Rahvunah flipped slowly through the book. He held a pen in his hands, one of the new fountain pens coming from the Zakarum inventors. He smiled slightly, imagining exactly what Nervaiah would say about him choosing this new device over the traditional quill. He snorted, then made a small note in the margin, and flipped the page again.
The book was full of diagrams detailing how to build and operate the machine that stood in front of him. With a tired sigh, he placed the pen to paper again, writing out another set of instructions in his clear, deliberate script. He heard the rustling of clothes behind him, but ignored it with a sour smile on his face as he continued writing. Around the time he reached the bottom of the page, the person behind him cleared his throat. “What do you want, Nervaiah?” he asked.
The elder man limped forward, leaning heavily on his cane. It had been carved from the bone of some giant demon – fitting, for the eldest disciple of Na-Krul. “Using one of those damned ‘improvements’ Rahvunah?” he asked acidly. “Why won’t you ever realize that our traditions are what makes us strong?”
“Strong?” he retorted. “There are barely a dozen of us here. Across the whole world, the disciples of Na-Krul number less than three score. How does that make us strong?” He bent over the book again, keeping the cowl of his cloak drawn up. “Leave me to my work, old man.”
“Old, am I? Not so much older than you, or Thane.” Nervaiah looked pointedly at the head, stuffed and mounted on the wall. His experiments had twisted his flesh, turning him into a gross parody of a human, leaving him almost unrecognizable. “If you’re going to continue with his mad work, be kind enough to warn the rest of us before you test this damnable contraption on yourself.”
Rahvunah straightened, throwing back his cowl. “But I already have.” Nervaiah gasped, looking upon his fellow disciple, who appeared to have cut a dozen years off his age. “It’s taken me four months of careful work, but I discovered where Thane had erred.” He looked at the odd contraption, taking up most of the room. “Actually, if you’ll sit in that chair, I’ll give you a demonstration.”
The elder man licked his lips, then quickly limped over to the simple, metal chair. “Now what?”
Rahvunah carefully placed the metal bands around his arms and legs, and a copper circlet on his head. “The process can be a bit painful, so these bands are merely to hold you still. Now, as you know, suction pumps are centuries old.” He looked at the large water wheel and assortment of bellows and pumps. “All this does is suck the magic out of a piece of Worldstone, and place it into you.”
Nervaiah looked at the several large pieces in the center of the device. “Get on with it already!”
Rahvunah turned away, a wider smile on his face, and moved to the controls. Placing a second copper circlet on his brow, he grasped the wooden lever and slid it up several notches. A gate opened, and water started to flow through, turning the water wheel slowly. As it gained speed, Nervaiah tensed in the chair, his mouth opening in a snarl of pain. “Oh yes, old man, I lied. I’m actually draining your life away. For every year you would have lived, I get one year younger.”
He raged against the metal restraints, but the magically enchanted bands held him in place tightly. His white hair started to fall out in clumps and his skin wrinkled and sagged. He started screaming in a reedy voice, then suddenly sagged. Rahvunah yanked off the circlet hurriedly, then pulled the lever back down. With the water supply cut off, the wheel spun to a stop, as the corpse continued to age, drying out. By the time the machine had stilled, Nervaiah was little more than a collection of dried bones, held together by paper-thin skin and his dark robes.
Eagerly, Rahvunah picked up a mirror and looked at his own visage. He had barely gained a year or two, but his hair was now more of its original red, and less the gray he had been accustomed to over the last two decades. “Was that really necessary?” asked the gravelly voice.
He turned back, looking at Thane’s stuffed, animated head. “It certainly can’t hurt us, you know,” he chuckled. “Besides, with a few carefully dropped hints, I’ll have as many willing volunteers as I need. Once I have enough, I’ll be able to summon Na-Krul back to this world.”
“The Primes won’t be very happy with that,” Thane said. “You know they locked him up for trying to co-opt Diablo’s escape from Tristram.” He started to say more, then shifted his eyes to look at the door to the main compound.
Rahvunah looked in that direction, drawing a double-bladed dagger from under his cloak. The door crashed open, and a dark-haired woman burst in. Her sword was covered in blood, and she was dressed in armor completely painted black. “Who are you?” he asked quietly, mentally deciding on a half-dozen spells he could use to strike her down.
She stepped into the room, lowering her sword. “If you are Rahvunah, then I am Gerta.”
“You’re a Silent Liar,” Thane accused from his perch.
Gerta inclined her head towards him. “Yes. My master has sent me to propose a partnership between his followers and the disciples of Na-Krul.” She looked pointedly at Rahvunah, lowering the tip of her sword to the stone floor.
He backed away, moving back to the pedestal where his book lay. “And why should I agree with that?”
“You wish the return of Na-Krul to the mortal world, to continue the centuries of havoc he started.” As she talked, she pulled out a rag from her belt, and cleaned the blood from her sword. “The Lord of Lies wishes a war to start, and you have been most talented in that respect. He watched the border war begin between Entsteig and Khanduras.” With her blade clean, she sheathed it quickly. “What do you say?”
Rahvunah stood there and considered the offer. “How does Belial propose to help me, and why should I believe anything you say for him?” He favored her with an ironic smile. “You are, after all, a follower of lies.”
She returned the smile. “What have you to lose? Even if my lord does nothing to aid your freeing of that great demon, the chaos and death of the war will favor the disciples of Na-Krul.” She looked at his machine. “And you will have eternity to accomplish your aims, should it fail.”
He stood there for several moments, still holding his dagger while he thought. “I will agree, on one condition,” he said finally.
Thane interrupted from his perch. “Don’t be a fool, Rahvunah.”
The man cast a dark glance at the stuffed head, which suddenly froze in place. Gerta chuckled. “Your condition is for me to be your concubine, yes?” She laughed again at the slightly surprised look on his face. “Sharing a bed with a man of such obvious intelligence and skill is no hard task.”
He nodded slightly, and strode over to her. Raising his dagger, he slashed open his palm, and then a matching cut on hers. They clasped hands, their blood dripping and staining the floor. “Well, it will be interesting, starting a war again. Such a prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition.” His laugh mirrored hers, and they turned to leave his workspace. “So tell me, who is to war against whom?”
“This will be a complicated endeavor. Entsteig must fight against the barbarian tribes. The Zakarum must war against the Druids in Scosglen. And Westmarch will combat the waves with the Amazons.” Gerta linked her arm with his as they passed the underground corridors of his haven. “All of this is merely to keep those Lao Wai protectors busy.”
Rahvunah stroked his chin with his other hand. “Indeed. Summoning Na-Krul in the Worldstone chamber would be quite an accomplishment.” He smiled at her, stopping in the hall and turning her to face him. “I’m beginning to like you, Gerta.” She laughed purringly, giving him a knowing look, and began to shed her armor.
Boris sat at his workbench, very slowly drawing with a pen on the large sheet of parchment. When he finished drawing the small assembly of springs and gears, he gratefully put the pen down, massaging his hands. He groaned, looking up at the ceiling and closing his eyes. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered to himself.
“Nonsense, uncle Boris!” Visha said, skipping into the room. He sat up in surprise as she gave him a big hug, one of her pistols pressing into his side. “You’re just the right age.”
He snorted, resettling himself in the padded chair. “I’m almost eight decades old, girl, and I can feel every minute of it!” They both chuckled. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Natalya sent me to see if you had finished the plans for that new rifle. I’m supposed to build it,” she said with unmistakable pride.
“Of course you are, Visha,” Boris said with a smile. “You’re the best gunsmith this school has seen yet.” He looked back at the drawing board. “I’m almost done. I can’t write as fast as I used to.”
She pulled up a stool next to him. “So tell me what you need, and I’ll draw it out.” She picked up his pen, and waited over an empty stretch. He slowly dictated to her, often taking up another pen and carefully pointed out how to draw a certain piece. An hour flew by before they were finished. By that point, Natalya had come looking for them. “What is taking so long?” she asked as she stepped inside.
“Ah, Natalya, we’re almost done here.” Boris turned back, dictating a few written instructions to go under the last diagram. “Then Visha gets to go build this confounded thing, and find out what I did wrong, eh?”
The old assassin laughed, tossing her white hair out of her face. “Nonsense, Boris. You may be eccentric and build some very odd contraptions, but I’ve never seen one that didn’t work.”
Visha unclipped the parchment, rolling it up and sliding it into a large copper tube for protection. “Well, I’ll get this done right away. Bye uncle Boris!” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then ducked out of the room.
He looked after her fondly. “She’s turned out well, don’t you think?”
Natalya laughed. “I’m sure having her parents around the school so much has helped. I keep wondering if she’ll act like such a carefree girl forever though.”
“Bah, she’s only twenty-six,” he grumped at her. “She’s still got plenty of time ahead of her.”
She sank onto the stool, hearing her aging bones creaking. “Almost as old as we were when we first came here to start up this new school. And we’d both had plenty of hard work before that.”
“So has she,” Boris said quietly. “Or are you forgetting she was at the front when that group of demon summoners attacked the compound three years ago?”
Grudgingly, Natalya nodded. “I just worry about her, still acting so naïve.”
Boris chuckled, reaching out a hand to pat her arm. “I know. But she’s capable, and mature enough. You worry too much.”
Sharing smiles, the two old friends sat in silence for several minutes. Then the sound of a large explosion came from outside, and they both groaned, rising to their feet to go rein in the students.
Slip moved quietly through the corridors of the Zakarum outpost. After the new Worldstone had been created, they bought some land outside of Lao Wai, built a small keep, and set up a new division of troops there. Slip was a scout, and the damn best one by all estimations. Today, the halls were mostly empty, with most of the soldiers outside drilling.
Jaresh stopped suddenly as he came out of his office, almost running over the slim scout. “Slip, there you are.” The paladin ran a hand through his graying hair. “You’re back about two hours early. What’s your report?”
He grinned, leaning against the wall. “You were correct. There’s a small group of horned demons up in the mountains northwest of here. About two dozen or so. They’ve been hitting guard patrols on the roads, while the Emperor has been blaming it on bandits. I wasn’t able to see exactly who’s giving them orders, but their leader is definitely not another Horned demon.”
Jaresh frowned irritably, his fingers playing with the head of his scepter. “Damn. Wait here a moment.” He ducked back inside the office, and Slip watched him scratch out a note on a scrap of paper. “Take this over to the Protectorate school, and ask them if they would be so kind as to lend me a handful of riflemen for a week to take care of these demons.”
“What, you don’t think our own soldiers can handle it?” Slip asked sarcastically.
“Slip, don’t try my patience today,” the paladin warned. “I’d prefer to deal with the demons with as few casualties as possible. Take the note and make it quick. If we can, I want to leave by noon.”
The scout gave a quick salute, then was trotting back down the halls. His red hair was bound up tightly to the back of his head, the braid tucked down the back of the brown wool shirt. He squinted as he emerged into the bright spring light, then started jogging down the road at an easy pace, his short bow bouncing on his back. Even after spending almost all night jogging the roads back to Lao Wai, he was barely winded, his slim frame built for running.
Before long, he had come up against the wall for the Protectorate school. He almost started around to the main gate, working his way more slowly through the crowds, but then grinned impishly. As people gawked and stared, he scaled the wall, crawling across the top easily to hide his silhouette from anyone waiting below.
The wall was almost twenty feet tall, but he dropped off the side, landing on the grass of a courtyard and crouching, looking around. Only one person was around, a tall, black-haired woman. With a shout of alarm, she charged him, drawing a katar from her belt with one hand and a firebomb with the other. Before he could try to explain, she had already thrown it.
Slip threw himself aside, rolling away from the impact easily and coming up with his short bow and an arrow at the ready. Not a moment too soon, he let fly the arrow, exploding another bomb in mid-air. The woman stopped her charge, casting another pair of explosives at him, only to watch in surprise as those, too, were intercepted by arrows. By this time, more students and instructors were gathering, drawn by the noise.
Slip and the woman faced off across the field, his bow held ready, but not aimed at anyone. Then Visha came bursting from the palace, leaping over a balcony railing, her pistols out and pointed before she landed. The two of them faced off down their weapons. “Celest,” Visha finally said, “who is this guy?”
Slip snorted, lowering his bow and putting the arrow away. “I’m a scout for the Zakarum. I came here to deliver a message from Sir Jaresh.” He drew out the slip of paper, still carefully folded.
Celest resheathed her katar and strode forward, taking the paper from him and reading it quickly. “I’ll have to get permission from Natalya, but we should be able to send a few people.” As Slip started to turn away, she reached for his arm, only to find him dexterously slipping out of her grip. “Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?”
He gave her a sardonic grin. “I can tell what you’re thinking. The only archers that good are the Amazons and the Sisters of the Sightless Eye, and neither of them train men.” She nodded slowly, frowning. “My mother was in the Sisterhood for a while.”
“The Sisters don’t have children,” she challeneged.
He sighed, raising his eyes to look at the clouds. “I was born a few months after she got there. They didn’t have the heart to kill me or turn her away.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, a little annoyed. “Any more questions?”
“Are you willing to wait a few minutes for those riflemen you wanted?” She waited, arms crossed over her chest, as he nodded. “Then don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
Slip stood in the courtyard, watching her bounce away. Visha still stood in the courtyard, watching him, as the others drifted away, back to their duties. Finally, Celest returned, stopping to whisper to her cousin, then strode back to Slip, with three other riflemen in tow. “Alright, let’s go.”
He glanced around her at the three riflemen. “This is it?”
Visha grinned. “Plus the two of us. Is that a problem?” she asked sweetly, one hand resting on the butt of her pistol.
Groaning, Slip turned towards the gate out of their compound. “Oh, joy,” he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
Maren looked around at the huge trees in awe. Some of them were large enough to fit a house in, but after her rather long apprenticeship in Viz-Jun, they were a comforting sight. She hefted her staff again, and spurred her horse forward. She would be coming upon the Glór-an-Fháidha, the greatest of the teaching trees of the druids. Where her father stood, every day, to teach the skills and lore of the druid clans.
She had already passed a dozen or so sentinels, both animals and shapeshifted druids, when a dog covered in dry mud came bounding out of the underbrush. He jumped at the horse and her feet, barking and yipping playfully, and Maren laughed. A few moments later, a young boy just a mud-splattered as the dog, ran out after him and skidded to a stop, staring at the sorceress. “Hello there,” she said with a smile, “What’s your puppy’s name?”
He picked up the dog, which squirmed around and licked his face and hands enthusiastically. “Steak,” he said proudly.
Maren groaned loudly. “I had hoped, after being gone for the last three years, someone would have had the good sense to stop naming dogs the way my grandfather did!” The boy looked at her, wide-eyed, then ran back into the bushes. With a sigh, and a smile that was both irritated and amused, she dismounted and led her horse towards the center of the village.
She caught sight of her mother first, the shock of blond hair brilliantly obvious in the sun dappled clearing. Everyone already knew she was coming, of course, thanks both to the messenger raven she’d sent and their own scouts. Lily embraced her daughter heartily, almost driving the breath from her. “So, does this mean you’ve ended your apprenticeship already?”
She nodded, her flame colored hair bobbing. “A few months ago, actually, but I decided to travel the whole way by horse instead of boarding a ship and walking.” She made a face. “I’ve had enough of walking around that damn jungle to last me a lifetime!” Sharing laughs, they started to walk around the great tree, her horse led away by another druid to be cared for.
“Your father is getting worried,” Lily said quietly as they circled the two hundred foot wide tree. “Many of the other Loremasters have been having nightmares, dreaming about another great battle in the Sin War.” She drew silent for a moment, smiling as they passed another druid and his pet cougar, then resumed. “The winds are restless, coming less when we call them.”
Then Maren saw her father, standing proud before the tree and speaking animatedly to a group of youths. His hair was a little more gray than she remembered, but his beard was the same fiery red as her hair. She almost ran forward to interrupt his lesson, but retrained herself as her father started gesturing.
The grass at his feet suddenly grew rapidly, waving around and wrapping itself around his legs. “Now,” Zaras said clearly, “who can tell me where this won’t work?” One of his students shot up a hand, but Maren missed the answer as her mother tapped her on the shoulder.
“Come along girl, let’s go home. You can rest up and prepare for dinner. The Elders decided to throw a small party in your honor.” Maren glanced back over her shoulder, watching as her father easily slipped loose of the grass and then trapped one of his students.
Their “home” was another of the giant trees. She followed her mother through the hollowed passages on the inside of the tree, climbing up several levels until they reached the curtain that marked her parents’ home. “I’d forgotten how much I loved this place,” she said, running her hands over the smooth and still living wood.
Lily smiled at her daughter, nodding quietly. “Your grandmother would have been proud of you,” she said. “Actually, your uncle Kris moved into their rooms after they died. They needed the room, with you having another niece and everything.”
The afternoon passed with much talk of the gossip and families in her clan, and all too soon the sun was setting outside. Small phosphorescent lights started to glow as sunset darkened from red through purple to black. The entire clan had assembled on the open lawn before the Glór-an-Fháidha, talking animatedly and passing around skins of wine. Maren quickly found her father, giving him a fierce hug before they settled into their spot on the lawn.
“Friends of the Blackleaf clan,” Kris spoke from the dais at the foot of the tree, “tonight we gather in celebration to welcome the return of my niece, one of our own. Now that she’s completed her long apprenticeship with the sorcerers of the south, we can only hope she’ll stay long enough for the men to remember what she looks like this time.” Maren blushed strongly as several catcalls came from the torchlit crowd. “But enough talking, it’s time to feast!”
The assembled clan gave a roaring cheer, and some people rose to their feet. Before long, the entire clearing around the great tree was a mass of people, walking, talking and eating. Maren groaned, and Zaras glanced down at her daughter. “What’s wrong?”
She held up a bowl, messily scooping out the seasoned rice. “I had forgotten that no one uses knives and spoons at a feast!” Her father laughed, patting her on the back.
The night passed like a fevered dream for Maren. Every unmarried man in the tribe had come by to talk to her at one point or another about the possibility of courtship. Some of them were at least discrete, but one man she’d almost had to hit with an ice bolt before he’d let her be. As the celebration started to wind down, with people slipping off to climb the winding passages to their homes, Zaras took her arm. “Before we go to bed, there’s something you need to see.”
Her curiosity piqued, she followed her father, leaving Lily to try and keep any other potential suitors from bothering them. To her surprise, he led her up to the foot of the tree, between two roots bigger around than she was. Then he leaned right up against the bark, whispered something, and kissed the tree.
Silently, the bark seemed to stretch away, never quite seeming to move as it vanished and revealed a passage inside. Beginning to wish she had brought a staff, Maren moved forward, conjuring a globe of magelight to hang above her head. The passages here were the same, living wood she had spent her childhood around, but somehow, the ones of the Glór-an-Fháidha seemed far more menacing. Zaras guided her quietly, through dozens of turns and splits as they climbed higher and higher in the tree. Finally, when she felt she could go no further, they emerged through another doorway.
The platform was in the center of the tree, and branches continued to extend upwards even further, reaching for the stars she could see between their leaves. But from the inside, it was like a pit, the smooth wood rising up for almost fifty feet before separating into dozens of thick branches. “What am I supposed to be looking for?” she asked dubiously.
Zaras chuckled. “My, hasn’t your sorceress training made you a bit more skeptical,” he teased. “Come over here.” She followed him to a basin, grown from the living wood and filled with clear water. It reflected the stars and moonlight, but her magelight shone brightly through it all. “Please, put out your light.” She hesitated for a short moment, then wrapped her hand around the light, extinguishing it. “Now, watch.”
She looked into the silvery pool as her father drew a slim wand of rowan wood and brushed it across the surface. The reflections of light jumped and shivered, and for a moment she pictured the walls of Heaven, shining brightly under the onslaught of an army of demons. Then she blinked, and it was gone. But Zaras hesitated with his wand. “What did you see, Maren?”
She blinked up at him, then shook her head. “Nothing.” He frowned, his other hand stroking his beard, but then he lowered the wand to the water again. Three times, he stroked it across the surface, and each time she saw the image more clearly. “I …” She trailed off, but continued as her father gestured. “I saw the gates of Heaven under attack.”
He sighed, slipping the wand away. “Then it is as I suspected,” he said quietly. “Most of the Loremasters have had dreams. Some about that battle. Other ones have pictured the city of Sescheron besieged by the armies of Entsteig, and fleets of ships battling each other south of Westmarch.” He turned away to lead her back out of the tree. “The last time any druid had these dreams, your grandfather left to travel to Khanduras and the monastery of the Sisters of the Sightless Eye.”
Maren followed her father, slipping through the dimly lit passages back down towards the ground. “But what does this mean for me?”
Zaras sighed, leaning against the wall. “I have had but one dream. It was very short, but I saw you, standing in front of the great Zakarum temple in Kurast.” He continued on, obviously searching for words. “I do not know if it is a message or a warning, so I cannot tell you whether to go or stay.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? You could have written me a letter and sent it with a raven.” She winced, watching her father’s shoulders slump as her voice came out more harsh than she intended.
“I had two reasons. The first was I wanted to see my daughter again.” He smiled over his shoulder as they neared the bottom. “And secondly, I only had this dream two nights ago.” He stopped against the wood of the tree, and again whispered and kissed it, the doorway opening up.
The clearing was deserted now, most of the torches little more than hot, charred sticks. “What am I supposed to do, father?” Maren asked quietly.
“I don’t know, girl,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her back to their home. “But hopefully we can decide in the morning.”
Arthur bowed his head, waiting calmly as the bishop lowered the mantle around his neck. “From this day forward, do you swear to follow the commands of Heaven, guiding all men to follow Her dictates in all things, to protect all men from the ravages of Hell?”
“I swear, to offer shelter and forgiveness to all men, should they repent of their crimes. I swear, to protect all men from demons and damnation, and to smite any who willingly ally themselves with the Prime Evils.” Arthur kept his head carefully bowed at the correct angle, waiting for the bishop to raise his staff.
After a moment, the bishop lowered the cross on his staff to touch the top of Arthur’s carefully shaved head. The silver was icy cold against his head, and he fought the urge to shiver. “Then rise, and take your place among the priests of the Zakarum church.” Smiling, he took the offered hand and rose to his feet, surprised as the bishop gave him a huge hug. The other priests and acolytes smiled, a few applauding quietly. “Congratulations, lad. I’m sure your father will be proud when he hears the news.”
He just nodded, running a hand over the velvet white mantle. “I already have a letter prepared to send him, actually. May I be excused?” His hands twitched with excitement.
The bishop laughed, clapping him on the back and leading him towards the door out of the small chapel. “You’re a full priest now, Arthur. You don’t have to ask permission for everything.” With a gentle shove, he was propelled into the sunlight. “Go on, enjoy the day. Tomorrow I’ll know where you’ll be sent.” Gleefully, he trotted down the steps, joining the crowd. Dozens of people called out greetings, recognizing the mantle of a new priest, and his heart swelled with pride.
Fairly soon, he was relaxing in a small inn, enjoying a hearty meal and wondering how long the messenger bird would take to relay the message to his father. Part of him hoped he would be assigned to one of the great Zakarum ships, sailing the waves tirelessly, propelled by the powerful magical spells. The newest ship, the Sunlight, would be launched within the month, to join the other dozen ships, moving priests, soldiers, and messages across the waves.
“Ah, who am I kidding?” he said quietly. “More likely I’ll get assigned to some quiet village in Westmarch for five years or so.” He sighed, swirling the ale in his mug. Just as he raised it to finish the last of his meal, the door burst open.
He vaguely recognized the woman, dressed in fabrics of so many colors. She was normally found in one of the open squares, telling fortunes for cash. As he started to rise to his feet, their eyes met, and he recoiled at the sickly green flames. “For Mephisto!” she screamed, and her hand filled with a cloud of poison. Even as Arthur prepared his own magic, she hurled it at him.
He almost cried out, his hands filling with silvery light and spearing forward. The poison cloud enveloped him, but he heard the woman slam against the wall. Holding his breath, he tried to duck away from the poison, but it followed his every step. Fighting down the urge to breathe, he waved his hands again, and a breeze sprang up from nowhere, dispersing the cloud slowly. When at last he could see (and breathe) again, he looked at the woman.
The holy bolt had knocked her into the wall, rendering her unconscious. A few of the other patrons were fellow Zakarum soldiers, and they bound and gagged her hurriedly. “Take her back to the compound, and put her in a sorcerer’s cell,” Arthur ordered, a little nervously. “If she’s a servant of Mephisto, her magic needs to be nullified.”
He watched them drag her away, then turned back to the innkeeper, holding out a few gold coins to pay for the meal. “Nah, keep it,” he said. “One free meal is worth it, to know another damn hell worshipper won’t be troubling us.” A little reluctantly, Arthur nodded and stepped outside.
Before he had made it more than a dozen steps from the door, a dagger slammed into his side. Luckily, it only pressed against the chain mail he wore under his robes, and he roared as he drew the cudgel hanging from his belt. The assassin was shocked, but stepped backwards, pulling up the dagger to a ready position. Briefly, he noticed the green sheen on the dagger, signifying it had been poisoned as well!
Arthur fought defensively, using the cudgel again and again to just block the dagger, trying to keep the poison away from his flesh. The crowd had fled, leaving a wide circle, but he knew that more Zakarum soldiers would be along quickly. Then he ducked to avoid another swing of the dagger. His would-be assassin jerked in surprise, falling backwards with the arrow in his belly.
Cursing, Arthur spun around, trying to stare into the sun to find the archer. Whoever these people were, they had certainly come prepared! He ducked sideways, weaving back and forth as he ran back towards the inn. Another arrow shattered on the cobblestones an inch from his foot, then he was through the door. “How do I get onto the roof?” he shouted, and the innkeeper wordlessly pointed in surprise.
He ran up the stairs, leaping halfway up the ladder and trying to throw open the trapdoor that led onto the roof. Unsurprisingly, it was bolted shut, and he cursed.
Then the other soldiers were there. The knife-wielder had used his own weapon when escape looked futile, and there was no sign of the archer. Arthur returned to the chapel, this time escorted by four soldiers, his meal feeling like a rock in his belly. Bolting the door to his room, he sat on the simple cot and stared blankly at the wall, trying to figure out why anyone would go to so much effort to assassinate a brand new priest.
Rupert’s sword flashed as he swung it heavily, and the acid spitter flew backwards from the wall. He had hit it with the flat of his blade, and it crashed somewhere below. He listened grimly to the screams of pain as the body managed to spray someone with acidic blood. The battle had been raging for weeks now, and he was actually starting to enjoy himself. Several decades of almost total silence had been driving him mad with boredom. “Here comes another one!” he shouted as a pack of goat men thrust up another scaling ladder.
Another soldier dropped her sword, picking up a long halberd and chopping at the demons trying to scale their way onto the battlements. The ladders were near impossible to dislodge once they had touched the walls, so they had to make do with holding the demons back with force of arms. Luckily, as a spirit, Rupert didn’t get tired. His sword swung in bright arcs, sending sprays of blood to decorate the walls.
Then he felt a little bit of power stirring within him, and dropped his shield. Another warrior yelled a warning, and he barely ducked, the arrow flying harmlessly past him. Reaching out with his empty hand, a torrent of fire dropped out, consuming the goat men and the ladder in bright silvery flames.
His corner of the wall was silent for the moment, and Rupert quickly took stock. Diablo was out there, leading the army, and he thought Duriel was around too. But he wasn’t quite sure how they had managed to lead their entire army almost to the gates of Heaven before being noticed. The first attack had killed Michael, the sergeant for that part of the wall, and Rupert had to leap into command quickly, just to keep the others from being killed in the confusion. Still, there were half as many soldiers now as there had been when the fighting started. He wasn’t worried, of course – they would all reform in a couple of years – but it made his job a damn sight harder.
Then a demon imp popped into view right atop the wall. He screamed, vanished, then reappeared standing on Rupert’s fallen shield, hopping up and down to ease the burning in his feet. “A message for Gabriel I have,” it said angrily, and hurled the roll of parchment in Rupert’s face. Another soldier tried to spear him with his lance, but the demon had vanished again.
He looked down at the paper in surprise, then snorted. He was about to tuck it into his belt, when another hand reached out and took it from him. Rupert whirled in surprise, to find himself face to face with Tyrael. The angel, still clad in blinding white light, seemed somehow tired, as though this battle was taking a toll on him. “I’ll see that Gabriel gets this. Do you need more soldiers?”
The paladin chuckled. “As many as you can spare. We’ve lost twenty-three on this part alone.” He looked around, then glanced down into the pearly city. “Don’t suppose there are any more paladins down there who want to get in on the fighting?”
Tyrael smiled, snapping his fingers, and five more soldiers appeared in a flash of light. “Colin!” Rupert exclaimed in surprise, stepping forward to give one a quick, hearty embrace. “How’s your stay in Heaven been?”
He chuckled, running a hand through a head no longer so weathered by the passage of time. “I suppose fighting on the walls is better than being a messenger, running back and forth.” He knelt, picking up abandoned weapons, and they prepared. Another group of goat men were preparing more ladders, and battle would be upon them again.
Slip marched smartly up the steps to the Zakarum fort, the soldiers on duty pulling open the door to the building. The three riflemen stayed behind in the courtyard, but the two women followed him. He was surprised at how easily they kept up with his pace through the hallways to Jaresh’s office. He’d lost more than one person in the hallways, as sort of a game. Then he opened the door, gesturing them inside with a mocking bow.
The two protectors entered and stood quietly for a moment, while Jaresh looked back and forth between them. “What is this?” he finally asked, a little crossly.
Celest laughed, stepping around the desk to give him a hug. “Hi, dad.” Slip stared, open-mouthed, as Visha stepped up to give him a hug as well, calling him “Uncle Jaresh.” He quickly returned his face to as close to neutral as he could get “We could only spare three riflemen, in addition to ourselves. What are we hunting, anyway?”
The paladin chuckled, waving at Slip, and the scout cleared his throat a little nervously. “There’s a pack of horned demons in the mountains northwest of here. Someone is organizing them and has been taking out trade caravans and small guard patrols in the area.” He glanced back at Jaresh, who nodded in satisfaction.
“My scout is right. I’ll be sending only a few handfuls of soldiers, and I wanted your riflemen to try and weaken the demons before my swordsmen have to face them in melee.” He held out another slip of paper to the scout, listing the names of the soldiers who would be going. “So, gather those men and get going. I’ve got too much to do, if I’m to return to Kurast next month.”
Slip frowned, reading over the list twice. “Um, sir, there’s no sergeant or priest on this sheet of paper. Who’s supposed to lead them?”
With a groan, Jaresh slapped himself in the forehead. “I knew I was forgetting something!” He dug around in a desk drawer, then walked around the desk to clip a small steel pin to Slip’s shoulder. “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted. Now get out there and rout those demons.”
His astonished shout of “Me?” was echoed half a heartbeat later by the two protectors. “We’re supposed to follow this arrogant twiggy scout?” Celest asked incredulously.
Her father just nodded, his gaze steely. “Yes, I do expect you to follow him. Despite his appearance, he is one of the best tacticians the Zakarum has here. Besides, if I’m wrong,” he gave the girls a wry smile, “you’ll be able to save him without too much trouble.” Clapping them all on the shoulder, he managed to shuffle them out into the hallway and close the door, ending all of their complaints and queries.
After a moment of stunned silence, Slip shrugged. “Well, let’s get moving then. We’ve got a long way to go.” He started off down the hallways, Visha and Celest hurrying to keep up with him. It was almost noon by the time all of the soldiers had packed their gear, standing in formation in the courtyard. Without any speech or preamble, Slip had led them all out onto the road, setting their pace at a fast march.
When night fell again, all of the soldiers were almost too tired to do more than eat a cold meal of dried meat and hard bread before rolling into their traveling blankets at the side of the road. Guards had been set, changing every few hours to try and give everyone a chance to rest. At dawn, he was rousing them again, listening to their complaints with an amused smile. “Come on,” he chided them, “we’ve still got another two days if we keep up this slow pace.”
“Slow?” Visha muttered unhappily. “I don’t think I’ll be able to keep up that trot all day!” In fact, he was forced to slow their pace by noon, as other soldiers and the more important riflemen began to slow down from the muscle strain. Despite it all, Slip remained completely unruffled, often sprinting a few hundred yards down the road and returning through the fields and thickets that lined the travel route. When they camped again for the night, more soldiers seemed willing to simply collapse to the ground, not wishing to spend the energy for their blankets.
Again the next morning, Slip awakened everyone with a little bit of false cheer and the promise of another hard march. He took the pace a little slower though, obviously a little more in tune with his troops abilities. “How the hell do you keep running around like that, without getting tired?” Visha asked him irritably as they walked along, the sun beating down on them.
He just chuckled. “Spent a lot of time around a saber cat. Whenever I got in trouble, my mom sent me to her. She ran everywhere around that damn monastery – and a couple of laps around it every morning and evening. Isha would just tie a rope to me, then start running again and expect me to keep up.”
She snorted, obviously not believing the tale. Later that night, she discussed it with her cousin. “Come on, Celest, a saber cat being accepted into the Sisters? That’s just ridiculous.”
She shrugged, trying to adjust her blanket and herself on the harder, rockier ground at the foothills of the mountains. “No more ridiculous than claming to have been raised there. Give it a rest, Visha,” she muttered, pulling a corner of the blanket over her face.
The next day went even slower, as the road here wound constantly, both around and over the hills and jagged outspurs of rock. Soon, Slip stopped them. “We’re not too far away, maybe another mile or so,” he cautioned them. “If we can, I want to attack just after sundown. Horned demons don’t have very good eyesight at night, and the rifle shots should be a good distraction as well. Set up guards, and wait for me to get back.” Then he was gone, running off down the road towards the afternoon sun.
Most of the soldiers gladly plopped down, finding comfortable seats on the rocks. Some of them broke out a deck of cards, playing and betting silver coins. The protectors sat alone though, meditating and waiting. Just before the sun set, Slip appeared, using the growing shadows to cloak his movements until he tapped one of the guards on the shoulder – from behind. Grinning, he gestured for them to pack up and get moving. “We’re closer than I thought. And since they just hit a caravan, they won’t be expecting any trouble for a few days.”
Slip led the soldiers down into a ravine, where they left their packs. They all adjusted their armor, preparing swords and shields. Then they were off, being led silently through the dark towards the cave where the horned demons laired. The sun had set, and faint moonlight barely lit the small valley below when they stopped again.
“Now listen, there’s only about a dozen demons. Their cave is pretty well hidden under that outcrop of stone,” he pointed with an arrow, the soldiers following his gaze. “Now, the riflemen will go around the edge of the valley, to wait behind that boulder, while the rest of us move across from the cave. When I fire an arrow into the cave, that’ll be the cue to fire. By the time they reach our lines, most of the demons should be dealing with at least one or two bullet wounds.”
Visha squinted down into the valley, barely able to see the landmarks he pointed at. “What about their leader?” she asked quietly.
“If he doesn’t come out, then we’ll go in after him,” Slip said quietly. “We’ll form skirmish lines, with your rifles in the middle. Fire a shot, then fade back and let us take him down.” He glanced one last time over his soldiers, still marveling at being in charge, and then they started down into the valley.
Celest led the protectors down, around the edge of the valley to the large boulder. Despite the longer distance, all of them moved faster under their psychic cloaks. With a wink, she then ducked off towards the cave, pulling her cloak of shadows tighter around her as Visha watched incredulously. Slip and his soldiers were just starting to get into position when she reappeared, fumbling out some charged strands for a lightning web.
Then the arrow sailed through the night, into the inky darkness under that stone shelf, and a loud bellow of pain issued forth. Within seconds, two horned demons had come charging out, one with an arrow buried in his forearm. The others behind them fared less well, as Celest’s carefully laid firebombs exploded in their faces. Then the rifles fired in unison, and they staggered again.
Slip fired another arrow, hitting the same demon cleanly under the kneecap. Bawling in pain, it collapsed, and his companion then spotted the glint of shields and armor. As he charged, the soldiers scattered, a few managing to score minor hits as he thundered past them and up the slope. Another round of bullets whizzed in, taking a number of demons to the ground permanently.
But then the wounded demons had reached the soldiers, and it collapsed into a bloody melee. The soldiers quickly formed small rings of three or four, fighting back to back, using their shields to protect each other and stabbing whenever a demon came into range. Slip winced as a charging demon hit a circle, sending two men flying and pounding another into the rocky soil, blood seeping out through his chain mail. Still, the scout was no stranger to death, and his arrow took the demon in the neck a moment later.
To his surprise, Celest had waded into the melee, using her katars with surprising skill against the tough demons. She moved gracefully through the fight, half-invisible under her psychic powers, striking out to cripple the demons and make the soldiers’ job easier.
When it finally ended, the scout quickly counted up the bodies. Fourteen horned demons had come out of that cave – three more than he had actually expected. Two soldiers were dead, and another had a broken arm. Everyone had minor wounds, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed by a quick visit to the priests when they returned. “Alright, form up the skirmish line,” he said. “You four with guns in the middle, two soldiers on either side. Stagger the second rank. Once they fire their guns, two men forward and close up the lines.” He watched, nodding, as every able-bodied soldier moved smartly into formation. Then they faced the dark cave, and started forward.
Celest paced along on the edge of the formation, throwing out a couple strands of her lightning webs to provide brief bursts of light. The cave wasn’t very large, only going back about thirty yards before it was too short for the soldiers to continue, except on hands and knees. Spoils from the caravan littered the area, but there was no sign of whoever was leading the demons. Angrily, Slip led his soldiers back outside, buried the two fallen and back to the ravine where they had left their packs. Midnight had passed before they were able to make camp, but still he sat up, reflecting.
The battle had been chaotic, but the riflemen would have noticed anyone or anything else slipping out of the cave. No one had joined the battle to aid the demons, either, which confused him. Celest had illuminated enough to show that there was no other exit to the cave, either. So where had their leader gone? Surely he wouldn’t have left those brutes alone, so soon after a successful raid. As dawn approached, he finally slumped down, pulling his blanket around him and hoping for a few scant hours of sleep.
In the cave, a portion of the wall shimmered, then faded away. He looked out at the valley, where the demons had been slaughtered. Gerta would be displeased at the death of them, but cannon fodder like that could be found easily enough. Grumbling, he picked up his black armor and buckled it into place, then teleported away.
On the northern edges of Entsteig, a guard patrol thundered across grassy hills towards the column of black smoke. Within minutes, they were within sight of the homestead. The house was burning merrily away, and bodies could be seen, laid out in the trampled fields before it. Their commander quickly organized the men, using their helmets and the stream that bordered the fields to try and put out the worst of the fire.
When the fire was under control, less likely to spread through the parched field of wheat, he finally stopped to investigate the bodies. The farmer and his sons, the oldest almost a man, had all been killed quickly, and all of them with clubs. He frowned, staring north at the barren plains, and finally started bawling orders at his troops. Camp was set, and by morning the smoldering remains of the house were cool enough to search.
But no other body was found, and the scouts had found a trail, of at least a half dozen men on foot. Mounting their horses, the twenty guards started off after this group. The captain was sure they were somehow responsible, but it confused him to no end. Why would a group of barbarians attack a simple homestead, out here on the border?
By noon, they came upon the camp, and the soldiers’ worst fears were confirmed. Seven barbarians, all armed with heavy, iron-shod clubs stood around their campsite, several of them arguing. And seated near the fire, bound back-to-back, was the farmer’s wife and daughter, a girl almost enough to be wed.
Even as the barbarians ceased their argument, turning to greet the soldiers, the captain had thrown a dagger, striking one of them in the eye with the hilt. His soldiers had their flails out, riding through the camp screaming battlecries as they fell upon the surprised hunting party. Still, there are no tougher foes than barbarians, and they brought down an equal number of soldiers as they fell.
With the battle over, the captain stopped to survey the field. To his disgust, he noted that one of the barbarians had taken the time to smash in the skulls of the women. Grimly, he rounded up his men, and they spent the day digging a mass grave to bury the bodies in. As he helped his men, carrying the bodies to the shallow ditch, he wondered if this meant the rumors about barbarian’s aggression were true.
They finally rode away shortly before dusk, leading their soldiers. Rising up from the tall grass, a hundred feet away, a bald-shaven man brushed the dust from his clothes and smiled. This was the fifth time he had done this, all of them perfectly successful. Na-Krul would be pleased with him, he thought, and he knew that Rahvunah already had a reward waiting for him.
Still, perhaps he could do just one more?
Maren rode south, back through the forests of Scosglen, returning to Kurast. Her uncle Jaresh, supposedly a paladin, could probably be found there. She wasn’t sure how the meeting would go – after all, she’d never met him, and her mother had stopped talking with him after his wife – Lily’s sister – died in childbirth.
Her horse clopped along at his own pace, and she merely drank in the sensations of the forest. The sun shone brightly through the leaves, and she could hear birds and animals all around her. It was days like this she had missed the most during her long apprenticeship.
Then her horse suddenly screamed, crashing to the forest floor, and Maren went flying, rolling across the grassy ground until she slammed into a tree. A pair of death mauler tentacles were wrapped around the horse’s forelegs, holding the screaming beast to the ground. As she lunged to her feet, another set of tentacles ripped through the ground in front of her, almost trapping her.
Yelling in anger, she blasted the tentacles with flames, hearing the demon scream from behind a nearby bush. But as she turned in that direction, preparing an ice bolt, when a pair of acid beasts leaped around it, spitting at her. Maren screamed, her spell released too soon, flying off into the trees. The dog-like creatures paced around her, keeping her off-balance with their deadly missiles while she tried to counter with magic.
A noise came from behind her and Maren whirled, only to come face to face with one of the death maulers. It grinned evilly, slamming a fist into the side of her head, and everything went dark.
She awoke in darkness, feeling dizzy and sick. Weakly, she tugged at the ropes that bound her, but she seemed to be tightly bound to the wooden board beneath her. Cloth had buried her face as well, leaving her blind and barely able to see. But her voice was unharmed, and she did her best to shout. “Release me!”
The motion seemed to slow, then stop, and Maren realized that she was aboard a cart of some kind. After a moment, a hand yanked away the old clothing that had buried her head. “Sorry about that,” he said, “I didn’t realize those had fallen onto your face.”
“What are you doing with me?” she asked angrily. “Why have you taken me prisoner?”
He seemed to squawk for a moment, the glared and pointed towards her waist. “You’re not a prisoner, damn it. The ropes were to keep you from falling off the bench. You can release yourself. Oh, and you’re welcome for the rescue.” Highly annoyed, he ducked under the curtain and back to the driver’s seat on the wagon.
To her surprise, Maren found the ropes to be only loosely tied, and easy to escape with her sight returned. The wagon was small and cramped, loaded with food supplies, and an assortment of weapons. After a moment’s hesitation, she followed her rescuer to the front of the wagon, squinting as the setting sun struck her eyes. “Where are we?”
He chuckled, pointing at the road. “South-east, into one of the small villages. They had out a bounty on death mauler tentacles.” He gestured towards the side of the wagon, where five pairs had been carefully stuck onto nails. “Where are you headed, anyway?”
She blinked in surprise, then finally shrugged. “I’m Maren, from the Blackleaf druid clan,” she said. “I was headed for Kurast on an errand for my family.”
He gave her a sidelong glance, the reins held easily in his hands. “Druid, eh,” he finally said. “If I were you, I’d keep that fact quiet. There’s been rumors in a lot of these small farming villages that druid pets have been invading farms and carrying off livestock.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “No idea if it’s true.”
She humphed and settled back against the narrow seat. “So what were you doing out here?”
He shrugged elegantly. “I’m Dro. A mercenary by trade. I had heard about that pack of death maulers, and planned to collect the bounty.” They fell silent again, as the trees gave way to cleared farmland, and the close-set houses of the village could just barely be seen by the setting sun. “If you’re heading to Kurast, and don’t mind a little wandering between here and there, you’re welcome to stay.”
She stayed quiet for a minute, paying more attention to the weary and hostile looking farmers. “Sure,” she said quietly.
Jaresh sat quietly in his office, reading over the report Slip had written of their battle against the horned demons. Losing only two men, against thirteen brutes like that, was excellent work. But the loss of their leader still worried him. In fact, the reports coming in from other parts of the world were particularly troubling. It made no sense for the barbarian tribes to attack farms in Entsteig; almost none of them came anywhere close to the tribal lands, and always in the past they had peacefully negotiated with any intruders.
But in the last week, no less than twelve farms had vanished. Half of those had been found with barbarian hunting parties less than a day away, carting off the females as prisoners. “It’s all just too damned convenient,” he muttered.
Slip blinked, still standing at attention and apparently forgotten. “Sir?” he asked nervously.
Jumping, Jaresh looked up. “Slip, I thought you’d left. Well, I suppose this does save me the trouble,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk. “The Soulforged leaves in four days, headed back to Kurast.”
“Where you’re supposed to take a seat on the Council,” Slip said with a small smile. “Yes, sir, you’ve been bragging to everyone for the last year.”
The paladin favored him with a mild glare, and shifted in his chair. “You get to notify Visha and Celest that they will be accompanying me, as representatives of the Protectorate, and then go pack your gear for reassignment.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me, Sergeant,” he said in a loud voice. “With a promotion comes greater responsibilities. Be prepared to leave in four days.”
Giving another surprised salute, Slip marched out of the office. He would be glad to get back to the “civilized” part of the world, maybe go back to Westmarch where he’d grown up. Then he thought about having to notify the two assassins, and groaned.
Rahvunah scowled at the enchanted crystal ball, and the face of one of the other Disciples. “What do you mean, he won’t accept the job?”
The other man sighed, ducking his head in supplication. “Forgive me, my lord. Despite the extravagant amounts I offered, he was terrified that the Amazons would discover his misdeeds and come after his men and ships personally.”
Rahvunah snarled, throwing a piece of velvet over the crystal and turning away. Gerta stood just inside the door, clad as usual in her black armor. “Problems?” she asked quietly. He paused for a moment, admiring the way her face looked after a short session in his machine.
“Of sorts. That idiot captain, Oras, won’t accept even the extravagant amounts of gold we’re offering,” he fumed, pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly. “No, ten thousand Westmark crowns isn’t enough, on top of the booty he’ll be seizing. He’s too afraid to sail out of Haven, because he thinks the Amazons will capture him.”
She stepped back a little bit, leaning against the wall, her fingers tapping on armor as she considered the situation. “I know why you chose him,” she said. “He’s one of the best pirates on the whole western continent. Not many others can boast four attack ships, after all.”
Rahvunah snarled. “I don’t have a bottomless supply of money, and neither do your Silent Liars. It’d take more than ten thousand to put together any other four captains for the same job.”
Gerta smiled, stepping into the room. “You have a room for summoning here, don’t you?” He nodded guardedly, and she smiled. “Let me ask my master for advice on how to handle him.” After some consideration, he led the way through the underground complex to a special room. The door was made of pure silver, with hundreds of magical runes carved into it. Four different keys opened the locks, and the door swung open into darkness.
With a smirk, Rahvunah gave a half bow, gesturing with his arm. “After you,” he said, watching her step forward into the darkness with almost no hesitation. Then the door swung shut behind them, and the darkness vanished. Set into the floor was a giant pentagram, the lines etched an inch deep to better hold blood. The entire floor was a smooth expanse of marble, and the walls inside were all set with magical runes of silver, gold, and gems. “Do you think this will be adequate?” he said with an air of mock innocence.
She turned to look sharply over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How long have the Disciples been using this place, anyway?”
He just shrugged. “A long time. Longer than I have, anyway. You don’t need to fill the tracks with blood, but it does require at least a few drops.” He backed towards the door and slipped outside.
Gerta watched him go before turning her attention back to the pentagram. Muttering angrily, she took a small dagger from her belt, then paused to collect herself. Carefully putting the blade against a finger, she made a small cut, squeezing the finger and letting the drops fall down into the carved tracks.
With an audible popping sound, power rushed through the pentagram, a sickly, blood colored light spilling up from the lines. She gasped for breath, fighting to draw in air through the overwhelming feeling of power, and started forcing out the words of the summoning spell, her tongue almost tripping over the gutteral demon language.
When Belial appeared, it was as though an explosion had happened. All the air in the room surged into the pentagram, almost dragging her with it, then just as suddenly reversed course. When she regained her feet, Belial stood there calmly, appeared covered in silk robes and with horns and claws set with the finest gemstones. “Well, Gerta?”
She swallowed hard, quickly falling to a kneeling position before the Lord of Lies. “I crave your pardon, master,” she whispered. “I needed information, and thought you might wish to see this stronghold for the Disciples of Na-Krul.”
The great demon looked around the room, then closed his eyes, moving his hands slowly. “Indeed, this is most impressive. Their order has been hiding down here for centuries, but I had no idea they had managed to do so much.” He gave the room one last look before returning his attention to Gerta. “Now, what do you need?”
“The pirate captain, Oras, has refused the bribe to fly Amazonian flags and attack the Westmarch ships,” she said. “How are we to convince him to further your goals?”
Belial stood there in thought for a few moments, then smiled. “Ah, yes, I know what his weaknesses are. To start with,” his voice lowered as he explained the plan.
Outside in the hallway, Rahvunah quietly fumed. Even though he had expected eavesdropping on Belial would be impossible, he had still felt the need to try. With a scowl on his face, he headed back towards his quarters.
Maren sat in front of the fire a little glum, sharing the small dinner of gruel. It wasn’t the worst meal she’d ever eaten, but after spending most of her life, apprenticed to a rather wealthy sorceress, it was a switch. “So,” she started rather awkwardly, “how’d you end up as a mercenary, anyway?”
He just stared at her over the fire, his eyes blank and unreadable. “Long story,” he said, lowering his face back to the bowl. “You don’t wanna hear it.” She made a face as he dipped his head into the wooden bowl, licking it clean.
“Why not?” she grumbled. “Not like I have anything better to do, and it’s going to be a long ride to Kurast.” She reluctantly took another spoonful before setting the bowl down on the ground next to her. One of the village dogs sniffed at it, before whining and flopping down on the grass. “Come on, talk,” she prodded.
He raised his eyes back to her, and the gaze was empty of anything resembling human emotion. Maren had heard others talk about meeting wild animals with the same look, as though they didn’t care whether you would live or die at their fangs – it was all up to you. “I said,” his voice still disturbingly quiet, “I don’t want to talk about it.” He rose in a sudden movement, and she jumped, almost shrieking. “Rinse out your bowl, I don’t want the gruel to harden in it.
Dro strode back to his wagon, climbing in from the front and lighting a candle. She sat on the grass for several minutes, rubbing the goose bumps on her arms before finally picking up the bowl and heading to the town well. The church building was well lit, but in the middle of the week, it served as more of a tavern – a place for the villagers to meet, talk about the same subjects year after year, and drink the cheap, home-brewed ale. Sighing, she raised a bucket of water, scraping out the slimy porridge with her nails.
“Hey, you came in with the mercenary, right?” She glanced over her shoulder to see one of the older farmers calling to her from the doorway. “Yeah, I thought so. You his wife or something?”
Affronted, she turned around. “Most certainly not,” she grimaced, “Just another traveler. Since he’s heading towards Kurast, and my horse was killed by those Death Maulers, he agreed to let me travel with him.” With a humph, she turned away, tossing her hair back.
His braying laughter grated on her, the old farmer leaning against the doorway as he slapped his knee. “Damn, girl, you got some fire in ya! Just as well, all o’ these boys are married, or no doubt you’d leave one o’ them rolling in the street, holdin’ his manhood in pain.” His grin widened, showing off several missing and blackened teeth. “Come on in, I’ll get you a drink.” He ducked back inside, chortling.
With one last glance at the wagon, Maren squared her shoulders and followed him inside. She was going to get some answers somehow, and if that stuck up sellsword wouldn’t talk to her, maybe the villagers would. The small, rough building had no pews, just chairs that were now gathered around tables. A few tables had groups of men, gathered around playing a game with stones, hand-polished from generations of use. Others had women, gossiping while they sewed up tears in clothing or knitted new socks. Small children ran around, playing with sticks and plates, pretending to be soldiers.
The old geezer pulled out a chair for her, making a mockery of a courtly bow while the other elders cackled, drinking the watery ale. She sat primly in the chain, smoothing out her tunic. “So,” she asked them, “what’s the biggest news around these parts?” She picked up the mug and took a sip, choking on the bitter taste, making them all laugh again.
“Y’see, it’s like this,” another one started in, leaning forward and squinting at you. “The crops, they been growin’ fine. Good rain, good wind, no soldiers tramping through here. All’s nice and peaceful, ‘til last year, when those druids started raiding the livestock.” The others all started to nod their heads.
“But that’s ridiculous! Druids don’t eat meat except on ceremonial occasions.” As they started to stare at her, Maren gulped. She hadn’t even thought about defending her people. “I mean, I’ve heard a lot about them during my apprenticeship. They won’t eat an animal unless it’s killed in a special manner.”
“Where were you apprenticed, girl?” The first old man from outside stared at her, rubbing his chin with the lip of his mug.
“I’m a Zann Esu sorceress,” she declared, straightening in her seat and trying to look at them regally. All of them stared at her for a moment, then broke out laughing. “It’s true!” she cried at them, others in the room turning to watch her. Angrily, she shoved the chair back, rising to her feet. As they laughed louder, she summoned her power, encasing herself in frozen armor. As snowflakes started to swirl out of the air around her, the laughter in the room died instantly.
“By Belial’s teeth,” one of the men muttered, dropping his mug, the ale staining the floorboards. “B-b-beg yer forgiveness, Lady,” he said, starting to rise out of his chair.
Before she could interrupt him again, a loud shout came from outside. “Wolf! Wolf!” The room was frozen for a moment in shock before everyone ran outside, the men racing for their houses to get pitchforks and bows – the only weapons they had for defense. Maren ran towards the wagon, only to skid to a stop as Dro leaped out, chain mail fastened in place and sword drawn. “Don’t just stand there, that way!” He pointed with his blade and ran, the sorceress stumbling to keep up.
The boy assigned to guard the small flock of sheep had already been torn apart by a dire wolf, the animal standing as tall as Dro’s shoulder. He muttered obscenities, raising his shield and stalking forward anyway, hoping that he could hold it at bay while the farmers peppered it with arrows. Maren skidded to a stop several yards away, frowning and concentrating. Drawing her long knife, she ran up near to Dro, keeping him between her and the wolf.
As the farmers got into position, several of them setting arrow to string, she lashed out with her empty hand. Balls of lightning crawled across the field with dazzling speed, two of them catching the wolf’s paws and crawling up her legs. She raised her head and howled, the village echoing with the haunting noise. “It’s a demon,” Maren shouted, “Shoot it!”
The farmers loosed their arrows, few of them finding their mark in the tough pelt. But Dro’s sword lashed out as well, striking from behind his shield and opening a line of blood across the wolf’s muzzle. They continued this dance for several minutes, the warrior striking when the spells distracted the great beast, all while the arrows rained down like tiny pinpricks.
Eventually, the wolf turned to run, her injuries too great. But the sword struck first, slicing into her leg. With a great yelp, she fell, and the farmers descended upon her, pitchforks quickly dripping red with blood. Maren just stood in the field, catching her breath from the magical effort. Dro watched her, wiping his blade clean carefully on the grass. “How did you know it was a demon?” he finally asked, his voice quiet, almost inaudible over the cheers of victory and the cries of grief.
She looked up, her eyes wide and white with shock. “The howl,” she finally said. “It didn’t howl the way they normally do. It was possessed by something.” She closed her eyes for a moment, shivering, then jerked and turned towards the wolf carcass. The farmers surged backward from it as the dead body twitched, then spasmed harder.
As they watched, the wolf’s back tore open, a sickly white worm crawling out, spewing obscenities in a thick, gravelly tone. It slithered towards the men, stumbling and charging backwards in their fear. Dro swore, stepping forward and nailing it to the ground with his weapon, jumping backwards as it turned to try and bite his ankle.
As they all watched, both sickened as fascinated, the worm continued to struggle forward, the blade tearing through its body, still spewing hate-filled words as black blood dripped from its mouth. But before it could slice itself free, it seemed to stagger, then fall to the ground. With disgust written across her face, Maren stepped forward, lowering her hands and pouring fire upon the demonic parasite. The body bubbled, flesh curling and crackling like paper as it burned.
