. "Stay here and lock the doors."
Several of the gathered people pointed to the far corner of the building, which he guessed was north. At the moment, a direction was enough for him. He unhooked his scythe and shield as he took off out the door at a run. In seconds, he encountered more of those spider crabs, the maarozhi. Both hands now free, he was better able to dance around the disgusting creatures. He had no idea where he was in the village. And with the thick cloud cover and wall of fog from the storm, all he could do was follow the well-established paths and hope he was headed in the right direction.
What started as a few of those maarozhi turned into dozens upon dozens. He realized he was fighting every step of the way at one point. Falling into his combat instincts, he was only distantly aware of the near silence inside of him. In this near-mindless state of consciousness, where the only thing that mattered was countering every threat, compared to the near constant external threats, the voices and the Nightmare couldn't really get through. It was something of a relief, though not much. Still, the exhaustion pulling at his limbs from so many days without sleep was making itself known. He was slower and even clumsy at times. He had trouble keeping his footing on the many icy patches of frozen ground, only barely managing to stay upright sometimes. Occasionally, some of those sharp legs managed to get through his defenses. Despite the skeletal warriors to keep them occupied, there were just too many to avoid injury entirely. The damned creatures seemed to know how to find every gap in his armor. Or maybe he was just too slow. He filed the injuries away for later. So far, it was nothing a healing potion couldn't handle by itself. Ignoring the feeling of blood freezing on his skin, he worked his way past the buildings.
When he finally caught sight of the shrine in the distance, he was almost convinced it was already too late. The storm had been going on for at least an hour. And there were just so many maarozhi that he couldn't begin to see how one old man had managed to survive. Already, he was on the lookout for another mutilated corpse somewhere on the streets near the shrine. He finished cutting down another handful of the disgusting crab-like creatures and rounded the corner of a building to bring the shrine into full view. He froze for a moment, mentally as much as physically. His tired mind was almost not able to comprehend when he caught sight of an old man clinging to the icy edges of a stone monolith, some eight feet off the ground. All around the shrine were dozens more maarozhi trying to get at him.
"Great Unmoored! Turn the storm away from our home!" the old man shouted desperately.
Clearly, they're not listening, Pyresong couldn't help thinking with no small amount of his own bitterness.
He had never had faith in anything calling itself a god or whatever higher power. Yet, people still needed to believe in something. He understood that logically, and didn't typically fault people for it. But, right now, he was too exhausted mentally to even care. All he could see was this defenseless old man praying to a thing that didn't seem to care; if it existed at all. And he would die for that faith if the necromancer couldn't get to him soon.
He started to send a wide blade of energy to cut down as many of the maarozhi as possible in one sweep. But when he caught sight of the ornate and heavily decorated altar at the base of the monolith below the old man, some deeper instinct screamed against it. Somehow, he instinctively knew destroying that shrine would not be in their best interest. He was too tired to make sense of that vague feeling or why it would even matter. Convinced the old man would fall at any moment into the waiting razor-sharp claws of the monsters, he moved frantically to get them away from that altar. Frustrated with himself and not understanding why he felt that way about this stupid, pointless shrine, he muttered profanities under his breath.
He changed tactics and sent his skeletons in to scatter the disgusting creatures. Once he was able to get a decent angle, he finally let loose a couple of razor-thin blades and cut through many of them easily. He then added a couple of skeletal mages to use spirit fire to finish off the ones still moving. Then he turned his attention to the handful of others who all the noise had attracted. A few seconds later, when he was sure the area was clear, he fanned his skeletons out around him to guard them while he turned his attention to the old man still clinging to the monolith.
"Let me help," he called, hooking his scythe and dropping his shield.
A heartbeat later, he was glad he did. The old man's precarious grip failed, and he fell almost right into Pyresong's arms. Though Baaz didn't feel like a frail elder, the fall onto the rocks and altar below would have likely broken something. He helped the man back to his unsteady feet.
"Are you injured?" he asked, scanning the shaken old man for blood.
Still gasping, Baaz shook his head and straightened his coat. Pyresong sighed with relief and recovered his shield from where he'd dropped it beside him.
"My thanks, stranger. My name is Baaz."
When he glanced up, Baaz's dark, soft eyes seemed to lock on to Pyresong's. He was somewhat surprised to note there was no fear or disgust in the old man's expression. Knowing his mind could easily wander when so tired, he shoved it away and fell back on his training. Right now, his decades of training and discipline were likely the only thing that would keep him from babbling like a madman from sheer exhaustion.
"Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma," he introduced, bowing priest to village elder.
Baaz returned the bow reflexively, never taking his eyes off him.
"You have an odd cast about you," Baaz commented, tilting his head curiously. "But you fight like nothing else. What are you doing on Ewon Tull?"
For one second, it actually felt like he was talking to Cain again. Something genuine and gentle about this old man's observations made him want to tell the truth and a whole lot more. The old man's insight and open warmth, along with a total lack of disgust for an obvious necromancer, had put him completely off balance. However, given how exhausted he was mentally, that was not entirely surprising. He shook himself mentally to refocus, just managing to keep his serene mask. Instead of feeling like he needed to get as far away from these people as he could to keep them safe, he gave in to at least some of his instincts.
"I need to visit one of your sacred places to cleanse my soul," he admitted.
He paused, surprised at how hard it was actually to say. He could not entirely set aside a sense of shame that rose with these words. Something in Baaz's eyes flickered too quickly for Pyresong to identify it. Pity? Fear?
"I fight a demon lord that threatens us all," he explained as if needing to justify the need for cleansing. Then he shook himself mentally again. "First, I told your family I would bring you back. I found your granddaughter, Gwalnne. She's safe now with Haadaza and the others."
Despite the obvious relief at the good news, the man's gentle eyes bore into him, still with obvious curiosity, as he nodded gratefully. Pyresong struggled again to throw off the feeling that he was talking to Cain. Was it just the voices? Was the Nightmare trying to distract him? Or was he indeed so desperate to see his friend again? Mentally, he growled at himself. He couldn't afford these distractions!
"I am grateful for your protection, Priest,” Baaz said warmly. “And I feel the import of your words in my soul. However I can return your charity, I shall."
He shrugged in return. "It was the least..."
His words trailed off as he began to realize his horrible mistake. While deep into his combat mindset, all else faded away to background noise, much as it had while running or rowing. Somewhere along the way, though, the Nightmare had gone silent intentionally, and he'd missed it. The significance of that only now returned with dawning horror as he began to feel the terrifyingly familiar pulling and tingling along his nerves. Just as it had in Rakkis Plaza, the Nightmare had gone silent to gather its energy and focus for a concentrated assault. He already knew Tyrael had used what little strength he had these last few days to keep it in check. If it were this powerful, the angel had already lost the fight. It had been waiting for an opportunity to catch him completely off guard and distracted. And he had given it the perfect opening.
No! Not here! I can't... he screamed in his mind.
Struggling against the surging power and Darkness within himself, he stumbled back away from Baaz several steps, waving at him to stay back. He dropped his shield and scythe into the snow.
"Are you unwell? What is wrong?" Baaz asked, reaching to steady him.
"Get back! Run!" he growled, staggering further away.
Turning his attention inward, he felt the edges of the dark power tugging at his hands. Again, he wrapped his arms around himself, willing the damn thing to just go ahead. Do it! Unleash the spell now! Part of him laughed mentally in echo of his Nightmare when he considered this ridiculously easy solution to the problem. He didn't care as long as he could protect these people from himself.
"Your Darkness will find no purchase here!" a woman screamed.
His concentration was shattered a moment later when something hit him in the back so hard it sent him flying away into a large, slushy pile of snow against a nearby building. The shocking pain of that powerful blow barely even registered. Ignoring the external sensations of being buried alive, he curled in on himself, keeping his open hands on his chest.
Go ahead! Do it! he screamed at the Nightmare. At least right now, no one else was in the line of fire if they went right through him.
Instead of the expected laughter from the Nightmare, a warm, teal glow filled his mind and then began to sink deeper. His eyes flew open reflexively, staring blindly at the warm glow that surrounded him. For a few seconds, he was too shocked to understand what was even happening. Then he heard the frustrated raging of his Nightmare fading back. Some part of him instinctively understood that the magic was fighting it, containing it. Instead of containing his energies, he unleashed them in a flood to meld into that warm teal magic. Somehow, he understood what it was doing and what was needed. He gave it a violent push, shoving the Darkness back into a deep hole somewhere.
Gasping and shuddering, he began to regain more awareness of his body slowly. He was all but buried in a slushy snow drift that burned painfully against every exposed piece of skin. It clung to and oozed its way into every opening around his armor. A few feet away, a dark-skinned woman stood protectively between him and Baaz.
"What I've done should help," she told him, still eyeing him curiously. "But I've never felt a soul so...broken."
Heaving a sigh of mixed relief and exhaustion, he struggled to ignore the shivering. He was now painfully cold, but at least it was helping to keep him awake and alert. He began to work his way out of the snow drift. Soaked entirely through, he did what he could to fling off the icy slush. He nodded to her gratefully, too weary to even be concerned about what threat she might pose at this point. He was somewhat surprised to note that Baaz stared at him with more compassion and pity than fear or disgust. The young woman glared back at him coldly in an open challenge.
"Stop fighting and listen to Mehrwen's words: calm within, calm without. Tranquility waits below the crashing of the waves; peace in the hurricane's eye."
He quickly bit back a bitter retort. "I appreciate the magic. Less so the lecture. Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma," he introduced, acting on a hunch, he bowed priest to priestess.
"Latarra, a Tempest of Pelghain."
He carefully controlled his elation when she returned the bow as equals. From what little Karshun had time to research, a Tempest may be his key to this soul-cleansing ritual, though he had no idea what a Tempest actually was when he'd read the journal. And now he was met with one! Probably not the best introduction, given her haughty, chilly demeanor. But what she'd done already to silence and contain the Nightmare was worth her attitude.
"Ewon Tull has seen enough Darkness already," Latarra continued in frigid tones, glowering at him. "Let's hear more about your 'demon lord'," she demanded, clearly not believing.
He was too tired to care if she believed him or not. Right now, he was just grateful for what little help she had already provided. She could think whatever she wanted about the corruption and its origins.
"I'm sorry for the danger I've placed you in," he told them, fighting the exhaustion and cold dragging at his limbs. "Diablo, the Lord of Terror, himself, is rising. I need to cleanse my soul, or he will devour us all. Is there anything you can tell me that would help?"
"Do not apologize to me for what you carry within," Baaz spoke up before Latarra could respond. "There is a blight upon you. But I see that you do not submit to it. The mists of the Spiral will cleanse your soul, if anything can."
The Tempest looked surprised, initially, by his words; though her change of expression had been no more than a flicker of her eyebrows. After a couple more seconds of glaring at him, Latarra nodded in agreement, her cold eyes now wary.
"The way will be quite dangerous. I—"
Her words were cut off by a screeching howl that rang out across the island. Baaz turned to Latarra fearfully. She turned to the elder with a smile that was both comforting and reassuring. Her hands glowed a bright teal again when she put up a protective shield around Baaz.
"I have not forgotten about you, old man. Get back to your people in the hall; the shield will hold until you reach safety," she told him.
Meanwhile, Pyresong had already retrieved his shield and scythe, ready to take on whatever threatened these people.
"If you insist on fighting, I've got a foe for you," Latarra said to him, almost sneering.
She didn't even wait for his return nod before turning to run down the icy, muddy streets. He was only a step behind her as they ran across to the far eastern side of the island. The storm still rained icy droplets and even seemed to become more violent while they ran toward the source of those screaming howls. More of those maarozhi seemed to materialize out of the rain itself. Thankfully, it seemed all the other villagers who had been caught out in the storm had found safe shelter. They encountered no more people or terrified screams as they crossed the village.
Latarra led him to a large wooden platform that extended out over the frozen water on the eastern edge of the island. It likely served as a boat dock. Beyond it were giant slabs of ice. A sea monster that very closely resembled a cross between a crab and some kind of fish with fangs had broken through the thick layer of ice. The shattered chunks scattered when it broke the surface and screamed yet again. It had six almost demonic, curved horns protruding from the sides of its head. Its front legs ended in three wicked claws, each of which could easily impale a person.
After all the weeks of fighting a losing battle within himself and against his own Nightmare, Pyresong was more than happy to have a target to actually unleash on. Not even waiting for Latarra and her dual short swords to join him, he dove in at the beast. Cutting and slashing wildly, he gave vent to his carefully controlled rage and terror. He didn't even bother to summon any golems or skeletons against the giant monster. Oh, no, this one was all his. Slinging energy blades to cut off various appendages, he kept just enough awareness of the Tempest not to injure her. In between those times when it was just out of range of his scythe, he snarled and threw bone spears. Finally, it reared back, giving him the opening he'd been waiting for. He poured all of his energy into a wide, thick blade and slit right through the throat, nearly severing the head.
He stood on the edge of the wooden platform, breathing deeply and struggling to pull back on the rage while the monster sank limply beneath the surface for the last time. As he calmed, he again felt the creeping, gnawing physical exhaustion that had been tugging at him for days. Though he knew he had done the right thing, it had also been a stupid move. He had no idea how long her spell would hold, and he had to keep moving. He wasn't even sure if Latarra's spell was strong enough to afford him a few hours of actual sleep.
"You fought well, despite the Darkness in your soul," Latarra spoke up condescendingly behind him.
Already her tone was grating on his tired, raw nerves. Much as he had often done with Karshun, he carefully focused his thoughts and fell back on his discipline and training. He kept his expression to its default, serene mask while he hooked his scythe and shield. By the time he turned to her, he had managed a sort of exterior calm, at least. Now he would just have to watch his mouth, which was always the more difficult part.
"I sense a Light within you, striving mightily to hold back the Darkness. Maybe we can help each other," she offered in chilly tones.
"Don't strain yourself." He mentally kicked himself for the dry tone and slip of the tongue, but was just too tired to care. "Just tell me how to get to the Spiral and what I need to do. I can take care of the rest."
For a moment, her lips thinned as if she was also about to snap back. Instead, she took a long, slow breath. Obviously, something about him irritated her just as much. He suspected it was probably something in their religion and the Priests of Rathma in general, as was usually the case. He could not find the energy to care how they felt about necromancers. At this point, if he had to strip down naked and dance in the streets to cleanse his soul of this vile Nightmare version of himself, he would do it gladly.
"It's not that simple," she explained more calmly. "The soul is only made pure in the sight of others. You will need a Ritemaster. I can do that for you. But..."
He was too tired to be surprised and too mentally worn out to even think of an expletive in response. Of course, it could never be so simple. Reigning in his emotions and pushing down the rising frustration, he sighed mentally to let that go for now. He cocked a chilly eyebrow while he waited for the next part he knew was coming.
"Ewon Tull needs help," she told him, all haughtiness and arrogance forgotten. "More than Pelghain will give. I have been called to visit the Spiral and...confer with one of the great Unmoored. I could use a fighter at my back."
Beyond the carefully controlled expression, he finally saw it. At that moment, she wasn't some hard, dedicated priestess following orders from an entity claiming to be a god. She was a terrified young woman walking into something bigger than herself and her little world. And she was torn. Clearly, she wanted to obey, despite her fear. But she also desperately wanted to protect these people. Her dark eyes pulled at something inside him that resonated, empathized, in a way he could not begin to put words to. He found himself nodding, all anger and frustration forgotten.
"We are agreed," he told her reassuringly. "I will help as much as I can. When do we leave?"
For a second, her young face was flooded with relief, almost a smile. Before she could reply, though, Baaz's heavy footsteps crunching in the icy mud caught their attention.
"The maarozhi are gone!" the old man cried happily.
He paused just off the landing in the muddy snow to bow excitedly and happily to both of them, village elder to priest. Both returned the bow reflexively.
"My deepest thanks to you both," Baaz said warmly. "Latarra, it would fill my heart for you to stay. But the priest needs your help—deserves it! But must you enter the mists yourself?"
He again caught a flicker of fear behind her dark eyes, though her expression remained calm. He watched closely as she approached the elder and comfortingly took his hands in hers.
"Yes, the mists can confound even practiced Tempests. And...I have a duty to see to. Worry no more about it, friend."
That was no priestess speaking. That was a young woman talking to a dear friend. Clearly, these people knew her. Again, he was struck with the feeling that there was more going on here when Baaz's gaze turned sad. The old man nodded, understanding.
"We have endured the storms and the maarozhi since you left. Ewon Tull can protect itself. All you need to do is help this priest, and then you can come back," he told her warmly.
Latarra squeezed his hands and then pulled him into a quick embrace. From this close, he could not have missed the slight tremor in her words.
"Right. Perhaps the Unmoored just wants to talk," she told Baaz.
There was definitely more going on here. His instincts were screaming, though his mind was just too weary to put it all together. He could sense their trepidation for what lay ahead. More to the point, he could hear Latarra trying to convince herself that her last statement was true. She absolutely did not believe it. He gave up trying to analyze it further. Part of him hoped that once his own issues were dealt with, he might be able to help her, or even the rest of the village.
"May Ksathra's breath fill your sails," Baaz offered the blessing warmly to both.
Pyresong smiled softly and bowed his head in gratitude, accepting the meaningless blessing. At least as far as he could tell, the monster, the storm, and the maarozhi were not a result of anything he brought here or even stirred up. Until that moment, he hadn't even consciously realized his gut was knotted up with the subtle fear that this whole mess had somehow been his fault. The storm and then the monsters, within minutes of arriving, had subconsciously filled him with dread that he had brought them with him, or worse, stirred them up with the Darkness he now carried.
With something akin to relief, he watched Baaz head back toward the heart of the village. And yet, a part of him was sad, too. These people clearly weren't beaten down by the storms, but they had suffered greatly. His tired mind couldn't stop drawing comparisons to what he'd seen in the Dreadlands. He had not been able to help them, either.
"I will gather the offerings and prepare our boat. Give me a few minutes," Latarra broke into his thoughts, her priestess facade firmly back in place.
Something about her felt familiar in a way that almost made him sad for some reason. He turned back to her to find she had already turned her attention away from him. Sensing his dismissal, he was almost relieved. He was beyond tired, and he knew his mouth could easily get the better of him when he was. The last thing he needed to do was alienate the one person who might be able to help him. Though he had sensed much more beneath the surface, the arrogant and haughty priestess mask she wore rubbed him the wrong way. But then, he'd had plenty of practice over the years with similar types. And some of his more recent experiences with Karshun had shown him quite clearly how stark the contrast could be between the mask and all that existed underneath.
For a few seconds, he recalled some of the recent conversations with Karshun. Suddenly, he missed his friends with an ache so strong it surprised even him. It was an almost physical thing, squeezing in his chest. He would give nearly anything to hear that arrogant bastard snipe at him right now. He recalled Charsi's exuberant smile fondly and her almost painfully enthusiastic chatter about the city she loved so much. He thought longingly of Kashya's dry retorts and warm touch. Cain's soft laughter and gentle insight. Fern's happy giggles. Akara's serene wit. Tabri's flirting. And too many others to even count raced through his tired mind. Gods, he missed them all more than ever right now!
Some part of him wondered if it was fair to them, however. They didn't know. None of them knew what he really was. They had befriended him, believing he was—
Behind him, back in the direction of the village, a happy squeal rang out, drawing his attention that way and out of his aching thoughts. Above them, the clouds were rapidly dissipating, and chilly sunshine began to break through. The shimmering sparkles of light on the ice and wet snow were both beautiful and blinding. The squeal had come from Gwalnne crying out gleefully when Baaz tossed her in the air and caught her again. The old man did it a couple more times, making Pyresong smile at the little girl's happy cries. Still near the landing, he watched silently. Something inside of him calmed and settled, seeing Haadaza and the others greeting Baaz warmly. Some tight aching in his own chest was soothed at seeing the little girl and her remaining family safe and smiling.
Beyond the little group, others were moving about, picking up the pieces of their shattered morning. A handful of other children followed their parents around, cleaning up the mess and removing the bodies of the many maarozhi now littering the streets. Knowing how intimidating he was in his full armor, he quickly backed away from the people toward the water on the far end of the landing to wait for Latarra. The priestess had gone off in some direction he hadn't noticed. He vaguely recalled something about offerings.
Shivering from the breeze that came up off the water, he wished he could at least change out of the still-dripping wet clothing. His eyes were brought back to the large ice floes bobbing in the water where the monster had been. He recalled telling Kashya how he barely felt the cold on Mount Zavain and mentally shook his head with amusement. Of course, compared to this place, Mount Zavain was a lush paradise. He almost found the energy to smile as he remembered how very warm she always felt to him. A tiny spark of hope ignited in his heart at the memories. Maybe the truth that had been uncovered wouldn't matter to her, to any of them. Maybe he could still be the Pyresong they knew.
Hearing Gwalnne's excited chattering coming closer, he turned to look over his shoulder. Baaz, still carrying the tiny girl, was smiling happily as they approached. Pyresong couldn't help a reflexive smile of his own at the little girl's bright and cheerful chatter. As soon as they were close enough, Gwalnne extended both her tiny arms toward him; clearly wanting him to hold her. Baaz threw him a reluctant and questioning look. He smiled widely in return and reached out to take the little girl. She quickly threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
"Thank you for saving me and Granpapa."
"You would have done the same thing in my place," he told her, flooded with a warmth he'd never felt before.
"I thought outsiders were all bad. And you look scary," she told him, inches from his face. "But you helped us all like it was nothing. You're good and strong."
"I try to be," he told her honestly, suddenly feeling a little off balance here.
She pulled back, and he readjusted his grip so she was again cradled in his left arm. She reached down into the pocket of her apron. In her open left palm, she held up a delicate, lacy white flower.
"Here, it's my favorite flower. It can even grow in the snow, sometimes."
He carefully took the delicate bloom from her tiny hand. He couldn't have stopped the smile had he even wanted to try. Her own dark eyes and a broad smile beamed up at him. His heart stuttered and thumped happily until he almost felt choked. Already his mind was turning to possible similar moments he might have with his own son or daughter someday.
"Thank you. I will cherish it," he told her warmly. "One day, you'll grow up and be the one protecting Ewon Tull."
She giggled happily at the idea. He hugged her one more time and kissed her on the cheek before handing her back to Haadaza's waiting arms. The young woman smiled warmly at him as well. While the others moved away, he carefully unhooked his shield awkwardly with one hand so he could get to his backpack. The delicate bloom was still cradled carefully in his right hand; he squatted down to get into his backpack. He knew he had some clean, empty jars still somewhere in there.
He glanced up from his task briefly when Baaz again approached him. Having found what he was looking for, he carefully set the flower on the edge of his backpack to keep it safe while he tried to unscrew the lid of the jar. He nearly sighed in frustration to realize his fingers were almost numb under the gloves. Understanding his frustration, Baaz deftly took the jar from his unresisting hands to open it.
"I have not seen a traveler on these shores for decades. It must be warmer where you're from," Baaz told him, eyeing his wet clothes and light armor.
Gratefully, Pyresong slipped the little flower into the jar and then back into his backpack.
"Indeed," he agreed, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and replacing his shield. Recalling the miserable, sticky heat of Bilefen, he couldn't help grinning a the old man. "But I'll take the cold over heat any day."
He was surprised to realize he was nowhere near as cold as he'd felt earlier, despite nearly numb hands. Behind him, he heard Latarra moving around again as she shoved a boat off the landing. Baaz's eyes flickered to her for a moment before returning to him. The mingled concern and sadness in the old man's eyes made him more than a little concerned. He had definitely gotten the feeling that whatever the Tempest was headed into was more than just a communion with some avatar or deity.
"Will you watch over Latarra? She has always had rough waters before her, and she has a good heart. It is a dangerous combination."
"Of course," he promised, bowing slightly with his hand over his heart as if offering an oath.
Behind him, someone called for the old man. Baaz smiled warmly again and shook his hand before walking away. Latarra seemed otherwise occupied with whatever preparations. He was about to offer to help her when a woman coming up the path behind him let slip an unexpectedly filthy obscenity that both amused and surprised him. When he spun around, he could easily see why. One of her baskets full of onions had just given out, dumping the produce into the snow. She was still grumbling darkly when he came over to help, hesitantly, unsure of his welcome. When she glanced up and nodded to acknowledge his presence, he realized he wasn't immediately rebuffed. He squatted down to help gather a few and work them back into the damaged basket.
"Thank you, stranger," she said, holding the basket sideways to cram them all in.
"You're welcome, Tanyth," he offered, eyeing the basket as he finally put a name to the slightly familiar face. "I'm...Pyresong,"
As tired as he was, he couldn't quite figure out why he was suddenly so hesitant to introduce himself more formally. Something about it seemed off, given their welcoming expressions and subtly friendly gestures. Once most of the onions were back in the basket, he figured out that if he held it with both hands a certain way, it would likely hold up long enough to get wherever she was going. But with her other basket, it certainly wasn't going to be accomplished easily. Leaving them in the ice and snow for any length of time was likely to damage them or cause them to spoil more quickly. He nodded for her to continue, indicating he would follow. Again, she smiled in relief.
"We're lucky enough to get a visitor from afar, just not lucky enough for it to be a cargo ship," she told him wryly.
He followed her around another building and around some slushy mud puddles in silence. Something about the lack of expected loathing was tickling the back of his mind. Yet, he also sensed very clearly that visitors from outside this region were exceedingly rare. With his mind meandering as it usually did when he was weary, he couldn't quite put the pieces together as to why it seemed odd and left him somewhat off-balance with these people.
"We give offerings to the Unmoored, but the storms don't stop," she told him, setting her basket beside a shed just outside a cottage. "Maybe we're the offerings," she quipped.
She turned to take the damaged basket out of his hands. Despite her light tone, he could clearly make out the bitterness under her words. Again, he couldn't help wondering if there was something more either he or Latarra could do about these storms and monsters.
"Maybe Latarra can help," he offered.
Tanyth shook her head and waved off his words. "Thank you again. May your journey be blessed, Pyresong."
He bowed slightly in thanks for the blessing and turned to make his way back around to the landing where he had last seen Latarra. It seemed as good a place as any to wait. Before he could, though, an unfamiliar voice across the street hailed him.
"Come on in and get warm, stranger," a young man called cheerfully from an open doorway. "We have a warm fire and an even warmer ale!"
Behind the young man, inside the open door, were several laughs. Glancing at the ice-covered sign, he realized it was what likely passed for a tavern in this little village. Still feeling better than he had in months from the encounter with Baaz, Haadaza, and Gwalnne, he gave in to his selfish desires for at least a moment of warmth and respite. A couple of people milling curiously near the door backed away and motioned him inside invitingly. It took him a moment to realize they weren't backing away in fear or disgust, but rather with an invitation. A tension in his shoulders that he hadn't even realized was there, began to ease swiftly.
"I'll pass on the ale, but the fire sounds delightful," he agreed.
It wasn't until he crossed the threshold that he began to realize just how bitterly cold it really was up here. Compared to the drier cold of the tundra, this place was literally achingly cold. The handful of men and women raised a cup to him in friendly greeting, and some moved over to give him a place by the fire just inside the doorway. Despite how wet he was, the warmth rolled over him like a comforting blanket. He took the opportunity to shed his wet gloves and gauntlets while he extended his nearly numb hands toward the fire. The cold had seeped so deep they ached as he flexed them, soaking up the heat. The gentle burning and tingling in his hands absorbed his tired thoughts for a few seconds.
"You're leaving with Latarra?" the young man who had hailed him asked.
Pulling back out of his drifting thoughts, he nodded, noting something in the man's eyes. Instead of bowing, the man offered his hand informally, as a gesture of friendship.
"Casek," he introduced.
"Pyresong," he returned the friendly gesture. "She is going to help me in the Spiral."
Casek nodded, looking sad. "When Latarra left with the Tempests, she was such a little thing. It must have been hard growing up away from home. I'll bet that's why we never saw her."
"I'll watch over her as much as I can," he assured, having no idea what he was walking into and not sure he wanted to commit to more than he already had.
"Thank you, friend. Be safe out there," Casek offered before moving away to talk with some others.
Alone again, he let his mind drift for a few minutes while he stared into the fire. The renewed silence within him had very much been a blessing, but now it was beginning to gnaw at him. His foremost thoughts kept coming back to Latarra and whatever it was she faced. While he very much needed her help, it was clear that something bigger, involving the Tempest, was going on here. And he had the feeling he was the only one who didn't know what that something was. In the background, thoughts of his own secrets and how his friends would receive that information were something he kept having to bury in the shadows for later inspection. The Nightmare had gleefully supplied various possible reactions that he refused to accept.
Turning back toward the room to warm his back, he was amazed to realize that all eyes weren't currently on him. He was so accustomed to being stared at with loathing and fear everywhere he went that he almost couldn't process that they had actually welcomed him here. It seemed that everyone had returned to their own conversations and weren't just openly shunning him. Before he could think on that too much, though, Baaz came through the door beside him.
"Ah, good, you've had a chance to thaw out," Baaz said happily. "Latarra said she would be ready in a few minutes."
"Thank you."
He followed Baaz out the door, already tugging on his gloves and gauntlets. Baaz waited, then retook his hand. The sincere warmth in his eyes again made Pyresong feel as if he was speaking with Cain, which one was harder to discern.
"Journey safely, Pyresong. May you return to us with a lighter spirit," Baaz told him sincerely.
"Thank you, friend. I'm sure this will work."
He headed east, back toward the landing where he'd left Latarra, while Baaz wandered off back toward the north. It wasn't long before he spotted Latarra standing still on the edge of the landing, looking out over the water. Bobbing in the icy waters a couple of feet away was a little three-man fishing boat. As he approached, he heard a new voice that he did not recognize. He gasped, frozen in fear, thinking the spell she had used had just broken, giving the Nightmare its opportunity.
"Latarra..."
His heart stuttered painfully for a moment before he realized it wasn't coming from inside of him. His tired mind took a few seconds to understand it was something else calling to the priestess. It wasn't the Nightmare about to wreak havoc again. Afraid it might be some sort of assault, he began jogging toward her still form. She stood there rigidly on the landing, her clenched fists down at her sides. The deep echoing voice seemed to come from all around them.
"Do not deny us... The storm must quiet... Come...into the mists..."
Those last words were an outright command he could feel. He watched her bow her head, though her shoulders were proudly squared and stiff as a block of ice. He was still a few feet away, but caught her whispering something in return that was too soft for him to make out. Hearing the crunch of ice under his boots, she quickly fixed her mask in place as she turned to face him.
"I will take us up the western coast of the Spiral," she told him, all chilly priestess once again. "There should be a ritual pool a short walk away. Are you prepared?"
He nodded. "Was that the Unmoored we just heard?"
Her dark eyes widened in apparent surprise, and the haughty mask shattered. Her reaction startled him.
"You heard?"
"Yes, it is commanding you to enter the mists," he confirmed curious about her unexpected reaction.
Latarra stared in disbelief for a moment longer. Then she surprised him when she sighed, her shoulders sagging. Whatever she was taking them toward, she did not want to face it. She glanced to the west and the many small ice floes bobbing in the water. Many of those massive hunks of ice were larger than the cottages on this island, and that was just the visible parts. Not for the first time, he was more than just a little relieved Rehm hadn't had a chance to try sailing through all of this.
"We will solve your problem first,” she finally said decisively. “Then...maybe you can help me with mine."
"Of course," he replied instantly.