She sagged to the ground eventually, her strength and mana drained, the worm now nothing more than a ragged pile of ashes and blackened bones. She tried to speak, coughing on a dry mouth before the mercenary handed her a water skin. “Does anyone in this village have something to write with? I need a message to be sent to the nearest druid clan.”
One of the men looked between the wolf corpse and the ashes of the demon. “The druids?” he protested. “But they sent this!”
She stirred to her feet suddenly, fury granting her strength. “I know a great number of druids, Goodman, and they would be just as horrified at this as you. If you can take them a letter, druids will be out here to help you protect your farms from whatever demons are causing this abomination.” She started to turn back to Dro, when she suddenly fainted.
He caught her, lifting her body almost effortlessly. “Someone had best get that corpse skinned and buried,” he said, “and contact the nearest priest to sanctify that ground where that demon lies, as well.” He looked down at the sorceress in his arms, his face slightly angry. “I’ll put her to bed. In the morning, somebody better draw straws to send that message.” He looked back once at his sword, the metal corroded where it had struck the worm, and scowled harder.
Then he strode back to the wagon with Maren.
Arthur sat in the back of the chapel. Normally, at this time of day it would be filled with worshippers, but the Church leaders had turned everyone away to the other temples. All of the upper members of the church were there, from all walks – priest, paladin, guards. In his simple, while novice robe, he knew he was the lowest ranking person in the room – even the guards protecting the doors outranked him.
But then, he was the only member of the church to survive the attack two weeks ago. In villages everywhere up and down the length of the Kehjistan jungle, assassins or hired thugs had fallen upon priests and paladins, leaving hundreds dead and dozens of villages and cities without their religious leaders. Letters and reports still hadn’t reached them yet from the western kingdoms, but he doubted it would be good news.
“Arthur!” He jumped, looking around guiltily. The high priest at the podium was looking at him, rather annoyed. “Did you hear anything I just said?” A few people in the crowd chuckled as he shook his head, blushing. “Two days from now, the Soulforged will be pulling into port. You’ll be departing on it for Westmarch, as part of the envoy to the king. No matter what, we can’t have war breaking out in the western kingdoms right now.”
“Me?” he squawked. “But … I’m a junior priest! I shouldn’t be due for an assignment like this!”
One of the paladins in the next row turned around and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry lad, it’ll be fine. They know what they’re doing with you.” Arthur sat glumly as the high priest informed others of the important projects the church was taking up, warned against some possible coming conflict.
Finally, with a last heartfelt prayer, the meeting broke up, elders and warriors striding back outside into the sun. Moving to a quiet corner outside, he leaned against a pillar and stared out at the bustling city. Why were they sending him along? He wasn’t anything special in the way of the priesthood, and his father Jaresh was far more distinguished than him. Sighing, he strode down the steps of the cathedral, heading for his small room.
Diablo stood outside the gates of heaven, watching the demonic catapults hurl demons at the wall. Another horned demon went flying through the air, smashing into the gate with a splatter. More than once, his forces had taken control of a section of wall, only to be thrown off again when Hadriel or Tyrael made an appearance.
He scowled, ducking backwards into the opulent tent that was the command center. Duriel stood before a table, examining the map of Heaven and the arrangement of forces. “Well?” he asked impatiently. “Any more bright ideas?”
The slug-like Lord of Pain gave a sickly smile. “Other assaults against the Heavenly Gates have taken us years to get forces holding the walls for much shorter times. Patience, brother.” He turned back to the map, gesturing with a claw and moving a few contingents of demons around. “We will break them down.”
The elder demon strode towards his brother angrily, scarlet tail lashing about and overturning furniture and demonic servants. “Do not be patronizing,” he growled, reached out one taloned hand to rest on Duriel’s neck. “I have penetrated into that glowing city more times than you, little one.”
Anger flashed in his eyes, but he merely placed one claw against Diablo’s arm. “I do not forget, brother, but in one year my forces have taken control of the wall for hours at a time.” They stood in silence for several moments, lower demons waiting with hushed breath, not wanting to be the target of their anger. “But I do have an idea that might get us through the gates.”
With exaggerated care, the Lord of Terror released his brother and strode around the table, examining the map. “Explain,” he said finally, leaning over the collection of bone figurines.
Duriel gestured to a dozen carts, in the back of the troop lines. “As you know, we’ve been picking up the corpses of our dead, storing them for food.” He claw moved, and the ivory figures came to life, the arts creaking slowly around the city until they were arrayed behind the tent. “It will take a few days, but we get all of them loaded completely full, and bring them back here.”
He stabbed his claw forward, and the carts all lumbered for the miniature gates. As they watched, they crashed. “Now, the carts alone won’t be enough to break them down, even fortified with battering rams. But once they hit, there will be hundreds of corpses laying right against the gates, isolated by the walls. No way for any of those angels to incinerate them before we can do a massive corpse explosion.”
Diablo stared at the map for a moment, before flicking a finger of his own. The bone corpse figures exploded, raining slivers all over the room and blowing the map gates off their hinges. “It just might work, at that,” he crooned. “Get to work on it then. I’ll be back in four days with another battalion of demons.” He strode out the back of the tent, needing to travel further from the Heavenly Gates to open a portal back to Hell.
A smile splitting his face, Duriel slithered back to recline on a bed of cushions, his harpy harem fluttering around him. His plan would work, he was sure. But what worried him, was whether Tyrael would figure it out before they broke through the gates – and what surprise his devious brother would have awaiting them.
Lobar scowled, his hand resting on the head of the massive mace at his side. The meeting between the clans had been going on for days now. Over two dozen hunting parties had been killed by patrols from Entsteig. The messengers he had sent had been returned in pieces, with a letter from their king blaming the barbarian tribes for the destruction of several farms in the unclaimed area south of the hills. Other leaders in the tribes were arguing, shouting and occasionally breaking out into fist fights in the middle.
Finally, he rose to his feet, lifting the mace in one hand and hefting its familiar weight. He raised it above his head, smashing it against the table with a shout. "Enough!" His voice echoed through the room, mixing with the deafening crack as the granite table split into pieces, collapsing as the others leaped back. "Enough!" he shouted again as more voices started to raise in protest.
He looked around the room, meeting the gazes of the other dozen men and women. "All here know me, and all know that I speak fairly. I have been chosen as the head of the Clan Chiefs." He dropped his mace onto the floor and stepped forward, climbing onto the pieces of the table. "Entsteig thinks we have been raiding farms. We say they have been butchering our raiding parties. Obviously, something is very wrong."
Lobar ran a hand through his hair, more grey now than brown. "So, tomorrow, I shall journey myself to see their king. Until I return, no one will travel outside the southern edge of the hills." He turned, scowling down as a few again raised their voices in protest. "No one!"
"And what happens if their civilized king decides to kill you?" one of the Wolves said.
With a heavy sigh, he climbed back off the pile of rubble, lifting his mace from the floor. "If I have not returned in two months, then I am dead." He started for the door, turning to look back over his shoulder. "Whoever succeeds me through the Trials should prepare for war."
Outside the door, he stepped around one of the Crane warriors, heading out of the newly-built building, wanting nothing more than to return home to his wife. The warrior watched him go, then reached beneath the weaving of feathers that adorned his arm, before shaking his head and entering inside, looking for his own Clan Cheif among the brawl.
Maren awoke with a start, as lightning flashed down outside the wagon, close enough that the resulting thunder was almost instantly on its heels. She leaned back against the wall of the wagon, pressing a hand to her chest, trying to calm down and slow her heart. The magical exertion of the night before had taken more of a toll than she realized.
The wagon shifted, swaying slightly as Dro stepped through the front curtain, shaking water from his hair. He paused in surprise, seeing her awake. “I suppose you’re going to live then, sorceress?” he said quietly. Even as she tried to respond, he cut her off. “It’s good you’re awake. If you’re part druid, I hope you know something that might control the weather. It’s been raining for almost ten hours straight now. The water in the town well is up to ground level, and the farmers are worried it might start to flood soon.”
She blinked in surprise, trying to take it all in. He moved around her in the cramped wagon, somehow never managing to brush her while she regained her senses. “How long have I been asleep?”
He stayed silent for a moment, then straightened up with a grunt, flourishing a wine bottle. “You passed out that night. Near as I can tell, it should be midmorning, but the clouds are so thick you can’t see a thing.” He bit the cork with his teeth, pulling it out and offering it to Maren. “This might help a bit. Zakarum sacramental wine.” Almost before she had a hand on the bottle, he was knocking aside the curtain, striding back into the rain.
Hesitantly, she took a sip, coughing at the sweet, syrupy texture. After another small sip, she found the cork and replaced it, lifting her staff from the floor. “Well,” she muttered, “now what am I supposed to do?” Shaking her head, she pulled on her cloak, slipping outside through the curtain and joining the storm.
The water came down like solid blocks of stone, slamming into the ground, splashing back up with mud mixed in. The entire town commons looked like a small pond had formed, and a few of the hardier men were moving through it, sloshing around trying to help move people to more secure buildings, lay in supplies. She grimaced, squinting up at the clouds. Rain just kept pouring down, so thick by itself that seeing the sky was impossible.
She raised her staff, muttering a quiet word, and the tip blossomed into magical light, driving away some of the gloom. Villagers looked up in surprise, then set about their work again, glad for some of the light. Maren carefully climbed up onto the edge of the well, trying to remember the things her father had told her about how the druid Loremasters controlled the weather. With a sigh, she hefted the staff again, the light shining brightly above her head as she started speaking one of the druid’s tales.
Three sentences into the story, another bolt of lightning crashed down, striking the staff squarely, small balls of electricity bouncing off, slithering through the water as the poor farmers tried to evade them. Swaying, Maren somehow held onto the well beam and her staff, coughing and spluttering water before she could continue.
Again, lightning smashed down onto her staff, this time almost knocking her into the well as she clung to the wooden support, fighting to hold her grip through the slick waters and the shock. As she regained her feet, another boom of lightning came from just outside the village. Within instants, the rain had stopped, though the clouds still hung heavy and full over the sky. Confused, she climbed down from the well, extinguishing her light. Her attempt at the druid magics hadn’t caused this sudden change.
More of the villagers started to emerge now, the danger passed, speculating on the sudden storm. Their answer came from an unexpected source, as Dro appeared from the tree line, dragging a body cased in black armor. “Here’s the bastard that started it all,” he said, dropping the corpse. “I distracted him with a rock to the jaw, and he managed to hit himself with lightning.”
Kneeling down, Maren studied the armor and the faint etchings, whatever was undamaged by the bolt that had killed him. “Who was he?” she asked. Many of the farmers had already backed away, making warding signs and praying to the angels.
“He’s a Silent Liar. One of Belial’s worshippers.” Dro spit on the corpse, then stopped to unbuckle the sword sheath and take it for his own. “But at least now I know who’s been following me the past few days.” As Maren started asking questions of him, the mercenary shook his head, turning to walk away, back to his wagon.
Arthur stood on the pier, still dressed in his spendid white novice robe. The Soulforged slid through the water slowly, steel gleaming in the sunlight, illuminating the forward catapult, set between two of the newer Protectorate cannons. Sailors lined the deck, with a few wearing the mantles of the Zakarum priests and paladins. As the ship stopped, he thought he could see his father somewhere on board, but then the sailors were at work, throwing thick ropes back and forth to tie the ship in place.
Finally, the gangplank was lowered, a few rich passengers swiftly disembarking while those in the employ of the Church worked at re-supplying the ship, crates and barrels lifted aloft and swung out onto the deck by large cranes. Jaresh finally walked down the gangplank, followed by Visha and Celest, and another sergeant that Arthur couldn't identify. The paladin smiled, wrapping his son in a hug. "So you did finish after all," he said happily. "I got your messenger bird while we were sailing, but the same day I heard reports about the day of assassinations."
He smiled, giving his sister and cousin hugs as well. "A few others managed to avoid it in Westmarch and Entsteig, but it hasn't been a good time for the Church." They all formed up, walking through the bustling city towards the main temple. "But why me, dad? All the others who were targetted were older, experienced priests and paladins."
Visha shrugged. "We are descended from some of the greatest heroes Sanctuary has ever known. Had they been able to hire thugs in the Empire, then they probably would have gone after us as well." She shrugged, adjusting her pistols on their belt.
Jaresh grunted in agreement. "We'll have to talk to the Council, but I think we'll have to turn around and head straight for Entsteig. Slip," he paused, looking around, but the new sergeant had vanished into the crowd. "Damn that man," he growled, "why must he disappear at the most inopportune moments?"
Even as Visha opened her mouth to make a snide comment, screams split the air from somewhere up ahead. Drawing weapons, they all charged into the crowd, shoving people aside. An open area had cleared, people fleeing the battle where Slip faced off against two opponents. One was obviously human, but the other looked warped, twisted as though he was a candle melted in sunlight and then left to harden. Several arrows stuck out from his thick hide, even as Slip fired another one at a leg ineffectually.
Twin booms cracked the air as Visha fired her pistols, driving the other man to the ground, and Celest charged towards them, hurling a lightning web into the creature's face. Arthur chanted, firing a string of holy bolts at the beast while his father hammered it, his scepter leaving swiftly-filling dents in the demon's hide. But their attacks all seemed futile, as the wounds healed over instantly. "It's not working!" Jaresh shouted, another arrow flicking over his shoulder to stick in the pasty flesh.
But they still fought to stall it, Visha reloading only to witness her bullets pushed out of the demon's body, the holes slipping closed. Then another warrior entered the fray, his sword slicing out and severing an arm cleanly. It dropped to the ground, rotting and turning black before the twisted flesh had touched the stones.
Then a massive gout of fire bloomed forth, setting the demon's blood on fire. It started screaming in a voice all too human as the fire started flowing through it in place of blood, flesh peeling as it reeled in pain, dropping at last to the ground, dead. Lowering her hand, the sorceress looked at the peculiar group. "Is everyone alright?"
Jaresh nodded, examining his scepter before returning it to his belt. "Aye lass, and thanks to both of you." He paused, examining her closer. "You look familiar."
"My name is Maren. I'm looking for my uncle, a paladin named Jaresh." Everyone stared as he blinks, his shoulders finally drooping as he nodded.
Dro snorted, using the dead man's pants to clean off his sword blade. "I wish you'd told me I was escorting you to a family reunion," he said, sheathing it. "By the hells, what does your family have to do with the Silent Liars and the Disciples of Na-Krul?"
Collecting himself, the paladin watched Dro closely. "Not too many know about those two orders. Especially since we've done what we can to exterminate them."
The mercenary gave a grim smile, nudging the corpse with his foot. "Well, you found one more." He knelt, examining the wounds. "But I'll be damned if I know how you killed him."
Smiling, Visha twirled one of her pistols. "You've never met one of the Protectorate gunsmiths, have you?" She chuckled as he shook his head. "This is all really great, but do you think we can find somewhere a little more comforting to catch up on what's going on?"
A squad of soldiers finally marched up about then, obeying as Jaresh gave them careful instructions on what to do with the bodies, and drafting a few of them as bodyguards for their trek back to the main temple of the Zakarum. As they walked away, Dro gave one last look backwards, muttering quietly, "I have got to find another line of work."
Baal paced outside the cave, dragging the chained figure behind him. After spending the morning torturing his younger brother Belial with everything he had, the Lord of Destruction ought to be feeling better, but his stomach churned every time he looked at the cave and the symbols of binding that covered every inch of the entrance. Symbols that he had inscribed himself, with the help of Diablo and Mephisto when they returned to Hell.
"Tell me again, Belial," he growled, "about this plan of Na-Krul's." He looked behind him, where the bleeding and battered body cowered.
"His Discpiles have constructed a new device, one that will give them almost immortality, as long as they have enough victims. With promises of immortal life, they have new volunteers flocking to them. So now, their agents have been stirring up wars in every land where humanity reigns." He stopped, trying to dodge a strike from one of Baal's tenticles.
"You told me that already, brother," the older fumed, striking him harshly with every word he spoke. "But how can they summon Na-Krul? He was driven from the mortal plane just as we were, with a mortal's weapon through his heart!"
Belial stumbled, every blow drawing flesh blood to spatter the guards around the cave. "We can still visit the mortal plane, so long as we are safe in a summoning circle," he whined pleadingly. "They are trying to make a circle large enough to cover the northern continents, so that he will have free reign through all the human lands."
Baal stopped in shock, turning back towards the cave to reassure himself that the runes still held in place. "Can they truly summon him, with all the chains we have placed around him?" he whispered rhetorically.
Perhaps not wisely, Belial nodded. "If they can ignite a large enough war, every human slaughtered will be in his name." He yelped as another kick slammed into his ribs, then staggered to keep up as Baal yanked the chain, dragging him away from the cage. His brothers had to hear this news, assuming he could drag Mephisto away from his arena and Diablo away from his Cathedral.
Smirking, the real Belial watched his doppleganger scurry away with his brother, and shook his invisible, horned head. With a glance at the guards, he carefully changed their memories and erased another rune at the entrance to the cave. By the time the Disciples had started their wars, Na-Krul wouldn't need it to break free of his cave. With all that power, his elder brothers would be forced to fight him down, drag him back to Hell and eliminate him permanently.
And all the time they were fighting with each other, his plans would be going forward. All these worlds would bend to his will, eventually.
Rahvunah sat in the chair and listened to the report. “So, let me get this straight,” he growled, “not only did you fail to kill a fledgling sorceress, but she’s managed to get druids aiding the townsfolk along the northern border of Kehjistan.” He drummed his fingers on the table as the man quaked. Part of him was glad for all the new recruits that had swelled the ranks of the Disciples around the world of Sanctuary, but then he had to deal with incompentants like this one. “So, why did you fail?”
“Someone else showed up, a warrior of some kind. He dispatched all the demons in under a minute.” He opened his mouth, gasping as Gerta pressed a knife into his side. “It’s the truth!”
Scowling, the elder Disciple rose from his chair and started pacing. “Don’t kill him yet, Gerta. Take him down and interrogate him first. I want to know about a man who can take out a half dozen death maulers and acid beasts single-handedly.” He stopped, pulling out a scroll and scanning through it. “When you’re sure you know everything, inform Daragosh that it’s his turn on the machine.” Screaming and pleading for a second chance, the man was dragged away.
Turning to a map, Rahvunah scanned the markers, and angrily removed a few along the southern border of the Druid forests. It wouldn’t be easy to reclaim that area, now that some of their clans were helping the Zakarum villages fight off the demons that his partners had carefully summoned and set loose in the area. Still, it wasn’t hopeless. Looking to the east, his smile widened as he noted all the red marks. In every major city of that Empire, the underground cult was growing. Most of them didn’t realize they were worshipping a major demon, but the children of the wealthy and not-quite-noble were ridiculously easy to manipulate.
Everything was going according to plan, he thought, then corrected himself. Almost everything.
Down in the interrogation room, Gerta was feeling rather disappointed. She hadn’t even needed to get down any of the usual implements. The man hadn’t even gotten into the room before he started babbling, telling her about the strange mercenary. All of it was bringing strange images to her mind, something naggingly familiar about it. With a sigh, she shrugged it off, then ordered two of the guards to drag him away and hook him up to the machine. Adjusting her armor in place, she went to look for the next of Rahvunah’s lieutenants for the machine, waiting to get rejuvenated.
As she walked the corridors, she wondered what her master was up to. She had been in the Silent Liars since her childhood, taking a life in servitude to the Prime Evil rather than continue to face the life she had been born in. It had always been a contest in the small order, trying to see who could guess the plans, and the one behind that, and the one behind that. Never had she been given a mission that wouldn’t have benefited the Lord of Lies, regardless of the outcome, and she was sure this one was no different.
Still, what possible good would it do to loose Na-Krul, a demon almost as old as the Brothers themselves, on the mortal plane? With a smile and a shrug, she put the thought from her mind. No matter what, it would surely be entertaining to watch the demon tearing his way through a city, leaving chaos in his wake.
Dro leaned against the closed door, listening as Maren and Jaresh shared information about the events happening across the land. Part of him felt a little guilty, since he had apparently missed the signs of evil conspiring against humanity – again – but then, he had been busy. After promising aid to the northern villages and dispatching messengers to the Druid clans, the paladin turned towards him. “Well now, Dro, wasn’t it? How exactly do you know about the Silent Liars?”
Shrugging, he pulled out a dagger and started cleaning dirt out from beneath his fingernails. “Not much to say about it, really,” he started. “I grew up in Westmarch. Don’t even remember the name of the village anymore, but it’s not important. Big family, lots of kids. Our dad was a drunkard, and a really bad one. He’d finish the day’s work in the fields, and go into town and drink himself silly, then come home and beat on whichever one of us he caught first.”
He stopped, sheathing the knife and closing his eyes, bowing his head. “One night, he came home and one of our neighbors was there. He was just talking, but my dad thought he was carrying on with my mom. Anyway, big fight, and he ended up dead. The rest of us sort of … scattered. I managed to end up as a squire to some traveling knight, who ended up dead.
“But one of my sisters apparently found out about the Silent Liars. Dunno how, but after I had taken up the sword and armor, I saw her again in Kingsport. She told me a little about it, trying to get me to join too.” He shook his head, rubbing his back against the doorframe. “I saw enough evil in my dad I didn’t want a part of it.”
As the others sat there, staring at him, Dro snorted. “Oh, take your pity and stuff it somewhere the sun doesn’t touch. I’m doing just fine for myself as a mercenary, and even if it’s not a great life, it’s mine. I built it up from nothing, so all my accomplishments are my own.” He snorted again, rifling through his clothes until he found a pipe, filling it and reaching for one of the candles brightening the room.
Jaresh cleared his throat unhappily, and the warrior rolled his eyes before returning the pipe, unlit, to its hiding place. “How long ago did you talk to your sister?”
He thought for a moment, tipping his head back and rubbing against the doorframe again. “About two years ago, I think. I was heading around the north end of the Sea of Light, hearing something about demon bounties along the border where I rescued Maren.”
“Look, this is all interesting,” Slip interrupted, “but I don’t see how it helps us much right now. I mean, those Silent Liars have been manipulating events for several months, at least.” He looked at Jaresh, nervously fingering the steel sergeant pin on his collar. “Even if he finds his sister again, I don’t think she could, or would, stop whatever they’re doing.”
Celest smiled, playing with a loose hair absently. “And just what are you proposing we do about it, Sergeant? We don’t know exactly what they’re doing.” She looked around the table at the others as well. “But it’s clear that they’ve killed most of the Zakarum in the Western kingdoms, so whatever their plan is, it must be important there.”
Visha held up a hand to stop her. “More importantly, we don’t know what they’re doing in the Empire. I mean, the Worldstone is there, and we know that all of Belial’s plans revolved around it when our grandparents defeated him before.”
Rising to his feet, Jaresh put out both hands to halt the conversation. “Tomorrow, we’ll take the Soulforged to Westmarch. In the meantime, I’ll be sending as many soldiers as I can spare to help fortify the Protectorate forces.” He looked up at Maren, looking a little more nervous. “I’m glad you’re here, niece of mine, but you seem to have helped defeat, or at least stall, Belial’s plans concerning your own people.”
She smiled, giving a bow of her head. “My father had a vision of me standing here in Travincal, before the great temple. For the moment at least, my path is joined to yours.” Looking around the table, her cousins all smiled back at her.
Shaking his head, Dro started to open the door. “So, you’re just going to turn and walk away from this? Leave humanity struggling against Belial’s plans?” He looked back at Arthur, the young priest standing angrily from his seat at the table.
“Look, priest, I’m a simple warrior. Nothing more. I walk my own path, and it’s not one of a hero.” Dro pulled the sword from his belt, gesturing with it. “See this? It’s at least the dozenth sword I’ve had since I started on my own. I don’t have any magic, or skills, or enchanted protection like the rest of you.” He sheathed it without looking, obvious from long practice. “You don’t need me.”
He was almost out the door when Jaresh’s voice stopped him. “You’re hired.” Turning around, the paladin chuckled. “You did say you were a mercenary, so, I’m hiring you. My children and nieces might be skilled warriors, but,” he glanced around them, “another sword arm is always useful in the battle against evil.”
With a skeptical gaze, Dro nodded. “Twenty gold per day.”
“Bah! Ten.”
“Fifteen then?” They both nodded guardedly, and Dro shrugged. “Guess I better get the important things from my wagon and find someplace to sell it then.” He gave a mocking salute before disappearing down the hallway.
Folding his arms, Slip glared at the empty doorway. “Are you sure that was wise, sir? He said himself, he’s got a sister in Belial’s employ.”
But the sorceress answered him, not the paladin. “He also helped me defeat a possessed animal, and bring druid aid to the farmers in northern Kehjistan, instead of the war that Belial is trying to incite.”
With a shrug, Visha stood as well, buckling her pistols back into place. “If he’s a traitor, we’ll be watching him. If he’s not, well,” she gave a last glance at Slip, “then he’s one more sword between Hell and humanity.”
Lobar looked out in dismay at the giant cloud of dust, slowly moving northward. He had passed into Entsteig three days ago, moving swiftly on foot and being as congenial as he could to the common folk. Still, recent events had left everyone suspicious, and he had been forced to stop frequently when guard patrols saw him on the road. Now there was clearly an army, moving towards his homeland.
Settling his mace on his back, he started running across the fields, legs pumping rhythmically as he hummed an old battle song. Soon enough, the scouts from the army had spotted him, racing their horses back to the main column just to try and get there a few seconds before him.
But voices carried further, and a large group of armed men split off from the main group, swords and axes held at the ready as the barbarian slowed. “I am Lobar, head of the Clan Chiefs.” He looked around the group, trying to find the officer in charge. “I need to speak with whoever is in charge here.”
Unfortunately for the great warrior, the captain who led this group of men had lost his sister’s family in one of the misdirected raids by the Disciples. “Kill him!” he ordered, drawing his own sword and charging on his horse. That made him the first casualty, when Lobar kicked a rock the size of his fist at the soldiers, drawing his mace and shield, giving a great shout as he leaped over the still-running horse, crashing into the group in a spray of blood.
Their battle raged for half an hour, over a hundred soldiers falling under the flanged weapon of the greatest living Barbarian warrior, but all good things must come to an end. Their general eventually rode up, viewing the carnage and the corpse of Lobar, dozens of arrows sticking from his armor and cuts covering every inch of exposed skin. Snarling, the general called a halt, composing a note to be sent back by carrier pigeon to the King, trying yet again to talk him out of this foolish and pre-emptive war against those great tribes.
After all, if a single warrior could kill over a hundred soldiers, how was he supposed to take their greatest city? But still, over the objections of his other officers, he buried the barbarian, instead of leaving the body out for the carrion crows.
Over the last few days, the body carts had been fortified, kept out of sight of the walls while doing it. It didn’t seem too out of the ordinary – after all, the falling bodies being thrown off the walls, and arrows, and spells had damaged most of them anyway – but Duriel was taking no chances with this operation. In an hour, they would be set, packs of goatmen pulling and pushing the wagons until they all crashed into the gates, temporary battering rams leading the way.
From atop the walls, Rupert launched another volley of arrows into the crowd below. His corner of the wall had been slow today, and they were taking advantage of it. The arrows were all divinely created of course; Tyrael and Hadriel had been running their wings off, making circuits of the outer walls to keep the soldiers supplied with weapons and new personnel. Some of the greater Seraphim had been joining them, massing up to repel ladders whenever the demonic forces gained too great a hold.
As he looked out over the field, he could see some of the carts near Duriel’s tent, and wondered what they were up to. Mostly, they had been circling the walls, out of reach of most of the fighting, letting the scavenger packs of Fallen drag demonic corpses back to them to keep to feed their troops. Fortunately, the heavenly souls had no need to eat. “Hey, Colin? Do you notice something odd about this?”
The other paladin walked over, avoiding the fallen weapons and armor of their temporarily dispossessed comrades. As Rupert outlined his thoughts on the matter, he shrugged. “Seems damned odd to me, aye, but, well, what are we supposed to do about it?”
Before Rupert could answer, the carts started rolling forward, the goatmen massing up, pulling on the rams and pushing the wagons from behind. Snarling, he took aim with an arrow, letting it fly with a whispered prayer, watching it arc out over the battlefield, impacting one goatman. But even as the demon fell away, another took his place. “Damnit Colin, go find Tyrael or Hadriel and let them know we have problems!”
As he shouted orders, soldiers on other parts of the wall took aim as well, sending a continuous rain of arrows down at the carts. But by now, other demons were working as a vanguard for the wagons. Balrog hefted shields and wings to cover the runners as they propelled the rolling piles of corpses towards the gates. And imps flashed in and out of sight on the walls, trying to burn away arrows before the defenders could use them.
They hit the wall like a patter of hailstones, a rhythm heard over the sounds of battle as more demons chose that moment to launch more ladders. Hadriel appeared outside the gate, taking aim at the broken wagons and their loads of bodies.
But the angel was a fraction of a second too late, as Duriel’s spell took effect. Every one of a thousand demon bodies exploded at once, shredding the holy wood that once defended the entrance to the city. The walls around the gate crumbled as well, masonry falling down onto the charging troops desperate to invade. In stunned disbelief, Rupert heard the trumpets on the walls, signaling a retreat to the next circle of walls.
When another ladder crashed down on the walls, it broke him from his trance. With his other soldiers, they linked arms, saying the very brief prayer and teleporting onto the second ring of walls. All around them, more and more souls fuzzed into being and readied their weapons.
For a few hours, they sat on the walls, watching as the demonic horde thronged through the streets of the first circle, celebrating their current victory. Then the war machines had cleared away the rubble, and the ladders and siege towers came in, ready to join the battle again.
Oras snarled as the cannon boomed, rocking his ship in the water. The iron ball smashed across the deckhouse on the Westmarch vessel, shattering the pilot’s wheel and taking the captain with it off the side. Smiling, he drew his cutlass, shouting orders. One of his other ships was pulling up alongside now, whirling grappling hooks and preparing the boarding parties.
“So, tell me again why you finally took this offer to hunt down the Royal Westmarch Navy?” Oras turned to look at his brother, the sorcerer’s robes hanging loosely. “I mean, you were petrified of the Amazons catching you for flying their flags.”
Waving the cutlass menacingly, the bearded captain spat on the deck. “Don’t bring it up, Jordan,” he warned as his own ship locked onto another vessel, dropping planks and sending shouting men into battle. Giving a shout, he joined them.
Shaking his head, Jordan scanned the deck, raising a hand and blasting a lightning bolt against their captain. He scratched at his side, muttering about the ill-fitting scavenged robes he had and the fleas that infested the pirate ship. But soon enough, they would be returning to Haven, probably after another ship or two. Whoever survived would be sold into slavery, and the possessions scattered on the black market. And that strange man in black armor should be waiting to give them another payment.
As he started to turn towards the cabin he shared with his brother, the lookout shouted from the crow’s nest. Grumbling, he pulled out a telescope from his robes, following the pointing arm and tried to focus it. A moment later, his shaking hands dropped it to shatter on the deck as he started screaming out orders.
The Soulforged leaped through the waves, their own lookouts calling out descriptions of the fighting vessels up ahead. Jaresh scratched his head, standing in the pilot house with the captain. “But this makes no sense!” the paladin fumed. “Why would the Amazons destroy ships of the Royal Westmarch Navy?”
Maren stood out on the deck, using a piece of glass, briefly enchanted to serve as her telescope. Arthur stood next to her, squinting at the small forms on the horizon. “Blast it!” he said. “I can’t see a thing!” She chuckled, handing him the glass, and he moved it in front of his face, trying to get a clearer view of the carnage.
The mercenary looked over his shoulder and blinked in surprise. “Those aren’t Amazonian ships,” he said. “Those are pirate ships.” As the others looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. “Got hired by a ship for two months, before I knew it was a pirate.”
Handing the glass back to his cousin, Arthur ran for the pilot house. A few moments later, the great ship shuddered as the enchantments were doubled, hurtling forward through the waves to interrupt the battle and, hopefully, gain some answers.
In an obviously expensively decorated house in Lao Wai, he rubbed his hands together, examining the pentagram he had carefully placed on the floor. The sand had been easy to come by, and it should serve as well as the crushed amethyst that they had been using in the main rituals. Of course, if this went the way it should, he wouldn’t be stuck waiting, chanting for hours, until his turn came.
He spoke the words deliberately and quietly, nervous that he would be heard despite the thick oak planks that formed the walls of his bedroom. As he talked, he could feel the energy pulsing through the pentagram, and with his last word the portal irised open, flames flickering around its edges, and she stepped through. He gaped for a moment as the succubus spread her wings, testing the edge of her containment and smiling at him.
Unconscious of his actions, he leaned forward and broke the circle of sand, releasing the demon. Some hours later, a servant would find his body, shriveled and drained of life with a broad smile upon his face. Rumors would circulate the city, and more of the young, rich, and bored would find their way to the secret cult, following even more subtle whispers of protection of the demons, and ways to safely exploit them.
But as the boy was dying, Belial watched it all in a simple puddle of flames along the River of Flames. Eventually, the mortal body fell dead, and he whispered into the air around the succubus. You have your instructions, and she nodded, furling her wings as his illusion spell dropped over her. Then go.
In his pool, he watched the rather ordinary looking cleaning girl slip out of the room, out of the house, and into the city, heading towards the walls of the Protectorate.
Duriel lounged in the opulent room, his bulk resting on the pile of glowing tapestries. Eventually, their forces would be kicked out of Heaven, just as they had eventually stopped all of the incursions into Hell. But until then, he would do what he could to befoul whatever part of the city he held, no matter how useless it was.
A balrog stepped up before him, dropping to the ground to pay obeisance. “Master, we have completely control over the first Circle.” As the silence stretched between them, the demon started to tremble, his leathery wings rattling against the marble floor. “Wh-what is your next c-command?” he finally stuttered out, forehead still pressed against the cold stone.
The Lord of Pain rose from the floor, skittering forward and putting one massive claw right between the giant wings. “I told you before, maggot,” he snarled out quietly, “to start the attack on the second circle!” One wing flew into the air with a spray of blood as Duriel brought his claw back, ignoring the demon screaming in pain and shock. “Get out there and kill them!”
He walked over to the map table, moved into this new command post, and examined the city. Heaven was laid out in a series of concentric circles, nine in all. His three older brothers had all gotten as far as the sixth, before being driven out. This was his first assault on the holy ground, his first time without one of them constantly looking over his shoulders and countermanding his orders. And he already had taken the first circle, in under a year of warfare, something that none of them had done.
Still, it worried him. His plan with the wagons had worked easily, almost too easily. And for each circle he conquered, Tyrael’s forces would grow stronger, fighting closer to their base of power and with less area they needed to guard against his demonic forces. But his concern right now was with the second Circle. There were a half dozen gates to break through, and no way for him to pull another massive corpse explosion even if he could get the bodies into position.
“Your reinforcements are here, Duriel,” a voice boomed from behind him, and he turned to look at the Lord of Hatred. The elder demon moved across the floor, casting a disparaging gaze at the pile of tapestries. “Isn’t that a little bit … petty?”
Smiling, he slithered back to the pile, shifting them aside with his claws. “Actually, I was considering bringing one home with me, Mephisto,” he oozed, lifting the one in question, a brightly-colored representation of the three Prime Evils being captured in their Soulstones. “Perhaps it would grant me some inspiration.”
Snarling angrily, Mephisto started forward, only to halt as another balrog entered the room. Wordlessly, the soldier held aloft an ivory scroll tube. As the elder watched, Duriel opened it and scanned the scroll quickly before setting it afire in irritation. “What is it?”
“He wants a truce!” the Lord of Pain shouted as he left his command center, headed out to find Hadriel.
Oras and his men came swiftly back across the gangplanks, leaving the unlucky Westmarch defenders unconscious or dead, their ship drifting as they fought to quickly sever the grappling hooks that bound them. Normally, they would have simply sunk it, but Oras was a greedy bastard and couldn’t stand the thought of all that treasure being lost.
The first shot from the Soulforged arced out over the water, sailing over the forecastle on one of the ships. Unfortunately, they were pointed towards the great warship, so instead of splashing down into the water, the iron ball shattered the deck and destroying some of their pillaged cargo. That captain shouted orders, trying to turn his ship to bring their catapults to bear, as the other pirates tried to maneuver into better positions. They were faced off against a true beast here, one that most of their weapons would be useless against.
The plan here, relayed between the ships using special flag signals, was to swarm the Zakarum ship, board it, and force them into melee combat. Their only advantage against the steel ship was in strength of numbers, and even that would likely not be enough.
On the deck, Dro hefted a tower shield as a few arrows came winging from one of the ships, watching their catapult shot fly harmlessly over their heads. “He’s got a lousy crew,” he said dryly. Glancing around, he saw Arthur, the priest sending bolts of holy energy towards one of the pirate ships, trying to drain the pirates of their stamina. Jaresh had joined them on the deck, mirroring his son’s actions with slightly greater effect. “Now what?” he asked Maren.
She shrugged, watching the pirate ships slide past them in the water, everyone turning around again to prepare for a second pass and gripping the rail as the last catapult shot bounced off the steel plating. “Wait for them to get closer. They outnumber us, so they’ll probably try to board. Right?” She looked up, and he shrugged. Muttering something, she fired a trio of flame bolts at the ships.
Jordan had grabbed another telescope, and leaned against the rail, scanning the deck of the Soulforged. At last he picked out his target, and prepared a lightning bolt for when they closed in again. The first of the pirate ships was close enough to throw their grappling hooks onto the steel railing, and their ship slowly drifted out behind the faster Zakarum vessel as the sailors strained to pull in the ropes enough to board them.
Visha and Celest stood somewhat apart on the deck, watching Oras’ ship. The two Protectors had noted the flash of the telescope, guessing it to be the lead ship, and Visha was quickly assembling a longer barrel onto one of her pistols. “I guess I’ll find out now whether this weapon of uncle Boris’ works, huh?” Her cousin chuckled, watching for an offensive move, her psychic powers ready for any weapon the pirates might have.
Oras shouted as his ship veered closer, trying to turn around in record time, the first grappling hooks tossed out as the archers sent a flight of arrows crashing harmlessly onto the steel plate. “Next time we get into a situation like this,” he growled at his brother, “we should run, not fight!” The sorcerer merely smiled, raising his hand and casting his spell.
At the same moment, Visha braced her gun against the railing, aiming and pulling the trigger. Celest realized a moment just before, and they went tumbling to the deck as the electricity ricocheted off the steel behind them. Cursing, she hurried to reload as her younger sister tried to drop a cloak of invisibility over them. On the pirate ship, Jordan sighed and aimed another lightning bolt at the two Zakarum, hoping to stop their holy bolts from putting another crewman to sleep.
Then the main cannon in the front of the Soulforged fired, rocking the whole ship and sending some of the grappling hooks loose. One of the pirates staggered in the water, almost the whole stern of the ship missing. It slid slowly into the water, still being dragged by the winds as the hold filled with water and men frantically dived for safety. Dro whistled, watching the destruction even as he tried to protect the sorceress.
The ships circled again, one of Oras’ fleeing away, hoping to get to safety while the others stalled the Zakarum with their destruction. The pirate cursed them, shouting obscenities, and ordered his men to turn the catapult on them. But luck was with that captain, as the next volley of flame bolts struck the catapult, lighting the ropes and sending the prepared shot harmlessly into the air. “Damnit Jordan, do something!”
He watched as the smaller cannons on the Soulforged slowly turned the second ship into a pile of kindling. Resignedly, he raised his hands, pushed up his sleeves, and cast the spell. In a blink, he was standing on the steel deck, Dro’s sword at his throat almost before he finished saying, “I surrender.”
With Celest helping him, they quickly bound the sorcerer, searching him and letting the normal crew haul him off below deck. Another pathetic volley of arrows clattered against the deck as the ships turned again. Then the main cannon boomed, and Oras went flying into the water as his ship cracked in half, plunging into the briny water faster than his last one.
Looking out over the wreckage and the numerous corpses, Jaresh shook his head sadly. “What a waste,” he lamented, before turning towards the crew, shouting orders to haul in any survivors they could find. Someone had better give him a damn good answer as to why a pirate would fly an Amazonian flag.
King William sat on his throne, listening to the message being read, looking quite bored. When the page at last finished, he waved him away, looking for his Seneschal, Norad. “Ah, there you are,” he said, sitting up with a little more interest as the wiry man stepped into the throne room. “I was wondering where you had run off to.”
He nodded, a smile creasing his face, giving him the appearance of a gargoyle that decorated the great cathedral in the capitol. “I’m very sorry, sire, but it appears we have some bad news. General Rambur has stopped his forces, refusing to travel past the edge of the border. He claims that the barbarians have been preparing traps in the hills, and wants to bring up more men before continuing.”
With a grimace, William sank back into the throne. “Oh, bother all this nonsense anyway! Why do we have to go to war? It all seems so pointless. I mean, can’t we just invite the barbarian leader to a royal ball and ask for some compensation?” The teenage king flushed as stifled laughter echoed through his hall. “Perhaps not a ball, but there must be a better way.”
Norad bowed his head, shrugging his shoulders. “I wish there were as well, your majesty, but both of the messengers we sent have been sent back in pieces. Just remember, your Majesty, that those uncultured fools started this war.” He bowed fully, backing out of the room again. Sulking, King William rose from his throne, stalking out towards the stables with a host of servants and sycophantic nobles following him.
From behind a small peephole in one wall, a black-armored man smiled. Holding up a small silver mirror, he made a few hand gestures, then put it away again. Gerta would be pleased to note that the war was still right on schedule, and if they played their game of misinformation just right, they might even have that general executed for treason.
Jordan sat quietly in the chair. He didn’t have much of a choice, since they had bound his hands and feet to the chair, while the paladin interrogated him. He didn’t have much to tell either, and he sighed as he answered a question for the fourth time. “No, I don’t know who it was. He wore black painted armor and a helmet. His voice was rather scratchy, like he had hay fever. Is there really a point to this?”
Muttering obscenities under his breath, Jaresh stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him. It was technically one of the cells for the tiny ship brig, so he wasn’t worried much about leaving the sorcerer to stew in there. As he emerged onto the deck, everyone turned towards him. “Well?” Slip asked irritably. “Has that damnably arrogant pirate said anything interesting?”
“A few things, actually,” he said, slowly bending down and sitting on the open deck. “Apparently, they were hired by one of the Silent Liars. He doesn’t know exactly who they are, of course, but someone in black armor was blackmailing his brother, Oras, into this madcap scheme.” For a moment, he stared off into the water behind them, where the two Westmarch ships limped along.
“So can we convince them not to attack the Amazons?” Maren asked worriedly. “I mean, they will believe the word of a paladin, right?” She glanced among the others as she started to chew on a nail.
“We can only hope, girl,” Jaresh said. “We can only hope.” With another sigh, he heaved back to his feet and headed below deck.
Celest watched the ships behind them as well, limping along in the water after the battle against the pirates. “He’s not the only problem, you know. What about the war between Entsteig and the barbarian tribes? What if some of the Kurast villagers refuse aid from the Druids to stop the demons there?”
Visha scowled, making a shushing motion with her hands. “What ever is wrong, we’ll find a way to deal with it. Right now, just hope that nothing especially bad is happening to the Protectorate.”
The group slowly broke up, drifting away, lost in their own thoughts. Dro headed below deck, walking the cramped corridors until he was stopped by a guard in front of the brig. “I’m sorry, this area is off limits,” he said.
The mercenary shrugged. “Just wondering if there was any way I could see the prisoner,” he said. “I might have seen him before.”
As the guard started shaking his head, Arthur spoke up from further down the corridor. “It’s alright, he’ll be going in with me.” The older man turned and stared at him in surprise for a moment, then nodded his head in thanks. The guard reluctantly stepped out of the way, opening the door as they went inside.
Jordan opened his eyes, stretching against his bonds briefly. “I don’t suppose I’ve been granted a reprieve from these ropes?” he asked blandly. “They do start to chafe after a while, and I have been the very soul of cooperation.”
Dro snorted, shaking his head. “Not my call. I never pictured you for the pirate type. Last I knew you were working for the magistrates in Kingsport.”
“Yes, well, my brother contacted me unexpectedly. Pleading for my help. I figured he’d just gotten into another stupid prank.” Sighing, he attempted to get more comfortable in his bonds. “Instead, I found out he’d raped and murdered the daughter of a local Baron in a drunken rage. But I didn’t discover that until I’d helped him escape the city.” He paused, mouth open to speak another word, then glanced at Arthur. “I suppose that just consigned me to a short walk back into the ocean, didn’t it?” he asked rhetorically.
The novice priest frowned, obviously thinking it over. “If you weren’t aware of your brother’s crimes at the time you helped him, I think the Church could ask the magistrates for leniency. But you will have to atone for all your crimes.” He gave the sorcerer his best scathing glare, which only caused him to chuckle.
“It is at least a small hope to throw into the wind like a flickering candle.” He gave another shrug, trying to make his arms more comfortable. “I don’t suppose you’d free me on just my word that I won’t cause any trouble?”
Glancing back and forth between the two men, Dro shrugged. “I’d accept it, but I’m not in charge here. Just another hired sword, as usual.” With a tiny smile, he turned back towards Arthur. “I’ve never known Jordan to lie, not during the whole two months I worked for him.”
Nervously whispering a prayer, the priest untied him. “I’ll accept your word to release the ropes, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here in the cell. It is warded against magic use.”
Inclining his head gratefully, Jordan rubbed the red welts on his wrists from the hours he had spent bound. “Being able to walk around and think is enough for the moment.” Somewhat morosely, he walked over to sit on the fold-down bunk as the other two left the room, the door shutting with an ominous clank.
One second before the cease-fire ended, the demonic catapults fired, flinging demons and balls of stone and energy into the air towards the second Circle of Heaven. Rupert leaped sideways as a horned demon went sailing through where he had been, crashing to its death against a stone building somewhere below. Sighing, he looked out at the demonic horde rampaging through the first Circle. “I hate this,” he said simply.
Colin nodded, trying to adjust his shield before the ladders started being raised against the walls again. “So do I, friend. So do I. But they won’t last here forever – we’ll beat them back soon enough. And sometime down the road, it’ll be our turn to knock them down a few levels in Hell.” Picking up a fallen javelin, he cast it down at the throng, not even bothering to see what demon it hit.
Rupert chuckled, nodding as he readied his scepter as a pack of goat men started towards the wall with a pair of ladders. “True enough, and every demon busy here is one that’s not bothering the mortal world.” They both prepared their attacks, other warriors forming up with them, armed with pikes and halberds to try and tip the ladders before they could be set against the stone.
But Hadriel appeared in the air before them, casting out a giant ball of light, consuming the demons and their ladders before they even reached the base of the wall. “Rupert, Colin, I need you to come with me. This corner of the wall will simply have to do without you.”
As the angel started to float down into the city, the two paladins stared at each other in surprise. “What could he need us for?” Colin asked. But his friend had no answer, as they followed the glowing figure through the city, towards the Ninth Circle in the very center, far enough from the battles that it seemed no more than a distant memory. They finally stopped before the giant marble library, the building Gabriel almost never left.
Sure enough, they went through the hallways to a small room, and Hadriel shut the door behind them. Smiling, the Angel of Knowledge gestured them to sit in the large, plush chair. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “You see, I have a plan to disrupt Duriel’s attack, and you’re going to do it.”
In stunned silence, the two paladins stared at each other before leaning forward, staring into Gabriel’s crystal ball, eager to see what his plan was.
Zaras stood at the top of the tree on another night. The sky seemed empty, dark clouds covering the stars stretching across the horizon from edge to edge, the new moon keeping hidden from human eyes. The open chamber at the top of the Glór-an-Fháidha was like the bottom of a pit in a dungeon, without the smallest speck of light to guide his way. Still, the Loremaster had spent enough nights here to know his way around.
Stepping up to the basin, he emptied a jug of water into it, then carefully broke off the handle to stir the water with. Sparkles of light, so faint they almost seemed a trick of a mind kept too long in the dark, followed the handle, and he smiled. His hand stopped, and the specks faded away before he took up stirring the opposite direction. This time, the sparkles were like tiny pieces of utter blackness, dark even in the blackness of night that surrounded him.
For an hour he stood there, whispering words to the tree, feeling them passed along to the other life in the great forests as he gazed into the pool of water, trying to sense the currents of life and death that would be flowing through the world in the months to come. Something evil was plotting, as usual, and Zaras sighed heavily. Turning away, he dropped the clay handle into the broken jug, knowing that one of the apprentices would take it away in the morning.
As he walked down the passages of the great tree, he listened to it whispering to him, and he whispered back. Reaching the bottom, the wood of the tree whirled away from him, and he stepped out into the night, nimbly dancing aside as the dagger whistled through the air, grass and roots suddenly growing and moving, engulfing the intruder in an all natural prison. Though he raged and fought, the magic held him immobile, the dagger falling out of his hand as a root crushed it.
Zaras waited a moment as others, on guard, came running from the noise. Light blossomed as torches were lit in the clearing, shining from the man’s blood colored robes. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re a follower of that lesser demon, Na-Krul,” he said. Their prisoner merely snarled, still trying to fight against his bonds. “Hold him here,” he whispered to the tree, and the roots and grass dragged him down to the ground, held spread eagled and immobile. “Perhaps a few days with no food, and only the morning dew for drink, will loosen his tongue.
Doubly alert for other intruders in their midst, the guards returned to their posts, asking questions of the night owls and the trees.
Adonia stood on the field, surrounded by a host of warriors. The Trials had been hard, but now she was leading the Clans, the first female Clan Chief to become their leader in centuries. Her clan, the Cranes, were proud of that fact, and enjoyed the grudging respect they were given from the others, especially the Wolves.
But she pushed the thoughts of Clan rivalries from her mind, staring at the army Entsteig had sent against them. It outnumbered them almost five to one – but then, they had come out here to scout and see if parlay was possible. In an army of equal numbers, the battle would have been over in only a day. So with a white flag of truce tied to her lance, the long pole draped over her shoulder, she jogged out of the lines, a dozen honor guards surrounding her.
From the army, a small vanguard of cavalry trotted forward, their own lances held shining towards the sky, a white pennant flying from the highest, and the flag of Entsteig right below it. She watched the glittering rampant lion on the flag flutter in the wind as they approached the same place, a large boulder dropped in the middle of the open steppes ages ago.
Rambur watched the barbarians spread out, a lithe woman finally planting her lance in the ground, standing easily next to it while her flag fluttered in the wind. He dismounted easily, and his half dozen cavalry spread out behind him as well. A horse might balance the odds in a charge, but he still hoped that he could disarm the situation, and damn the king. What did he know of running the country anyway, barely more than a child?
He came back to his thoughts as he realized the barbarian woman was speaking, and he quickly held up his hand. She bit off her words, scowling, but her face softened as he removed his helmet. “Sorry about that, but I can’t hear myself talking in that sometimes.” He tossed the helm to his squire and took a few steps to lean his armored bulk against the huge rock. “I am Duke Rambur, General for the country of Entsteig. I have been sent here by my king to gain restitution for the dozens of farms your raiding parties have burned along the borders of our kingdom.
Adonia straightened in shock, several of her warriors muttering curses and spitting on the field. “Raiding parties? We’ve never sent anyone across the border into your lands, but your guards have fallen upon hunting parties inside the steppes, butchering them all without cause.”
Rambur straightened, his hand almost going to his sword, aborted only by an iron will. “Without cause? Our guard patrols have come across homesteads, buildings burnt to the ground, men and children killed without mercy and the women captives of your tribes!”
Snarling, she threw her hand backwards towards the mass of warriors behind her. “You idiot, look at us! Even with the devastation Baal caused to our people, this is not even a tenth of the warriors I could bring to the field. What use would we have for slaves? None from my own tribe would dare take actions like that, for it would lead them only to a swift death as outcasts from all. My predecessor, Lobar of the Bear Clan, set out to your country to ask in peace what had happened to turn your country against us, and yet here your army stands.”
Paling slightly, Rambur leaned back against the boulder. “One lone barbarian warrior encountered my army as it marched northwards, and a foolish captain who is no longer in charge ordered his men to attack. He took a hundred men with him before he fell, and I buried him with the honor he deserved. But I did not have a chance to speak with him.” Shielding his eyes with a gauntleted hand, the general stared up at the sun, gauging its position in the sky. “I have no wish to fight your people, but my duty to my King propelled me here.”
With a curt nod, Adonia also marked the sun in the sky. “We have never wished battle with your country or any other. Something strange is underfoot here. Lobar was head of the Clan Chiefs for years, and he would never have sent warriors on missions as you described. Perhaps we should discuss things at greater lengths before the field grows rich on our blood.”
Striding back to his horse, the general started barking orders for a tent to be brought forth and erected next to the boulder. The two leaders talked well into the night about the peculiar events leading up to their armies meeting in the field, and when both finally retired to their lines at the night, they cast glances back through the darkness to where they thought the other camped, sharing the same thought as they fell asleep.
Why couldn’t I have found such an honorable warrior among my own people?
The spires of the keep came into view first, the stone castle rising above the port of Kingsport as the Zakarum ship approached the horizon. The Westmarch ships trailed behind them, limping along as they still tried to repair the damage caused by the pirates. Arthur gazed expectantly towards the city, his first visit to the shining jewel of the far Western kingdoms. Sunlight sparkled over the water and the city like hundreds of stars dumped into a box.
Dro chuckled, standing back near the pilot house, and Jaresh glanced at him. “Something amusing about my son?” he asked quietly, only receiving a shrug in return. “You’ve had a dozen more years in the world, I estimate, and this is his first time leaving the Zakarum empire.”
“I thought the church held sway here as well?” He stretched quietly, outwardly at ease despite the magnitude of the task facing them ahead. “Certainly, the churchmen I encountered when I walked the lands of Westmarch and Khanduras acted as though they controlled the country.”
Grimacing in displeasure, Jaresh carefully adjusted the control levers for the Soulforged. “The church is supposed to be the representatives of Heaven in this world, and though I’m loath to admit it, too many forget that the power they hold comes with important responsibilities as well.” With an apologetic shrug, he turned his full attention back to the controls, as the docks drew ever closer to the bow of the ship.
On another part of the deck, Maren stood near Visha and Celest. The three women had spent the trip trading stories of their upbringing, tales of the giant forest of Scosglen and the sorcery tutors in Viz-jun, returned with stories of the Protectorate school and the fabulous cities of the east. “Tell me more about Boris,” the sorceress urged. “He’s the only person I know who traveled with our grandparents and is still alive to tell the stories.”
As Visha opened her mouth to tell about the old gun designer, a shadow flickered overhead briefly, before the stone crashed into the water. Sailors started shouting in alarm as another catapult shot arced over the metal vessel, slamming into the water a foot from one of the Westmarch ships. “What the hells is going on?” she said angrily, peering towards the shore. “They’re shooting at their own ships!”
Indeed, even as Jaresh spun the ship in the water, a third shot went crashing through the mast of one of the wooden vessels, snapping lines dragging men to their deaths. “Get the cannon loaded!” he shouted into a tube heading below-decks. “I want those catapults turned into firewood before they can reload!” Cursing, Slip dropped down a ladder and raced through the narrow passageways towards the cannon room, to lend his eyes to their range sighters.
Cursing, Dro loosened his sword in his scabbard. “I hate waiting,” he muttered under his breath.
Rupert and Colin waited in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the demons slowly entering the Second Circle. Just as Gabriel had warned them, the demons were moving cautiously, wary of a trap. There were several, of course, just to keep their pace slow enough. Duriel was naturally paranoid, especially after his overly quick victory in the First Circle.
Colin twitched, then scowled as he locked his knuckles together, white from the strength his hands clenched. “I can’t help it, Rupert. I just don’t look natural with these.” The other paladin looked him over, seeing only the illusionary spell that Gabriel had layered over him, the leathery Balrog wings looking very out of place. “They keep moving all by themselves.”
“It could be worse, you know,” he retorted, picking up the halberd he carried. His hands felt subtly wrong, and visually they appeared to be that of one of the Goatmen clans. “He could have made us both harpies.” A muffled explosion came from outside, overlaid with the sounds of demons screaming in pain. “I suppose we might as well head out and get our jobs done, right?”
Muttering angrily, Colin stomped towards the door, swinging the massive sword and smashing it down. A pack of Fetish gibbered angrily as they emerged into the streets, then ran off in search of wealth without a fight. Their arms holding a small fortune in gold and gems, the two disguised paladins walked the streets with impunity, doing their best to bluff through the other crowds of demons. Since demon etiquette was as much brute force as spoken language, they reached back to the First Circle without too much trouble.
Then a bloated Overseer stepped out from one of the buildings. “You two!” it burbled, pointing at them and casually lifting the whip in its hand. “Had enough already?”
“What do I look like, a cursed Devilkin trap detector?” Colin spat at him. “Let the little bastards run through the city and kill themselves on Gabriel’s sneak attacks. I have better things to do.” Waving his sword menacingly, and making sure to draw attention to the treasures in his other hand, he strode past bravely. Trying not to shake with worry and nervousness, Rupert followed him.
The Overseer watched them disappear back into the throng, a furrow creasing his brow. They weren’t the only demons retreating from the Second Circle, loaded with treasure, but they were certainly the lightest. But his thoughts were disrupted by a fight breaking out between two different packs of Fetish, and he cracked his whip as he grinned, wading into the bout.
Oras screamed in agony as his soul fell from the mortal coil, the strange peacefulness of drowning replaced by sudden burning and the acrid smell of sulfur. He struck rock, feeling his flesh scrape open, blood spilling onto the always hungry gray landscape of Hell. A whip snapped through the air, spraying more of his blood across the pack of demons that surrounded him. “Welcome to your afterlife,” one of them said, grabbing him around the neck and lifting him into the air. “We’re going to start by eating your entrails, and work up from there.”
His voice echoed across the landscape, the keening of pure despair, blending into the screams of hundreds of others. The demons laughed, reveling in his pain, before one of them suddenly fell to the ground, instantly dead. The others whirled in anger, reaching for weapons, onto to stop and grovel in fear as they saw who faced them.
“This soul is mine,” Asmodan said quietly, his voice full of menace. He raised a beckoning hand, and Oras stepped forth slowly, hands automatically covering his naked body as he followed the Lord of Sin through the blasted landscape. Everywhere his eyes turned, there was another soul in pain, in torture, and demons roamed at will, stopping for amusement on any body they found. But all of them halted their merriment at least briefly as Asmodan went past them.
When they reached his cave, the pirate felt he had been there both years and only seconds. His mind had gone numb, too surrounded by misery and knowing that this would be his fate now, for the rest of eternity. He watched as the demon slowly ascended to his throne, larger than any human king but still tiny compared to Baal’s. “Oras,” he hissed out, and the man jerked in fear, falling to the ground. “I understand you died at the hands of some heroes.” Waving a hand, the demon watched as other tormented souls crawled around, lifting the man and bringing him forward to stare into a pool of flames.
He stared as the fire flickered and moved, showing the image of the Soulforged, the great Zakarum ship pulling up to Kingsport and wept. “What is it you want of me?” he cried out angrily.
Smiling, Asmodan waved his hand again, and the scene in the flames changed, to show the druids protecting the villages in northern Kehjistan. “My brother Belial has been working on a plan to release the demon Na-Krul back into the world.” He watched the man, still shaking from the after-effects of his soul landing in Hell. “I want to see this happen for my own reasons, and that means their peace, imposed by those heroes who sent you to the briny deep, needs to be broken. Can you do that?”
The words slithered around him, promising the pirate revenge on his killers, a chance to walk the mortal world again – a respite, no matter how temporary, from the agony of this dark realm. Looking up at the fiend on the throne of tortured flesh, he nodded. “I am yours,” he whispered, and every soul in the room erupted in a shriek, but whether it was of victory or defeat he could not have said.
Asmodan leaped off his throne, snatching Oras up and casting him into the pool of flames. He had barely enough time to draw breath for a scream that never came before they had consumed him, and he was returned to the water. He fought his way to the surface, so surprisingly close above him, and crawled out onto the bank of the river. For several minutes, he sat on the grass, wondering how he had managed to get from the middle of the open ocean to a jungle river, fighting to believe that his time in Hell had been only a nightmare and not real.
Then he bent over to take a drink from the river, and saw the reflection of a face that was not his own – a face that was not even alive any longer – and tried to scream through vocal cords long since rotted away.
The cannon boomed, the great iron ball smashing the stone tower to pieces. Wood and stone rained down along with the bodies of the unfortunate catapult crew, as the Soulforged spun in the harbor. Slip leaned out next to the cannon, making hand gestures to be heard through the wax earplugs everyone wore. The crew worked hurriedly, adjusting the massive weapon as others worked to reload.
On deck, Visha had broken out her rifle again, carefully targeting officers near the fortifications. Every shot was a perfect wound, their soldiers dragging them away from the fight and out of position for whatever was happening. Maren launched a fireball at another Westmarch ship, pulling away from the dock, loaded with archers, setting the sails aflame. The others waited aboard, waiting for their chance to reach the docks or another ship.
Another cannon shot, another pair of catapults blown to kindling, and the Soulforged pulled up to one of the stone-braced piers. Zakarum soldiers leapt onto the dock, followed only a step behind by Dro and Arthur. As soldiers came racing down the streets in formation, swords and maces held at the ready, Jaresh raised his hand. A giant bolt of holy lightning smashed down from the heavens, obliterating one of the buildings and closing off the street with rubble.
Over the screams of injured soldiers and civilians came the sudden sound of a trumpet fanfare. “Is that another call to arms?” Celest asked, pulling out her katars and preparing for a battle.
“No,” said Dro, sounding confused. “That’s the signal for ‘hold fast,’ I think.” He looked around with the others, watching with surprised confusion as the Westmarch soldiers drew away, forming up into skirmish lines, but still making no move to attack. “Look, that must be the king heading this way!” He pointed up the hill towards the stone keep, where a group of mounted riders, all decked in glimmering armor, were galloping towards the docks.
“Stay ready, men!” Jaresh called out, his own soldiers forming up into lines as the other heroes prepared their own weapons. But indeed, from the gold crown on the head of the lead rider, it was the King of Westmarch that rode forth to meet them. “What the hells is going on here?” Jaresh muttered unhappily.
Rahvunah looked into the crystal ball and quietly fumed. The talks between the new Barbarian chief and the Entsteig general were proceeding along perfectly well, helped along by a healthy dose of attraction. That, of course, wasn’t what he wanted. “Curse them all!” he shouted, aborting his automatic move to upturn the table. The ball was too expensive for him to break it over a little temper tantrum. “Now what the hells should I do?”
Thane’s animated head sniggered at him from his perch on the wall. “I told you this wouldn’t be an easy task,” he intoned. “You focused too much on the big picture, and not enough of the details. And then just pure, random chance has already brought peace back to the waves, thanks to the paladin and his blood kin.”
With a flip of his hand, a circle of disrupting energy flew across the room, warping the flesh into a new configuration. Thane muttered in strangled tones for a few seconds before he could bring his changed flesh under control again. “At least you have a new ally in the northern jungles. That zombie seems a bit odd though.”
Frowning, the dark priest turned back to the head. “What zombie?” he asked slowly, one hand reaching for his ceremonial dagger.
“Pull it up in the crystal ball and see for yourself!” Thane said. “Must I do everything around here? You wouldn’t have fixed my machine without my help, and I’m still waiting for you to craft me a new body for my help.” He huffed and rolled his eyes, ignoring the growl from the human.
For a few minutes, Rahvunah used the scrying crystal to view the events of the past few days, watching Oras kill druids and farmers, always from concealment, doing his best to make each kill look like the other side was secretly behind it. Doubts and speculation were flying in both communities, enough that one of the Druid clans had already retreated from the borders, leaving the Zakarum peasants to battle the demons on their own. “Who is this zombie?” He asked, eyes wide in wonder.
“He used to be the pirate Oras,” came Gerta’s voice from the doorway, and both sets of eyes turned to her. “He drowned when Jaresh sank his ship, then showed up there that night at exactly midnight.” She circled the table, brushing her hand over the ball and blanking the images. “Asmodan sent him back to the mortal realm, which means that he’s somehow learned of my master’s plans.”
“That’s bad,” Rahvunah said. “I know of the enmity between Belial and Asmodan. But why would the Lord of Sin send his newest servant to manipulate events in our favor?” He scratched his head, drumming his fingers on the table. “What is his angle on this situation?”
“That’s not the biggest problem,” she interrupted. Placing her hand back on the crystal ball, she pulled back up the image of the heroes, standing on the dock in Kingsport. “Our false intelligence only slowed things down a little bit, as expected. But,” she paused as the view zoomed in, centered on Dro. “I know this man. I’ve seen him before, somewhere when I was still a novice in the Silent Liars.”
Rahvunah sat back down, leaning forward to study the face. “He’s the mercenary who helped that sorceress brat bring the druids into northern Kehjistan to combat the demons.” He looked up, eyes wide in surprise, and cheeks pale. “Which means that they know you are aiding us.”
Gerta just nodded, her lips pressed unhappily together.
“Sir Jaresh?” The voice sounded incredulous, and the young heroes glanced at each other in surprise as the paladin straightened up. “Damnit, Javelin! You told me that the Soulforged had been taken over by those pirates.” The king drew out a small Protectorate-designed pistol, turning towards an incredibly bland-looking man riding next to him.
As he tried to stammer out a reply, Jaresh stepped forward, pushing his soldiers out of the way. “Your Majesty, I recommend not shooting him. Belial has been working against us the last few months, and I suspect this is no different.” He turned, looking up at the two ruined stone towers. “I apologize for the lives of your men, but I couldn’t think of another way to halt them from firing.”
The king and several of his entourage dismounted, walking forward to meet the Zakarum on equal terms. Arthur looked around, frowning as he realized that someone was missing, but was distracted as the conversation picked up again. “These are dark times, Jaresh. As you’ve probably heard, a great number of your church leaders here in Westmarch have been murdered. We’ve managed to apprehend some of them, mostly low quality thugs who got lucky.” He shrugged, looking at the man called Javelin. “My intelligence service managed to delay a few of the attacks as well, which is why some people survived.”
Grinning, Jaresh slapped him on the shoulder. “So, how is the royal spy network?” As both men winced, he laughed. “I know, you hate that term, but it’s true. Most of the assassinations were hired by the Disciples of Na-Krul. Belial is aiding them, for reasons we don’t yet know. But it’s why we came here.”
“I hope this means you stopped those infernal pirates.” He looked out at his ships in the harbor. “Especially since this means half of my fleet will be drydocked for repairs from those fools.” He shook his head sadly. “And I’ll have to conscript some more sailors. My poor little kingdom can’t afford marvels and volunteers like the Zakarum.”
They all chuckled, and the spy Javelin was about to reply when Dro stepped back up onto the deck, leading Jordan at sword point. “If I can interrupt for a moment, your former magistrate here said that Oras was being paid by a man in black armor – which usually means one of Belial’s followers.” He gave a penetrating gaze to the paladin. “I don’t think we’ll find him at his bolt hole in Haven, but since it is just up the coast, we might be able to find something.”
In surprise, the king and his spy master looked at each other, then withdrew a small distance, speaking quietly. Slip stepped up next to the mercenary, frowning. “What makes you think that this sorcerer will lead us to any of the Silent Liars?” he whispered. But Dro just smiled, watching the king.
Finally he nodded, stopping to adjust his crown. “I think it sounds like a splendid idea. I’ve tolerated Haven being a city filled with pirates and runaway criminals because it has been a lovely training ground for my spies, but enough is enough. We’ll rally the army and march on the city. Good luck finding this nefarious man before we get there.” Giving a broad grin to Jaresh, the king mounted his horse and his party turned to gallop back to the castle.
Leaning against the railing, Slip watched them disappear as everyone else started to talk. “I was right, the nobility put together has less intelligence than a farm horse,” he muttered in disgust. “Tyrael, I hope you’re listening, because we’re going to need a miracle to find one man in a city girding up for war.”
In darker spirits, everyone boarded the Soulforged again and headed below decks to prepare for the city of Haven. Only Jordan remained on the deck, staring back at the city that had once been his home.
Around the edges of the city, a few demons still roamed, mostly those unlucky few who had angered a superior enough to be put on guard duty, but not angry enough to be killed outright. Colin and Rupert moved among this group, their illusions still holding fast. “We’re almost out,” the younger one whispered quietly, hefting his halberd carefully. “I just hope this all works as planned,” he said, then stopped.
Marching through the empty spaces of Limbo that surrounded the mortal realm, separating it from Heaven and Hell and those two realms from each other, came Diablo, leading another army of demons that numbered almost a million. They stared in shock as the column came forward, stretching out for miles, seeming huge compared to the far-away marble of Sanctuary.
Another demon dropped his weapon with a sudden clang, echoing off the bright rocks outside the Heavenly walls, and Diablo laughed. Rupert and Colin both quaked as the Lord of Terror marched past them, but fortunately the great scarlet demon was too busy to notice the only two guards that failed to die of fright at his passing. He marched through the broken gates and into the white city, passing through the First Circle as the commanders broke apart the mighty force to find their shelter until their lives would be consumed by their cause.
The column, easily a hundred wide, continued to pass them by for hours. But finally, the Hell Spawn bringing up the rear had vanished inside the gates, and they looked around at the dozens of demons littering the ground, faces twisted from their death throes. “Let’s get out of here,” Colin said shakily, and the two both set off at a run, vanishing into the emptiness of Limbo.
Oras lurked in the darkness, listening quietly to the village guards talking. The druids had left yesterday, and the general feeling among the farmers was relief. He sat in the tree, silent and still as a statue, waiting for the moon to reach the correct position. Asmodan’s voice had been whispering in his head all day, as he spent it hiding deeper in the woods from any accidental discovery. Now all he had to do was wait, wait for the right moment, and then these poor fools would be joining him.
Soon enough, the moon hung perfectly behind the spire of the small church in the village, and he struck. Leaping down from the tree, he crushed one of the guards beneath his feet, blood spraying outward. The other guard barely had time to scream before the zombie ripped his arm off, bludgeoning him in the head until he fell. Whether dead or unconscious didn’t really matter; Asmodan would ensure that his body served their cause soon enough.
Shouts came from the village, and the lights of torches and lanterns appeared as more came out from their houses, improvised weapons held at the ready. One of them spotted the dead Oras, shouting and loosing a sling stone as he raised his hands.
The crescent moon, speared through the spire of the church, suddenly glowed the color of blood. Dark liquid came seeping up from the ground, turning everything to thick mud as the men rushed towards him, some of them slipping and falling in the sudden quagmire. One young man started screaming hysterically as he realized what it was, and Oras smiled, pointed teeth bright in the dark red light.
One particularly valiant farmer reached him first, and the zombie’s hand crushed out his torch, splintering the wood and casting it back in his face. The farmer screamed, dropping his pitchfork to grab at his pierced eyes, stumbling backwards as his friends came running around him to confront the undead monster.
One by one, Oras destroyed them, ignoring the devastating blows that the farmers heaped upon him. Pitchforks and spears stabbed into his body, but even the strongest farmer couldn’t budge the zombie an inch from where he stood. Sling stones, hammers, and shovels battered at his limbs like they were made from diamond, as they helplessly watched him crush the life from one person at a time.
Before long, their numbers were down to a dozen, less than a fourth of the brave souls that had charged forth to defend their homes. Then the first of their dead rose up, bathed in the blood that Asmodan had sent to flood the village. Slowly, the others awakened, and the farmers turned to flee, their families already trying to escape the village with whatever they could carry.
From the edge of the village, spine-covered vines burst forth around the road, grappling around the refugees and dragging some of them away into the darkness. One of the children, armed with a hatchet, managed to cut away a few vines to save his siblings, until other vines swept him off his feet, holding him down in the bloody mud until his struggles stopped.
Finally, the moon moved away from the spire, and the blood vanished. Oras stood alone in the center of the village, surrounded only by a company of mindless zombies. He looked around and smiled, wondering what Asmodan would make his next task with this army. He waited for the dark voice of his master, but instead heard the small wailing voice of an infant. Perking up in interest, he followed the noise, at last entering a small hut on the edge of the town.
The child lay on the floor, feebly kicking loose of her swaddling clothes as the zombie reached down to pick her up. The thin screaming intensified as the baby caught the odor of his rotting flesh, and he suddenly realized that he hungered. As he lowered his face towards the young flesh to feed, a voice interrupted him. “Stop,” the voice said, and he looked up in surprise to see one of the zombies, eyes glowing brightly. “Her parents are now in my care, and I believe I can turn her to use in years to come.”
Oras stared in surprise, the screaming child ignored in his hands. “Asmodan?” he asked in surprise, and nodded as the other zombie smiled. “What then should I do with her?”
“One of my living followers will come for her soon. Guard her until then.” He almost said more, then the corpse suddenly immolated, fire bursting forth and consuming the flesh. The voice echoed in his head a moment later. Damn those stupid, frail mortal bodies! Keep the child safe!
He nodded, wrapping her back up in the rags and stepping back into the night as the Lord of Sin tasked him with his new army of zombies.
By the third day of talks, General Rambur and Adonia, head of the Clan Chiefs, had hammered out an acceptable peace agreement between the Barbarian tribes and the country of Entsteig. Half of the army had already turned back towards their home country, the soldiers mostly happy that there would be no needless spilling of their own blood.
The two leaders sat inside their tent, eating a quiet dinner alone together. Neither of them had been bold enough to risk the rumors and innuendo from their people by spending a night behind the “enemy” lines, but from the many longing glances the two veteran warriors cast at each other, that moment would clearly not be too long in coming.
Fate has a cruel sense of irony, of course, and at that moment is when a messenger burst into the tent. “Sire,” he said, saluting hurriedly, “we just received a messenger pigeon from King William. He’s headed this direction with the rest of the army, leading them personally to put down this border war.” He gulped as both warriors put down cups and cutlery. “The message also says that you’re supposed to be arrested and charged with treason.”
Rambur held up his hand to restrain Adonia as she reached for the knife on the table. “Who else knows? Who else has been told about this?”
“The Beastmaster knows, Sire. He was headed towards Baron Edward’s tent with the letter.” He turned around, glancing out through the flap towards where the bulk of the army was quartered. “The men are split, Sire. Some of them still believe the barbarians are behind the murders on the border, while the others want no part of any war with such a fearsome people. We can resist.”
Swearing, Rambur moved towards his weapons, quickly pulling on a chainmail hauberk and belting his sword into place. “Alert the other guards. His Majesty must not have received my messages about the peace treaty for some reason, and I’m not going to let that pompous ass clap me in irons.” He turned back to Adonia, and they shared a wordless glance before she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, then raced out of the tent, vanishing back to the Clans to prepare them for whatever might happen.
He waited, listening as his own guards quickly assembled, then stepped out of his tent, joining them and watching the messenger run around to alert soldiers that would be more supportive of him. From across the camp, he could see Edwards marching his direction with a group of his own men, holding the tiny message paper imperiously in one hand.
“Hadriel grant us strength, Gabriel grant us wisdom,” he said quietly, waiting for the confrontation about to happen, and fearing the worst for his country no matter the outcome.
The next day as evening approached, so did they to the city of Haven, tribute to the amazing magic that powered the Soulforged. Maren stood at the rail, staring at the gloom shrouded city, shivering in horror at what had been done to twist the land, giving shelter to those who wanted to keep their faces hidden from the rest of the world. A few feet away, Jordan looked at the city, hidden in his own thoughts about the place that had been his refuge the past few years.
They both looked up as footsteps sounded across the steel deck behind them, and Slip stood next to the woman at the rail. “It won’t be long before we’re there,” he said quietly. “I wonder how the city will react to a Zakarum ship pulling up to the docks though. It probably won’t be pretty.”
Jordan chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect a mob of fearful criminals to come charging the ship to push it off the docks, at least not for a few hours. But I don’t know what Dro expects to find here.” He looked up as a thin reed of black smoke started to slowly swell. “And it looks like some part of the city was set on fire. Again.”
Slip spat over the railing towards the benighted city, his lip curling in disgust. “Why would anyone honest have anything to do with this city at all? It looks like an outpost of Hell.” Flames could be seen by now, a few buildings high up on one hill burning merrily while almost invisible people rushed around madly. “I’ll be glad when we’re gone, and moving on to Entsteig to try and halt that war with the Barbarians, if we’re lucky.”
Other ships, a few known pirate vessels, made hasty dashes past them to the anonymity of the open seas, all of them astounded at the sight of the great steel warship in a port as ruinous as Haven. Then they were at the docks, a few of the braver sailors leaping off the side of the ship to tie them to the docks. Whoever regularly manned the docks had fled, leaving the area abandoned as they lowered the gangplank and disembarked.
Looking around the city, Jaresh signaled to his people. “Jordan, you lead the way to where you met. I don’t really expect we’ll find anything, but it’s worth a look.” He looked up at the sooty column of smoke, growing larger with every minute. “Hopefully we can get out of here before the city burns down.”
“I doubt we’d be that lucky,” the sorcerer replied, stepping quickly into the warren of narrow streets. “Lots of people have tried to burn Haven to the ground, and nobody’s succeeded yet,” he grumbled, too quiet for the other seven to hear him as they moved through the alleyways. Arthur sniffed disdainfully as he stepped over a pile of garbage, then barely leaped aside as someone above them emptied a chamber pot into the street.
Visha and Celest looked around with increasing worry as the buildings around them became ever more run down and ramshackle, some of them only avoiding collapse by leaning against each other. The sky was invisible here, soot obscuring it where the overhanging buildings left tiny gaps. It was a twilight world, filled only with shadows of rats and wild dogs and the few, miserable souls waiting out their last days until death came for them.
Some of the shapes suddenly materialized before them, blocking the street as their leader sized up the eight people before them. “You owe us, Jordan,” he said, scratching at a healing knife wound on his face. “Oras never paid us for our last trip out before he kicked the bucket. So pay up.”
Slip had already pulled his bow off his shoulder, two arrows nocked, and Visha’s pistols were out and pointed at the mob. All of them were confident they could deal with this rabble, even outnumbered four to one. Then the crowd parted, and an acid beast padded up, rubbing its mangy fur against the leader’s hand. “I’ve picked up a few new pets since we sailed. Now where’s our money?”
Even as Jordan opened his mouth to reply, Slip loosed his arrows, each piercing one of the acid beast’s eyes perfectly, dropping it to the ground dead before its blood had started liquefying the wooden shafts. The pistols boomed a moment later, sending a second beast to the ground as the men and women behind it screamed, their flesh burning as the demonic blood sprayed across them.
Jordan and Maren swore at the same time, both of them launching fire bolts into the crowd of ruffians as Dro leaped to the front, his sword swinging in short, brutal strokes. Arthur and Jaresh stood side by side, swinging staff and scepter as their holy powers threw their opponents out of the fight, stunned and unconscious. Celest had vanished, but the heroes could track her progress through the group as gashes appeared like magic.
The fight was short, a few survivors vanishing into buildings or the gaps between them, leaving the bodies of the dead to litter the ground. Slip looked at one of the demons in distaste, only a small bit of feather left from his arrow. “Please tell me we’re almost there,” he growled. “I only have so many arrows in my quiver.” He loosened the long knife at his belt as Jordan stepped over the corpses, leading them further into the dark quarter of the city known as the Hook.
As they vanished into the gloom, other figures reappeared from the buildings, looting the corpses with the ease of long practice.
As the army marched along, King William rode in a lavish carriage, sheltered from the rough wind and hot summer weather. The two generals leading the rest of the army were on their horses, just in front of the carriage, unhappy with the way this expedition was going, but not quite willing to confront their liege. Not that it would do any good; they both remembered General Rambur giving several speeches to the king on how armed force would do no good against the Barbarian tribes.
When the army stopped to camp, they spread out into the fields, trampling entire fields and terrorizing the poor peasant farmers until the officers reined them in. William was, of course, blissfully unaware of the entire deal, having already retired to his silk pavilion and waiting concubine. “This is all a bad idea, Owain,” one of the generals said. Their own modest tent had been set up already, and they were sharing a simple dinner of roast chicken and trail bread.
“What else are we going to do?” Owain said, tossing a couple of bones out of the tent flap, hearing some of the dogs start fighting over them. “His father was at least a competent ruler, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re soldiers, it’s not like we can take over the country.”
Both of them sat in silence for a moment, the Owain smiled. “Now that I think about it, where does Entsteig’s strength come from, Lonce?”
He smiled, picking his teeth with a rib. “The silver mines.”
“No! Well, yes, but I mean, the country is kept safe by military means.” He looked out the tent flap carefully, then let it fall back into place, returning the table and lowering his voice. “William doesn’t have any brothers or close cousins. So, if he were to have an unfortunate ‘accident’ in the field, all the nobles would start squabbling over who would hold the throne, am I right?”
“You’re right.” Lonce cleaned greasy fingers off on his trousers, then leaned forward with interest. “And of course, all of them will start trying to hire assassins and mercenaries and start getting belligerent over who holds the best claim to the throne.”
“Exactly.” He pulled off another piece of chicken meat, chewing it while he talked. “And in a climate like that, who’s going to keep the country safe? We are. Step in with some army strength in the right places, and we’ll be the ones running things.”
“Owain, my friend, I do believe you’ve hit upon a master plan.” He picked up his goblet, giving a salute before taking a big gulp of his wine. “Except for one minor problem. How are we going to kill the king and make it look like an accident?”
Raising his hand, the general opened his mouth, then stopped, frowning to think. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” Slumping in his chair, he ripped off another hunk of bread, gnawing on it while he considered it. “There’s another point to consider – what about Rambur? Those treason charges won’t hold water for a moment. Old King John loved the man when he was alive, treated him like a brother, and William’s likely to forgive him once he knows what’s going on.”
Lonce swirled the last of his wine around in his goblet, considering both points as he sipped the last of it. “Rambur I think we can handle. All we have to do is convince Edwards to make it look like a bad escape attempt. He did say that he had taken Rambur prisoner already.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for criticism.
“It might work. And if the King is still dead set on attacking the heathens, all we have do is convince him to ride into battle with us. His head’ll come right off in an instant.” Beaming, Owain lifted his goblet in a toast. “I think we’ll come out of this just fine.”
Rising from his chair, Lonce shouted for a servant to bring them more wine, before they returned to their secret planning of their coup.
They moved swiftly through the alleyways of the Hook, all eyes watching the surrounding buildings. They were dressed like kings compared to the unfortunate souls stuck in this created corner of Hell, and they knew at some point, someone would be desperate enough to attack them again. Then Jordan stopped, paused next to an open doorway. “It’s in here,” he said, pulling at the throat of his robes. “Let’s be quick.”
Moving through the doorway with weapons at the ready, they almost paused to let their eyes adjust to the gloom. Then Maren raised her hand, setting a globe of light above her head, sending insects and humans scurrying for safety. Slip favored her with a thin smile as they moved through the hallway of the building, climbing a staircase that seemed only to be held together with dirt and grime, stopping at last before the first actual door any of them could remember seeing.
Stepping out of the way, Jordan gestured at the door with a flourish, and the paladin moved up to it, reaching for the handle. But Dro stopped him, pointing at the scepter at his waist and gesturing that they should break down the door instead. Grimacing, he drew the scepter, took a deep breath, and swung at the door with all his might.
In a blinding flash of lightning, the door exploded inward, detonating the enchanted trap mostly harmlessly. They all charged into the room, still trying to fight the bright spots dancing in their vision. The room was empty though, a thin layer of dust covering the floor. Cursing, Jaresh stalked back out of the room, dropping his scepter onto his belt as he stepped over the splintered and charred wood. “That was a waste of time,” he said acidly at the mercenary.
“We didn’t know that until we tried. If he had still been here, we might have been able to learn something.” He was scowling as well as he followed them out of the room. Last to leave were Slip and Celest, who both paused at the door as though they were thinking of something. As one, they turned back into the room, the scout pulling an arrow out and onto his bow in a smooth movement.
He flicked his eyes towards one of the side walls, and Celest nodded, drawing her katars and walking across the room in that direction. They both were barely breathing, knowing that something was afoot in the room, when Slip fired his arrow. The man screamed and the illusions shattered, revealing him pinned to the wall, the arrow cleanly between the bones of his forearm.
Celest was across the room in an instant, quickly disarming him of the curved knife and then cleanly punching him in the temple, watching the body sag and collapse as his unconscious weight pulled the arrow out of the wall. “Nice shot,” she said, and he gave a slight bow as the others charged back into the room. “See, dad, it wasn’t a waste of time after all.”
The others started quickly searching the room, confiscating a few sheets of paper and the little coinage that was hidden in the chest at the foot of the cot. Then, with Dro and Arthur hefting the body, they left the building, waiting for the sorcerer to lead them out of this city and back to the safety of the Soulforged. With heavy hearts, all of them tried to ignore the noises as they left the building, the sounds of the occupants fighting over the meager possessions of the Silent Liar now their captive.
Hundreds of eyes watched them on their passage out of the Hook, and more than one wondered if the information of the black-armored man’s capture would be worth a few coins to the right ears.
Rupert stopped, looking through the emptiness that somehow blocked their path forward. “We’ve been here for at least days, Colin. Can you tell where we are now?” He leaned against the halberd he still carried, feeling weary despite his immortal state.
The other paladin stared around them as well, trying desperately to get his bearings. Finally, he pointed off. “There’s Sanctuary,” he pointed, and the tiny blue-green marble of the mortal world became slightly more visible as they concentrated. “But I can’t tell which direction we’re heading in relation to it. I haven’t got a view of Heaven or Hell for hours.”
Snarling, Rupert cast down his weapon and dropped to the emptiness that currently made up the ‘ground’ beneath them. “This is pointless! We’re lost out here. How are we going to get to Hell to implement Gabriel’s plan when we don’t even know what direction we’re going?”
Colin sat down next to him, setting down the heavy sword he carried. “Relax, Rupert. We’ll find a way eventually. He did warn us that it was going to be a rough trip.” He looked down, and then chuckled. “Well, there’s Heaven.” He pointed somewhere beneath his right foot, where the gleaming walls of the city could be seen in miniature. “Any idea how we head straight ‘up’ from where we’re at?”
“Don’t I wish. Every time we stop, the three worlds are in a completely different position. About the only direction we can’t seem to go is straight towards Sanctuary.” He frowned, thinking. “Which, come to think of it, I’m not sure we could go back to.”
Clapping him on the back, Colin stood again, stretching and watching his illusionary balrog wings flutter in the non-existence of Limbo. “There’s not much left for either of us, though it would be nice to see my grandchildren.” He bent down, retrieving his sword, and shrugged. “Pick a direction, any direction.”
Rupert stood, kicking his halberd and watching it spin. When at last it came to a stop, he stared the direction the blade pointed. “Well, I suppose it can’t be any worse than what we’ve tried before,” he said, picking up the weapon as they started walking again, lost in the emptiness of Limbo.
Rahvunah sat before his crystal ball, seemingly lost in thought, the sparkling crystal showing only twisted reflections of the room. After a moment, he sighed heavily, then put his hand on the ball. “I suppose I should check in with my disciples in the Protectorate empire,” he said.
Gerta emerged from under the table a moment later, moving to the chair where her armor rested as she licked her lips clean. “Last time you checked, your cult following was growing, thanks to the succubi and goatmen they had been summoning.” She lifted the breastplate over her head, tightening the leather straps that held it in place. “How are you going to draw the Amazons back into the folds of war, however?”
He shrugged, leaning back and adjusting his robes. “I’m not sure it matters. That idiot child king of Entsteig has ridden out with the army, so he’s certain to end up dead. His best general is being held under armed guard for treason, and Khanduras has been itching for some revenge and a chance to take some of the land on the other side of the border.” He played with the crystal ball, letting brief images of the leaders of both kingdoms flicker past.
“With the barbarians destroying their army on the northern border, and a civil war in their midst, it will be good.” She chuckled, tucking the chain gloves into her belt and pulling up the other chair. “The attraction between the general and the new Barbarian leader is now working in our favor.” She frowned then, placing her hand over the crystal ball and changing the view to a bird’s eye view of the southern parts of the known world. “But your circle is still weak and incomplete.”
Smiling smugly, he linked his hands behind his head. “Every day, it becomes easier to talk to my demonic master, despite the prison in which he is held. In a month, I won’t even need a sacrifice to tell him the news of his works on the mortal realm.” He slid the chair back, kicking his feet up on the table. “I’ll let the Amazons sit for a while. The paladin and his brood know of my plan with the pirate, and will be wasting energy watching for a new threat from us in that direction.”
Gerta’s eyes widened a moment, then she smiled. “Devious,” she purred. “Almost enough to make Belial proud of you.” He scoffed as she watched him, still working and stoking up his ego. “What is the next plan for your cult in the East?”
He frowned, pulling his feet off the table and leaning forward again. “I have a few ideas. Most of them could easily summon Bluderbores, and certainly the males in the cults would enjoy watching pit fights between them. Some of them have already been summoning lesser demons to use in committing petty crimes, and the more powerful have started to take the path of Bartuk.” He gave an exaggerated wink. “Power corrupts, and all that.”
Standing suddenly, he looked at the stuffed head of Thane on the wall. “I suppose I can leave things for a few days and start work on a body for my unfortunate companion.” He snickered at the annoyed look on Thane’s face. “Let me know if any emergencies arise,” Rahvunah said, lifting the head off the wall and disappearing, heading for the laboratory.
She watched him go, running a hand against the chain gloves while she wondered how long before her work here would be done. He was starting to get tiresome.
Rambur walked towards his own camp, Adonia having left to run back towards her own lines. He hoped she wasn’t doing anything rash, like raising her forces against his rather split army. He sighed heavily, pulling on his gauntlets, wishing that he hadn’t left his heavy armor sitting in his personal tent. His guards had already formed up, and he watched as bands of soldiers formed in the camp, some for and some against him. He stopped about halfway back towards the camp as Edwards approached, his own group of bodyguards and a few sycophantic nobles with him. “General Rambur, you are to be placed under arrest for treason, by order of the king.”
He started chuckling, which unnerved a few of the lesser nobles. “Don’t be an idiot, Edwards. The second you lock me up, you’re going to lead this army into a massacre. The barbarian forces can wipe out the whole army here without breaking a sweat.” He looked back towards the camp, where a few groups had degenerated into fisticuffs, but luckily no one had drawn weapons yet. “If King William had received my messages about the peace treaty, he wouldn’t have sent that order and you know it.”
Snarling, the portly man stepped forward threateningly, pointing his finger imperiously. “King John is dead, and his son is a brainless idiot. He won’t care what you’ve accomplished if I can bring even a temporary victory on the battlefield.” He motioned his soldiers forward. “I’m regaining the honor of my family that you stole.”
“You’re an idiot, Edwards,” he said calmly as his own guards moved between them. Still no weapons had been drawn, but he was sure that the foolish Baron would be the first. But as he opened his mouth to respond, a small axe came whirring out of the darkness, neatly clipping off his ear and dropping him to the ground, screaming. Another young Baron behind him had caught the weapon in the chest, and he slumped to his knees, falling to the ground with a surprised look on his face as death claimed him.
Suddenly, torches surrounded the entire came, blooming into being to reveal the entire host of barbarians with weapons ready and pointed at the camp. Several of them had painted their bodies with paints and blood of animals, the sight fearsome enough to cause some of the green soldiers to drop their weapons. “This is our home!” Adonia’s voice echoed across the steppe, as the Entsteig army armed themselves, waiting fearfully within the lines of their own forces. “We have peace with one man, and one man only.”
She walked forward out of the darkness, pointing her lance threateningly at the guards surrounding Edwards to point it at him from several feet away. “If you arrest him and think to lead your army against my people, we will litter the fields with your corpses until there is no man left standing in your whole country.” Turning her back, she stalked out of the light regally, vanishing back into the darkness.
Around the entire field, the warriors ground their torches out in the dirt, plunging themselves back into the darkness of the night and vanishing. Rambur looked around at his army first, then turned back to Edwards with a sigh, watching as a servant bandaged the bloody side of his head. “Still want to clap me in irons, Edwards? I’m sure she has more throwing axes in hand.”
Cursing against the pain, the Baron limped back towards the main army campsite. “Sergeant, make a list of all the company commanders and bring it to my tent,” he said quietly to his head bodyguard. “I think we need to change the layout of the camp.” With a grim smile, the soldier nodded, vanishing into the maze of tents and small campfires. From the darkness of night, dozens of pairs of eyes stayed watching the army, prepared for any sign of continued treachery.
And one pair of eyes watched, wondering how to bring it to pass.
As the morning sun broke, Oras sat alone in the middle of the jungle, his force of zombies surrounding him. The baby had cried fitfully through the night, obviously hungry for food he did not possess. But this is where Asmodan’s voice had told him to wait, so he sat there, holding the child and waiting, trying to ignore the tempting smell of her flesh.
A sudden rustling sound came from the bushes, and he gestured for the zombies to move out of his way, rising to his feet. But the first figure to step through was surprising, a wooden marionette barely two feet tall. Then a heartbreakingly beautiful figure followed the doll, clad in nothing but a blue ribbon wound around her body. A detached part of his mind realized the effect she would have had on his mortal form. “Is this the child?” she said quietly, her voice sounding as perfect as her form.
He held up the body, croaking senselessly through the vocal cords rotted away by the passage of time, and she took the baby from him. To his surprise, the marionette then turned towards her, speaking. “The zombie says this is the babe Asmodan told him to save. He asks why an innocent child is important to the Lord of Lies.”
She chuckled, reaching into the small bag the doll carried and removing a bottle, offering it to the softly wailing girl and smiling as she began sucking. “True, the babe is innocent. But Asmodan has long studied the mortals of this world, and realized that the temptations for sins is often passed from parents to their children.” She chuckled, shifting her body to show off her magnificent form. “It’s why my family has long been in his employ.”
The pirate nodded slowly, then croaked out an order to his force, watching them shuffle off into the jungle. “We have work to do,” the doll translated for him again. “There are many people to kill before I can obtain my revenge.”
She laughed suddenly, the motion causing the babe in her arms to begin wailing again. “Ah, so you are Asmodan’s new Anger then. That post has long been vacant, since his last chosen was caught, and drawn and quartered in Travincal.”
Oras peered at her, frowning as he tried to formulate a proper question. But finally, he simply shook his head and croaked out his question, listening to the blank-faced marionette repeat it for her. “What do you mean?”
She chuckled, rocking the babe in her arms to make it sleep. “Asmodan is the Lord of Sin. For each of the Deadly Sins, he has a human to represent it on the mortal realm.” She smirked, again twisting to show off her body. “I am his chosen of Lust, just as you are his chosen of Anger.” She opened her mouth to say more, when the same voice echoed in their heads.
Enough of this, their master’s voice boomed. You both have important tasks before you. Go! They both nodded, bowing their heads in respect as they vanished opposite directions into the trees. As they walked, Lust carefully handed the sleeping babe to her enchanted doll. “Is this child truly to be my replacement, Lord?” she asked quietly.
If you were not barren, you could properly bear me the next Lust, he said scornfully, and she blushed in shame. But she will do. They continued moving silently through the forest, back to the city of Kurast where some ship would doubtlessly take them aboard for the trip back to Lut Gholein.
Baal stalked into the Chaos Cathedral, scattering abyssal knights as he entered, crushing some of them under his many legs as he marched through the middle of Diablo’s infernal ceremony. The tortured figure of Belial stumbled along behind him, tripping on the bones of the fallen. “We need to talk, brother,” Destruction said without preamble, waiting menacingly for Diablo to disperse the demons that filled the building from wall to wall.
They waited as the undead clattered out of the building in a cacophony of metal and bone striking the stone, and when the building was at last empty they retreated towards the back. The younger manipulated the enchanted mithral seal, and a portion of the wall fell away as the metal took another form. Then the older gestured with his hands and the flames moved aside in a tunnel, letting them vanish even deeper into the bowels of Hell.
Travel was swift as they descended to the bottom of the river of flames, tortured souls continuously being burned alive even as they were trampled into the obsidian stone. A corridor appeared to one side, and they departed, entering a small bubble of a cave, the flames held back by force of will. “We have a problem,” Baal said.
“I know that,” he growled. “Duriel has been far too successful in his assault against Heaven. Something is being planned that will make us look incompetent. The greater demons have been irritable, less willing to take orders since were banished back from the mortal realm.” His scarlet tail lashed slightly, smacking the stone wall.
“Idiot!” Baal’s swipe narrowly missed as the other demon ducked, moving backwards as he prepared for battle. “Something is wrong here, in our own domain. Look,” he said, casting a torrent of ice at the floor, making a smooth mirror. Oras appeared in it, as Terror bent over to look. “Asmodan returned him to the mortal realm to be his chosen Anger.”
Diablo looked up, his eyes narrowing as he considered the options. “Asmodan wouldn’t assist the followers of Na-Krul on his own. Which means he’s being manipulated by someone.” Automatically, his eyes turned to Belial, crouched bloody and beaten behind Baal.
But the greatest Prime Evil shook his head slowly. “I’ve had him under my eye every second for the last fifty years. He hasn’t been able to plan anything, and he still wouldn’t hand Asmodan a powerful pawn regardless of their motives.” The two eldest demons looked at each other for a moment. “Gabriel is busy with our assault on Heaven, and releasing a major demon makes no sense.”
“That leaves only Mephisto,” the other said softly, considering his own words as his tail twitched. “He has long been jealous of my position, and he flirted with the idea of having Belial keep me banished to the mortal realm.” They sat another moment in silence. “You approached me only because you thought I was not behind this.”
Baal chuckled snidely. “Would you help Na-Krul in a way like this? Of course not. Mephisto might, but I still don’t understand his motives.” He stopped, looking backward at the cringing Lies by his feet. “And our brother has been less than helpful in finding it out.”
Diablo snarled, turning back towards the river. “I will keep an extra eye on Asmodan, just in case, and pay a visit to the Arena soon. But,” he turned his glowing eyes back towards his eldest brother as he spat out the last words, “if Na-Krul escapes, I’ll see him destroyed forever.” He vanished back into the flames, diving into them like water and vanishing from sight.
Growling, Baal considered the last words. Truthfully, he had not completely ruled out his brother. Given his hatred towards the demon that had almost kept him trapped within Tristram, it was possible that it was all Diablo’s doing, letting the demon escape as an excuse to destroy him. It seemed more like one of Belial’s plots, only less subtle, and the treacherous brat had been under his eye and fists from the moment he was banished back to Hell.
Angry, confused thoughts whirling around in his head, Baal cast the flames aside as went back into the river, with both the illusionary and real Belial staying close behind him.
Jaresh sighed, his heart heavy as he watched them push the Silent Liar off the bow of the ship, iron chains binding his limbs and speeding him on his way to the briny deep. It was the swiftest and surest way to deal with someone confirmed to follow the Prime Evils, especially the Lord of Lies. They hadn’t been able to gain much information out of him, merely that the pirate was supposed to get the Westmarch ships to attack Amazonian vessels.
There was some grand plan in place, something that the experienced paladin thought went beyond summoning Na-Krul to the mortal world again. He sighed again, and turned as someone came up next to him. “Good riddance,” Slip said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Sir?” He waited a moment until the grey hair bobbed up and down. “I know that a war is brewing between Entsteig and the barbarians. I read the reports of their army marching north. But surely Belial has a backup plan for the Amazons. And since they don’t follow the Zakarum faith, how are we going to keep tabs on what happens with them?”
Shrugging, Jaresh moved to lean over the rail, watching the splash of the waves as the powerful ship rode through the waves. “I’ve sent messenger birds to the islands, as well as dispatching messages through the Church. I’m more worried about the situation with Entsteig.”
“I’m sure that the barbarians will pulverize them,” the scout agreed, but paused as the paladin shook his head. “What could be worse than that?”
“Khanduras,” Dro said as he came up behind them. “They fought a war just about a generation ago, which means that they’ll be primed for another war. Then look at the borders – the Entsteig army has been mostly pulled to the north for their battle against the barbarians. The Westmarch army will be heading west, towards Haven. They can strike in either direction they choose, and considering how much land they lost to Entsteig, they’ll march.”
Slip sighed, slumping down to sit on the deck as he absently played with his steel collar pin. “So what can we do about it?” He watched the play of shadows across the deck as the ship rocked in the waves. “We already talked to the King of Westmarch.” He suddenly smiled as an idea came to him. “Would the King of Khanduras listen to the Sisters of the Sightless Eye?” he asked.
Both of the other warriors considered the idea. “It’s possible,” Jaresh said reluctantly. “Certainly, he wouldn’t want to antagonize the Sisterhood, since they guard the border with the desert to keep the creatures there in check. But what could we possibly offer them in return to avoid a war?”
Dro gave a thin, humorless smile. “Offer to mediate with them for the return of the land they lost in the war with Entsteig. King Loxley is a shrewd sort, and he’ll welcome more money from the Zakarum church. He’s already restored Tristram to far more than its former glory under King Leoric, even though they don’t share the same bloodline.” He tilted his head to the side, studying the paladin. “He’s been trying to get his army in shape to take on Entsteig for years, if you believe the rumors, but he’s no fool. He’d prefer to get it back peacefully.”
Jaresh nodded. “It’s worth a try, at any rate. Slip, go write a few copies of a letter. We can send them through different messengers. Then I’ll decide who’s going with you to Tristram, while we continue northward to try and disarm this war.”
With a spring in his step, the sergeant vanished below-decks to his tiny cabin. The mercenary watched him go, then turned back to the older paladin. “You think it’ll work?”
He just shrugged enigmatically, walking back into the pilot house.
Thane’s head watched from the wall as Rahvunah muttered the incantation, letting the flesh melt together seamlessly. “That thing looks horrible,” he muttered and the priest looked up with a sour frown. “Powerful, I admit. But I’ve never been much for Blunderbores.”
The ten-foot giant’s frame had been modified. Two human arms had been melded into the front of the torso, and one of the hands replaced by a pair of wicked claws from a Death Beetle. Rahvunah looked it over again, then up at the magically preserved head of his former mentor. “I could be working with far worse material,” he threatened, and the head went silent. “Now, where do you want your own head mounted on this thing?”
“Well, I’m tempted to say remove his head and put mine in place. But it would look rather ridiculous.” He frowned, his face contorting in several different expressions as he pictured it in his mind. “It would make experiments and magical spells easier if you simply melted my head backwards into his chest above the arms. But wouldn’t that look ridiculous?”
“Why do I put up with this narcissistic nonsense?” The priest threw up his hands in disgust, flopping into the stuffed chair at the snicker. “I’m building you a strong, powerful body, that you can still conduct experiments to transform humanity into Na-Krul’s image.” He stopped, looking pointedly at the still, fleshy body laying across the floor of the room, blocking access to his machine. “But I suppose, since you dislike it so much, I’ll just discard it for a new one.”
“Don’t be an ass,” Thane said hurriedly. “I told you the body is fine. Place my head into his chest. Though,” he trailed off as the priest gave another irritated sigh. “Don’t you think we should take this to another room? I don’t want to accidentally damage the most precious creation our order has ever had.” His eyes went towards the life-draining machine.
“Good point,” he said. Drawing a small whistle from his robe, he blew a series of short blasts on it. Within a minute, four human forms, twisted by the chaotic magics of Na-Krul’s followers had stumbled into the room. “Take this body into Thane’s chambers,” he ordered, pointing at the modified Blunderbore corpse. Then he went to the wall, lifting down the wooden plaque that held his companion’s tortured flesh, watching the slaves heft the one ton corpse, dragging it through the corridors of the hidden order as he followed them.
The door had not been used for over a year now, and the hinges screeched in complaint as they forced their way inside. Like all followers of the order, they lived a Spartan existence, devoting all of their attention and devotion to bringing true, pure chaos into the mortal realm, a goal that not even the Prime Evils truly desired. After all, those greater demons needed at least enough order to continue to control the lesser demonic hordes.
Watching, Thane licked his lips in anticipation. Even though his machine had killed most of his body, he had enough magic to keep his head alive. And now, thanks to the bargain he had struck with Rahvunah his former student, he would have a new body, enough to walk again. Their plans were proceeding well, and with Na-Krul loose on the mortal plane, he too could walk the world, doing whatever whim struck him.
Then the room was empty but for them, the slaves vanishing as dragging the heavy oak door closed behind them, rusty hinges screaming again. “Hold on a moment, I have to disconnect you from the wood,” the priest said, and Thane did his best to nod. He grabbed a pair of pliers, gripping at the nails and jerking them free of flesh and wood. At last the twisted skull rolled free, and he cast the wood aside. “This is going to hurt a lot,” he snickered, placing the head properly against the giant’s chest.
Thane screamed as the magic took hold, forcing his head backwards, flesh and bone twisting and melding, only to rip apart again. His eyes were squeezed closed in an automatic reaction to the pain, and he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on his sight anyway as his eyes were squeezed from different directions.
Then at last it was all over, the pain stopped, and everything felt differently. He heard footsteps, as though from a great distance away, and then at last Rahvunah’s voice. “I’ll leave you alone in here for a day or so. Get used to your new body.” There was the tortured squeal of the door again, and then blessed silence as his body twitched, trying to learn the commands of his new form.
In the hallway, Gerta swallowed, her face pale. Everyone in the complex had heard the screams, echoing through the underground hideout. A few of the more powerful Disciples had come running, forcing aside the door with her to view the experimental blending, returning a conscious soul to a new body. Others of their order had done it long ago, a raping of magics long since forgotten by Rathman priests, but the knowledge had fallen into disuse as they shrunk in number.
Their leader smiled broadly, teeth shining in the magical lights. “Now you see,” he said just loud enough for everyone to hear, “the wonders that Na-Krul grants his followers in the mortal realm. Wait a few days, until Thane can control his new body better, and ask him which body he prefers.” He gave a calculated glance at the door, playing the crowd of sycophants and power hungry mages like a virtuoso. “But I know what his answer will be.” He winked at Gerta, pushing his way through the robed figures. “I just wonder how long before he’ll be ready to grant me my own.”
The armored woman stayed in the hallway for hours, simply listening to the crashing noises from inside the room, and debating what future Belial had in store for her, here with this tiny order following a lesser demon.
Gheed sat at the head of the table, listening like the other council members to the reports of the army marching towards their illustrious city. A dozen spies told of the immense supplies loaded onto the wagons, to follow along with the thousands of men, the prostitutes taken from the brothels and pressed into military service for the epic campaign. They were on their way to burn the city to the ground.
He was the force behind the council, as they all played his tune whenever he plucked the strings of greed that ran through every man’s heart and straight to his purse strings. But then, that was his job, an honor that had run through his family for three generations now since his grandfather starting singing the praises of Asmodan after those heroes had thwarted the Prime Evils. Now he controlled the council that ran the criminal’s city of Haven, and he didn’t like the sound of the army marching on them.
At last, the spies had left, and they all sat in an uncomfortable silence. The same thoughts were running through everyone’s head, of how to amass a military force great enough to stop almost every soldier in Westmarch but without giving too much control to the peasants that lived worse than slaves who they exploited.
With a subtle smile, Gheed let a special copper coin run over his fingers, flicking it back and forth with his dexterous fingers, thinking of his master and silently asking advice before he stood. “Gentlemen,” he began softly, “I think I have a plan. I have a few resources the rest of you do not.” He saw a few of the sour looks exchanged around the table, knowing their jealousy of his incredible luck at amassing wealth. “It starts with a little bit of bribery and a few well-planted rumors.”
They listened as he told them of Asmodan’s knowledge of a hidden gold mine, almost mined out but somewhere in the mountains between the army and the city of Haven. It would take quite a bit of their money, melted down into suitable gold “nuggets” and planted in the right rivers and fields, but with suitable wealth, the soldiers would start deserting, heading to seek their own fortune in the mountains.
With the desertions, the King would of course turn to drafting farmers, who would also desert – some to return to their families, some to seek the gold in the mountains. Others would come from other countries as well, hearing of the wealth waiting to be dug up and claimed. Coupled with a sizable bribe to Khanduras, their army would gladly march on the border between the two countries, trying to seize back land lost generations ago before the peace enforced by King Leoric and his father.
The only thing he left out as he explained his plan was where his knowledge came from, and they unanimously accepted his plan, digging deep into the city coffers and their own pockets, thinking of the proper gifts they could steal or bribe to sway a king. Notes were memorized by carefully selected messengers to repeat to the jewelers and goldsmiths in town to produce the false nuggets. All the while, Gheed say back in his chair, watching the quiet bustle of activity as they played straight into his hands. His own hands held a small piece of paper and a pen, writing in tiny letters to an old friend of his, the woman who had led him to take over the city of Haven.
Only Envy would be able to decipher the cryptic code. It was only fitting, he thought as he sealed it with wax, since she had taught it to him when she taught him the ways of betrayal and how to secretly control the people around you. The others of the council never noticed as he quietly rose and vanished out the door.
King William reluctantly put on his gold chain mail shirt, riding grumpily at the head of the column, a lance bearing the flag of his country planted in the stirrup next to his foot. His two generals, Lonce and Owain, rode close by behind him, the horses walking slowly along to ensure that the bulk of the soldiers behind them would keep up.
Two days ago, they had encountered the soldiers already sent back by Rambur, and pressed them into service to march back against the barbarians. There was much grumbling and complaining, but the steely glares from their officers silenced them as they turned back onto the steppes.
As they topped a hill, William straightened up from his unhappy slump, shielding his eyes from the sun and staring into the distance. “I think I can see the army from here!” The two generals shared a glance, then Owain pulled a telescope from his saddlebag, scanning over the expanse of tents still several miles distant. Soldiers walked on their patrols, and a white tent shone in the bright evening sun. “Can we make it today?”
Lonce opened his mouth to speak, giving a guarded glance to his fellow traitor. “I doubt it, Your Majesty,” he said. “Baron Edwards is still almost twenty miles away. It would be easier on the men if we make camp now, and finish the march starting at dawn.” He squinted into the distance, wondering just how well the barbarian entrenchments could be seen through the telescope.
“I suppose you’re right, as usual,” the teenage monarch grumbled. “Very well, order the army to settle down and make camp. I’ll be in my tent if anything important happens.” He wheeled his horse around, trotting back into the lines towards his personal servants and concubine.
“Are we ready for this?” Owain asked quietly. “Do you think our army can really defeat the barbarians out there?”
“We don’t have a choice now,” Lonce said. “We’ve already been passing around bribes to the higher officers and some of the nobles who rode out for the excitement.” He glanced back at the mass of soldiers, thousands strong, as they spread out to collect something for campfires. “Besides, the soldiers will follow us. With them, the nobles will obey us as well.” He started to turn his horse around, but stopped as Owain swore, staring through the telescope at the distant field. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, he handed the telescope back, pointing at the distant field where two figures had exited the lone tent. Lonce swore as he recognized General Rambur, walking close with a female barbarian warrior. “This puts a damper on the plans,” he said darkly. “Now how will we get rid of him?”
They rode back into the army, silent, thoughts of their coup whirling in their heads.
The saber cat growled, her tail twitching as she eyed the bird perched above her. Tensing, she leaped into the air, netting only a few tail feathers as the spooked bird took flight again, flitting across the room to land on a different rafter. She snarled, picking the feathers off of her claws as she easily dropped off the table and started across the room. “Maybe I should just shoot it down, Isha?” one of the rogues asked tentatively.
Waving a hand in dismissal, the lithe feline eased onto the table, tensing and leaping again. This time, her hands closed around the bird’s fragile body, trapping the wings and bringing it hurtling back to the floor with her. “Told you I’d get it,” she said. “I just hate it when I have to deal with these messenger birds.” She held the panicking avian still as the human girl untied the note from its leg, then gladly tossed it back into the air. “So, who is it from?”
Wordlessly, the girl held out the note for Isha to read her own name written in tiny script, almost obscured by the drop of wax holding it closed. She carefully sat down on a bench, her tail flicking eagerly as she broke the seal and read the letter aloud for the benefit of the other dozen rogues in the room.
“Dear Isha, terror of the Sisterhood,” she began, and several chuckles echoed in the dining hall. All of them had had the misfortune to be punished by joining the saber cat on a daily run. “I write to you on a matter of urgency. My superiors in the Zakarum church believe that Belial is trying to bring war to all of the Western kingdoms. Jaresh, a paladin and member of the Council, asks that you and another leader in the Sisterhood travel to Travincal and plead with the King not to declare war on his neighbors.”