As if taking comfort from his confidence, she nodded with the ghost of a smile. Anything that could make this fierce and fearless warrior priestess look so hesitant couldn't be good. He had no idea what he was walking into with all of this, other than hopefully something that might put an end to his Nightmare and allow him to wield El'druin. He couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something else entirely going on here, that he was somehow now caught up in. Though it wasn't related to him, it was definitely something Latarra did not want to face or deal with. And this was her world. He knew almost nothing of this place or its people. Yet, he found himself suspicious and disturbed by the idea of an entity that seemed to think it was a god of some sort orchestrating their next moves. Still, he knew it wasn't his place to interfere with another person's religious beliefs; unless they somehow disturbed the Balance or were just outright evil. Whatever his personal feelings on the matter, if someone else believed and took comfort and strength from whatever they thought of as a deity, he would not try to dissuade them.
She stepped into the front of the boat and motioned for him to have a seat in the back. Then she raised her glowing hand. He was glad he was sitting down a moment later when he felt the water actually pushing them. In seconds, they were speeding across the surface of the water, leaving barely a ripple behind. She was quiet for most of the trip, weaving around various rocky islands deftly. After a while, he could see what looked like a towering wall of ice and mist in the distance, entirely obscuring something that looked like the size of a fortress. Despite her focus, Latarra sighed again, almost sadly.
"The things I see in the Spiral... They've gotten worse over the past few years," she explained over her shoulder. "Visions. Memories. Some help. Most haunt." She bowed her head slightly as if listening to something only she could hear. "But we should listen to all of them."
Already they were speeding across the water so fast that the icy, biting wind made his eyes water. They rounded a couple of smaller ice shelves and even rocky islands. He had no maps at this point beyond those provided by Karshun in the journal. Now that he had a better look around the area, he was more than a little relieved he'd convinced Rehm to let him go in a small boat. In the nearly black waters all around them, he could easily make out the odd change in sedate waves that indicated yet more rocks just beneath the surface. Attempting to get the Black Bower anywhere near their destination would have been a disaster. He sent up a silent prayer for the captain and his crew, hoping they had cleared the storm without encountering any of those creatures and were now headed home safely.
Sometime later, they came within sight of a much larger island. Feeling a familiar tingle in the air, he blinked the tears out of his eyes and switched to his magical sight. Not unlike what he'd encountered in the Ancients' Cradle, this place was absolutely awash in powerful magic. It wasn't any magic he'd experienced before. And it was so thick, he felt like he was literally breathing it in. A few seconds later, they were within sight of a narrow opening in the thick hunks of ice that practically closed in around them. It was like some kind of canyon made entirely of walls of ice. The water, being the only path through the canyon, had stilled until it was smooth as glass when they approached. After a few minutes, the thick mists receded just enough to make out a solid path of ice along the bottom of the canyon further ahead. She guided the boat smoothly up onto a chunk of crystalline ice so pure he could see right through it. It rose out of the water by a few inches, but was the perfect and inviting nook in which to rest the boat. The boat slid right up onto it with hardly a whisper.
"We're on foot from here," she told him, stepping over the side gracefully.
It seemed that whatever trepidation she had felt for what lay ahead, she had steeled herself inside and out. Despite her serene expression, he could still sense a tension in her steady voice. Stepping onto the solid shelf of ice beside her, he could see a solid white wall of icy mists ahead. His first breath stung his lungs painfully. He felt something stirring, shifting inside of him. The cold settled right through his physical body into his soul. His mind instantly brought up memories of the last time he'd felt a cold so deep. As if responding to those memories, the cold chill gripped his lungs, teasingly. Memories of the Iceburn Tear tickled at the edges of his thoughts, bringing them back into a sharper focus.
"It's freezing..." he commented almost unconsciously, his mind flooded with memories of the Cavern of Echoes.
Then another, even older memory floated to the surface. It was another cavern that somehow felt even colder. Before he could more fully grasp that memory, the priestess replied to his comment.
"It draws out the breath, doesn't it?" Latarra commented, seeming almost relieved he could feel it as well. "To mingle with the last of proud Mehrwen's spirit. We'll purify your soul the same way. With a bit more work, of course. Come on, no wasting time."
He just nodded, still having no idea who or what this Mehrwen had been and not particularly inclined to insult someone or something that Latarra clearly revered. He followed only a step behind as she led the way into the thickening white mists. It felt like each breath wasn't just sinking deeper, blanketing his soul, but slowly gripping him more firmly with each step. He fought the urge to use his innate ability with fire to combat the growing cold, as he had done in the Cavern of Echoes against the power of the Iceburn Tear. Something he sensed in all of this was...watching, possibly testing him. There was a slowly increasing tension of awareness within the mists themselves. If it would help destroy the Nightmare, he would happily embrace the biting cold. Despite the sacred feeling of this place and its unnatural silence, he decided to see what little he could learn of what they were walking into without sounding disrespectful or skeptical.
"You mentioned talking to some 'Unmoored'. What is that?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
Latarra seemed entirely absorbed in whatever was ahead, but clearly heard his question. "Unmoored are the watchers of Pelghain. Tempests who have given themselves over to the mists."
She was quiet for a few more seconds. Despite her serene facade, there was a chilly edge of anger in her voice when she spoke next.
"The Unmoored are supposed to protect all the isles. Somehow, that doesn't include Ewon Tull. My home."
Sensing the sadness as well as cold bitterness behind her words, he let the rest of his unspoken questions go. She led them through the rest of this ice canyon in silence. He began to feel numb inside and out. But it was a kind of peaceful numbness that brought relief, much as he had experienced in other blessed and sacred places. By the time they reached some stairs carved into raw stones, he was actually feeling almost serene. Whatever holy energies flowed through this place definitely did not feel like anything of Darkness. Yet, they were so overwhelmingly powerful that it was virtually overawing as well.
Latarra stepped confidently up the short flight of stairs into a large, circular area that was again surrounded by walls of ice on all sides except this one and the opposite side. Wherever the path led deeper into the ice canyon was whited entirely out with the mist. It seemed to grow thicker the further one went along the path. In the center of this more open area was a twenty-foot circle with a pool of liquid water in the center. Around the outer ring of the pool stood three small monoliths. At the base of each was a small shelf he assumed was an altar.
"The waters converge. This is it," she told him softly.
She reached into a side satchel and pulled out three objects. With his shield and scythe still hooked, he hesitantly took the items she held out to him.
"You must place the offerings on each of the altars."
He inspected the objects in his hands. One was a pearl, nearly the size of his palm, carved into a delicate bloom that was almost identical to the one Gwalnne had given him. Another was a fish made of carved crystal with exquisite detail that glimmered in the weak light. The third was a beautiful dagger made of polished bone. Somehow, he understood almost instinctively that they represented the gifts of the ocean. Each object held an unfamiliar yet soothing power of its own. He approached the nearest altar. Hearing nothing but the comforting silence within himself, he paused to feel the objects with his arcane senses. Each of the three altars held an unfamiliar symbol carved into the stone monolith. Assuming they did not have to be placed in a specific order, he put the dagger on the first altar. The symbol carved in the monolith above glowed a bright teal. Still feeling as if something was watching him intently, he bowed before the altar in respect before moving to the next. When he finished with the third, he turned to find Latarra standing calmly on the edge of the pool. Whatever troubled her was now forgotten as she focused entirely on what they were doing.
"Stand in the center of the pool and hold your breath," she instructed.
Having expected as much, he steeled himself. Without a doubt, that water was well below freezing and only kept liquid by magic. Already, he had tested his magical sight a couple of times and was nearly blinded by the raw power of this place. He approached a set of stairs that descended into the water. The instant his boot touched the water, the icy pain flared in his foot. He clenched his teeth against the pain and forced himself forward. He tried to remember to hold his breath as instructed. By the time he reached the center of the pool and the water was up to his chest, he couldn't breathe anyway. The burning feeling of his flesh freezing solid and not even being able to shiver all but consumed him. He was almost afraid that if he did begin shivering, his body would shatter from the bitter cold. The pain was nearly blinding in itself. Focusing on what needed to happen, he pushed through the pain and locked eyes with Latarra.
The priestess raised her glowing hands. With a gesture toward him, three disks glowing with teal light floated toward him, one from each altar. As the pain seeped deeper, stabbing right down into his heart, he clenched his fists along with his teeth. At this point, he didn't care if his whole body shattered as long as it would destroy the Nightmare.
"Discard your name. Forget your face. You are a vessel for what has come before," Latarra intoned; the magic behind her words penetrating the haze of pain.
"I came before..." The echo inside him from a voice he knew all too well left him speechless with shock for a few heartbeats. "Alone... Lost in the darkness..."
Blinded by those memories, he was entirely lost for a few seconds. Then he closed his eyes and shoved it back into its hole where it belonged. He, Pyresong, existed now. He was not there anymore. He was not that faded memory. That voice had no power over him. He would cleanse the Darkness. He would end this Nightmare. He would not be distracted from that now.
He felt his body relaxing. The agonizing cold still gripped him, right through his flesh. But the pain of the body was nothing compared to the power in his soul that he felt coming forth. No fire this time. Whatever the pool and the hovering disks were doing, it was calling to the Light within him, warming something beyond the body. He watched in wonder while the disks circled him a couple of times. Somehow, seeing or sensing he was responding to this, Latarra smiled encouragingly. Then she motioned with her glowing hands. The disks spun and whirled around him faster and faster until he couldn't even make out the individual objects anymore. With a flick of her hand, they plunged into the water with him, sending up a white explosion of water all around him.
He was in awe of the feelings, the power...the pure Light. He knew now he could rid himself of the Darkness, the Nightmare. Whatever doubts that existed were swept away by the flooding torrents of energy he felt called forth within him. It was so remarkably similar to what he felt when Tyrael awakened that he almost couldn't believe it was coming from himself. And yet, he knew it was him and not the angel within him. It was his own Light separating itself from the Darkness, pulling him away from it.
He was almost free!
Suddenly, the Nightmare erupted within him. Instead of being cleansed, it rose up violently, tearing at him from the inside. The entirely unexpected explosion of pain in his chest when the Nightmare fought back was beyond agonizing. He gagged and staggered, struggling to at least remain on his feet and not drown. He nearly fell into the pool entirely when the pain seared hot claws inside his chest. His heart stuttered, and his chest squeezed until he couldn't breathe, even to scream.
No! Not again! he screamed in his mind through the almost blinding pain.
He struggled to expel it, deny it, let the waters purify it. Anything to make it stop or to somehow destroy it! The Light and warmth he felt were being smothered, overpowered by that Darkness he could not stop or control. Other familiar screams of rage and denial echoed his own within his soul. For a few racing heartbeats, he was all of them; all of those memories rose to the fore in a whirlwind that left him wondering who he even was anymore. Feeling that raging battle inside that had nothing to do with the angel, the first real doubts about the entity behind those memories flashed through his mind. Maybe it wasn't tied to the Darkness.
"Pull me free, and tear your soul in half!" the Nightmare warned him, bringing it all back into focus painfully.
Damn you! they all snarled back at it in unison.
The next eruption of pain brought with it that wave of vile corruption that felt so very much like a corpse explosion. It sent tendrils of itself outward in every direction. He could feel the Nightmare summoning something. His chaotic, overlapping memories were forgotten in an instant. His eyes flew open when Latarra's horrified scream penetrated all of the chaos and confusion swirling around inside of him. None of them mattered now. Reflexively, his eyes found Latarra standing on the edge of the pool, unharmed.
"No! How... Quick, slay those things. Don't leave the pool!"
Out of reflexive habit, he reached for his scythe. Remembering the shades that had happened in Westmarch, he started to tell the priestess that they were just shadows. Then one hit him in the face so hard he was knocked halfway across the pool. These were no mere shadows. Despite the heavy, thick water, he quickly struggled to swipe with his scythe. There were at least half a dozen of the things closing in on him from all sides. It took his startled mind a moment to realize that aside from being able to hurt him, they were all trapped in the pool with him. He managed to cut one that instantly evaporated, but the others were already clawing at him. His scythe alone wasn't going to be nearly enough.
"Latarra, back away!" he warned.
Then he turned to aim his empty shield hand carefully so as not to be anywhere near the priestess. Still swinging his scythe, he managed to fire off a bone spear that took out two more. Then he was hit again from the side, knocking him right off his feet and down into the water. Before he could get back to his feet, two more stomped down on his chest plates and stood on top of him. Already his lungs were burning, and he couldn't feel most of his body. Nearly panicked, he dropped his scythe and sent another, dual-handed volley of bone spears straight up at them. A moment later, the pressure holding him down disappeared.
He struggled back above the surface, gagging and stumbling unsteadily. Only then did he see the blood now polluting the sacred water. Panicking, he turned a full circle, looking for Latarra, convinced the Nightmare had somehow killed her. He opened his mouth to call to her, only to find himself gagging again when the blood choked his throat. Slowly, it dawned on his stunned mind that the blood in the water was his own, flowing from his mouth. His instant relief was tempered by the feeling of blood filling his lungs and a burning ache in his chest. Hardly aware of the other sensations of his body anymore, he flailed toward the stone rim of the pool before he sank beneath the surface again. Part of him wanted to let it take him. Let the cold water fill his aching lungs and just wash him away into never-ending numb darkness. He laid his head on the icy stones on the edge of the pool.
"All alone in the darkness... So cold..." the ancient memory moaned again.
Yes... he replied tiredly, wishing to go back there despite the mournful warning.
"You are not alone." Oza's voice tugged at him insistently, pulling at him demandingly.
Please... he didn't even know what he was asking for anymore, except for it all to just stop, to leave him alone.
Somewhere outside of those dark thoughts, he felt a teal-blue bubble of power surrounding him again. He began to feel its warmth and healing seeping into him. Disoriented and momentarily exhausted, he just lay there with his head on the icy stone ring on the edge of the pool. With the healing, his mind began to clear, as well as his chest. He started to realize that this wasn't the first time the Nightmare had managed to hurt him from within physically; the last time had been in Westmarch. However, it was clearly far more powerful now than it had been then. Diablo was still feeding it. This had failed. The reality began to settle like a rime of ice on his heart. He would have wept had he not felt so completely exhausted.
"Calm within. Calm without," Latarra intoned repeatedly, approaching the edge of the pool.
The fearful quavering in her voice made him feel sick, despite the healing. After a few more seconds to focus beyond the utter defeat he felt, he raised his head. Latarra's voice, repeating her chant, had begun to waver in confusion and uncertainty. He shook his head at her sadly. It was over. The ritual failed. He had failed.
"It's...not working. What? How?"
He sighed sadly and spat to clear the blood out of his mouth. He needed to assure her it wasn't her fault. Despite the power he had felt here and within himself, the Nightmare was just too powerful. It was too late. Before he could answer her, though, the mist all around them swirled and began to coalesce on the other side of the pool. For a moment, he could almost make out a humanoid shape that appeared and then flew apart and appeared again in the mists. It swirled and shifted the ghostly mists all around them.
"Latarra," a deep, rich voice came from the thickening fog, "you are a poor ritemaster."
Latarra lept to her feet as if she had just been jolted with a lightning spell, her eyes wide with shock. He looked around, trying to track the thing as did the priestess. Immediately, he felt the threat here. This was the thing he had felt watching, testing him. It knew he had failed. Reflexively, he backed away from the edge of the pool, stepping on the handle of his scythe still resting on the bottom of the pool.
The voice took on an angry edge. "Corruption mingles with Mehrwen's breath," it growled. "You think to poison us?"
"No! This is not her doing!" he told it frantically. "She was trying to help me!"
"Again, you defy your charge!" the voice now roared painfully loud.
"Great Unmoored... Sikarnuk, I am here to answer your call!" the priestess cried, going to her knees on the edge of the pool.
The powerful sense of looming threat faded, as did the patches of thickening mist. He turned to her, his heart racing. The nearly oppressive sense of presence hadn't dissipated in the slightest.
"What in the Hells was that?" he asked.
She ignored him for a moment as she jumped into the pool beside him. Unexpectedly, he realized that the painfully cold water was now actually almost warm to him. Was that just another sign of how badly this had failed? While she was moving to join him, he quickly dove beneath the surface to grab his scythe. Whatever else happened here, he would not let that thing harm her for helping him. He swiped his wet hair out of his face with the other hand while he hooked his scythe. Latarra, standing beside him now, was pale and wide-eyed.
"Sikarnuk called me here," she told him in a shaky voice. "It wants... something from me. And we can't solve your problem alone."
"What does it want?" he asked, not liking the terror behind her eyes at all.
Instead of answering, she just shook her head and closed her eyes.
"Great Unmoored, the pleas of Ewon Tull have gone ignored by Pelghain for a generation. It is our duty to protect all within the Isles. Do we not owe the same to the stranger in the grip of Darkness?"
"Wait. What—" he tried to stop her, not liking this at all, but the voice interrupted again.
"Pelghain has endured millennia," it told her.
This time, he could clearly see the ghostly shape of something circling them. It no longer felt quite as threatening, just intimidating. It was huge and only vaguely humanoid.
"You think only of what you see today. Naive. Neglectful," it told her. "Yet...Unmoored are few. Join us, and we will aid you."
Before he could again try to say anything, the water on the other side of the pool erupted in a white spray when something easily forty feet tall rose from its shallow depths. The thing had the head of some kind of almost sea monster-type creature covered in fins and spines. Its skin was a mottled bluish-white. The arms were very nearly human in appearance, but also covered in what looked like deadly sharp fins. Below the waist, it resembled an octopus with eight thick tentacles large enough to crush either of them with little more than a thought. Sensing the raw power of this thing, Pyresong backed off reflexively, unable to take his eyes off of it.
"I...I knew it. I accept," Latarra said, her voice filled with mingled terror and resignation.
Her voice jolted him out of his momentary shock. His instincts were screaming against this. His gut twisted fearfully for her. He tried again to stop her. Whatever else was going on here, he would not let her walk into this because of him and his problems.
"No, wait! Latarra, you don't have to do this! I'll—"
An invisible force flung him back right into the stone wall of the pool, stunning him. His legs wobbled, and his knees wouldn't support him. He gripped the ring of the pool to steady himself. Latarra squared her shoulders and walked toward the thing fearlessly. She put her arms out in welcome. Whether it was a religious thing or not, he had a horrible feeling about what she was offering in exchange for cleansing his soul. He didn't want this. No one else should have to pay his price!
The thing produced a white glowing symbol in the air. Before he could even regain his feet, the symbol condensed and sank into her face. With her back to him, all he could see was her hands going to her head as if in pain. By the time he found his feet and waded back over to her, she was breathing deeply, shaking from head to foot. The glowing symbol had sunk into the skin of her face.
"You are bound to Sikarnuk. Find us in the mists," it commanded. "When you are Unmoored, you may quell the storms yourself."
The thing dove back down into the water, causing a small wave that made them both stumble for a moment. Pyresong, being taller, caught her by the shoulders to steady her. He felt sick at the sight of the glowing sigil across her face. And the fear behind her eyes lashed him painfully.
"What did you just agree to?" he asked, already knowing he didn't want to hear the answer.
Whatever she saw in his face brought her out of her dark and terrifying thoughts. She pulled away from him and squared her shoulders. Once again, she was all haughty priestess.
"I sealed a pact. I will breathe in more of the mists...become an Unmoored, like Sikarnuk," she told him coldly.
She moved to the edge of the pool. He gripped her arm, stopping her.
"Don't do this. I know you don't want to do whatever was promised. I...I'll find another way. Please!"
Seeing his desperation, her expression softened slightly as she shook her head. He felt sick. He couldn't handle the thought of another innocent life on his conscience.
"There is no other way, or you wouldn't have come to that forsaken place," she told him sadly.
His heart sank. She was right, and he knew it. He followed numbly, exhaustion nearly forgotten as she climbed out of the pool. He didn’t know what to say to that. And, still, this somehow felt wrong to him.
"First, we fix your soul," she said confidently. "Then I'll be able to help Ewon Tull. And you...you can help everywhere else."
She walked toward the icy, walled path that was opposite where they had entered. Despite following only a step behind, he still felt there had to be another way. He wrestled with the part of himself that would never interfere with someone else's religious beliefs. The idea of this pact made him feel ill just thinking about it. But could he even trust his own judgment? Was it just the Nightmare trying to stop him? Was it afraid of her, and what she could do to it?
"Latarra..."
"I have seen the truth of your words and what lies ahead for our world. You must see this through, as I must," she told him firmly.
He nodded sadly, knowing she was very likely correct. And he hated it, and himself...for all of this.
"That's brave. How do you know the Unmoored will keep its word?" he couldn't help asking.
To his surprise, she grinned. "I don't. But you'll help me keep Sikarnuk honest. We're sharing a boat, after all."
He couldn't even find the will to grin back, despite her lighthearted words. He was just so very tired of it all, and...and he still doubted all of this would work. It still felt wrong.
"Look, if I don't make it out and you do, look after everyone on Ewon Tull."
Something reared up in him then, flaring angrily. He wasn't about to let her sacrifice herself for his problem, and that's precisely how this was feeling. Before he could respond, though, she began to run forward into the mists.
"Let's be off. Keep your eyes on me. Don't get lost."
The low, dark laughter of his Nightmare made him hesitate. Mentally, he wrestled with himself. How much could he trust his own judgment in all of this? She was determined, whatever the outcome. Part of him still wanted to stop all of this. He couldn't bring himself to believe that cleansing his soul was worth another person's life, regardless of her personal religious beliefs and other aspects. Already, she was disappearing into the unbelievably thick, icy fog. He stood there, trying to think his way through it. The desperate part of him was willing to do almost anything to rid himself of the Nightmare. Dying again was the easy part. But the idea of another...
No, he just couldn't do this. He would have no more sacrifices on his conscience; to Hells with Karshun's warnings. There had to be someone else who could take his place. He knew he was not somehow special despite everything he had learned in the last few days. And to Hells with the prophecies! All of them!
He was already running ahead to stop her when it hit again. As if watching the whole internal struggle, his Nightmare laughed again mockingly, always in his own voice. The idea that he might never laugh again because of that haunting sound danced across his mind. The icy fear and doubt assailed him again as he skidded to a stop. Had he made the wrong choice again? Was his refusal to let her continue another mistake?
"More pointless self-sacrifice. Others care nothing for it—if they even know," the Nightmare sneered.
He felt the surge of power again, along with the tendrils that extended outward. Despite his struggles to pull them back in, he had no control over this. Shadowy demons began to take form all around them. Latarra must have heard or sensed what was going on. She ran back toward him, reappearing in the mist only a few feet away. He shook his head at her, unable to speak but trying to warn her away. Now he knew they could do physical damage. He didn't want her anywhere near them.
"Your soul is raging again," she told him angrily in frustration. "Let me try to contain it."
The flash of pain and sense of something clawing at his soul from within nearly shocked him senseless. He fought back with icy rage. Let it kill him! Then they would both no longer be a threat to anyone. Ignoring the pain and the fear, he unhooked his scythe and went after the shades as they closed in. Latarra did the same. In seconds, they were gone, and Pyresong struggled just to breathe, to center himself, to focus. Memories of a life lost to time and of their many, many mistakes assailed him all over again. The Nightmare laughed all the more at the burning guilt and shame.
"The Darkness in you is getting worse. We have to move quickly," Latarra's voice penetrated the memories.
"I know," he growled, struggling to control his rage, or at least keep it directed at the appropriate targets.
"Listen to me," she snapped, taking him by the shoulders, "Whatever you hear, do what the best parts of your soul tell you to do."
He blinked, half in surprise. Then he couldn't help laughing darkly despite his earlier thought of never laughing like his Nightmare ever again.
"I've been hearing a lot of voices lately. I can hardly keep track of all of them," he told her coldly.
She placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart; so very similar to Oza's gesture.
"You know in your heart the ones you should listen to."
"You're a good man with a strong heart," Oza's memory floated to the surface.
"I believe in you," he heard Kashya telling him.
"Your potential...your...virtue...have no limit, my friend," Cain repeated.
"Do not give in," Tyrael's memory commanded.
"You do not bear this burden alone, mortal," Verathiel reminded him.
Yl'nira's beautiful music...
His whole body relaxed when he realized she was right. He did know. He'd just been so tired, so afraid; even doubting his sanity... He'd been trapped alone with the Nightmare and the voices for so long that he'd begun to question whether those cherished memories had ever even happened at all. It had twisted everything. At times, he wasn't even sure who he really was anymore. He wondered when he'd stopped listening to those beloved voices. When did Pyresong become nothing more than a meaningless name? When had he begun to deny those who made him feel real?
Seeing in his expression that he was hearing the right voices now, Latarra smiled encouragingly and stepped back. He nodded slowly. Yes, he knew. He'd just been so afraid that they were the delusion meant to torture him further.
"The past is loud in the mists. The worst moments of all are the loudest," she warned. "Just don't forget the good you've done."
"You saved us all like it was nothing," Gwalnne reminded him.
He nodded gratefully. "Thank you."
For the first time in what seemed a lifetime, he could hear them again. Oza, Cain, Charsi, Fern, Kashya...even Karshun. Their real voices and not distorted by the Nightmare. His friends. The people he loved. The people he knew loved Pyresong in return. They were why he was here. They were his strength now, his sanity. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus on them, as well as on so many others who had touched his life and his soul.
He latched on to those memories, those voices, and pushed aside all else. Then he followed close behind as Latarra began to jog through the mist again. All thoughts of what she planned and the outcome were set aside. He would see his soul cleansed for all those who believed in him and trusted him. This would work. It had to.
Only a few seconds later, the Nightmare laughed again.
"You are a tool for the hapless, and you weaken them with your coddling. Let them fight for their lives."
This time, he didn't even waste energy trying to fight the Darkness from the inside. Nor did he waste time cursing it or even mentally replying. He let it summon more shadows so that he could have an easy target for the building rage.
"Shades!" he called to Latarra, who saw them at the same time.
She just nodded and then used her dual swords to cut them down. The ones that were close enough to reach with his scythe, he cut down. The ones further away, he sent bone spears at. Despite the fact that they were now strong enough to do physical harm, they were still little more than dark mists and easily destroyed. The two of them never slowed their forward pace as they jogged along the winding path that cut through the ice canyon. Initially, he glanced up, expecting more of the shades to try to ambush them from above. But the clifftops were so far away he couldn't even see them through the thick fog.
"Sanctuary is more liars and thieves than honest folk. It will rot whether you live or die tomorrow," the Nightmare reminded him.
He knew it was true. And he absolutely did not care. The few good souls were all that mattered to him. He fought for them and all the others who couldn't fight back. He didn't even care if he died cleansing his soul at this point. He just wanted that thing destroyed at any cost. He fought back with memories of all the good and innocent people he'd ever met in his life, and it was a very long list. Even those who loathed his existence as a necromancer were often good people. As they continued, it kept summoning more shades as if to slow them down. Neither he nor Latarra had any problems destroying them. If anything, the frequent summonings just pushed them to move even faster. He had at least some small hope that all these pointless summonings would weaken the Nightmare further.
Almost completely absorbed in recalling all the names and faces of all the good people he'd met in his life, he lost track of time entirely. It might have been minutes or hours later. And it didn't matter. He was too angry and determined now even to be tired. He just followed Latarra and cut down anything that appeared.
"You fancy yourself a hero, don't you?" his Nightmare sneered.
It was Pyresong's turn to laugh. That was so very far from the truth, especially now that he could remember so much more. The part of him that once might have wanted such accolades had been brutally sheared off and destroyed so long ago that he couldn't even remember it clearly anymore. Despite Cain's gentle insistence that he was more than what he chose to believe, he knew the truth. He had always known the truth somewhere deep inside. He was no one's hero, and he never would be. Thanks to the Nightmare's digging, now he knew why. And all it did was justify his belief. As if summoned by those memories, another voice rose to the fore.
"I killed them all... All gone... All alone..." his ancient memory moaned.
"Please," the Nightmare drawled sarcastically as if it hadn't heard the voice. "You were just near Wortham during its latest crisis. That is all."
When he didn't react to those words at all, it assaulted him with something it knew would get a reaction. The smell of smoke, the burning cottages, the screams... For a moment, he stumbled, reliving that horror. His awful mistake, they had all paid for. But which one? Whose memory was he seeing now? He couldn't tell them apart anymore. How many times would he make the same mistakes? How many would pay for his failures?
Then he remembered the rage the incident in Wortham had inspired, seeing the destruction and the cultists. He pulled on that now. Just as he had been on a murderous rampage in Wortham against the Terror Cultists, he now unleashed it on the shades all around them. When Latarra paused at the sound of his stumbling steps, she turned to see his face twisted with that rage. He motioned her forward, and they kept going. Not once did she doubt him by making him run ahead of her. She kept her back to him, fully trusting him, despite what she had seen.
I will destroy you, he swore again.
The Nightmare laughed. "You know what befalls those afflicted by the Worldstone. Do you think your fate will be any different?"
We will die, like every other mortal, he told it without hesitation. But I will see you destroyed first. We will never stop fighting!
Again, it laughed delightfully at his rage and defiance. “Yes, another twisted, broken soul for us to play with. How many others will you bring to our Lord?”
They were still running, still cutting down shadows, when a set of stairs carved into solid rock appeared out of the mist. The Spiral. It was a spiraling staircase that wound up around a stone tower, which disappeared into the white fog. Still, the Nightmare summoned yet more shades ahead of them. He smiled. He could sense its fear now. He could feel it trying to stop him. It must know whatever lay ahead would be its destruction.
"This must be it," she told him, slightly winded. "Keep a hold of yourself. We're almost there."
Pyresong nearly laughed again. Oh, yes, he was holding on to himself. He was in so very many pieces! He struggled to hold on to a single thought, a single memory. Too many overlapping memories pulled him one way and then another. He couldn't hold on to anything for more than a heartbeat. For every good thing he remembered, the Nightmare now threw at him a dozen horrific ones. He let them blaze through his mind. He would sort it all out later. He snickered mentally at the idea that "later" would likely be when he was dead again.
"Time is for the living..." the ancient memory moaned.
Right now, he was just too close. He would not stop. He didn't need to think to keep moving forward. He fell into his usual mindless combat instincts and let them guide his every step. He followed the priestess, cutting through the shades as they ascended the stairs. Still listening to all those voices, all those pieces, racing through his heart and soul, he just stopped thinking altogether.
"The 'Sword of Justice' binds you to a fruitless quest to oppose a force a million times greater and older," the Nightmare warned.
He knew it was his own memories that assaulted him this time when so many overlapping images of Diablo blazed through his mind. The Nightmare didn't even have to conjure them for him. Yes, he was terrified of Diablo again. He was just another mortal. How could he possibly...
"Cast El'druin aside! Live for yourself!"
He tripped and nearly fell on the stairs when it bombarded him with images of a life spent with Kashya...and his children. A family. Living happily just outside a small, safe village. Kashya was so beautiful as a mother and as a wife. His five children ran and played happily, never knowing the bitter, crippling loneliness he had. They never had to confront and truths and overwhelming responsibilities he'd lived with. Cain, living nearby in his own cottage, lived peacefully with them. For a moment, his eyes burned with tears, and he found himself on his hands and knees. Gods... It hurt. He wanted those things so desperately that it hurt like something physical twisting inside of him.
Then he did the exact opposite of what he'd done before. He summoned images of Diablo and his minions, tearing that illusion to pieces. They burned the cottages, tore his family to pieces. Their screams echoed through his heart. That was why he did this, suffered this. He would not allow that illusion to distract him. Even if it were possible to make that illusion a reality, it would eventually be destroyed by the evil he had unleashed, the evil he had ignored. He knew if he didn't keep fighting, even taking on Diablo himself, all those precious dreams were just meaningless fantasy. They would all suffer if he didn't keep going. And he knew he would never be able to face them with the shame of having given up if he walked away. As long as there was still something left of him that could fight the Darkness, he would. To protect them all, he would see this through, even for the ones that loathed his existence.