Quiet muttering had sprung up around the room as other rogues filtered in, having heard or seen the messenger bird and eager to learn its contents. “I know that the Sisters of the Sightless Eye do not normally involve themselves in politics, but they have long fought against the Prime Evils, and the Zakarum ask for your aid now.” She finished slightly quieter. “Sergeant Slip O’Connell, Zakarum scout.”
By now, voices were raising as heated discussions and arguments broke out between all the listening women. Rolling the paper back up, Isha slipped out of the room, her tail lashing back and forth in worry. Rogues hurriedly moved out of her way as she stalked through the halls and corridors of the monastery, heading for a certain room. When she finally stood at the door, the feline stopped to take several deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves and brush down her fur. Then she knocked, and swung the door open.
Aradne sat in a large chair, looking out the window over the mountain slope that led down to the Aranoch desert. She turned slightly, looking at the cat with one eye, the other long since turned milky white. “Isha,” she whispered. “I take it you didn’t come to visit me simply to talk.”
Shaking her head, the saber cat entered slowly, closing the door behind her and perching on a footstool near the chair. “I received a letter from Slip,” she said, and then read it again aloud to the ancient woman who led the Sisters, strong in spirit if not in flesh anymore. “What should we do?” she asked finally, rolling back up the letter and holding it nervously between her fingers.
The old woman smiled then, her fingers absently petting the worn velvet of her chair. “Go, of course. If the boy needs our aid, then we shall help him,” she said quietly, still staring out the window at the desert. “Pick six others to accompany you as guards, and make haste to Tristram,” she ordered. “If you hurry, then the cairn stones will be in alignment with the moon, and you can use them to reach the capitol.”
Nodding, Isha rose and hurried out of the room, mind totally focused on the task at hand. In the empty room, Aradne took a deep breath, and then turned her attention towards the tiny room that served her as an office in years past. “You might as well come out now,” she ordered. The door opened, and Gabriel stepped out. “My time is up,” she said, more a statement than a question.
Smiling apologetically, the angel approached her. “Yes,” he said simply, and the rogue nodded, lifting one hand, wrinkled and weathered by age, placing it in the shining hand held out to her. Then her body shuddered, breathing its last, and her soul rose out, accompanying Gabriel back towards Heaven.
An hour later, Isha returned to the room to bid a final farewell, only to find the body, still staring out the window with a soft smile on her face. With her ears flattened against her head, she reached out and closed her eyes, leaving the room and giving orders to the first rogue she saw.
As her group left the monastery, the saber cat reflected on her unusual life since she left her tribe to live in human lands, and her last thought as she drifted off to sleep that night was how unfortunate it was that a cat could not cry.
The Soulforged pulled up to the dock in Raveil, throwing lines to the dockhands as they secured the ship. Slip stood on the deck, waiting for the boat to stop as he turned to the others. “So, who’s with me to travel to Khanduras?”
Maren smiled and stepped forward. “Sounds as though it will be a less dangerous challenge than stopping the barbarians, but no less difficult. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see Tristram.” Dro rolled his eyes, stepping up behind her as he adjusted his armor and sword.
Jaresh watched them talking, and walked over before they could all leave. “Celest, I want you to go with them. Keep a watch with your psychic powers, because it wouldn’t surprise me if Belial was influencing the King.” He looked at his son and niece. “Try to keep in touch with messenger birds, and let us know when we should be returning for you.”
“Or if things get too busy back east, we could take a caravan through to Lut Gholein,” Dro said. “The Zakarum do have ships that sail from there.” They shrugged, following an eager Maren off the ship and into the city. It would be several says of walking through the southern portions of Entsteig until they reached the border, then further to the rebuilt capitol of Tristram.
Later that evening, the two women sat next to the campfire, both thinking of the city and the stories their grandparents had related about Rupert, the paladin that had helped them to defeat the Prime Evils and restore the Worldstone. “I wonder,” Celest began, “if there’s anything left in the city that would still show the work that Rupert did?”
Poking at the fire with a stick, the sorceress shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “From what my grandparents said, they hadn’t even finished rebuilding the cathedral before that corrupt Zakarum priest forced him to leave.” She smiled though, remembering the stories Garou used to tell in the large clearings of the druid forest. “But I’m sure there will be something there for us to remember him by.”
“We’ve never met him, cousin,” she chuckled, looking up as Slip approached, a pair of rabbits dangling from his hand. “Is this dinner?” she asked dubiously.
He raised an eyebrow, plopping down on the dirt and pulling a knife from his belt. “It beats dried, salted travel rations.” His knife started expertly skinning them as the women watched in somewhat horrid fascination. Neither of them had been forced to prepare their own food, not from scratch like this.
Soon, he had the rabbits skinned and butchered, laying out strips of meat on clean rocks next to the fire. Dro had returned by then with an armful of waterskins that he returned to their packs. “Smells good,” he said. “So, what’s the plan when we get there, o fearless leader?” he asked Slip, giving a slightly mocking grin at the cook.
“First, we find Isha. She should have reached Tristram long before us, and hopefully the King will listen to her as a representative of the Sisterhood.” He shrugged, looking around the fire at his companions. “Then we find a cheap inn to get a room, and try to get an audience to see the King as representatives of the Zakarum church.” He grinned as he started carefully passing around the hot pieces of meat. “And in between, we pray a lot that the King isn’t listening to Belial.”
Celest chuckled, spearing a wide strip on the end of her knife and blowing on it to cool it off. “Sounds like a plan to me,” she said. “Though I’m fairly sure that the prayers said in the Protectorate don’t match the ones in Zakarum temples.” Just as she took a bite, a scream echoed from somewhere in the woods around them, then suddenly ended.
Everyone was on their feet in the same instant, weapons appearing in their hands. “Human, demon, or animal?” Dro asked quietly as they all stood, back to the fire, staring out into the darkness. “And are we doing anything about it?”
Maren shot him a dirty look before throwing a ball of light towards the direction of the scream. It exploded in a bright flash, but even the sudden illumination showed nothing through the trees and underbrush. “I’m sure it was in that direction,” she said, readying another ball of light.
She hadn’t thrown it before the thing dropped out of the trees above them, scattering burning logs across the clearing as it attacked them.
Na-Krul paced the confines of his prison. He had noticed the weakening of the magical bindings outside the cave over the past few years, though he didn’t know what it portended for him. The elder demon was one of the first creations in the war between the brothers, taking his first breath before they had all chosen their sides, and he saw the total freedom promised by joining Chaos. Nothing could bind him, or so he had thought.
The three eldest brothers, of course, didn’t want complete and utter chaos. But they had been tolerant of his excesses towards randomness, until he had accidentally interfered with Diablo’s escape from Tristram. He hadn’t known that the Lord of Terror was still beneath the church, since he had been out of regular contact since before their exile from Hell, taking out his whims on the mortal plane.
And soon he would again. A human named Rahvunah, claiming to be a worshipper of him, had been able to reach him more easily with scrying magic, and he encouraged the breakdown of law and order. Then there was his mysterious ally on the outside of his prison, slowly but surely erasing the magical spells that held him in place. The battles on the mortal realm were just starting to heat up, and soon the symbolic magic of thousands of needless deaths would be winging towards him, shattering the prison and bringing him back to the mortal plane.
He could hardly wait.
Oras waited in the trees of the jungle. His zombies had chased animals up and down through this stretch of the forest, killing everything they could get their filthy, rotting hands on. One of them had even caught a bird, to his surprise. But the pirate’s strong arm and a ready supply of rocks had brought down more, and shattered nests as well, sending fledgelings falling to the ground to be crushed underfoot as they chirped their pitiful terror.
For the last two days, they had simply waited. The druids would send a scouting party out here, to this stretch of forest on the eastern edge of Scosglen, to discover what was disturbing their natural order. Then the zombies would strike, hard and quickly. He had been more careful with the last village he attacked, making his zombies carefully scavenge the clothes from the fallen farmers, wearing them and carrying the pathetic weapons that those peasants had tried to use against them.
So hopefully, anyone watching the druids with scrying magic would see what appeared to be a group of farmers ambush the druids. After all, most of these zombies were still fresh, not showing rotting flesh on the outside.
His train of thought was interrupted by a careful moan from one of his scouts, hiding high up in a tree. Sure enough, the druids were headed towards the center of the disturbance. He grinned evilly, teeth blackened in the cloudy night. Then he waved an arm, and the zombies shuffled into position, preparing for their ambush.
It started simply, when one of the druids stepped into the simple noose trap, the vine tightening as it yanked him into the air. The others shouted in alarm, moving to release their companion, and then the zombies struck. Rocks came out of the darkness, hurled with inhuman strength as the others stepped out of the bushes, swinging sharpened rakes and simple spears. Some of the druids managed to retaliate, swinging clubs and staffs with little effect. One let out a burst of cold, locking a zombie in place as he shattered it into frozen, meaty chunks.
But then he was swarmed over, some of the zombies forgetting his careful orders and dropping their weapons to attack him with fists and teeth. The unfortunate man managed a strangled scream, then his throat was torn out, blood spilling over his attackers. Oras looked carefully, peering through the eyes of his zombie scouts, but all of the druids had been killed. Shrugging, he regrouped his soldiers, marching them back into the trees, heading south towards one of the larger villages.
Later tonight, he would stop back where they had buried some of the animal bodies with demonic rites. They should be crawling free of their graves, filled with the hunger of the undead and ready to obey his orders. He smiled again, his teeth dull black in the darkness of the forest.
Unlife was good.
At noon, the rest of the Entsteig army had reached Rambur’s camp, the soldiers dropping their packs and sitting down to rest, still waiting for their leaders to decide what would be happening. Rambur and Adonia waited outside their peace tent in the center of the field, Edwards standing behind them scowling with bandages still wrapped around his missing ear. The King rode towards them, his chain mail glinting brightly in the sun, not the barest wisp of cloud floating across the sky as it baked the steppes. “General Rambur? You have some explaining to do.” The teenage monarch spoke with all the authority he could muster, looking at the bandaged Baron standing behind them.
He bowed low, his helmet already removed in respect for his monarch. “Your Majesty, I sent several notes detailing the peace treaty I have negotiated. None of your messengers ever arrived in their land.” His eyes wandered sideways towards his other two fellow generals, narrowing as he took in their posture. “Their previous leader was killed by an over-zealous captain, taking down a hundred of our men without anyone exchanging a word.”
William pulled back his coronet, mopping his brow with a kerchief. “Perhaps we can discuss this in the shade, General? Preferably over a few cups of chilled wine.” Most of the nobles fought to hide their look of contempt for the weak and pampered child who ruled them, as he dismounted his horse, handing the reins to General Owain without even looking and striding into the tent. The others followed him slowly, servants running from the main encampment with simple wooden stools for everyone to sit.
They stayed in the tent for hours, Rambur and Adonia trying to explain their simple peace treaty, interrupted by King William as he grew more and more belligerent, demanding concessions from the barbarians for the murders that their people had not committed. The other Clan chiefs had come out from their lines, and responded in turn by becoming more and more explicit with the threats of what their warriors would do should the King be foolish enough to march his army on their people.
By the time sunset arrived, the leaders from both sides had stalked out of the tent, promising bloodshed by the time dawn arrived. Only the general had stayed calm and level headed, trying everything he could think of to defuse the situation. He slumped into a chair at the empty table, picking up a discarded cup and staring at the wine inside, almost tempted to finish it instead of the water he had been drinking all evening. Adonia paused at the flap, the last person to leave. “Your King is a fool,” she said acidly, spitting on the grass at her feet.
He turned to answer angrily, then paused as a thought struck him. “How much of the wine did you drink?” he asked, and her retort died unsaid as she tried to think about his question. “How much did your clan chiefs drink? I know the King will sometimes climb into a bottle, but tonight,” he shuddered as his words cut off.
With eyes wide, she walked slowly back to the table and picked up the cup, still half-full, sniffing it carefully, then dipping a finger into the wine and tasting it carefully. “It doesn’t taste drugged,” she said finally, returning it to the table. “But, if you can convince your King to return to talk without alcohol, maybe we can salvage this situation.”
He nodded slowly, dropping his head to rest on crossed arms on the table. She watched him for a moment, almost reaching out a hand to him before turning and leaving the tent again, returning to her own people.
Jaresh sailed the Soulforged further north another day, his son and niece helping the soldiers keep the ship clean. Then they had stopped, and faced a daunting march across the continent to try and intercept the Entsteig army before it was too late to prevent a war. He was fairly sure that they would not arrive in time to stop all bloodshed, but hopefully before the full might of both armies could be brought to bear.
He conscripted horses, passing out gold and notes to the merchants whose mounts he stole, then they rode towards the east, covering as much ground as they could. The land was bright and sunny in the early morning, and the horses swifter than walking. That night, they stopped in a small copse of trees near the road, an obvious campsite for massing travelers.
Arthur dismounted gingerly, rubbing sore buttocks and legs before removing the saddle, hobbling the horse and releasing it to munch on the wild grass ringing the small clearing. “I thought horses were supposed to be a comfortable way to travel,” he groaned, setting the packs down on the ground and starting to remove the small cooking pot. “When we’re done with this, I’m going to talk to uncle Boris about building a clockwork carriage.”
Visha laughed, moving slowly with her own sore muscles as she pulled up handfuls of grass, rubbing down the horses. “Would you rather have walked the whole distance?” she asked rhetorically, not seeing her cousin sticking his tongue out at her as he carefully shoveled out the old ashes from the ring of stones.
Jaresh waggled a stick at them as he collected firewood. “That’s enough goofing off,” he said. “We need to get some sleep so we can get back on the horses in the morning.” He ignored their groans, using the exercise of collecting wood to stretch out his own sore muscles. It had been quite a while since he had ridden a horse.
Before long, the fire was crackling merrily as they prepared a simple stew with dried meat and vegetables, along with a handful of fresh mushrooms Jaresh had found while collecting wood. They ate in silence, scrubbing out the cooking pot at the end of the meal and lying gratefully in their traveling blankets as the half moon started its slow descent back towards the horizon.
Partway through the night, Arthur awakened suddenly, his hand going to the belt knife resting next to his face. He carefully rolled out of the blanket, waiting to draw the blade before he knew what threatened them. The fire had gone out hours before, only faintly-glowing embers still shedding heat but no light. The stars were bright and the sky clear of clouds when he started towards the noise.
At the edge of the campsite he stopped, blinking in surprise and lowering the knife foolishly. Visha had awakened him, doing stretches further away in the trees, trying to gain some relief from the agony of the ride. He stood up, surprising her as he stepped through the underbrush. “Can’t sleep?” he said quietly.
The gunsmith set her pistols back on the ground, nodding as she blushed invisibly in the night. “My legs are too sore. It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.” She sat down on a fallen log, brushing away ants that tried to crawl over her. “Do you think we’ll make it in time?”
Staring up at the stars, the priest nodded. “I think so. Maybe not in time to prevent the fighting, but in enough time to prevent Belial’s newest plan, surely.” He knelt at her feet. “Here, let me help.” She almost moaned as he started rubbing the sore muscles in her calves. “Maybe then we can both go back to sleep.”
Visha sat on the log, her eyes closed, sighing softly as the cramps were worked out. “I suppose you want the same treatment,” she whispered, and he just chuckled. With a playful, petulant sigh, she carefully stood up, motioning him to sit on the log. But his own muscles betrayed him, spilling him to the ground as he tried to stand. She grabbed for him, trying to help him keep his balance, only to be dragged to the grass along with him.
“Ow,” Arthur complained, reaching under his ribs to shove a sharp rock out of the way. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled. Then he tried to get up, only to discover that his shirt had caught on a branch from the fallen log. “I can’t move!”
Chuckling, she tried to maneuver, only to discover that his body kept her arm trapped underneath him. “I can’t move either,” she said, breaking into a fit of giggles. She squirmed again, trying to get her arm released, and then swore as her foot smashed into the log, trapping it inside the rotting wood. “Damn, now my foot’s caught!”
“What are you laughing about, Visha?” he asked crossly, trying to roll sideways and merely succeeding in getting his foot caught underneath the edge of the log as well. “Damn, now my foot’s caught!” he said in exasperation.
She giggled again, laying still on the rough soil. “Just thinking of what Jaresh will say when he comes looking for us in the morning.” She tried to stifle her laughter as her cousin grew angrier. “Oh, come on, Arthur! We can’t even do anything, we’re too stuck.”
He grumbled half-heartedly, still fighting to release his foot from the log. “True, but that’s hardly the point, now is it? He’ll be annoyed at us, for,” he suddenly cut off, looking around them in the forest. Sensing his sudden change in mood, she started looking around as well. “Did you hear something? I thought I heard a branch breaking.”
In the trees above them, the giant spider watched them with three pairs of eyes, waiting to ensure that they were alone before it could safely ensnare them and drag them home for dinner.
Maren screamed as a sharp piece of charred wood hit her back, then the others had turned around, facing down the twisted jungle ape. “Those aren’t native to this area,” Slip said, trying to take careful aim to not hit the mercenary on the other side of the clearing.
“No kidding!” Dro spat back sarcastically, lunging forward with his sword. The ape ducked, punching him in the stomach hard enough to lift him off his feet. It screamed in pain and anger a moment later as a pair of katars opened slashes, swinging wildly at the invisible assassin. They heard her breath whoosh out of her with a meaty smack as one of the punches connected. Celest returned to visibility as she landed heavily in the dead leaves along the edge of their campsite.
With the moment of surprise now gone, the fight soon turned against the ape as arrows and spells ignored the wild swings. Dro kept the beast distracted with his sword, stoically accepting a few blows to keep the monster distracted and away from his more vulnerable companions.
At last the battle ended, with Celest slipping up behind the ape and driving a katar home into his heart. They all let their weapons droop, trying to catch their breath. “What,” Slip panted, “was that creature doing here? They’re native to the jungles of Kehjistan.” He stepped up to the corpse, carefully retrieving the unbroken arrows to return to his quiver. “And since Mephisto was banished, they’re fairly tame.”
Dro shrugged, wiping the blood free of his blade with a grimy rag. “Don’t know. But we’d best set watches, in case there are any more out there.” He started to say more, then turned to face back into the darkness. The scout and assassin likewise followed his gaze.
Maren scowled unhappily, peering at the inky, forested blackness. “What are you all looking at? I feel like I’m blind.” She had raised her hand to summon another ball of magelight, when flames suddenly blossomed in the darkness. At least four scores of goblins stood in the darkness, holding spears and swords, barbs filed into them and smeared with dung.
“Oh, shit,” Dro said softly, lifting his sword back up. “Run!” he shouted at them, leaping forward and engaging a pair of the small warriors. “I’ll stall them!” His sword swung harshly, slicing through their meager defenses as he blocked the poisonous weapons on his shield.
Slip backed off, firing arrows as he jogged backwards, letting Celest guide him through the forest, each arrow taking a life in the throng. Then a second batch of goblins burst through on his left, meeting a fiery blast from Maren. “Run, Dro! There’s too many of them!” she shouted, as her flames set the dry trees and underbrush alight. She barely saw a lighting web from the corner of her eyes, catching on a branch and wrapping around the unfortunate monster that ran into it.
Then they were all turning to run, Dro leaping after them as he vaulted the goblins, using his sword to clear a path to meet up with the rest of them. They raced through the forest, a horde of goblins chasing after them in bloodlust. Slip’s arrows ran out, Maren stumbled along on the edge of magical exhaustion, and still the monsters chased them, their numbers barely seeming to dwindle. “We can’t keep this up much longer,” Celest panted.
“I know,” Slip said, seeming barely winded, “but I don’t know what we can do to stop them!” He ducked low to the ground, picking up a rock and flinging it backwards at the goblins, sending a few of them to the ground in a tangle to be over-run by the ones behind them. “Look out!”
He managed to stumble to a halt, only to be driven over the edge of the cliff as Dro ran into him. Celest screamed as they fell, only to cut off as they hit the river below. A ball of magelight sank to the bottom of the river as the sorceress was dragged to the bottom by the weight of her robes and staff. And from above them, braver or simply faster goblins fell into the river with them, most of them drifting to the bottom as well, weight down by their weapons and armor.
Dro and Slip dived to the bottom of the river, helping Maren back to the surface and dragging her to the opposite shore. They stood on a tiny sandbar, easily killing the few goblins that survived the fall and the swim. “Now what do we do?” Celest asked, shivering in the wind that blew along the small canyon with the river. “We can’t get out of here, and those goblins might have a faster way to get down here.”
“We must have taken a wrong turn,” Dro said, dropping his shield to pick up a barbed spear and cast it at a monster struggling into the shallows. “I think we landed in the Darkwood. Entsteig keeps it as a section of border with Khanduras, and patrols their side to keep the monsters caged inside.” He looked grim as he cut down another goblin. “And there are far worse things than goblins lurking in the Darkwood.”
Maren bit her lip in anticipation, casting another globe of magelight and throwing it upriver. They all stared in dismay as a boat, made completely out of bones, came drifting down with the current, filled to the brim with undead warriors. “Oh, shit,” Dro said, this time with feeling.
Duriel examined the map of Heaven, his eyes narrowed and grim. They had held the second circle for weeks now, but his forces were no closer to taking over the next ring in the white city. His forces had taken parts of the wall for brief periods of time, only to be driven away again by Hadriel or Tyrael. Despite his strength, and cunning so far, the Lord of Pain was not foolish enough to try and take on the Angels of Strength or Purity in single combat. He wanted no excuse to let Diablo take over control of this assault.
But then, come to think about it, his elder brother hadn’t been lurking about, watching over his shoulder and second-guessing his every move. He drove the thought from his mind, focusing again on the map and trying to work out a plan of attack. Despite over two million demons assaulting the wall, he could only use a small portion of them in any given space. Just as the defenders of Heaven were limited in the numbers they had to defend their walls.
He waved claws, tapped his insect-like feet against the marble floor, the pure white now stained with blood and ichor. Bone figures moved about his map, as he thought of different plans of attack and how the angels would counter them. Finally he snarled, scattering the figurines with a claw, overturning the table as he moved over to gaze out the window into the glowing city.
Ladders were raised and siege towers rumbled forward under the covering hail of arrows and Fetish blowdarts, but any victories he gained were only temporary. As if to underscore the thought, a goatman messenger stalked into the room, hooves echoing loudly against the marble floor. “Lord Duriel,” he began, but the Lord of Pain cut him off with an irritated wave.
“Let me guess,” he snarled as his claws gouged the windowsill, “Hadriel has thrown our forces back from the North wall. He roared in anger, the goatman’s footsteps inaudible as he started to sneak backwards out of the room. But as Duriel’s roar ended, he heard the lesser demon mutter something, and whirled around. “What did you say?”
Stuttering, the messenger pointed out the window at one of the spires atop a heavenly tower. “I said, I wish we could tear them all down,” he ad-libbed, smart enough not to repeat the insult he had just uttered.
Duriel looked back over his shoulder at the tower, then stopped his angry movement towards the goatman. Ignoring the messenger, he turned back to the table, returning it and motioning the figures back onto the map, working out different strategies in his head. Then he began to laugh, the horrible sadistic laugh that the Prime Evils had been practicing for all these long millennia.
When he turned back, the demon had fled, and he merely shrugged. He could find a group of sappers himself, and now he had a plan of how to get into the Third Circle. Not even Diablo had gotten that far into Heaven in under three years of fighting. Let that be a blow to his pride!
Thane emerged from his room three days later, lurching through the halls, bent over to keep from constantly bumping his head on the low ceilings in their underground hideout. The other Disciples stared at him constantly, most in admiration, but a few in fear and doubting of their chosen role following a demon that advocated pure chaos. His travels through the underground compound always disrupted plans, even the ones made planning on his interruptions.
Rahvunah finally scowled at him one day, as the monster came lurching into the room with the machine where he was supervising a life force transfer between a Disciple who had aided him, and one who had failed. He scowled as Thane knocked over a table, sending papers and maps flying. “Must you disrupt everything you come across?” he said acidly, jerking up on the lever as both men twisted and writhed in pain. “It’s a good thing my plans are working, or I’d ship you up to the surface and leave you there to suffer the effects of your actions.”
Both pairs of eyes shone with greed at the thought. “Yes, the surface world. How I long to walk among the pitiful mortals, leaving chaos and misery in my wake! Na-Krul would be proud of my actions.” He gave the other man a calculated look. “Besides, the experiments I had running before my untimely accident seem so trivial.”
The priest snarled, bringing the lever back down and watching as the machine ground to a halt, both men looking as though their ages had been changed by ten years. “I wouldn’t mind terribly much, except that it would certainly tell that damnable paladin exactly where we are. The last thing I need is for him to bring his band of little crusaders right to our door, backed by a troop of Zakarum warriors.”
“Bring them on!” Thane shouted, raising a fist to crack into the ceiling. “I can handle a company of any troops they want to send against me,” he boasted.
Rahvunah started to reply as he released the metal bands holding his subordinates in the machine, then stopped to consider things. “How’d you like to go visit the Amazon isles?” he asked slyly. “After all, their islands suffered greatly during Belial’s attempt to plunge the world into darkness. They could use some reminding that Chaos is always stronger than Order.”
He smiled wider as his subtle comment was eaten up by the transformed man. It would take some effort to smuggle him all the way to the islands without anyone suspecting, but perhaps the Silent Liars could handle it. With a fresh spring in his step, he set out into the hallways to find his concubine, and enlist her aid in removing Thane from their compound. It would certainly make her happier.
And that was just the way he liked things.
They waited in somewhat nervous silence at first. But Visha snorted, speaking up with a braver tone to her voice. “There are lots of wild animals in the woods. Probably just one of them hunting small prey.” She wiggled again, still trying to free her arm or foot, and giggled as Arthur blushed furiously. “What is wrong with you?”
“I really wish you’d stop teasing me,” he said quietly, jerking on his leg and just succeeding in scratching up his leg on the bark of the log. “I don’t think it’s very appropriate.”
“Why, because we’re cousins?” She rolled her eyes, trying to twist her free arm enough to reach her pistol belt. “I’m not sure that our parents would put up a huge argument, given how they were all convinced of their destiny to marry thanks to our grandparents.”
“Our parents are brother and sister, remember,” Arthur said. “Besides which, I’d like to fall in love before I got married, not afterwards.” He jerked on his foot again as one of the branches above them rustled quietly. “Damnable forest!”
Before Visha could respond, a mass of thick, sticky webbing fell out of the tree at them, gluing their arms in place and covering part of her face. She started thrashing around, trying to pull them free so that she could breathe, only succeeding in making their situation worse. Arthur took a deep breath, preparing to shout for help, when the spider dropped out of the trees, landing atop him and driving his breath out of his lungs.
Inches away from his face, it clacked mandibles with a sound that seemed louder than thunder, then lunged forward, sinking them into his shoulder. He fought to draw enough breath again to alert his father, but the poison quickly paralyzed his control, leaving him barely breathing automatically. No matter how hard he struggled, he could not break free of the paralysis, and without speech or movement, there was no way for him to summon his angelically granted powers.
The spider clacked ominously above them, then bit Visha and pulled away some of the webbing around her face. Then it set about freeing their legs, and binding them with more webbing, until they were wrapped in the sticky material like they had been dipped into mud and baked.
They watched, helpless, as the forest floor slid by past their face, dragged away to wherever the beast had made its lair.
The next morning, the sun rose over the fields of the steppes, revealing William clad in armor atop his stallion, and Rambur clad in heavy irons at his feet, his tunic in ribbons and soaked through with blood. His eyes were haunted, showing keenly how he felt his duty had been denied. The king had never given him a chance to start talking, but had his guards seize him.
Lonce and Owain sat on their own horses, just behind King William, trying to hide their greedy smiles. This attack would probably fail, and the brat would be dead. Then they would take control of the army, arrange a careful accident for Rambur, and then negotiate a truce with the barbarians. With their monarch dead, it would be a good excuse. They could pull back behind their borders and consolidate their coup, before preparing for another war on Khanduras.
“It’s not good, Adonia,” Paradu said. The Wolf Clan chief stood quietly on the rock next to her, his eyes as sharp as hers despite his extra decade. “They’ve got your friendly general in chains. So you know they’re going to attack.” His voice was quiet and filled with shame, knowing that the wine he drank had helped lead to this situation. And now they would be leading warriors into a needless battle.
“I can see that just fine,” she said acidly. Her own remorse was kept buried, waiting for the fight to let it out, release her anger on the innocent soldiers who would be attacking her. “Now the last week of peace is working against us. Has your clan finished their section of trenches?”
He nodded silently, looking over as the Bear chief, Buk, approached them. “The lines are as prepared as they can be,” he said with a simple nod of respect. “We all wish it hadn’t come to this, but we’re only mortal.” He stared where the white tent had been torn down, the site of their failure. “Once again Belial makes fools of us all.”
She barely acknowledged him, still staring at the general draped in chains and blood, on the field behind his king. “Buk, Paradu, do you want to volunteer for a rescue mission?” They both followed her gaze towards Rambur, not needing her to explain anything further. “I’ll be going as well. No one else, just the three of us.”
Buk chuckled, clapping her on the shoulder and removing the giant maul from his back. “Sounds like fun, niece,” he said. “Are we heading down there now, or are we letting the rest of our troops join in as a distraction?”
“Wait until they attack,” she said, leaping off the rock and picking up her lance where it rested. “From this lookout point, we can leap over some of the soldiers and be through the back of their formation before they can turn to face us.”
“Adonia,” Paradu said hesitantly, “not that I object. But even if we can reach the general before the King kills him in spite, what do we do then? It will be three of us, in the middle of the entire Entsteig army. Lobar was a better fighter than any of us, and he couldn’t face down a quarter of these men.”
She reached into a pouch at her belt, and pulled out a tiny vial of grey, smoky-looking liquid. “That young alchemist, Malah, gave me this before we left Sescheron. It should fill the field with thick smoke, and that will let us escape back towards our own lines.” They all stopped their conversation to look towards the field, as soldiers formed into ranks, twenty soldiers deep and a quarter mile wide, and they were only the vanguard. “Then we see how many of their fifteen thousand men we can leave littering the ground as we retreat to Sescheron. They’ll never get through the walls, but we have to get reinforcements before we can throw them back over their side of the border.”
The three barbarian leaders watched as the Entsteig army ponderously started marching forward, towards their lines held by barely a thousand warriors. Rambur stayed where he was, beneath the feet of his monarch, as the two traitorous generals silently fumed at King William’s sudden attack of common sense. “Now how will we get him killed in battle?” Lonce muttered quietly, his horse bumping into Owain’s as he tried to plot quietly.
“Don’t worry,” the other general said. “I’m betting that barbarian wench will come for him,” he jerked his head towards Rambur, “from how she was acting last night. She can bloody well have him.” He raised a hand, shading his eyes from the morning sun.
Up ahead in the field, the first soldiers met their death from thrown axes and daggers, even as their archers sent a hail of death into the barbarian lines. The war had begun.
Slip reached out his hand, snatching an arrow out of the air as it came flying towards them from the undead ship, barely pausing before turning around and sending it into the dirt cliff that bordered the small canyon. “Maren, shoot that arrow with a fireball!” He grabbed other arrows out of the air, stuffing them into his quiver for later use. Dro had his shield up, trying to help keep the sorceress safe.
She scrunched up her face, gathered what was left of her power, and launched a tiny burst of flame towards the arrow and the lose clump of rocks where it had landed. But before the fire struck, she slumped towards the ground, unconscious. Celest caught her, invisibility slipping away. “Now what?” she said angrily. The fire had burst on the rocks to no effect, and Slip swore.
“If we bring down those rocks, it’ll close off part of the river, and give us time to escape,” he shouted, snatching another arrow of the air and firing it angrily towards the rocks to shatter harmlessly. “Can you do anything?”
She stared at the rocks for a moment, then reached out her hand. Sweat poured from her brow as she intensified her mental efforts, and all at once the rocks broke free with a roar. The whole section of the canyon wall collapsed, flooding the river with dirt, rocks, and bushes, turning it into a muddy quagmire just before the skeletons reached it. “There,” she panted. “Now how do we get out of here?”
As the scout started to answer, a giant splashing came from the other side of the rockslide. Regular skeletons came splashing up through the sudden shallows, only to be bowled over by a sudden wave. They watched in horror, ignoring the water that surged up to their ankles, as they watched a giant skeletal monster rise up above the rockslide. The bones were still re-arranging themselves, losing the shape of the boat as it grew into a more humanoid form.
With a humongous roar, it stepped over the rockslide, crushing lesser undead under its feet as it stalked towards the four figures huddled on the small bank. Slip fired several arrows, ineffectively bouncing off the bones to fall uselessly into the river at its feet. “I think it’s time to run,” Dro shouted, grabbing Maren by the arm and propelling her downstream.
Then a massive boom shattered the night, and the creeper’s head exploded in a rain of bone fragments. Dirt blossomed from the other side of the canyon, and they heard the shouting of hundreds of human voices. From their landslide came soldiers, dressed in the uniform of Khanduras, their swords and halberds smashing down the skeletal warriors. Higher up on the bank, an elegantly dressed officer fired a rifle at the creeper, even as the monster fought to reform from the devastating cannon shot.
Celest breathed a sigh of relief, reaching into her belt pouch for the last of her traps, flinging the fire bombs at the creeper as a second cannon fired, blasting away a limb in another spray of bone splinters. Men screamed underneath it as the heavy bones came crashing down, crushing bodies as the magic animating it dissipated. Dro and Maren watched in surprise, listening to the soldiers above them reloading the cannon and preparing to fire again.
A few of the undead tried to flee past them downstream, looking for an escape from the overwhelming force of the Khanduras army, but none walked past the four heroes. Bones had begun floating past them downstream before the first soldiers reached them, the last few skeletons hemmed in by a wall of swords and halberds. Slip stepped forward, adjusting the steel pin on his collar. “I’m Sergeant O’Connell of the Zakarum church. Thank you for that timely intervention.”
Another sergeant grinned and gave him a thumbs up, sheathing his sword and pulling a large bone splinter from his arm. “No problem. What are you doing in the middle of the Darkwood, in such a small group?” Everyone looked up, as a group of goblins had come to the other side of the canyon, shouting insults and hurling crude spears. “Or did you start out larger?”
“No, this is all of us,” Slip said. “We were on our way to Travincal on a diplomatic mission, and took a wrong turn.” He looked up at the bank, where a cluster of officers could be seen, a moment before one of the cannons fired again, taking out a group of goblins. The few who survived the shot, and the fall into the river, were swiftly dealth with. “But since your army is already marching, I think we’re a bit late.”
The Khanduran soldier chuckled, and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re not out for vengeance, at least not the way the general talks. Come on, let’s get back onto the top of this damn canyon and I’ll try to get the officers out of the way for you to talk to General Rupert.”
Sharing confused looks, the four followed him past the small bit of fighting and towards the leader of the Khanduras Army.
Rahvunah stood on the docks, dressed in rather plain brown clothes. Gerta stood beside him, likewise attired, and they watched as the ship with Thane sailed away south. It would take a week or two before he reached the Amazon islands, and hopefully it would draw the paladin away from the barbarian conflict. “It’ll be a miracle if the fool doesn’t sink the ship before he gets there,” she said acidly, spitting into the water.
He chuckled, linking his arm with hers, walking her up the street and into a restaurant, passing underneath the painted sign without so much as a glance. They found a seat quickly, waiting for one of the servers to find them. Until then, they sat and watched quietly. The people of this city were quite boisterous. After all, it was only the rest of the world going to Hell in a handbasket – their fair city was completely quiet and free of any turmoil. But still, his eyes were long trained at finding a person’s weakness in their face, and he could tell that many of them were nervous and frightened.
When he started chuckling, Gerta raised an eyebrow and looked at him crossly. “I was just thinking,” he said, leaning forward as he waved a hand towards the other people. “Everyone in here has fear spread across them like a threadbare cloak. Letting Thane stay here would almost have been worth it.”
She flicked her gaze across the room a few times, smiling slightly at the thought. “It would have been a fun sight to watch, but it would also have led to your exposure.” She smiled more broadly as a young boy brought over two mugs of ale, barely setting them on the table before the Silent Liar had whisked one up.
“Yes, well, nothing seems to be perfect in this world.” He picked up his own mug, and clinked it against hers. “But so far, everything seems to be proceeding just the way we want it to. They both smiled broadly as they took a gulp, eyes locked on each other.
If only you knew, Gerta thought, looking at Rahvunah and thinking of the dream her master had sent her the night before. If only you knew.
The army of Westmarch had stopped, thirty miles away from Haven. A quarter of the army had already deserted, following those rumors of easily found gold in the mountains to the southeast. The generals were nearly apoplectic with rage, and the King wasn’t in much better spirits. Still, they pressed onward towards the city. Two days later, they were finally within sight of it, and another company worth of men gone missing.
Gheed sat on top of a hill just outside of Haven, watching through a telescope as the army began to prepare the siege machines. Obviously, they would be attacking the next morning, so his next plan would have to go into effect tonight. Muttering angrily, he slowly heaved his great bulk to his feet, and went waddling back towards the city.
They had already spent most of the last two weeks booby-trapping the northern part of the city, where the army was most likely to invade. The fields for a mile outside of town were honeycombed with pit traps and sapper tunnels, just waiting for the right moment to set off the gunpowder charges and bring the ground crashing in with dozens of soldiers on top of it.
Tonight though, the city’s assassin guild would work hard, in addition to the rather sizable bribes they already paid him to continue doing business. He didn’t expect them to take down the King or the generals, but the more low-ranking officers they could knife before being discovered by morning, the easier the battle would progress. He walked alone through a section of the Hook, the only person who could pass through that part of the city completely unmolested.
Soon enough, he stopped to push through a moldy hanging curtain strung across a doorway, and entered the assassin’s guild. These were no formalized warriors like the Viz-Jaq’taar, merely cutthroats and backstabbers who were proficient enough to live through several jobs. The inside of the building was rather lavishly decorated, a tribute to their own greed and hedonism.
Gheed smiled broadly as conversation stopped, looking around the room. “Well, someone tell me where Shadow is,” he said, reaching under his shirt and pulling out a bag, filled with gemstones that he shook gently. “I have a job for him.”
The atmosphere inside the room suddenly warmed at the sight and thought of the wealth their city leader held, and shouts quickly went up for the head of the guild to make an appearance.
Arthur and Visha watched as they were dragged down into a giant burrow, dirt flaking off the ceiling despite the old coating of webbing to keep the tunnel from collapsing. His lungs fought for air through the paralyzing poison, his eyes stuck looking slightly off center. The faint light of night faded away almost instantly, and they both strained their ears, listening to the clicks and chirps of smaller insects that made their home and living on the cast-offs of the giant spider’s prey.
They stopped finally, after several twists in the tunnel, dragging them further down into the burrow. Visha focused her will on being able to move anything, even just enough to close her eyes, but the poison of the spider left her laying like a rock. Then something started crawling up her leg, about the size of a cat but with far more legs. A faint chittering noise came, echoing strangely in the artificial cave, and the larger spider answered it.
She tried to scream as a pair of sharp fangs sank into her leg, ripping away the webbing and a small piece of her flesh. The scent of blood filled the cave, and other of the baby spiders swarmed over Arthur as well, their mouths taking small bites of the living, human flesh.
Light suddenly blossomed in the cave, as Jaresh raised his scepter, sending the spiders scurrying backwards away from the sight. The giant one stood between him and his son, waving front legs menacingly. “Back off,” he said, pointing his weapon, “or I swear by all that’s holy I’ll leave you and your brood smeared all over the walls.”
It clicked angrily at him, skittering sideways as he moved the light back and forth, stepping towards his son and niece. The spider sidestepped again, giving him access but staying protectively in front of the baby spiders now clustered at the back of the cave, silent and watching with their dozens of eyes. Watching carefully, Jaresh kneeled down next to them, yanking his small knife out and slicing at the webbing that bound them.
The light dimmed as he reached for his paladin powers, magically cleaning the poison from their system. His eyes stayed locked on the spider as they started to twitch and cough. “Come on,” he said urgently, “let’s get out of here. We don’t have much time to waste.” They managed to stumble to their feet, leaning on each other and moving behind Jaresh towards the exit.
In a small group, they backed out of the spider burrow, the mother spider following them, still clacking and waving her forelegs menacingly. They emerged into the night air, and Visha dropped to her knees, gathering up her pistols where Jaresh dropped them on his rescue mission. With shaking hands, she drew her weapons and fired them down into the tunnel.
One bullet whined harmlessly, breaking only air before smashing into the dirt. The other one smashed through one of the baby spiders, spraying ichor across the whole brood, screaming as they fled in fear. But the mother spider then charged towards them, and Jaresh raised his scepter, bringing it smashing down on the entrance to the tunnel with a flash of lightning.
When their eyes cleared, they could see the collapsed spider burrow, the tips of the forelegs sticking out of the dirt and rocks, twitching feebly. “I’d ask what you two were doing to get captured by a spider without your weapons, but it’s not important right now.” He carefully put his scepter back onto his belt, and walked over to where their horses were tied up. “I woke up to a deserter trying to steal our horses.” His gaze was sharp and penetrating as he glared over his shoulder. “The war has already started.”
Without another word, he swung up into the saddle and started walking his horse, knowing that they would catch up.
It took the army until almost dawn before they had finished disposing of the goblins and undead and set up a camp. Many of the men were cursing, blinking blearily as they worked to prepare equipment before they could sleep. Slip and Dro stood watch, letting the women get some rest while they all waited for the general to finish organizing his army and meet with them.
The scout was studying the cannon, mounted on a large iron-shod wagon pulled by a dozen oxen. He was used to large firepower like that, since it was mounted on all of the Zakarum ships. But it was the first time he had seen one prepared for mobile use, and thought for a moment of the effect it would have when used to defend a city, shuddering. “Excuse me,” came a voice, interrupting his thoughts. “One of my sergeants informed me that a Zakarum soldier was here bearing a message for me.”
The two men looked at him in surprise, Dro nudging the sorceress awake with his toe. “You’re General Rupert?” Slip asked in surprise. The man in front of him was no older than the mercenary, with hair so dark it almost shone blue. But there was an indefinable air around the man, and gold braid on his shoulder clearly marked him as a superior officer. “I’m Sergeant Slip O’Connell, of the Zakarum. Paladin Jaresh, a member of the Council, sent me to speak with His Majesty and convince him not to go to war.” He looked ruefully around the campsite. “But apparently my letter didn’t get through either.”
Rupert frowned, scratching at a minor cut on his hand. “A letter? I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything.” He led the group towards a small fire, flopping easily onto the ground and reaching for the pot of tea sitting on the rock near the fire. “Please, help yourself to drinks.”
Celest picked up more mugs, pouring tea for everyone while Slip talked. “I have friends, and my mother, who belong to the Sisters of the Silent Eye.” He chuckled as the general raised an eyebrow over his mug. “It’s a long story. But they were supposed to speak to the King and ask him not to go to war. Battles are breaking out everywhere, thanks to Belial’s interference.”
“I think our border is one of his favorite places then,” he replied, pausing to take a big gulp of the tea. “Do you know how many times the border has shifted between our countries?”
“Forty-seven times since the country of Khanduras was founded,” Maren piped up. She blushed as everyone turned to look at her. “My sorceress master was very big on knowing the history of all the countries.”
General Rupert cleared his throat, fighting to keep a smile off his face. “Yes, well, His Majesty and I spent several days poring over old maps from when Khanduras was founded. I’m not waging a full-out war on Entsteig, even though the temptation is nearly overwhelming. My orders are to take over specific provinces, and leave the rest of the disputed area to Entsteig.” He finished the last of his tea, setting the mug back next to the fire. “I don’t think they’ll be willing to fight us over it, not when all of their army is current chasing barbarians into the mountains.”
“So even though we just told you that Belial and the followers of Na-Krul set up this opportunity for you, you’re going to keep marching right into it?” Dro asked, his eyes cold and threatening.
“You’re not a member of the Zakarum, or any country’s military, so you must be a mercenary. You might even have passed through the border region before.” Rupert’s eyes were just as cold and unyielding as they locked gazes. “Some of the people in those provinces think of Khanduras as their home. Some don’t. Either way, it was originally part of our country. Whether Belial is for or against us, it will be again, and our soldiers will not go beyond that.” His smile was thin and grim as he rose from the fire. “We’ll be moving out at noon. If you’re going to Travincal, you can follow our trail back out of the forest.”
They all watched him stride off into the mass of soldiers, despair weighing heavily on their minds.
Hadriel watched as an explosion wracked another of the shining towers, sending it crashing down towards the wall. It wasn’t close enough to hit the stones of the wall, not like some of the others, but it still sent stones flying into the souls fighting against demons raising ladders and siege towers. He cursed, wondering what Gabriel would come up with to throw them back. The speed of the demonic assault was getting ridiculous, and only the increased speed of his defenders resolidifying was holding them at bay for the moment.
Raphael, one of the seraphim generals approached him. “Sir?” he asked hesitantly. “Section fourteen has lost another dozen soldiers. The demons fixed the ramp and have been sending horned demons to distract the defenders until larger groups of ice spawn can raise ladders.” The other angel waited quietly, his wings fluttering in the gentle breeze emanating outward from the last circle.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” Hadriel said irritably. “After I get some reinforcements for you.” He dropped off the roof of the cathedral, striding the streets past the souls working busily to keep the defenders stocked with weapons, or taking a shift to rest and recover before returning.
It seemed like only seconds before he was standing outside the most protected place in Heaven, where the souls who had lost their immortal forms waited to be re-created. He had even come through here a few times himself, when fighting on the mortal plane become too rough for angel and demon alike. This circle, and the matching location in Hell that none of them had ever seen, was the only place where those truly immortal could be destroyed.
For just a moment, he stood in quiet meditation outside, then stepped past the first tree in the circle. Whispers of souls poured over him like water, and he felt through the throng, letting his fingers and his magic find the ones who had been waiting there the longest. One by one, he reached into the power of the circle, drawing forth power and returning them to their bodies. It was only accelerating the natural process of the place, bringing them back to human form in minutes rather than months or years.
Finally, he stood and looked at the thirty souls standing before him. They all reformed as the best image they held of themselves, leaving almost all between the ages of twenty and thirty. Some of them would be no good as fighters on the walls, but there were enough. He raised a hand, smiling, and gestured to them to leave the circle of trees and step out into the realm of Heaven. As the last man stepped out, he turned and said snidely, “About time you got us out of there and into action.”
“Shut up, Cain.”
The first wave of soldiers crashed into the wooden barricades, knocking them flat even as the sharped wooden spears killed men, shoved into them by the force of their comrades charging. Barbarians behind the barricades leapt into action, bounding into the fray with weapons whirling. Some of them died without landing a single blow, surrounded by simply too many weapons to strike themselves. Others carved out small patches of calm in the ocean of chaos, as soldiers surged back and forth, fighting in groups or singly, and a few from each side losing their nerve, throwing down their weapons and fleeing from the battle.
Above the fighting men was no calmer, as volleys of arrows, javelins, throwing axes, and alchemical potions were hurled at random into the melee. The simpler weapons of the barbarians seldom missed their mark, while the hail of arrows was far less discriminatory. Still, the Entsteig army could afford their losses here much better than the barbarian tribes.
Adonia watched, her heart breaking in anguish even as a group of her clansmen stopped a cavalry charge dead. “Ready?” Paradu and Buk nodded, their weapons held ready. As one, they backed up, then ran towards the end of the rock, hurling themselves past a group of soldiers and into the middle of the war. Most of the fighting was behind them, as the three skilled warriors cut a path straight through the Entsteig reinforcements towards their King.
“They’re coming this way!” William shouted hysterically, his hands twitching on the reins and causing his horse to constantly shy from side to side. “Those barbarian leaders, they’re headed straight for us!” He somehow managed to wheel around his horse, Rambur barely avoiding being trampled under the hooves. “Don’t just stand there, do something!”
Lonce and Owain hid their smiles behind the visors of their helmets, shouting orders to the ranks of bodyguards that surrounded them. The top officers had all been carefully briefed the night before on their plan. Still, nothing could go perfectly in war, and they waited, watching the barbarian leader carve through their soldiers like a knife through cheese.
It took less time than anyone expected before the three clan chiefs stood before the King and his generals. “You’re a damned fool, William,” Adonia spat at him, waving her lance menacingly, “now let Rambur go.”
“Never, you uncultured harlot!” William shouted back at her, despite his hands shaking in fear. “He is my subject, and he has committed treason. I’ll see him punished, and your people destroyed for –” His words suddenly cut off as a pistol shot echoed across the fighting. William looked down, to stare at the sudden bulge in the front of his breastplate, sliding down off his horse to reveal the bullet hole in the back.
“Take him,” Lonce said calmly, putting the pistol back into the hidden holster on his saddle. “We’ll have the army out of here by nightfall.” As the barbarians stared, shocked, one of the bodyguards unlocked the manacles around Rambur’s wrists, grabbing him by an arm and propelling him towards Adonia. “Commander, have the trumpets sound the order to fall back and regroup.”
The clan chiefs stood for a moment in the middle of the opposing army, almost forgetting the weapons in their hands as they all stared at the two traitorous generals, and the dead body of the king that lay on the ground before them. But Owain spurred his horse up next to them, pointing towards the western edge of the battlefield. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave that direction. I’d rather not lose any more troops to this pointless war, especially not when Khanduras is sure to be marching on our southern border right about now.” They stood still for another moment, as he spurred his horse towards the front lines to try and impose enough discipline on the army to make their retreat from the steppes.
Then they turned away, leaving on the western edge of the battlefield, all of them in mourning for the unfortunate soldiers that littered the land, waiting for nightfall and the carrion crows.
Thane’s ship didn’t quite make it to the Amazon islands. Thanks to his unpredictable moods, the twisted giant accidentally punched a hole in the cargo hold of the ship, about a hundred yards off the coast, sending her sinking to the bottom in water just deep enough to hide the vessel under the water. As the other sailors floundered ashore, he emerged from under the water, his larger head taking bites out of a still-live shark that had been unfortunately close when he broke free of the ship.
“You damned fool!” the merchant captain shouted at him, having just watched his livelihood sunk, along with the sizable bribe he had been paid. “Blazing hells, what did you do that for?”
His words were cut off as the thrashing shark sudden impacted his chest, knocking him to the sand as his men swiftly drew away to avoid the wild teeth. “It amused me,” he said, spitting out a thick bite of gristle onto the sand. “I think I’m going to find something else to amuse me,” he said, calmly walking off into the jungle and ignoring the screaming man lying on the sand, his blood mixing with the unfortunate shark.
The islands were large, and the jungles so thick that he passed within a hundred yards of seven Amazon villages without seeing a soul. But the famed warrior women had certainly seen him, and runners were sent forward along his path, warning everyone of the unusual demon that was headed that way.
By nightfall, he had changed his course repeatedly, but had encountered nothing but more jungle and a few creatures that had fled from the sounds of his approach. Even worse, he was starting to get bored. He made another sudden turn, and found himself on a footpath. Even better, his demonic set of eyes could tell the recent human footprints that had been traveling along it, and with a new joy in his heart he set forth, idly smashing fists into trees and uprooting bushes as he went along.
When he broke out of the trees and into the open spot surrounding the village, almost fifty warriors stood ready to confront him, armed with long spears and bows. Thane giggled, throwing forward his human hands and uttering a single demonic word. Magic poured forth from his fingers as they loosed arrows, every missle suddenly batted out of the air as their nature was twisted. Screams echoed through the village as the unfortunately women were engulfed by the magic, their forms being undone by the dose of pure chaos spewed forward.
Then he was done, pulling out the lone arrow that had escaped his attack, and looking over his handiwork. Dirt and rock had been twisted and rippled across the village, and the houses looked like candles left in the sun. Most of the women had been killed by the magic, their bodies twisted until the fragile hold of life snapped. A few lay on the ground, their useless weapons next to them as they twitched and piteously tried to cry for help through mouths that would never again be human.
Giggling again, Thane strode out the other side of the village, determined to find more playthings. Perhaps ones that would not break so very easily.
Gerta walked the hallways of the underground complex, feeling rather bored and waiting for the signal her master would send to her. Unfortunately, being a Prime Evil, he didn’t have a very good sense of timing. All he had told her was, “Soon,” which could mean anywhere from five minutes to five months. So she trod the passageways, now much quieter with the beastly Thane sent out.
As she turned a corner, she stopped in surprise. Rahvunah stood before the summoning room door, unlocking it and stepping inside. She hurried her steps, shoes quiet on the tile floor, as she moved to the door, carefully keeping it from closing with a fingertip. A torch extinguished with the help of a small magical potion she threw down the hall, and then she pushed open the door, slipping inside.
The priest stood inside the summoning circle, using a golden needle to prick his finger and let three drops of blood fall into the silver-lined grooves. A rush of power went up in the room, extinguishing the single candle and filling the room with infernal red light. “Na-Krul, my master, it is time! Come back and take your place on the mortal world!”
All of the power seemed to explode in an instant, sending both of them to the floor as though a bumblebore had picked them up and dashed them against the stone. Gerta wheezed for breath, feeling broken ribs grating against each other. “If that didn’t work,” she slowly coughed out, “I’m coming over there and breaking another rib for you.”
He whined in pain, slowly rolling to his feet and cradling a broken finger. “Let’s get down to the machine, and my crystal ball. If it didn’t work, then things are very wrong.” Leaning on each other, they limped out into the hallway. Veteran and novice Disciples came up to them, fearfully asking questions about the giant release from magic all of them just felt, but he irritably waved away the questions, pausing only to swipe a pair of healing potions.
They both sat on opposite sides of the crystal, the other servants of evil eagerly crowding around. Rahvunah’s voice echoed in the room when he ordered the crystal, “Show me Na-Krul.”
Boris was calmly sitting in his room, reading a book with his feet propped up on a stool. He didn’t think much of the poetry that the citizens of Lao Wai had come up with over the ages, but their myths and tales of when the Prime Evils first came to the world of Sanctuary was very important. Then he turned the page, and stared at the book in shock.
“Boris, Na-Krul is about to be summoned into the Worldstone chamber. Take that tiny invention and get down there, now. Gabriel.” He looked up at the ceiling, as though it would let him peer through into Heaven. Then he shrugged, setting aside the book, not noticing with his failing eyes that the text had returned to normal. Picking up an elegant cane, he limped over to the wardrobe, shuffling through the clothes until he found what he was looking for, and slipped it onto his belt.
Natalya ran into him in the hallway, as she lectured another student about playing with guns inside the dorm. “Boris?” she said, turning away from the student. “What’s wrong?”
He gave her a grin, smiling down from his natural height. “Wrong? Nothing at all.” She gave him a skeptical look as he gestured for her to follow him. They passed out of the student rooms, passing across the sunlit grounds and towards the palace where the Worldstone was kept guarded. “Gabriel sent me a message,” he said quietly.
“What?” She frowned again as he irritably gestured her to keep her voice down. “What was Gabriel sending you a message about?” Her eyes kept roving the Protectorate compound, waiting for any sign of a threat.
Boris held the door open, waving her inside past the guards. “Just trust me on this, old friend,” he said, walking through the hallways for the protected stairway that led to the most important rock in the world. “We’ll be needed here.”
They emerged at last, facing the brilliant sphere. It took up the space of a house, as every year more chips of Worldstone were brought to be merged back into the whole, and the architects worked at removing walls and floors to give it space. The Zakarum had taken very seriously their task of returning every shard they could get their hands on, and it lit the whole room with a cheery glow. Then both of them felt as the glow started to twist, being sucked into a maelstrom forming in a corner of the room.
The two assassins screamed as noises and lights blasted forth from the portal, the magical bindings holding Na-Krul shattering under the force of the summons from his followers. Then sudden silence echoed in the room, as they stared at the hideous form of the demon most devoted to chaos. Natalya instantly vanished from sight, pulling the shadows around her. But the demon smirked, lashing out with a hand, the air and stone twisting in the path of his magic and hurling her back to the floor.
Boris stared sadly at the corpse of his friend for a moment, then back to the demon. “I will suck your eyeballs from your skull and play a funeral dirge on your bones!” the demon snarled at him, stalking forward.
He shrugged, drawing the small tube from his belt. “Quite possibly,” he said calmly. “But first, say hello to my little friend.” He flipped off the cap covering one end of the tube, and light streamed forth. Na-Krul laughed, lunging forward, and then the light splashed across him and he reared back, screaming in pain. “What’s wrong, demon? A little divine sunburn a bit much for you?”
Boris stalked the demon now, the brilliant beam of holy light twirling across the blue scales, sending curls of smoke fluttering towards the ceiling every time. The direct shots of chaos were broken by the light, and he roared in anger.
Then the demon suddenly smiled, changing the direction of his magic. The assassin looked up, following the path, just in time to see a support beam, suddenly warped away from the rest of the building, come crashing down. His skull shattered under the impact, and he fell to the floor, his tube of light rolling across the floor until it suddenly came to a halt, pointed straight at the Worldstone.
Everyone in the compound screamed as the crystal ball suddenly burst, shattering under the sudden impact of divine light, reflected through the Worldstone. Rahvunah picked himself up off the floor, carefully pulling pieces of crystal from his skin and his robes. “And now, Na-Krul is loose in the mortal world.”
“How do you know that didn’t kill him?” Gerta asked, wincing as she drew a shard of crystal from her cheek. “That much divine power suddenly loose?”
He just chuckled, limping back out of the room. “I summoned him. I would feel it.”
Over the next two days, Jaresh almost rode the horses into the ground. Every morning they rose to leave with the sun, eating in the saddles, and not halting until daylight had fled the land completely. The third morning, as they were folding up their blankets, a squad of soldiers appeared, almost as though they sprung full-grown from the tall yellow grasses that covered the hills along the borders.
Holding his saddle, the paladin looked at them calmly. “I am Paladin Jaresh. I am riding on a matter of urgency to speak with the King of Entsteig.” The sergeant leading the squad frowned, making a quick gesture with his hand. Two of the soldiers vanished back into the pre-dawn murky darkness.
“You’re a few days too late for that,” he said. “The generals said that ‘is Majesty, angels keep his soul, fell off his horse when the barbarian wench came to rescue Rambur.” He spit into the dirt near his feet, shaking his head. “Never thought of him as a traitor,” he added quietly.
Jaresh placed his saddle onto his horse, trying to straighten out his thoughts before asking any more questions. “I find the idea of General Rambur as a traitor ridiculous,” he said, sounding confused. “Who holds the throne now?” Visha and Arthur exchanged worried glances, neither of them wanting to reach for weapons with the obviously unhappy scouts still surrounding their campsite.
Shrugging, the sergeant spit into the dirt again. “Don’ rightly know,” he said. “’is Majesty was too young to have an heir. So there’ll likely be another lovely round of accidents, if you know what I mean.” He shook his head sadly. “Damn nobles. Meantime, seems like the generals are keeping an eye on things. Whole army is pulling back, since Khanduras’ll probably march on that border.”
Jaresh turned back to look at his son and niece, then swiftly buckled his saddle into place. “I’ll be visiting the generals then,” he said, strapping his pack back onto the still wearied horse. “But I should arrive before your messenger.” He vaulted onto his ride, then looked down solemnly at the soldiers. “Tyrael and Hadriel protect you, Gabriel grant you wisdom,” he said worriedly, and with the blessing finished, wheeled his horse around.
They all galloped away from the campsite, knowing now that they were close to their original goal. Even though their mission already seemed doomed.
The army of Westmarch swept down onto Haven like a plague of locusts. In a lot of ways, that was how they fought, as well. Their king, noticing the desertion rate of his soldiers, planted opposing rumors that the Haven citizens had already mined more gold from that mountain than could be found. With his men then pumped up and prepared for a grand old time of looting and pillaging, they swept down onto the beleaguered city.
The King himself, of course, was still surrounded by over five hundred of the finest men, the ones who had proven their fighting skills in arena combat in Kingsport. The archers could hit a coin from a hundred yards, and all of the officers bore deadly, and hideously expensive, pistols from the Protectorate. They rode through the city, swords and axes and simple hooves striking down any of the citizens unfortunate enough to stand between them and their goal – the hidden chamber when the Haven council met.
His spies had reported the location years ago, and since no one had ever been rash enough to march an army into the largest home for criminals and outcasts that blighted the world of Sanctuary, he doubted they had moved. Now it was time to wipe away this stain on his otherwise beautiful country. After all, what use was one of the best armies in the world if you didn’t put it to use occasionally?
Only the most desperate raised arms against the King’s vanguard as they moved unchallenged towards the center of the city, and the lavish mansion where their meetings were held. It had once belonged to a nobleman, before the city had become corrupted, and that was where the council could be found. Even the acid spitters roaming the yard did not pose a problem, and soon the soldiers were dismounting before the doors, smashing them out of the way with axes and war hammers, hacking their way through the armed servants.
The King himself stayed clear of most of the fighting. He wanted to see them brought low, but his life would be too high a cost. But even here in their stronghold, the numbers and strength of the defenders was too low, and for a moment he hoped that their greed was not enough to hold the guards there when their lives would obviously be forfeit.
Then he heard shouts and screams from down the stairs, towards the basement where the hidden council chamber was, and a moment later, recognized the bellow of a horned demon. “Bloody stupid monsters,” he growled, drawing his pistol and brushing past his bodyguards, moving down the stairs as they protested.
A half dozen of his men were already dead or dying, gored through and trampled into the unyielding stone floor. He glanced around swiftly, hearing the beast snorting in the darkness of the unused dungeon. Then more of his guards had appeared behind him, bringing torches and lanterns. A brief glint of light was all the warning he had before the demon charged.
The King had already brought his pistol to bear, and it vomited smoke and flames and a bullet as he spun out of the way. His guards leaped away as well, or shoved their way back up the stairs, as the horned demon stumbled, crashing into the foot of the stairs. The horn smashed into the stairs, holding the corpse in place as it shuddered, blood and brains leaking from the pierced eye socket. Sniffing in distaste, he returned the pistol to its holster, drawing his rapier and continuing through the dungeon.
It took them almost an hour, but at last the hidden switch was found, and a section of wall grated as it swung open, revealing another staircase down. This one was lit, with soft velvet tapestries lining the passage as it curved further down into the earth. Smiling broadly, the King followed a dozen guards down, the rest guarding their retreat back to the outside of the city.
There was only one guard at the bottom of the stairs, and he fought valiantly for about ten seconds. Stepping over his corpse, one of the officers flung open the doors, revealing the council of Haven, all the merchants and pirates and thieves, with Gheed sitting at the head of the table. They walked inside like conquerors, and the council sat and fumed in their impotence. The King walked up the length of the table, noting each and every person, already deciding on their punishments for flaunting his rule.
When he reached the last seat, he smiled. “Hello, Greed,” he said, just barely enough to be heard.
Gheed’s eyes widened in shock, and he started to leap out of his chair, bent only on retreat. “You’re!” Whatever else he would have said was cut off as the rapier blade speared his throat. He dropped to the ground, his hands feebly twitching as they tried to stem the flow of blood.
DAMN YOU, PRIDE! Asmodan’s voice was deafening as it rang in his head, and the King closed his eyes briefly against the pain. What have you done?
“He shouldn’t have interfered with my country,” he said aloud, for the benefit of the other Haven rulers. “Bind them and take them away,” he ordered his soldiers, bending down to pull a handkerchief from Gheed’s pocket to clean his blade. “And someone find me a new shirt,” he said, looking at the bloodstains in disgust.
“Sir!” A messenger appeared from the stairs, showing minor cuts from the fighting further in the city. “Our soldiers have been thrown backwards out of the Hook. What are your orders?”
He smiled as he peeled off the bloodstained silk, tossing it on the floor before sheathing his sword. “Burn it down,” he ordered loudly, smiling at the looks of fear and resignation on his enemies’ faces.
“Burn it all down.”
The ceremonial hall had been built specially for this occasion, and would be torn down when they were finished, as it always had been before. The open room was crowded, hot, and stuffy in the summer day, and the casks of chilled spring water carried down from further up the mountain barely helped. Adonia stood at the front of the room, with the other Clan chiefs beside her. Clustered in the room were the Elders of the major Barbarian cities. It was a cacophony of noise and arguments everywhere around them. General Rambur, his title now little more than a formality, stood behind Adonia quietly, despair shrouding him at the fate of his country.
“Having fun yet?” Buk asked sardonically. “You’d think that a special meeting to decide whether or not to march to war could be conducted with a little more dignity.” He snorted, leaning against his maul. “I’ve seen better manners from my nephew of three months.” He shook his head sadly, watching as two of the elders from Sescheron started trading punches, only to be quickly subdued by several others.
The different Clan chiefs looked up, as an armored man strode in through the doors. A Protectorate gunsmith followed him, her hands resting absently on the hilts of her pistols, and a Zakarum priest ducked carefully under the carpet that covered the entrance. He looked around the room, smiled at the Clan Chiefs, and then calmly walked up to one of the tables. He drew his scepter from his belt, and brought it smashing down against the table with a thunderous crash of lightning.
Every voice in the room stopped, and every hand reached for a weapon, including the two following him. Adonia gave a small smirk, and stepped forward. “Hail and well met, paladin. What brings you to interrupt a council of war?”
Jaresh bowed to her, returning his weapon to the belt loop. “Greetings to you, most powerful of the chosen tribes of Hadriel. I am Jaresh, paladin and member of the Zakarum Council. I come here on the orders of Tyrael.” He paused, looking around the room, knowing that this moment of silence would be fleeting at best. “You cannot go to war.”
As he expected, voices raised in outrage, shouting about the crimes that the generals of Entsteig had done to them, and their desire to punish the traitorous leaders of their southern neighbor. Through the whole thing, he stood silent, his eyes locked with Adonia’s as the two engaged in a subtle battle of willpower. At last they both smiled, averting their eyes and giving each other a nod of the head. “Silence!” her voice roared through the room a moment later, shaking the building.
Arthur winced, rubbing his ears gingerly with a finger. His father walked across the room, carefully stepping up onto another table to better speak to the room. All eyes were on him now, most of them angrily glaring at the interloper who dared to dictate their affairs. “Na-Krul is loose in the world again.” Many of the angry looks turned to shock, and a low muttering filled the room briefly.
“Your war with Entsteig was only a small part of the plan. Belial helped the followers of Na-Krul to incite wars in every human kingdom.” He looked downcast as he continued. “Even some of the Zakarum followers have turned against your Druid brethren. Westmarch has burned the city of Haven to the ground. Another war will only serve to strengthen the demon, since these wars have turned all of Sanctuary into his summoning circle.”
“But what about Lonce and Owain?” Rambur’s voice spoke up for the first time since that fateful battle, four days ago. “They didn’t care about a war, they just wanted an excuse to assassinate the King and place themselves on the throne.” His hands were trembling as he tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Are you suggesting that they simply go unpunished?”
Visha spoke up from the side of the room. “Don’t be ridiculous. They will be punished, whether in this life or the next. But,” her eyes roved across the assembled elders, “if you go to war now, you lend strength to Na-Krul.”
“What is it you request of us, Jaresh?” Adonia put a subtle emphasis on one word, and his mouth almost twitched into a smile. “We will not ignore the damage that has been done to our people and our lands, but none of us wish to side with the Lord of Lies and his new apprentice.”
Arthur’s mace suddenly started to glow, and he began to speak in someone else’s voice. “The spells of war will be broken when Na-Krul’s most powerful disciple has been slain. Travel to Lut Gholein, and find the path to him. Then the Barbarian tribes can restore the true leader of Entsteig to the throne.” With an almost audible snap, the light faded away, and the priest slumped to the floor, unconscious.
“I guess that answers that question,” Adonia muttered. “Want a bodyguard?” she asked Jaresh. He smiled, gesturing to the other clan chiefs and the exiled general, and they lifted Arthur’s body from the floor, exiting the ceremonial hall as the elders of every clan and city began to prepare for their delayed war.
After a few hours, they were clear of the Darkwood, stumbling on the edge of exhaustion. The fields were empty for miles, filled with wild plants and fruit trees, given a sort of protection by the monsters that dwelled within the woods. Slip led them another mile distant, then found a small grove of trees, tiny apples growing in the summer air, where they bedded down.
He awakened them at noon, encouraging words helping the others rise and continue their march towards the capitol. Smaller patrols of soldiers rode the roads around the border of the Darkwood, keeping the monsters penned in and away from the farms that pressed up against the low stone walls that turned the landscape into a maze. Dro talked little about the area, about how the farmers who first settled were forced to tear the rocks loose from the soil to farm, stacking them up in walls around their plots of land.
The uniform of the Zakarum, and the occasional cantrip by the sorceress, helped them continue unmolested towards Tristram, and they finally came within sight of the city five days later. From the top of a high hill, they stared at the faint lights from the buildings and the cathedral in the center of the city, as the sun set behind them. “Well,” Dro said, “we can keep walking for another two hours, and try to convince the guards to let us in, or we can camp here.”
Maren stepped forward, leaning somewhat against her staff as she started down the hill. “If it means we can sleep in real beds, then I’m willing to walk.” Celest chuckled, quickly following her. The two men shared a mystified look, then trotted along behind them, eager to reach their destination at last.
New walls circled the city, engulfing acres of empty space. For now, it was just farmland, inside the stone walls twenty feet high, but at some point it would all be torn up and built over to house the people sure to migrate to the capitol city of Khanduras. Archers patrolled the walkways atop the granite blocks, and pikemen stood watch outside the gates, with torches and lanterns spilling light along the road. The river that once ran through the town was now changed, the new riverbank still showing signs of digging two generations after the King hired the engineers to move it.
With a ball of magelight hovering above their heads, they approached the city walls. The soldiers at the gate gave Slip hasty salutes, moving to open the gates and allow them entry. They stepped through the door-sized hole, welcoming the smoother feel of the bricked road beneath their feet. “This is impressive,” Celest said, looking around in surprise. “I mean, fifty years ago the cathedral had just finished being built.”
The others nodded in agreement, but paused their conversation as a woman approached them. She drew closer into the torchlight, and Slip suddenly straightened to attention, saluting her. “At ease, Sergeant,” she said gruffly, returning his salute. “Paladin Jaresh sent us a letter to await your arrival.” Her mouth turned into a thin scowl. “And there’s a saber cat from the Sisterhood who’s been bleating your name quite loudly.”
He gave a small nod. “Our arrival was delayed somewhat by taking a wrong turn into the Darkwood. Am I to assume by your presence that lodging has been procured for us?” Inwardly, he rolled his eyes at the more formal speech that some of the Zakarum officers were so fond of using.
“You have rooms waiting at the Stone Rooster, a block from the castle. Dismissed.” She waited until he had returned to attention and saluted, then turned and walked away. As they started walking through the streets towards the small keep that overlooked the center of the city, Dro shook his head.
“Real friendly sorts they have here, eh?” he asked rhetorically.
Rupert continued to tramp through the empty nothingness of Limbo, bored out of his mind. His sense of time had been dulled by death, but traveling through the space where nothing quite existed had started to play games with his head. He wasn’t really quite sure if he had been there for months or years, and yesterday, he had a conversation with a Balrog. Which was ridiculous, of course, a real demon would have attacked him, not talked. He sighed, kicking a stone and watching it bounce along the gray stone.
The stone rattled along, until it struck a larger rock that let out a low moan. His head shot up, blinking away the fuzziness and looking around. He stood on one of the blasted plains that made up the realm of Hell, surrounded by the souls of mortals who had sinned enough that they were damned to eternal torment. Another demon stepped up next to him, resting the point of his sword on the ground. “Colin?” he asked hesitantly, still trying to regain his senses and his thoughts.
The other demon grunted, then nodded before shivering violently. “If Gabriel ever suggests walking from Heaven to Hell, I’m telling him to take a long walk off a short pier over the river of flames.” His eyes were haunted when he turned to his fellow paladin. “I had started stalking you back there.
Trying to repress the shiver crawling slowly up his spine, Rupert turned back to look at the landscape. “Now we have to get all the way to the bottom.” He gave a sideways glance at one of the tortured souls. “And let’s be quiet for now. I don’t know if these souls can be used to spy for the Prime Evils, and I’d rather not find out the hard way.”
Shouldering their weapons, they set off into the blasted, fetid plains of Hell, searching for the stairs that would send them further down, closer to Baal’s chambers.
Na-Krul fled as the light blossomed, flooding the room and scorching his skin. Leaping up the stairs, he crashed through the guarded doors, sending the unfortunate guards smashing into the opposite wall as he ducked around the corner, fleeing the direct brilliance. Curls of smoke twirled away from the burns covering his body, and the demon snarled, his eyes still slitted against the light blasting against the opposite wall.
But despite it all, he was free in the mortal realm. Boldly he strode down the hallway, his bulk enough to break decorations off the walls. A squad of Protectorate soldiers suddenly emerged, all of them raising pistols or rifles to fire, just before a blast of chaos rolled down the hall towards them. As the walls rippled and twisted, tearing supports free of the floor, the bullets turned and scattered, deforming and splintering the elegant panes of wood. The few that still struck were of no consequence to the demon, and he gleefully smashed every skull underneath his feet as he continued.
Beneath the bright blue summer sky, he roared his defiance to the orderly mortal world. Across the city his voice echoed, and some humans rejoiced. They had gathered in secret, learning the dark arts of summoning and controlling demons, in preparation for the greater demon they believed would grant them power beyond imagining. But first, the soldiers of the Protectorate were gathering, with an army from the Emperor behind them, to try and keep the greater demon of chaos pinned down, inside the massive wall that still enclosed the Forbidden City.
It would be a futile effort.
By nightfall, Adonia and Rambur were leading the other three across the plains, riding their horses gently. Now that they had a destination in hand, pointed there by one of the angels, a new sense of purpose filled them. Rambur still looked grim, but the knowledge that his country would be freed of the traitors who now controlled the throne lit a cold fire in his heart.
“What did those traitorous bastards tell you, anyway?” Rambur asked as he worked at coaxing a small fire to life. Arthur knelt on the other side, using his cloak to shield the tiny flames from the evening wind. “Or would they even speak to you?”
Jaresh chuckled, helping Adonia skin a pair of rabbits she had speared earlier on their ride. “They were very honest in telling me that they harbored no ill will against their northern neighbors, and that they had tried to convince him not to go to war. But even with him unfortunately dying in combat, they could not ignore his last order to have you sent into exile as a traitor.”
Visha snorted, pulling the last saddle off the horses and grabbing handfuls of grass to rub them down. “It was obvious that they were lying for all they were worth. The chubby one went on at great length to say how hard they would be working to keep the country stable while the succession was sorted out.”
The paladin nodded, sliding their dinner onto a spit and leaning it against a convenient tree. “Both of them waxed eloquently about their desire to keep Entsteig free from any further war. I suspect that they will be encouraging assassinations and possibly sending more of the nobility to death or exile to secure their hold on the country.” He sat down on the ground, away from the fire burning merrily in the hot, dry air.
The barbarian sat down next to Rambur, helping him feed the fire. “But that is not so important right now,” she said. “Na-Krul is loose.” They carefully set a pair of forked sticks across the fire and placed the rabbits to cook, crookedly. “And our peoples both helped to bring him here.”
“I know that, curse it.” Rambur punched a fist into his thigh. “I know that my country will suffer more greatly if I ignore the demon and rush back to throw Lonce and Owain into chains. But that doesn’t make it any easier.” His fingers methodically broke a smaller stick down into splinters. “I don’t suppose that Hadriel gave you any more information?” he asked, looking up at Arthur.
He blushed slightly, nervous at the attention. “Actually, it was Gabriel, not Hadriel.” He glanced at his uncle briefly. “He’s a little more wordy. All he said was that the leader of Na-Krul’s Disciples has his lair in Lut Gholein, and killing him would remove the spells that grant the demon strength for every victim of war.”
“Isn’t that a little odd?” Visha asked, coming over to join the others around the fire. “I mean, every other Western realm has been brought into some sort of conflict – the barbarians, the Druids, the peasants in northern Kehjistan, and all of these countries.” She looked between her uncle and the general. “But no troubles at all in Lut Gholein.”
“It is peculiar,” he nodded. “But perhaps he does not want his work to be disrupted by the random chance of war.” Jaresh grimaced, not welcoming a visit back to the walled desert city, the largest port on the Sea of Light. “But it does make a sort of ironic sense.”
Adonia reached forward, ripping a piece of meat from one of the rabbits. “Less talk, more eating,” she proclaimed. “We have to worry about how we’re going to get there, and we can’t do it on an empty stomach.”
Shaking his head, Arthur wrapped his arms around his legs. “How are we going to do that? Those generals will throw us in chains if we try to ride straight towards the Sisterhood in Khanduras. But going around will take months, and we’d have to go through the fighting between the Druids and the peasants in Kehjistan.” He stopped talking as Visha handed him a bisquit.
“We’re going through Entsteig,” Jaresh said flatly. “If they think they can stop a paladin on a mission, they are sorely mistaken.” Grimly, he drew his knife and cut off a piece of the rabbit.
Oras looked through the jungle at the small patrol. The Zakarum had been sending out patrols into the jungle, hunting down the demons and some of his undead who got lost. Zombies weren’t the brightest of creatures, even those infused with demonic essence. But now he waited, taking stock of this group. A priest, with one arm in bandages, was directing the seven warriors on their search. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but that hardly mattered at the moment.
It had been difficult, thanks to his own undead nature, but he was starting to learn how to use the powers Asmodan had imbued him with. Frustration, both at their trek through the jungle and at the sudden weakness in the ranks of the Zakarum priesthood, rolled off them all, and it wouldn’t take much for him to turn the men against each other.
Cautiously, he raised a withered hand, looking at the priest between two fingers, raising his power as Anger. The woman’s voice slowly became more shrill, as he turned her frustration into anger. The other soldiers were less affected, but they still snarled back at their leader, trying to vent their anger through words.
Then she struck one of them. It was a simple thing, a light slap on the shoulder, but with the demonic influence, the group broke down. Two of the other soldiers turned towards her, raising their own fists in anger. Another one leapt to the defense of the priest, drawing a sword, and Oras watched as the group dissolved instantly into fighting. Blood flew on the air, and Anger smiled, his magics still encouraging them onward.
Finally, only two were left standing, the soldiers circling each other warily over their swords, bleeding freely from a dozen minor wounds as they stamped and feinted, swords slick with blood and sending sparks and drops out onto the undergrowth. Oras hissed, and dozens of ghouls lumbered from the trees, seizing the two warriors and holding them immobile. Then they began to feast on their live prey.
He called them off before the soldiers could perish, knowing that the poisoning from the bite would bring their animate corpses back to him long before they could reach another priest to purify and heal the wounds. He almost had enough zombies to risk splitting his forces, sending most of them into the nearest city with no instructions but to kill. He would be taking the best of them, moving more carefully to attack the Zakarum church, and hopefully prevent the priests from using their holy magic to thwart Asmodan’s plan.
He looked down at the body of the dead priest, her jaw nearly cut from her body, and bent down, caressing her cheek. “Rise,” he croaked out, and the body twitched, slowly rising to its feet to join his army. One by one, he raised the others, ignoring for the moment the two injured and bitten soldiers. At last the clearing held only himself and those two, and he smiled at them, feeling them quaking in fear.
Soon, you too will be mine, he thought, and my will be done!
“Wu!” He called urgently down the stairs, brushing past the servants with all the unconscious arrogance of a nobly raised son. “Wu!” Xiao grumbled in annoyance, clattering down the stairs towards the cellar. His friend had found a secret room down below where he had been continuing the demon summoning rituals they had all taken part in, pretending to be down there sampling the wine collection. “Curse this dusty cellar,” he said, wiping a spiderweb from his shoulder. “Damn you, Wu, come out here!”
Standing in front of the secret door, he waited a moment, and the other youth opened it. Xiao wasn’t privileged enough to learn where the trigger was for the door, so he was forced to wait if he didn’t arrive quickly enough. “What is it?” Wu asked, clearly annoyed. “I’m in the middle of a ritual.”
“Didn’t you hear?” He took in the blank look for a moment, then sighed. “Na-Krul is loose in the mortal world again! He appeared in the Worldstone chamber, but someone drove him out, and the Protectorate managed to get him out of the city. But he’s traversing the Empire, rewarding everyone who has been worshipping him.” Xiao’s eyes shone with greed and the lust for power.
Wu shrugged, turning back towards the hidden chamber. “Good for him,” he said, distracted. His friend followed him inside, pushing the heavy brick door back into place before turning around and staring at the succubus waiting in the summoning circle. Pacing around the edge of the circle, Wu wrung his hands. “I don’t think I can let her out safely.”
Xiao snickered. “You sure put up a good talk last night at the meeting.” He smirked as his friend shot him a dirty look, but both of them kept staring at the succubus, artfully displaying her assets as she mirrored Wu’s movement, pacing the inside of the circle. “Between the both of us, we can handle her. Only that westerner in the robes of Na-Krul has more experience at summoning demons than us.”
His hand almost crossed the circle when they heard the distinctive sound of the hidden door opening, and both of them turned in surprise, looking at the opening as Wu’s father stepped inside. “Son? I thought I heard you come down here.” His voice suddenly cut off as he saw the summoning circle and the demon within.
The two youths suddenly leaped into motion, dragging the older man inside and shoving the door shut before his shouts of alarm could alert the servants. Some of their rituals had gotten especially loud, but the thick walls and a simple enchantment kept them well hidden. “I’m sorry about this father, but I’m not letting anyone stand in my way.” As Xiao stood in shock, his friend drew the knife from his belt and thrust it into his father’s stomach, quickly moving to the side as he twisted the blade.
Hot blood fountained out, running over the floor and finally breaking the summoning circle. The succubus laughed in delight, dropping to the floor and rolling in the blood, crawling through it to rise to her feet in front of the dying man. With a kiss she pulled away the last of his life, feeling it run over her tongue like a piece of candy. “He would have raised an alarm, and the Emperor’s guards would have burned us alive,” Wu said simply as his friend stared in horror.
“But … he was your father!” Xiao leaned heavily against the wall, his head spinning. “We can’t just hide his death, someone will discover it. Then what will you do?” He stared at his friend, feeling confused and afraid for the first time.
“We can keep the whole incident hidden, I assure you,” Wu answered, moving slightly to assist the succubus as she undressed him. “You were right earlier – we can control demons better than any of the others. We can summon enough to overwhelm the guards. This city will be ours.” His eyes shone with their own fire as his speech continued. “We are the best there is, and we can control the best. Our demons will take over the Empire. I will be crowned Emperor, and you will be at my right hand as my most trusted advisor. Think of is, Xiao, power and money beyond our imaginings!”
Slowly, his friend was caught up in the enthusiasm and the subtle magic nature of the succubus. “Yes,” he said slowly, stepping over the body to join the succubus, “we can control the entire empire!”
And as both of them consummated their summoning, they shared identical thoughts of how they could best eliminate their closest friend, and control it all alone.
They found the inn named the Stone Rooster rather easily, to their surprise. The odd statue of a granite rooster stood on a heavy wooden pedestal outside the door, emphasizing the small, painted sign above the door. With a shrug, Slip pushed open the door, and they entered, eyes drying at the blast of hotter air that burst out around them.
The common room was thick with off duty soldiers, some still in their uniforms. Both Zakarum and Khanduran army mixed freely, with little apparent competition or animosity except around the dartboard. An unfortunate bard sat on the stage, mopping his brow of sweat between songs as a cook tended to the spitted pig on the fire behind him, sweating more profusely and mocking all the men who stared at her and confessed their drunken lust.
The scout almost lost his companions, moving easily through the crowd. He was almost at the counter when a startled yelp rose above the din, briefly silencing most of the conversations. One soldier lay on the ground, grasping his manhood as he whimpered in pain, with Maren brandishing her staff standing above him. “Touch me again, and I’ll freeze it off,” she said menacingly, ice crystals starting to swirl in the air around her.
Chuckling, Slip stepped back towards her and extended a hand. “Come on, Maren, before your uncle, Paladin Jaresh, says something about you accosting his soldiers.” She bristled slightly before seeing his wink. But his words were like magic on the crowd, quickly parting to make room for the travelers. No common soldier was fool enough to anger a paladin by making an unwanted pass at his niece, and the man on the floor was helped to his feet and led outside.
“Well, now I know who you are,” the innkeeper said, putting down a mug of ale on the bar and running a hand over his mustache. “I was told to have two rooms reserved for you, last ones at the end of the hall,” and he shuffled through a key ring, withdrawing two keys. “They’re paid for, but I need the keys back in the morning. Oh, and just to warn you, there’s a Saber Cat, dressed up like one of the Sisterhood.”
Slip chuckled, taking the keys and holding them tightly. “It’ll be good to see her again,” he said, leaving the innkeeper with a dumbfounded expression as they moved to the back of the room, climbing the stairs up to the second floor. The hallway was so narrow they had to move in single file, and the rooms were locked. He opened both doors, revealing the small straw beds tucked under the sloped eaves of the roof. “Ladies, pick whichever room you prefer,” he said.
Even as Celest reached for a key, the door behind her slammed open, and Slip was engulfed by a wiry, furry figure. “Slip! It has been too long!” Dro rolled his eyes as he slid his sword back into its sheath, examining the saber cat in interest. He knew a few packs of the strange felines roamed the Aranoch, having faced down one of them years before. “What took you so long to reach here?”
The assassin stared in shock as the two embraced, then reached forward to pluck the key from his hand. “This is great,” she said. “Now Visha owes me ten gold coins.” Both figures turned to give her an annoyed look, and she shrugged. “Well, she thought Slip was making it all up.”
Isha separated from the scout, lifting a finger and tapping the girl on the nose with the small, pink pad, her claw narrowly missing skin. “I am real,” she growled, “and I helped raise this boy into a man.” She glanced backwards as Dro carefully moved away from her lashing tailtip.
“I don’t think she meant any offense,” Maren said quickly, trying to defuse the situation. “It’s just, well, surprising.” She blushed a little as the feline turned green slit eyes to regard her. “My mistress told me that not all saber cats worship the Prime Evils, but one of them in the Sisterhood is hard to believe.” Her blush intensified as the unblinking eyes stayed locked on hers.
Finally, she lowered her eyes, after many seconds of nervous silence, and Isha nodded. “I understand. It took the Sisters many moons before they accepted me, and many more before that when they were teaching me to speak in your language.” She turned back to Slip, who had begun smiling again. “We need to speak in the morning, before you can visit this ruler and speak to him.” Her tail tip lashing continuously, she turned back to her room, and Slip took the opportunity, lunging for her tail, his hand barely making contact with the fur as she leaped forward. “Rawr! You naughty boy!” she scolded him, but her eyes were sparkling when she closed the door to her room.
Dro stared at the scout with new respect. “Normally, any man who did that, I would consider insane.” He glanced at the closed door, and shivered. “I ran into a pair of saber cats once, on the southern edge of the desert, and they nearly had me for lunch.”
Slip chuckled, leading the way into their room as the women disappeared into theirs. “She was the one Aradne picked to punish me whenever I made mistakes, but she wasn’t cruel about it like some of the women could be.” He glanced at the lumpy bed, shrugging his pack from his shoulders. “I think I’ll take the floor.”
“I was about to say the same thing,” the mercenary said wryly.
Thane swung the pole like a club, letting the thick wood shatter against the group of Amazons, sending their spears flying. The last two days, he had been hunted across the terrain of the island. The sudden changes attracted him, the shift from vegetation to swaths of bare, jagged rock, lain down by the last eruption of the volcano. But for now, he was set destroying another pack of the warriors chasing him. The destruction of the ship and the first two villages had gone unnoticed.
But the second and third, those had been larger towns, leaving enough time for the swifter of foot to flee, traveling to the largest cities and gather aid. This was the seventh patrol he had destroyed, and in truth, it was beginning to become tiresome. He swung the massive pole, torn from one of the huts yesterday, battering the last two standing warriors into the ground, watching the blood leak out.
He sighed, letting the splintered and blood soaked wood fall to the ground before continuing his aimless walk across the land. “I never should have listened to Rahvunah,” he said to himself. “I’m just getting to bored! My experiments have been sitting without me for far too long.” His monologue of complaints continued as a quartet of archers emerged briefly from the trees, sighting him. Then they vanished again, back into the foliage to watch the monster as he strode across a lava flow long since hardened.
At last, they were ahead of him, still quiet in the forest, and they set their marks carefully. On a whispered word, four arrows burst from the tree, all of them striking their marks. With all four eyes sprouting feathers and wood, Thane stumbled to a halt, then slowly toppled forward, crashing to the ground.
They kept a watch all that day, and all night, and as dawn rose over their islands they stepped out of the trees, armed with wood and tinder to incinerate the corpse.
The Khanduran army struck with almost complete surprise, dashing out of the Darkwood and taking the small patrol unawares. The morning had barely started as the army spread out, breaking off by companies, seizing the roads and leaving small detachments at every village along their path. Some peasants cheered, others cursed, but the soldiers treated them all fairly. In three more days, they controlled the entire area disputed between their countries.
Lonce and Owain stood in what had been the throne room, boredly listening to a quartet of nobles arguing loudly over which among them had the stronger claim to the vacant throne. To avoid a general rebellion of the rich nobles, they had brought in standard chairs, and allowed any so inclined to sit in the room while they conducted business. “Enough!” Lonce finally shouted, rising from his chair, the knuckles of his left hand white where they grasped his sword hilt.
The four men glared at him, their anger diverted for the moment. “This argument is going nowhere,” Owain said levelly. “And while you argue, Khanduras and her army continue to take bites from our southern flank. In fact, Duke Campbell, I believe that half of your holdings are now occupied by the enemy.” Brown eyes shot daggers at him, and the general kept his smile only in his mind.
“All of you have an equal claim to the throne,” Lonce said slyly, and watched as the nobles turned their anger and jealousy back against each other. “But there is a simple way to settle this. Tomorrow morning, we’ll march the army south against them, and all of you will accompany us.” The nobles went pale, and opened their mouths to protest, but the general raised his voice, overriding them. “Whoever more valiently defends our wonderous country will have proved his worth to sit on the throne.”
Muttering quietly, the nobles left the room, with their less important brethren watching and gossiping among themselves. Returning to his chain, Lonce looked at his partner. “Once of us needs to stay here,” he said quietly. “If we take all of these fools out of the capitol, then someone else behind them will take the opportunity to crown himself.”
Owain gave a thin smile, raising his wine goblet to his mouth. “And since neither of us wants to be pushed from power, how are we to decide which of us leads the army?” They shared an identical look, part power lust and part admiration for a worthy opponent. “Baron Bernard!” he called, and the minor noble looked up in surprise. “Do you have a coin to flip? The General and I have a small bet to decide.”
Bernard rose from his chair, walking forward to the small cleared area before the chairs, holding up a silver coin in his hand. “Crowns for Lonce, castles for Owain?” he asked, watching them both nod grudgingly. Then he set the coin on his thumb, and sent it spinning into the air, every eye on the shining silver as it dropped back to the carpet, bouncing and spinning before finally stopping. Everyone nearby leaned over to view it as Bernard rushed over.
He looked up, smiling cautiously at Lonce. “Crowns it is.” Owain’s smile soured, and he rose from his chair, departing the room, to prepare the army to march south.
Jaresh led his small party along the dirt roads, projecting a calm he didn’t feel, always with a smile and a kind word for the peasants toiling in the field, or the chained groups of prisoners working on filling holes in the roads or standing waist deep in brackish water, placing stones to reinforce an irrigation ditch. With the massive assassinations planned by the Silent Liars, many of the communities had been left without any spiritual guidance, and their progress was often slowed as the poor farmers begged for blessings, healings, and Arthur officiated at his first wedding ceremony.
The common soldiers were friendly and open for the moment, but several of the higher ranking officers in larger towns greeted them with thinly-veiled suspicion. Lonce and Owain had written commands to most of the more important officers urging them to step in quickly and fill in the void of authority left vacant by the Zakarum Church. Many of them had started instituting martial law, calling the men away to train in militias, obviously still worried about the chance of barbarian counter-attack.
Three days of travel later, they were closer to the capitol, planning to skirt around it, leaving nothing to chance. The inn where they sat, eating a quiet meal of a thick vegetable stew and course bread, was full of soldiers and farmers, filling the air with alcoholic jubilation and more sober anger, kept barely under wraps. “I don’t like the feel of this place,” Visha said, putting down her bowl to unbraid her hair. “Na-Krul and Belial have done their work too well.”
Adonia gave a sad smile, using the bread to swipe her bowl clean. “Good has always triumphed, though it has sometimes been long in coming. Even should we fail, another group of heroes will continue our work, until our lands are again free of their demonic influence.” She looked unhappily at the empty bowl, then tossed it in the center of the table.
“We’re not through yet,” Arthur said, trying to project more optimism than he felt. “Gabriel told us what needs to be done. Armed with knowledge, nothing can stand in our way.” He picked up his mug of ale, took the first sip, and swallowed it with a grimace on his face. “Blech!”
Further back in the room, a trio of inebriated soldiers had been carefully watching them. More specifically, they had been watching Rambur and Adonia. Quiet words had been bantered back and forth as they loaded up on liquid courage, and with a final decision, they rose from their table, not intending to wait until their quarry had slipped away. Reaching the table, the corporal slammed a hand down, leaning over to stare down the barbarian. “So, you’re the inbred mountain wench who killed our king.” His bleary eyes turned towards Rambur as the paladin restrained the furious warrior. “And the damned traitor who helped her.”
He started to say more, when the breath suddenly went out of him in a huff, and Arthur’s fist connected solidly with his temple a moment later, sending him to the floor. His companions started forward as he rose from the table, throwing off his cloak to show off the priestly robes and raised the cross-tipped staff that had been laying under the table. “Take your friend, return to your barracks, and pray for some wisdom.”
Silence ruled the room, as other soldiers put down food and drink, and the farmers and villagers watched the soldiers. They two privates stood there for a moment, trying to stare down the priest with much clenching and unclenching of fists, but finally bent to the floor to retrieve their unconscious companion. With the feet dragging between them, they stumbled out of the inn, and the room slowly returned to a semblance of normality.
While the heroes were preparing for sleep, the drunken soldiers were giving a report to their superior, and within an hour, a messenger bird was winging towards the capitol with a note.
Slip awoke at dawn as the sun peeked in through the window. He arose silently, and was almost to the door when he felt a light touch at his ankle and looked down to see the tip of a sword. Following it back to the hand that held it, he watched Dro rub the sleep from his eyes. “Not used to sleeping with people?” he asked carefully.
The mercenary muttered something, putting his sword back at his side. “Not in an inn, no.” He glanced at the thin window and the light shining through the open shutters. “Time for breakfast, I suppose. Then off to see the King and see if we can’t talk him out of this madness.”
“It’s not just us,” Slip said, throwing back the bolt on the door and stepping into the hallway, carefully putting his pack on and rapping on the door where the ladies slept. “We also have to hope that Jaresh can convince the King in Entsteig. Then we’ll have to get them together to hammer out a compromise.”
The door swung open, and a very grumpy Celest put her katar against his nose, interrupting their conversation. “What do you want?” she asked, peering at him through bleary eyes. “It’s only dawn.”
“We were going down for breakfast. Want to come along?” the scout asked, carefully moving back from the sharp weapon and rubbing away the dot of blood.
“Wake me for lunch,” she muttered, slamming the door in his face as the men, chuckling, turned towards the stairs to the lower level. Isha emerged from her room a moment behind them, a sleepy-looking rogue following her, short bow slung over her shoulder. The room was still mostly empty, and the few people stopped talking as Isha walked into the room, returning to their conversations in quieter tones with many sly glances towards the feline.
Somewhat nervously, a serving wench came from the back room, laying out a plate with hard bread rolls and some bowls of gruel. They dug into the sparse meal with some distaste, Slip muttering something uncomplimentary about his superiors lack of taste. “I thought you were going to wake us up?” He looked up and over his shoulder as Maren leaned her staff against the table, dragging up a chair and sitting between the two men. “Or is that why Celest was so grumpy?”
Dro chuckled, handing her a roll as the nervous serving wench returned, skirting the table as far as possible from the spear cat. “She poked the unfortunate Sergeant in the nose.” He showed off the battle scar with an elaborate flourish, and Isha gave a coughing rumble – her equivalent of a laugh. “So we’re trying to fortify ourselves with food before facing the King.” He looked at the bowl of gruel, half-eaten, and pushed it away. “I think it would be better off fortifying the walls as mortar.”
After a single sniff, Maren pushed her own bowl away, reaching into her pack for another piece of dried meat. “Any idea how long we’ll be waiting before we can reach His Majesty and see what needs to be done to convince him?”
Isha spoke up, her ears perked at attention. “He received a brief note from the paladin, and has been waiting for your arrival ever since. We spoke when I arrived at the city three days ago, but he was unwilling to call back his army, or limit their range of action.” She likewise pushed away her bowl, barely touched. “He seemed somewhat responsive, but did not want to lose his opportunity. So I sent the rest of my rogues back to the Monastery to wait and hope that they are not needed.”
Dro grunted, used to that familiar tale from soldiers in more permanent armies. But mercenaries like himself tended to be only paid when they were desperately needed. “Someone had best go awaken Celest and drag her down here then.” He looked miserably at the food. “I don’t think she missed much for breakfast, and the sooner we’re at the castle, the better our chances are at seeing the King swiftly.” He gave a small smile as he rose, adjusting his sword belt. “I haven’t seen the new King. King Richard died about four years ago, but I remember him speaking to crowds of peasants from the castle at the harvest festival.”
Slip darted back up the stairs, narrowly avoiding the poor serving wench, as the others settled their travel-worn equipment and waited. He returned ten minutes later, with a grumpy and rumpled looking assassin following on his heels, and they set off across the city to the castle at its center.
When the paladin Rupert had returned to Tristram decades ago, the first building they had started had been the monastery, intending it to be central to the poor, downtrodden capitol. Inspired by his memory, both of his life and treacherous death, the great building rose almost ten stories into the air, buttressed by fine engineering work and magical enchantments, woven into stone and wood by hundreds of faithful priests and followers of the Zakarum faith.
The year the cathedral had finished, the city was already well underway, and the new paladin who oversaw the construction was able to turn his mind to other matters. With the death of Leoric and his only son, and the nobility of Khanduras weakened by years of warfare with both their neighbors, he stepped in and picked one of them for the throne. Cooperating to rebuild the tiny kingdom, they turned first to the castle, and the keep sat next to the cathedral, with a great square between them, cobbled in a mosaic of a dozen different stones, showing the three great Angels and their fight against the Prime Evils who sought to tear down the human race. Rupert featured prominently in the center, as an inspiration for the people who had adopted him.
Dro was the only one who had visited the great city, and it took him a moment to realize that all of his companions had stopped to stare at the great image laid out before them, covering half a square mile, and he turned around with amusement. “Well?” he asked.
Celest shot him an annoyed look and waggled at a finger. “You might be unimpressed. But remember, my grandparents all traveled with Rupert and told us of what he had started here.” She turned her attention back to the great stonework as they all slowly walked towards the low front gates of the castle.
Warily, the gate guards allowed them entrance, sending along guides. Isha bore it tolerantly, knowing that their watchers were due to their suspicion of her, but she still received great amusement from subtly rattling her quiver of javelins hanging from her back. Soon, they stood waiting in the antechamber to the throne room. One of the seneschals informed them that the King was at breakfast, but he would see them as soon as he was done.
So, with nothing better to do, they sat down on the benches, waiting in quiet boredom and thinking prayers, knowing how much their mission needed divine aid.
Unfortunately, all of the angels were a bit too busy to be answering prayers at the moment. Duriel’s sappers had been bringing down towers and buildings all over the edge of the wall, using the broken masonry as ramps and sending charging demons up to terrorize the defenders, being thrown back only after long, time consuming fights to destroy the ramps.
Then, two hours ago, Hadriel discovered that the sappers hadn’t been working only on the buildings when a portion of wall collapsed suddenly. All of the Ice Spawn sappers were undoubtedly killed, but that was no consolation as a mob of horned demons, followed closely by a group of blunderbores, forced their way through. Fighting raged through the streets as he and Tyrael incinerated thousands of demons, but the Lord of Pain had thousands more to send. With their defenders dwindling, they pulled back yet again to the Fourth Circle.
Gabriel was cursing up a storm by this point. Angels working in the heavenly library swiftly found things to do somewhere else, anywhere else, as books and chairs went flying. Of course, there’s only so much an Angel can blaspheme, so he sank back onto the floor, his hands still clenched into fists.
Tyrael found him there an hour later. The wall defense was set up now, and Hadriel was working non-stop at sending more warriors out to support them. Their final move had been to destroy every building within a hundred yards of the wall – unfortunate, perhaps, but when the war was over a great number of joyous architects would be back in business. “Things could be worse.”
Gabriel scowled up at him. “The wall was supposed to hold for another week. By now, Colin and Rupert have reached the fringe of Hell, and I had hoped to talk to them briefly.” He looked around for something to throw, and realized that everything was out of reach. “But with three circles controlled, Duriel can block any of my magics I try to project that far.”
“Someone lowered some of the protections on the walls.” Gabriel looked up quizzically, then nodded. “The first time any demonic army has been able to dig underneath the actual walls.” They stared at each other for a moment. “That means we definitely have a traitor in our midst. Unless you’ve been doing things without telling me?”
His voice was laced with steel, and Gabriel’s wings went utterly still. “If you’re referring to our father, no, he is still safely locked away in a shard of Soulstone, and behind the strongest anti-magic wards I can erect. You ought to know, you helped me build them!” Shaking his head, the Angel of Knowledge rose to his feet. “He had nothing to do with this.”
A sudden crystal chime tone echoed through the room, and they both paused their conversation to look around. As it echoed again, Tyrael walked over to the crystal ball, half-buried under a book, lifting it effortlessly. “Took you long enough,” Belial’s voice spoke out. “I heard that Duriel managed to snatch another Circle away from you, Gabriel, so do you have anything you’d like me to pass along to your two pet paladins?”
His face full of fury, the Angel of Purity turned to look at his brother. “Just trust me,” Gabriel said quietly, reaching for the crystal. Wordlessly, his brother dropped it into his waiting hands, and stalked back to the battlefield, hoping to burn off some of his confusion slaughtering demons.
General Rupert of the Khanduran army was having a good day. For almost seventy years, his homeland had been suffering, and he might just be able to cure some of it. All of the area fought over for centuries between Entsteig and Khanduras were under his control now. The most important locations were busy digging in, building walls of dirt excavated from moats now lined with sharpened stakes and oil. The few cannons were at the main roads south, waiting for the northern army to march further south to meet them.
In the meantime, today was a fairly standard day along the main border. He was quickly winning friends from the merchants, as his inspectors charged lower custom fees and confiscated fewer goods for their personal use. He had met with the leaders of the larger caravans, doing his best to put his considerable personal charm to good use. Most of them were originally from Westmarch, who also shared no great love for the tiny kingdom sandwiched in the center of the continent, but like merchants everywhere, were willing to set aside their prejudices for the sweet clink of gold and silver.
Today, it paid off. Another caravan came headed south, loaded with luxury goods destined for Lut Gholein and the Zakarum lands of the east. Rupert stayed quietly out of sight for the moment, listening to the inspectors searching the wagons. “Yeah, good thing I’m getting out now,” one of the merchants was saying. “Two more days, I think, and the army’ll be marching through here. Considering they threw back a barbarian tribe threatening their other border, I think you’ll be lucky to start running before they cut you down.”
Typical Marcher, he thought with a little disdain, then walked around the corner of the wall, giving the wagons a cursory glance and listening to the merchant sputter for a moment. Rupert knew he cut a fine figure in his gleaming armor, considering all the work he put into his image, trying to be closer to the man his country considered an idol. “You don’t think much of our chances, eh?” he said. “You’re not the first caravan to come through here that thought so.” His smile widened as he ran a hand over a bolt of linen. “But I assure you, we will.” He gave a jerk of his head, and the disappointed inspectors climbed off the wagons, letting the horses start pulling them away.
A messenger came trotting over, bearing a small rolled piece of paper, and offered it to him with a salute. He read the note from the King, and gave a curt nod, calling out orders for the senior officers to gather in the rough log house that had been turned into his home and headquarters. They gathered swiftly, hoping for something to do, anything but sit around with half the army and wait. For once, he was almost glad to be meeting their expectations.
“Good news, men – this note from the King. Apparently, the Zakarum church wants to negotiate peace between our countries.” There was a little muttering, unhappy and confused. “So, before one of their paladins – a Council member, no less – can talk those two generals into it, he wants us to strike and strike hard. The caravan runner that came through today said the army was two days behind him – so he’ll be at our barricades near Badoun tomorrow at the latest. Assemble the men, because we march yesterday.”
Talking excitedly, the officers left, moving to assemble their companies of soldiers and prepare the supply wagons. Colonel Hawke stayed behind as usual, being his second in command. The slightly older man came up next to him, pointing out a few things on the map pinned to the table as they talked strategy. Then, almost as usual, he put his hand on Rupert’s shoulder. “It’ll be an hour or two until the men are ready to march,” he said softly. “Did you want to relax first?”
A brief spasm of hatred flowed through Rupert’s body, held in by the same iron will that brought him to his position. He raised a small smile, and turned towards the back room with the bed, letting his hand be taken.
Appearances must be kept up, he thought grimly.
The next day, Jaresh and his group were stopped by a large blockade stretching across the road. A section ahead had been washed out by a sudden summer storm, and they weren’t the only group of people halted by the soldiers as a chain gang of criminals worked to repair the crumbled dirt. He consulted a moment with Adonia and Rambur, then led them through the wheat field next to the road, carefully walking between the rows and smiling cheerfully at the distraught farmer.
Predictably, the lieutenant in charge of the soldiers tried to stop them, but Jaresh just stiff-armed him and kept going. As the man started shouting, and weapons were readied, Jaresh stopped, signaling the others to continue as he turned around to face the group. “Good sir,” he said loud enough for the other stopped by the roadblock to hear him, “my companions and I have much work to do, and we cannot afford any delay. I am sure you recognize me as a paladin, and know that I mean you and your men no trouble.”
The lieutenant had his hand on his sword, and some of his men had drawn theirs as well. The Zakarum church had never been especially strong in Entsteig, but there were enough faces in the crowd that appeared outraged that anyone would draw weapons against a paladin. Irritation crossing his face, the officer nodded gruffly. “If you fall in the river, it’s your own damn fault,” he said, turning around and gesturing his men to put their weapons away.
Of course, on the other side of the damaged road, the other half of the soldiers waited, keeping travelers away on that side. As Jaresh and his companions crossed the broken stretch carefully, they watched and waited. They didn’t know that their three assailants from last night were in this group, waiting and armed with poisoned daggers.
As Visha’s foot slipped on a loose rock, sending it tumbling down into the muddy water below, Rambur grabbed her hand and pulled her back up. With all eyes on the group of heroes, one of the soldiers threw a vial towards them. It shattered on the rocks, spilling out a foul alchemical mixture and filling the air with greasy smoke. Cries of alarm went up from all sides, and soldiers were suddenly switching their swords for bows and arrows as the three started shouting about bandits. Another few vials, surreptitiously thrown, added to the confusion.
The three turned towards where Rambur and his guardians had been, firing blindly into the smoke and urging their fellow soldiers to shoot as well. Within a minute, the air was filled with wooden shafts, burying themselves in the dirt and water or shattering against the tough rocks. Before the men could empty their quivers, the ranking sergeant shouted for control, ordering his men to stop shooting while they still had arrows left.
Soldiers on both sides waited silently, watching as the smoke slowly dissipated in the almost dead air. Then, almost out of nowhere, the smoke started blowing away, spreading outward to reveal the five travelers, standing unharmed on the edge of the road bank. Contemptuously, the barbarian dumped an armful of caught arrows into the river, glaring at the group of soldiers waiting ahead of them.
“You seek to attack a member of the Zakarum Council?” Jaresh’s voice echoed loudly, and everyone but his companions shrank back. “That would be enough for the Church to declare you a minion of Hell. You, and all those who stand with you.” The group of soldiers by the roadblock started to fragment, the three traitors bunching together as their squad moved away, abandoning them.
Before Jaresh continued, the thundering sounds of horses came from the road towards the east, and people hurried to move off the road into the field as three dozen cavalry galloped into view, lances held ready. They all recognized Lonce sitting at the head of the group, and he lowered his own lance towards them. “Rambur! You were declared traitor and banished from the kingdom of Entsteig under pain of death. Since you have returned, now you will die.”
As he started to lower his lance, Visha calmly shot his horse, unloading both pistols in a single motion and sending the general tumbling to the ground. Leaving his broken lance, he stumbled back to his feet, straightening his helmet. “We seek nothing from your lands, usurper,” Jaresh said grimly. “Rambur travels with me to Lut Gholein, as part of an envoy for the Zakarum Church. Leave us be, and I will afford you the same.”
He sniggered loudly, raising the visor on his helm. “You trespass in my lands now, paladin. Rambur is a traitor, and shall die by our laws. Interfere, and I will have every Zakarum left in my kingdom exiled as well.” The two men stared each other down as the horses shifted nervously in tune with their riders.
At some signal from Lonce, or perhaps simply nervous energy, the riders suddenly started forward, their lances still held at the ready. As Jaresh started to speak, Arthur stepped forward with his staff, gesturing. A line of white light shot out, striking the ground and cutting across the broken road and into the field, leaving a shimmering wall of brilliant light. All of the men stopped, shielding their eyes from the dazzling light, pulling back on the reins as Lonce fled backwards through the crowd. It lasted but a moment, and it started to fade.
Only one of the riders seemed unconcerned by the light, and he sat astride his warhorse, staring at Rambur through his visor before wheeling his horse and following his companions as their general led them in retreat.
They waited for almost two hours. Celest had started using one of the other chairs for target practice, throwing a small knife. Dro had joined her, and they quietly joked with each other as Maren watched in amusement. Slip and Isha paced in front of the door in eerie symmetry, and the guards standing at the other side of the room kept shifting nervously.
Nobles and hangers-on to the court had begun to shuffle in, huddling at the other side of the room, away from the threatening wanderers. Finally the big door cracked open, and a seneschal stepped through, keeping the door mostly closed behind him. Before he could start to speak, Dro and Celest had retrieved their daggers, sheathed them, and grabbed the poor servant by the arms, carrying him back into the room. Maren grabbed her staff and hurried after them, Slip guarding the rear and casually shoving the heavy door closed as the sycophants fumed.
They crossed the throne room, as the King obviously fought with his own indecision over what to do with the unexpected intrusion. “Who are you miscreants?” he finally asked them, leaning forward and glaring through bloodshot eyes, letting his scepter tap against the arm of his throne.
Maren suddenly started chuckling, and even her companions glanced at her. “You sound like Tyrael the first time he met my grandparents,” she said loudly. “We’re an envoy from the Zakarum church to ask you to call off this war. Na-Krul has been released back into the mortal realm, and every death from war lends him strength.” With her staff beside her, the sorceress radiated confidence.
Unfortunately, the King was unimpressed. “That’s quite lovely, miss, but neither the Zakarum nor your late grandparents have control over the army of Khanduras. I do, and I finally have the opportunity to regain land that has been stolen from us thanks to the abuse that Diablo and his brethren brought us. If Na-Krul were here, then perhaps I would listen to you.” He leaned back, reaching towards a page and the goblet of wine the lad held. “But by now, the fighting is all over, I expect. I’ve been planning an attack like this for five years, and I know what my army and Entsteig’s is capable of.”
They stood for a moment in stunned silence. “Your Majesty,” Slip finally said gravely, “Na-Krul is a greater demon, as close as any to an embodiment of pure chaos. He does not threaten your realm yet, but he will. If your war continues, his strength will continue to grow, until you will be unable to defeat him if he comes to Khanduras again.”
“Perhaps you should think about the matter when you are free of Asmodan’s influence.” Everyone turned, shocked, towards Isha when she spoke. The King started to sputter angrily, rising from his chair, and everyone started to move towards drawing their weapons. “Did you not know that the woman in the alcove behind your throne is a servant of Asmodan?”