The Nightmare was so taken aback by his violent and gory destruction of that illusion that it went silent. Even as Latarra was coming back down the stairs toward him, he snarled viciously and got back to his feet. He would not let that vision come to pass. He ran right past her, further up the stairs, cutting down the shadows that dared to get in his way. So violent were his attacks, she kept a safe distance. He was done being distracted, even for a moment. He would not fail. For them, he would see this through.
And then they–all of them–would go after Diablo again. They would find a way to end this.
A few seconds later, they reached the top. The stairs ended in a flat section to their left. Pyresong didn't even need to look around. He knew where he was going. He could feel it. A short way around the left path, they found a shorter flight of stairs that led up to a circular platform. Massive, ornate columns reached to the sky around another pool of sacred water, like the one before. But this one was easily a couple of hundred feet across and only a few inches deep. The power it radiated was almost overwhelming. After all he'd seen and felt, he didn't even have the sense to be overwhelmed anymore. It was just the next step.
"A shrine to Mehrwen. Finally," Latarra said in relief.
He and Latarra approached the stairs, their chests heaving and struggling to slow their breathing. Sikarnuk appeared on the far side of the circular area.
"Enter the waters, Corrupted One. Be cleansed," Sikarnuk called.
"This will work," Latarra told him. "It has to. Go. Stand before the Unmoored."
Emotional as well as physical exhaustion creeping around the edges once again, he found the will to at least give her a warm smile.
"Thank you for everything," he told her warmly.
He hooked his scythe on his belt and his shield on his back and approached the solid apparition of Sikarnuk with open hands out to his sides. This time, it wasn't a gesture of non-threat but a welcoming gesture. Whatever mistrust he had about these entities was gone. He would embrace anything that could offer him hope right now. He stopped a few feet away from the towering entity. He was almost numb with exhaustion now, inside and out. He couldn't even find the energy to be afraid of whatever came next. Sikarnuk extended a glowing hand toward him.
"Cling tight to any worth in your soul," it commanded.
The blinding light forced him to close his eyes, though he refused to so much as flinch. He wanted that light to fill him, to burn away everything, to leave him whole. He filled his heart and mind with his memories of his loved ones and his friends. He remembered sitting by the comforting fire in the workshop, talking freely with Cain. Charsi's unrelenting enthusiasm and ceaseless efforts to befriend him. Akara's gentle compassion and wisdom. Oza's loving warmth. Fern's smiles and laughter as they played in the rain. Captain Rehm and their music that spoke to his soul. Kashya...her fiercely loving heart. For a few seconds, in that flood of life and memories, he relived the experience of knowing he was a part of something pure and good that would live beyond him in a world he fought to protect. And there were so many more. He let them wash over him in a chorus of love and Light.
In that moment, he knew, if never before, he was worth nothing alone. Through them, he had worth and meaning. They were his strength. They were his hope. They were all the best parts of him that actually mattered. And he was their Pyresong, no one else. Those other memories didn't matter.
The Nightmare, his Darkness, sensed these things and fought back. He felt a literal pulling, tearing sensation in his chest again. It was so similar to when it had cut into him and ripped his heart out that he nearly lost the grip of those memories. He gasped and then gagged on the pain. He could feel the Nightmare clawing at the many shattered pieces of his soul, trying to tear the Light away from him. Instinctively, he cried out to the one thing he prayed could help him hold on to those memories, that Light.
Tyrael!
He felt that Light that was already there coming forth to once again embrace those memories. Somehow he knew it wasn't just Tyrael, though. It was himself, clinging to all the good things within his soul. Fractured, broken, and damaged as his soul was by centuries of memories, there was still Light and goodness in there. The angel was just lending his strength to hold on to them.
But it was not enough! The clawing, tearing sensation within him was too powerful, too painful. It would not let him go! He saw again the countless faces of all the people he'd let die. Those he failed to protect. The innocents he could not save. The blood lust. The horror and terror. The battle rage. The raw hate. The Darkness was a part of him, and those memories. It would claim its place and never let him go.
"The Darkness will not leave unless you cut it free," he heard Sikarnuk's voice somewhere in the maelstrom.
What do you think I'm trying to do? he nearly screamed back at it.
He gave up all awareness of his body as he turned inward. His body and the damage being done to it didn't matter anymore. Let it kill him. As long as he could cleanse his soul and destroy the Nightmare he had created, he just did not care anymore. If for no other reason than to keep his friends safe from this thing, he would happily let it kill him. But he wasn't going without a fight. All he had ever done was fight. It was all he really knew how to do. He would fight until there was nothing left of him to fight with. And then he would do as he had done before, finding a way to continue the fight beyond death.
He fought through his memories to find that core Darkness. Despite the agony, he felt literally shredding his soul, he formed a mental blade that resembled his beloved Yl'nira and slashed away at it. If it would not let go, he would shred it. In a sort of mad frenzy, he didn't even care anymore if he shredded his own soul, his own Light, as long as this thing was destroyed. He raged and flailed blindly against the feeling of vile energies tugging, pulling, clawing at him. As if something in him had finally been freed of its shackles, he felt something inside of him explode outward in response to his frantic efforts.
He was still screaming when he felt the shattering sensation of all the pieces of him flying apart for the second time in his life. Instead of the expected feeling of hollow emptiness or even relief, there were only brief flashes of so many fragmented memories that he didn't even know what he was anymore. The shadows of Darkness and the terror of his Nightmare clung to each piece. For one moment, he prayed for the safety of his cold, unfeeling abyss.
Then he was forcefully slammed back into awareness of his body, which now lay helpless on the ground in a couple of inches of water. His eyes opened to slits dully, as if he couldn't remember how to use them. A maelstrom of power swirled around him, directed by the Unmoored. For several seconds, he didn't even know what he was, let alone who he was. There were too many memories. Too many conflicting thoughts and emotions. Too many voices inside of him. All of them were screaming in rebellious defiance of his desire to run away and hide in that forsaken abyss again.
"Behold yourself! Then cast out what does not serve!" Sikarnuk's voice commanded.
"You are stronger than you know, Pyresong," Namari whispered through the storm.
Pyresong... I am...Pyresong.
Rolling onto his back, disoriented and lost, he still fought against that Darkness, denying its hold on him. Shattered as he now felt, he clung to the love he'd known. He clung to the thought of all the people who made him real, made him more than just a hollow name bestowed upon a dead boy walking. He desperately clung to the fragmented memories that defined all he wanted to be...for them. All the things he knew came before those beloved friends did not matter. He would be their Pyresong and no one else.
Above him, thick black clouds roiled threateningly. In his mind, he saw beyond them to the stars that were hidden right now. They mattered, not the dark and empty skies. The clouds would pass, and he would see those beautiful souls again. They were worth protecting, worth dying for. Pyresong had to find his way back to them.
The Nightmare surged one more time, violently. It raged and screamed and exploded out in a desperate, final attempt to stop this. He could feel its desperation. He could feel its rage. He could feel it gathering all its power. He heard it, felt it summoning more from Diablo. The wicked laughter that had chased him and taunted him through the centuries.
Suddenly, a bolt of lightning came down from that storm raging silently above. The shock was so great that his body spasmed and writhed. He wasn't even aware of his own screams until they began to echo in his ears. The tearing sensation was no longer just inside of him; his whole body was coming apart! The agony was so completely consuming that he would have prayed for the release of physical death if he could even remember how. Diablo laughed again.
As suddenly as it began, the lightning stopped. Stunned senseless, shocked into mindless numbness, he lay there in the shallow pool, twitching and gasping. Lying beside him was his Nightmare, his Darkness incarnate—an exact copy of him, including his armor. The only difference his shocked mind could take in was the red seals over the eyes. For a few heartbeats, he couldn't even comprehend what he was seeing. It couldn't be real. Whatever Sikarnuk had done to him had shattered his mind, and he was hallucinating again.
The Nightmare recovered from the shock first. It laughed as it rolled to its feet. Almost as soon as it did, Latarra sped toward it with her swords glowing threateningly. That's when he began to realize it was real. It was physically there. And he wasn't the only one who could see it. Latarra missed entirely when it dodged with inhuman speed. It was still filled with the power and corruption of the shards that had given it consciousness. And there was no telling how much of that power now came from Diablo. While he was struggling to his feet unsteadily, he watched in mute terror as it spun around and kicked the priestess in the back. The kick was so powerful it sent her flying across the holy circle. For one sickening moment, he was certain she was dead.
He had killed her.
"Destruction is a part of you," the Nightmare told him. "Yet you shackle yourself in obligation."
Pyresong wasn't even listening anymore. Again, he was consumed by the need to destroy this thing. Now he could see the damned thing. Now he could fight it. It wasn't something insubstantial inside of him. It was right in front of him. He would destroy this thing utterly at any cost. He launched himself at his Nightmare with his glowing scythe. It laughed as it dodged well out of his way in a flash of red light.
"You suffered in cold, unforgiving darkness all alone, just to shackle yourself to the thankless...to an irredeemable world," the Nightmare pointed out, no longer mocking.
Consumed with the mindless need to lash out, wanting only to destroy the thing, he chased it around. Yes, he knew the truth and the lie of his own existence. And it didn't matter. Even Pyresong didn't matter now. He existed now only to destroy this vile image of himself that he had created to Hells with all his other mistakes. Destroying this part of himself was the only thing he cared about now. He flung bone spears at every opportunity. Blades of energy. Curses. Spirit fire. He even summoned skeletons and golems. Everything he threw at the Nightmare was either blocked or easily dodged. With the power of Diablo and the shards, it seemed unstoppable. When he stumbled, momentarily swaying with exhaustion, it paused with another taunting laugh.
"I will free you to act in your own interest."
Those words sank into his mind down through the layers of memories, right into his heart. He was gripped by an icy, paralyzing fear when the reality of what was happening and its intended consequences settled in. In an instant, he was their Pyresong again. Never had he prayed for the icy calm of certain death as he did now. He needed that calm clarity, that focus. But what it had promised left him too horrified to find any semblance of calm or clarity. He spawned this thing; he gave it life. And he knew exactly what it was saying. He could still feel it in some way. He knew the truth behind those words.
It would destroy everything and everyone he had ever loved to "free" him.
And now it was separated from him. It no longer needed to take control of his body; it now had its own. It possessed the power of the shards and the power Diablo had infused into it. It could so easily do precisely what it threatened. It had cherished the looks of betrayal on each and every face. They would never realize it wasn't Pyresong until it was far too late. For a few seconds, he was completely paralyzed with fear, unable to even form a coherent thought beyond the mind-numbing terror.
Seeing that he understood, the Nightmare laughed in delight at his horror. Then it disappeared into the mists.
Gods...no...
Somehow, he found his shaking legs and stumbled toward where it had disappeared. Panic consumed him. He had to follow it. He had to stop it. He had to destroy it before...
"It shall not contaminate the Breath!" Sikarnuk roared as it flew past him.
The images ravaged his mind. The Nightmare had tormented him for months. Now it was free to actually do them! No visions. This was real. It would destroy everything and everyone he loved, one by one...just to free him. He was numb with horror at the sight of it all. He continued to stumble after it and Sikarnuk, back into the mists.
A powerful blow to his face finally brought him back from those promised horrors. His heart was racing so painfully in his chest that he could hardly breathe. His head pounded. His whole body felt battered and weak. It was getting away!
"Are you with me?" Latarra demanded, shaking him by the shoulders.
"I..." he took a deep breath and tried to force himself into some semblance of calm. "I feel...better. But...I couldn't hurt it at all. And now, it's free. I know where it's going. I have to—"
"It may take some time for your soul to fully recover," she assured him. "Though the Light in you grows brighter already."
She couldn't understand what he knew, what it could do, what it would do to punish him for his stubborn defiance and resistance. He had to stop it! But her words finally sparked something that resembled a sane thought. He hooked his scythe and quickly dropped his shield off his back with a clatter.
"What are you—"
"Let me try something," he told her, his hands and voice still shaking.
His one thought now was a prayer that this would work so he could take a portal back to his loved ones before it could reach them. He held his backpack with the opening sideways so he could fully draw El'druin. He called it to his hand, and it came readily from the bottomless depths of the backpack. The moment his fingers closed around the sword's enormous grip, he felt the explosion of Light burning him from the inside out. In absolute, mindless shock, he let go, and it fell to the ground in the shallow water with a sound that rang like a massive crystal bell. It echoed and resonated through the columns of ice and stone, bouncing back to his ears like the Nightmare's mocking laughter.
He fell to his knees, crushed. The dark despair that swept over him left no room for words. He had failed. He was free of the Darkness he had spawned. Instead of destroying it, he had freed the Nightmare to kill everyone he loved, and El'druin still rejected him! Hopeless couldn't even begin to encompass how he felt. Bitter tears burned his eyes as he covered his face with shaking hands. He'd done far worse than fail. He'd unleashed yet more evil into the world. Again! And this time, it knew who to target to do the most damage.
They were all damned because of him.
"What is that blade? I've...I've never seen anything like it," Latarra said in awe.
Her words were so far away in the dark despair that he almost didn't hear them. He dropped his hands, staring at the sword only inches away.
"It is the 'Sword of Justice'," he told her hollowly. "It rejects me...still. I cannot maintain the Balance without it. Why doesn't El'druin understand that?"
Latarra stared at the blade in wonder, mesmerized.
"I've done it again. I've unleashed an evil far worse than I sought to destroy," his voice thick with tears. "They're all going to die. And it's my fault."
Apparently, that was enough to snap Latarra out of her trance. She knelt in front of him on the other side of the blade. Her face was twisted with anger.
"So you just give up? They don't matter now? You just sit here and let them all die?"
For a moment, Pyresong's numbed, shocked mind couldn't process what the priestess was saying. He stared in blank silence. For the second time, she punched him, this time with much more force. He rocked back, just catching himself from falling with one unsteady hand.
"How dare you!" she hissed. "After all that has been sacrificed. You give up because of one magical weapon rejecting you? Are you really so weak?"
A spark of anger beyond the all-consuming despair ignited within him. She had no idea what he had been through! What he had done! What he had sacrificed! How dare she judge him!
Before he could even open his mouth to lash out at her, she gripped El'druin's handle and lifted it horizontally in front of him. Again, his mind froze in shock at the sight. He very nearly bit his own tongue in surprise when the shock made him close his mouth against those bitterly angry words. The anger and despair evaporated as a new light of understanding swept over him. She was holding El'druin! She was a ready and fearless fighter. An explosion of hope danced along every nerve. Maybe what he'd said before, about another... Maybe she could...
Still numb and reeling with the shock of renewed hope, his exhausted mind struggled to cope with it all. He watched as she shoved the blade back into his backpack. He almost stopped her, but was still wrestling with his shock and swirling thoughts. Before he could even process those vague hopes flaring to life, she gripped him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.
"You will not fail here," she told him. "Now get up!"
Before he could even voice the thoughts now racing around his head, Sikarnuk returned, flying right up to the pair of them. Pyresong quickly took his backpack from Latarra. He had to get them out of here. He didn't matter anymore. Latarra was the key. She was the one who could do what needed to be done. He turned away to retrieve his shield, where he'd dropped it nearby.
"Sikarnuk, have you destroyed the corruption?"
He paused again as he hooked his shield, listening and praying. Just this once...let something be listening to his prayers.
"It is driven far from the Breath. And the creature has little interest in our capital. It is time to fulfill your promise," it told her.
He very nearly opened a portal right then. He had to get to them before the Nightmare did. But Latarra was his one hope now. He had to find a way to get her to come with him, back to the others, back to Westmarch.
"Hold on. Where did it go? What about others it might harm?"
Sikarnuk huffed angrily. "If you must know its fate, then look. But let this be your last distraction from the rite. Your strength is needed now. We must tend the storm before it grows too great."
Reflexively, he turned to look as a watery portal opened in the air. In the glassy, calm center, images began to appear. The Nightmare hadn't teleported itself very far. Maybe it couldn't. Perhaps it was weaker than he thought. But that was a distant, vain hope compared to the chilling fear that turned his blood to ice when he saw exactly where it had gone. It now marched into the familiar streets of Ewon Tull, summoning an army of demonic shades in its wake. It looked exactly like him. The villagers stared in confusion at first while it stalked toward them, the growing army of shades close behind. His heart nearly stopped altogether when he saw Casek approaching cautiously with an uncertain smile. When it ripped Casek apart with its inhuman strength, he wished his heart had stopped...forever.
What have I done?
He unleashed that horror on their world as much as his own; just as he'd unleashed Diablo. He couldn't fight with El'druin. He couldn't even touch the holy sword. Only Latarra could stop this, now.
"No!" Latarra screamed, shocking him out of his paralysis again. "We have to help them! All the people on Ewon Tull...they'll be slaughtered! Take us there! Now!"
Already knowing this entity had its own plans, Pyresong moved slightly away from them. He struggled to calm and focus his reeling mind. He just needed to remember one place. Just one tiny patch of ground, and he could get them back to Ewon Tull without this thing's help. He took several deep, calming breaths. Trying to breathe around the icy agony in his chest.
"No," Sikarnuk replied angrily. "The survival of Pelghain is of far greater import than one small isle. As we waste time with your indulgence, the storms rage, the ice cracks, and Pelghain's future grows dim."
Finally able to breathe, to almost think, he focused on the landing where he and Latarra had departed. Maybe...
"Pelghain is a name and a flag!" Latarra raged. "What of the people, Sikarnuk?"
"They are small stitches in the tapestry of legacy. Your fixation on them blinds you to the greater whole. Darkness rises everywhere. The storm must be shaped and the heart of the Empire preserved. Sacrifice is necessary."
Those words penetrated Pyresong's focus like nothing else ever could. Yes, he fought to create a better world, no matter how much he failed. He fought for the people who deserved to have a better life. He fought for the few bright and loving souls that made Sanctuary worth saving. And the sacrifices along the way... Alyssa. Esmund. Navair. Yl'nira. Wortham ablaze. Blackstone bled dry. An image of Verathiel flashed through his mind. Necessary? His heart and soul screamed against that. It roared in rage against everything he'd done wrong; his every mistake that had cost them their lives. His soul screamed against entities like this that thought such sacrifices were nothing! Even as he spun around to lash out at the Unmoored, Latarra beat him to it.
"To the Abyss with you and your sacrifice! I'm going!"
Sikarnuk motioned in her direction. "You are bound to the rite of Unmooring. You cannot refuse now. We have you already."
"Latarra!" he gasped as she was enveloped in a bubble of water.
He was pushed away by the raw power swirling around her. The sigil on her face flared brightly while she screamed and struggled against it futilely.
"Power uncontrolled is the doom of the soul," Sikarnuk's ghostly voice warned as it faded back into the mists.
The mist closed in around her. She began to fade away.
"Latarra! No!"
His hope was slipping away. She could wield El'druin! She could help him fight the Nightmare. She could save the Ewon Tull. She was a fierce and fearless fighter. She was everything they needed. And she had done this to help him! Despite his failures to rid his soul entirely of the corruption, she had given her very existence as a mortal to see it done. He couldn't let this happen! But the Nightmare was ravaging Ewon Tull—right now! He had no idea where she had gone. His mind spun around itself, dark thoughts and horrors for both the villagers and Latarra tangling themselves up until he couldn't even move.
"Mortal, can you hear me?" Tyrael's voice struggled to come through.
Tyrael, I need to reach them! he screamed mentally, not even entirely sure who he was referring to at this point in his scattered panic.
"Seek the Light still. Do not despair, or far more than you will suffer," Tyrael warned, his voice frighteningly faint and weak.
I know! he screamed in panic, closing his eyes and forcing himself to focus.
He dug deep, reaching for the Light within himself. It had to be there! It...it can't be gone entirely. He forced a long, slow breath in and out. When he opened his eyes, he could see a sparkling trail of Light so painfully familiar that his heart ached for Yl'nira all over again.
"The fight for virtue leads to casualties," Tyrael reminded him.
Now that he was focused, he could hear Tyrael's voice more strongly than ever. Some distant part of his mind wondered if it really was just his own Darkness that had made the angel's voice so faint before. Had he been smothering that Light? Was Tyrael somehow stronger now that the Nightmare was gone? Or was it something else entirely? He didn't have time to think about it. He ran down the sparkling path of Light.
"All who deliver justice must be subject to it," Tyrael warned.
Myself, especially, he thought bitterly.
But there was no more time for that. He could still feel Tyrael watching from behind his eyes as the path led out into an even thicker mist that swept around them with a nearly unbearably bitter cold wind. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting to Latarra. She was their hope now. She was the one who could wield El'druin. She was the one who could save Ewon Tull. Maybe she could do more. But he had to get to her first.
"Latarra! Are you here? I need your help!"
It took him a moment to realize he was at the base of the tower they'd climbed. He had no idea how he had gotten here. He was back in the ice canyon, but now a storm was raging, blinding him with the icy fog. Heedless of the slippery ice or even unseen obstructions, he began racing back down the path toward where the other pool had been. Some instinct told him that was where he would find her. He prayed he wasn't too late, knowing nothing was listening but unable to stop himself.
"Accept the rite. Your selfishness will drown the isles anew," Sikarnuk's voice came from everywhere.
He knew the Unmoored was speaking to Latarra somewhere ahead. Maybe he wasn't too late. Maybe she was still fighting. Suddenly, the wind wasn't just coming from every direction at random. Now it was pushing against him. His forward steps slowed as the wind threatened to push him back toward the tower. Frantic, growling, fighting, he closed his eyes against the blinding icy wind and pushed forward, forcefully planting one foot ahead of the other.
"Those you race to save are already lost to you," Sikarnuk told them.
"Don't listen! We can still save them!" he screamed back at the mist.
Through the icy mists, he could make out shadowy forms. He knew the Unmoored was trying to stop him from getting to Latarra. Yet the chill of dread still made him shudder inside. In the darker pieces of mist he could only think of as shadows, he could make out what the thought was Skarn, too many people to count, and even other demons. They were all waiting for him, waiting to torment him. As soon as he could make out what the shadow was supposed to be, it faded away back into the violent white mists. He more than half expected them to attack him from behind. He didn't care if they killed him so long as he could get to Latarra.
He closed his eyes against the shadows in the mist. He would not fail. He would not lose Latarra. He would not let this happen. A few seconds later, he was still pushing against the wind, completely blind. He only knew he was still moving forward against the encroaching numbness of his own body when he could feel the aching pain in every limb, struggling to move. The wind was no longer shrieking through the canyon along the icy walls. It was the thousands of voices raised in a screaming chorus, pushing him further away from his goal. A million wailing, tortured souls he'd left in his wake over the centuries raged against him, raged against his skin. The screams clawed at him, not just tearing at his skin. They tore at his damaged soul.
"I can hear them all...a thousand generations..."
Latarra's voice somehow penetrated the screaming wind. Her pain, her despair, clutched his heart. He forced his eyes open, not even caring if the wind scoured them right out of his skull. Just a few feet away, he found her on her knees, clutching her head in her hands. Her dark eyes were wide with fear and pain. The sigils that covered her face glowed violently.
"So many voices!" she cried out, not even seeing him. "They need me! Need me here!"
Even as he went to his knees, he knew he was losing her. She was growing insubstantial. Part of him wanted to let her go. This was her world, her beliefs. A sliver of doubt crawled through his mind. What right did he have to do this to her? But her words stabbed through the dark despair he'd felt. He needed her! He needed her to save Ewon Tull. He needed her to wield El'druin. He needed her to help him destroy the Nightmare he had created. He needed her to help him defeat Diablo.
"The storm is rising!" she shrieked.
Her empty eyes stared into an abyss only she could see. Praying they could all forgive him one day for his so very many mistakes, he gripped her arms.
He found his selfishness.
"Don't surrender to this! It's time to fight!" he told her desperately.
A thicker mist began to form in a bubble around her. It didn't need to push him away or break his grip on her. Where he held her arms, he began to feel her slipping away, becoming thinner in his grasp. She was becoming the mist. She wasn't even seeing him. He tugged at her, shook her. Nothing. In a final, desperate move, he let go of her arms and embraced her fully. He put his head on her shoulder.
"Please! You can still help your people. We owe it to them. Just...follow me. Please," he begged in her ear.
She shuddered in his arms and then seemed to become more solid to the feel. He took a couple of deep, shaky breaths.
"I...I can. I will," she growled in his ear.
She pushed back against him, and they struggled against the fierce wind back to their feet.
"Latarra, you give in to whims. You will realize your mistake and return," Sikarnuk's voice warned in the mists.
She was frozen, her expression one of agonizing indecision. He clasped her hand and pulled. She staggered toward him. He struggled against the wind, leading them forward. It felt like he was barely inching forward against the power of the mist and lashing winds. The screams and shadows still clawed at his heart and soul, but he couldn't do it anymore. He was so close to an answer. Karshun had told him to be selfish. He couldn't imagine being more selfish than he was acting now. He took her away from the people she was meant to protect. He took her away from the entity she considered the next thing to a god. He took her away from her destiny. He took her away from all she had ever known and believed so that she could help him.
"A broken soul cannot truly be fixed. Only bandaged," Sikarnuk warned him as if reading his mind.
Oh, yes, he knew. He knew very well. And this act of selfishness was the proof of that. He was so damaged that he could only think of himself and his needs now. Even as he prayed for forgiveness, he knew he didn't deserve it; he also prayed that she could be the one to help him rectify his mistakes. He prayed to anything that would listen that he was making the right choice, just this one selfish choice. He needed her. Just one person willing to stand against the Darkness he had failed to stop again. The Darkness he had unleashed on the world again. One fearless fighter willing to wield El'druin and stop Diablo again.
Unexpectedly, his forward push through the raging winds and mists came to a halt. The screaming wind ceased entirely. He caught himself with one hand, now on his knees. His other hand still desperately clutched Latarra's. His chest heaving, he scrambled to his feet and spun to face the priestess. Her dark eyes were aware and met his instantly. The horror behind them clutched his heart with icy fear. Was his selfish decision wrong? Had he been too late? Had he made another horrific mistake, she would now pay for?
"We interrupted the rite. Are you… Are you still yourself?" he asked in a shaky voice.
The Tempest closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. "The mark burns...but the rite didn't finish, thanks to you. I should be...well enough to sail."
"I'm so sorry. I need you to help me save them," he told her, pleading.
Latarra shook herself, her expression going cold. "Quick, the boat. I'll get us back to Ewon Tull."
He was only a step behind her when she jumped into the boat. He sat as quickly as he could to avoid falling over the side. Her whole body glowed this time as she sped the boat across the water. It didn't take him long to realize the boat was barely even touching the icy water. It skimmed above the surface, practically flying back toward Ewon Tull. It seemed like no time at all had passed when they spotted the landing. He had to jump and then roll to his feet when she ran the boat right into the frozen boards of the dock, smashing them. Already she'd drawn her swords and was cutting her way through the countless shadows all over the village.
"No, no, no!" she cried in horror, catching sight of the first bloody, mutilated bodies in the snow. "Over there!" she directed him to the opposite lane she was on. "Split up and find any survivors if we can! I'll meet you."
He was sick at the sight of so many body parts littering the ground. Just as Sikarnuk had shown them, these people had been literally ripped to pieces. These were the same people he'd saved earlier that day. Maybe only hours ago. He'd fought the storms and the maarozhi to keep them alive. They had thanked him. They had welcomed him. And now he repaid that welcome with this death and destruction. Most of the buildings had been blasted apart with the power his Nightmare wielded. Even the animals had not been spared. Dead goats, cattle, and dogs lay amid the wreckage in the streets. There was still smoke coming from several of the ruined cottages and shacks. In the whole tiny village, there was maybe one structure to the north that looked like it might have survived. Everything and everyone else he found was dead or destroyed.
Aside from what he was seeing, his mind was filled with images of Baaz, Haadaza, Tanyth, and even Gwalnne ripped to pieces. He stopped thinking altogether. He just couldn't. He gave in to his combat instincts entirely and the buffering rage they provided. He followed along the open, muddy paths, cutting down the shadows one after another. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. He didn't bother counting. He would cut his way through them to his Nightmare. He could feel it getting closer. It was no longer about finding survivors. His rage led him directly toward his true target, his ultimate goal. He could feel it waiting for him. His only thought, his only goal, now, was to destroy that thing at any cost.
It would not leave this island.
He rounded a corner to find a large, circular area that resembled what he'd seen in the Spiral. It was some sort of holy gathering place for the village. At points on the four cardinal compass directions stood shrines. He saw almost none of it. What he did see, waiting for him in the center of this wide-open area, pierced his heart with sickening fear. There was no more room for rage as a paralyzing terror spread through him all over again.
The Nightmare was holding Gwalnne.
She looked so tiny and delicate. It had her against its chest with an arm around her back, like some kind of deranged reflection of how Pyresong had held her and hugged her before. It smiled wickedly at him. His mind froze, along with his heart. Whatever came next, he knew he could not let this happen. He dropped his scythe and shield reflexively. They clattered to the stone. The sound was startlingly loud in the silent stillness of this place. But the sound barely even registered to his sensitive ears. In that moment, all he could hear was Gwalnne's terrified sobs as she pushed against the thing that held her, trying to get away from it. Much as he already loathed himself for this whole situation, he was willing to do literally anything to stop what he knew was coming. He even entertained thoughts of giving it the sword—anything to spare that poor little child.
"See Gwalnne? I told you he would come for you," the Nightmare told her.
"What do you want?" he asked, stepping toward them slowly, non threateningly.
"You know what I want," it told him over the little girl's hysterical tears.
He paused and then nodded. He did know. It wanted him. It wanted the power of the angel inside him. It wanted the sword to give to its master. It wanted him broken and willing. Praying Latarra would catch up to him soon, he put his empty hands out at his sides.
"Then take me. I have the sword. Let her go," he agreed.
The Nightmare laughed in his own wicked, mocking tone. With its free hand, it gripped Gwalnne by the face and forced her to look at him.
"You hear that, little one? He wants you to be safe. See? I told you he would."
Gwalnne squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pull away from its hand. It squeezed tighter. Pyresong couldn't breathe; his mind raced. He couldn't even form a prayer. Still holding her in that painful position, the Nightmare smiled at its human mirror.
"I already have you," it told him, staring at him with those red seal-covered eyes. "What I want from her is your broken heart."
Before he could even think to form a reply, the Nightmare snapped her neck. Still gripping her face tightly, it twisted so fast the movement almost didn't register. The sobs that had echoed in his ears were silenced with a single, sickening pop loud enough to silence everything forever. Pyresong didn't just hear it. He felt it in his own shattered heart and broken soul. No more smoldering hate or anger. No more icy rage. No more hope. Something inside of him died with Gwalnne. His earlier promise drifted up through the numbness.
"They won't hurt you any more than I would."
"You're good and strong," the little girl's happy voice lashed his frozen mind.
"One day you'll grow up..."
Even that couldn't hurt now. He was too dead inside. Numb with shock, he watched helplessly. That evil thing was still laughing with his voice, his mocking tone. The last thing that poor child heard was his awful, sickening laughter as she felt through the door. It threw the little girl's body off to the far side of the icy circle. She was so tiny...like a broken doll. He couldn't take his eyes off her. All he knew was the consuming despair of his every failure. His every wrong decision. His every mistake that had led him to this...and how very much he wanted this all just to be over.
The Nightmare was right beside him now. It gripped his face, much as it had Gwalnne's, and forced him to face it. He didn't even bother to pull away. He wished it would just snap his neck as it had Gwalnne's.
"There is a cost to your 'purity'. It is one you know well," it told him, no longer mocking. It sounded seductively empathetic. "You don't possess the strength for more. Embrace me again. Join us, and end this suffering."
He couldn't feel it anymore. He couldn't feel anything. Even the icy rage was gone. He was beyond the chill calm of death. He was destroyed. There was only one thing in this world that mattered now.
"I will destroy you," he told it, a voice so hollow, he didn't even think it was his own anymore.