“What nonsense are you bleating, cat?” he spat, raising his scepter to point at her. “There is no alcove behind me!” With hands on his hips, he smirked arrogantly at her. In response, she drew and hefted a javelin, and threw it expertly at the wall even as the guards on the dais moved to surround their King. A scream echoed from behind them as the spear vanished into the wall, barely two inches sticking out to mark where the hidden spy hole was.
Chaos erupted, naturally. The King fainted, the guards moved to search the wall and find a way into the hidden passageway. Other guards rushed into the room, drawn by the alarm, and ushered Slip and his companions back into the anteroom to wait, safely away from the King and also unable to leave.
Finally, after another two hours of mind-numbing boredom and knife practice, they were brought back into the throne room. The King looked drawn and shaken, his hand holding the scepter trembling nervously. “It appears you were correct after all,” he said, eyes focused somewhere at the foot of the dais. “With that woman dead, my own sorcerers have started removing the magical spells she was using to influence me.”
Slip nodded and gave a small bow. “We’re glad we could help you, Your Majesty,” he said. “But the important issue still looms large – what of your war with Entsteig?”
He smiled thinly. “Were it up to me, I would accept peace. But there is no King ruling over Entsteig anymore. Two of their generals have seized control, after the young King William died in their foolish assault on the barbarian lands. According to my spies, they have already begun exiling all Zakarum church leaders, and seizing the land and gold to fill their own coffers.” He shrugged apologetically as Slip fumed. “Our faith was never as strong to the north as it was here.”
“Then what are your plans, Your Majesty?” Celest said, fingers nervously playing on the hilt of her katar. “If those usurpers are desperate enough to exile the Zakarum, and refuse to accept the idea of peace with you, how are you going to hold out?”
“What I said before was true. I’ve planned an invasion like this for years, and my forces have already thrown back their army once.” He stood up from the throne, pacing nervously on the dais, dropping the scepter on the throne. “Supply wagons have already stocked up my forces, so we’re not worried about a blockade on the ocean either. So your path is simple – go kill Na-Krul.”
“What?” Slip almost shouted. “That’s just fine for you to say, Your Majesty – you don’t have to travel halfway across the world to face down a demon only outmatched by the seven rulers of Hell. By the time we get there, your war will have doubled his powers.” His hands were clenched in fists, and the guards were starting to reach for their own weapons.
Isha put a hand on his arm, shaking her head. “I have an idea of how to stop the Entsteig army with little further bloodshed,” she said quietly, her ears still plastered flat to her head. “It will not be easy, and it will require you to be present, Your Majesty.” They stared at each other for a long moment.
Finally he sighed, dropping back into his throne. “Share dinner with me tonight, Sister, and tell me your plan. I received a message earlier from General Rupert, telling me that a paladin and his entourage were headed straight for Lut Gholein, and the rest of you are to join him.” He looked at them sadly. “I do thank you for your help, and I wish there was more I could do. If I had not been unknowingly influenced, none of us would be here. But it is difficult to be the ruler of a small country surrounded by larger ones, and not become jealous of what they possess.” Waving a hand, he dismissed them, and the guards escorted them back to the antechamber none too subtly.
Isha stopped Slip and embraced him, sharing a hug of friendship. “Let me write you a note. Your superior will stop at the Sisterhood if you have not arrived yet.” He nodded bitterly, obviously angry at having been defeated in his mission before he started.
“Excuse me,” came a voice from the doorway, and a middle-aged man with a graying goatee stepped inside. “There are rumors flying all over the castle, of course, but the one I heard last is that the group of you killed my sister Isobelle. While she was using demonic magic to influence the King.”
Everyone automatically reached for weapons as Dro stepped forward, hand on his sword. “Yes, that’s true. What of it?”
The man sighed heavily. “I had suspected for some time that she had found some kind of power, given her sudden change in fortunes.” He reached into a pouch on his belt and drew forth a key. “In the stables downstairs are several horses. They used to belong to my sister, kept here since she’s been trying to seduce the King into her bed for years now. I don’t think anyone will notice that they’re gone.”
Everyone shared a worried look, but Dro took the key anyway. “Thanks,” he said simply, keeping wary eyes on the nobleman as he nodded, and departed, back into the winding passages of the castle. “What should we do with them?” he asked.
“Keep them,” Maren said, though somewhat disgustedly. “We need all the haste we can get, and with horses we can cross the country twice as fast.” She picked up her staff, walking towards the door. “Now we just have to find them.”
Grimly, they picked up their backpacks again, traversing the castle halls to find the outside, and hope they could stop Na-Krul before this war spiraled out of control.
The army of undead appeared suddenly out of the forest, moving silently until they emerged from the trees. Rocks and rusting weapons were hurled across the clear area into the Zakarum town, catching the guards by surprise. As the alarm went up throughout the town, the number of undead continued to grow, marching steadily out of the trees.
Oras was at the head of the column as it spread out around the town, their advance slowed as his zombies were forced to batter the brave but foolish guards into submission. With simple, overwhelming numbers they advanced into the town, block by block, clearing every building. He took careful stock of the town before designating a few houses as prisons, and the zombies silently dragged the living prisoners away to fill them.
He watched from the bell tower of the chapel as some of the faster souls fled, on foot and horse, to the next town. By the time help could arrive, half the village would have joined his army, and with hundreds of tireless workers, the battlefield would be prepared. He was further from the Druid lands now, far enough that they would be unlikely to come to the aid of the simple, superstitious folk who had driven them away.
His croaking voice gave orders, and other than the prisons, the zombies began tearing down buildings and dragging away the guards and other corpses, arranging them for the ritual magic to raise them all at once, their thoughts empty but for the orders he would give them. While his army worked, he pushed open the door to one house, listening joyfully to the screams and wails of terror.
Seizing one merchant, he jerked the man around, almost breaking his arm as the zombie drove him to the ground. Then he bent over, and casually bit a chunk out of his shoulder and released him, screaming and bleeding, watching him crawl away. It would doubtlessly take two or three days, but the corruption from his bite would turn the man into a ghoul, and he would need as many undamaged warriors as he could get.
Anger moved through the room like a whirlwind, seizing and biting every unfortunate human there. When he finally left, the survivors did what little they could to comfort each other and bandage their wounds, praying to their Angels for someone to come and rescue them from their dark fate.
But even though they heard, the Heavenly forces could do nothing to aid them.
Chaos was ruling the Empire, home to the Worldstone Protectorate. Na-Krul himself, after twisting half the army into hideous creatures or unfortunate corpses, had wandered out of the city, pausing only to snatch up a few helpless people to serve as a light lunch. His path cut a swath across the countryside, turning fields of wheat and rice into rotting swamps, filled with vermin. A river turned around and ran up the side of a cliff, flooding the lord’s castle and turning it into a lake. Another forest had been turned into a giant poppy field, the blossoms spewing out intoxicating fumes before they fell off the pine trees.
The great demon was headed west, of course. The last thing that his summoner wanted was for the demon to drop in for a visit, so of course, that was what he planned on doing. It would take some time to hunt him down, but he had been tormenting mortals for most of eternity. He was confidant that the demonic sorcerer would not be dead before Na-Krul could arrive. But for now, he slowed, looking curiously at a lone figure standing in the middle of the road.
The serving girl stood, unafraid in spite of his hideous might and fearsome magics, and Na-Krul growled, throwing forth a loop of chaos at the girl. The road buckled and warped underneath her as the dirt reformed and changed into limestone, but she stood there unharmed. For a moment, he felt fear, wondering if this was another human come to destroy him, then the girl lifted her head, and he could see through her eyes, piercing the illusion to see the truth beneath. “Belial has sent me to give you warning,” the succubus murmured quietly.
“What use have I for a warning born of lies?” he snarled at her, stepping forward to squash the annoying lesser demoness beneath his feet. But he encountered nothing but air, as her still illusioned wings carried her aloft and out of his reach.
“Your servant who summoned you will be slain before you can reach him,” she said, hovering above the rice paddy, small waves cresting with every beat of her wings. “A paladin, a barbarian, and a traitorous follower of you shall bring him low, and then they will come hunting for you.”
With a roar, he leaped into the air, catching the succubus as she tried to flee, shredding her wings and shattering the illusion that kept her hidden before they landed again. She screamed in agony as Na-Krul dangled her above the ground by the broken limbs. “Thanks give your master for me, but heed his lies I shall not,” he whispered then reared back, throwing her body to splash down in the rice plants.
The great demon never looked back, so he missed the illusion re-forming around the succubus as she limped away to safety. There were other tasks that her master needed performed before she could return to Hell – and without her wings, some of them would be far more difficult.
The next town they reached was larger, and Jaresh nearly emptied his coin purse buying them horses. “We don’t have much time,” he told everyone over dinner. “By now, the Entsteig army has marched southward to deal with Khanduras camping on the disputed areas, and the only way for us to get through to Lut Gholein will be to ride through it.”
“There’s always the Darkwood,” Rambur said. The inn was boisterous and full, with a pair of jugglers performing in front of the fire, and the rich smells of fresh ale, bread, and roasting pig filling the air. “The forest has been controlled by demons for ages, since it’s simply easier to keep them penned up inside than to wipe them out. I don’t know if it would be easier, but,” he glanced around as laughter filled the room, “if the Khanduran army controls all the area, we wouldn’t have to pass through much.”
“What kind of monsters live there?” Visha asked, using the opportunity to dismantle her pistols and give them a much-needed cleaning. Adonia was doing the same, removing the barbed head from her lance and sharpening it. “They can’t be too bad, or the armies wouldn’t be able to keep them locked in.”
Arthur pulled out a map he had bargained for earlier, and laid it across the table. “This is the Darkwood,” he gestured, marking off a dark patch that trailed down towards the ocean. “I asked a little about it when I bought the map. It covers almost five hundred square miles, and supposedly is filled with goblins and Fallen packs.” He rubbed his nose nervously, watching his father. “Undead too, but they’re not as large a worry.”
The barbarian sniffed, annoyed, and set the steel spike upright in the table. “A few little monsters are hardly a menace we need to worry about. It sounds like a handful of children could clean out the forest.” She slipped the whetstone away into a pouch and grabbed the massive pole to restore her weapon.
“The monsters aren’t a problem,” Rambur said. “The problem is the Darkwood itself. Even if the monsters weren’t there, the trees grow large and thick enough that you can’t find the sun in the daytime. At night it’s worse than a cave. Compasses don’t work, and you can find yourself going around in circles ten minutes after you lose sight of the outside.” The others grew quiet, and even a few people at the surrounding tables listened to that. “I remember when the army tried to send a small squad through there. Out of fifty soldiers, four of us came out, starving to death.”
The innkeeper arrived then, setting down plates of pork and bread. “Heh, I remember hearing about that. Funny thing though, all the rumors say that the Khandurans walked through the Darkwood, easy as can be.” He wiped his hands on his apron and gave a shrug. “Still, if you came through the Darkwood unharmed, mayhaps you can do it again. Especially with companions like yours.”
After he left, Jaresh motioned everyone closer. “This is the other reason for speed,” he said quietly. “We’re a noticeable group, and Lonce has surely sent messages by horse and bird to try and have soldiers waiting to ambush us.” He sourly looked down at the map, then rolled it back up and handed it to Arthur. “Like it or not, we’ll have to try the Darkwood.”
Grimly, they dug into their food and retired to the rooms, spending a restless night worrying and dreaming about their path and the state of the world. Arthur awoke first, and knelt silently in prayer as his father and cousin still slept on the floor nearby. For months now, even before his ordination, it had been harder to reach a reply in prayer from Heaven. Now, though, it was as though he was being flooded with chaotic images.
He saw the glowing city of Heaven, the outer circles overrun with the demonic horde that still threatened the Fourth Circle. An image of the slug-like Duriel sent his mind reeling away in agony, vanishing away to a view of two demons in Hell. But the scene seemed unimportant to the priest as he tried to focus his thoughts to reach one of the three highest angels. Gabriel’s face appeared briefly, then his mind filled with another image.
It was a street in Lut Gholein, and a woman was arguing over the price of something. In his vision, her form had the black armor of the Silent Liars hovering over her, translucent, as though her aura carried it even when her body did not.
Consciousness came back to him in a sudden, fearful wrenching, and he gasped as he spit cold water over the floor. All of the others stood around him, looking worried. “Are you alright, son? What happened?” Jaresh asked, putting down the bucket.
He coughed, and Rambur helped him up into a chair. “I was trying to pray for answers,” he said. “It worked, I think. I saw one of the Silent Liars on a street on Lut Gholein.” In confusion, he looked at the sunlight filtering in through the open window. “What time is it?”
“Almost two hours past dawn,” Visha said, buckling on her pistols. “We’ve been trying for longer than that to wake you.” She carefully offered him his staff as he tried to stand on weak legs. “You sure you can ride?”
He laughed, somewhat bitterly. “I don’t have much choice, do I? Now we know where, and who, we need to go after.” Leaning heavily on his staff, he started after them, out of the room and towards their waiting horses, anxious to be on their way. He could rest later, he thought, after this evil was vanquished.
Gerta sat quietly in her room, waiting. Three of her fellow Silent Liars were present, sitting quietly in other chairs or on the bed, waiting for the last one to appear. Sure enough, she opened the door, trying to slip in quietly. “Well, Dorreen, what took you so long?” As the younger woman tried to answer her, Gerta cut her off. “Never mind, don’t bother. You’d probably make up some story about a killer rabbit with a knife in your room.”
The others chuckled, in truth somewhat disappointed. Dorreen’s stories were always outlandish, but creative, and frequently made excellent distractions. “What are we here for, Gerta?” Pol asked, rubbing his brown goatee. “With Na-Krul summoned, shouldn’t we be departing?” The others gave him speculative glances, all curious but saying nothing.
Their leader chuckled, and tilted her hand in a certain position. Then, her hands flashing, she laid out the orders that Belial had given her. After all, the other two Liars still had not received their tongues back. But more importantly, she was sure that Rahvunah or one of the others was spying on them – and no one but a Silent Liar spoke this language.
Our time here is almost finished, she signed and smiles lit up on all of their faces. The paladin and his companions are on their way here. All of the smiles but hers vanished as she continued. We will help them find this place, kill Rahvunah, and destroy that machine. Then we will vanish.
Dorreen glanced around and signed a question. With his death, will that not weaken the cause of evil? Others nodded their heads and flashed a quick agreement.
He does not think so, Gerta signed scornfully, and the younger woman dipped her head in apology. When we leave here, all of us will be infiltrating the kingdoms of the west. Places will be waiting for us, and when Na-Krul is vanquished, the paladin and his ilk will believe the danger to be past.
Their smiles returning, Gerta spoke again. “So you know what we will need to do when the heroes get here, and try to stop them.” They all knew who the words were meant for, and with quiet words and gestures, they left the room. This will not be easy, Master, she thought.
Try ruling the world sometime, Belial thought back at her.
Colin and Rupert paused in the middle of the Plains of Despair. Being angels, they knew that the essence of the place should not be affecting them, but their spirits were truly feeling low. “Gabriel should have contacted us by now,” Colin said quietly. “I think. It’s a bit hard to tell time around here.” He glanced around, and casually knocked Rupert’s halberd over, crushing a tortured soul.
Somewhat annoyed, the other angel leaned over and picked the weapon back up again. “I know, but what are we supposed to do? All he told us was to get as low in Hell as possible, and he would contact us again.” He started to say more, then stopped as a figure stepped out of the gray haze. Both angels gripped their weapons, and almost too late remembered to bow as Mephisto tromped past them, another small army of demons behind him.
An hour or two passed before they were out of sight again, and they were grateful for the illusions that cloaked them. As they started to walk, moving forward towards the next massive staircase down, another figure appeared in the haze, waiting for them. Colin almost bowed, but Rupert stood still and unmoving, gripping the halberd tightly. “Belial,” he whispered, and the Lord of Lies smiled.
“Hello again, Rupert. Colin,” he said with a casual nod. “I’m afraid that Durial has taken the Third Circle while you two were tramping through Limbo.” His smiled broadened as anxiety crossed their faces. “But Gabriel and I have been working together for some time now, and he asked me to pass along a message for you.”
With a dramatic flourish, he held out a tattered piece of human skin, carefully tanned and smoothed out until it shone like translucent paper. Written across it in blood was a map and instructions. “What makes you believe that we’re stupid enough to trust you?” Colin asked, gingerly taking the map anyway.
“I don’t expect you to trust me, paladin,” the demon muttered. “I expect you to use this map to kill Na-Krul when one of your own destroys his mortal form on Sanctuary. Then I expect that one of my brothers will kill both of you and send you back to Heaven.” He turned away then, vanishing into the smoky haze in seconds.
Rupert leaned over next to Colin, examining the map. It delved into areas of Hell that he had never even heard of, somewhere far beneath the River of Flames. “Are you sure we can use this?”
With a sigh, he rolled up the skin, slipping it into the hollow handle on his sword. “I don’t know that we have much of a choice at the moment. Besides, maybe Gabriel will still contact us.” Hefting their weapons again, they set off through the blasted landscape, heading towards the City of the Damned, and the accursed places beyond.
Owain’s army had stopped, a scant hour’s march away from the fortified Khanduran positions, waiting while the scouts from both sides played a deadly game of hide-and-go-seek. Some were captured, some were killed, but most managed to escape to keep playing the game another day, reporting back to their own sides on the strength of the enemy. Entsteig’s forces were large, tested brutally in the brief battle against the barbarian tribes, and were more than eager to regain honor and pride by trouncing the invaders.
The Khanduran army had never been in live combat except against the intrusions of the demons in the Darkwood. But they had all been training for years, and filled with a purpose to regain the size and importance that their country had once had. Laughter filled the air, even strained with nervousness from the army that outnumbered them here. They were spread thin, trying to hold down almost three hundred square miles, but even the full army brought together would barely match the numbers.
Rupert smiled as he listened to the reports, waiting on the front lines. He had spent months in war councils with King Loxley, planning for an invasion like this one, and most important had been interrogating mercenaries who had fought in battles with the two generals. He knew their tactics, their tendencies, and thought he had prepared enough to stop the traitorous backstabber cold.
To his surprise, the battle started the next morning shortly after dawn. Of course, the only real surprise was how exactly Owain walked into the traps he had prepared. They had only been in their positions for a week, but the Khanduran army had an unusually large number of engineers. Covered pits had been scattered everywhere, and the charging troops fell in them, losing dozens of men to the sharpened spikes at the bottom while archers rained down missiles on them.
Owain fumed as he watched his men charge, annoyed at himself for not preparing the men for it. Still, they had only been there a week! How could the young brat in charge have fixed the battlefield this fast? Or, he wondered more darkly, had a battle here been a trap? It was the main road south, and taking control of it would make mopping up the rest of the invasion a great deal easier.
Despite the pits, and the stakes lining the simple dirt barricades, the Entsteig soldiers continued their advance, raising shields to protect against arrows and using the bodies of their fallen compatriots to nullify the simple barriers. Swords rang as melee was joined, with lances and halberds doing their best to support the front line, swooping low to deal sudden blows and dart away again.
But Rupert ignored it, staying safe in the bell tower of the small chapel, watching the fields intently. The cavalry would be the deadliest invasion, and Owain had always waited to see where the enemy line was weakest. Until he saw the cavalry, and put the cannons to use, the battle could swing either way – but without mounted riders to hassle the flanks, the Entsteig forces would be much weaker.
Unfortunately, for the moment at least, Owain was content to let the far greater force of infantry march forward, buying land with their lives and weapons. He sat far back on a hill, watching through a telescope and sending messengers to give orders to the officers and sergeants leading the charge. But at last he tired, turning away in boredom. “Send in the cavalry from the east to take the back of the town,” he ordered. “I’ll be retiring to my tent.”
In the tower, the young Khanduran general rejoiced, shouting down the steps for the cannons to get into position, staying at the window and desperately watching, hoping that all of the pessimistic planning done months ago would still hold true.
Owain had barely started to take off his armor when the sudden booms of the cannons echoed over the more subtle crash of sword on shield and the screams of the dying. His face went pale as he cursed, shouting at his servants to put the armor back on and help him back onto his horse, barely grabbing his helmet as he galloped back towards the observation post.
The noise was actually more devastating than the shots from the cannons, though dozens of dead horses littering the ground attested to the skill of the crews. Another cannon fired, the iron ball flying across the space, bouncing on the ground to smash into another mount, sending the horse and rider crashing to the ground. Even though the rider wasn’t dead from the impact or the fall, the other horses, spooked at the thunderous explosions and the seemingly invisible death, were panicking. Only the most talented riders could keep their horses under control, and those at the rear of the charge were swiftly turning to flee. Others were thrown from their saddles and trampled by the fear-crazed beasts as they sought any escape from the sudden man-made storm.
Rupert watched the carnage from the tower, glorifying in the effectiveness of his plan. Half the horses were dead or fled, and more of the men. The infantry advance was starting to sag, his men pushing them back, as the Entsteig soldiers on one flank saw the raw devastation visited on their strongest troops. Fear shot through their ranks, and courage through his own. When the attack faltered, and then began to bleed backwards in a fighting retreat, he came charging down the steps himself, eager to control his army and keep them from vanishing over the barricade and into more vulnerable territory.
General Owain watched with despair and fury as his cavalry, what little of it remained, limped away from the battlefield and back towards the camp. His losses here hadn’t been extensive, but they were flat-out ridiculous. Something would have to be done soon, or those four noble brats he’d been saddled with would start foaming at the mouth and calling for his head. After this lost battle, Lonce might even take it too.
As Duke Cambell nudged his horse up to him, an idea struck him, of how to neutralize the Protectorate cannons that the Khandurans had somehow gained. “Well, General, any ideas of how to throw out the invaders now? Or are you simply going to wait until tomorrow and throw the men forward again to try and win a battle of attrition?” The noble’s glare was openly hostile, and he waited for a moment as two of the other contenders for the throne rode up.
“What happened to Duke Bronson?” he asked. After a moment, one of the other dukes glanced towards the bloody field where wounded horses and men still twitched and screamed into the clear afternoon sky. He smiled, an avaricious smile that the others all shared after a moment, then cleared his throat. “The cannons were unexpected, I’ll admit. But while they are deadly, their general can’t possibly move them as fast as we can move the army.”
“You’re proposing abandoning this battlefield then?” Cambell asked in annoyance, and Owain regarded him through carefully narrowed eyes.
“Frankly, yes. We’d need to conscript half the men in the kingdom to get through that barricade and take their cannons, unless you can pull some out of your ass, so we’ll move west and attack them near Rapeil.” With the mention of the seaport on the northern edge of the Darkwood, all of the nobles shared the same look of confusion.
“But that’s on the wrong side of the Darkwood from the enemy,” murmured Duke Davis, scratching at a small nick on his arm. “What are we going to do there?”
Owain smiled evilly, and all of the men unconsciously shied backwards. “We’re going to form the men into a line, and force all of the damn monsters in the Darkwood to flee before us like we were a fire. Then after the Khanduran whoresons have been cut down by them, we march in and take over.”
It wasn’t a bad plan, he thought as the Dukes quickly excused themselves. Belial’s teeth, it might even work.
They reined in the horses, staring at the dark bulk of the woods stretching out in front of them. “So, this is the Darkwood,” Visha said simply, resting a hand on one pistol. “Frankly, it doesn’t look all that impressive.” The trees rose up above the ground like a large hill, reaching out to either side of them.
“Trust me, it’s a lot more threatening once you get inside,” Rambur said, calming his nervous horse. “The monsters are easy, the woods are the hard part.” He gently thumped the reins, urging them forward, and with some nervousness they entered the trees.
At first, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Then the underbrush started to die away as the branches above them grew closer and closer together, the light fading away as the hungry trees stole it away. Soon they moved in a twilight world, everything lit only in shades of grey and purple, and barely at all. Arthur’s staff began to glow as he prayed quietly, yet it only made the woods seem more sinister. Creaking and moaning came from the trees around them as the few hardy creatures vanished from the invading light.
They rode until they grew tired, completely unable to tell when the sun set, or if it was still daylight. They slept uneasily, waking as strange guttural voices cried out in the dark wilderness, and owls hooted. When they could sleep no more, they doused the fire and continued onward. For three days, they traveled like that, until it almost felt as though they were trapped in a nightmare of some kind, stuck inside the dark woods where nothing existed but the darkness and the noises, held at bay only by the tiny light from the priest’s staff.
As they rode, Adonia suddenly reined in her horse, and the group stumbled to a halt. “Jaresh,” she asked warily, “are you certain we’ve been going the right direction?”
In response, the paladin dismounted his horse, kneeling in a pile of rotting leaves and closing his eyes in prayer. After a moment, he opened his eyes, glancing around at the others. “We’ve drifted a little bit to the east, but we’re heading in the right direction. Why?”
The barbarian looked around carefully, her nostrils flaring as she tried to pick out the unusual signals. “I’d almost swear that there was a battle directly behind us.” She almost said more, when a goblin burst out from behind a tree, running for all he was worth. The monster was almost through the clearing when Rambur’s sword shot forth, bursting his heart. “And maybe there is.”
Rambur frowned as Jaresh quickly remounted his horse. “That doesn’t make sense though,” he said, obviously worried. “The monsters in the Darkwood never fight with each other, so who could they be fighting?” His question went unanswered as they nudged their horses to a faster walk, ducking under grasping branches.
More goblins came darting past them, and all within reach were brought down by sword or the swift lance. Then Arthur looked back over his shoulder and paled. “It’s not a battle,” he shouted, kicking his horse into a gallop. “It’s a fire!” The light from his staff blinked out as he turned all of his attention to the ride, and soon their world was replaced with the flickering orange of the forest fire chasing their heels.
They fled with the animals and monsters of the forest now, not wanting to waste their energy to strike them down with the fire nipping right behind them. Visha yelped as a burning cinder came fluttering down to land on her arm, shaking it away as she guided her horse around a tree. “There should be a river up ahead,” Jaresh shouted, barely heard over the screams of the animals and the roaring fire. “Turn left when you find it!”
But their horses were beginning to falter, and Adonia’s was the first to fall, tripping over a root and crashing to the ground. She flew through the air, turning it into a graceful somersault to come up running, putting all of her barbarian stamina to work keeping up. Her lance went to work now, clearing a path through the crowds of goblins and Fallen packs, Jaresh leading the horses to slow their run and follow behind her.
Suddenly, the forest opened up before them, a massive road cutting through the Darkwood. The shock of sudden sunlight had everyone blinking and trying to clear their sight. “Turn left!” Jaresh shouted, and they fought to bring the horses back under their control, turning to follow the mysterious path carved through the wicked forest. Behind them, the fire burst out into the cleared road, and started licking its way along the road, unable to bridge the gap to the other side.
Ahead of them, the road dipped, turning into a shallow fording spot across the river, and they rushed the horses across, trying to gain a lead over most of the monsters, still fleeing the massive fire. “How much further is it?” Arthur shouted, but Jaresh just shook his head and gestured forward along the road.
Almost a hundred miles further west, Owain stood on a hilltop, watching the massive column of smoke rising as the Darkwood burned to the ground. The fire his men had set was already starting to die down close to them, and within another day or two they could walk through the ashes to fall upon the unsuspecting Khanduran army unaware.
Mephisto stood on the roof of some nameless building in the Third Circle of Heaven, watching the lines of battle flow back and forth. Demons surged onto the walls, only to be thrown back off by the appearance of Tyrael or Hadriel, or occasionally simply stubborn determination by the defenders. Still, the fresh troops he had brought were already showing their mettle, striking harder and faster, holding the wall for ever so slightly longer.
“I’m surprised,” Hatred said quietly as they watched the battle unfolding. “So far, your assault has outshone everyone but Baal – and you have not even thrown yourself into the fray.” He glanced down at the sluggish Lord of Pain, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. “How are you doing it?”
Duriel sat quietly for a moment, listening to the high-pitched growls of imp messengers as they flashed in an out, simply noting where the lines shifted for the moment. “Luck, a bit of good luck,” he muttered darkly. Truthfully, it mystified him how he had done so well during this attack – the Third Circle had fallen too swiftly for his tastes, and he was sick and tired of waiting to see what tricks Gabriel had in waiting. Of course, he would never admit that to any of his brethren. “And a few good ideas,” he added slyly, just to irritate Mephisto.
The elder brother snorted. “You had best hope that your luck continues,” he growled, gesturing angrily with one hand. “Those are the last re-enforcements you’re going to receive from Hell for a while. The demons can only breed so fast, you know.”
Duriel watched through narrowed eyes as Mephisto stalked away, leaping four stories down to the street easily. “I think I have enough for the moment,” he whispered to himself. “And it’s time I joined in the fighting personally.” He slithered to the edge of the building with unnerving speed, walking down the side as though it were flat, and sliding through the streets towards the nearest gate. If he worked quickly, he could have it open and his demons through the other side before the angels could react.
Once an opening was forced, that Circle would be his. But now, it was the ones beyond that Fourth Circle and ever closer to Gabriel that worried him the most.
Rupert sat on his horse, stopped by the side of the road for the moment as columns of soldiers marched past him. A few scouts on horseback had already reported the fire, as the Entsteig general attempted to burn down the entire Darkwood. Fortunately, the wide swath his own men had cut through the forest on their own march north seemed to be halting the fire, for the moment. Flicking the reins, he rode along the side of the grassy field towards the front lines.
With a smaller portion of the Darkwood safe from fire, most of the monsters were fleeing there from the fire. But they would be overcrowded there, itching to escape back to larger domains, stressing his battle lines and the troops still patrolling the border further inside Khanduras. As his horse clopped along, he reached into a saddlebag, retrieving a scrap of paper and a pen, trying to scribble out a legible note.
Before more than one word had been put down, shouts and the clangs of weapons echoed from up ahead, and he shoved them back into the saddlebag, lashing the reins and loosening his own sword. A goblin tribe and scattered packs of Fallen were angrily engaging in a three-way battle with his own forces. From behind him, he heard the rumble of his bodyguards, the trained cavalrymen trying to overtake him.
His sword swung down in a vicious arc as his horse trampled down a Fallen shaman, whinnying in pain as the dying creature lashed out with a knife, and Rupert swore. In the sudden rush, he had forgotten that his horse wasn’t armored. He kept his shield low, trying to protect his mount while his sword inflicted as many wounds on the monsters as possible.
The first charge actually carried him clear of the melee, and his bodyguards with their better protected mounts had slowed, lashing out with swords and maces on the edge of the battle. Rupert paused for a moment, taking in the status of the men, and started to turn back towards the road, sure that his soldiers had the small monster incursion perfectly in hand.
He never saw the knife that came flying out of the woods until it sliced through the reins, killing his horse and sending him tumbling to the ground. Another pack of goblins burst out of the trees, shouting battle cries as they lifted clubs and rusty swords, charging towards him. He regained his feet, backing away as swiftly as he could, but the road was still fifty yards behind him. Another knife smashed into his shield, the tip bent when it hit the ground. Then the monsters were even with him, three of them swinging at once.
Two clubs sang on his shield, making it ring and his arm shake as he stumbled backwards, meeting the rusty, barbed sword with his own. There was no time to riposte, and even if he managed a kill on the first blow, there were still more goblins behind them waiting to join in. An army trumped bugled somewhere behind him, and another officer charged into the mix, lowering his lance to skewer four monsters before the tip struck ground and it shattered.
His sword was a blur as it blocked the sword and a club, then a fourth goblin joined the mix against him. Rupert was already starting to tire, the clubs catching around the edges of his shield instead of dead center, and the vicious little monsters were starting to flank him too. He risked a moment to look back, and despaired at how far his troops were, even though they ran towards the battle as though their lives depended on it. Taking a deep breath, he stopped the barbed sword again, and shouted his battlecry, “For Rupert and Khanduras!”
He stopped moving, swinging his sword suddenly, neatly beheading one of the goblins and managing to impale another with the rusty sword. Then a club smashed into his side, and he felt a rib crack through the chain mail. He tried to turn, but they had surrounded him now, and even the most skilled warrior could not have stopped every blow. In seconds, he was laid out on the ground, bleeding from a dozen wounds even as he still tried to drive them off.
With a sudden flash, lightning split the clear afternoon sky, and with the distraction, he rolled away, managing to get back to his knees. For a moment, he thought he had died and an angel had come for him, as the giant blond warrior leaped over dozens of goblins, her lance piercing the monsters faster than his eyes could follow it. He managed to fight off another few strikes from the goblins before a fleeing Fallen saw the opportunity to smash him in the back of the skull, and everything went black.
Adonia roared in anger and joy, happy to be free of the Darkwood and the fire and finally in a position to strike back at the vicious little monsters they had been forced to flee with. She leapt over a group of them, her lance killing every one her shadow touched, and she spied the lone warrior, surrounded but still fighting. Shouting a warning to her companions, she barreled towards him, letting her lance and her feet clear the path, ignoring the small hits the goblins inflicted upon her.
Further back, Rambur and Jaresh stood side by side, their weapons and skill easily killing any monster foolish enough to step in front of them. Visha was firing one pistol at a time while Arthur reloaded for her, saying prayers to keep them safe and healed. In a minute, they all stood in a circle around the unconscious warrior, protecting him until the bulk of the Khanduran army could reach them.
With the sudden assault of the infantry, the goblins faltered, the more cowardly melting back into the Darkwood, hoping to find new hiding spots with less vicious occupants. They bound a litter to carry General Rupert, and priest and paladin both walked with him a short distance, lending their healing powers. Then they bid a nervous farewell, borrowing horses to ride hurriedly for the Sisterhood monastery, hoping that the others would get their message, untainted by Belial, and be waiting for them.
Rupert finally awakened that night. Colonel Hawke was snoring in a chair, and a candle burned low on the table. His head still ached, and the last image he had was of his apparent rescuer. The cot creaked as he shifted to try and sit up, and the other officer woke up with a snort. “Rupert! Angels be praised, we were worried that the blow to your head, well,” he coughed in embarrassment, “might have proved fatal.”
He just sat and nodded for a moment, waiting for the grey static to clear from the edges of his vision. “Before I was struck, I thought I saw an angel,” he said cautiously.
“Ah, the barbarian woman,” Hawke said, nodding. “She was traveling with the paladin Jaresh and some others, on an urgent mission to Lut Gholein.” He rose from the chair, moving to the tent flap and giving a few quiet orders. “Are you going to be alright? We don’t expect the fire to burn out for a day, but Owain will be swift to attack us,” he warned, pulling his chair up close beside the cot.
Rupert shied away as his sometime lover reached for him, and then realized what he was doing. “I’m sorry, it’s just my head,” he said weakly. Before he said more, a private pushed open the tent flap, carrying a mug of broth. “That smells good.”
“Lad,” the older man said when they were alone again, “isn’t it about time you stopped pretending?” He held up a hand, motioning the injured General to drink the broth. “I’ve always known you weren’t real partial to men. Truthfully, I’m not much either, but after a few weeks on the road you have to turn somewhere. But don’t do it because you think you have to be just like the paladin Rupert.” He gave a small smile, rising from the chair and walking towards the tent flap.
“Be true to yourself, lad. It’s what he’d tell you to do anyway.” The general sat on the cot, watching the tent flap swish closed, the mug cooling in his hands. Then he wept.
Slip and Dro sat morosely in the jail underneath the Sisterhood. They weren’t confined, exactly, but men had never been welcome in the strict all-female monastery, and if they stayed out of sight, it made their lives easier. Maren and Celest, of course, were having a great deal of fun, sitting around in the dining hall or courtyards talking with the famed archers. “How much longer before they get here, you think?”
Slip shrugged, picking up a small rock and tossing it against one of the bars with a clang. “Probably tomorrow. He was at the border when we left Tristram to get here, and unless they found horses somewhere, they won’t be here for a while.” Finding another rock, he bounced it off another bar.
Dro snorted and pulled out his sword, carefully sharpening it with a well-used whetstone. “Great. Just what we need, another two days of everyone in the whole fortress wishing we would die.” The light grinding sound of the whetstone echoed strangely in the curving underground passages. “I’ve had worse though.”
The scout snorted, rising from his perch on an old barrel and stretching. “The only thing that worries me is how we’re going to get through the desert. Most caravans won’t go through the Aranoch during the summer.” Picking up a rock again, he threw it somewhere into the darkness, listening to it clatter. “And I don’t think that a paladin can pray for protection from the weather.”
He reared back, throwing the other rock into the dark passage, and a portion of the wall collapsed with a deafening roar. The two men threw themselves backwards, taking cover behind the stack of empty, weathered barrels, shielding their heads from the jagged pieces of rock suddenly flying around. When the cave-in stopped, and the dust started to clear, Slip got up and jogged down the hallway to grab one of the torches. “What the bloody hells did you do?” Dro asked him angrily, peering over the barrels into the hazy remnants of the hallway. “That was the way out!”
With an irritated growl, the scout stalked forward with the torch, illuminating the collapsed portion of wall. “We could probably dig through here in a few hours. It doesn’t look too bad.” He leaned forward, pushing the torch through the hole. “But there’s an empty room back here that was walled off.”
The mercenary came up next to him, sword still drawn and ready. “Doesn’t look like anything’s back there,” he said. “Just a couple of cells that were bricked up and forgotten about.” Then he frowned, leaning against the pile of rubble to see further inside. “Why would they brick off a few cells and leave them here?”
Slip shrugged, then reached around the broken end of the wall, lighting another torch on the inside. “It won’t hurt to check it out. Then we can dig our way back.” He climbed over the broken masonry, waving the torch around to burn away some dangling, dusty spiderwebs. “If I ever tell you I want to live underground, bring me back here,” he said in disgust. Dro followed him inside, taking the torch in his other hand.
They walked carefully through four rooms, their footsteps causing puffs of dust to rise up to their knees. Everything down there was ancient, rusting or rotting away into nothingness from decades of neglect. Sniffing the air, Dro stopped, looking warily around. “Do you smell something odd down here, Slip?” he asked, watching as the other man approached the last doorway.
Suddenly, a blast of wind snuffed out the torches, whipping the dust into a frenzy as it scraped over their skin. “I smell visitors,” a voice hissed out of the darkness, somehow audible through their coughing fits. “How lovely this is, no one has come to visit poor Lazarus in centuries.” From the doorway, a pair of glowing yellow eyes appeared, twitching and shifting separately.
“Oh, shit,” Dro muttered, raising his sword.
Jaresh reined in his horse, looking at the dull brown blocks of stone that made up the Sisterhood monastery. Arthur frowned at the foreboding look of the building. “I thought that the buildings of the Zakarum church were supposed to be slightly more cheerful,” he said as the others caught up, taking the opportunity for a short break before continuing the uphill ride across the Tamoe highlands towards the monastery.
Jaresh sighed. “It was built for two reasons. First, was to protect the most easily accessible pass into the Aranoch desert. Second,” and he looked back for a moment at Visha and Adonia, “was to shelter women who have been abused. Usually, they come here trying to escape the company of men. Slip mentioned something about running away as a young man to get away from some of the poor women who have been so abused, they think that no man could show them kindness.” He flicked the reins on his horse, guiding her up the trail towards their destination.
Adonia frowned in thought as they followed him, trying to understand how anyone could want to avoid half of humanity. The walls rose nearer, and even the battle-hardened warrior appreciated the obvious skill that went into constructing the fort. A dozen archers lined the walls, watching them, but at Jaresh’s shouted greeting, the gates slowly creaked open, and they rode inside, down a hallway lined with firing slits and stone plates concealing deep, spike-filled pits.
When they were almost through to the open courtyard beyond, there was a muted rumble, and one of the stone plates suddenly cracked, splitting into a handful of pieces and falling into the pit with a crash of stone and screeching metal. “What the hells is happening?” Visha shouted, leaping off her horse and moving for safety in the open. Rogues cowered for a moment until the shaking stopped, the slipped into the hallway, their bows already drawn.
Celest and Maren came running out from the barracks, holding their own weapons. “That sounded like a cave-in,” the assassin said, “and the last time I saw Dro and Slip, they were headed down to the jail. Said something about needing to be away from the Sisters,” she whispered more quietly to her father.
Nodding, Jaresh turned towards the barracks. “Come on, everyone. Let’s head underground, see if we can figure out what collapsed and how much work needs to be done.” He left his scepter hanging on his belt, but his fingers kept running over the ridged head, wondering if there was something, or someone, skulking around, left over from the time when Andariel still controlled the building.
Wary but united, they vanished down into the darkness.
On the next day, the fire had mostly burned itself out. Both sides had dispatched segments of troops to keep the vile but mostly cowardly creatures trapped in the Darkwood – or, at least, only exiting on the other side. As a result, both sides faced dozens of casualties and hundreds of wounds from the barbed and dung-smeared weapons of the goblins and Fallen packs.
Khanduras was faring slightly better, only because the Zakarum priests with the troops moved among the wounded, praying for healing and distributing the supply of potions. Owains forces were limited to only their potions, but with the army outnumbered almost three to one, he cared little for the casualties he would take. Victory was within his grasp, as he prepared for the next day’s assault.
That night, King Loxley arrived with his small squadron of bodyguards, the horses tired and winded. Even Isha was looking ragged, having run alongside the horses for the better part of a day and a half. They said little to the posted guards on the outskirts of the camp, heading straight for the center and the banner that proclaimed where General Rupert rested. One of the soldiers at the tent flap tried to protest something, but the King ignored him, pushing aside the fabric and stepping boldly inside.
He stopped suddenly, causing Isha to sidestep quickly and one of the bodyguards to run into him. Rupert stumbled to his feet, tripping over the blanket as his companion tried to shield herself. The poor general tried to simultaneously cover himself and salute, the first task made harder by only having one hand. With his jaw dropped in surprise, King Loxley spent several seconds looking back and forth between the blushing couple. “I’ll be waiting outside, General, whenever you’ve finished your business with the young,” he paused for a moment, then noticed the traditional Zakarum robe draped over a chair, “priestess.” He raised an eyebrow and his smile grew wider as the woman tried to cover her face as well. “I’m sure that your injuries from battle need to be tended.”
He swept back out of the tent, shoving his bodyguards before him, though Isha cast a last confused glance at the blushing couple before the tent flap slid closed. “Your Majesty, sir, I’m sorry about that,” one of the soldiers stammered. “I tried to warn you, but, um, well,” he stopped talking, almost breaking attention to rub a hand on the back of his neck before catching himself and aborting the movement.
“I do not understand,” Isha said, “why we have to leave. Surely if the woman is in heat, only the General will be enough to cope with her.” Several of the nearby soldiers, both male and female, tried to stifle laughter, while the King indulged himself.
“Ah, Isha, I don’t think anyone at the Sisterhood has explained the differences between humans and saber cats, have they?” He fought down his chuckle as she solemnly shook her head, ears flat and tail vibrating dangerously. “Well, I don’t think this is the right time, but I’m sure that there’s nothing in there Rupert can’t handle.” He turned slightly as one of the men muttered something. “I’m sorry, Colonel Hawke, but I didn’t quite catch that. Could you repeat it?”
Hawke promptly had a severe coughing fit, as several underlings snickered quietly behind their helms. Isha made a coughing sound, her tail twitching and whiskers pointed forward in her version of a smile. But then, Loxley thought, her ears were probably sharp enough to have heard whatever he said. With a rustle, the embarrassed priestess emerged, her robe and hair in disarray, and she swiftly excused herself, practically running away from the tent. Isha watched her go, tail curled and still. Then she sneezed. “Perhaps the general can talk out here,” she said darkly, before sneezing again. “Preferably after he bathes.”
Twenty minutes later, they all sat around the table in the planning tent, talking quietly as Hawke and Rupert pointed out the various troops strengths, and their fears of tomorrow’s attack. The engineers had already been hard at work preparing the ground between them, but the frequent assaults from goblins had slowed them down. When Owain attacked, they would be forced to retreat, and if they were lucky, he wouldn’t destroy the entire army.
Loxley accepted the news gravely, then turned to look at Isha, perched on a stool where she’d remained, entirely still but for the last inch of her tail, for the entire briefing. “When your friends were in Khanduras, you said you knew of a way that could end this conflict with a minimum loss of blood.” She blinked at him, then nodded slowly, and the room sat in silence for several seconds. “Well, what is it?” he asked irritably.
She lithely moved to her feet, stretching for a moment before taking Rupert’s place at the head of the table. “There is an ancient kind of magic, known to some tribes of my people who still dwell in the Kehjistan jungles. It is,” and here the cat faltered for a moment as she sought for the words, trying to translate the idea in her head into the foreign language she spoke every day, “a way for a true leader to draw strength from the earth. It was developed centuries ago as a way to settle disputes of territory between tribes.”
Hawke frowned, and spoke up. “From what I understand, the saber cats in the Kehjistan are strict, orderly tribes. How long have they been using this magic to settle their arguments?” Most of them in the tent had fought against the renegade cats who now dwelled in the Aranoch, but few had ever traveled to Lut Gholein and across the Sea of Light.
“The last time the spell was performed by a tribe was one hundred and fifty winters ago.” The tent erupted in noise as all of the officers voiced their objections to such a foolhardy and ill-thought out plan. Only Isha and Loxley sat silent, staring at each other, until the King finally slammed his fist down on the table. The others grew silent, waiting and watching with thinly-veiled hostility. “However, I performed the ritual myself, three years ago, when a renegade sorcerer with claw viper allies attacked the Sisterhood.”
Most of the hostility vanished, as the men all remembered hearing of that conflict – how the Sisterhood destroyed a force of demons ten times their number with only a handful of casualties. “My ritual was modified somewhat, to allow for a greater number to be imbued with the power to protect the land. If we send a messenger to the Entsteig general now, proposing a single duel to decide the fate of the invasion, I will have enough time to teach the King what he needs to know before noon.”
One of the commanders rose to his feet, and she flicked at ear in annoyance before stepping back from the table. “I don’t like the idea, Your Majesty. What if something goes wrong with the spell, or Owain figures out how to gain power like that for himself?”
Four voices spoke up at once, and since one was the King, the others went silent. To everyone’s surprise, he pointed at Isha, and she spoke up again. “The traditional ritual does not work that way. From each force, whoever is the rightful ruler is empowered to protect their territory. The fighting area is marked off, as closely as possible, to share the shape of the disputed land, and their battle marks what the correct boundary should be.”
Rupert fixed her with a strict gaze, and for a moment she struggled to keep her amusement contained, so closely did it resemble his earlier embarrassment. “If something goes wrong, it means our King’s life.”
As Hawke also started to voice his objections, Loxley bounced to his feet. “Don’t be so pessimistic. Weren’t you listening? It empowers the rightful ruler.” He grinned broadly. “That damned usurper won’t know what hit him!” Stunned by the thought, the other officers stared for a moment, then broke up into jubilant groups, Rupert shouting for a messenger to challenge Owain to a single duel with the King.
Isha stood alone in the corner of the tent, almost imperceptibly shaking her head. Just because Owain isn’t the rightful ruler, she thought, doesn’t mean that one of the soldiers in the crowd won’t be.
Dro thrust his sword forward, then shouted in pain, feeling as though he’d tried to impale one of the stone walls. A hand grabbed his arm, twisting, as the twitching yellow eyes both regarded him. “That wasn’t very nice of you,” the voice hissed as a blast of dry, fetid breath washed over him. Then the mercenary went airborne, smacking into the ceiling with a thud and clattering back to the floor.
Slip’s bow was out, and an arrow flew the air, but somehow the mysterious presence dodged it, the unblinking eyes turning into a streak of dull light as he ducked. “What the hell are you?” Slip asked rhetorically, grabbing a pair of arrows and setting them onto the string. He was backing towards the door, trying to use his hearing to guess his way back out. The few torches still burning in the original hallway were a half-dozen rooms away, and their light would not be visible until he found the rockfall again.
“I am Lazarus,” the voice hissed, and leaped. Slip barely dodged aside as the form went hurtling over him, catching a brief glimpse of the room from the meager light cast by the fiend. “Once, long ago, I took this place and made it mine.” Two glowing yellow eyes twitched, looking in different directions as they blinked, separately. “But they locked me away down here, all alone, with nothing to eat but rats.”
The eyes locked towards the scout again, and he grimly raised the bow, preparing for a shot he wasn’t sure could be made. But to his surprise, Lazarus turned and ran, probably able to see the exit better than the two humans. Cursing, he fired the arrows, hearing them shatter on the rock as the faint light vanished around the other side of a doorway. Dro groaned, regaining his feet and scrabbling around on the floor for his lost weapon. “Damn it, Dro, that thing is escaping!”
Muttering angrily, he brought up his sword to a guard position, listening to the vanishing footsteps. Holding the scabbard out before him like a cane, he fumbled out of the cells, finding the walls and then following them. Before too long, he was back at the collapsed part, staring at the giant hold that looked like something had blown it apart with a giant Protectorate gun. Spitting out dirt and spiderwebs, he crawled through the narrow, unstable tunnel, falling out the other side as it collapsed again, blocking off the passage.
Voices echoed oddly in the jail, most of them female, but he recognized the deep tone of Jaresh, and a female who sounded like a barbarian, oddly enough. Squaring his shoulders and readying his sword, he started towards the quieter part of the jail. That thing was powerful, true enough, but he doubted it was foolish enough to go toe to toe with a paladin.
As Dro rounded a corner, he came face to face with Lazarus again. Slip was behind him, running up the hallway with a pair of arrows nocked, but he raised his sword to block as a clawed hand came swinging down at him. The strength of the blow numbed his arm and blunted the sword edge. Without breaking stride, the mercenary raised his other hand, scabbard still clutched in his fist, and belted the fiend across the mouth.
To their surprise, he screamed, a high raspy noise like tortured metal as the dulled brass highlights on the scabbard cut his pasty flesh. The arrows came flying down the hallway, both smacking harmlessly into Lazarus’ back as Dro dropped his sword, snatching up a handful of the moldy robes that he wore and proceeded to pummel his opponent into a stupor. Jaresh and the others came running up swiftly, stopping in surprise at the mercenary, savagely beating his opponent as though he was trying to punch through the wall.
When Rambur cleared his throat, the fist paused in midair, barely covered in blood despite the numerous cuts and bruises decorating the pale, withered man. Even after that beating, it took Lazarus no time to recover his senses, looking in surprise at the paladin uniform. “You have come for me at last, Zakarumite?” he coughed, spitting out part of a broken tooth.
Everyone stopped in confusion, no one more than Jaresh himself. Several of the rogues stared in confusion and anger, looking at the twisted man, no longer human, who had been trapped in the jail without their knowledge. “One of your kind came to find me, hundreds of hundreds of days ago,” he rasped out, yellow eyes staring unblinkingly at the paladin. “His name was Sareal, and he brought me here, told me to wait for the day that another of his order to come for the knowledge I hold.”
Maren made an angry, strangled noise in her throat as did her cousins. They all remembered the part of the traitorous priest who had tried to aid Diablo, enabling Belial to almost succeed in his plan to destroy humanity. Almost as one, she, Arthur, and Jaresh stepped forward. Holy blue fire crackled in the air around Jaresh, lashing out at Lazarus, and a gout of flame spat from the sorceress’ hand. Arthur’s hand glowed white, reaching out almost harmlessly, melting through the wasted body.
Screaming, Lazarus fought with all of his strength, but his clawed hands passed through Arthur as though he wasn’t there. Then the young man’s arm suddenly tensed, and Lazarus fell to the floor. Within moments, his body had rotted away, leaving only a pile of dust and bone splinters in the moldy rags he had been wearing. “That was quite impressive,” Adonia said. “What was that thing?”
Jaresh smiled thinly, looking at the pile of dust. “A vampire, one of the ghoul lords I think. I didn’t know that my son had been taught how to take the heart of an undead.” He raised an eyebrow as his son, the priest, shrugged. “At least it’s dead now, and we can get on with our quest.”
Rambur stayed frowning, looking at the remnants of the vampire. “What did he mean about the Zakarum, and Sareal?” He stumbled over the unfamiliar name, then shifted nervously as so many of his companions blossomed fury on their faces.
“Remember the corrupted shards of Worldstone?” Celest spat. “Sareal was the head of the High Council, and he collected them all to give to Diablo.” She looked back down at the robes in disgust. “I have a sudden urge to take that to a latrine and piss on it.”
All of the men except Dro suddenly got very embarrassed. But the mercenary merely swept up the last of it, carefully picking up the scraps of fabric that remained. “I call second,” he said deadpan, walking towards the stairs out of the jail, listening to the laughter of the Sisterhood.
At least we’ll be leaving tomorrow, he thought happily, and we can visit Lut Gholein and find out if my evil sister is still alive.
Fate is not without a sense of irony, one that the late Gheed had often appreciated. Were he still alive, instead of being tormented personally by Asmodan, he probably would have appreciated this one as well.
King Robert of Westmarch sat alone in a small room in his castle, at a desk under a thin window, open to bring a cool breeze into the room. The thick stone walls kept him reasonably comfortable, especially at this late hour of the night, but it still tended to get a bit stuffy without the window open. A candle flickered brightly on the table behind its prison of glass, brightening the papers before him to a cheery yellow color. The Zakarum-style pen, etched with gold, sparkled as he wrote simply.
Finishing, he set the pen down on the table and picked up the paper, reading carefully over what he had just written and checking it for errors. Moving to add it to the pile in a carved mahogany tray, he bumped the pen, cursing as it clattered to the floor. He irritably shoved back the chair, heedless of the damage to the silk rug beneath him, as he knelt on the carpet to retrieve it.
He straightened up with a smug smile, brandishing it. Then the garrote circled his neck, jerking as the razor-thin wire sliced instantly through his flesh and perfectly separating his head from his neck. The assassin stepped backwards as royal blood splattered the room, keeping his face hidden behind the cowl of the black cloak he wore and stepping back as the puddle grew on the carpet. When everything was still at last, he slipped the cloak from his shoulders, letting the soaked black felt fall to the floor.
It was mildly unfortunate that the King did not have any legitimate heirs, he thought as he moved towards the window, leaping over the body and the blood, his feet barely touching the back of the chair as he balanced perfectly, stepping over the spattered papers and onto the stone. There were a few illegitimate children, of course, so no doubt a lovely civil war would spring up.
Warring factions were always looking to hire an assassin who could kill a man in a locked room, with the only exit a hundred-foot drop to a guarded courtyard. He climbed down the smooth stones of the castle, finding grips on a surface that most lizards would find difficult, vanishing down into the night, slipping across the courtyard to the outer wall like a shadow. The patrolling guards never saw him, and could not have stopped him if they did, but the next morning they all faced the executioner for failing in their duty to protect King Robert.
The next morning, the nameless assassin was aboard a ship sailing for temporary safety in Lut Gholein, Gheed’s pouch of gemstones buying his passage without a second thought from the captain.
Four days passed, each one more horrible than the last for the unfortunate humans who had been taken prisoner by Oras and his army of zombies. They were trapped inside, each building surrounded by a cordon of the more damaged corpses, still enough to keep the panicked and unarmed people from breaking out without killing them. Every hour that they spent, the insidious poison from Anger’s bite thrummed through them, sapping their strength even as it raised their tempers.
He sat in the street on the first day, occasionally climbing onto the roof to supervise his mindless minions at their work. Screams and crying and hopeless words of anger all reached his ears, and he rejoiced at them. The night grew quiet, punctuated only by quiet, half-hidden sobbing and occasionally a scream as one of them would awake from a nightmare.
The second day had almost dawned when the first of the ghouls loped out of the house, moving like mangy dogs too long between meals. But Oras had strict control over these warriors, and he would not let them slaughter the other captives in their unceasing hunger. Remaining in his place in the street, he listened as the temper of the voices slowly changed, often rising in shrill tones before others could, at least temporarily, calm down whoever was weakest and most affected by his magic.
When night fell, another trio of ghouls exited one of the houses, and almost every hour another one appeared from one of the two prisons. With his numbers again bolstered, Anger ordered his servants out to scout, watching the roads and the woods towards the south, knowing that the Zakarum would surely send warriors after him. He knew their kind fairly well; the first attack would be a novice paladin, perhaps a priest or two, and a squadron of common soldiers. They would fall before him easily, but the next group after him would be a serious threat. Still, with the battleground prepared, the day would be his.