Even as its face was twisting in frustrated anger at his continued rebellion, he flung bone spears right at its chest. Only inches away, he could not have missed had he tried. They were the very same bone spears that would typically go right through anything in their path. These spears did nothing more than buy him some room. The Nightmare was too powerful, and it knew his every move too well. Acting on pure, mindless combat instincts now, he ran to pick up his shield and scythe. He was blind now, dead inside. Nothing mattered except ending this Nightmare. He was going to destroy it, just as it had destroyed him. He was already in mid-swing with his scythe while it was getting back to its feet. He kicked it down again and followed with his blindingly bright scythe, screaming through the air. It laughed as it rolled easily out of the way and back to its feet. The scythe left a deep score in the stone as the energy it held scraped through the solid surface.
"You fight as though you are fearless, but doubt is fear," it told him condescendingly.
The words didn't even register. At the moment, all he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears and the overwhelming need to silence that voice forever.
It dodged the next spell and his follow-up scythe swing. Then it stepped neatly right inside of his defenses and kicked him in the chest plates so hard he flew backward right off his feet. He landed hard on the ice and skid for several feet further. He almost didn't even feel it. He was already dead. Physical pain didn't matter anymore. In a second, he was back on his feet, racing toward it again. This time, he sent a barrage of bone spirits. It laughed and blasted them to pieces with its own power. But it was enough of a distraction that he could get in close. He launched himself through the air right behind the bone spirits, aiming an identical flying kick at it in the chest. It laughed again when it caught his leg in its inhumanly strong hands and spun around. It used his own momentum to slam him into a pillar on the edge of the circle. The blow knocked the wind out of him. He hit the ground and lay there for several seconds, dazed. He stared up at it, struggling to stay conscious.
"You cannot destroy me without your own death. And terror stays your hand," it told him, smiling wickedly.
Still stunned and dazed, he lay there helpless, trying to shake off the encroaching darkness. His body was almost entirely numb from the shoulders down. Its smile disappeared. He had no way of stopping the thing when it put its boot to his exposed neck. His arms were too far away. He stared up at it, waiting…hoping. There was no anger or mockery in its expression or voice now. It had all been replaced with a gentle, soothing, compassionate tone that made him shudder mentally even more.
"I am not the only filthy part of your soul. You are stained, broken,” it said softly, kindly. “Is that what you want? To serve my Master in death?”
Finally able to breathe when his muscles relaxed, he gasped lungs full of air making him somehow even more dizzy. He dimly felt the threatening pressure on his neck increasing as he fought to focus.
“I can make it happen, if it will make it easier for you,” the Nightmare promised gently. “If I kill you now, you can tell yourself you fought defiantly to the end. Either way, you will serve Him."
His semi-conscious thought was a prayer that it would end it for him. He couldn't even hurt the damned thing. How could he destroy it? With those almost coherent thoughts, the icy tendril of fear slithered across his consciousness. He knew it was right. If he died now, he was going to Hell. There was nothing else for him now. He had done too much and failed too many times. He had made too many mistakes and even violated his oaths. He had killed too many innocent people. And, yes, every person who died here today died by his own hands. He had murdered every one of them by trying to selfishly free himself of this thing instead of doing what he knew he should have done from the start.
Instead, he had expelled it, given it freedom. And he could somehow still feel this thing. It was still connected to him in some way. If he didn't go to Hell willingly, it would drag him there when he died anyway. That was why El'druin still rejected him. It was right. He was not entirely free of the Darkness, even now.
Some reflex below the level of consciousness forced his arm to move, despite the increasing pressure on his neck. The Nightmare didn't crush his throat as he had hoped. Instead, it danced away from his scythe. He rolled to his feet and went at it again. And again. And again. Mindlessly, he flung spells and energy blades. Summoned golems and mages. He kicked it and even tried to cut it with the naked blade. Nothing worked.
And it would still not kill him!
Finally, the fundamental understanding began to settle in. As he wore down and felt his energies depleting until his head pounded painfully with his heartbeat, he understood. It had spoken one piece of truth.
He could not kill it without killing himself.
Dancing and swinging at it blindly, he was again stunned when it kicked him hard enough to send him flying away and sprawling on the ice. It only seemed to get stronger as he grew weaker. When his head bounced off the hard surface, he was again dazed for a few seconds. A dark thought of slitting his own throat skittered across his mind.
But, no, he couldn't just do that and hope it worked. He had to be sure. He had to see it, feel it destroyed. The rest of the world had hope now. Their hope was Latarra. He couldn't think beyond now, beyond destroying this thing at any cost. Exhausted and weakened, he lay there for a few seconds, just breathing. He stared up at a crystalline blue sky that mocked him with its beauty. Not for the first time, he saw so many beautiful things in this world that he should never have been born to see. His very existence tainted it.
The Nightmare stood several feet away, waiting for his next pointless move. He could sense Tyrael watching behind his eyes. The angel was waiting to see what he would do as much as the Nightmare. Tyrael had left him to this fight as if knowing it was his alone. But he wasn’t alone. He had never been alone. And now he had one idea left that would rectify the epic mistake that was his entire existence. Erase the lie once and for all; send them all back to where they belonged. He flashed an image of his idea through his mind; a memory of his beloved Yl'nira.
Tyrael, can it work? he asked silently.
The Nightmare was approaching slowly, cautiously. Knowing he had sat there too long, he finally rolled onto his belly as if he would get back to his feet. The Nightmare stayed well away from him, watching in amusement. He could almost feel it listening to his thoughts. He sat back on his knees, dropping his scythe and shield to either side of himself.
"With enough strength, it can," Tyrael agreed hesitantly. "What are you planning?"
Just...trust me, Tyrael. Help me make this work.
He very precisely and carefully kept the details of the plan blocked from his numb, dead mind. He was afraid for so many reasons. This, like so much else he'd done, could go so horribly wrong. He had some sense that the Nightmare not only knew him well enough to predict his every move, but it could literally read his thoughts. He couldn't take the risk that it might figure out what he was planning. He took off his gauntlets and gloves. His eyes were locked on the curious and amused Nightmare standing a few feet away. It waited patiently to see what his next move would be. He shrugged off his backpack.
"I will destroy you," he promised again, his voice utterly empty.
The Nightmare laughed. "You can't even hurt me. In your valiant attempts to destroy me, all you'll end up doing is becoming me...again."
With the open backpack in his hands, he paused. They all paused, listening. He could feel them all thinking along the same lines. It wasn't wrong. He was the one who had given this thing life. The shards may have given it consciousness, but it existed at all because of him, because of all of them. It had always been there, lurking in the shadows of his heart. He had known that. Long before Diablo found it, he knew it intimately. It was a part of him he never completely denied, but instead used. And now, even with his soul supposedly cleansed, he could still feel it. He could sense it, much as he had the shards themselves.
He never took his eyes off the thing. Part of him prayed he was wrong, it was wrong, and he would pull El'druin from the bag and use it to destroy the damned thing he'd spawned. A trill of cold doubt danced along his nerves. He nodded to it, accepting the truth of those words.
Take as much as you can, he told Tyrael.
A part of him had known even before El'druin touched his bare hand that this would fail. The Nightmare was right. His soul was filthy, stained by the blood of innocents and even angels. With his right hand, he gripped El'druin's handle. The shock of burning pain from the inside out made him gasp. Yet he still had to follow through with this plan. Despite the feeling of Tyrael pulling from El'druin through his hand, a part of him prayed the sword would just burn him to a cinder and take the Nightmare with him so it would be over. He was already dead. This flaring agony throughout his soul and body meant nothing. He clung to the sword, to the fiery pain. It was his penance. But he would see this one mistake rectified before he met Diablo again.
In the end, he wasn't burned to cinders, and it appeared the Nightmare didn't feel the pain through him, either. It was no more than he had expected. What right did he have to hope for anything? He followed through with his planned move by ensuring the sword dropped at just the right angle. The sword clattered to the ground beside him with a chiming sound of a crystal bell so beautiful it almost touched something inside of him. His destroyed right hand could no longer even grasp it. This time, the sword's retaliation had left his hand and fingers a charred ruin. He stared at his blackened, destroyed mass of flesh with a sort of detached amusement. The physical agony was there, but it was so far away from everything else that it almost didn't register. The hand itself had become a visual representation of what he felt inside. He nearly laughed at the thought.
The Nightmare barked a laugh at him in his own voice, stopping his own bitter laughter before it could even form.
"See? It still rejects you!" the Nightmare chuckled wickedly, feeling vindicated. "You are filthy, and broken, and lost. Let my Master give you purpose."
Tired beyond belief, so completely defeated in a way he could never have imagined possible, he rubbed at his eyes with his left hand to cover stinging tears. He was so exhausted, he didn't want to exist anymore. He just wanted to go back to that dark, cold, empty place where he didn't matter anymore. No one remembered them, in there. No one cared. There were no names for anyone to call.
Tyrael was silent, watching, listening. He was dead inside and exhausted, and not sure he could do what he knew he had to do next. For a few seconds, he was afraid. He knew he was going to Hell and not just his own private hell. All doubts of that had been removed. He stared at his blackened hand and the sword lying on the ground. At least this hand would never take another innocent life.
He prayed Latarra would find the sword. He prayed Karshun could see what happened. He prayed they would continue the fight. He prayed Cain was somewhere safe and would one day find the answers they needed. When his mind turned to prayers for his other loved ones, he finally found the strength to move forward. They were why he would see this through.
He turned his gaze back to the Nightmare. He nodded slowly.
"Are you finally willing to listen?" it asked with exaggerated surprise.
He nodded again and heaved a deep, heavy sigh. He struggled back to his feet, feeling more than just a little unsteady. The Nightmare backed up another couple of steps, waiting for the trap to be sprung. He just put his empty hands out to his sides.
"You're right," he admitted, letting the exhaustion and defeat come through. "I can't destroy you. And if I die now, I go to Hell; another damned soul. Either way, Diablo wins."
The Nightmare eyed him warily, sure there was a trap.
"Karshun told me...us," he corrected, carefully choosing his words, "the only way to survive this was to be selfish, just once in this life. So that's what I'm going to do. I will give you everything you want in exchange for one thing."
Not buying it, the Nightmare, his mirror image, scowled suspiciously. Some exhausted part of his mind wondered at that. Is that what he looked like when... He shook it off. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except what he knew he had to do next. He struggled to keep his focus. He couldn't afford to think now beyond this one task.
"And what would that be?" it finally asked.
"Spare my friends," he replied instantly.
The Nightmare erupted with insane laughter. "And just like that, I get you and the rest of your soul, the angel inside of you, and the sword for my Master?"
He nodded solemnly, unable to speak around the sickening feelings twisting in his gut. The very idea of it made him want to vomit. But he had to do this. He remained perfectly still with his hands still out to his sides. His Nightmare seemed to be actually considering. He was so close!
The kick to the breastplates was an unexpected shock. So fast was the Nightmare that he didn't even have a chance to tense up. But it didn't matter. He would have let it happen anyway. This had to work. It was his only chance! This was all he had left to give, and he gave it willingly. It had already promised to kill everyone he loved. If he could keep that from happening, he would give anything, even his own soul. His own damaged soul didn't even matter anymore as long as they were safe. Diablo was welcome to these broken leftovers.
He struggled painfully back to his feet, now several feet away from where he had been standing beside the sword. Again, he put his hands out to his sides. The Nightmare now stood over the angelic blade, which flared at it threateningly. Part of him wished the Nightmare would be stupid enough to try it. But he knew that was a foolish hope. When it met his eyes, he tried again.
"All I want is your word that you and I will not go after my friends ourselves. I can't stop whatever Diablo wants to do, but you and I will do them no direct harm. I will not betray them that way," he explained, letting the exhaustion and defeat lace his voice heavily. "Everything else, I will give willingly."
It stalked up to him slowly again. The Nightmare seemed to be actually considering, a little bit of suspicion bleeding away. A tingle along the back of his thoughts made him wonder if it wasn't probing, digging around inside of him. Then its red seals flashed from the sword to him and back again. It was debating, considering, testing his resolve. It wanted this as much as he did. But it needed to be absolutely certain. No games, no hidden traps.
When it punched him in the cheek a moment later, he wasn't entirely surprised. The blow was powerful enough that he felt something cracking, and there was an explosion of blinding pain. He stumbled back, reeling. Somehow, he reflexively managed to keep his footing while the world tilted back into place around him. He spotted the scythe by his boot, and a flicker of something beyond the dark despair almost made him reach for it. To stop himself, he kicked it toward the Nightmare.
"You said I would have to die to destroy you," he snarled at it, unable to mask the anger entirely. "Fine. Take it. Kill me. Then we both go to Hell empty-handed."
It paused with its hand on the scythe as if sensing the truth behind those words. He carefully kept his hands out to his sides non-threateningly. He bent forward, exposing his neck invitingly. He kept his eyes locked on the Nightmare as he cocked a challenging eyebrow at it with a dark, satisfied grin. Despite the inviting posture and challenge, it just stood there with his scythe as if considering that option as the safer choice. Again, he could almost hear the buzzing thoughts just below the surface. More to the point, he could practically taste how much it wanted his promise to be real.
Seeing it wasn't going to kill him, after all. He stood back up straight. He let go of the anger again, letting the despair take over. Whatever happened next...
"Go ahead. I don't care anymore," he said, feeling the truth in every word. "I just want this to be over, one way or the other. Give me the one thing I want, and I will embrace you. I created you, after all. I am you. You would know if I was lying. We always know when there is a lie involved. Am I lying?”
The red seals over its eyes flashed again. He could almost feel the genuine desire behind them. It wanted them to be as one again, even if only for its own reasons. It stepped closer slowly, still holding the scythe out to the side ready. Sensing that it was still debating whether to accept, he threw in something that would bind him to his subsequent actions, beyond any hope of ever going back on his word. He was already damned, anyway. He might as well go all in.
“I offer you a soul-binding oath to prove it.”
Apparently, that was more than Tyrael was willing to accept. Up to this point, he had very carefully kept the final part of his plan out of his mind. He didn't dare let his Nightmare see the truth, see what he was really planning. Now that he'd discovered his selfishness, he was going to use it. It was now the only weapon he had left. He would end this at any cost. He felt Tyrael flaring, struggling to gain control of his body with the power he had taken from El'druin. The flash of Light behind his eyes blinded him for a moment. He turned his attention inward as they all struggled against the weak angel. He clenched his fists reflexively, nearly screaming at the flaring agony in his destroyed right hand. Seeing the struggle, the Nightmare danced a couple of steps back, sending a flow of energy into the scythe. It glowed threateningly, ready to strike.
Trust me, Tyrael! Please!
"No! This is my body! My soul!" he snarled openly at Tyrael for the Nightmare's benefit. "If I'm going to Hell anyway, it might as well be on my terms!"
"All who deliver justice must be subject to it," he reminded Tyrael. Help me make this work, he pleaded.
After a few more racing heartbeats, the weak angel gave up the fight. He could almost feel Tyrael's confusion at having his own words thrown back at him. He took a couple of deep breaths, still focused on his body to keep Tyrael from taking him by surprise. He spoke aloud so the Nightmare could hear him.
"I'm sorry, Tyrael. I tried. We tried. But this has to end."
Sensing Tyrael was still near the surface, waiting angrily to see what this foolish mortal would do next, he nodded slowly. He couldn't blame the angel for hating him. It was trapped inside this weak, corrupted human; that was reason enough. And, for what he had to do next... No amount of loathing could even begin to encompass what he felt for himself at this point. All of this was on him and no one else. In addition to all of that, if he did succeed here, the angel would have all the more reason to hate him.
So be it.
He turned his attention back to the Nightmare, putting his hands out again. It still watched him warily. He needed this finished now. If Latarra showed up, it might kill her before she could even get to the sword. He had to make this work.
"What is your decision?" he finally asked.
"Swear the oath," it demanded.
He nodded at put his destroyed right hand over his heart. He couldn't help but feel that it was incredibly fitting for this oath; his hand was as blackened as his own heart. They both knew how this worked. It was the same process he had learned when giving his oaths as a Priest of Rathma. His whole body glowed a soft whitish green as he reached inside, drawing the power from his own broken soul; the same place the oath would settle and bind him to it for eternity. With his left hand, he extended it palm up toward his Nightmare invitingly.
"I swear I will embrace you and give you El'druin if you swear to spare my friends direct harm from us," he swore openly.
Beneath the surface, he felt Tyrael shifting in near rage. Tyrael wanted to use that extended hand to lash out at the Nightmare. He could feel it. But he held tightly to what little control he still had of his own body. He never took his eyes off the Nightmare. His heart raced until he couldn't breathe at all anymore. The milliseconds stretched out like small eternities. The world and his vision narrowed to this one moment in time where everything depended on him. The oath was offered, but would it be accepted?
Finally, it smiled in wicked glee, knowing it had him fully now. Soul-binding oaths were unbreakable. Not fulfilling one resulted in an eternity of suffering until rectified. Even death was no escape from the torment. And he had made his oath so simple, so direct, that the Nightmare could see no way out of it for him. It dropped the scythe and repeated the gesture; its own soul glowing with vile black and red hellish energy.
"We will do no direct harm to your little friends," it sneered.
He didn't wait for it to reach out to him. He lunged forward and clasped its hand in a crushing grip, their soul energies mingling through that touch as the oath between them was sealed. The touch of it made him want to vomit and pull away in denial. But he had no choice. He had to do this. It was the only way to keep them safe. The oath settled almost painfully into him as the glow faded. He was bound to his course of action in a way that left no room for mistake now. They stood facing each other for a few seconds in silence while the oaths settled into them.
Then he smiled widely to mask his unspeakable relief. He nearly laughed with giddiness. It was over! He had done it! Now he just had to fulfill his oath. He put his arms out wide, invitingly. The Nightmare glowered at him as if not understanding.
"I swore I would embrace you. Now you have to embrace me, too. If you refuse, we both die for not fulfilling the oath," he told it, unable to keep the nearly insane grin off his face. “And then we both exist forever with the unending torment of unfulfilled oaths,” he laughed. “I'm sure Hell will be pleasant by comparison. Care to find out?”
The Nightmare growled a filthy obscenity at the idea, telling him what he could do with that gesture of embrace. He laughed again, remembering where he'd first heard that one some time ago—strangely fitting in a twisted sort of way. The very thought of touching this thing made him want to recoil in disgust as many more vile profanities raced through his mind. But it had to happen. He smiled even more widely, insanely, and danced a bit to his left, taunting it.
"Come now, we swore a magically binding oath. Are you going to violate it now? Would you really make it so easy to destroy you?" he laughed again, insanely.
Whether they were all insane or not didn't matter. A flash of fear flickered across the Nightmare's face. It had no way of knowing if what he said was true, and it absolutely was. That was the beauty of the plan. And he didn't care at all. Unending torment was fine by him. But the Nightmare couldn't take the chance, and he knew it. It was so close to its own goal.
Snarling more filthy expletives, it finally closed the gap between them. He wrapped his arms around it and gripped the back plates with his left hand to ensure it couldn't let go or get away. At the same instant, he flashed an image of what Tyrael needed to do clearly through his mind.
Now Tyrael! You must!
He could sense Tyrael's surprise and even shock. But the angel obeyed with a sense of grim determination. Now he understood what the plan had been. He would honor the mortal's wishes, despite the possible consequences to them both. The price of destroying this evil thing was worth it. He felt the surge of power in his damaged, blackened right hand when Tyrael took control of it and called to El'druin lying on the ground nearby. Immediately, the sword flew straight and true for its target, as commanded by its one true master. He could almost feel Tyrael standing behind him, a hand on his shoulder, the other pulling on the sword.
As promised, he willingly gave the Nightmare the holy sword, El'druin, blade first.
His eyes locked on the red seals of his vile mirror, and he smiled in pure relief. The Nightmare's eyes widened in fear and pain as the sword slid right through its blackened heart. He was so overwhelmed with relief that it had worked that he didn't even feel the blade piercing the right side of his own chest.
"Thank you, Tyrael," they all whispered in unison.
A moment later, El'druin exploded with Light, obliterating the Darkness, the Nightmare. He didn't even have a chance to wonder why he wasn't destroyed along with it. The instant the Nightmare ceased to exist, the weight of the blade suspended in the air suddenly tugged downward. The not entirely unexpected explosion of agony in his chest had him reflexively gripping the blood-covered blade with his one intact hand. But his fingers were too numb. In some detached way, he felt the blade sliding out of him and clattering to the ground. The bell-like ringing sound was music to his ears. A random flicker of thought made him wonder if that was El'druin's voice he was hearing, just as he had once heard Yl'nira. In his fuzzy, fading thoughts, it was the sound of a massive crystal bell pronouncing judgment.
His knees buckled, and he followed the blade to the ground a stuttering heartbeat later. Lying flat on his belly, he laughed. He couldn't help it. The relief of knowing the Nightmare was destroyed had overwhelmed him, leaving him dizzy and giddy. They were safe now. His friends...they were safe. He couldn't hurt them anymore.
It was over.
He was so exhausted, so relieved, he couldn't even think anymore. In some vague way, he knew he was dying, and he was relieved by that, too. It really was over. Latarra could do what he couldn't. He wasn't needed anymore. He was going to Hell, where they belonged. The pool of warm blood under him widened with every heartbeat. And he didn't care. His fuzzy vision revealed the sight of El'druin still glowing with Light, invitingly. It was so beautiful, it didn't belong in Sanctuary. Just like he was too filthy to be in Sanctuary. He drifted in and out of the edge of the abyss; that cold, empty darkness he remembered. Distantly, he heard more music. More crystal bells. Thousands of them all singing in unison.
"I wasn't supposed to come back," the voice in his buried memories moaned.
With his fading thoughts, he agreed fervently. None of this would have happened if–
"El'druin has accepted your sacrifice in the name of Justice. Take the sword without fear, Pyresong."
Tyrael's voice shocked him, almost back to full consciousness. He started to laugh again, but the blood rising in his throat choked him. The pain in his chest flared into a brief explosion of agony when he coughed. It didn't matter that El'druin accepted him! It was over. The Nightmare was gone. His friends were safe.
"Take it!" Tyrael commanded. "You must!"
He blinked blearily at the sword. It was only inches away, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. He was just so tired. He didn't want to.
Tyrael's anger flared. He was bombarded with images of Karshun's cold disapproval; Charsi's smile was lost in her grief—Cain's tears and heartbreak. Fern wept bitterly, all alone in her room. Kashya held their baby in her arms. The angel lashed his soul mercilessly. Following these were the images of all those who had sacrificed and died along the way. Oza glowered at him in disappointment. Esmund's smile was bitter and mocking. By the time Tyrael flung Verathiel's last moments at him, he couldn't stop the tears that fell from his eyes.
He was ashamed. The hot, burning shame finally made him focus on his left hand. It was icy cold. He could barely feel it, let alone move it. The darkness was already closing in.
"Tyr—"
The blood clogged the back of his throat until he couldn't breathe at all anymore. But the angel seemed to understand anyway. For the second time, he felt Tyrael's waning strength condensing itself in his hand. He was already fading and drifting away into that welcome release when the burst of Light flared brightly in his mind and soul. He felt the strength and Light flowing into Tyrael and then into himself. He felt the warmth of Tyrael and El'druin as they healed his wounds and restored his energy.
"Mortals are imperfect. Justice is unnatural to them. But when they discover it, they are uplifted. They are not drawn to stand against evil. They choose. It is that choice which makes them worthy."
He didn't know if Tyrael was speaking to him, or El'druin, or something completely unknown to him. Yet those words sank deep, resonating like music in his soul. The feeling of Light flooding his soul was so familiar, it made him ache all over again for Yl'nira, the lost part of his soul he could never reclaim. He wept for her, for himself, for everyone he'd nearly abandoned. He wept at the feeling of pure Light inside of him that he'd never thought to feel again. He sent a flood of wordless love and gratitude toward Tyrael and El'druin. No, he would not bond with it as he had with Yl'nira, and the sword agreed. El'druin himself confirmed he still belonged only to Tyrael, and he was just the angel's hands...for now.
As the nearly overwhelming flow of power slowed and then ceased, he finally became aware of his body again. He was on his knees in a massive pool of blood, almost too large to comprehend. He was clutching the blade in both bare hands, his forehead resting against the warm grip. It had somehow shrunk to fit his more diminutive stature. El'druin's acceptance of him as its temporary wielder meant it would adapt to him as needed. He soon realized that his right hand was whole again, having healed along with everything else. The tears of shame and overwhelming joy slowly stopped. His energy was severely depleted but no longer life-threatening. His head only pounded softly with his heart. El'druin would not support him as Yl'nira had before. That was fine by him.
The sword and angel had healed his body, but something else remained. Unlike Tyrael's previous healing on Oza's Overlook in the aftermath of the Ancients' Cradle, he was confident nothing could heal this. There was nothing left in there to heal. He was so destroyed inside...
Soft footsteps on the ice behind him reminded him this was not over. Regardless of what he wished at this point, he wasn't finished. At least enough of him had survived to keep fighting. Latarra... She didn't deserve this misery. It was better this way. He had stolen her for his own selfish purposes. He prayed she would now use that for something good to defend these poor, broken people. Maybe Sikarnuk would even let her return to finish the rite. It had said she would return. He prayed his selfish move had not destroyed her future, too.
"You...the sword..."
He took a long, slow breath and carefully slid the sword through his belt. He rose to his feet to face Latarra. She eyed him fearfully, seeing both the massive pool of blood and the apparent hole right through his plates. He was literally covered in blood from shoulders to knees. Right now, he couldn't even find the will to be disgusted by it. The fact that it was all his own was fitting. How much of their blood had he spilled? Seeing her horrified gaze, he nodded.
"It's..." he started and then glanced down at his blood-covered plates. "It doesn't matter. It's over," he told her softly.
She continued to stare in wide-eyed shock as he moved to retrieve his scythe, backpack, shield, and other stuff. Most of it he crammed into his backpack carelessly. The scythe he hooked on his belt. Very likely, there were no more shadows or anything else, but he just wasn't ready to wield El'druin if it came to a fight. The rest he shoved in the backpack and then slung it over his shoulder.
"I spoke with the others. I've explained," Latarra told him while he gathered up his things. "But they still...want to see you. I vouched for you. But they don't all agree."
Unable to even face her, he shook his head. Over his shoulder, he said bitterly, "Why should they? If I hadn't come here..."
His eyes reflexively found Gwalnne. Her empty eyes stared at him accusingly. He wanted to flee, to scream, just to quit. But he couldn't, and he knew it. Exhausted as he was, he had to force his feet to move. He heard the priestess' heartbroken gasp when she finally caught sight of the little girl. He was so empty, so emotionally destroyed, he couldn't even find tears as he knelt beside the poor toddler. There wasn't even rage left. A gaping, cold, black void yawned where his heart used to be. He fell back on his training as he carefully gathered up her tiny body. She was so small he could cradle her in one arm. He held her now in both hands, carefully keeping her away from the sticky blood drying on his armor.
"If you hadn't come here, more than just one village would have suffered," Latarra told him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
He roughly shook her hand off his shoulder. No. He would not accept that. He had made another mistake. He had failed. He had done everything wrong. No matter how he looked at it, it was on him. Every man, woman, and child dead in this village he had murdered with his own hands. The moment he saw the dock from that little boat, he should have turned away or flung himself out of the boat into the icy waters. Anything other than come here. He couldn't even blame this on Diablo. Were it not for him, that Nightmare would never have existed. He wasn't supposed to exist at all. That first mistake had led to all of this.
He rose to his feet and headed back toward the village. She moved ahead of him. Numb, sick, and tired, he carried Gwalnne through the smoldering remains of the village toward the one building that was still intact at the north end.
Whatever had been left of himself, his hopes, his dreams had died with Gwalnne. Pyresong was dead. He knew that now. Now he just existed. He didn't need a name; he didn't deserve one. Somewhere beyond this place was a purpose, but he couldn't see it right now. Every patch of red snow he passed lashed his battered soul with crushing guilt.
When Latarra opened the door, he caught the sound of several relieved voices. He hated himself more than ever when he saw the handful of survivors huddled in the warmth near the fire. Haadaza's choked, heartbroken scream pierced what was left of his fractured mind. He closed his eyes, just trying to find the strength to keep breathing around the crushing agony in his chest. He barely felt the woman taking Gwalnne's tiny body from his hands.
"Did you get what you came for?" Baaz asked coldly. "Is your soul pure at last, Priest?"
When he opened his eyes, it was only to stare down at his empty hands. He couldn't do this anymore. He just couldn't. He unhooked his scythe and dropped it to the floor. He pulled El'druin and handed it to Latarra on his left. He hoped Karshun was watching, so he could see her holding it. Maybe he could put the pieces together. He put his empty hands out to his sides and finally met Baaz's cold glare.
"I did," he confessed. "I'm so sorry. I came here to stop evil like this from coming to pass. Whatever your judgment, I'll accept it."
Baaz's eyes searched his, the angry expression bleeding away. He held the old man's gaze, even against the searing pain of feeling it was Cain's own eyes gazing into him...judging him, at last. Which Cain it was didn't even matter anymore. Part of him was still praying for it to just be over for him. Nothing was listening, and he knew that with certainty now. Haadaza was on her knees, rocking Gwalnne's cooling corpse. Her heartbroken sobs were the only sound he could hear now.
"I know you meant us no harm," Baaz finally said softly. "You did not ask for your affliction. But we have nothing now."
That tiny, rebellious spark flared for a heartbeat. He found the strength to do something other than curl up and die. He shook his head, never leaving Baaz's gaze.
"You have Latarra. You have each other. That is worth something. Sometimes it is everything," he whispered, his voice strangled by all that threatened to consume him.
Baaz nodded slowly to those words. "There are those who want to see you suffer atonement."
"I accept gladly," he repeated, his voice a little more steady.
Baaz shook his head more firmly as others shifted angrily. "No, I believe you have suffered enough. Your cause is just; even if it is justice we will never see."
He opened his mouth to argue. He wanted this. He needed this. He needed to pay for what he'd done to these people. He needed to see justice here. He couldn't...he didn't want to live with this. He needed something to balance the suffering he'd inflicted here. He had killed these people. He had destroyed their village. He had taken everything from them. Their homes and safety, their loved ones…all gone because he was too stupidly stubborn to have ended it before now. Before he could find the words, Baaz cut him off.
"You are banished. Never return to our home," Baaz told him coldly. "Never let those who died see your reflection in the waters. Never set foot on Ewon Tull again."
Whatever fragments that might have been left of Pyresong shriveled and blackened. One by one, starting with Baaz, the few remaining survivors turned their backs on him. Even Haadaza shuffled on her knees until she was facing away from him, still clutching Gwalnne—all but Latarra.
There would be no justice here.
Cold in a way he couldn't even comprehend, he retrieved his scythe and then turned to the priestess. She held the sword out to him.
"Finish what you started," Latarra told him softly. "Ensure these deaths are not without meaning."
He nodded. It was all he could offer these poor, broken people now. He would finish his fight with Diablo. Then she, too, turned her back on him. He carried the sword in his hands out the door and back into the frigid cold. He wanted that cold to consume him, destroy whatever was left. He had one purpose now. He had survived this and their judgment for one reason only. Nothing else existed for him.
He could have made a portal right there, but he didn't. So many memories overlapped. So many destroyed villages. So many dead. So many lives were left in ruins by a fight he had started so very long ago that no one even remembered anymore. He would remember. The Nightmare had ensured he would never forget again. Instead, he walked silently through the remains of the decimated village. He walked a complete circle around it, memorizing every patch of bloody snow. Every burnt cottage. Every broken cart. Every dead animal. He burned them into whatever was left of his fragmented soul to stand among the other memories. He had done this. No one else. He couldn't even blame the demon lord for this. He couldn't blame the shards. He had given life to his Darkness when he wasn't supposed to exist at all.
And then he brought it here.
"You did what you had—"
No! he cut the angel off coldly. No excuses. This blood is on my hands. I did this.
He shoved aside the angel's attempts to comfort him just as viciously. While he approached the small, rocky beach where he had first arrived, he felt Tyrael retreating until he could no longer feel the angel at all. That was fine by him. In a way, he was more alone now than he had ever felt in his entire inhumanly long existence. And it felt right to him. There was no justice here. There was no justice for him. There never would be. He deserved this suffering.
He turned back to scan the village one more time. The gallons of blood in the once pristine white snow stood out like horrific, gory banners. For now, this fight was over. But he would never let this go. It was one more thing he would have to live with for the time being. It was one more thing he would take with him when he did finally face Diablo again. And it would happen, he knew. He could never make up for what had happened here. Nothing would ever redeem him from his many mistakes. Nothing would ever remove this stain on his soul. But he would use it. The Darkness had nearly claimed him. Pyresong was destroyed. Now he would become whatever he needed to be to finish this. There was no more room for humanity.
He had finally become the mindless weapon that fate and prophecy had always wanted from him.
Chapter 29: 29 Post Ewon Tull
Chapter Text
Post Ewon Tull
Karshun returned to the workshop some three days after the incident in Westmarch, snarling in anger and muttering vile profanities. Those idiotic magistrates and their...
The moment his eyes fell on the Great Eye amulet sitting on the edge of the Astral Anchor, his anger and frustration were forgotten. In the end, he'd gotten what they wanted out of the deal. He and Charsi were free to go back to their lives instead of sitting in prison, and Pyresong had made it out of the city safely. He only knew that much because word of the Black Bower's departure had reached him yesterday. They hadn't found the Priest of Rathma, who had summoned the shadow demons in their own city square. That relief alone had been worth the aggravation. Now that he was free, he could check in on his friend. He would deal with the rest of this mess later.
He quickly activated his locking and illusion spells on the workshop door. Still clutching his staff, he hurriedly activated the Astral Anchor. He had to know. He had not had a chance since the priest left to check on him. His heart lurched fearfully, thinking the spell might not have held. And it had been three days since they left! They could be anywhere. He knew the necromancer's inner strength was great, but the man had taken the kind of mental and emotional beating few could even comprehend. The spell would not hold up if he didn't.
Forcing himself to calm, he entered the astral rift. He stepped into the ghostly image of the Black Bower. The crew worked around him, never noticing his spying presence. He found his target leaning against the rail on the forward section. Pyresong still looked horrible and far too worn. But he was smiling and talking with some of the crew. Some of the mage's clutching fears fell away at the sight and faint echo of the priest's laugh. The spell had worked and was still holding. Despite his friend's haggard appearance, it seemed he was managing to hold up.
He couldn't help analyzing further, though, for the sake of his curiosity. It was the first time he had ever seen the man from this perspective. When Pyresong had been on the Astral Plane with him, he had stood out like some kind of bizarre beacon. His spirit was so unbelievably powerful that it almost seemed inhuman. Now?
Karshun sighed sadly. The restrained Darkness was evident, like an oily smear on the surface of the water. Even when not on the Astral Plane, there was something bright and radiating about Pyresong. He wasn't sure how much of it might be Tyrael's own power and Light coming through at this point. Yet, he still had to question how a broken mortal soul could even be strong enough to contain the essence of an angel. He knew now, Cain had been right about this one. He was special in so very many ways, and it wasn't just his strength and power that made him special. There was something unique about his very nature that gave him an inner strength and resilience that most could not begin to understand, including Karshun. He just prayed it would be enough for his friend to come through this trial as well.
He still had not written to Cain of what was happening with Pyresong. He hoped to hold out until this was over. He well knew the importance of the elderly Horadrim's work now. And he knew Cain would abandon that work to come to Pyresong's aid. Future events and the existence of their world may depend upon Cain's work with the prophecies. Any future beyond the next few months was now so badly clouded and gnarled up, none of it really made sense anymore. The old scholar's work untangling those prophecies might be their only hope for long-term survival.
In the meantime, everything Karshun had seen hinged on this one Priest of Rathma. For now, he had done all he could to help the man. More than anything, Pyresong needed time to recover. He hoped his new bargain with the magistrates would at least give him enough freedom to keep an eye on his friend. At the moment, it was enough to know his friend was alive and sane.
Relieved, Karshun retreated back through the astral rift and into the workshop. Now he had to just pray the warding and Pyresong would hold long enough.
***
Karshun knew it would be many weeks before the ship got anywhere near their intended destination. He checked in on Pyresong at least a couple of times a week. Each time he looked, it seemed the ghostly appearance was healthier. By the end of the month, his friend looked like his usual self again, smiles and all. But the relief couldn't hold. He had known from the beginning that it was only a matter of time before the Darkness gained enough strength from Diablo to overwhelm both the warding and Pyresong's own energies that fed it. The priest was far more powerful than he realized, even as broken as his soul was. Again, Karshun wondered if it was something about being a broken and shattered soul that gave him such strength.
At this point, he was watching almost daily for the signs that the warding was failing. Aside from the visible traces of the restraints on the man's soul, there were many more subtle indicators he feared to see. Yet, the priest went about his days on the ship, still smiling and talking. Often, he was found working alongside the rest of the crew. Sometimes, Karshun found him just sitting around reading. More than once, he checked in to see the man relaxing on the deck in the sunshine.
And he's still pale as a ghost, Karshun thought in amusement. At least he doesn't look like one of his skeletons anymore.
Despite being able to use the Astral Anchor to drop in and keep an eye on the Black Bower and its unbelievably important passenger, Karshun had no good way of telling exactly where they were or how far away. For all his voyaging on ships around the world, the mage had never been to those islands himself. He only had the vaguest idea of where the islands they sought were actually located. The forces at work in and around the Pelghain Empire kept them protected and isolated from the rest of the world. He could scry the ship's location up to a point with a whole different set of divinational spells. Instead of bothering with all that, though, he waited around and followed the captain into his cabin while he checked the charts.
Karshun was amazed to see just how much progress they had made. After all these weeks, they were so close! And the warding on Pyresong's soul was still holding. For this one moment, he allowed himself to hope this might actually work.
Then came the day he checked in to find Pyresong was nowhere on deck. Catching sight of the winter weather clothing the crew was wearing, he knew they were getting closer. They were still heading north at an unbelievably fast pace. On a whim, he floated up to the crow's nest. Pyresong was not out here with the others. That’s when he noticed it. The grim looks of determination and haggard faces he found on every member of the crew—Rehm included—made the mage's gut twist fearfully. He already knew the ship inside and out well enough to guess there were only two possible places for his friend to be now: in the small cabin or locked away below decks. Either option was worrisome. Stifling his rising anxiety, Karshun turned away from the main deck.
Praying he was wrong, he drifted through the walls of the upper cabins. There he found his friend sitting on his bunk, staring off into the darkness. Those softly glowing eyes, which did not move at all, were downright eerie in the shadowy cabin. He had not even bothered to light a lantern or candle. Instantly, Karshun knew the warding was failing. He didn't need to probe magically to see the priest was struggling; the smooth face was again lined with strain. His white brows were furrowed, and his lips moved slightly as if he wanted to say something. It had only been a handful of days since he last checked in. Yet the necromancer already looked tired again, aged. Despite knowing the man could not see or sense his presence, he reached out to put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. Briefly, he considered actually opening a physical rift through the anchor.
Yes, the Pyresong should not be left alone like this, not now.
This cabin was too small for a rift. He would need to get back to the main deck. Decision made, he drifted back through the walls. Almost as soon as he reached the main deck again out in the open, the tingling alarm of his magical ward on the workshop door itched across his senses. Expecting the worst, he swiftly opened the rift back to the workshop while readying his spells. When his feet touched the workshop floor, the angry pounding on the door drew his attention. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he removed the warding and flung open the door. A frantic-looking mage's apprentice stood wide-eyed on the other side. In a panic, the young woman spilled out a tale that had Karshun running down the street in seconds.
Those blithering idiots and their blasted rifts! Karshun screamed mentally.
He had no choice; he would have to clean up their mess. He had warned them that they would sooner or later tear open a rift they could not control. Right now, even being vindicated only terrified him. If he didn't seal the rift, they might destroy the whole city. Muttering filthy obscenities at the entire lot of them, he quickly outpaced the woman. He would save those morons from their own stupidity.
Then, he could come back and check on his friend.
***
By the time he finally got back to the workshop and could be alone long enough to check in again, it had been days. In spite of the engrossing and delicate work to repair the damage done at the palace, he had not been able to take his mind off of Pyresong and the events taking place somewhere on the other side of the world. His sliver of fear had grown to a block of ice in his chest as the first hours and then days slipped by. Forcing down his rising panic, he sealed off the workshop and turned to his Astral Anchor. At this point, Westmarch could burn to the ground around him, and he could not care less.
Stepping through the astral rift, he was confused at first to find himself standing on the edge of a snow-covered village. Pyresong was engaged with some kind of giant sea monster! For a panicked heartbeat, he nearly ripped open a portal right there on the spot. Before he could do so, Pyresong and some woman defeated the thing. He struggled to force his heart to slow when he saw the two talking afterward. Whatever the threat had been, it was passed. He had no idea where they actually were, but the woman's flaring teal aura had caught his attention.
The mage sighed with relief when he realized his friend was talking to—and apparently working with—a Tempest. That priestess was precisely what he'd hoped Pyresong would find when he got there. But where was this place? It was nowhere near their sacred site. And he didn't recognize the island. The ones he'd scouted through the Astral Plane were nothing more than crumbling ruins. This was a fairly large village, which, although not thriving, was certainly not just a ruin. He glanced around again at the unfamiliar surroundings but quickly dismissed his concerns. Wherever this place was, it was at least somewhere in the realm of the Tempests' domain, in or around the Pelghain Empire. As long as the priest had found a Tempest to get him moving in the direction of soul cleansing, it should be fine. Right?
He scrutinized his friend's ghostly appearance more closely. The man was no longer just looking weary or tired; he was downright haggard. The lines on his pale face stood out as if he hadn't slept for days. Given what little he'd learned of and seen before Pyresong left Westmarch, that was probably the truth of it. Very likely, the priest hadn't slept for days already. But he seemed coherent and even a bit wary of this priestess. He was alert and did not appear to be hallucinating.
He turned his attention to the failing warding on his friend's soul. That's when he realized there was more than just his own spell at work here. Apparently, something had added to the necromancer's strength and Light, holding back the Darkness. Again, Karshun was awash with relief. The Tempest must have added her own enchantment to help him keep it contained. Now, he could turn his attention to their conversation.
"Ewon Tull needs help." He heard the Tempest's ghostly words as little more than an echoing whisper, "more than Pelghain will give. I have been called to visit the Spiral and...confer with..."
Karshun's hopes soared. He barked a laugh openly in almost giddy relief. Not only had the priest found a Tempest, but one familiar with the Spiral, the very place he needed to get to to cleanse his soul! Despite his overall distrust of anything that considered itself a god, he couldn't help wondering in this case. First, the voyage seemed almost unbelievably fast and smooth, and now Pyresong had practically fallen right into the hands of the people who could help him cleanse his soul. What should have taken months had somehow ended up being less than two. Not for the first time, he recalled the priest's nearly mind-boggling and downright uncanny luck. He wondered if his friend wasn't somehow under a god's watchful eyes.
Maybe several of them, he thought wryly, watching.
Pyresong really had no idea just how very important he truly was. Of course, at this point, Karshun knew the priest well enough to know that the man himself would never believe it. And his talks with Cain about the necromancer had only confirmed it. There was something almost unnatural and special about him that the man himself literally could not see. A part of him was startled to realize the idea almost made him sad. Pyresong truly could not see his own incredible worth. In his own mind, he was absolutely dispensable and easily replaceable; no one would miss him. The mage felt no small amount of shame at his own early thoughts on the subject. He had thought the same, once. The priest who called himself simply Pyresong was literally so much more than he would ever know.
He was still lost in his own thoughts and not really paying attention to what was going on around him. He was again debating whether to go back to the workshop or to open a portal. Maybe he could hop through and help, just for a little while. He knew some spells that might bolster the man's waning physical stamina. He knew there were some things Pyresong would absolutely have to do by himself in all of this. But, maybe, just maybe, the stubborn priest would be willing to listen to him now. And now he had a clear point of reference to make a portal. He was just looking for a good place to open a rift when he noticed his friend's attention drawn to something behind them.
Pyresong's unconscious smile had piqued Karshun's curiosity. He turned around to see a handful of smiling villagers approaching the priest. This had him more than a little interested. In most places around Sanctuary, even after providing some service to a community, Priests of Rathma were treated with loathing and fear. They were barely tolerated under the best of circumstances. These people smiled and even appeared welcoming. He again waved his hand so he could draw their faint and echoing voices to his ears.
The mage was more than a little surprised when the tiny girl reached toward the priest happily. The lines of exhaustion fell away completely when Pyresong smiled genuinely and took the toddler from the old man. He watched in amazed wonder while his friend talked with her. He could see it in Pyresong's face. Karshun had always thought Priests of Rathma were cold, unfeeling people, some of them downright inhumanly callous. This one had proved him wrong time and again. The warmth and happiness on his friend's face when the little girl hugged and kissed him eased so many of his aching fears for the priest. Despite what damage the Darkness had done, it still had not managed to smother the man's genuine warmth and caring. He couldn't even find scathing thoughts against that softness, not now. Pyresong was truly a gentle soul and almost too compassionate.
"...you look scary. But you helped us all, like it was nothing. You're good and strong."
"I try to be..."
He could not have missed the flicker of fear and doubt that crossed the priest's face at those words. Yes, there was damage under the surface. Karshun could only hope the cleansing would help repair some of that damage. Then, he watched in amused amazement at what happened next. The little girl and her tiny gift of a flower had done more to heal the man's wounds than anything the mage could have ever imagined. He could see it in Pyresong's expression as well as his flaring aura.
"...I will cherish it."
And he did not doubt Pyresong's sincerity in the least. The man meant it from the heart. That was not something his friend had said just to satisfy a bothersome child. He shook his head when the necromancer quickly dug through his backpack, still carefully holding that delicate little flower in one hand. He did laugh softly when Pyresong produced an empty jar to preserve it in. The man was truly too softhearted in many ways. He couldn't even begin to imagine how that had not been utterly destroyed with all he had been through and survived. Not for the first time, he wondered if that weakness was somehow the man's greatest strength, the source of his ability to suffer so much and then return to the fight again and again.
Seeing him holding that toddler reminded Karshun of what he had learned recently. He wondered if his friend even knew Kashya was pregnant or that he was about to be a father soon. He only knew about it from some semi-accidental scrying he'd done on other subjects. It never crossed his mind that Pyresong would be unhappy about such a thing. From what he had seen, the man genuinely liked children. He hoped his friend knew about his coming child and would take strength from that as well.
For a while, it seemed nothing of interest was going on. He followed Pyresong around the village, still debating about making a portal. He couldn't decide if his presence would help or just irritate the stubborn man. Again, he was surprised to see the priest openly welcomed in the tavern and even conversing with others. He knew full well Pyresong never really mingled with anyone. He had long ago learned to keep to himself, as all necromancers inevitably did. However, it was still amusing and comforting to the mage to see his friend smile sincerely and interact with others. If anyone he had ever known deserved a bit of happiness and reprieve, it was Pyresong.
As entertaining as all of this was, though, he could only spend so much time in here on the Astral Plane before it began to wear on him seriously. He was already tired from the days of cleanup from the court mages' stupidity. Having no idea when his friend and the Tempest would even be heading toward the Spiral, he yawned. He had hoped to find a moment to hop through an astral portal and see his friend in person. Still, his initial fears for the priest's state of mind had been allayed. Part of him craved a cup of tea and some rest. He was growing too old to remain on the Astral Plane for extended periods. He was just turning that over in his mind when something powerful and chilling rocked his senses.
"Latarra... Do not deny us... The storm must quiet... Come...into the mists..."
The dark, resonating voice echoed through the Astral Plane, making Karshun shudder. What in the Hells... He turned his attention to the two people talking on the landing.
"...the Unmoored we just heard?" Pyresong's echoing whisper reached his ears.
"You heard?"
"Yes, it is commanding you to enter the mists."
"We will solve your problem first. Then...maybe you can help me with mine."
Relieved it wasn't something more sinister, Karshun let go of the rest of the conversation. He'd only read vague references to the Unmoored and this place in general. Were it not for a handful of ancient and obscure texts, he would never have sent his friend here in the first place. Still, that little surprise had startled him back to full wakefulness. He quickly set aside his desire for tea and food when they climbed into the boat. He followed at a distance while they sped across the water. If they were headed for the Spiral, he had no intention of sleeping now. Far ahead of him, he watched the little boat slide neatly up onto a shelf of ice right out of the water.
He slammed into an invisible wall.
He was so completely caught off guard, he found himself standing in an astral void, his concentration shattered. Reflexively, he opened a rift back to the workshop. For a few seconds, it felt like his head was still ringing from the unexpected encounter. He growled and shook his head tiredly at himself. He had known long before that whatever powerful magics and entities ruled over the Spiral were enough to keep him out. Even his most powerful divinations couldn't penetrate that protective mist to see what they hid. He should have seen that coming.
He glanced at the low-burning fire and the kettle hanging invitingly near it. Then he shook it off and sighed. If Pyresong was headed into the Spiral, he couldn't just sit here wondering. He would drive himself mad if he tried. Instead, he refocused himself and reactivated the Astral Anchor. He glanced at the shielding and wards on the workshop door one more time to be sure all was secure. Then, he stepped through the rift. This time, he kept a safe distance from the invisible wall. The ice shelf and boat were easily visible from this distance. He would just have to fall back on his earliest training and wait patiently.
Decades of training or not, his patience was tested thoroughly.
Tired as he was, it felt like hours had crawled by while he hovered there, just outside the invisible barrier. He was already fighting against his anxiety and considering a variety of ways he might be able to try to penetrate the damned barrier to get to his friend. Not wanting to draw the ire of the local guardians, he had not attempted to peer through the mists. He didn't know if the cleansing ritual would go on for hours or days. He knew so very little! Again and again, he shoved down his frustration and gnawing anxiety. There was no chance he would be able to sleep now.
As a mental exercise to keep himself from getting too wound up, he focused on a very long and thorough list of expletives, profanities, and obscenities he might one day fling at the priest. After all, the man had quite a colorful vocabulary of his own, he'd shared on a couple of occasions.
He caught sight of his friend's dark armor, fleeing through the mists toward him.
Finally! he thought with excitement.
Karshun couldn't help but smile elatedly. A heartbeat later, that triumphant excitement turned to blind shock. Behind the priest flew one of what he knew must be the fearsome guardian entities of this place. The Unmoored. It growled and roared at the fleeing man. Instantly, Karshun knew something must have gone terribly wrong. He watched numbly as his friend disappeared in a black, ghost-like vapor and the massive Unmoored retreated through the mists.
The familiar sound of the priest's laughter behind him caused him to spin around. Pyresong was laughing darkly and insanely in a way that only furthered his mind-numbing shock. For a few seconds, he couldn't understand what was happening. The entities had chased his friend out and now stood there laughing? It just didn't make sense. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. What happened next clutched the mage's heart with fear for his friend. The priest became a black mist again, propelling itself across the waves back toward the island.
Reflexively, he followed the brightly glowing ball of mist across the Astral Plane. It once again solidified into Pyresong on the same landing where he'd seen his friend depart with the Tempest. She had not been with him when he was chased out. Had Pyresong killed her? When the priest began summoning shadow demons, he froze again in utter shock. These weren't even shadowy skeletons or golems; some echo of the necromancer's own abilities. They were outright demons, just as he had seen in Westmarch. Whatever had happened in the Spiral hadn't just failed; it had left the man completely out of control.
The Darkness had won.
For a few seconds, Karshun didn't even know what to do. He couldn't wrap his mind and heart around what was happening here. He didn't want to believe it. He watched the priest literally ripping people apart with his bare hands. Some part of him knew that if any part of Pyresong had survived, this alone would crush him with guilt. The knowledge that he had murdered innocents, even accidentally, would destroy that gentle soul…if it still existed at all.
He had to force himself to focus and open a portal. He had to stop this madness!
That's when something finally screamed its way through his numbing horror. Hands! Pyresong didn't have his scythe. He wasn't using any of his necromantic spells, either. And, now that he realized, there was no shield or backpack present. Some deeper instinct made him drift closer. The eyes! The priest's eyes were glowing, not red, but blue. Though he still couldn't quite put it all together, something about the man's brightly flaring and violently red aura made him pause. Something was pounding at the mage's subconscious that this was not actually Pyresong. The aura was so powerful and familiar, but... It was like some kind of deranged, evil mirror.
Praying he was right, Karshun blistered the air with profanities as he turned back toward the water. He sped back toward the Spiral. Whatever it took, whatever the cost to himself, he was going to get through that damned barrier!
Halfway there, he caught sight of the Tempest and his friend speeding across the water, barely touching it. He turned around and followed. He still had no clear idea of what was actually going on, but the greater part of him was just too relieved to think. His scattered thoughts could only latch onto one thing right now.
Pyresong was still alive!
That thing had not actually been his friend. This one's aura was just as bright and powerful, but also very broken and jagged. There were thinner areas, like chasms barely holding the pieces together. All those pieces constantly shifted and changed colors, flaring in random chaos. But there was still Light there—likely Tyrael's—in those gaping cracks holding it all together.
There was no more time to probe or analyze. He followed closely behind while Pyresong and Latarra tore into the shadows infesting the village. Faintly, Karshun could see the black thread that still connected the priest to that other thing. Apparently, the necromancer could feel it, too. He followed it unerringly right to its source. Whatever had happened in the Spiral, Pyresong's face was now a mask of terror.
Karshun's heart sank at what they found in the holy circle. That thing, wearing his friend's face, had that same little girl in its arms. His heart stuttered and squeezed painfully in his chest. He knew the priest's gentle soul could not stand against that. And he knew he was right a second later when Pyresong dropped his shield and scythe, begging for the girl's life. He didn't even have to hear their words. He unconsciously held his breath as he watched. The terrifying possibilities of what the priest would do to spare that girl's life... He had told the man to be selfish, just this once. But could he...
He was staring right at Pyresong's face when the little girl's neck was snapped. He saw it happen in real time and felt sick. The priest's whole aura flared an unbelievably powerful dark blue. Then, it flashed through a rainbow of colors in a maelstrom of raging emotions. In a couple of seconds, it settled to something that had almost no glow at all. The greenish white color he had seen of Pyresong's natural spiritual aura was now just a flickering whisper of what it had been before.
Something in his friend had just been destroyed.
After the little girl's body was thrown aside, the necromancer continued to stare at it blankly. There was no serene mask, no forced calm. Pyresong's face was smooth and utterly devoid of all emotion. Karshun was practically ready to scream when the Darkness approached his friend. But the priest didn't move. He didn't pull away. He didn't fight. He just stood there, staring blindly at the corpse of that tiny girl.
"Fight, damn you! Where the hells is El'druin?" the mage growled.
Almost as soon as he said it, the priest began fighting back. But by this point, Karshun had started to sense something was still terribly wrong here. Pyresong fought with spells and his scythe, but no El'druin. What had happened to the sword? Why wasn't the stupid priest using it?
"You cannot destroy me without your own death..." he heard the evil mirror say.
When the thing put its boot to his friend's neck, his own heart squeezed in fear until he couldn’t breathe at all. Until now, he'd been so wrapped up in his swirling, confused thoughts that he hadn't really been listening. Briefly, he wondered if maybe his friend just needed to work through the rage. But there had been no rage behind those blue, glowing eyes or on that pale face. The priest's expression had been flat and as empty as his aura. Before he could latch on to that thought, though, Pyresong was back to swinging and flinging spells again. And the damned thing seemed completely impervious to damage. Why wouldn't he just take up the bloody sword and end it?
After one particularly vicious blow, he thought might have left the priest stunned and helpless again, the truth began to dawn on him with creeping, insidious terror. When Pyresong struggled to his knees and dropped his shield and scythe again, he could see it. Something in his friend's expression told Karshun it was nearly over. Pyresong knew he was losing the battle. This, from the man who never seemed to know when to give up or give in. Now, even the man's posture screamed hopeless defeat.
"No, no," Karshun growled, knowing full well they couldn't hear him. "Don't listen. Use El'druin!"
"I will destroy you."
That hollow, dead voice chilled the mage. That didn't even sound like the man he knew. Despite the priest's softly spoken promise and resolution to continue the fight, there was something still frighteningly lost and empty about it. As if he didn't really believe it, but he would find a way to make it happen nonetheless.
Then he sighed in relief a moment later. Pyresong was reaching for his backpack, where El'druin was likely being kept safe. Apparently, he'd just needed to work through his rage, and now he could focus. Karshun really couldn't blame him. He couldn't even begin to imagine what else that thing had put his friend through. And it came as no surprise that the gentle soul had been consumed with mindless rage after the little girl's murder, despite the lack of expression. But it would be fine now. He was going to use El'druin to...
"No..."
Karshun stared in stark horror. The priest was gripping the sword's enormous handle, and it was burning the life out of him! He still couldn't use El'druin. How? The Darkness had been flat-out expelled. He was cleansed!
Despite the apparent agony, Pyresong didn't even scream. Somehow, that made the whole scene that much worse for him. The sword fell with a clanging ring like the sound of countless bells echoing back and forth across the Astral Plane. He barely heard the beautiful music. At the moment, he couldn't take his eyes off his friend's blackened hand. The priest had held onto the sword until his hand was an absolute ruin. It was a crippling, life-altering injury that could not be healed. A part of him even wondered why the sword hadn't done the same to the rest of his body. The greater part of him felt sick at understanding it had been entirely intentional on Pyresong’s part. He could have let go, and he didn’t. The priest didn't appear to have given up, but the damage to his hand was catastrophic. There was no going back from that.
Apparently, the damage from El'druin was more crippling than just the physical wounds. Pyresong's entire body slumped with the crushing weight of it all. The necromancer's eyes were locked on the blade lying on the ground. Whatever had happened in the Spiral had somehow failed. The Darkness had been expelled in a most unexpected way, but it was not enough. Karshun almost couldn't make sense of it all. He tried to piece it together. He tried to find some way out of this. He couldn't even comprehend the level of hopelessness he saw in Pyresong's face. It wasn't possible.
His mind and heart were racing, spinning around what he was seeing, unable to grasp it all. When those faintly glowing eyes roamed up to the evil mirror standing a few feet away, Karshun realized he wasn't paying enough attention. There had to be more. There was no way Pyresong would give in. The mage flicked his fingers, and the sounds of ghostly conversation came through the Astral Plane to his ears again.
"See? It still rejects you," the thing laughed wickedly. "You are filthy and broken and lost. Let my Master give you purpose."
"Don't listen," Karshun heard himself whispering again reflexively.
A part of him could not even envision Pyresong ever submitting. It was so completely impossible to even wrap his mind around it... Any other Priest of Rathma he had ever known, maybe. Many of them seemed to have their own, almost twisted, view of things and how to maintain the Balance. But not this one. It was a downright absurd idea.
It didn't matter. He could already see it.
Pyresong was beyond exhausted and had had enough. He was defeated. His aura was so dark and muted now, it was hard to detect. Even as those blue glowing seals sought out the red ones, Karshun knew. His friend's accepting nod was just a heartbreaking confirmation. A part of Karshun just could not accept it. This couldn't be the end for all of them.
"You're right. I can't destroy you. And if I die now, I go to Hell as another damned soul. Either way, Diablo wins."
Karshun had heard that hopeless, despairing tone before, from his own mouth. Hearing that from Pyresong, of all people, made him want to lash out bitterly. The priest was always spouting off about hope, as if he actually believed it. And now this? A sick twisting in his gut made him want to scream as he listened to what came next.
"Spare my friends."
"That is not what I meant!" he gasped in disbelief.
Had the man completely misunderstood? For a few seconds, he was hopeful. Some part of him refused to believe that his friend would betray them so completely. He knew Pyresong was nearing the end of his almost inhuman inner strength—if not already beyond that point by many miles—but he just couldn't believe the man would go that far. He had told the priest to be selfish, but this wasn't selfish at all. It was a flat-out betrayal of everything they had fought for and sacrificed for! Gripping his staff painfully tight, he clung to that one tiny hope. When Pyresong kicked the scythe over to that vile mirror, he began to pray.
"You said I would have to die to destroy you," he heard Pyresong's angry words. "Fine. Take it. Kill me. Then we both go to Hell empty-handed."
There! He had seen a brief and violent flash in his aura. That anger! He must still be fighting. That was the first flicker of real emotion he had seen out of his friend, but it was genuine. Karshun began to relax, trying to slow his racing thoughts. There must be more. Pyresong wasn't giving up or giving in. This was some kind of trick. He… He must be trying to... There must be some sort of plan. Some clever trick. Some... Pyresong wasn't completely defeated. But... Maybe he was...
He couldn't figure it out. But this felt all wrong to him. He just couldn't grasp the idea that Pyresong would willingly turn against them. But that expression, the despair, the hopelessness. He was certain there was still a spark of something inside the necromancer fighting, but it was losing rapidly.
"...soul-binding oath..."
Every single stupidly hopeful, desperately wishful thought just crashed down with the weight of a mountain. Karshun unconsciously shook his head in denial of what he was hearing. Had his friend really given in? A soul-binding oath was literally impossible to break! And he'd promised—
The flash of light throughout Pyresong's aura gave him a flicker of renewed hope. Yes! Tyrael wouldn't let this happen. There was no way the angel was going just to sit there and let this stupid mortal trade their entire world for a handful of people.
"...If I'm going to Hell anyway, it might as well be on my terms!"
His friend's face, twisted with anger and naked fear, terrified the mage all over again. He was serious! The stupid, stupid man was going to sacrifice everything to keep his friends safe? That was his selfishness? Karshun very nearly spewed profanities at the priest. He knew the man was a gentle soul, far too caring for the few he allowed into his life. But this?
After a couple of shaky breaths, the priest's face went slack with haggard exhaustion. Karhsun shook his head in disbelief again. This really was happening. He'd given up. Worse, he was going to hand over the one real advantage they had in the fight against Diablo: El'druin, the Sword of Justice.
By the time they finished the oaths, Karshun was just numb. Part of him wanted to fling obscenities at the man he had briefly called a friend, but he just didn't have the heart for it. He couldn't even begin to imagine what horrors the priest had suffered through. The part of him that saw Pyresong as a friend just felt sick and so very, very tired of it all.
They had lost.
He had pretty much stopped watching by this point. Weary and just wanting to get away from this awful scene, Karshun was turning away to make a rift back to the workshop. Despite believing it couldn't happen, now that it had become a reality, he would have to prepare to deal with Pyresong the next time they met. With the cold calculation of a mage who had survived betrayal in the past, he knew he could do what had to be done. He just wasn't sure he had the strength left to live with himself afterward.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Pyresong dance sideways with an insane smile and his arms out. Some tiny spark of morbid curiosity glued his attention back to the two mirror images.
"Come now, we swore an oath. Are you going to violate it now? Would you really make it so easy to destroy you?"
Karshun grimaced in disgust. Seriously? Literally embrace? Was the man so completely deranged? It was a meaningless and disgusting physical gesture that had nothing to do with the oaths they had traded. Still, something about the way he had danced sideways... Before the thought tickling the back of his mind could come to the fore, the thing gave in. When Pyresong's left hand clutched its back plates and the blackened right hand flashed with golden Light, it all clicked into place.