That third day was almost passed, both houses full of harsh voices and the occasional sounds of violence. But the unfortunate farmers and merchants trapped inside were weakened by hunger and thirst, unable to do much to harm each other, and with the zombie guards watching carefully through windows and chinks in the walls, their fear still overrode their anger at the tiny slights they gave each other in their despair.
But the first of the ghoul scouts returned, bringing warning of the Zakarum patrol Oras expected. Blackened teeth shone in the daylight, as he rose from his crouch and slunk towards the edge of the village and the line of destruction his zombies had built. Virtually the entire city had been taken apart, and the rubble piled into walls chest high, forming a maze that led towards the far side and the prison. Rusty spikes of iron and jagged splinters of wood stuck out from the barriers, waiting for living blood to feast upon.
Sure enough, the group of a dozen came galloping towards the large village, their stance and the heft of their weapons shouting their outrage at the atrocity the unusual zombie had committed. From where they were, he expected at least a few of them to simply try and jump the first wall, and wanted to make sure they did. He raised a hand, croaking out a command by habit as he flung his magic outwards. Zombies suddenly broke free of the ground behind them, hurling stones and pieces of weapons towards the Zakarum.
They would stop to destroy that small group, but with luck, they would have wounds to slow them and the horses as well. Oras flung open the door to one of the jails, looking at the two dozen or so still alive, less than half of what he had put in here when the town was his. His rotten eyes fixed on a girl, not quite grown-up enough to be a woman, and seized her by the hair, dragging her screaming outside while his guards kept the others trapped inside.
As he expected, the screams led the paladin and his companions straight into the maze. Three of them leapt the outer wall, only to smash heavily into one of the interior connecting maze walls, killing their mounts and themselves on the jagged spikes. The others were separated, trapped in parallel corridors, almost close enough to reach across and clasp hands.
“Rise!” he croaked out, and the girl shrank away from him, her hair still tangled in his fingers. Across the maze, hundreds of zombies crawled from their graves where they had lain, patiently waiting only for his command. Horses screamed as rotting hands seized them, dragging them down to have their life crushed out of them. The soldiers scrambled to their feet, weapons at the ready, facing down wolves and jaguars, their coats falling out as their flesh decayed, snarling and flexing claws grown large with infernal magic.
Minutes later, all of the Zakarum patrol were dead, and Oras walked up to the edge of the maze, watching his zombies drag away the bodies and carefully arrange them for the ritual burial and raising that night. The sun dropped below the horizon as they worked, and Anger looked down as the hair still clenched in his fist suddenly jerked away from him.
The new ghoul paused, crouching in the middle of the street, to pull the ratty strands away from her eyes, then waited loyally for her first orders as a member of his army.
The sound of hot steel being hammered rung clear and bell-like over the River of Flame, as Rupert and Colin stood some distance away, watching. “So, why didn’t your friends kill Griswold when they had the chance?” Colin asked, frowning as he leaned on the pommel of his sword, the point buried through the head of an unfortunate tormented soul.
“Search me,” Rupert replied rhetorically, leaning against his own halberd. “But we have to get past him to descend past the River of Flame. I hope you’ve got a bright idea, because I’m fresh out.” He almost said more, before they both turned, hearing the grating of rock against rock behind them.
Swiftly, they dropped to their knees, bowing respectfully (but not too respectfully) as Asmodan walked past them, ignoring the lesser demons as he often did, and striding up to the Hellforge. The two angels watched carefully as the once-human smith conversed with the Lord of Sin for several minutes, then goggled in astonishment as he set down the massive hammer and followed the demonic lord away, walking somewhere further down the River towards Diablo’s cathedral.
Sharing a look of shock, they waited a moment, then hefted their weapons and walked as fast as they dared towards the cow-sized block of iron, covered in demonic language, that was the Hellforge. “Damn, that’s ugly,” Colin remarked, and Rupert tried to stifle a giggle. “Anyway, according to Belial’s map – if we can trust it – then there’s a little switch back here,” he muttered as he knelt next to the forge, playing his hands over the rock.
Rupert craned his neck, watching the sole approach to the forge, then suddenly hissed in alarm. “Hurry up! Baal is headed this way!” He dropped to his knees, running his hands over the jagged rocks as well. As the first footsteps echoed around them, a soft click came from under Colin’s hand, and they snatched up their weapons, sprinting for the sudden gap in the flames, leaping into the opening and feeling their wings singe slightly as it just as suddenly filled in behind them.
The sight before them brought them both to a halt. A low tunnel opened up before them, three sides made up of the swirling lave and fire that made up the river. Along the edges at the bottom were hundreds of skeletons, the undying remnants of souls thrown in by the Prime Evils and long-since forgotten about. They fought with a frenzied energy, all of them bent on a sole objective – leaping to the surface and experiencing at least a few seconds without the constant burning. Rupert had seen dozens, if not hundreds, of those souls when he trekked across the river as a mortal, but without seeing what lay beneath the surface, he thought it little more than a macabre joke.
“Tyrael show them mercy,” Colin whispered, his voice barely audible to himself, but his companion could tell his meaning. Tears of pity shining in their eyes, they slowly followed the roughly carved staircase downwards towards the heart of Hell.
Dawn broke dismally, grey clouds covering the sky and blanketing the sun as they filled the air with a thin, almost imperceptible drizzle. It was unusual weather for the late summer months, but a few of the more elderly priests assured King Loxley that it was not unheard of. The night patrols came limping back to both camps, covered in their injuries from keeping the monsters contained.
Owain stood at the edge of the burned out area, where his army had moved forward the day before, camping boldly within sight of the meager invading army. The golden plume on his helmet identified him easily, especially since the token was only for those of noble blood. Loxley chuckled to himself, running over the words that Isha had imparted to him over the long, sleepless night.
The two of them had argued through messengers for several hours, but Owain was stubborn and would not budge – the battle would be at an hour after dawn, or never. Either way, the usurper was confident that he would pound the younger and less battle-tested monarch into the ground with no more difficulty than he had killed his own liege. So, with the sun barely cresting over the horizon, dull gray light shining off the distant sea, they watched each other as Isha paced out an area in the grass between the forces. Small pennants were stuck into the ground on stakes to mark the arena.
The armies would remain where they were, and only the combatants with their small group of bodyguards would approach. Then, Owain and Loxley armed with the weapons of their choice would step past the pennants. Neither of them had any fear of death, one due to his skill, and the other assured of the ancient saber cat ritual.
So, as the sun climbed higher, they both rounded up their strictly-negotiated number of bodyguards, and crossed the small distance to the bright yellow border of flags where Isha still stood, waiting. They all paused at the periphery, and after a moment, the two leaders stepped into the area, walking forward ready but with weapons still sheathed, towards the strange Sister. “Are you both ready?”
Owain gave a gruff, sharp nod, his face hidden behind the visor of his helmet. Loxley’s was slower, more kind, but his expression was also unreadable. “Then return to your sides. When I exit the area, the fight begins. Whoever lives, wins.” She stood there impassively, her body completely still but for the fur-ruffling wind, and after a last glare between the two men, they turned and walked back to their handful of guards.
Isha turned, and started for the edge between them, then suddenly broke into a sprint. Before either had finished their preparations, she was past a yellow pennant and the fight was begun. Cursing the cat for not warning him, Loxley walked slowly into the roughly rectangular area, drawing his sword and lifting the massive tower shield. “Fruits of the earth, come forth and grant the rightful ruler of this place the power to defend it,” he said. Of course, he was saying it in Isha’s language, no small feat for a human with the wrong vocal cords.
The last word had barely been finished when the sharp retort of Owains pistol cracked across the field. To the surprise of everyone, it deflected off the steel shield, sending up a spout of dirt near the Khanduran encampment. Cursing fluently, he flung the useless weapon behind him, drawing his sword and charging, lifting his lighter shield with the easy practice of long years.
Loxley waited, the foot of his shield resting on the ground, his legs braced for the charge. The older warrior slammed their shields together, but his strike never landed as he rebounded from the shocking strength of the king. Without a pause, Loxley dropped the shield, twirling around it, swinging his sword and cleaving right through the heavy plate mail and separating an arm, shoulder, and half of Owain’s head from his body. From both sides, the bodyguards tried to rush the field, only to rebound from the invisible barrier created when the ritual started.
Outwardly, the saber cat was the very image of calm, but for the slightly flicking tip of her tail. She was the only person within sight who knew there was only one way for this to end now – the rightful ruler of Entsteig, whoever that might be, was close enough to take the field and let the magic of her people decide where their countries should be separate.
Sure enough, from the ranks of Owain’s army, another man walked forward. Physically, he was not very imposing, a cook or a messenger rather than a warrior, but the way he walked was menacing enough. The dim light shone from his dark, shaved head, sparkling off the thin coat of rain. But he had picked up a coat of chain mail from someone, and shrugged the too-large garment on as he crossed the open area, grabbing an axe from a startled bodyguard as he stepped over one of the pennants and onto the challenge field.
Then, without any further preamble, he shouted and charged, whirling the axe above his head like a barbarian, and the battle was joined again, Owain’s body forgotten beneath their feet.
Na-Krul paused, high in the mountains that separated the Kehjistan jungles from the fertile river valleys that composed that eastern empire that defended the new Worldstone. He could feel energy pouring into him, from the foolish nobility that now worshipped him, and their battles with the rightful ruler of the land. Hundreds of demons had been summoned from Hell to bolster the darker rulers as they fought to keep the peasants under control and forge their own dark kingdoms.
Still, that was of little concern to the demon at that moment, as he stood facing the sheer, blank side of a glacier, easily three hundred feet tall. He was the most powerful of those created by the Prime Evils, but still his energy was not infinite, and he stood pondering the best way past. It blocked the pass entirely, the rock sides smooth where the back and forth shifting of the ice had carved a perfect niche for itself.
Pure chaos would not do enough to the glacier, and climbing it and trying to walk across the uneven surface would take too long. With a muttered curse, he raised a hand, blasting forth fire at the ice, carving a tunnel large enough for him to crawl through. The ice cracked, creaking ominously as water and steam poured out of the hole, widening the entrance as the blast of flame continued. At last he stopped, glancing inside at the hole, twenty feet deep before ending.
Continuing his tirade of complaints, the demon crawled inside, blasting fire forward as he shuffled slowly, water swiftly turning from scalding to freezing as it ran past him towards the outside. Still the demon continued his work, ignoring the uncomfortable position and simply trying to reach the other side before his mana ran out. Sitting here while the water underneath him froze his knees to the glacier would be most unfortunate. And there was the secondary thought as well – all the other demons would laugh at him.
Snarling, he pushed the fire forward, pouring his anger into the magic and watching the color of flame shift. Suddenly, an ear-shattering crack split the air, as part of the glacier fell away. Automatically, he tried to stand up, or turn around, but the confined tunnel bound him effectively as that cell underneath Tristram where he’d been stuck for a few decades.
But there was nothing the demon of chaos could do as the section of glacier turned and slid down the mountain, slowly picking up speed and turning as it struck smaller obstacles. Na-Krul could peer out the hole behind him if he contorted his neck, but the landscape flashing past was enough to make even the seasoned fiend dizzy. With a little bit of fear, he turned his attention towards expanding his tunnel, trying to get out of the damned glacier, since he was obviously sliding down the other side of the mountain.
Something slammed into the slab of ice, or perhaps the other way around, and it lashed around, spilling over sideways. Slamming his claws into the ice, Na-Krul barely stopped his sudden fall towards the edge of the hole, now rushing past on the snow and rock below. If he fell any farther, tons of ice would grind him into a demon pancake, spread out over a few miles of mountain.
Then they went airborne, the piece of glacier spinning end over end twice before smashing into the frozen river below. Luckily for the demon, the hole was facing up towards the sky this time, and he carefully crawled up towards the outside. Shards of ice dotted the river’s surface, already starting to freeze over, and his new raft was caught on the bottom. Sighing, he hefted his bulk onto the mostly flat surface of the ice, and waited for the river to finish freezing over.
At least he was past the mountains, Na-Krul thought sourly. One step closer to the foolish mortal who’d summoned him here.
Loxley easily blocked the swinging axe on his shield, driving the dark-skinned youth back a few steps with his harsh riposte. They moved back and forth, neither one of them quite gaining the upper hand, moving fast enough that neither could flank the other. Isha remembered hearing stories of battles like these, from decades past when the tribes of saber cats still fought against each other over little pieces of jungle land.
For half an hour, both sides watched in silence as the two men went back and forth, a line slowly forming in the ground where their stamping feet and parried strikes left marks in the dirt and dead grass. Not a sound crossed the fields between the two armies but the harsh clanks of steel on steel, and the tired wordless shouts of the two combatants. Finally, as their weapons were locked together, the shaven youth spoke softly, barely loud enough for the King to hear over his own labored breathing. “You stole my chance for revenge,” he growled, then jumped backwards, disengaging his weapon and tossing his head to remove the sweat from his eyes.
Loxley lunged forward, but he twisted away, the axe opening another small rent in the shield. Battered as it was, without it he’d likely have lost his arm by now. “What claim of revenge did you have on that usurper?” he said back, loud enough for the bodyguards still surrounding the circle to hear. “He is dead, may his soul burn in Hell for his crimes.”
They clashed again, both backing away warily sporting a new wound. “He killed my brother, shot him in the back with one of those pistols. Bastard of King John I might be, but revenge was still mine to claim!” The axe blurred in, surprisingly fast, and clipped a corner from the shield, spinning off to land outside the circle.
Isha held her breath as they moved towards her. The line was almost complete now, and the moment it was, she could step inside, end this duel, and hopefully talk them into a compromise. She ignored the corner of steel that missed her feet by a whisker, the only observer knowing the importance of what was happening before them. “I’ll make you a deal,” Loxley said, blocking the axe with his sword and body-slamming the shield against his opponent. “Tell me your name, and I’ll make sure you get the throne of Entsteig from the usurper that holds it now.”
They spun around for a moment, their feet less than an inch from the little yellow pendant that bordered the battlefield. Then the dark-skinned youth ducked a swing from the sword, the handle of his axe marking the last inch of the line bisecting the field. The magic blew away in a silent explosion, forcing both men to stumble backwards as their sudden strength left them. Isha leapt into the space between them, holding up her hands and forcing them to pause. “The battle is over, the ritual is completed. This is the new border between your kingdoms.”
Loxley frowned at the battlefield, lifting his visor and dropping his shield and a gauntlet to wipe the sweat from his face. “I see now,” he said, walking partway back towards the center. “There’s that little river that goes through here,” and he traced the line with his sword. “So, what is your name, anyway?”
The other man walked carefully towards him, staying on his side of the line, wiping sweat from his brown skin. “My name is Uther,” he said quietly. “You’d really agree to this border?”
“Might as well,” Loxley said grimly, “it covers most of the disputed area anyway.” He gestured towards his bodyguards, shouting orders for one of the engineers to bring forward a map and mark off the line.
“Hold it!” Duke Campbell suddenly emerged from the lines of the Entsteig army. “With the death of General Owain, this army is under my command, and I’m not accepting any ridiculous treaty to surrender Entsteig land due to some demonic saber cat sorcery!”
Without missing a beat, Uther hefted the large, single-bladed axe and threw it, whining as it split the air, and then Duke Campbell’s chest in half. The stunned nobleman didn’t even have time to scream as the weapon drove him backwards to the ground, dead. “Anyone else have a problem with this?” Uther shouted at his own army.
Silence greeted him, and he turned back towards King Loxley. “Right, let’s get this all down on paper so the damned diplomats can’t talk us out of it.” Grinning, the two men plopped down in the blood-spattered dirt, ignoring their injuries as they worked to hammer out a peace treaty.
Tyrael and Gabriel watched with interest the fight between the King and the bastard son of another in the crystal ball. “Well, that turned out surprisingly well,” Tyrael said. “How long before Na-Krul reaches the Zakarum lands?”
Gabriel rubbed the side of the crystal and the picture zoomed dizzyingly about. “Unless something stops him, about two days. About the same time Jaresh and company will be reaching Lut Gholein.” He stood up, tossing a cloth over the ball with the ease of bad habit. “But right now, you need to go focus on keeping Duriel and his army off the walls.”
The Angel of Purity raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re going to stay here ignoring the battle outside?” Truthfully, as usual, he was beginning to tire of the warfare. After you’ve killed a few billion demons, all the rest sort of blur together in a boring montage of blood and death.
“Hardly,” Gabriel scoffed. “I know exactly what to do to drive Duriel out of Heaven again. The problem is waiting for the right moment to get here.” He stretched, wingtips pressing against the leather-bound tomes of the shelves in his office. “Since that won’t be until Na-Krul is sent back to Hell, we have quite a bit of time to kill. No pun intended,” he added with a smirk, as Tyrael rolled his eyes.
“That hurt,” the eldest angel said as he turned towards the door. “Be a gentleman and take that pun out of my back where you stabbed me with it, will you?” He departed to the laughter of his youngest brother, exiting the library quickly and taking to the streets. He was passing through the Sixth Circle, when a sudden series of explosions caught his attention. Suddenly panicking that Duriel had somehow snuck demons into the city, he charged down the street, leaping over souls on other errands, and stopped suddenly in the doorway to a chapel.
Oksana, Natalya, and Boris were all gathered together around a device, and one of the walls leading to the priest’s quarters was in ruins. “Alright, now if we adjust this little whatchamacallit,” Natalya said with her face almost inside the machine, “that should change the firing speed, right?”
Boris almost answered when Tyrael swept up between him and the contraption. “Just what do you think you’re all doing here?” he asked them irritably. “We need all the soldiers we can get out on the walls keeping the demons out of the Fifth Circle!”
“Um,” Oksana said quietly, “I was, until Gabriel told me to pull these two out of the tree circle and set up shop here.” She shrank back slightly from the anger in the angel’s face. “He said we have one week to get this working as well as we can, and build another dozen of them for driving out Duriel’s army.”
The Angel of Purity stood in furious silence for several seconds, then stiffly nodded his head. “Fine,” he spat, then disappeared out of the building again, moving towards the battle lines.
The three assassins exchanged worried glances before turning their attention back to the weapon before them. “Damn, and I thought he was uptight when we pulled him out of Tal Rasha’s tomb,” Oksana said. “I think he really needs to get laid.” The other two dissolved in helpless laughter as she stood staring at them, hands on her hips. “What? It’s not that ludicrous, is it?”
After four days in the desert, fighting off overgrown insects and the occasional demonic vulture still surviving from the time of Baal’s escape, everyone was joyous to see the glittering brightness of the Sea of Light, a thin line of blue barely darker than the sky of the hot, summer noon. “Finally,” Adonia said, pouring another dribble of water over the white cloth covering her head. “I hate sand!”
“I echo the sentiment,” Celest muttered, squeezing the last few drops of water onto her tongue, and letting the empty waterskin drop back against her side.
“Relax,” Jaresh said with a grin. “At least we have water walking through here.” He took a swallow of warm, stale water himself. “Though it would have been easier if the horses survived.” He adjusted his own cloth, shielding his eyes from the sun.
Dro paused at the top of a dune, scanning the hot, white sands before them. “We should be there by nightfall, I think,” and he paused to point slightly to the right of the city. “There’s a small oasis just off our path, or at least, there used to be,” he said doubtfully. The shifting sands of the Aranoch tended to make all but the largest pools of water vanish whenever the winds grew particularly violent.
With some quiet muttering and many hopeful glances up ahead, they trekked across the desert, finding the bathtub-sized pool of sandy water and pausing to refill their water skins before continuing. Soon the sun was on their backs, their shadows stretching weirdly across the sands and up the great red walls of Lut Gholein. Spear wielding guards opened the gates, welcoming them to the star of the desert through the surprise covering their faces.
As the others moved to a stone well, the water cool and clear, Dro stood slightly separate, his battle-trained eyes scanning the evening crowd. Just a moment ago, he thought he’d seen someone familiar, and then he spotted her through the crowd again, her black hair almost the right shade to blend perfectly into the crowd. He slipped away from the rest of them easily, sliding through the crowd like a ghost as he followed her.
They traveled across half the city before she paused by a doorway, pulling out a key and unlocking it. Before she could disappear inside, he’d crossed the block and straight-armed the door, holding it open. She whirled around, hand on the dagger at her belt, before her eyes widened and a smile broke out across her face. “Dro!” she cried.
Whatever else she was going to say was cut off as his sword went straight through her throat and spine, his arm holding her up as she burbled helplessly. “Hello, Dorreen,” he said, then pulled the sword out, dropping her body to the ground. “Goodbye, Dorreen,” he added as he stepped over her corpse, descending the stairs towards the stronghold of the Disciples of Na-Krul.
Outside the door, Slip paused, the others on his heels. “The door’s locked,” he said, and Visha snarled, drawing her pistol and casually blowing the lock off the door. “Ready everyone?” he asked, a trio of arrows on his bow. “Right, let’s find out who’s down here.” They piled through the door, pausing only briefly to look at the body on the floor with a mostly-severed neck, and then followed the bloody bootprints down the stairs.
Oras sat quietly and brooded. It had been four days since the Zakarum patrol fell to his zombies, and fairly soon there would be a larger scouting party sent forth to determine their fate. They might already be on their way, since two of his ghoul scouts were hours late checking back from their lookout post. The air was still, humid, and stifling, but the undead army ignored it stoically.
His gaze roamed over the village, every building except the bell tower on the chapel torn down to build their barricades and the landscape in ruin for a mile in every direction. The tireless zombies had followed his orders explicitly, then lain themselves down in shallow graves and buried themselves, waiting and resting until he called them forth to slay the invaders.
The sun sank below the horizon, but his view did not diminish with the light. A few zombies, those badly wounded in the previous battles, stumbled around in their job as caretakers, keeping the broken walls and spikes in good condition, and Oras watched them with a sort of quiet pride. Then something moved in the corner of his vision and he turned, staring out at the putrid remains of a wheat field.
Some great demon stood there, studying the damaged zombies with interest even as the leader of the army studied him from the safe perch at the top of the tower. Reaching a decision, Oras calmly stepped into one of the windows and dropped the thirty feet to the ground, landing easily and walking through the maze of rubble.
Na-Krul watched him come, this peculiar undead that moved with ease and powerful magic. “This is an interesting situation,” he said as the zombie stopped a few yards away from him. “Your army is small, but certainly deadly enough. I think I will make it mine,” he said, hurling a rope of chaos at the leader.
To his surprise, the monster grabbed the magic, stripping it away and hurling it back. “I am Anger,” it said in the broken, croaking voice, “and I answer to no one but my master Asmodan.” They stood there for several moments, staring each other down.
Before a battle could begin between the two, the sound of horseshoes echoed across the night, and they both cautiously turned towards the source. Two dozen Zakarum soldiers, led by a paladin and a pair of priests were riding down on their position. Both could feel the fear and righteous anger that warred for dominance in their minds, and they ignored their differences for the moment in favor of a common enemy.
A rope of chaotic magic sliced through the rank of cavalry, killing two of them as their bodies fused with their mounts into something unrecognizable, and they scattered, charging in from all around. Oras leaped high in the air, easily dodging a swinging war hammer and ripping the soldier’s head off before he landed. Spinning, he hurled the missile at one of the priests, blackened teeth grinning at the sound of breaking bones.
Zombies tore out of the ground at the magical command of Anger, and they dragged soldiers and horses down to the ground, rending them apart with undead strength and hunger. At last, the only one of them left was the paladin, his horse slain, kneeling on one leg as he watched the two masterful opponents. “I recognize you, demon,” he spat, “Na-Krul, the Demon of Chaos, the most powerful servant created by the Prime Evils. Die!”
Despite a broken leg, the paladin levered himself to his feet, making a stumbling charge at the demon, only to be intercepted by a blurringly fast Oras. The zombie shredded his armor, driving his hand straight into the human’s chest and latching his hand around the beating heart, squeezing it until it exploded and dropping the body to the ground.
Behind him, Na-Krul suddenly screamed in anguish, and the zombie whirled. Magic of some kind was in the air, but he did not recognize its source or direction. A moment later, the powerful demon of chaos went charging off towards the west as the stupefied zombie watched. Still, there was one thing he did know about the situation.
Na-Krul was full of anger, but also full of fear, and many humans would die when the demon reached his destination. His blackened teeth shone again in the dark night as he ordered his zombie army back to their hiding place and prepared the new bodies to join his force. For tomorrow, they would march towards Travincal.
Rahvunah jerked awake in his bed as a magical wail suddenly shot through the entire sanctum for the Disciples of Na-Krul. He stumbled from the bed, throwing his robes over his body and picking up the ceremonial dagger that was his primary weapon, then moved out into the hallway. The tone of the alarm signaled that the intruder was still close to the entrance, and at least one person was dead.
He ducked down the hallway, moving out of the path of the more heavily armed Silent Liars as they moved towards the staircase up to the surface. He would be waiting next to his beloved machine, his youthful body primed and ready for a fight. Then the tone of the magical alarm shifted, pulsing in a piercing rhythm, and he paused in a doorway for a moment to count. Nine intruders. He cursed louder and started shoving the lesser disciples out of his way as he ran.
The summoning room was closest to his favored workroom and his great device, and to his surprise, the door was wide open. Gerta was the only one, save himself, who could open the door, and he stopped to look inside. Three of the Silent Liars stood around the pentagram, moving their hands in tandem in a mute chant, and his concubine stood near the doorway. “Are you summoning demons to aid us?”
She barely glanced at him before shaking her head. “My master Belial instructed me to summon him.”
“But that’s absurd!” Rahvunah snarled angrily, unconsciously hefting the dagger. “He can’t even leave the summoning circle!”
Her hand locked around his wrist, and he fell back a step as her eyes locked with his, cold and unyielding. “Nevertheless, he has a plan, and it is my job to carry it out.” She released his arm, turning back towards the circle. “You should see to your machine; the intruders are the paladin and his brood.”
He stepped back into the hallway, his face gone pale, and dashed the short distance down the corridor to slam the door behind him and lock it. The screams and metallic clashes of battle echoed strangely, much closer than he wanted them to be.
In another corner of the compound, Dro stood with his back to a corner of the room, faced off against four opponents and fighting for his life. The Silent Liars were no real difficulty to a battle-hardened veteran like himself, and he had already cut down a number of them. Novice disciples were also an easy task, though they were many and eager for battle. But a true, veteran disciple was a warrior to fear – their flesh mended itself, and their weapons bent and stretched with a life of their own, making them difficult to parry.
His sword rang constantly as he ducked and dodged the squirming blades that confronted him, too busy trying to stay alive to risk a counter-attack. Yet despite his best efforts, their attacks were scoring, leaving small marks on his flesh where the chaos of the wielders bled over, twisting coin-sized marks on his arms and shoulders. In anger and desperation, he started screaming insults at them, knowing that before long his death would come. Behind the four he faced were more novices, and Silent Liars, all waiting to see if one of the powerful youthened Disciples would yet fall.
“You bastard son of a goblin and a sand maggot,” he shouted as he ducked under a blade, feeling it trace a lock of hair in its passing and transmute the hair to stone, “you’re too dumb and ugly for a necromancer to raise you as a skeletal servant! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”
His vision was starting to turn gray now, narrowing down to a tunnel as he fought back against the effects of the chaos magic the haughty Disciples were using against him. So it came as a complete surprise when a spray of blood spattered his face, and one of them went smashing into the ceiling. Then a second one, starting to turn around to face the new threat, lost his head in a most gory manner. The other two were swiftly dispatched, and the mercenary found himself facing down Jaresh and the others.
“You idiot,” Celest said, calmly wiping a katar clean of blood, “what did you have to go running off like that for?” She glanced up from her task, only to notice that he had fainted as she spoke. “Gah!” she muttered, helping her brother roll him onto his back and force a healing potion into him. “No wonder he’s a traveling fighter!”
Rambur stood closer to the center of what had been a dining hall, surveying what he could see of the underground complex. “This place is immense,” he commented to Adonia as she shook blood from her lance. “I wonder how long they’ve been hiding down here. We should make sure to tell Lord Jehryn about this once we’ve taken down the last of them.”
She merely nodded, but whatever comment she would have made died in her throat as a black-armored figure appeared in one of the doorways. Gerta stood there, her hands held up and empty in the universal gesture of surrender. “My master wishes to speak with you,” she said, pointing at Arthur. “He means no harm to you or any of your companions, and will give you information to aid you against Na-Krul and his worshippers in exchange for safe passage for his servants to last until sundown.” She paused for a breath, then set her face unhappily. “I swear by Tyrael that all I have just told you is true,” and she winced as the name of the Angel of Purity crossed her lips.
The group stood in different moods of silence for a moment – Rambur and Adonia openly hostile, Jaresh, Slip, and Arthur quietly stunned, and the others simply suspicious and contemplating what the Lord of Lies could possibly tell them that would be worthwhile. Then the paladin sighed and stepped forward. “No human, even a Silent Liar, can swear by Tyrael and not tell the truth. Lead the way, but,” and his hand shot out to catch her arm, “if the Disciples of Na-Krul ambush us along the way, I promise you’ll be dead before we will.”
She slowly but firmly pulled her arm from his grasp, and led him deeper into the maze of passageways, towards the summoning room and Belial.
Duriel stood in the thick of battle, his claws shredding through the ranks of the angelic warriors. They had tried to counter-attack back out of the Fourth Circle, and a little bit of luck had sent Hadriel back to the center of Heaven, minus his current corporeal body. So as long as Tyrael was busy handling his other attacks on other portions of the wall, he was free to hold back this rather pathetic thrust.
Just as he thought that, the Lord of Pain turned, sensing a new presence, and lunged forward, squashing a dozen shining warriors into paste as the blade of light cut a chunk out of the marble and gold street where he had been standing. “Hello, little brother,” Tyrael said as Duriel snarled and slashed his way to a clear area, following easily after him as the angelic souls worked to fight their way back to freedom.
The two Primes circled around each other in what had been a park, before the fighting and weeks of demonic squatters turned it into a blasted wasteland. The battle was an almost certain conclusion, as the demon could never hope to bring as much power into this fray as his elder brother, even were they in Hell on his own territory. So several minutes passed with Duriel doing nothing but dodging and blocking where he had to, shouting encouragement to his troops while he kept their strongest asset focused on him.
“You do realize that your whole advance into Heaven was planned,” the Angel of Purity said calmly as his shimmering sword of pure light shattered a stone bench, ignoring the spray of gravel as he continued to circle and advance. “Gabriel was just waiting for the appropriate time to counter-attack against your forces.” He swung again, slicing through a dead oak tree and side-stepping as it came crashing down.
Duriel smiled suddenly, on the other side of the wooden barrier. “You think that because all our previous battles were decided by proxy, by the cunning of Gabriel and Belial working against each other, that you have an edge.” The angel lunged forward, only to be met with a face full of trunk as the sluggish demon wove it around his sword, blasting him backwards a handful of steps.
Growling in anger, he Tyrael charged back into the fray, his other hand hurling bolts of lightning as his younger brother countered with bolts of ice in a stunning display, even though he used it to cover his retreat. They backed down one of the streets, their own battle moving oddly through the swirling melee of demon against angel, but their strikes met no targets but each other.
Then one of the blunderbores missed a swing, his club smashing into one of the towering buildings flanking the street, and the wall came crashing down. Giant blocks of marble and limestone shattered through the mixed armies, crushing soldiers from both sides with equal impunity, and Duriel looked up and roared with anger as an archway, the mortar still held together, landed over the rear of his body, pinning him for the moment. Were Tyrael not there, he could free himself in seconds, but the flashing sword was slicing down towards him, and he prepared for a painful return to Hell.
At the last moment, the sword blinked aside, smashing some of the rock apart, and the demon seized on the opportunity to flee. Over the next hours, the demons moved back to the Third Circle, consolidating their position and preventing the angelic forces from turning it into a rout. Back in the library, Tyrael sat alone in a chair as Gabriel leafed through a book. “So, why did you flinch, anyway?” the Angel of Knowledge asked, his voice light and innocent.
Scowling, Tyrael turned towards one of the windows, staring over the city and the blight around the edge. “A Silent Liar swore by my name. Do you have any idea how painful that is? It’s not funny!” he shouted, not particularly forcefully, as the youngest Prime Good slowly toppled from his chair in a helpless fit of the giggles.
The city of Lao Wai was virtually abandoned, the streets filled only with vermin enjoying their sudden freedom and small, furtive patrols of soldiers from both the Protectorate and the Emperor. A blazing bolt of white light stretched towards the sky, and the center of the city was filled with the blazing light. It was a cruel irony that the divine light of Boris’ device, refracted and spread by the Worldstone, was such a destructive force. The ancient palace that had been the home to the Protectorate was gone, the merely mortal materials slowly broken down and vanishing under the constant assault of the holy light, unable to withstand such pure goodness.
The walls were thick granite, but they too had eventually fallen, crumbling away as though the centuries were zooming past for them. The citizens of the great capitol city had started to flee when the light first started spearing into the sky, in awe and fear of the incredible power that had been unleashed by a small quirk of fate. Then, as the light began to show through cracks in the wall, the city was evacuated.
The city would be safe for a time – after all, the Worldstone and whatever unknown thing Boris had done to cause it, were located in the cellar of the palace – but as the light slowly corroded away everything around it, the city would slide down into a pit. A few people with morbid senses of humor joked about it carving a path straight through the world of Sanctuary to come out somewhere in the southern oceans. But most of them realized they would be dead long before that happened.
Na-Krul had come charging forth from the Protectorate compound, but the damage he had done to the city was minimal. More important was the number of demon worshippers, springing up all over the empire, seizing cities and installing themselves as despotic rulers of all they could survey. They fought with each other, and the Emperor’s troops, over any provocation, each one trying to set himself up as the master of all the lands east of the Zakarum.
So, the great empire forged from the ashes of the Prime Evils’ exile to Sanctuary and the birthplace of the Horadrim was crumbling apart. Their emperor could barely hold onto a strip of land across the northern part of the continent, cold and bitter but not completely inhospitable to humanity, as his messengers killed their mounts in their haste to try and reach the theocracy on the other side of the great mountains that separated them, desperately asking for help.
And with every day that passed, the divine light of creation brought the world of Sanctuary one step closer to destruction.
Lonce sat alone in a small room, staring through the narrow window at the sudden thunderstorm that had swept in from the gulf, pounding at the capitol of Entsteig with a vengeance. Reports from the war were not sounding good – Owain dead, and one of King John’s bastard children apparently being backed by Khanduras in exchange for a peace treaty. About a third of the army was now turned against him, while the nobles still fought and squabbled over who would control the throne.
He, of course, had no intention of ever seeing another fat, pampered nobleman on the throne of Entsteig. A few of them had started hiring small companies of mercenaries for their bickering, and perhaps as their own last-ditch defense when the bastard came calling. Lonce knew of the boy, of course – a child of one of the old monarch’s servant girls born about a year after the queen died, who had left the castle and the rather cushy life to become a riding messenger for the army. Nothing that would indicate any level of power or greatness in him – yet King Loxley slew the general in barely a second, while Uther had stood against him for an hour.
Snarling, he rose to his feet violently, sending the fragile chair crashing to the floor. He looked at the bottom of the empty crystal wineglass, then hurled it into the fireplace in a fit of anger. All of his plans were unraveling around him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it! So enwrapped in his self-pity, he almost missed hearing the quiet, whispering voice. “I can help you,” it said, and Lonce froze, listening intently, for a moment concerned that he had started going mad and hearing voices where there were none. “I can help you,” the whisper came again, and he carefully fell into a fighting crouch, looking around the room warily.
Everything was silent except for the hammering of the rain on the window and the quiet crackle of the logs in the fireplace. Minutes passed, and the usurper held the pose, eyes darting around the room and ears pricked, waiting for any sound to tell him who or where his intruder might be. Finally he drew a shaking hand to his forehead, wiping away the small sheen of nervous sweat and turned back towards his desk.
Laying in the center of the wood was a small scroll, bound with a wax seal and a black ribbon, and it definitely had not been present when he started his tirade. As he reached for it, Lonce realized that despite his obvious anger and the crashing of the chair and the glass, no one had come to investigate. He picked up the paper, looking at the seal pressed into the wax and frowning, not recognizing the symbol of a seven pointed star.
The wax broke away easily as he tugged on the ribbon, unraveling the silk and dropping it carelessly to the floor as he flattened the piece of paper and read it. With his frown deepening at the apparently senseless set of directions written therein, he rolled it back up and placed it carefully in a pocket of his jacket, then abandoned the office. He had a few blocks to travel before he could reach his own house. Using the King’s office would not raise any eyebrows, but sleeping in his bedchambers would.
He shrugged on a heavy cloak, drawing the cowl up around his head and ignoring the weather like a proper soldier, stepping out into the pounding storm without any apparent hesitation. Still, he was starting to get old, and his knees ached when he had to deal with horrid weather like this. Unnatural for the end of summer, he thought unhappily, and paused at a street crossing as a bolt of lightning rendered the world in black and white.
For a moment, he stared down the other street, remembering the set of directions written on the sheet of paper, then shrugged and turned away from his home, walking quickly through the rain. It was almost midnight, but with this storm the streets would have been deserted by all but the most desperate even at noon. Which is why he stopped in surprise, less than two blocks from his destination, as a trio of common street thugs stepped out from an alley to block his passage. “Hand over your purse, and we won’t hurt you,” one of them said, casually rapping a club in his hand.
Lonce snarled, stepping backwards and drawing his sword, trying to blink the rain out of his eyes. Lightning struck again, and he had only a moment’s view of a shadow behind the ruffians. Two of them leapt forward to the attack and he parried easily, deflecting the club and the long knife contemptuously, eviscerating one of them with his casual riposte. Then the lightning flashed again, and he saw the shadowed figure do nothing more than touch the third bandit on the shoulder.
The bandit crumpled instantly, his snoring barely audible over the pounding rain as the gaunt figure stepped closer, hands held up and open despite the sword pointed in his direction. “Let’s get out of the rain,” he almost shouted, yawning widely as he turned down the street, “and we can discuss why my master sent you to me.”
Confused, Lonce lowered his sword, delivering a coup de grace before letting the rain finish washing away the blood. Then he hurried to catch up with the mysterious figure before him.
Belial stood calmly in the center of the summoning circle, human sized and keeping his normal frightening demonic appearance toned down. Arthur stood at the front of the group, Jaresh right behind him, and everyone had their weapons drawn. Three Silent Liars stood on the other side of the room, wearing their traditional armor, but with their hands clasped atop their heads, not making any aggressive moves, just in case. “Good, I’m glad you’re all here.”
Slip calmly spat on the floor, inches from the edge of the engraved circle. “So what’s the new bit of lies you’re going to spin for us, eh?” He left the bowstring loose, knowing he could put an arrow in all of the humans in the room before they could draw a weapon.
Belial simply raised an eyebrow. “I am not here to lie to you. Of course, I can’t prove that – I could stand here and swear by Gabriel or Tyrael all day, and it would just irritate them. I am telling you the truth because I know that your own interests match my own for the moment.” He spread his hands, and a blue and white sphere expanded from nothing into a globe of the world. He rotated the view, taking them from the view of the western kingdoms, past the Kehjistan to the Eastern Empire. “I’m sure you can see this brilliant bolt of light shooting upward from the city of Lao Wai.”
Maren leaned forward around Slip to look at it with interest. “What is that? It looks like a holy bolt the size of a city.”
Chuckling, the Lord of Lies slowly zoomed in the view. “You’re not far off. Boris, the strangely gifted toy-maker of the Protectorate, built a small tube that would shoot forth a beam of divine light. Na-Krul was summoned directly into the Worldstone chamber, the better to wreak havoc on the world, but Boris was there waiting for him. The demon won, of course, but he dropped his weapon, and it landed pointing the beam directly into the Worldstone.”
He stopped talking as the view had reached the scale of the capitol city, showing the devastation being wrought by the beam of divine light, spread by the Worldstone. Visha and Celest looked ashen, and Jaresh was frowning as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. “If that device is not shut off fairly soon, then it will continue to disintegrate the soil and rock beneath it until it reaches lava. The Worldstone will be destroyed, and the massive explosion of lava will destroy a good chunk of the eastern continent.”
“I fail to see how any of this matches your interest,” Jaresh said flatly. “After all, I was there when you tried to plunge the world into eternal darkness and put an end to the Sin War.” The two of them locked gazes for several seconds, and it was the demon who finally shrugged.
He closed his hands again, the map vanishing. “Let’s just say that I have been convinced that ending the Sin War right now would be rather … premature,” Belial said with a sly smile. “But my point still stands – Boris’ weapon needs to be picked up and shut off. And according to Gabriel, he’s the only one who is capable of doing so.” They all stared as he pointed at Arthur.
To everyone’s surprise, Arthur merely shrugged. “Something was mentioned when the angels were poking around my skull. But why can’t anyone else go in there?”
They all watched as he wordlessly showed them an image, from before the stone walls surrounding the Protectorate compound fell. One of the instructors for the psychicly gifted strode into the light, and his flesh slowly fell away into dust as he drew closer to the blinding light, until he fell, still dozens of yards from his destination.
“Now then,” Belial said briskly, rubbing his hands together. “The next point on my agenda was a deal – I offer you a way to kill Na-Krul and send him back to Hell without most of you dying or being transformed, and you allow these four of my followers safe passage from this compound.”
Rambur raised an eyebrow, looking over the fairly nondescript people. “What about your other followers here?”
“For starters, you already killed them,” he said flatly. “Although, I think one of the Zakarum priests said it best – the best thing to do with a good set of armor is put it on someone strong and stupid and put them between you and the enemy.” Everyone scowled at his misquotation, but let it slide for the moment. “So, Jaresh, as you seem to be the leader, do we have a deal?”
They stood in stony silence for a minute or two, and the paladin finally, reluctantly, nodded. “Very well. Tell us about Na-Krul.”
Smiling broadly, the demon dismissed his followers, and Gerta led them from the room as her master started to talk. Remember, she signed to them as the sound of his voice faded away behind them, we have places to be, and swiftly. Opportunities must not be allowed to pass us by.
She heard part of his last sentence before a door closed behind her. “The demon of chaos recently left a meeting with a previous associate of yours – Oras, if you remember him?”
Colin and Rupert trudged down the seemingly endless tunnel of fire under the River of Flames, knowing that part of their minds was shutting down from the sheer overwhelming horror surrounding them, able only to continue their path automatically. So when the view surrounding them changed, it took them a few moments to catch on to it, and bring their attention back from a self-imposed exile inside their skulls.
The tunnel had ended in a massive cave, lit only dimly by the flames at their back and a pool of crimson lava in the middle. Stone pillars surrounded it, seven in all, and each one carved with a seven-pointed star. A different point on each one was filled with gemstones of various, almost random types, and they drew closer slowly, brandishing their weapons. “Is this where I think it is?”
Rupert nodded silently to his friend’s question, walking around the stone pillars, wider around than he was. “Hell’s circle of death, counterpart to Heaven’s circle of life.” He shuddered slightly, staring at the viscous liquid filling the pool. “If I had to emerge from that after dying on the mortal world, I bet I’d be evil too.”
Colin followed him, his eyes darting back to the sole entrance to the cave, and their only exit. “It’s not quite the same though,” he said, and the other paladin looked up in surprise, eyes narrowed slightly. “The circle in Heaven is filled with … noise, emotion – something bleeding over from all the souls waiting for their chance to leave.” He nodded towards the pool and the circle of pillars. “This one is cold and empty of life.” Looking around, he moved to a fallen stalactite, sitting on a smooth portion of it. “So now what do we do?”
Before he could answer, a wind rushed through the cave, and they turned to see the flames at the mouth parting, signaling that someone – or perhaps more appropriately in Hell, something – was about to come inside. They raced for the back of the room, hiding behind a rock pile, and watched as the flames slid closed again, leaving the cave seeming empty and barren as it had before.
Belial dropped his illusions, and looked around. “Come on out, you two. Na-Krul should be arriving any minute, and you need to be prepared to kill him before he can climb out of the lava.” They waited a moment, sharing worried glances, then rose from their hiding place, moving to stand behind two of the pillars.
Silence ruled the cave as they waited, all three of them hidden from view and minds filled with worries, for the demon of chaos to return home.
Rahvunah stood in the center of the room, waiting, surrounded by a shield of chaos. Belial had set him up, and he’d fallen for it like a common rube. Still, he supposed wryly, at least he had almost accomplished his true goal – throwing the kingdoms of Sanctuary into anarchy and confusion. Certainly things wouldn’t be calming down for years, and Na-Krul would still be loose upon the world, even though his own death would weaken the great demon.
The door suddenly blew inward with a thunderous crash and a blinding flash of light. When his vision cleared, all nine of the heroes stood before him in a semi-circle, weapons pointed in his direction. “Welcome to my parlor,” he said with a mocking half-bow. “Do sit down and stay a while.”
Predictably, the archer and the gunsmith fired their weapons, but the missiles deflected away harmlessly. The others charged into melee combat against him, wading through the ranks of invisible trap spells he had set, each one pitting their willpower against the magic of pure chaos he could wield. With their weapons and armor turning against them, and even having to fight to keep control of their own bodies, it was child’s play for him to slide between them, his youthful body responding magnificently as he toyed with them, dishing out minor wounds, knowing that every stab and slice would bring them one step closer to losing the battle with his magic.
In his haste and joy for battle, the most senior Disciple of Na-Krul had failed to notice that not all of the intruders had charged into battle against him. Off to one side, Dro and Celest stood in front of the peculiar contraption, studying it carefully. “This thing looks like the most complicated mousetrap I’ve ever seen,” the mercenary muttered, pointing his sword around.
“I wonder,” the assassin said, gesturing with a katar towards one of the chunks of Worldstone embedded in it, “what happens if we remove those?”
Dro smiled, and in unison, they moved towards a pair of shards. Setting their weapons against the wood and metal braces, they pried them out, snatching the brilliant ruby gems as they fell free. In response, the machine gave a tortured shriek, part of it sagging and threatening to fall apart.
Across the room, Rahvunah felt some of his stolen years suddenly slip away from him, and his stumble almost sent him falling into the helix of metal that had been Rambur’s sword. He screamed wordlessly, throwing himself out of the melee and casting his magic desperately towards the two as they moved for the final piece of Worldstone.
The coil of chaos ripped through the middle of the machine, filling the room with a deadly rain of wooden splinters and metal spikes as everything the magic touched exploded. Celest screamed as the magic threw her halfway through the wall, suddenly rematerializing her in the stone. Dro just set his face in a snarl as one arm suddenly merged into the structure of the machine, trapping him just out of reach of the last piece of Worldstone. Shrugging, he hefted his sword and hurled it, and the room exploded in a burst of ruby light as the shard shattered.
When at last it cleared, Adonia picked herself up, looked at the twisted ruin of her favorite lance, and dropped it in disgust. The assassin was buried in the wall from the breasts up, her body sticking out and dangling at a painful angle – or, she thought sadly, it would be if the girl could have survived having her head merged with a block of sandstone. Dro was unconscious, but the sudden release of the magic had freed his arm. Still, the mercenary looked like he’d been tied down and lashed. Everyone who had tried to engage the Disciple in combat was unconscious, parts of their flesh torn and twisted. Jaresh’s hair was now a brilliant shade of emerald green, and one of his ears was upside down. Slip’s bow was laying on the floor, having been turned into a snake, and then into a pincushion, while the archer himself looked like his arms had been taken off and put back on backwards. She looked herself over, ran a hand over the black wolf pelt that now covered her legs, and grimaced in distaste.
A sudden deep intake of breath brought her gaze back up to the room, and Celest kneeling on the floor, breathing deeply. “How … you were thrown into the wall!” the barbarian warrior shouted, her eyes threatening to bulge out of her head.
Celest nodded painfully, picking up her katars and sliding them back into their sheaths, making a moue of distaste at the new bronze sheen from one of them. “One of the more difficult psychic disciplines,” she rasped painfully, “but it takes a lot out of you.” In unison, they moved towards the fallen body of their foe in the middle of the floor, Adonia pausing briefly to pick up a decent looking spike of steel.
With weapons ready, they shoved Rahvunah’s body over onto his back, and instantly drew back a step. When they had walked in, he looked to be a vibrant young man of twenty. Now, with the sudden release of the magic from his device, his flesh had withered away, to where he appeared to have died years ago, his body slowly wasting away. But the eyes still remained, colored a bright but sickly shade of yellow from the backlash of the magic. “Yuck,” they both said.
“I’ll second that one,” Slip said, looking pitifully at the dead reptile that had been his bow. “But, um, just to be sure, I propose we cut his head off, cut his heart out, burn all the parts separately and scatter the ashes over different oceans. Who’s with me?” He tried to raise an arm, only to lose his balance due to the severe changes wrought by the chaos magic.
Rambur climbed slowly to his feet, one of them clunking against the floor. “I hope we can find an alchemist who can turn stone back into flesh,” he said, banging the offending foot again. “Because there’s no way I can go after Na-Krul, or return to Entsteig, the way I am.”
With some help from Slip, Maren rose to her feet – or rather, foot, as the magic had fused her legs together. She whispered something, and he helped her hop around the edge of the room to a small pedestal with a large book. After a moment of scanning the open page, she raised a hand and incinerated the book, the inferno burning white-hot to match her anger. “That was his instructions on how to build a machine like that,” she said acidly. “I’m sure that we don’t need anyone building another one.”
“Amen,” Jaresh said, staring at the lock of hair he had pulled over his forehead. “Burn the body, and then we’ll limp up to the surface. Lord Jehryn can set some guards to prevent anyone from sneaking down here until we get a chance to destroy everything that the Disciples built.” He carefully climbed to his feet, and picked up his surprisingly unscathed scepter. “Then I have an appointment to keep with Oras,” he said grimly, dropping it back onto the belt loop.
Which, since it was made of spun sugar, promptly broke and dropped the scepter onto Rambur’s marble foot.
Lonce found himself in the most filthy, run-down room he had ever seen, following the thin figure. It was difficult in the pounding rain, but he thought he had heard the man snoring as they walked through the streets. Now, he dropped onto a pallet that probably contained more mold than straw, and as the shocked general watched, fell asleep.
He waited a moment, then stepped forward and grabbed the mysterious figure by the hair and yanked him to his feet. “Look, you, I came here for some answers, not to watch you sleep,” and he suddenly dropped the emaciated man, yawning uncontrollably as he stumbled backwards, fighting off the sudden urge to drop to the floor and give in to slumber. “What are you?” he forced out through a yawn.
Smiling, the man sat down again, slumping backwards against the wall as he looked up, his eyes half-closed. “You can call me Nox. I am one of the servants of Asmodan, the Lord of Sin.” His smile broadened slightly, showing a handful of teeth practically rotted away. “I represent Sloth.”
Backed against the door, Lonce made a simple warding sign with one hand, making the other man chuckle softly, a gesture that almost turned into a snore. “So what do you want with me?” he asked, hating himself for the way his voice shook.
Nox shrugged his shoulders and settled himself down into the vermin-ridden cushion. “I want nothing with you. But, many of Asmodan’s servants have been dying recently. My master knows of your enemies, specifically of the dark-skinned bastard child of King John who has rallied much of your army away from you.” He tilted his head in an odd manner, as though he was listening to a voice that no one else could hear. “He wishes to offer you power as one of the Deadly Sins.”
“Which one?” he asked automatically, and then checked himself. “And why should I accept his help?” The chance of gaining more power, enough to defeat the upstart and ensconce himself firmly as the leader of Entsteig was tempting – too long had his homeland languished under mediocre leaders. King John had been an empowered ruler, but he was only one in dozens of failures, and now he was dead.
“I’m not sure,” Nox said. “Obviously, Sloth is taken. So is Anger, though that post likely would not suit you. Lust is right out,” he smirked, and Lonce’s hand tightened momentarily around his sword. “Though she is a quite beautiful woman. I’m sure, if you had your wife secretly murdered, she might even make a wonderful queen, though she’s barren. Gluttony and Envy don’t seem quite your speed either.”
The list of seven sins ran through his head quickly, and Lonce considered the two that were left. “Greed, and Pride,” he said quietly. His gaze narrowed as he considered the nondescript man, practically wasting away from malnourishment – but one who could have slain him in seconds without blinking an eye. “You’ve given me quite a demonstration of your powers. What could I do with either of those powers?”
“Did you get reports of the battle between the army of Westmarch and the city of Haven?” The general nodded guardedly, and Sloth continued. “Greed owned Haven for over two decades. The king of Westmarch was Pride. Greed got half the army to desert. Pride got most of them back, and burned Haven to the ground. Greed’s hired assassins still killed the King afterwards.” He trailed off, his head nodding downwards, napping until Lonce could think through everything.
A few minutes later, the general cleared his throat, and Nox blinked awake. “Make me Greed,” he said, the trembling in his voice underscoring his fear at becoming the embodiment of one of the Deadly Sins. But he merely nodded, holding out a hand, and Lonce slowly moved forward. Their fingers touched, and the general felt as though a herd of stampeding acid beasts had just rampaged through his mind. He fell backwards, overwhelmed by the sudden blast of information. “What was that?”
Smiling, Nox slowly toppled sideways on his pallet, sending up a small puff of mold spores and dust. “Asmodan merely gave you what you needed to know to use your powers as Greed. It will take a few days to adjust, and then you can start influencing people.” He barely finished the last word before his eyes shut, and a thin, reedy snore shook his frame.
Lonce managed to crawl out the door, not caring whether it shut or not, knowing that any burglar foolish enough to walk inside would slumber his way to the afterlife. He managed to escape the building, not conscious of getting all the way down the rickety stairs and halfway back through the city towards his house. When a foot tripped him, he managed to roll over onto his back, blinking the water away to see the five toughs who had ambushed him.
Almost unconsciously, he threw a burst of his new power at him. They instantly started squabbling over him and his possessions, so intent on their prize that they temporarily forgot that their prey was still alive. Within seconds, their knives and clubs were turned against each other as they tried to keep their former allies from stealing their possessions. Lonce drew himself up to a kneeling position, watching as they brutally killed each other, the last one stumbling away, holding onto the knife stuck in the bottom of his rib cage.
You’re off to a very promising start, a voice slithered through his head, making his jump in surprise. Much better than your predecessor. Now, I have some advice for you, on how to deal with the bastard child.
He stood there in the rain, shivering uncontrollably, and then slowly continued his walk towards his house, ignoring the rain that soaked completely through his clothing. Tell me everything, he thought back, pausing before adding the last word bitterly. Master.
After four days of recovery and several alchemical potions mixed up by Lord Jehryn’s personal apothecary, everyone was back to normal, or at least fairly close. Jaresh still had a lock of emerald green hair over one ear, about which he complained bitterly, but it seemed bound and determined to stay. The hideaway that the Disciples of Na-Krul had used for so long was stripped of everything, purified, and then filled in with loads of sand.
“So,” Rambur said, watching out a palace window as the architects lowered a block of sandstone over what had been the stairway. “Now we all depart and go our separate ways, I suppose. My country needs me, and without the spells to strengthen Na-Krul, I can do my best to topple that traitor from the throne.”
Jaresh nodded, and shook the hand of the general. “I’m glad that both of you came with me here. You should also know, Lonce has exiled the Zakarum from Entsteig. And there have been reports of another man, claiming to be a child of King John, rallying some of the army to him and being backed by King Loxley of Khanduras.”
He nodded in response. “Yes, I heard some of the rumors while listening to off-duty guards drinking at Atma’s. So I’m sure he’ll be glad for an experienced leader of war.” He smiled, thin and humorous, and Adonia put a gentle hand on his shoulder for reassurance. “We’ll be leaving with a caravan tomorrow morning.”
“Good luck to you both,” Dro said, keeping his eyes focusing on sharpening yet another sword. “I suspect you’ll need it more than we will.” The whetstone rasped softly as he held up the blade, staring down the length before grunting softly in approval and rubbing an oily rag down the length.
“Easy for you to say,” Celest said, slumping down in a seat across the table from him. “After all, facing down the most power demon created by the Prime Evils probably seems a little bit tame to you.” She pulled out her bronzed katar and started using it to clean her nails.