"I will embrace you and give you El'druin."
He finally understood the oath with chilling clarity.
"Blade first..." Karshun whispered.
Karshun's heart stopped as the blackened hand reached out. As if time had slowed, he watched El'druin fly across the short distance, called by its one true master. Reflexively, the mage reached out to stop it, his mind screaming against what he was seeing. He watched in helpless frustration as the blade went right through the vile mirror...and through his friend's own chest. He closed his eyes against the image, but it was already too late. The priest was dead, and that last image seared itself into his mind and heart.
"Thank you, Tyrael."
Pyresong's last echoing words broke Karshun's heart. The inconceivably powerful blast of Light through his closed eyes was so bright and powerful that it shocked him right out of the vision. Reeling, Karshun again found himself standing in another void somewhere on the Astral Plane. Some part of his mind, not completely dazed and heartsick, knew he couldn't stay here. He would split from his body and then bleed away if he did. He very much wanted to. He just wanted to stay here in the Astral Plane and bleed away to nothing. Against those wishes, his many years of training and practice kicked in. He reflexively opened a rift and staggered through it to the workshop. His mind exhausted and numb, he just stood there in the empty workshop for several seconds.
"Damn you..." Karshun muttered.
He was half expecting the gaping, empty spaces he felt inside of himself to echo those words back at him mockingly. But there was no real venom or anger behind the words. He was too heavy with grief to feel angry, even. He had pinned all their hopes on the one man he had actually believed in. All those divinations, all those vague prophecies, all that power...and it all meant nothing now. Despite the priest's nearly indestructible hope and positive view of...of bloody everything...it was all gone now. He was dead. Though Pyresong hadn't actually betrayed them in the end, he'd still died. Without a doubt, El'druin had destroyed him as utterly as the Darkness. That blast of Light said it all. It had flung him across the Astral Plane. Shielded or not, Pyresong could not have survived that blast.
His friend was gone.
The last image of Pyresong impaled and still smiling blazed through his mind. There was a flicker of hope that tried to spark something other than heartache. He crushed it brutally with that same image burned into his heart. Even if Pyresong had somehow survived the blast, the damage done to his body... No, he was dead, one way or the other. Karshun would have to be delusional to think otherwise at this point. The angelic sword had intentionally damaged Pyresong’s body. And the angel inside had been too weak even to keep the Darkness contained. There was no chance either one of them would have healed Pyresong's body. And that amount of damage could not be healed with a cauldron full of potions.
The logical, practical part of Karshun's mind knew he needed to move fast. He needed to reach that island and retrieve the sword. He needed to keep moving forward. He needed to lay more plans. He needed to reach out to his contacts. He needed to... make it stop hurting, first. The ache in his chest combined with the shaking in his hands made him realize he wasn't even thinking rationally anymore. He was just spinning out wildly, trying to find something to focus on besides what he had witnessed and its inevitable fallout.
His mind still reeling and his heart aching, Karshun shuffled over to the rocking chair. He reached for a very seldom-touched bottle of liquor he kept. Just this once, he wanted to drink himself into oblivion again. He couldn't, though, or, at least, he shouldn't. After a few hefty swallows to ease the heavy iron band squeezing his chest, he set the bottle aside. For several minutes, all he could do was stare blindly into the fire. His mind was consumed by the last image of his friend impaled by the angelic blade. He recalled the man's genuine, relieved smile at the end.
He got what he wanted, Karshun thought bitterly. Self-sacrifice. But at what cost?
It was all lost. It was all falling apart.
Gradually, his mind began to move again, overruling his emotions. He knew he had to retrieve El'druin before Diablo or anything else could do so. He couldn't even question why he should at this point. He just knew it was the one thing that might help them all someday in the fight against Diablo. He had to bring it back and keep it safe, even if there was no one left to wield it. That thought inevitably brought him back to Pyresong.
Was there even a body to bring back?
What am I going to tell Cain? Gods...it'll kill him, the mage thought miserably, burying his face in his hands.
And then there was Charsi. Worse...Kashya! Again, he wondered if Pyresong even knew she was pregnant. He reached for the bottle again. His hands shook slightly as he struggled against the idea of downing the whole thing and just letting the rest of the world sort itself out without him. But he had lost enough time already. He had lost his friend. He had lost their fight against the Darkness within. A list of so very many others he had lost in his life spun through his head. He had lost...too much. He couldn't afford to lose El'druin, too. He just couldn't. At least the potential of that sword was something he could hold on to. He didn't even have Pyresong's ridiculously ever-hopeful words to hold on to now.
“We're not dead yet...” The words echoed through his heart, leaving an acute aching in their wake.
Some tiny spark of him, not already consumed with grief and despair, reared up and fought back. He flung the bottle angrily into the fire, where it exploded in blue flames for a second.
"Damn you," he growled, momentarily raging against it all.
He was more than a little tempted to do something worse, like find Pyresong's soul and... He nearly laughed at the dark thoughts racing through his mind. But he couldn't. He knew if he started laughing, it would likely end in tears. The idea of Pyresong in Hell, after all the good he had done in this world, was just too much. And he couldn't afford tears, either. Not now. He had to get himself together and get that sword. Struggling for control of his raging emotions, he buried his face in his hands again and forced himself to just breath slowly. No more thinking. No more feeling.
The sudden shifting of energies in the room upstairs startled him out of his dark and miserable thoughts. Diablo must have been watching as well. The demon lord had lost his valuable asset, the Darkness that gripped the priest in a stranglehold. He must know the sword was lost as well. Even if Diablo and his minions couldn't penetrate the protection around the islands, he could easily come after the man who could retrieve El'druin. If the Prime Evil was watching all that, then he knew Karshun was alone and vulnerable. Growling dangerously, the mage took up his staff and stood at the foot of the stairs. He was more than ready to kill something. He snarled mentally with a smile as he awaited the first wave. With what he had planned, the workshop likely wouldn't survive. At least he wouldn't have to deal with those idiotic court mages anymore. He nearly laughed at the idea.
"Karshun? Are you here?"
The mage's spells evaporated in his mind-numbing shock.
It can't be...
"You're alive?" he finally managed around the strangling feeling in his throat.
Pyresong paused halfway down the stairs, eyeing him with something that almost spoke of relief. His friend was alive! Impossibly, Pyresong was right here. And the sword was now on his belt. Karshun's mind went numb all over again at the sight of the priest's armor. He was literally covered in blood from shoulders to knees. The eight-inch-long hole where El'druin had impaled him was painfully clear. Yet, here he stood.
"You were watching," Pyresong said, his voice flat.
Still reeling, Karshun nodded even though it wasn't a question. "How? I saw..."
The priest's expression was still hollow, dead as he looked down at himself, at all the drying blood on his armor. Unconsciously, his unbelievably intact right hand found its way to the hole, touching it briefly. Karshun was frozen in shock, still unable to process it all. Pyresong shook his head as if to negate the relevance of that massive hole, and pulled the angelic sword from his belt. He held it out in both open palms toward the mage.
"It worked," he said softly. "But the cost..."
The sound of that once warm voice, now so heartbroken, snapped him out of his reeling shock. Karshun set aside his staff quickly and reached to put his hands over Pyresong's on the blade. The man's hands were as cold as ice. How could he feel anything? The mage shoved those thoughts aside. It didn't matter. His friend was alive, and now they could all help him recover.
"I know," he told the priest softly.
"Just tell me it was worth it."
Pyresong's hollow voice and flat eyes bored into his own soul. There was pleading behind those words that clawed at him painfully with icy talons. Pyresong literally could not see it. He could not understand how critical he was in all of this. In his own mind, he was begging for something—anything—that could help him justify what had happened. The man wasn't broken, but something had changed drastically. This priest was not the one who had broken through his emotional shields and befriended him despite the open animosity flung at him over and over again. Karshun's own heart twisted in sympathy. He gently squeezed their hands on the blade.
"We will make it so," was all he could offer his friend.
The expression never changed as Pyresong nodded again slowly, clearly not believing it. Karshun's own fear rose a notch. He could tell the priest was exhausted in a way few could even begin to comprehend. Maybe even the man himself couldn’t understand what was going on inside of him. He took the sword from those icy hands and set it aside on the table. Praying he was wrong about his creeping suspicions, he motioned toward the cellar door under the stairs.
"Go, get cleaned up. You'll feel better after. I will make us some tea," he offered gently. Then he grinned slightly. "Though, I think we could both use something a lot stronger."
Again, Pyresong's dead expression never even flickered. It was as if he wasn't even really there at all. He silently nodded and then retreated down the stairs, where the well and cleaning tubs sat. While he was occupied, Karshun stuck his head out the door. A few seconds later, he tossed some gold to a kid in the streets with a message and retreated inside. As promised, he got a strong pot of tea going, very much regretting the loss of the one bottle of liquor he possessed. He would definitely be replacing it tonight. Then again, he couldn't recall the priest ever drinking more than a cup of wine in all the time he'd known him. It wouldn't surprise him if Pyresong had never been drunk a day in his life. Well, he was about to learn as far as Karshun was concerned.
By the time Pyresong reappeared, he'd managed to calm his racing thoughts and find at least a forced exterior calm. He motioned toward the other rocking chair as he jumped up to get them both cups of tea. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the priest. The man's hollow eyes stared blankly into the fire. Glowing magical seals or not, the eyes were dull and empty. He could easily imagine what Pyresong was seeing right now, what he was reliving. Karshun's heart ached for the man, though he shoved it down viciously. Pyresong would not appreciate empathy, not from him. Only once they were both settled did he finally give voice to his dozens of questions, mostly summed up in a single word.
"How?"
"What did you see?" Pyresong asked tiredly, staring into his cup.
"Clearly, El'druin went right through your plates. The blast… It flung me across the Astral Plane," he admitted. "I...stopped watching after that."
Pyresong nodded, his expression still dead and empty. Feeling a desperate need to somehow prod his friend out of that, Karshun shook his head and plastered on a fake grin. Then he turned to the priest with a cocked eyebrow.
"Do you even know the meaning of the word 'selfish'?"
Again, he wrestled his fears to keep them out of his expression when his friend gave no reaction to the jab or the tone. Not so much as an eyebrow twitched. Pyresong was completely flat as he nodded to the question. And he could sense that a part of the priest wasn't even here right now. Karshun could only pray it was some sort of exhaustion and not something worse.
By the stars, the damage... he couldn't help thinking when he switched to his trained sight.
Pyresong's aura was now so muted, so weak... It flickered here and there with tiny bursts of color so pale and faint, it was like gazing at a night sky. He had seen stronger auras around animals!
"I was selfish. I was going to destroy that thing at any cost," Pyresong explained softly, staring into the fire. "El'druin finally accepted me when I was willing to give my own life in the name of justice for all those I—it killed."
Something dark and horrifyingly painful tickled the mage's mind. He could literally hear that suffering in those last words and began to understand where the priest's mind was. Despite the verbal recovery, he could tell Pyresong absolutely believed he had killed all of them. The hollow tones and bitterness didn't even sound like the same person who had left this workshop only a couple of months ago. A sliver of fear curled itself around Karshun's heart. He was so wrapped up in his own fearful musings, he didn't realize how he'd been staring silently at the priest for so long that it finally got the man out of his own dark thoughts. With a tired quirk of his lips that almost looked genuine, he turned to the mage.
"Did you really think I would give myself to Diablo to keep your hide safe?"
Karshun nearly sighed openly with relief. His friend's dry tone and half-smirk did more to ease the mage's mind than anything. No, the priest wasn't beaten. Maybe just very tired. The Pyresong he knew was still in there.
"No, I suppose not," Karshun agreed with a return smirk. "But what I saw...the Great Eye..."
Pyresong shook his head and huffed tiredly, almost a growl, as he turned his eyes back to the fire. It was as clear a statement as one would usually get out of him on a subject he had no intention of discussing further. But this time, his expression did flicker; something angry that flitted away too quickly to really be identified. Still, his voice was hollow and flat when he spoke next; not even strong enough to qualify as irritation, let alone anger.
"I don't know what you think you saw," Pyresong said softly. "And it doesn't matter now, anyway. It worked. What's next?"
Clearly, Pyresong wasn't ready to talk, if he ever would be. Karshun sincerely wished Cain were still around. He knew the two of them had a special relationship that he suspected the priest desperately needed right now. After all the verbal barbs they had traded over the months, he was certain Pyresong wouldn't discuss all of that with him, ever. He would have to start looking for Cain tonight. For right now, there was still hope. He had other friends. He couldn't let this happen to the priest, to his friend.
"Next...you rest," Karshun said firmly.
He held up a hand to stop the argument he could already see coming. He shook his head firmly.
"Your mind and soul have been through the kinds of things others can't even begin to comprehend, myself included. You need time to heal. You need to let yourself recover. And you need Kashya."
Pyresong's mouth shut on whatever argument he'd been about to voice, the surprise clear for a moment. Obviously, he hadn't expected Karshun's blessing where his relationship was concerned; far from it. But then his expression went flat all over again, making the mage's stomach churn. He had thought that mention of Kashya might inspire something beyond that dead expression. Instead, it was like some sort of door had just been slammed in his face. The necromancer stared at him for a moment longer in downright frigid, warning silence. Oh, yes, something was very wrong here. He could sense it with frightening clarity. Pyresong wasn't gone entirely, but something in him had gone cold. He was so damaged that even his sources of emotional strength inspired nothing.
Karshun realized with a mental shudder that Pyresong was shutting down. Worse, it was entirely intentional at this point. Had he been pushed too far beyond what even his ever-hopeful resilience could handle? For a heartbeat, Karshun was almost too shocked even to think. Before either could say anything further, though, Charsi came barreling into the workshop, startling both of them right out of their chairs.
"You're back! I knew it would work! You're too tough to let something like a bit of Darkness beat you down," Charsi said, throwing herself at the priest in a fierce embrace.
Again, Karshun watched every detail as Pyresong returned the embrace reflexively, not even halfheartedly. There was nothing there; his expression never so much as flickered. When the blacksmith finally detached herself to get a better look at him, her own face fell.
"What's wrong? Are you all right?" Charsi asked.
Somehow, the man summoned the energy to give her a half smile. He just nodded.
"Our friend has had a long journey," Karshun cut in smoothly, hoping to head off further questions. "He needs some time to recover." He quickly crossed the room to retrieve El'druin. "It belongs with you now. Unless, of course, you'd like to stay here for a while?"
Pyresong shook his head slightly, actually looking somewhat relieved to be given an excuse to escape. Karshun quickly slid the sword into his backpack on the table, pasting on an entirely fake grin; he suspected the priest wasn't likely to see anyway.
"He will be in need of some minor repairs," Karshun warned Charsi.
He pointed toward the pile of armor left on the table. Then, he picked up the Great Eye amulet and headed back toward the priest.
"And this I return to your care, where it belongs," he finished with a warm smile.
He very nearly held his breath, half expecting Pyresong to wave it off or even hand it over to Charsi. Had that actually happened, Karshun was about to take far more immediate and drastic action than giving the man time to rest and think. To his relief, Pyresong quickly stepped away from Charsi as he slipped the leather loop around his neck and tucked the amulet under his tunic. He still had not said a word to the blacksmith.
"Get some rest. I have eyes watching for Diablo's next move," Karshun assured him, carefully keeping the vague smile plastered to his face. "I will find you if anything changes. You'll be at the monastery, I gather?"
His expression still flat, Pyresong just nodded as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. Karshun almost regretted getting Charsi involved. He had wanted at least a little time to talk to the priest. But he knew Charsi would like to know. After what they had been through, she deserved to know. He had briefly hoped her presence would spark something other than that flat, dead look. He couldn't blame Pyresong for not wanting to talk to him. The outright animosity he had thrown at the necromancer in the beginning had not been entirely forgotten, even if it was forgiven. But even Charsi, whom he considered a friend, had inspired nothing.
And now he had even more reason to get her involved. He firmly held Charsi's shoulder, sensing she wanted to follow Pyresong or something. And he didn't want her getting to the table full of armor just yet. They watched while their friend swiftly retreated up the stairs in silence.
"See you soon," Charsi called warmly as he made his way up the stairs.
Then she turned her wide eyes on Karshun. His forced smile gone, he shook his head and flicked his hand to indicate she needed to keep talking, but not about that, yet. She caught on quickly and came up with something.
"Repairs, huh? What's he done this time?"
Her fearful expression completely contradicted her lighthearted tone as her eyes begged the mage for answers. Karshun nodded that she was doing the right thing.
"Oh, just a few dings and dents," he told her, shaking his head. "No more than I'm sure you're used to from him."
"Well, that shouldn't be too much of a problem. I can get started on it tonight."
Karshun lifted a faintly glowing hand toward the upstairs while she talked. He closed his eyes to focus on the energies shifting around the priest up there.
"Sounds like you'll be having..." he let his words trail off as he felt the portal upstairs closing.
"What the hells happened to him?" Charsi whispered, her eyes still wide.
"I'll tell you what I can later," he assured her, his expression dark. "Right now, you need to get to the Eastgate Monastery. Tell Priestess Akara that if he hasn't sought out Commander Kashya in three days, she needs to go find him. If she can't send Kashya to the monastery on Mount Zavain, come here. I can get her there."
"What is happening?" Charsi asked with an edge of hysteria. "He didn't even ask about her!"
Karshun heaved a frustrated sigh and shoved aside his own fears. He couldn't even find the calm needed to cloak himself in his usual magely arrogance, not even for Charsi's benefit. The friend part of him was both reeling and feeling sick at what he had just seen. The man who disappeared through that portal upstairs was not Pyresong. It was as if their friend were gone entirely. And what was left now was little more than a necromancer's own reanimated corpse.
"He'll be all right," he finally assured Charsi. "He has to. He just needs time to recover. For now, just alert Akara that we may need their help."
Charsi nodded and moved toward the table where the multiple pieces of damaged armor had been stacked. By the looks of it, almost everything had taken at least some damage. Given what he knew of Charsi's gifts for reinforcing armor, he shuddered to think of the amount of force it took to buckle and dent that much. And Pyresong had been wearing it! The fact that it had sustained so much damage and he was still one piece was almost incomprehensible. Of course, when Pyresong had first come down the stairs, the only thing Karshun had been able to see was the enormous hole in the breastplates and the inconceivable amount of blood coating all of it. Though there was no blood on them now, he shuddered all over again at the terrifying memory of it and the priest impaled...and smiling in relief. His mind froze on that image, that smile, seeing something else there he didn't like any more than he had before. It brought forth an entirely different question that chilled him all the more.
Was it really relief that he had won? Or was it something else?
The mage sighed again, putting those images aside. Charsi's eyes were huge, and her face had gone a ghastly white when she picked up the articulating breast plates. She could clearly see the long slit that went all the way through the front and out the back. At the time, El'druin had been its full, standard size when wielded by an angel, the blade easily eight inches wide. When he saw her hands shaking, he couldn't find the will to ignore her obvious distress. He couldn't even find an acidic remark to fling at her. If anything, he wanted to fling those thoughts at himself. How had he gotten so soft that he could now count anyone other than Cain a friend? And now he had how many?
He laid the blame for that squarely on Pyresong, with no small amount of amusement. He took the armor from her and set it on the table again for a moment.
"Don't ask," he warned softly, wrapping his arms around her comfortingly. "I'll tell you what I know later. Just...take as long as you can repairing it. He needs time, but he...he doesn't know it yet."
"O-okay," she said, scrubbing away her tears. "I'll...I'll come back for it later."
"He'll be all right," he assured her again.
Charsi nodded, clearly uncertain but willing to accept a friend's reassurance. Karshun waited only a couple more minutes to steady and recenter himself after she left, before heading to the Wolf City Tavern. He had work to do. But first, he needed something more substantial than tea to combat the icy fear crawling around his heart. Some part of him was all but convinced that Pyresong may have won the battle but had already lost the war.
He would not let that happen.
Not sure what he was feeling, if anything at all, he had gladly accepted Karshun's excuse to get out of there. They knew he was alive. Karshun knew he had the sword. And they knew he could wield it. He just wanted to escape. Charsi's enthusiasm and greeting had made something inside of him twist painfully, something that he just couldn't deal with right now. Karshun's mention of Kashya had nearly made him sick. He couldn't. He just...he couldn't face her. Not with this. Never. He would see that they got the money they needed to live comfortably, but he would never see her again. He had no right to that child. Like so much else, it never should have happened.
His mind still feeling numb, he had no idea where he was going initially. Had Karshun not mentioned the monastery, which he now considered his temporary residence, he would probably still be standing in that little upstairs room, trying to focus on something. He couldn't think. He didn't want to think. Thinking would lead to remembering. He no longer wanted those memories. He knew what he was now. The rest of it was a life built on lies. He just wanted to get back to the fight. He would happily fight anything right now, even some Westmarch thugs—anything to keep him from thinking.
Being back in the workshop had done...something. There was something safe about that place. Something warm and welcoming. Something that almost made him feel human again. He couldn't let that happen. Yes, he was still alive. But it was only because he had something he needed to do. He needed to fight and keep fighting. He needed to finish what he began with Diablo centuries ago.
He could still hear their voices downstairs as he forced open the portal right to the overlook. For a few seconds, he stood in the blazing light of the setting sun, staring at the fire pit on the overlook. It was so quiet here. He was so cold. Some part of him had known peace here, once. Now he knew he never would again. It wasn't him. That one didn't exist anymore.
Instinctively, his eyes wandered to Oza's shrine standing serenely among the birch trees.
The memory of her warm spirit made him shudder, and he looked away from it. Another one he would never see again. Then he spun on his heel and headed back into the monastery. Despite the angelic healing, he was tired. Something was so very tired. He needed to rest. Karshun was right about that much. Still mentally numb and frozen, his feet took him where he needed to be without conscious thoughts anyway. Reflexively, he eyed the corridors, looking for any threat, any sign anyone else had been here in his extended absence. He wanted footprints in the dust, open doors, the sounds of stealthy movement. He found none. Part of him, beyond the numbness, was disappointed. He wanted a bunch of bandits or demons or anything to infest this place. He needed...something.
The silence was killing him.
He clung to it desperately.
His hand found the latch on his door without even really feeling it. The moment the door opened, he froze again. There was a thin layer of dust on everything here. All his supplies were neatly arranged in chests and shelves. His bed was slightly mussed, just as he had left it. Not a single item had so much as shifted. None of that had done more than register a lack of physical threat present. But there was an entirely different threat looming here.
It was what he saw in the memories that made him freeze.
He heard a faint echo of Kashya's voice. He saw her standing by the merrily burning fire. He ached for the memory of her curled against him in that bed. He could almost smell her musky, woodsy scent, underlined with the scent of her lavender soap. He could feel her strength and warmth in this place. His heart stuttered and twisted agonizingly.
He needed her.
No, he growled to himself. Never again.
He wouldn't. He couldn't... He spun away from that room before he could even form a thought around it. Viciously, he silenced and crushed all of those things with icy emptiness. He couldn't think about that. He shouldn't. It would only make things worse. He would figure out how to deal with all that later. Instead, he just ran away from the memories. If he couldn't lose himself in a fight, he could run; literally as well as figuratively.
His legs rebelled, making him stumble. In the silence of the abandoned corridors, his whispering footsteps and shaky breathing echoed back at him. Just like the workshop, he knew he shouldn't be here. He didn't know where to go or what to do. But he instinctively knew anywhere but here was safer. There were too many memories here, memories of the man who had died on Ewon Tull.
His entire existence was a lie. He had lied to them all. And they had believed in him. Worse, he had encouraged and embraced that ridiculous fantasy as if it could ever become real. Somewhere buried inside of him had been the truth, all along. Some part of him had always known it was there. Yet he chose to selfishly deny it and ignore it because he wanted all those things he should never have had. He had known he was so very different. Even as a child, he had known and tried to forget.
In an almost blind panic, he ran through a list of so very many places he could go. They all twisted up and blurred. He couldn't focus enough to make a portal anywhere. He was trapped here. He struggled to remember where it began. That forgotten place where no one would find him, not even Pyresong. He was shaking again. Something was trying to break through his chaotic, partial thoughts. He couldn't let it. He had to get back to the fight. He needed to find something to give him focus.
Unable to sort through it all, he gave up. He slid down the wall until he was sitting in his meditative position. Yes, he could still run away from it all. He would meditate, just not in his usual way. If he couldn't go back to that frigid, empty place with his stolen body, he would go there from within. In the void, he didn't have to feel or think anything at all. He didn't have to remember. He could stay there until Karshun needed him. He could stay there until he was so dead the memories couldn't threaten him anymore. Already, his body was so cold and numb he could barely feel it. He didn't even need to relax into the dark void. Relaxing the tension wouldn't do him any good anyway. His stolen body was just a tool now; it didn't matter. He dove inside. He just needed to find that silent, empty place inside himself until he could return to the real thing. Then he could become the cold, hollow darkness forever.
"Pyresong!"
The faint, distant voice startled him. He gasped and opened his eyes, looking around the wide, empty corridor. Was he hallucinating again? He was certain he had heard it through his ears. But...
"Pyresong! I...know...you're here!"
Fern's voice was a high-pitched shriek, echoing through the empty halls. She was desperate, terrified. He didn't have to think to know that much. He was on his feet, running in that direction before his mind even caught up to what he was doing.
"Pyre...song!"
He rounded a corner near the southern courtyard at a flat run. He skidded to a stop when he found her. Fern was leaning against a wall, struggling to breathe, gasping desperately. The moment those blue eyes found him, she let go of the wall and stumbled in his direction on unsteady legs. Reflexively, he went to his knees to catch her. She was gasping and shaking. She gripped his tunic in her small fists and buried her face in his chest. His own arms trembled as he looked her over, expecting blood, already seeing her dead, accusing eyes boring into his soul like so very many others.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, trying to turn her to get a better look.
She shook her head, her eyes clenched shut. "I...have...have to...see you."
It took a few seconds to process what she said, and then to put those horrifying images aside. There was no blood, not this time. Gwalnne hadn't bled, either. That thought was washed away in a wave of relief. Flooded with that relief, he shifted to put his back to a wall and set her more comfortably in his lap. He struggled to slow his racing heart. She refused even to lessen her grip on him. His scrambled mind finally began to understand what was happening to her.
"The air is thin up here," he explained, stroking her hair soothingly. "Just take slow, deep breaths. It'll pass."
Still unwilling to release her grip, she nodded. She let him shift her until she was at least curled more comfortably in his lap. Despite her trembling, she still would not let go of her desperate grip on his tunic. She had never seemed so small and fragile to him as she did right now. Somewhere in his jumbled thoughts, her desperation and terror sparked something beyond the numbness that had enveloped him.
"Did Akara send you? Did something happen to the monastery?" he asked softly, icy fear clutching at his heart.
Fern shook her head again, her breathing finally slowing. "I had to see you, and I know you won't come to us."
The tight band on his chest let up slightly, almost allowing him to breathe again. But...
"How... How did you get here?" he couldn't help asking.
Fern took a deeper breath and forced it out slowly. He kept a supportive arm around her back as she turned sideways, still leaning into him. She rubbed her face with one hand, and the other she kept clenched on his tunic.
"I watched Priestess Akara make a portal," she told him, still obviously fighting the dizziness with her eyes closed. "I'm...I'm too small. I'm not strong enough to make them very far. I... It took me four days to get here."
She finally opened her eyes and looked up at him. Those large blue eyes searched his. He was only just beginning to grasp what was even happening here. For a few seconds, all he had been able to think about was Diablo going after all of the Sisters in the Dark Wood. Now that he knew that had not happened, his mind just could not make sense of why Fern was here, in this place.
"Why?"
Her breathing was almost normal now; she again buried her face in his chest.
"I know what happened on Ewon Tull," she told him, gripping him fiercely. "I know what it's doing to you. I won't let you."
Gods... No, not her, too...
Instinctively, he held her tightly, his hands no longer shaking. His mind flitted through the scenes of horror and carnage all over again. People were literally ripped apart by his Nightmare. He brought his Darkness to destroy them. Closing his eyes did no good; the images were inside him. They were part of him. Bad enough what had happened there, but this poor child... Hadn't she suffered enough? He had done this, too. Was there anyone who would not suffer for his mistakes?
"I'm so sorry, Fern. I... I can get someone to help you through this. I'll get you back to—"
"No!" she all but screamed. "Don't! I don't care where you dump me. I'll keep chasing you until you listen to me!"
Taken aback, he stared at her. She glared up at him angrily, her expression fierce. He had no doubts she meant it.
"I...I don't understand."
Fern closed her eyes and took another, longer, deep breath to steady herself. Still, she refused to let go of him. His tunic bunched up in her little fists.
"Pyresong is not dead. I won't let you do this to yourself," she said more steadily. "I told you. I won't let you run away from us."
Vaguely, he recalled some of their last conversation, a lifetime away from all of this. Back when he could still smile, still feel hope, still feel anything other than cold and dead. Back when he believed he was human. Back when he was the Pyresong, they knew; before the Nightmare had dredged up the truth.
He nodded slowly to her that he remembered. He relaxed slightly. So that's what this was about. He still felt sick thinking about what she had seen. But, at least she didn't know the truth, yet. Hopefully, she would never see that kind of betrayal from him. He prayed that the Great Eye would not reveal that to her, spare her just that one thing.
"I'm so sorry, Fern. Whatever you saw... I'm—"
"You're not listening!" she growled, tugging on his tunic. "You don't understand. It's not about me. You don't want to understand. You... You..."
He kept his arms around her and instinctively rocked her soothingly while she seemed to struggle with something; he could still feel her trembling. After a few seconds, she looked back up at him, her dark blue eyes boring into him, through him.
"When you promised me justice, I wanted you to hurt them. Make them hurt as much as I was hurting. Then you gave me a better justice," she explained. "They destroyed my home. They destroyed my family. The destroyed my life. They destroyed my childhood and my dreams.”
She coughed softly and then swallowed more tears.
"You gave me choices. You showed me I could do something good with my life. Then you made me play in the rain. You made me smile and laugh again. You showed me that sometimes justice isn't about killing; it's about living. They couldn't destroy me because of you. And I won't let them destroy you."
His mind was reeling now. He knew what she was saying. Some part of him even knew she was right. But he couldn't. She didn't know the lies behind it all. He wasn't supposed to be here at all.
"I'm glad you were happy again, Fern," he told her softly. "You deserve to be happy. But it's not the same. I'm not—"
She growled. "You're not listening!" She punched him instead of tugging. "I know what happened. You're letting the Nightmare win because it's easier! Because it hurts so much, you don't want to live with it anymore. But you won't... You won't even let us help you. We need you. We need Pyresong."
She buried her face in his tunic again. Her shoulders hitched as she began to sob. He didn't know what else to do for her. So he just held her. Yes, he was hurting, but only for her and all the others whose lives he had touched...tainted with his lies. And that was all the more reason to ensure it would never happen again. He could feel that dead part of himself trying to claw its way back to the surface for her.
After a few seconds of shoving it all back in a deep, black crevasse in his soul, he decided he would just let her get it out of her system. Then he would get her back to the monastery, and hopefully this time she would live her life without any further interference from him. Nothing he could say would ever make it better for her or any of the others.
"I-I'm sorry," she cried. "I'm so sorry. I didn't... I don't want to do this anymore."
The hand stroking her back froze. Something in those words lashed at his already damaged soul. He struggled to breathe around the hard lump squeezing his throat. He could feel those things hammering away at him, but he couldn't let them. Fern was right. It hurt too much, and she needed him now. He coughed, trying to ease the strangling sensation. He needed to help her.
"You... You don't have to go back there, Fern. I'll take you—"
"No, I have to go back. But you don't understand. I don't know how to make you listen to me. You think I'm just a child and I don't understand. But I do. And..."