Arthur chuckled from another table, running a hand over the freshly-shaved tonsure on his head. “Relax, sister dear. I’m sure you five will have an easier time ambushing Na-Krul than dad and I will have facing down an entire zombie army by ourselves.” He picked up a cold loaf of bread, leftovers from the sumptuous breakfast they had been served in the palace, and chewed thoughtfully.
For a moment, everyone in the room was silent, then a knock came at the door. Maren looked up, raising her head from the cushion next to Slip’s knee where he had been massaging her back, and called out, “Come in, the door is open.”
Lord Jehryn slowly pushed the door open and shuffled in. He was almost ninety years old now, one of the few living souls in the world who had known Jaresh’s parents and their companions during their crusade to drive the Prime Evils back to Hell. “Paladin, your ship has arrived,” he said softly, his voice quavering from age. “The captain of the Sunlight said he is at your disposal, and awaits you anxiously.”
Murmuring their thanks, Jaresh and Arthur collecting their few belongings and swiftly left the palace, heading for the docks and the great steel ship, the newest of the Zakarum fleet. The others sat around nervously, unsure of what else Jehryn wanted from them as he stood there near the door, apparently lost in thought. Finally, Visha lifted a bowl from the table and held it towards him. “Would you like a date, Lord Jehryn?”
He blinked watery eyes at her, then smiled. “Absolutely. How about next Thursday?” Everyone else chuckled as Visha blushed and set the bowl down. “Just a joke, my dear girl – I’m afraid I’m a bit too old to keep up with you. Besides,” he added as he shuffled for Arthur’s vacated chair, “My other three wives would never allow it. Now then, I understand you need a bit of help to prepare a stretch of coastline for the arrival of Na-Krul, yes?”
Dro started explaining their plan to the wise, if occasionally forgetful ruler of Lut Gholein, and he occasionally interrupted with questions. Two hours flew by as they debated their plan of assault, knowing that the great demon of chaos would be arriving soon – perhaps within a week or less. They had no way of knowing his speed, and magically scrying would have been impossible.
At last Lord Jehryn rose, and nodded. “I think we’ve covered everything,” he said, and started for the door. With his hand on the latch, he paused to look back at the gathering of young men and women, three of them so much like their grandparents. Chuckling softly, he let himself out into the hallway, wandering back towards his rooms to find his seneschal and get the soldiers moving.
He had always had a small, nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that he hadn’t quite done enough to help them stop the Prime Evils when they rampaged through the world of Sanctuary. His time on this mortal world was limited, sure to swiftly come to an end, but he would see himself redeemed, even if it was only in his own mind.
The gates were barred, braced with stout beams. Archers lined the walls, and giant barrels were filled with oil and rags, waiting to be tied to the arrows that would be aimed outward. Dark and red, the sun hung halfway below the horizon, filling the air with the color of blood as it darkened the clouds above them. Further inside the city, the strongest buildings were filled with women and children, crying and wailing and talking fearfully about what was to happen to them.
Outside the walls, three thousand zombies stood, utterly still, waiting for the orders of their leader and master, the Deadly Sin of Anger. Around the edges of his army, slinking half-unseen into the forest were the undead animals. Horses with fiery eyes and sharpened teeth screamed so like humans, and wolves and wildcats prowled like bloody shadows. He watched, standing inside a barren circle, alone among his mindless warriors, clearly marking himself as the leader to the foolish mortals that would help him gain his revenge on the damnable paladin who killed him.
The sun passed lower with every minute, the sky turning a deeper shade of crimson, then fading into purple as the last bit of the sun dropped out of sight. Torches and lanterns were lit on the wall, and two balls of magelight sprang into being as well, centered on the two guard towers. Still Oras waited, knowing that every minute he held his patience would add to his conquest. Midnight came and went, the men on the walls now napping in shifts, fidgeting with nervous energy and fear.
Then the thin crescent of the moon started to edge over the horizon, and the zombies stepped ponderously forward. Only one step, and Oras watched and listened to the humans pounding into alertness, their nerves stretched taut and screaming with anticipation. A little while longer, he told himself, even as his hands curled in frustration and hunger. Another minute, and the moon was above the horizon, and they took another step forward.
Howls and yowls came from the undead animals, and he could tell when the first of the men wet himself. His mouth stretched in a silent smile, and he raked the wall with his magic. Their fear was feeding into anger – at him, at themselves for knowing their defense would ultimately be useless against him. None but a Prime Evil had ever gathered an army like this, and likely none ever would.
One of the archers started screaming obscenities down at the army, grabbing rags and tying them to his arrows, loosing them carelessly down below, few of them finding a mark even with so many targets to choose from. Then Anger took over, and his shaking hand dropped the torch into the barrel of rags. It exploded, sending men leaping from the wall to their death, Oras’ silent laughter somehow felt rippling through them all. The two mages on the wall did their best to fight his powers, buttressed by a dozen Zakarum priests.
Then he vanished from his army as they lockstepped forward, more of them being struck with the flaming missiles, moaning in pain before they could pull them loose and trample them into the wet grass. Behind the gates, where he pressed his body invisibly against the wood, he could feel the fear and the nervousness and the anger of the other men, waiting with pikes and halberds and swords to try and stop his entrance.
Grinning broadly, he formed a fist and brought it crashing into the gate. It shuddered, shaking hard enough to send mortar dust sprinkling down around him. Some of the soldiers on the other side were turning to run, sure to try and flee the city through the other gate – sure to be brought down by the agile ghouls and the wolf packs. He slammed the gates again, hearing the wood creak and splinter under his onslaught.
Zombies reached the wall, and stood stiffly, bracing themselves against the stone as their brethren climbed atop them, slowly but surely working their way to the defenders barely twenty feet above the ground. Anger’s fist smashed through the gate, taking a small piece out of the bar that held it firm, before he casually ripped his claws through it, casting splinters to the ground. The soldiers behind it were now fighting each other, the braver ones fighting to keep the more cowardly from fleeing. Either way, they would be his by another midnight past.
The archers above were leaving a deadly toll on the zombies, but there were always more of the undead than there were arrows. They took the wall soon, crushing life with apathetic ease, throwing the defenders to the ground still living and then moving in on the survivors. Dawn broke soon, to the screams of the helpless, surrounded in the church and the Baron’s keep, trapped like rabbits in a den.
By noon, Oras was overseeing the mass, shallow graves, where his new warriors would rise. By nightfall, they were tearing the buildings to the ground, determined to leave nothing but a graveyard that said humans lived there no more.
By dawn, his army was over five thousand strong, and Oras was prepared for a true challenge. Little did he know, it was swiftly coming for him.
Uther stood calmly in the aisle of the cathedral in Raveil, looking around. With the Zakarum priests exiled from Entsteig, looters had broken many of the windows and carted away anything valuable that Lonce and his cronies running the army hadn’t already claimed for themselves. He didn’t follow that faith himself, but he had always appreciated the simple beauty that seemed to fill the cathedrals devoted to the worship of the angels.
He turned around to see King Loxley, the monarch of the country that had for centuries been an enemy of his family. The man looked grim and almost ashen, perhaps for the first time recognizing the anger that other people felt for his faith. “Relax,” he said in a quiet voice, “I’m sure that the clergy in your country will be happy for the opportunity to do a little redecorating. In the meantime, it’ll make as good a spot as any to hold war councils in.” He strode up to the front of the room as the leaders of both armies followed more slowly.
Grunting, he picked up a small table from one side of the pulpit, and started rearranging furniture around the altar. In shock, one of the Khanduran generals ran up, interposing himself between Uther and the small choir bench he was reaching for. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice strangled.
Blinking, the dark-skinned man glanced between the general and the altar, then up at the still unbroken glass window above the altar, of the three angels, with Hadriel in the middle. “Hey, big guy,” he called upward towards the sparkling white and yellow glass, “you have any problem with us using the altar as a table?”
“Nope,” came a ringing voice back, and Uther calmly nudged the general out of the way, lifting one end of the bench before everything bounced together in his consciousness.
He whirled, dropping the bench, and belatedly imitated the other Zakarum in falling to his knees as part of the window came to life, stepping out and becoming fleshed out in an aura of blinding light and ethereal wings. The angel looked around, then down, and gnashed his teeth. “Oh, stop that already. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people always groveling towards me whenever I make an appearance.”
“Sorry,” Loxley murmured, climbing slowly to his feet a second before his countrymen, removing the thin gold circlet that marked his monarchy and nervously wringing his hands. “It’s just, I don’t think any of us have ever been face to face with an angel before.”
“Ugh!” Hadriel said, promptly flopping down into a chair and propping his feet up on the altar. “Always with the apologies. It’s always, ‘Sorry this,’ and ‘Forgive me that,’ and it starts to get on your nerves after the first decade or so.” He fluttered his wings to keep his balance, and reached under the chair to pull out a hymnal, flipping through the pages. “Good grief, but you mortals take some of this stuffy nonsense too seriously. It’s all Tyrael’s fault.”
There was an awkward moment of silence in the cathedral after the angel dropped the leather-bound book on the altar, before Uther picked up the bench again and dragged it, screeching and complaining, across the raised floor to the altar and sat down. “So, not to be rude or anything, but,” he paused for a moment as he searched for the proper way to phrase things, “what do you want from us?”
Snapping his fingers, Hadriel dropped all four chair legs back to the floor and rustled inside his robes for a moment, then pulled out a piece of paper. “Right, right, just let me check my notes.” He unfolded it, reading for a moment and making little noises to himself, then stood up and cleared his throat. “Ok then. AHEM.”
The angel’s voice suddenly echoed, sounding as though it had two volume settings at once – one loud enough to shake the foundations of the land, and the other a comfortable conversation level. “I, HADRIEL THE ANGEL OF STRENGTH, PROCLAIM UTHER, SON OF KING JOHN JAGER AND MELODY, TO BE THE RIGHTFUL RULER OF ENTSTEIG. OPPOSE HIM AT YOUR PERIL.” As though nothing had happened, he sat down again, folding up the paper and slipped it into his robes.
Silence ruled the room, as a thoroughly shocked Uther stared with wide eyes at the angel. Then Loxley gave a nervous laugh, and tossed the gold circlet to his counterpart. “Well. I suppose you’ll be needing that more than I will – but then, I didn’t have an angelic announcement to insure my ascension to the throne!” Trying to control the sudden shaking in his hands, he sat heavily on one of the pews.
The angel smiled at him with a look of soft pity. “True, Loxley, but then, your heritage was never in doubt.” He glanced at Uther, then gave a more reproachful look to the Khanduran monarch. “In addition, Asmodan’s most powerful servants wanted you on the throne, instead of opposing it.”
Slapping his knees, Hadriel rose to his feet. “Well, I must say it’s been splendid spending time with you, but I really must get back to Heaven. We still have to kick Duriel’s rotten army out of three more Circles. Have fun storming the castle!” He leaped up into the air, two quick beats of his wings carrying him back into the window, and when the light vanished there was nothing but pieces of colored glass.
The two monarchs exchanged worried looks, and Loxley slowly rose to his feet and walked up the steps to sit at the altar with Uther. “Did he just say what I think he said?”
The younger man rubbed a hand over his head, grimacing at the starting of stubble that indicated he needed another shave. “I think he just said that Lonce just became one of the Deadly Sins.”
The generals slowly gathered around the table, pulling up another bench and unfurling maps of the border area, marking troop locations with small figurines. But everyone was sharing the same, worrying thought.
What good are mere troops against the magical powers of a Prime Evil?
Duriel watched the flow of battle. Of course, his view was from the Second Circle, as Tyrael’s words had, unfortunately, been true. The angelic forces were currently locked in slow fighting, as groups of demons hid among the buildings, ambushing the shining warriors where they could and settling for planting traps and destroying what they could not hold. He might be able to hold on for another week before his brothers were strong enough to throw him out of the Second Circle.
Still, he thought, it hadn’t been a bad run. He had still made a faster, more deadly assault into Heaven than any of the three rulers of Hell. But he simply did not have the raw power needed to throw Hadriel or Tyrael out of combat once they showed up. He sighed heavily, watching his troops work at preparing for their retreat from the Second Circle as well, feeling the long-accustomed feeling of always being at the bottom of the power struggle returning to him.
“Depressing sight, isn’t it?” a voice said next to him, and the Lord of Pain turned his head sharply to look at Gabriel, appeared out of nowhere to look through the window with him. “Of course, I hope you realize something about this. Your brothers only sent you up here to lead this because they’ve all been busy with their own little intrigue, suspecting Belial of engineering the release of Na-Krul and trying to figure out how to deal with him without killing him permanently.”
He stepped back as a massive claw cut a giant chunk out of the window, and waggled a finger. “That was uncalled for, brother. I wasn’t finished yet.” He ducked as two claws again smashed the air where he had been, damaging the tower further.
They paused for a moment, Duriel’s eyes shining red with anger born of humiliation and frustration. “I don’t need you to stand here gloating over me!” he snarled, blasting a wave of ice at the angel, who did something resembling a side-step as the magic washed past him.
“I’m not here to gloat, Duriel,” he said calmly, his words ringing clearly with truth. “In the last three millennia, how many dozens of battles have been fought in my city? The last time I had to change a plan of attack, without Belial aiding Baal, was the very first one. Until you.” He tipped an imaginary hat, and turned towards the door. “I came here to offer congratulations.”
“I don’t need those either,” the demon snarled, and ripped his claw out of Gabriel’s back, letting the angel drop to the floor with a quiet whimper of pain. The body slowly vanished into nothingness, but the Lord of Pain ignored it, watching the city of Heaven with despair hanging heavy on him.
“Are you sure about this?” Rambur asked suspiciously, looking down at the square of stone, small runes carved into it and a pair of empty bowls waiting for something. “I mean, sure I’ve seen a dozen of these scattered around the landscape, but they never seemed very reliable to me.”
Adonia chuckled, and tapped the butt of her new lance against one of the braziers, causing a small blue flame to leap upward from each one. “Do you think I had you activate the one in the Sisters’ monastery for some ridiculous superstition?” She patted his shoulder, only slightly mocking. “Come on, let’s go a little bit faster.” She stepped into the middle of the stone, and with a small pop and a rush of air, she was gone.
Grumbling, the general reached down, drawing his belt knife and rapping the blade against one of the bowls. As before, a blue flame shot up, burning small and steadily, just as the one at the monastery had. “I hope I’m not going to regret this,” he said, standing and picturing it in his mind as he stepped onto the stone.
Nothing seemed to happen for a moment, then he looked up from his feet, face to face with a rogue archer. “Gyaah!” he shouted, jumping backwards off the waypoint. A few feet away, sitting on the edge of a flower box, Adonia burst into laughter as the blushing and somewhat unhappy rogue stepped onto the waypoint and vanished to elsewhere. Partly in jest, he sulked over to where the barbarian woman waited. “You planned that, didn’t you?”
“Actually, no,” she said, trying to control her smile. “I almost ran the girl over myself. I simply … took the liberty of not saying anything.” Her grin was threatening to break her face in half, so he took the only chance he could and tickled her. Shrieks of laughter echoed off the walls of the outer cloister as he somehow managed to keep a woman who outweighed him by a hundred pounds pinned down.
Eventually, they came up for air, both trying to bring their breathing back under control. “You humans have such peculiar mating rituals,” Isha said from where she was crouched in the flower box. “I suppose it comes from having intelligent males.”
Sputtering, Adonia pulled blond hair away from her face. “We weren’t – I mean, I don’t think we were – how long were you watching us, anyway?” she finally ended, blushing furiously.
“Long enough,” the cat said with a flick of her whiskers. “At any rate, the horses you arrived with are waiting for your departure. Good luck on your mission back to Entsteig.” Without another word, she leapt over them, landing a good dozen feet away and casually sprinting towards the door as though everything were completely normal.
Thoroughly embarrassed, they climbed to their feet and limped past the doors and through the corridors towards the Tamoe highland and the stables on the outside of the monastery. It was quite a long way to the border, and they had no time to waste.
But Rambur still took the opportunity to tickle her again right before he vaulted onto his horse, laughing at her squeal of surprise. “I’ll get you for that,” she threatened with a smile on her face.
He just smirked at her. “Promises, promises. You have to catch me first!” With a flick of the reins, he was galloping across the low hills towards the west, and the proud barbarian warrior almost forgot about her horse before she went charging after him.
Arthur followed his father up the metal gangplank onto the Sunlight, trying to decide which one of a half-dozen questions he should ask first. Unfortunately, all he managed to get out was, “How?”
Jaresh paused on the deck, glancing back at him. “I don’t suppose you could be a little more specific?” he responded with a grin, pulling open one of the hatches and sliding carefully down the ladder into the narrow corridor. They both ducked under exposed pipes, and around other crew members working at stowing food supplies for the relatively short voyage back across the Sea of Light.
“What I meant was,” the priest said back, half-shouting to be heard over the usual noises aboard one of the great metal beasts, “was how are just the two of us going to defeat an army of several thousand undead?”
Jaresh paused, one hand on the door wheel. “When did I say it would be just the two of us?” He spun the wheel to open the door, pushing it open and stepping into the mess hall and the voiced greetings from almost five dozen paladins. The room was crammed to the bursting point, and that with most of them devoid of weapons and armor. “Hullo lads,” he called back in his usual booming voice. “Ready to go pound some rotten zombies back into the earth?”
The resulting shout was loud enough it shook the ship, and was heard on the dock, as sixty voices screamed “For Tyrael!” at the top of their lungs. As the ropes were hauled in, and the screws beneath the Sunlight edged her slowly away from the docks and towards the open sea, one of the dockhands muttered something about crazy, single-minded zealot paladins.
His buddies all joked that the poor barbarian was just ashamed he’d been out-shouted.
The sun was barely over the horizon, and Dro was already panting as he wiped sweat from his eyes. “I knew there was a reason I hated visiting Lut Gholein,” he muttered to himself as they all watched Maren chanting and waving a crystal orb over a bowl of water. “All this damn sun in the Aranoch that you have to go through to get there!”
Celest patted his shoulder comfortingly, before dumping half the contents of a waterskin over her head. About a hundred feet away, on the smoother, debris-cluttered sand where the waves struck, rested a small group of soldiers and military engineers, clustered under a pair of canopies. She turned her head slightly, hearing someone mutter. “What was that, Visha?”
The gunsmith was sitting on a small rock, her thin white blouse already plastered to her skin with sweat as she worked at cleaning one of her pistols. “I said,” she grumbled slightly louder, “I hope this divination spell of hers works. Be a shame to spend two days out here working for nothing.” Her pistol suddenly came together with a series of clicks, and she nodded in satisfaction.
They all looked up as Maren started firing off a rapid-fire description to Slip, who was writing it all down as swiftly as he could move the pen. The other three quickly crowded around behind him, trying to read his crabbed handwriting over his shoulder. Then the scene in the divination bowl was gone, and the sorceress sagged to the ground, tipping over the liquid and spilling it into the thirsty sand.
Frowning, Dro took the sheet of parchment from Slip, moving it back and forth and turning it as he futilely tried to read it. “Sergeant, were you lying when you said you could write?” Irritably, Slip grabbed it back from him, cleared his mouth with a swig of warm water, and then read aloud the descriptions of several rocks and fallen statues from cities long since lost to the blazing sands. “But that’s a hundred yards down the coast?”
“So what?” Maren finally said, picking up her staff and climbing back to her feet. “We’re already two miles from the city, another hundred yards won’t matter much.” She tied her hair back again, wiping sweat from her cheeks, and gripped the staff with grim determination. “Let’s get the soldiers moving and prepare the scene.
Sluggishly in the morning heat, they all moved up the beach, and the engineers started shouting their orders, and the soldiers griped, and generally everything was going just the way they wanted it to. Which, as most heroes will tell you, tends to either mean victory or imminent disaster.
Lonce stood in the throne room. Three nights ago, he had stumbled back to his house, a rather modest affair, and mostly empty since his wife had died of the flu a few years back. He had spent the night tossing and turning, as his power and fragments of knowledge chased themselves around his brain. Yesterday, he was getting a handle on it, and today he stood and watched while several servants carted away the throne.
The morning meeting had gone smashingly well, he thought. All of the nobles were off his back now, hiring their own mercenary forces to send against that little bastard Uther, more afraid of having an angel-proclaimed monarch than the army. Speaking of the army, his powers were starting to go to work there as well. He could feel, though faint and far away, the irritation and hunger that many of the men had, their purses empty and their bellies starting to follow suit. He still controlled the silver mines, and many of the defectors were learning to their great disappointment that no bastard child, blessed by Heaven or not, could pull coins from his ass to pay his troops.
“Sir?” Lonce turned, looking at a messenger, still coated with dusty sweat and the thick smell of horses. “Commander Julian said to inform you that the new conscription goals you set are being met. The army will be increased ten percent by the end of the month.”
He just smiled wider, knowing full well that the faint stirrings of his new powers as Greed would be making this easier. The men forced into the army would complain less when they were granted the opportunity to loot the fallen foes following Uther, and when they marched into Khanduras following the sniffing of their gold-tinted noses, the carnage would be remembered for years.
“Very good,” he replied, turning back to watch the dais being cleared. Tomorrow, probably, the new décor would be in place, and he could show off the power that the army held over the rest of the country. By the time those inbred nobles realized they’d been fooled, it would be too late. They would be bled dry of cash, and servants, and in no position to oppose his rule. “Take the rest of the day off,” he said, reaching into his pouch and tossing the man a large silver coin, the stamped face of King John glinting in the thin sunlight strips.
Almost unconsciously, he had wrapped a thread of his magic around the coin as he tossed it, and the soldier caught it handily, saluting before jogging quickly out of the throne room. By the end of the day he’d be dead, knifed in a card game or afterwards by someone else more demanding of his winnings. But Lonce didn’t care much what happened to another peasant forced into the army.
He had more important things to do, like retire to his new chambers here in the castle and think of a proper inspiring speech to give the soldiers before they marched off to loot Khanduras of everything her people owned. Whistling cheerfully, he walked through the hallways, ignoring the many covetous glances the servants sent his way.
It took four days of hard riding before Rambur and Adonia came upon the first of the sentries posted by the Khanduran army. They had already killed three horses along the way, riding them to death on their mission. After a brief stop in Tristram to send a messenger north to her people, they had reached the front lines of the battle.
Unfortunately for them, the sentry supposed to be standing watch wasn’t at the marked guard post, but hiding nearby a few branches up in a tree, smoking a pipe full of rather aromatic leaves. “This isn’t a good sign,” the general muttered as he reined in the horse at the iron torch-holder. “There should be someone here on watch. The camp is practically undefended from this side.”
Adonia halted as well, bringing her lance down from her shoulder and wiping the sweat from her eyes. “Burning hells, we’d better get down there into camp and make sure that somebody gets up here to fill the post and find out where the missing soldier went.” As she started down the hillside towards the jumble of tents and fire pits, mostly quiet in the afternoon sunlight, a sudden ringing noise echoed clearly across the countryside.
They turned, searching the thick leaves of the trees to try and discover the source of the noise, even as dozens of surprised soldiers came charging up the hill, half-dressed in armor and carrying weapons still sheathed. The two travelers kept their weapons carefully in check, not wanting to antagonize the army. “We come in peace,” Rambur said loudly, looking around to try and spot the highest ranking officer.
“Sure you do,” came the slightly slurred voice from somewhere up in the branches. “That’s why you came sneaking up around here, marking off the best route to bring an attack on the camp.” The sentry suddenly hiccupped, and several of the alerted soldiers were glancing around, weapons held lower, less threateningly.
Snarling, Adonia suddenly changed her grip on her lance, stabbing forward with it over the heads of the soldiers and sending it flying into one of the trees, shattering the living wood and sending the sentry to the ground, screaming the whole short way as his lit pipe spilled its burning contents down his shirt. Several of the other fighters sniffed in irritation and distaste as he leapt back to his feet, trying to put out the burning leaves before they made his Entsteig uniform even more tattered.
“Anyone else have a problem with a couple of friendly warriors dropping by to lend a hand?” she asked acidly.
“Actually,” a voice came from behind them, and they turned to see the two kings, Loxley and Uther, “last time I checked, he was still branded a traitor, and exiled from my country,” the darker one replied, adjusting the thin gold circlet.
Rambur snorted, dismounting and walking over to stand before the monarchs. “Who do you believe, your majesty – myself, or Lonce and Owain?” He drew his sword, kneeling and offering it up.
Uther chuckled, lifting the sword and experimentally testing the weight. “Nice weapon,” he chuckled. “But still, I can’t have a traitor serving in my army. So,” he lowered the blade to rest on Rambur’s shoulder, “I hereby pardon you of whatever nonsense the usurpers made up.” He put the sword back into his general’s hand. “Now get off your knees! How do you expect to run my army from here?”
Smiling, Rambur jumped back to his feet, gave a snappy salute, and jogged down the hill. “Well now,” Loxley said, striding forward to greet Adonia with a smile and an open hand, “how were your travels, Head Clan Chief Adonia of the tribes of Bul-Kathos?”
She stared at him for a moment with an eyebrow raised, then took his hand in hers. “If you ever use that ridiculous full title again,” she murmured quietly as she raised their hands up between their faces, “I’ll break every bone in your hand.” His smile faltered a little as her broadened. “That said, I hope you will accept an alliance with my people.” She glanced over at Uther. “Especially since about twenty thousand warriors will be marching on the northern border within another day or two.”
The younger man blinked stupidly at her for a moment, then smiled nervously and adjusted the circlet again. “I, ah, am grateful for the alliance and the help you are offering,” he started off, unused to staring up at anyone. “But given the reports of other barbarian wars, how much of my country will I have left by the time this war is over?”
With a broad, predatory grin, she clapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking him from his feet and sending his circlet flying into a surprised soldier’s hands. “Don’t worry,” she said airily as she started walking towards the tent where General Rambur had vanished. “I ordered them to take prisoners!”
Shaking his head in surprise, Uther took back his circlet and jogged to keep up with her. “Well, then, I suppose that will help things,” he panted. “Thank you for the help, Head Clan Chief –“
“Adonia,” she cut him off, “or Clan Chief. I hate those overly formal titles all you monarchs are so proud of.”
He fell back, letting her stride off into the tent alone, and hoped that something would still be left of the Khanduran General Rupert when she was done.
As the three hidden figures watched, the surface of the lava pool sudden started bubbling and churning, lashing about in the stone basin that contained it. Small droplets went splashing about, striking the stone pillars and flaring briefly before their heat died away and they hardened, adding new black spots on the stone. Rupert had a moment to wonder how large the pillars were when Hell was created, then his attention was stolen by something else.
“Someone’s coming!” he hissed, as the shimmering wall of lava and flames spiraled aside, revealing the hidden stairway back to the surface of the River of Flames. The two angels automatically shrunk back further into the shadows behind the pillar, while Belial layered his subtle illusions more carefully around them.
“It won’t be long now,” Diablo growled.
Baal chuckled from behind him, somewhere still out of sight. “True. Na-Krul will be slain within minutes by the humans.” They fell silent, both of them moving to the edge of the circle of pillars. “I want to hear who released him first, brother,” he said warningly.
The shriek of sharp claws grating against the stone floor echoed through the room, and Colin and Rupert shared a worried look. “What now?” Colin mouthed silently, but his companion had no reply.
A sudden burst of lava made them both peek around their pillars again, and they tightened their grip on their weapons.
The Sunlight pulled into a set of rather meager docks in some village north of Kurast, a place that the rather sheltered Arthur had, naturally, never heard of. Their voyage across the Sea of Light had been short, but very interesting, as he sat around on the deck or in the mess hall and listened to the paladins discuss their various missions for the Church.
Now they quick marched to the church, standing tall in the middle of the fishing village on the coastline, and Arthur’s eyes nearly bugged out at the sight of the herd of horses grazing on the grass in the cemetery. “Don’t worry,” one of the older paladins clapped him on the shoulder, misinterpreting his gaze, “horses aren’t that bad once you get used to them.” In fact, at least half of the toughened warriors were casually jumping the wall and moving into the herd, making friends with the animals where the more thoughtful had brought lumps of sugar or pieces of fruit.
“Jaresh!” He looked up as a familiar voice shouted his name, and then a bishop was flinging himself down the steps of the church to pound his back and crush the breath from his lungs. “By Hadriel, it’s been years! I saw the message about that peculiar zombie army, and what can I say? I just had to come along.” He finally released the paladin, and Jaresh could see some of the other men groaning from the corner of his eye as he tried to think up something to say.
Arthur stepped up to the wall, nervously tugging on the sleeve of a paladin not much older than his sister. “Who is that? And why is everyone so unhappy to see him?” On the steps, his father and the bishop were heading inside, the younger bishop practically dragging Jaresh inside.
Chuckling, the paladin stopped cleaning his nails and put his knife away. “That, oh unfortunate priest, is the Bishop Skysinger. His grandparents were druids who left their clan for some reason, and he joined the priestly order – then decided he wanted to be a paladin instead.” Shaking his head with a wry smile, he moved towards the herd of horses as well, looking to pick out a mount of his own. “He’s not a bad sort, just rather, um,” he cut off, throwing a meaningful glance to one of his companions. “Hey Blain, what’s the best way to describe the oh-so-noble Bishop Skysinger?”
A much older paladin stopped brushing down his horse long enough to throw a broad grin at the nervous priest by the wall. “Enthusiastic,” he said slowly, pretending to think heavily about it. “Definitely enthusiastic.” Keeping the broad grin, he tossed one of the brushes to Arthur. “Best find yourself a mount. I recommend one in the center of the herd, where he’s less likely to see you!”
Holding the well-worn brush in his hands, Arthur walked around to the gate and slipped among the herd of horses and men, trying to keep the scowl off his face. “Once again, I get relegated to the background.” He stopped as one of the horses shied away from him, and in disgust, tossed the brush to another paladin.
A sudden, bright flash of light blasted across the landscape, and everyone turned towards the front of the church. A few paladins had reached for their weapons, but all of them dropped to a knee instead as the light resolved itself into Gabriel. “Arthur, what are you still doing here?”
The priest just stood there for a moment, blinking awkwardly from his kneeling position as he tried to focus on the shining Angel of Knowledge. “Well, I know you wanted me to go to the Protectorate, but it’ll still take the Sunlight a month to get there.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Plus, since Belial said it, I didn’t think it was real.” He tried to keep the whine out of his voice, knowing that he must look terribly stupid to most of the paladins. Just another child in their eyes, he thought.
Gabriel snorted rudely. “Sorry, but no, that part he was telling the truth about. And right now, you have places to go.” Ignoring the startled protests of Arthur and Jaresh, the angel flung forth his hand, and a burst of sparkling blue light engulfed the priest, vanishing a moment later. Then the angel himself vanished, the light seeming to fold into itself until the brilliant radiance had vanished.
Jaresh stared at the spot on the dirt road for a moment, then swore. Skysinger glanced at him, then nodded solemnly. “I dare say, that does change the situation a bit, doesn’t it?” He didn’t even seem to notice the dirty look the paladin gave him as Jaresh stalked over to the herd of horses, eerily similar to the way Arthur had just a few short minutes before.
The group of five waited silently in the pre-dawn air, dry and rasping in their throat as though waiting for the scorching sun to rise and partner the deadly dance of the Aranoch desert. They had been camped out since the night before, knowing only that Na-Krul was coming, and roughly where he would be appearing. Maren kept quietly muttering to herself whenever she shifted, and then tried to get the sand out of her robes. The others had long since given up on trying to move, or simply ignored the chafing sand that so expertly wormed its way under their armor.
The ocean waves lapped quietly at the shore, a non-stop lull of sound that had driven Dro and Celest to sleep, propped against each other with their weapons at the ready. Slip had awoken an hour ago, when Maren kicked him accidentally, and now sat atop one of the dunes, watching the ocean. He was still half asleep himself, which is why it took him a moment to realize that something had changed.
“Hey, Maren, come up here a second and look at this,” he called over his shoulder. “You notice anything odd?”
Still cursing about the sand, she stumbled up the dune to stand near the sergeant, the torrents of sand kicked up by her feet waking a very irritable mercenary. Slowly, all five of them clustered at the top of the sand dune, trying to shake the sleep from their minds and identify something that was clearly out of place.
A blast of light made them all squint as the sun rose over the horizon, and Visha suddenly cursed, drawing her pistols and throwing herself off the side of the sand dune. Everyone scattered, following her lead, and barely escaped the sudden explosion as Na-Krul rose up out of the stagnant surf, the blast of fire baking sand into glass.
Running in desperate moves, they tried to stay clear of his magical attacks while they lured him out of the water and over one of the deep pits that the engineers had finished digging the day before. A few arrows and fire bolts skipped off the demon with little effect, though they heard him swear when a bullet creased his shoulder.
“I will turn your skins into a tapestry of pain, the words ever changing to mark the tortures you will feel at my hands!” he roared at them, just before he leapt forward, landing squarely in the middle of one of the pits. Naturally, the thin wooden frame collapsed, and they heard the sound of the metal spikes squealing and twisting as he thrashed about at the bottom. Then all was silent, and they slowly wiped the sweat from their palms, rechecked their weapons, and converged on the pit.
As they gathered along one edge, Dro leaned over the side, placing him in the perfect position as Na-Krul soared back out of the pit, blasting the others backwards as he seized the mercenary, bearing him backwards to the sand with a scaled hand at his throat. “You were the one who killed my servant, so you are the first to die!”
Just as the demon’s weight started to bear down, a voice directly next to him surprised him. “Hey, fish breath,” and he snapped his head to the side, finding himself staring down the barrels of the two pistols. “Dodge this,” she said, and the demon’s last view was the blast of fire propelling two bullets through his eyes and into his skull.
Of course, with the demon dead, his body promptly collapsed directly atop Dro, and the others worked quickly to free him before the sheer weight of the demon could crush him to death. Gingerly rubbing the giant bruise that covered all of the visible skin between his jaw and his armor, he just gave a thumbs up to Visha, who smirked and twirled her pistols.
When a loud, meaty thunk echoed across the dunes, they looked over to see Slip, holding the fallen sword, and hacking at Na-Krul’s neck. Sensing their eyes, he glanced over his shoulder. “What?” he asked innocently.
Maren cleared her throat, leaning on her staff as she brushed sand off her robes. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I am not going home without a trophy.” He smiled wider, then winked at the mercenary. “Besides, I’m sure we could sell this for enough money to finally buy the poor guy a decent sword.” The others laughed as the scout ducked a thrown handful of sand.
The thundering of hooves was like an earthquake, shaking the ground as two hundred soldiers galloped up, matching their pace to the three score of paladins riding east. The zombie army had seemed unstoppable as they marched relentlessly southward towards Travincal, slaying hundreds of soldiers who tried to stand in their way. Paladins and priests had worked together in the larger cities, constructing wards of protection against the undead.
Oras had marched his army past most of them, after discovering that the soldiers inside those wards could not attack without bringing down their magical shields. And by the time he reached Travincal, none of those pesky mortals would be close enough to threaten his flanks. After all, humans had to stop and rest, something that no undead required.
They made a few small detours, rampaging through smaller villages along the way to replenish his troops. One group of a dozen paladins had nearly brought his army to a halt, until the magic of Anger overwhelmed them one by one, sending the warriors charging foolishly into the bulk of the army, their auras fragmenting as cooperation was sliced apart by thoughts of furious vengeance.
But now, the horses shaking the ground was starting to impinge on Oras’ unnatural hearing, and he slowed his shambling troops, turning some of them towards the west as he listened to the sounds of galloping hooves. Zombified horses and ghoulish wolves and hunting cats slunk forward, eyes glowing red as they scented the prey rushing into their mouths. Loosed by a thought, they charged forward on clawed feet, tearing up the ground as their master watched dispassionately.
Jaresh gave a warcry as they came over the hill, auras overlapping as they smashed into the line of rotting animals. The sheer force of their magic was enough to splatter the first row backwards, returned to death before they knew what happened. For a moment, the paladin locked eyes with an unusual zombie standing near the front of the army, then he was in the thick of combat, his scepter swinging viciously to cut down his enemies.
Watching furiously as a group of humans a tenth the size of his own army slashed their way easily through the animals, Oras bound up his fury and cast it around him like a blanket. Zombies stirred as the pure, focused emotion soaked into them, and as one they started moving for the band of human soldiers. Anger recognized the paladins, but he was confident that his power would still be enough to defeat them. He would not let anything hold him back, this close to his goal! Then his eyes locked with the grey-haired paladin and recognized the foe that had ended his mortal life.
His charge was so fast that the soldiers who saw him coming were unable to raise their shields fast enough to block him. In the space of a heartbeat, two men were laying on the ground, their life oozing out along with their intestines. With two more, he had picked up one of the horses, hurling it into the melee and crushing one of the paladins into his own mount.
Turning, Jaresh blasted a zombie away with his shield and pointed his scepter at the rampaging zombie. “Oras!” he shouted, guiding his horse sideways as it reared up, kicking hooves decapitating another rotting foe. “Time for you to go back to Hell!”
He spurred his horse forward, and Bishop Skysinger kicked his own behind him, praying loudly even as his silver-shod staff smacked zombies aside. The zombie had stopped, his hand wrapped around the throat of a soldier as his horse was ripped apart underneath him. Oras grinned, tearing the man’s leg off and dropping him contemptuously. Through rotted vocal chords, he forced a croak, and held the leg ready to meet the charge.
They clashed and dodged, Jaresh pulling up his horse as he tried to turn around, ignoring the bloody smear that covered the new dent in the top half of his shield. Oras threw down his weapon, now shattered and oozing, and picked up another horse as his zombies pulled down the paladin riding it. Whinnying pitifully, it flew through the air, only to be smashed to the ground by a bolt of lightning a foot away from its target. As Jaresh waved his scepter menacingly, Anger threw a blast of magic at him, feeling it curl around his aura and start to seep in before he pushed it away again.
Picking up a fallen axe, he charged, and the horses spurred forward again, smashing together and apart into the melee to circle and come around for another round. This time, the zombie was left with a smoking ruin from his elbow down, and Jaresh threw off the half shield still attached to his arm. He took a moment to glance around the battle, noting the circles of soldiers and paladins, slaughtering the zombies as they surged forward, the magic filling them helping them resist the powerful auras of the holy warriors.
The two leaders locked eyes again, and charged forward, knowing that this would be their last attack against the other. Eyes narrowed, they both swung. But at the last moment, Oras leaped into the air, lashing out with a kick strong enough to shatter stones.
The bolt of lightning struck him just in time, and instead he crashed into Jaresh, knocking them both off the horse. The paladin had a brief moment to see Skysinger’s horse galloping down on him, and it jumped over them both as he fought to roll the rotten body off and regain his feet. He shook his head to clear his vision, then gave another warcry as he charged for the nearest circle.
With their leader struck down, the zombies lost much of their strength, and the groups of soldiers and paladins regrouped, striking out to smash the strongest groups of undead. By the time night fell, the field was littered with the rotting remains of over three thousand men and women. Their numbers almost halved, the paladins and soldiers moved among the carnage, saying prayers and singing hymns for the souls whose bodies had done such unspeakable evil without their knowledge.
Hidden in the jungle growth, Oras watched for a moment, then vanished away, fleeing for his life as Asmodan’s voice roared angrily in his head.
Arthur blinked in surprise as a bright light surrounded him, and stood very still, waiting for it to end. But after at least a minute, with his eyes still filled with blinding whiteness, he raised a hand in front of his face. Squinting, he made out the details of some buildings in a style he vaguely recognized. This must mean he was in Lao Wai, the capitol of the empire and home to the Protectorate. And the Worldstone, he thought in alarm, and started forward.
After stumbling against a cart, his hand came away trailing a filmy piece of cloth, something that might once have been wool before the overwhelming purity of the light started eating away. He easily tore off a strip, and tied it around his eyes, now viewing the world through a grayish haze. Then he continued, often stumbling over rough spots in the road where the panicked people had fled the first assault of the divine light.
He saw a few other moving shapes in the crumbling city, thieves risking their lives for treasures that they were not likely to appreciate, if the light touched them, but Arthur ignored them and continued on his way, using his staff often and keeping his eyes closed. Often he would knock aside a fallen weapon, or a dislodged paving stone, and stumble over the hole left behind. It was easy to tell where the light source was, as it was enough to blind him even through closed eyes and a blindfold.
He paused when his staff encountered crumbling dirt, easing slowly downhill as he squinted through pained eyes. Sure enough, the Worldstone was somewhere down there, in the center of the slowly growing crater, the device that poor old Boris had made stuck somehow and still pointing straight into it. He tore off a new strip of cloth from his shirt, tying it in place and continuing downward into the depression.
Slipping and sliding his way downward, he quickly lost track of time, and of his staff when it caught on a rock and clattered somewhere below him. Not pausing to grieve his sudden lack of a weapon, he slid downward with another shower of dirt. It was odd, he reflected with a detached part of his mind, how beautifully the cloud of dust caused patterns in the light before it all vanished, undone through the overwhelming magical purity.
Long before his feet suddenly slammed into something hard, he had given up trying to use his eyes, so the sudden stop came as a surprise. Raising a trembling hand, he waved it slowly through the air until he encountered a cold, smooth surface, seeing a small patch of the light tint red as it shone through his hand. Breathing a sigh of relief, he carefully stood, and started walking around the edge of the Worldstone, searching for the innocent looking device that had caused such destruction.
His foot found it first, kicking the small cylinder with a clang and setting it to spinning, the Worldstone-augmented light flashing crazily on and off, each time striking the priest like a hammer the size of the moon. At last he picked up the rounded piece of steel, and carefully removed the cap from the other end, replacing it on the open end.
The sudden absence of light was shocking, like he had been dropped into a cave, but Arthur sat down suddenly against the dirt. Breathing heavily, he untied the almost-corroded cloth against his face, trying to ignore that the rest of his clothes were likewise crumbling off his body. Rubbing sore eyelids, and hoping to make the headache go away, he pulled the waterskin from his belt, trying to take a drink and instead bursting it over his head. His shirt completely dissolved in the sudden deluge, and when he sprang to his feet his pants joined it.
“This is just bloody wonderful,” he muttered to himself, shivering despite the warm summer air.
“My master sends his thanks to you for removing this obstacle to his conquest,” a raspy voice said nearby. He turned sharply, opening his eyes for the first time in several hours. The imp did not even have time to scream as the beams of light pouring from Arthur’s eyes struck his body, burning it away to less than ash instantly.
His eyes still open, and the ground lightly smoking where the imp had stood a moment before, he raised a hand in front of his face and stared through his translucent skin, watching the flow of his blood and the disturbing shifting of his muscles. He sat down heavily as his legs collapsed, and turned back to the Worldstone, his gaze brightening the area inside the crater with a pale imitation of the divine purity of light that had been there before.
Then his eyes sought out the blue sky, clouds rapidly forming in the absence of the light, and he glared. “Gabriel,” he muttered as he rose to his feet and started climbing slowly out to see what remained of the city, “next time I see you, I am going to tie you up and lock you in Tal Rasha’s tomb for at least a couple of centuries.”
Ignoring the chuckling sound of the wind, he wrapped his arms around his naked body and hurried to find new clothing.
The pool of lava started to bubble and froth, the light dancing wildly over the face of Diablo. Baal stood near the entrance, the chained doppelganger of Belial cowering at his feet. “Hurry up, Chaos Lord!” Diablo roared into the room as he paced. “Come on out of there so that I may kill you!”
Baal raised a restraining hand, but let it drop, allowing the smile to play over his lips. Colin and Rupert watched it all from their hiding place on the other side of the lava pool, hoping that their illusions could hold up against the two most powerful of the Prime Evils. Then the lava stilled, the light dying away, and everyone’s eyes went to the pool as the liquid shifted.
Na-Krul burst free from the surface, looking slightly ragged around the edges as he pulled himself free. In the back of his mind, so faint he almost thought it was his imagination, Rupert heard Gabriel’s voice urging him to hurry forward, to slay the demon before he could exit the circle. His hesitation meant that Colin was a step before him, sword already thrusting forward as Rupert charged up next to him.
Na-Krul stopped suddenly, locked in a staring contest with a very surprised Diablo, when the weapons hit him. The sword pierced straight through his back, dripping his blood down the tip and his ribs back into the smoking lava, and then the halberd blade bit into his neck, carving through until it grated on his spine.
Everyone in the room stood perfectly still for a moment, watching with various degrees of surprise as the great demon of Chaos bled his life away into the pool where he was born, then his body sagged. A giant blast of magic tore outward, throwing the angels out of the pool and shredding their illusions. Baal shielded his eyes, not noticing at first that the chain he held was now dragging on the floor, the collar empty.
Diablo raised a clawed hand, pointing a furiously shaking finger at Rupert. “Damn you, foul paladin! Even in death, can’t you leave yourself out of my plans?”
“Nah.” He dropped the halberd onto the floor, ignoring the clatter it made, and strode forward, spreading his arms wide as he faced down the Lord of Terror for the fifth time. “Would you mind giving me the short trip back home?”
His claws shot forward, only to be stopped as they were suddenly entangled in Baal’s tentacles. “No, brother, leave him be,” Baal hissed in anger. “Let him take back his weapon, and see if two paladins can fight their way out from the deepest pits of Hell.” He yanked on the chain, still held in his hand, and held up the empty collar for Diablo to see. “We have more important prey to capture.”
Releasing his brother, the Lord of Destruction turned back to the tunnel, diving into the lava before his passage had cleared and returning to the surface of the River of Flames. Giving a departing, hate-filled glare, the Lord of Terror followed him. Sighing, Rupert turned back around towards Colin. Feeling the pointed tip of his own halberd punch into his chest caught him by surprise, and he collapsed to the floor as Belial stepped through his fading vision and over to the tunnel, vanishing from sight under another illusion.
Screams echoed under the clanging of sword and mace against shields, as the armies of Khanduras and Entsteig met again. Lonce was a dazzling figure in the midst of his army, surrounded by a cloud of noblemen and their personal guards, all of them determined to shelter their usurper, desperate to claim for themselves a piece of the wealth of the kingdom and the spoils of another conquering of their southern neighbor.
This battle had been long and deadly, lasting for three days so far, with only temporary lulls coming as night fell across the land, stifling the dry, summer air with a sudden blanket of cold. Each side had been launching stealthy attacks, and men and women crossed the battlefield, deserting to join the hypnotic magic of Lonce or the divine inspiration of Uther. Uther and Loxley paused in a brief circle of calm, both lifting the visors on their helms to wipe sheets of sweat away, brought out by the exertion and the noon-day sun.
Wind howled down from the north, and the lines shifted. Both monarchs hefted their stained swords in weary arms, preparing for a group of Entsteig men stumbling towards them, when a sudden roar echoed on the wind. Fighting their way towards a nearby hill, joining up with more of their soldiers, they looked towards the sound.
A column of barbarian warriors had descended on the rear of the Entsteig army, burning their camp as the noble fighters charged through it, falling upon Lonce’s men unawares. A trio of axes flew through the air, and General Rambur pointed as Adonia vaulted over the first line of troops guarding the usurper. “We need to get down there,” Uther said suddenly. “I won’t be able to keep the peace after this if the northern tribes are solely responsible for taking him down!”
Marshalling the tired soldiers around them, the two monarchs and their generals charged down the side of the hill, shattering clumps of fighting soldiers on their way. The barbarians had scattered through the melee now, striking down any fighter wearing the Entsteig red and black. Then they were facing the noblemen guarding Lonce, and slowed to a halt. As many of them fought as tried to surrender, and even the barbarian reinforcements were barely able to take charge of the sudden prisoners.
At last, Lonce was hemmed in by a circle of swords and spears, turning awkwardly as he cradled a broken arm. “As much as I’d like to take you prisoner, and execute you publicly,” Uther intoned, “I can’t risk your magic inspiring others to help you escape. Go to Hell.” Several swords, and Adonia’s lance, stabbed forward to find chinks in his armor, even as others were taken by his magic, trying to parry them aside and save Greed from his fate.
But there were too many unaffected by the demonic magic, and Lonce’s body was suspended in the air from a dozen weapons until they shook his corpse loose as one. The magic of Greed fled from the battlefield, and the Entsteig army surrendered almost at once.
Uther let his sword drop to the ground, then followed it a moment later, kneeling and breathing heavily as he pulled off his helm. “I don’t suppose,” he panted as he glanced up towards Loxley and Adonia, “that the two of you would be kind enough to help me settle out all of this mess before you go home?” He waved a hand weakly at the carnage covering once-planted fields.
Loxley plopped himself down on the ground next to the younger monarch. “As much as we can,” he said, resting his battered helm on one knee, “but there’s a great deal you’ll have to do yourself, as the king.”
Uther snorted. “I’ve never run as much as a tavern by myself. Now I have to deal with a kingdom!” He shook his head in wonder. “I suppose Hadriel had his reasons though.” He picked up a fallen bugle, and then looked around at the circle of soldiers. “Anyone know the signal for having the officers assemble? Might as well start by getting my new army in shape.”
In Kingsport, the private armies fielded by the few noblemen desperate enough to feud over the future of their throne and their kingdom had come to an uneasy standstill. Some sporadic fighting was still going on in some of the more remote areas of Westmarch, where the messengers had not yet reached the armed men trampling fields to try and control the peasantry. But most of them were, reluctantly, halting their forces.
Duke Zurick sat in what had once been the King’s private study, looking out the window towards the hazy clouds, shifting from red to purple as the sun sank lower below the horizon. Three of the others sat in chairs behind him, shifting nervously. He had the upper hand against any individual foe, that much was clear, though they could take him if they joined forces. That, however, would merely be delaying the inevitable struggle.
Zurick cleared his throat, turning back around to face the three, and the door swung open to admit Duke Aridson, who strutted over to the other man and clapped him on the shoulder. “Are we all ready to begin?” He looked at the three sour faced noblemen, then at his slightly amused ally, and chuckled. “Good.”
Picking up a bottle of wine, and pouring glasses, Zurick started explaining things. “The longer this war goes on, the better the chances of Khanduras turning around from their battle against Entsteig and taking back land from us. My military spies haven’t been the best, given the current situation, but,” he glanced at Aridson, “I fully expect the Khanduran army to achieve victory within a week.”
The other three men shifted nervously in their chairs, and the more sallow complexioned Aridson continued. “It’s also unfortunately obvious that no single one of us can win control over Westmarch until there’s nothing left to control.” He shrugged, and took a sip of the sparkling white wine. “Which is why we’ve joined forces. The former royal holdings will be distributed to our underlings as we see fit.”
Chuckling, Zurick set his mostly full glass down on the table. “Each of you who pledge fealty to me, and supply me a certain number of men to my army, will be fortunate enough to keep their titles and their lands. My daughter will be marrying the young Lord Aridson, once they both become old enough. Those of you who choose to continue to resist, well, we’ll just have to seize your land and grant your titles to someone more loyal.” He picked up the glass again, tilting it slightly in a silent toast.
One of the men shifted in his chair again, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Duke Zurick, are we the only ones you are extending this,” his voice dripped with sarcasm as he spat the next few words out, “generous offer to?”
“Actually, I’ve sent messengers to the other four factions as well, Duke Grant. I expect you to take your oath of fealty as seriously as you did for our unfortunately former king.” He set down the glass on the table again. “I don’t expect an answer until tomorrow morning, and you will still have safe passage out of the palace.” He raised a hand and gestured towards the door, and the three men rose uncertainly and exited the room. “This will work, I hope you realize,” he said softly once he was alone with his new ally.
Aridson shrugged, finishing his glass and setting it down. “I merely doubt that it will be as effective as you imagine.” He smiled thinly and strode over to the desk, hunting around for a pen and some parchment. “If I doubted the plan itself, I would not be here. Now then, let’s write down the details of our future government, while we’re waiting for the rest of those stubborn fools to realize what the future holds for them.”
As they huddled over the desk and lit candles to light their work, Duke Grant walked calmly across the city, following his bodyguards around piles of rubble that had once been buildings, ignoring the stench of the rotting bodies until he was back in his own small manor house on the edge of the city, just barely inside the walls. With the scent of the sea filling his nostrils, he glanced into his own bedroom, seeing his bed empty, knowing that his wife was off somewhere with her latest dalliance, and shook his head.
Then he calmly strode down the hall, to what was normally a servant’s room, and unlocked the door with a key that only two people had, stepping into the darkened room and giving his eyes a moment to adjust. She had sat up in the bed, a sheet draped over her, just enough to shelter her form from his vision, but it was a body he had taken enough time – possibly more than enough time – to inspect in the last two weeks since she had arrived on a trade ship from Kurast. Tiptoeing past the crib, he paused in front of the bed, waiting as her hands started moving across his body, removing his clothing and dropping it carelessly onto the floor.
An hour later, she lay still, listening to his breathing. Tell him to go along with the plan, Asmodan whispered back to her mind. He wishes to become the King himself, but it will be much better for me, not to mention easier to do, if one of his descendants becomes the King instead.
She nodded, her hair drifting across the pillow. I will convince him, master, she whispered in return. No man is immune from the power of Lust.
Two weeks later, everyone had been reunited except for Arthur, and the Sunlight and the Soulforged were preparing to leave for the east to repair communications with whoever was left from the Protectorate. Jaresh sat a bit glumly in a tavern near the docks, watching his daughter, his nieces, and his sergeant all chatting amiably about what the future would hold now, with the banishment of Na-Krul and the chaos he had left behind. Dro looked equally glum, despite the brunette assassin leaning against him with her head on his shoulder.
“Well, we had best be getting to the Sunlight now,” Slip said, pushing his empty tankard away from him. “Most of us need to be getting back to the Protectorate and finding out just how much the demon-worshippers control now.” He adjusted the bow strapped to his back, and then paused as Maren rose with him. “Were you coming with us?”
“Why not?” she asked, smirking at him. “After all, my father did say that my path lay with the Zakarum. Besides, I owled him to tell him where I was going.”
Visha paused in snapping one of her pistols back together and furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “You owled him?”
The sorceress smiled and nodded her head. “Sure, you just go into the forest and find an owl who’s willing to fly north to the druids with a note.” Her grin widened as the look of confusion on her cousin’s face continued. “Of course, compared to a raven, they take forever and a day.”
The others chuckled, and everyone rose from the table and headed outside. Jaresh paused to blink in the bright afternoon sun, then turned to Dro. “I don’t suppose you’d like to continue in the pay of the Zakarum church?” he asked.
But he just shook his head. “Sorry, this warrior is no longer for hire. I finally found a cause worth fighting for.” To no one’s surprise, he linked arms with Celest, and they led the way towards the ship, Slip falling in last as he paused to give a very snappy salute to his superior officer.
“Try to keep the Council in line, sir. It’s a job only the best can do.” Then he turned, and likewise linked arms with Maren, and headed towards the dock where the Sunlight awaited, to take them back to the Protectorate.
Rupert felt the burning agony of having a weapon shoved brutally through his heart, then it faded away to the soft blackness of death, and he waited. Soon, he would be ready to emerge from the Circle in the center of Heaven. He could sense the other souls around him, few of them familiar, all of them waiting until they had absorbed enough holy essence to take form again.
But for the paladin, his wait was not long. Gabriel strode into the center of the circle of trees, gathered up magic in his hands, and thrust it into the two paladins. They reformed, kneeling upon the ground and gasping with the overwhelming force of the magic. “Well?” the Angel of Knowledge asked simply.
Colin nodded, but Rupert was the first to speak. “Na-Krul is dead. Our weapons took him by surprise before he could pull himself out of the pool.” He glanced over at his friend before continuing. “Baal and Diablo were there, but they wanted to see if we could fight our way out of Hell to get back here. Belial stabbed us in the back instead.”
“Ah, good.” He started to turn away when he noticed the looks of shock and anger on their faces. “Don’t take it personally, I told him to send you back here in the fastest way possible.” Gabriel made a moue of distaste and shrugged. “It’s painful, but it is the fastest. Oh, and by the way, we’ve already thrown out Duriel’s army, so you both have a few months to spend recuperating from your mission before we expect you back on duty.”
Clapping hands on each other’s shoulders, the two paladins exited the divine grove at the center of the bright city, looking for their friends and loved ones. “You know, when I died, I was rather hoping for a retirement,” Colin muttered, and every angel on the street turned to look at them as Rupert, laughing hysterically, stumbled along with his companion.
The End
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