"That's not true," he whispered, truthfully, feeling something in him cracking, caving. "I just...I wish you didn't understand."
She freed one of her hands to scrub away the tears. Then she gripped the amulet under his tunic. She stared at the wall blankly.
"The Great Eye has shown me hundreds of years of history," she said hollowly. "Thousands of events and decisions that have all led to now. I've even seen some of what is coming."
His heart stuttered at those words, terrified she might have seen the truth. He couldn't even breathe when she met his eyes again. The desperation behind those blue eyes stabbed at something inside of him, prodding some piece of himself that he didn't want to exist anymore. But it was there, and it belonged to Fern.
"I've seen so much, but I didn't see what was right in front of me. I couldn't see what it was doing to you until it was too late, and you were already gone. I couldn't warn you. I couldn't reach you. I tried. I tried so hard. I'm so sorry. Please...I'm sorry. I just..."
She let go of the amulet to clutch at his tunic again desperately, as if needing something to anchor herself. Her whole small body shook with her sobs. Now he began to understand, and it was somehow even worse. He had thought her learning the truth was the worst. He had been wrong. Now he could see it. His own eyes stung with tears; he didn't think he was even human enough to feel anymore.
"Fern, please. Don't do this. It was not your fault."
"Please," she begged, unable to even look at him. "Please. I tried. I just... I need to know my friend, Pyresong, is still in there. You can't let it win."
"Don't blame yourself. You don't know... You can't know everything. This was never your fault. It was—"
"No!" she snarled, punching his chest again with her little fists, her face still buried. "If it was your fault, then it was mine, too. Don't do this to yourself or to me! Please...I just need to know my friend will be all right."
Her desperation broke something in him. He couldn't even figure out what. He didn't care. It all just hurt too much. He was too broken. There were too many shattered pieces. And all of it was built on lies and mistakes. He struggled to breathe around the pain as he held her. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head. He struggled to pull it all back, stuff it in dark holes. Make it all go away. He couldn't even stop the tears. He had done this to her. This poor girl had suffered so much. Then he did this, too. He didn't know what to say or what to do. He couldn't make it right. Nothing he ever did came out right. He'd selfishly taken her away from her home. Then he'd put her into something that turned out so much worse. Damn the Great Eye. Damn them all.
And damn me, too, the ancient voice agreed.
The clenching, heavy sensation in his chest let loose with a sob. Despite biting his lip until it bled, he couldn't stop it. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't help her. He couldn't make it right. He couldn't make her forget. He didn't even know who he was anymore. He just held her while they both wept. Lost and broken, he couldn't even find a prayer for her, for all of them. Nothing was listening, anyway. Why? Why any of it? Why couldn't he have just stayed there in those caves? Why did he have to keep doing this to people?
After what felt like hours, he finally managed to on something other than his own misery. Fern's trembling and tears had wound down. She must be exhausted. She needed him right now. He could do that. He could focus on her. Once she was somewhere safe, then he could... He didn't even know anymore.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what to do," he finally confessed. "What do you want me to do?"
"I know you won't let us help you. I know you don't want Kashya anywhere near you," Fern said, sounding exhausted. She pulled back to look up at him. "Go talk to Oza. She helped you before. Let her help you."
He knew she was right about all of it. Had Fern not come to him, he would gladly have stayed away forever. Pyresong was dead. He had never really existed. He couldn't let that lie start all over again, not even for them. Not now, not ever. He didn't deserve it. But, for Fern, he would do anything to ease her suffering, her guilt.
"I will," he promised, scrubbing away his own tears. "First, we need to—"
"No. I'm not going anywhere until you go to Oza," she said, gripping his tunic again.
"Fern, I will. Just—"
"Don't start treating me like a child again! I can take care of both of us. Go. Now," she demanded.
"Fern, I can't—"
"You promised me anywhere in the world," she glared up at him.
He blinked in mute surprise. He remembered. Despite how scrambled and broken his mind felt, he remembered that clearly. And she was right. Pyresong had promised her more than once. He could not go back on that now. He nodded slowly.
"Where—"
"Right here," she told him firmly. "I'm not leaving until you come back from the Unformed Land. Then we will talk about the rest."
"But..."
She finally released her grip on his tunic so that she could wrap her arms around him and grip him more tightly. Her little arms barely reached his back. She was only a little larger than...
He fled in horror from that thought. Instead, a dozen thoughts flitted through his mind, not the least of which was how time moved differently there. He might be gone for weeks by accident. Fern would need food and likely a fire. She didn't feel cold to him, but he knew how cold the nights up here felt to Kashya. And it was well after dark now. But Fern was adamant. She had her face pressed to his chest, and her grip was almost painfully desperate. Her tiny fingers dug into the flesh of his ribs with bruising force.
"I'll go. I promise. But, let's at least go to my room where you can be warm," he offered softly.
She finally pulled back enough to see his face. Seeing he meant what he said, she finally let go. He lifted her to her feet, off to the side, and got back to his own unsteady legs. He had sat in that awkward position with his legs folded under him for so long that his feet had gone nearly numb. She immediately grabbed his hand before he was even fully upright. Still feeling her desperation and fear in that clutching grip, he scooped her up into his arms almost reflexively.
Some part of his grief-numbed mind felt the echo of the last little girl he had held in his hands...so cold. He froze in that position as icy horror crawled along his veins until his arms trembled again. As if sensing what was happening inside of him, she latched onto his tunic. She was still so small and fragile to him. And he carried her in his hands, stained with the blood of so many others. He resisted the urge to drop her and run far, far away from her.
He struggled against the memories, the thoughts, the pain threatening to consume him. Right now, he just had to keep her safe. It was enough to keep him focused. Despite the chaotic mess swirling in his head, he had a task. Someone needed him. He somehow managed to get them both back to his borrowed room. There was still wood piled in the fireplace. He lit it with one hand while he held her in the other. Then he turned to the bed. He sat on it with his back to the wall and his long legs stretched out on the opposite side. Again, Fern refused to let go, so he settled her in his lap.
Her deep blue eyes bored into him. A part of him was so broken that he never thought to feel anything ever again hated himself that much more. He should not have interfered in her life. Now she blamed herself for his failures, his mistakes, his murders. Nothing he ever did would make this right. But if giving her this would get her to let go of Pyresong and move on with her own life, he would do it.
"Please come back to us, Pyresong," she whispered, as if reading his thoughts.
He nodded. What could he say? He already knew this would fail. She had said it herself. He didn't want to come back. Pyresong had never really existed. She didn't know the truth, why he was even here now. He just wanted to finish what he started to give some semblance of justice to all those he had wronged in his mad quest. He didn't even want to die anymore. He just didn't want to exist at all. He already knew death was no release for him. If nothing else, those memories had shown him that much. He wanted to go to the cold, empty abyss and never come back, never hurt anyone else.
But he knew he would come back from the Unformed Land. If for no other reason than to see Fern settled somewhere when this was over.
He didn't pray for forgiveness from her or anyone else. He just prayed they could all get back to the lives they had had before he had interfered. If there were any justice in this world, they would be able to move on. He prayed Kashya's child would never know what kind of monster their father was. He prayed something was listening, just this once.
Fern leaned into him with her face against his chest again as he closed his eyes. In a few minutes, he felt nothing of his body at all. Then he let the cold take him away.
He had felt the icy tugging in his chest. Desperately, he wished that cold had just frozen him right out of existence! He had almost been there. Despite the chaos in his mind and heart when he got to the monastery, he had nearly found the frigid silence he needed. Then Fern shattered it.
Standing here on this wispy reflection of Oza's Overlook, all he could see was Gwalnne's dead eyes staring back at him. She was here, too, somewhere. How many others waited here for him? There were thousands upon thousands of souls he had put here through his own mistakes, both from that other life and more recently. He didn't belong here.
Maybe he could just go back, tell Fern it hadn't worked. Maybe he could convince her to just move on with her life. Maybe he could figure out a way to just make her understand without telling her the outright truth. Maybe—
"Oh no, my poor friend. What has happened to you?"
Oza's soft voice beside him made his whole ghostly form flinch in pain of remembrance. Reflexively, he pulled away when she tried to take his hand. He hadn't planned this. He hadn't wanted to come here at all. He didn't want her to see. He didn't want her to know the truth. He...
"You knew," he heard himself say before he even realized the words were there.
Oza, already confused, cocked her head at him. For a moment, his anger flared. Part of him wanted to blame her. He needed to blame someone. How had literally no one seen it all? She had known and said nothing. She had to have known. The Nightmare had spoken some truth. It always had, because it knew so much more than he would have ever admitted for himself. That was his cowardice, his shame. And it knew the truths he could not confront were always the most painful of all. The Darkness had exposed the lie that was Pyresong's whole existence. And now he saw all those little hints and pieces he hadn't been able to before. Oza had helped him put his own shattered soul back together. There was absolutely no way she didn't already know the truth behind everything. She had known all along about the Nightmare and the memories.
But she hadn't lied to him, either.
"You know what I am. And you knew what it was. That it was conscious. And you didn't warn me," he told her accusingly in a voice so cold it didn't even sound like his own anymore.
Then again, who was he supposed to sound like? Did it even matter? No. He just needed to stay focused enough to fight. Nothing else mattered. He would finish this. And then would disappear forever, this time.
Still confused, Oza shook her head sadly. "Would it make you feel better if I said I did?"
The hot anger bled away rapidly. No, he knew better. He couldn't blame Oza. Pyresong had known about the corruption and just didn't want to admit it. Worse, he had ignored it. Shame burned even hotter than the anger and sense of betrayal. He wanted to lash out. He needed something to lash out at. As long as he was angry, he couldn't feel the rest. The pity in her eyes somehow made it so much worse. The part of him that remembered Pyresong's love for Oza couldn't do this, not to her. Oza didn't deserve any of it.
He turned away from her as he closed his eyes and focused. He had to get away from here, from her. Enough people had been hurt. He would not hurt Oza now, too. He grasped the first place he could think of. When he opened his eyes, he was in an open field surrounded by forest. For a few seconds, he just stood there, numbly.
He knew this place.
No, this old farmstead was not where he needed to be. His worst mistakes had been here. They were all dead; not even ghosts remained to condemn him. He knew where he should go. That black, empty space that was so bitterly cold. And now he remembered how to get there. It was so very near this place. It was right over...
He could feel the echoing silence here. He could feel the emptiness resonating in his damaged soul. He could feel eternity in this place like a tangible web that clung to him, pulled him into itself. He could literally feel the chill hollowness of this forgotten piece of creation seeping into him again, even though it was just a pale reflection of the reality he had once endured.
This is where he belonged.
Oza's warmth enveloped him from behind. She wrapped her arms around his chest in a nearly crushing grip.
"No," she growled into his ear. "I won't let you."
He was so shocked by the echo of Fern's words, he couldn't even react. Oza dragged them back to the overlook. By the time he even realized what was happening, she slammed him to the ground and had him pinned. Oh, how he wished he could feel the shattering pain of that impact! He just wanted to feel anything other than Pyresong's memories. The burning shame. The grief. The horror of betrayal. The warmth and love Pyresong had once known were all built on lies. He wanted it all just to go away.
She rolled over atop him, her face twisted with frustration. "If you go back there, you're taking me with you," she told him. "I will never let you be alone in that awful place again."
For several seconds, he just stared up at her. Slowly, it dawned on him. He had almost done it. He had nearly escaped back to that dark, cold place where she had found him before. He wanted to go back there, that hell. He wanted to go back to the beginning and undo it all. And if he couldn't, then he would suffer in that place for eternity. That's where he wanted to be, where he needed to be. He couldn't do this anymore. He never should have left that place all those years ago. If he hadn't, none of this would have happened.
"Please..."
"No," she growled again, pulling him up by his tunic. "You do not deserve that."
"Oza, please... You don't understand."
She sighed, refusing to let go of him. She twisted herself around until she was sitting beside him. Then she moved to put his head and shoulders in her lap.
"You are the one who doesn't understand," she told him more gently, running her fingers through his hair. "I see more than you think, love."
"I murdered them," he whispered, closing his eyes, praying for it all just to go away. "I killed them all. So many."
"So you think you deserve that? I told you before, you are not alone."
"I know, and that makes it worse," he told her miserably, rolling over to cling to her. "All I do is make it worse. I wasn't supposed to come back. It was all lies."
"You are not wrong in the sense that I could have warned you," she admitted. "I knew you had Darkness, and it was conscious. It was separate and still a part of you. But it was weak, impotent. It had no power over you. I did not know what would happen."
"It's not your fault."
"You're right. It's not. Nor is it yours. Keep the blame where it belongs. Diablo did this."
"I created it," he insisted, shuddering as he buried his face in shame.
"We all possess some Darkness, my friend. You know that."
"Not you," he said miserably.
Oza's soft laugh startled him out of those tormenting memories. He rolled over to look up at her. Her warm hands caressed his forehead.
"Do you really believe that?" she asked with an amused grin.
He no longer knew what to believe. He didn't want to feel anything at all. He just wanted—
Her warm caress on his cheek turned painfully cold. In an instant, he was flooded with a different kind of Darkness. One that was both familiar and completely alien. Her hand gripped his face when he tried to pull away. Scenes of violence he knew he had never experienced flitted before his eyes. The rage-filled screams could belong to no one else. As they faded, he stared up at his friend, smiling back at him sadly.
"You are not the only one, love. I know where you are right now," she told him softly. "It's not suffering that drives you; it's loathing. You hate yourself so much, you don't want to exist anymore. You feel you don't deserve to exist when so many others are dead."
She bent down and kissed his forehead tenderly. "You have forgotten who you are, now that you remember what you are."
He sat up, still trying to comprehend what she had shown him. Oza? The Crusades? She let him pull away, with no small amount of shame of her own showing clearly. Some flicker in the back of his mind remembered that the Veradani believed in reincarnation. It was a fundamental part of their beliefs. And Oza...
Something beyond his own misery moved him. It was another fragment of the Pyresong that loved her, belonged to her. He pulled her to him, holding on to her desperately. He couldn't bear the thought of her being so ashamed, so hurt. She clung to him just as desperately.
"I'm sorry. I...I didn't..."
"You didn't want to believe. Because it's easier when you know you're alone," she said, burying her face in his shoulder. "You were alone far too long already. When you're alone, you know you won't be missed. No one cares. I know, love. I've been there."
She pulled back to look at him, her expression fierce.
"You are not alone. I am a part of you. They are a part of you. They love you, even that arrogant arse Karshun. You do them an injustice by believing otherwise."
He couldn't help flinching. There would be justice, just not for him. There was nothing in this world or any other that could ever make up for his mistakes, no matter how many times he died. There were too many for him to count anymore. All of them dead. Again, he saw Gwalnne's dead eyes staring at him accusingly.
As if having shared that memory with him, Oza's sigh came out more like a growl of frustration. She let go of him and then pushed back a bit. She shifted gracefully to her feet.
"Stay right there," she commanded. "Remember, wherever you go, I'll follow."
He stared up at her in startled confusion. Before he could even nod, she disappeared. Alone for a moment, he buried his face in his hands. Gods, he didn't know what to think, what to feel, what to do anymore. A part of him knew they would all be better off without him. Everything he touched somehow made things worse. Oza knew what was going on inside of him. She knew where it had all started, even when he couldn't remember. Akara, Fern, and Karshun could probably guess some if they dug deep enough into the past, but they didn't know that awful truth. The real reason he had been abandoned alone in that forsaken place for so long. And if they ever did stumble on the truth, he knew he would never be able to face them again. How could they not loathe him for what he had done?
He just wanted it to be over. He was tired. Tired of people dying for his mistakes. Tired of his selfish actions hurting so many others. Nothing he could ever do would make any of it right. If he could just get to Diablo and finish this. Afterward, he could find a way to free Tyrael. Then he could—
"Pyresong!"
Gwalnne's happy squeal calling that name shattered whatever momentary sanity he had found. Oza had reappeared on the other side of the fire pit with the little girl in her arms. Still on his knees, he went completely numb. Oza set the little girl on her feet, and she ran to him excitedly. He reflexively caught her as she threw herself at him. Guilt that flared like agony lanced through his entire incorporeal being. He thought himself too dead to feel anything so acutely ever again. And now... He stared mutely at Oza while the little girl wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. The monk smirked at him.
"Miss Oza said you wanted to see me," Gwalnne chattered happily.
Then the little girl pulled back and looked serious in the kind of childish way that almost made him want to laugh. She put her tiny hands on his cheeks, staring into him intently.
"Did the monster hurt you, too?"
He couldn't even think to process what she had just asked. All he could see was her broken corpse lying on the ice. He could still hear the sound of her neck snapping. He just nodded, unable to think at all.
"I'm sorry I didn't bring you another flower to make it all better," she told him, still serious.
He knew if he had a physical body right now, there would be tears. As it was, her cherubic face scrunched up with such seriousness stabbed painfully at some fragment of his lost humanity. As her childish concern swept away the numbness, he hugged her tightly to him again. How could he make her understand? Lost in a flood of so many emotions, he couldn't even find words; he just held her. Her dead eyes stared back at him from the sky, so he closed his eyes. They were still there. As if sensing this, Oza approached them.
"He still has the one you gave him," Oza told her, kneeling down a few feet away. "He keeps it in a glass jar he carries with him. So he can look at it and smile again."
Gwalnne's happy smile beamed, tearing at something inside of him with sharp claws of burning shame. He had failed her. He had killed her with his own hands. He couldn't bear the sight of her cheerful smile. It was all wrong. But she was just too young to understand.
"Really?"
He just nodded again, struggling to find a sane thought somewhere beyond all of the things eating him alive. At the core of it all were echoes Pryesong. Pyresong had cherished that small gift. It had represented something he would never have but desperately wanted. But that wasn’t him. Pyresong was dead. He never existed. Before he could even make sense of that, Gwalnne wriggled around in his grip until she was cradled in the crook of his left arm in that heartbreakingly familiar way.
"I'm...I'm so sorry, Gwalnne," he finally found words. "I...I didn't mean... It wasn't..."
"I told Mama and Papa the monster stole your face," Gwalnne told him happily. "You tried to save me. But that nasty, evil monster was mean. Uncle Benki told them, too. You saved me, and then the monster came."
I am the monster, he thought, unable to speak.
He was frozen again, caught somewhere between wanting to flee and wanting to tell her the truth. He couldn't do either, so he just sat there numb. He turned to Oza, lost. Oza sat across from him, smiling, almost mischievously.
"Gwalnne, show him what your Granmama taught you."
The little girl squealed happily and clapped her tiny hands excitedly. A second later, she wriggled out of his arms and ran a few feet away. She did some cartwheels back toward him until Oza caught her mid-flip.
"Did you see?" Gwalnne asked excitedly, jumping back to her feet. "I did it! See? I have feet! Watch! I can run!"
The tiny girl ran out into the grass and did more cartwheels back toward them. Lost as he was in those swirling memories, he couldn't help smiling at her innocent joy. She ran and flipped and giggled and clapped. Even when she missed and fell flat on her back, she jumped right back to her feet, squealing happily. The feeling of warmth in his hand brought his attention back to Oza, now holding his hand firmly and smiling back at him. A moment later, he caught Gwalnne as she again launched herself happily at him with more carefree giggles.
"That was very good," he told her.
She beamed up at him again. "You smiled! That's how I knew it was the monster. His smile was scary. You have a nice smile."
"Yes, he does," Oza agreed. "But he needs to get back home soon. Let's get you back to your Mama and Papa."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek again. "Bye-bye, Pyresong," she told sweetly.
"Goodbye, Gwalnne," he whispered, still struggling even to find a coherent thought.
Oza scooped up the little girl and threw her in the air, very much as Baaz had done. When she caught a happily squealing Gwalnne, they both disappeared.
He was a wreck. He couldn't even figure out what he was feeling. That poor child. She shouldn't be here. But she was so happy. And...
"What's this I hear about you and my sister, old man?"
Something inside of him crumbled to pieces all over again. He couldn't do this. He buried his face in his hands. He couldn't face the boy. Not now. Why was Oza doing this to him? Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Why can't she just understand? Esmund walked up and smacked him on the back of the head.
"You could at least look at me when I talk to you," the boy said, plopping himself down on the grass a couple of feet away.
"He still blames himself for—"
"Enough!" he barked, glaring up at her. "What do you want from me?"
"He speaks!" Esmund shot back with a grin. "Yeah, I know. You let me die and all that rot. Figures. You do realize I was the one who jumped in after her, right?"
He closed his eyes again, trying to find some sane thought. Finally, he turned to look at Esmund.
"I'm so sorry, Esmund."
Esmund's fist lashed out so quickly that he didn't even have a chance to flinch back. Not that he would have. The gods knew he deserved so much more from Esmund. He had promised to protect him and then let him die. He stared sadly at the angry boy, wishing that blow had actually hurt.
"Damn, not as much fun here. Probably didn't even feel it. Oh well. That's for being an idiot," Esmund told him. "You didn't 'let me die'. The monk tells me that Fern got a whole new life out of the deal. Well worth the exchange, in my opinion."
Pyresong stared blankly. Esmund leaned forward to within an inch of his face.
"You heard me, Pyresong. I didn't care what happened to me. But I've got you to thank for making Fern happy. You got her away from that place. Now stop being a miserable scut about it. It's just pathetic," Esmund snapped. "You could at least pretend to be happy to see me."
His mind just couldn't comprehend what was happening. First, Gwalnne, happy and chattering about being reunited with her dead family members. Now Esmund...thanking him? Had he really lost his mind this time?
As if reading his thoughts, Esmund laughed. "You just don't get it, do you? I had thought you were more intelligent. Or maybe..." Then he turned to Oza. "Aren't you monks supposed to be able to, like, kick things really hard?"
Oza smiled wickedly. "Just tell me where."
Esmund glanced back to Pyresong. "Never mind, he already looks like he's been kicked in the jewels."
He couldn't help himself. He laughed, right along with Esmund and Oza. Gods, he'd missed Esmund! The boy was right, in more ways than one. He felt like he'd been kicked right in the heart. He smiled, sadly.
"Are you all right, Esmund?"
Esmund grinned. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm a whole lot better now that I know Fern got out of there. She even showed me you got her into some bad habits again, like playing in the puddles. At least now I don't have to wash her muddy clothes."
He glanced over his shoulder at Oza again with a nod as something passed between them. Then he turned back to Pyresong, bouncing to his feet. Apparently, he'd been enjoying not having a physical body to encumber him.
"But, fun as this chat has been, you've got better things to do. You better come see me someday and tell me what this is all about."
"I will," he promised.
"Off you go," Oza told him.
Esmund threw her a cheeky salute that was painfully familiar and disappeared.
"So, who should I go find next?" Oza mused. "Oh, I know! I can—"
"Stop this," he growled at her, jumping to his feet. "What do you want from me?"
She smiled sadly and took his hands in hers. This time, he didn't pull away.
"You still don't understand," she told him sadly. "We don't want anything from you; it's what we want for you."
"You're right, I don't understand," he admitted more calmly. "I can't... Everything I do—"
"'Everything'?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Do I need to start naming names again? Or shall I go find more of your supposed failures? You know, there are a few hundred thousand formerly trapped souls from the Tundra that are still wanting to thank you personally. That might take a bit longer, but..."
"Remember the good you've done," Latarra's memory repeated.
Part of him knew Oza was right. He remembered this conversation with her from before, as well. He knew what she was saying. And in some way, he could almost see it, almost agree. Pyresong had done some good in his life. But Pyresong wasn't real. Oza didn't know about—
"Oh, I know very well," she interrupted his thoughts. "I know the secrets in your soul you buried so deep, you didn't even know they existed anymore. I knew them long before you did. But Master Z is right: Who you are is more important than what you are." She caressed his face again. "You have spent your entire life trying to make up for one supposed mistake. But it wasn't a mistake. It was an accident."
Her grip on his hand was crushing when he tried to pull away, to flee those awful memories. He knew where she was going. But she was merciless, now. She pulled him to her with an iron grip around his shoulders when he tried to escape. His ghostly form morphed into someone much shorter. Then it flickered back into Pyresong. Then into insubstantial mist. Then it shifted again to something in between with long, long hair. With each memory that flitted by, he blurred and reshaped. The distant past melded with the recent past until it was all just confusion reflected in the shifting colors and shapes of his ghostly form. Still, she held him firmly. He could not escape her grip or her words.
"Your every step, your every decision, was driven by guilt and the need to give your parents justice. You needed to justify your own existence even before then because you knew it wasn't supposed to happen that way. But it did, and you hate yourself for it. It was never about prophecy. It was about you, and who you really are," she told him softly.
He couldn't think anymore. He didn't want to remember. It was all too much. Pyresong's entire existence was a lie. He couldn't understand why no one had seen it sooner. And the one person who had seen it still loved him. She didn't blame him, didn't hate him. It wasn't right. He curled in on himself, shifting over and over again. From child to aged man to Pyresong and back again. He tried to pull away or escape. But she would not let him run away, not this time.
"Please... I didn't mean to..."
"I know," she told him soothingly. "She was a witch. She knew what she was doing. She did it to save her unborn son. You think you stole that little boy's life, but you didn't. He is a part of you, too. He never blamed you. He loves you, even now. The Nightmare would not let you see the other half of the story. Now you must look deeper than what it showed you; see the entire truth."
He couldn't believe that. He had stolen a life, even if it was accidental. He still didn't even know how he had done it to avoid it happening again. It was his fault. If he hadn't left those caves, none of this would have happened. Now all he could do was finish what he started, give them some semblance of justice. Then he could return to that cold, empty place in the darkness where he belonged.
"I know you only see the monster you think you are, now," Oza whispered in his ear. "But that is why you have us, your friends. We remind you that you are worth something. You are not that little boy. And you are not that lost, forgotten spirit. You are our Pyresong."
"It's not right," he told her miserably, struggling against the memories. "I wasn't supposed to come back."
"I know," she whispered. "And you never really forgot that. It has driven you relentlessly, even when you couldn't remember why."
"I just need to finish this before they find out. I can't...I can't go back. And I can't forget, again. What am I supposed to do?"
"Now it's time for you to remember who you really are. Who we know you to be. You will never forget the rest, nor should you. Rylan is still with you, inside of you. He still loves you. The Nightmare silenced him, so you could not hear him. Only the memories that hurt the most were allowed to torment you.”
He stopped fighting, trying to pull away. He turned him toward her and wrapped her arms around him. He kept shifting shapes and sizes, confused. He was all of them, and none of them.
"The broken pieces of each of you aren't you. All you need to remember and hold on to is Pyresong, the man we love. You did not betray any of us. We love you for who you are, the whole, not parts. Pyresong is the only name that matters to you...to all of us."
He clung to her, burying his face in her strong, steady shoulder. All of it swirled and twisted and gnarled itself up until he literally felt himself in pieces all over again. Was any of it even real? Was he still drifting as a lost soul in those forgotten caverns? Was it even possible that Pyresong was real? Was the love and warmth Pyresong had known the real delusion? Charsi. Kashya. Fern. Cain. Tabri. Peth. Karshun. Akara. They, and so many others, had made him feel human, had made Pyresong really exist.
"I... He's... he's still there, but I...we can't. The memories... So many... Please, help us."
She gently detached him with a grip on his shoulders. Then she cupped his face in both her hands. Her eyes glowed a soft gold.
"Zaim's blessings will show you what you have forgotten."
"Zaim..." he whispered, lost in those golden eyes.
Pyresong had no idea how long he had been gone. Part of him prayed it hadn't been too long. The room was lit only by the flickering light of the low-burning fire in the fireplace. It could have been months. In his mind, it was literal lifetimes. Feeling Fern curled up beside him, he realized he was staring at the ceiling. He was lying down and covered with a blanket. She must have shifted him in the bed at some point. By the sound of her soft, regular breathing, she slept. Careful not to disturb her, he looked around. Nothing had been moved or disturbed beyond them in the bed. His backpack was even still hanging on a hook on the door.
Days? he wondered.
Fern was curled up on his left side by the wall with her head on his arm. She was still clutching his tunic in one loose fist as if afraid he would slip away while she slept. Shifting only his head, he managed to get a look at his food supplies. They, too, looked undisturbed. He was somewhat relieved. The idea that he had left Fern—left all of them—for possibly weeks made him feel sick. But Fern had been right. He had needed Oza. He needed the kind of insight only she could offer. Even Cain had not known the truth. Perhaps one day he could share this with the old scholar. He might even understand and forgive him as his ancestor had. Oza could not heal him, but she could help him heal himself again.
And he knew he had to. Had he not found a way back, the war would have already been lost. Worse was the idea that all those deaths would have been for nothing if he didn't come back. He would not let that happen. He was not supposed to exist at all right now. But he did, and he would make all those deaths mean something, even those of his own parents. He would finish what he had started so long ago, no one even remembered who he had been. He could see it clearly now. He had not betrayed those he loved by forgetting what he was and why he was there. A far worse betrayal would have been to abandon them now.
He stared at the ceiling again. So many memories flitted through his mind. His own and the others' were all falling back into proper places. It would take time, but at least he didn't feel so fragmented and incomplete again. Now that all of the memories were there, he could see it again. He could feel it again. There was still guilt, and it would always be there. It was the driving force in every decision since before he was even born. Rylan's existence and acceptance had only further reinforced his need for justice for all of them. His own justice would come in time.
"...sometimes justice isn't about killing, it's about living."
His mind paused all the rest when he remembered Fern's words. That poor child. So much wisdom. So much incredible strength. Kashya was right. Fern was far stronger and more resilient than anyone likely gave her credit for. And he had thought her fragile. He snickered mentally at the thought. They had all underestimated her, given her more diminutive stature. But she was right. Sometimes, real justice was in living and sharing that life with others. He would deal with the rest when the time came.
First, he had to finish what he had started. To finish this, he would have to get himself back into working order. And for that...
He grimaced and very nearly groaned aloud as he recalled his last encounter with Karshun. Worse, Charsi... He hadn't said a single word to her! Now, he could see so clearly everything he had missed. He had been such a mess, so wrapped up in his own misery that he didn't see it.
That's a lie, and you know it, Rylan told him with no small amount of amusement.
He had seen it. He just didn't want to acknowledge it. He didn't want to see it, and he didn't want to believe it. When he had come back from Ewon Tull, he just didn't want to exist at all anymore. They had all been so badly damaged he couldn’t even being to see the truth. He wanted to believe Pyresong was dead. Whatever was left of him existed only to finish the fight. He recalled Karshun's pale face and Charsi's large, worried eyes clearly. He cursed himself silently. He would make it up to them, somehow.
Kashya...
For a few seconds, he wanted nothing more than to make a portal right to her room, right this very second. His need for her was so strong, he felt it like a physical ache all over. He needed to tell her, promise her... He reminded himself firmly that Fern was right there, sleeping. After everything she had been through—four days, she said—she needed her rest.
While there was still much lingering hurt and shame, it wasn't as much as he had expected. For the most part, he was still flooded with all the good memories that had helped him remember who he really was. Pyresong was real. They made him real. He still remembered the truth, but it was all tempered with a deeper understanding of all the parts at play. He had his friends, and that was all that mattered right now. For them, he would not give up. For them, he would fight and keep fighting. And he vowed he would always find a way back to them.
Feeling somewhat trapped, being unable to move at the moment, he shoved down his impatience. He had no idea how late it actually was at this point. He had so many good memories on his mind and in his heart that it would likely take him days to sift through them all. For right now, he had Fern. He would guard her against the nightmares and let himself rest.
Tomorrow would bring its own battles.
***
Only maybe half asleep, Pyresong felt Fern shifting against him. Her one fist gripping his tunic tightened as she began to wake slowly. If there had been any nightmares, he could not tell. She seemed to have slept soundly, for which he was grateful. Still, he couldn't help a mischievous streak that rose to the surface. Grinning wickedly, he planned the execution of his little plot. She had wrapped one of his arms around her back while she slept. He was already in the perfect position. He quickly stifled the grin.
"Good morning," he said softly to her.
With a gasp, Fern's head popped up to get a better look at him. Before she could say anything, he dug his long fingers into her ribs under her arm. She squealed and jumped sideways. Then she threw herself at him in a fierce embrace. He struggled to sit up as she buried her face in his chest again.
"You're back!" she sobbed.
He couldn't take it. Not right now. He tickled her again, and her sobs turned to aborted giggles and squeals. But she was not one to be underestimated. Her smaller hands found the same sensitive spot under his own arms in a heartbeat. For a few seconds, the two of them wrestled before she gave up and just wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her tightly.
"I'm so sorry, Fern," he told her.
"I don't care what happened," she told him, not wanting to let go. "You're back, now."
He rubbed her back while she sniffled a couple more times and then eventually let him go. She turned sideways to sit in his lap more comfortably. For a while, he was content just to sit there holding her. There were so many things he wanted to say and ask her. But he didn't have the heart for it at the moment. They could discuss that later. If she didn't already know the entire truth, he would tell her eventually. Suddenly, she didn't seem nearly as small or fragile. She was a force all her own, and not to be taken lightly.
She giggled a moment later, drawing him back out of his thoughts. When he glanced down at her curiously, she grinned up at him.
"You're hungry," she told him.
He couldn't help laughing softly and ruffling her already mussed hair. No doubt she had heard the unhappy protests of his empty stomach. He couldn't even remember the last time he actually ate. At some point, while still on Rehm's ship, that was all he could guess. For that matter, he was almost afraid to look in a mirror. He probably didn't look totally unkempt, but he was reasonably sure he was starting to look like one of his skeletons again. At least now he understood why that had happened. Fern scrambled off his lap and moved to the shelf of jars and other food supplies.
"Never mind that," he told her, still smiling unconsciously. "I know where we can get a meat pasty you'll never forget."
She cocked her head at him curiously.
"Besides, I believe we have some negotiating to do," he told her, stretching out the stiffness. "Give me a few minutes to clean up."
"I told you, I have to go back," she told him, moving to sit on the bed as he made his way over to the basin and pitcher on a nearby table. "I just need to see Karshun first."
Not as bad as I thought, he mused, rubbing at the itchy stubble.
At least he easily recognized himself in the mirror this time. For a moment, he had been half afraid of what he would see after all that. Sometimes in his dreams, he could see that other face instead of his own in the mirror. Still, it was at least a week since he had last shaved. His cheeks and eyes weren't obviously sunken this time. If anything, he could likely pass as an older gentleman, especially with a hood. Not for the first time, he could envision Kashya's teasing about him starting to look like Cain. Maybe it was time to consider dying his hair more seriously.
Realizing he missed something, he quickly ran her words back through his head. Karshun? What?
"Why?" he wondered aloud.
It was her turn to smile mischievously. "You'll see."
He was in too good a mood to press her. Besides, he had been planning to go to Westmarch for the meat pasties anyway. Of course, he would have to go in disguise. He had been gone for probably a couple of months at this point. Actually, now that he thought about it, he wanted to kick himself. He hadn't even thought to ask Karshun what had happened to them. He and Charsi had been led away from the workshop in chains. Rethinking his plan, he decided to leave the irritating stubble. For that matter, he decided to tie his hair back in a tail. It wasn't much, but with the blue robes, it would likely be enough. With so much time passed, hopefully, they weren't looking for him at all.
"Do the Sisters know where you went?" he asked, scrubbing himself up quickly.
"Priestess Akara might. And if she knows, then Commander Kashya certainly knows," Fern told him more seriously. "I'm going to be in a lot of trouble."
As he dried his face with a cloth, he couldn't help grinning at her heavy tones. He was still in too good a mood to let it get to him, though.
"Consequences. We all live with them," he told her with no small amount of amusement as he reached into a chest for some fresh clothes.
"I know," she sighed. "Probably a year of scrubbing pots in the kitchens for this one."
He couldn't help a chuckle. She likely wasn't wrong. But then, she was different, too. He was certain she would accept whatever punishment they assigned her without a complaint. Yet, he couldn't help feeling that Akara and the others must already know she was special and might even make allowances for that. Whatever, they could deal with it later.
First, breakfast, he reminded himself.
He disappeared into a room across the corridor to change clothes. His little chat with Fern in the corridor the night before had left him covered with itchy and irritating dust. When he returned, she was sitting curled up on the bed again, her hair pulled back into a puffy tail. She was staring into the low-burning fire with a distant gaze; not unlike those times she had seen Akara scrying. For a few seconds, he scrutinized her; she still looked so very young. But those eyes did not belong to a child. Then the tense moment was broken as she glanced up at him with a smile. He tossed the dusty clothes into a corner for later. Out of habit, he almost reached for his armor when he opened his backpack. With another mental sigh, he realized he'd left that mess to Charsi without so much as an explanation. He grimaced, remembering just how bad it had been after cleaning it all. He pulled out the midnight blue robes instead.
"What's wrong?" Fern asked, seeing his grimace.
He heaved a sigh as he sorted out the robes. "I have some explaining to do."
"Consequences. We all live with them," she shot back with an impish grin.
"I want to say you're not allowed to do that," he said with a laugh, "but it was totally fair."
She giggled happily and hopped off the bed as he opened the door. A few seconds later, he decided to use the waypoint just southwest of Rakkis Plaza. Fern's eyes were huge as they rounded the corner into the already bustling plaza. By this point, he was near starving. Much as he wanted to see Charsi, it would have to wait. The less he was seen around the city, the better. He could already anticipate his eyes being recognized by someone passing by, so he kept them mainly to the ground with the hood pulled low.
He quickly wove through the crowds with Fern right beside him as they made their way up the western side of the plaza with all the many food stalls. The scent of fresh bread had his stomach growling audibly by the time they got to the stall where he remembered those delicious meat pasties. Being that it was so early in the morning, they hadn't even had a chance to cool from the ovens.
Each of them carrying one on thick brown paper, he guided them around the north to the less crowded Central Square. Briefly, he recalled his last trip through here as nothing more than a miserable and terrifying blur of screaming. He still couldn't recall exactly what had happened. There had been blood. He remembered that much. Karshun had said it was all his. But...
He quickly shoved that aside. He chose a spot for both of them on the edge of the fountain in the center to wait while the pasties cooled. Fern's big blue eyes roved everywhere, taking in everything. By the time she spotted the palace and cathedral to the north of them, he knew he would have to bring her back here one day to get a better look around. Unfortunately, they had business to deal with. And he did not want to risk being arrested if recognized, especially while having Fern with him.
He left her to her wide-eyed exploration of all the buildings and people around them. Despite how on edge he typically felt in the city, he relaxed considerably when he began to realize the sight of them drew little to no attention. Aside from no one actively looking for an obvious Priest of Rathma, the city seemed calm today. He had no idea what it was he had been expecting. Regardless, he was in too good a mood for the subtle fears to take hold. Once they had finished eating, Fern jumped down off the ledge of the fountain with an excited grin.
"You're up to something," he accused.
"Of course I am," she readily admitted. "Come on, I can't wait to meet Karshun."
He just shook his head and turned their steps toward the northwest corner of the Central Square and the familiar little street. Every detail of this place stood out to him now. Since the memories had all been put in their proper places again, he could understand his instant connection to Cain. A part of him was sad to realize it wasn't just his own experiences and memories that had led to their friendship. He still missed his friend and their talks. Yet, he couldn't help questioning what other influences had even made him accept Cain as a friend. Would he have ever done so had he remembered the other Cain? Or would he have fled in shame all over again?
But this was Karshun's workshop now. And this friend deserved some explanations. He wasn't sure yet how much he would tell Karshun or even how much the mage already knew for himself. First, he had to feel out just how irritated the mage was with him. He hadn't exactly been pleasant to deal with yesterday. Still, he had very much missed Karshun's wicked barbs lately. Maybe Karshun would enjoy the almost too-easy opportunity his bad behavior had offered the mage. For that matter, if all he got out of it were a tongue-lashing from Karshun, he'd count his blessings. He grimaced again mentally, recalling how he'd snapped at his friend only yesterday.
When they approached the door, Fern carefully ducked behind his robes. He threw her a curious look before he raised his hand to knock. With another mischievous grin, she put a finger to her lips. Suddenly, he was very curious but also looking forward to whatever mischief the little girl had up her sleeve, as well as Karshun's reaction. Karshun answered the door only a few seconds after he knocked, as if expecting someone. For a moment, the mage looked stunned to see him. Then his dark brows furrowed, scrutinizing his friend.
"I forgot to ask how much the bounty for my head is. Before you collect the reward, I could use that cup of tea," Pyresong told him with a grin.
The tight lines of worry faded instantly as Karshun grinned, motioning him inside. "And here I was thinking it was time to introduce a necromancer to an entirely different type of spirits," the mage shot back.
Pyresong couldn't help a laugh at that, half in relief that Karshun didn't appear too angry with him over his behavior the day before. Somehow, Fern managed to stay unseen behind his robes as he closed the door. Karshun was already headed back toward the fire and kettle when she decided to make her presence known.
"Still spying where you don't belong, Old Coot?"
Pyresong had just cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly when her words left him stunned. He looked to the mage reflexively. Karshun spun around in wide-eyed surprise.
"Little Imp?" Karshun asked in disbelief.
Fern just smirked wickedly while Karshun's eyes flew from her to Pyresong. At a loss, Pyresong shrugged.
"She said she needed to meet with you."
Then Karshun's expression changed from one of confused surprise to one of amused understanding.
"You must be Fern, unless I am badly mistaken, which is never, by the way."
Instead of replying verbally, Fern darted across the room and jumped high into the air. Reflexively, the mage's glowing hands caught her and froze her in mid-air. Then, with a wicked grin of his own, he flipped her upside down and pushed to start her spinning. Still recovering from the shock, Pyresong watched in amusement for a minute while he shed the still itchy, albeit more colorful, robes. Fern giggled happily and then reached toward him after one spin. Karshun pushed her into his arms with another flash of magic.
"I should have known," Karshun muttered. "Only you, Pyresong."
"Does someone want to fill me in here?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at Fern.
"That little imp disrupted one of my divinations quite thoroughly some weeks ago. Then she had the audacity to confront me on the Astral Plane," Karshun explained, returning his attention to the kettle.
"You were looking in the wrong place, and it was none of your business," Fern stated seriously. "I was at least nice enough to point you in the right direction."
Karshun huffed and motioned to the rocking chair. Pyresong happily took it and settled Fern in his lap while Karshun set the kettle over the fire. Before taking a seat in the other chair, Karshun eyed the two of them closely.
"Feeling better, I take it?" Karshun asked, still eyeing him as he sat down.
Pyresong had known this was coming and couldn't entirely stifle the shame.
"He had a bad week," Fern shot back defensively.
Karshun cocked an eyebrow at him in question. Pyresong nodded in answer.
"She knows," he answered the look, "more than I would like, sometimes. She tracked me down at the Sanctified Earth Monastery."
"I needed to talk to you," Fern said, all seriousness now. "And you would not come to us. Besides, I need to show Karshun something. Before I'm restricted to the Eastgate Monastery for the rest of my life, I might as well."
"In a bit of trouble, are we? You naughty Little Imp," Karshun teased.
Fern stuck her tongue out in return. Pyresong couldn't help smiling at the childish behavior. But his mind quickly returned to why he was here.
"I apologize for yesterday. I—"
Karshun waved off his apology. "We can discuss it later if there is anything to discuss. I'm well aware you had a 'bad week', as she put it. I'm just relieved to see you recovering. There are many watching eyes looking for signs. For now, you can focus on what you need to recover fully."
"What happened to you and Charsi? I saw you being arrested before I got to the ship."
Karshun huffed a dark laugh. "We all do what we must. We spoke with Commander Kaya. I assured her that there would be no more unexpected incidents if you returned. Justinian would rather not hear of any chaos in his city, so the commander is happy to sweep the whole affair under the rug in exchange for our help."
Pyresong was relieved to hear there weren't more dire consequences for all of them. Karshun could already see the questions coming, as well as the guilt that would follow. He waved it off dismissively before it could start.
"Charsi's making weapons for the Knights. I'm to advise the court mages," he explained simply. "Your involvement in what happened is not a matter of record, though you may hear occasional whispers. We're free to remain here and keep up the fight."
Relieved as he was, he still couldn't entirely quash the guilt. For the moment, he just nodded and let it go. Perhaps there was some sort of fine or payment he could make to get them out of their "sentences". Before he could work his way to asking about Charsi and his armor, Fern groaned, startling both of them.
"They're coming. You'll want to get two more cups ready," Fern warned.
"They who?" Karshun asked curiously.
"Charsi and Priestess Akara," Fern answered, maneuvering out of his lap. "We need to hurry. I don't have much time now. This will be quicker and more thorough if I have direct contact. Pyresong, may I borrow the amulet?"
He nodded instantly and pulled it out from under his tunic. Again, he was somewhat unsettled by Fern's shifting demeanor. She had gone from playful child to adult in seconds. Yet he could sense that this was not more mischief. There was something much darker and more critical happening here. And she seemed willing to suffer whatever other consequences to ensure Karshun had this knowledge. He handed it over quickly. It was larger around than Fern's entire hand, so she held it up in her open palm toward the mage. Despite his obvious curiosity and many questions, Karshun wrapped his much larger hand around hers and the amulet.
Pyresong could practically feel the tingling tension in the air. Their eyes unfocused as they turned inward toward whatever they were now seeing. Unconsciously, he held his breath as he watched the two of them. They were eerily still as the seconds stretched on. Finally, Karshun's brow furrowed deeply, and Fern seemed to shiver. Then they both breathed more deeply as they shook off whatever shared trance they had been in. The moment Karshun opened his mouth to ask something, she held up her hand to stop him.
"What cannot be avoided must be endured," she warned him severely.
Karshun closed his mouth on whatever he was about to say and sighed instead.
"As you say,” he agreed softly. “Thank you for the...warning."
Fern nodded with a grim smile. Disconcerted, Pyresong took the amulet back. Fern's face morphed into a genuine, cherubic smile again as he lifted her back into his lap. He threw Karshun a questioning look.
"Don't ask," Karshun warned.
"It's personal," Fern told him with an almost sly grin.
"Personal as in 'chasing a killer' kind of personal?" he couldn't help asking, only half teasingly.
Karshun threw him a dark look that quickly turned into a grin as he shook his head. Then he got up to get more cups and finish the tea.
"Personal as in 'you'll know if it ever happens'. We all have our choices to make."
Despite the teasing tone, Pyresong could definitely sense something darker in there that he didn't like. Then Karshun turned to Fern with a grin that came off more like a dark, grim smile.
"Words of despair often sound truer than most, Little Imp. It does not make them correct."
Fern nodded in agreement but said nothing further. He wanted to question more, but they obviously weren't going to say anything right now in front of him. He set it aside for later. Karshun seemed to be thinking deeply on whatever it was, anyway. He seemed to pull himself out of it as he handed them cups of tea. There was no missing the speculative looks Karshun gave her, though.
"I can't," Fern answered, looking at Karshun. "I have—"
The knock on the door interrupted whatever she was about to add. Karshun laughed softly at her sour face. Pyresong took the cup of tea from her as she moved to get out of his lap again.
"I'm doomed," Fern whispered to Pyresong.
"Welcome, ladies," Karshun called, opening the door. "We've been expecting you for about...oh, five minutes."
Akara's dry chuckle preceded her. "Yes, I believe you have an unexpected guest."
By that point, Pyresong had set aside the cups and risen from the chair, still holding Fern's hand. Charsi caught sight of him and raced over, eyeing him closely. Before she could ask, he wrapped her in a tight hug.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," he told her. "And about the condition of the armor."
Charsi's own embrace was crushing, though she laughed off the apology. "I'm just happy to see you."
Meanwhile, Fern had crossed the room to bow low to Akara. "High Priestess, I offer my apologies for my truancy. I submit to your punishment."
Karshun closed the door behind the high priestess with a grin. Pyresong and Charsi turned to watch as well.
"Do you now?" Akara asked coldly. "And what makes you believe you will be returning to the Sisterhood at all?"
Pyresong opened his mouth to intervene, but Karshun waved his hand behind Akara's back to keep him silent. Reluctantly, he stifled his arguments.
"Because I am needed," Fern answered calmly. "It is not the life I would have chosen under other circumstances. But events are shifting, and we all have our parts to play."
Pyresong blinked in surprise. He had once heard the very same words from Cain. Every eyebrow, including Akara's, shot up at her reply. Again, Pyresong stifled what he wanted to say. A part of him did not wish to see such responsibility dumped on Fern's little shoulders, regardless of how she felt about all of it. He was more than willing to whisk her away from all of this and leave her somewhere safe. After a moment, Akara grinned. Then she turned to Karshun.
"You were right; this one is trouble," Akara told him.
Karshun laughed softly. "She is only just getting started. I'll be happy to take her off your hands as an apprentice if you don't want her back."
Akara chuckled dryly. Then she turned back to Fern, waiting patiently, her shoulders tense.
"Very well, Fern, you may return to the monastery and the Sisterhood. I know you have no desire to become a priestess at this time, but you must learn when and where to use your sight. You must know when to act and when to abstain.
"As punishment, your workload will be doubled. In addition to your ongoing training as a Rogue, you will begin training immediately as a priestess, as well."
Fern bowed again. Still, Pyresong wanted to say something. Perhaps there would be time for it later. As Karshun was getting cups of tea, Fern ran back to him. He happily hefted her in his arms. Charsi turned the two rocking chairs to face the room while Pyresong grabbed a couple of chairs from the former dining table for himself and Charsi.
Once they were all settled, Akara eyed him speculatively, though she said nothing at the time. He suspected she wanted to speak with him more privately. And it didn't take a great leap of logic to guess what the subject of that conversation would be.
As this was a somewhat unexpected and informal visit, they spent the time engaging in light conversation. Pyresong resisted the urge to ask about Kashya. He knew full well his next stop was going to be the Eastgate Monastery anyway. Charsi soon excused herself, needing to get back to her forge and work. While moving toward the fireplace to set the cup on a table, Charsi caught Karshun's eye, and something silent passed between them. Karshun nodded, and Charsi smiled hugely. In a moment, she disappeared out the door, still smiling.
Despite his involvement in the pleasantries, it didn't take long for the three of them to realize Karshun was distracted, likely by whatever it was Fern had shown him. Once they had finished their tea, Akara heaved a sigh.
"While I am grateful for the protection of the monastery's walls, I do wish we would invest in some better furniture. This chair is far too comfortable, sometimes."
Karshun chuckled at that as he took her cup and offered her a supportive hand. Once she was back on her feet, she turned to Pyresong. Knowing what was coming, Fern gave him one more embrace before she hopped down off his lap. He quickly rose and set aside their teacups. He was almost anxious at this point to get to Kashya.
"We have much to discuss, my friend," Akara told him
Her expression was so even and flat he couldn't begin to fathom what was going on behind those ancient eyes. While he had come to know Akara well enough in recent months, there was something there in the flat tone and serenity that instantly set his nerves on edge. His heart lurched momentarily in anticipation. Then she turned to Fern.
"I will send you back to the monastery. Report immediately to Flavie. We will discuss the rest later," Akara told her, sternly.
"Yes, Priestess," Fern said formally, bowing to Akara.
Pyresong quickly grabbed his backpack and robes. To everyone's surprise, instead of responding with equal formality, Akara ruffled Fern's mop of blond curls with a grin.
"The next time you decide to run off, at least talk to me first. I can think of a few places better than that lonely mountain top. More fun, at the very least."
Fern's cheeks flamed red. "Yes, Priestess."
Fern led the way to the door. Karshun held Akara's hand warmly for a few seconds. For a heartbeat, Pyresong thought he saw something zip across Karshun's expression, as if he wanted to say something to the elderly priestess, but didn't dare to do so. Still looking distracted, Karshun glanced at Fern in the doorway. His eyes flickered with something else for a moment as he quickly stepped around the Astral Anchor to Cain's desk.
"Little Imp," Karshun called, just as she was about to open the door, making them pause.
Karshun held up something that resembled a blue, polished stone. Fern darted sideways deftly and caught the poorly thrown object. Fern looked curiously at the blue stone in her open palm as if not understanding. Reflexively, Pyresong switched to his magical sight. The stone practically glowed in his vision with an unfamiliar aura. Akara cocked an eyebrow at Karshun.
"If you figure it out, it’s there when you need it," was all he told Fern.
"Interesting," Akara commented, obviously recognizing either it or its energies.
After a few seconds, Fern nodded. "I will see you again, Old Coot."
"Is that a threat?" Karshun teased.
Again, Fern stuck her tongue out at him, making Karshun and Akara smile. Those reactions helped ease Pyresong's tension somewhat. But he couldn't help feeling something was off here. Karshun waved him off casually when he was caught eyeing the mage. He set those thoughts aside for later. He would definitely be back sooner rather than later. But, first...
Just outside the door, Akara opened a portal and sent Fern on her way. Then she opened another one and motioned Pyresong through it. He was not entirely surprised to find they had not gone directly to the monastery. Instead, she took them to the waypoint and the little overlook above Inifuss. The place was as peaceful yet alive as he remembered from the last time he was here. In his magical vision, the enormous tree was even fuller and stronger than he had anticipated. For a few seconds, he was enthralled all over again by the sight of it.
"You see it?" Akara asked with a faint smile.
"Yes, it's beautiful. The living heart of Dark Wood," he replied, smiling. "I wish others could see it as we do."
"Very few can," she admitted serenely.
She led them down the path and around the tree at a sedate pace. Pyresong waited in tense silence. He could guess at least some of what the priestess wanted to discuss, but was entirely uncertain of her feelings in all of this. Yes, she would essentially be a grandmother, but there were far more factors to consider. After all, Kashya was part of an order that had its own rules. While neither Kashya nor Akara had said anything about a conflict of order rules, yet, it had always stuck in the back of his mind that Kashya might still have to give up the child to be raised by another. He wouldn't dream of asking her to leave the Sisterhood.
"I can see it in your aura. The memories have surfaced," Akara said after a couple of minutes.
Startled, Pyresong nearly stumbled on the smooth path. This was something he had not been expecting, ever. And Akara had never shown herself to be the type for direct confrontation unless it was something dire. She typically kept her secret knowledge to herself, reserving it for when it would be needed. He quickly recovered, though, and suppressed a surge of panic. He had suspected Akara might see or find out someday.
"They have," he admitted, hesitantly. "How much do you know?"
Akara nodded but ignored his question. "What will you tell Kashya?"
Recovering some of his mental equilibrium, Pyresong sighed heavily. "Everything, someday."
"But not now?" Akara pushed gently.
Pyresong shook his head. Her serene expression gave him no room to even gauge her reaction. He knew she was protective of Kashya. Despite giving her blessing regarding the intimate relationship, he couldn't help feeling as if Akara disagreed with their decision. He had often wondered how much she really knew about him and his own obligations.
"No," he answered after a few seconds. "When this is all over, then I will."
"Then why not now?"
Not liking this line of questioning at all, he paused to face her. Akara's serene expression held a hard, cold edge now. She was going to get her answers one way or another.
"Why does it matter when I tell her?" he asked defensively.
"I know what happened on Ewon Tull and the fallout that led to Fern chasing you down," she told him coldly. "It took a child nearly killing herself traveling halfway across the world to bring you back. What will it take next time?"
Pyresong felt like he'd just been slapped. For a few seconds, he couldn't even really think. A part of him reflexively wanted to deny that it would ever happen again. But how could he be so sure? He wasn't, and that was the worst part. How many times had he been a broken wreck? How many more times would it happen?
"If you know as much as I suspect, then you know I did not make the decision to be with Kashya lightly, nor did Kashya. Just tell me, should I leave them?"
His heart lurched painfully. But if someone like Akara believed it would be best for him to leave her alone, he would.
"No. What I want you to do is think for a minute. What is she to you?"
He knew Akara well enough to know that this was not just a protective mother figure asking. Nor was it just an old woman's nosiness. There was something there behind those ancient eyes. He considered the question carefully. There were so many answers that he couldn't even think of them all. There were so very many things he loved about Kashya that he couldn't even list them. As if seeing all of this going on behind his eyes, Akara smiled sadly.
"Everything," he finally answered honestly and simply.
She took his hands in hers comfortingly. "Then give her everything, my friend. You need her. You need to believe in her as much as she believes in you. Do not hide from her when you are in need. Kashya can be strong enough for the both of you, if you let her."
He nodded slowly, still not liking it. However, he understood her intentions very well. He squeezed her hands gratefully.
"I will," he promised. "How much do you know?"
Akara's expression was sad as she placed a hand on his cheek. "You are Pyresong because you choose to be. That is all any of us really need to know. Nothing you say or discover is going to change that fact unless you choose it. We are all here for you, if you will let us be."
Giving in to his instincts, he embraced her. She returned it, firmly.
"Thank you," he whispered, slightly choked up.
She looked serious and sad again as she pulled back. "I know the situation you are in with Kashya is a difficult one for you. And I appreciate you giving all that you can. We understand, to some small extent, the obligations of a Priest of Rathma. You two will have much to work out in the years to come. Just know that you are part of our family now, as is the child. You will know when you are needed and where. Do what you must, and know there will always be someone to care for both of them."
"Is all this just your roundabout way of telling me I need to marry her to legitimize things?" he asked, teasingly.
Akara snorted in amusement at the idea and shook her head. “That would be entertaining, to say the least.”
She opened a portal nearby. A few seconds later, they entered the Outer Cloister, where Kashya was waiting for him. She sat on the edge of a fountain, staring intently at the waypoint. He almost couldn't believe what he was seeing. He was even more beautiful than in his memories. Her red hair practically glowed in the glaring sunshine. Her wide smile tugged at his heart, wanting to kiss her. Before she could even struggle to her feet, he had her in his arms.
He nearly laughed at how much he had to lean in to get past her swollen belly. Reflexively, one hand went to that enormous bulge as if to hold the child, too. He didn't even give her a chance to verbally welcome him. At the moment, he could not care less who was watching. He let the world fall away for a while as he kissed her so thoroughly they were both breathless when he broke it off.
"I missed you, too," she teased with a laugh.
Finally, he stood back enough to get a good look at her. Mentally, he couldn't help wincing. That massive bulge looked downright painful to carry around. How did women do it?
"How far along are you?" he asked.
Kashya took his hand and headed toward the buildings. "Not far enough," she replied. "I still have a few more months of this. But the baby is kicking now."
That time, he did grimace. That did not sound pleasant at all. Kashya laughed.
"Don't worry, I won't let it hear me cursing your name every time it does."
Pyresong couldn't help laughing. Right now, she could not care less how angry she was with him. He had her right now. Everything else could wait. The world could wait. But there was one thing he decided couldn't wait. As soon as they were alone in her room, he hugged her from behind.
"Kashya, no matter what happens, I want you to know that whether I'm dead or alive, I will always come back to you, until you tell me you don't want me anymore."
Her eyes were watery when she turned in his arms to hold him fiercely. "I know. Now shut up before you make me cry again."
He couldn't help a laugh as she sniffled. He kissed the top of her head and just held her for a while until she seemed to regain her composure. Not wanting to let her go even for a second, he eyed the room. Suspecting she would be far more comfortable on the bed, he crawled over it to the far side and then sat her between his legs so she could lean on him. Then he wrapped his arms around her again. For a while, he was content just to hold her. A part of him wanted to let go of all the dark, swirling things circling his thoughts. But this time, he knew he couldn't.
"I promise some day I will tell you everything," he started hesitantly, running his long fingers through her thick, soft hair. "But right now, I just want you to focus on yourself and the child. Be strong for them. I will always come back for you. There will always be tomorrow for us."
At first, Kashya gripped his arms tensely. She trembled slightly as she sniffled again. He rested his chin on her shoulder and held her more tightly. After a few seconds, she huffed a laugh.
"Of course, you waited until I can't reach you to properly slap you to do that," she warned, scrubbing the tears off her face. "Someday, this war will be over. But you will never be entirely free to live your own life. I know that much, even if you've never outright said it. And I don't care. I'll take what I can get. Just be with us when you can, and I will be satisfied. I promise."
That was the part about himself, about this whole situation, that he hated so much. She was right. He had avoided and danced around the subject for months. There was no escaping it. His heart stuttered and squeezed painfully in his chest just thinking about it. But that rebellious spark inside of him refused to accept it without a fight. Struggling with his own emotions, he nodded slightly.
"I know what I am. And now I know why I am what I am," he admitted carefully.
For one heartbeat, he wanted to tell her everything. But he couldn't. Not yet. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, as if to hide from the thoughts.
"You're right. Priests of Rathma are not supposed to want these things. We're supposed to be above and outside such mundane things in life. I never had a choice." He took a deep breath and squeezed her again. "I don't care. Gods forgive me, but I don't care. I want this. I can't just forget my oaths, but I will find some way to make this work for all of us. I swear it."
Apparently, Kashya couldn't take any more. She squirmed and wriggled until she was sideways enough to wrap her arms around him. She buried her face in his chest, sobbing. Though he tried to be strong for her, now, he couldn't help his own tears. Somehow, his continued silence felt all wrong; and, at the same time, absolutely right. Once again, he was a mass of contradictions when it came to her. At the moment, he had no desire to “sort it out” either. He just wanted to be with her. He wanted the warm, comforting simplicity of just being in her presence.
In that awkward position, he couldn't fathom that position being even remotely comfortable with the extra weight she carried. After a couple of minutes, he twisted and shifted until they were both lying down and he could hold her properly. By the time her sobs wound down, he was just tired. So much of him just wanted to take her and run away from all of this and never look back.
"As long as you always come back, I will be satisfied," she told him, tiredly.
He caressed her face tenderly. "That much I can promise."
She nodded and started to say something that ended in a yawn. She growled in frustration. He couldn't help grinning.
"It kicks half the night and then demands I sleep all day," she told him.
"I believe it's my turn to guard against the nightmares," he whispered, kissing her forehead. "Just rest for a while."
She closed her eyes and shifted a bit to get more comfortable. He kissed the top of her head and then settled as much as he could. As awkward as his own position was, he knew he wouldn't be sleeping, anyway. Just as she was dozing off, she freed up a hand and swatted blindly in the direction of his face, making him flinch when her fingertips caught his nose.
"That's for making me cry again," she growled sleepily.
He just managed not to laugh. "Just save it up. Some day our child will need training, and you can knock me around all you want then in the name of training."
Kashya laughed softly and squeezed him. He continued running his hand through her hair until her soft snores lulled him out of his own dark thoughts. What he had told her was true. Necromancers weren't supposed to want such things as family or children or anything even remotely approaching normal. Those who were called to do such work were always shunned and isolated, usually even before they started as apprentices. He couldn't even begin to imagine right now how he would make it work for all of them.
Yet, he knew he would. Whatever else happened to him from here on out, he had this. And, right now, nothing else mattered. He would fight for this - these indescribable feelings of love and warmth and safety. He would protect this, preserve it, cling to it.
Someday, the other part of his life would catch up to him, and he would answer for these sins. Until then, he embraced it.
the_charles_343_117 on Chapter 25 Fri 08 Aug 2025 01:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pyresong on Chapter 25 Thu 21 Aug 2025 11:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
the_charles_343_117 on Chapter 25 Thu 21 Aug 2025 11:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pyresong on Chapter 25 Sat 30 Aug 2025 05:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
the_charles_343_117 on Chapter 29 Sat 06 Sep 2025 06:36PM UTC
Comment Actions