by Mark Barber
Aestelle walked purposefully into the trees, easily able to follow the dark aura left behind by the fleeing demon. She whistled a tune she remembered from her childhood, a simple song she had sung in one of the rare moments she had been allowed to play during her education by the sisterhood.
“Don’t hide, don’t hide, don’t hide from me,” she sang softly as her eyes scanned the shadows around her.
Sensing the Abyssal ahead, she felt the attack coming moments before the demon leapt from behind a tree ahead of her, a double headed axe held above its horned head in both powerful hands. Aestelle was quicker, stepping forward to skewer the demon with her greatsword, puncturing its chest and pinning it to the thick tree behind it. The lower Abyssal howled, grunted, and thrashed about frantically in place; its clawed hands grasping at the blade, frantically trying to pull it out of its chest and free itself from the tree. Aestelle took a step back, thrusting her hips to one side and folding her arms in a pose somewhere between haughty and seductive as she watched her prey writhe in place. The demon finally stopped, fixing its glowering eyes on hers before grunting and rasping a sequence of syllables in its own guttural language. Aestelle was years out of practice, but remembered enough to grasp the gist of what the demon was trying to communicate.
“Language, language!” she admonished with a smirk. “That is no way to talk to a lady.”
The Abyssal attempted to lean forward, angrily spitting its accursed language at her and reaching out its huge hands toward her neck.
“This encounter has not gone quite the way you seem to think,” Aestelle said as she unsheathed her second knife from her back. “Now, there is a little girl over there who will probably have nightmares for the rest of her life because of you. The problem with your lot is that you think fear to be a one-way process. You rarely feel fear, so you don’t know the effect you have.”
The wounded demon stared at her with hate filled eyes.
“Allow me to remedy that,” Aestelle said, stepping forward with her knife.
***
Aestelle emerged from the woods a few minutes later, drenched in the cold blood of the final devil. The farmers and the two children were gathered around the well, the woman and one of the farmhands seeing to the injured man’s wounds with bandages, while the last farm worker nervously eyed the fields of long grass on the other side of the courtyard. All of them stopped to stare at Aestelle as she approached them.
“Don’t worry,” she shrugged, “none of this is my blood.”
She took a bucket of water from the well and emptied it over her head, washing the majority of the blood off her skin and leather armor.
“Th… thank you!” the redheaded woman tending to her husband said, her voice shaking with emotion. “Thank you so much!”
“I’m a professional, not some traveling hero of legend,” Aestelle said, “I expect to be paid.”
“Anything!” the woman said. “Anything we can give you for saving our family!”
“Your best bottle of wine would be a good start,” Aestelle replied.
“Justin,” the woman turned to the love-struck farm hand she had winked to earlier. “Go and fetch some wine!”
“And be a good fellow and go and find my pistol, knife, and bow,” Aestelle added, “they’re somewhere off in that field.”
Justin the farmhand looked across to the field of long grass with horror.
“What if they’re… not dead?”
“I’m rather good at what I do,” Aestelle snapped irritably. “Believe me, they’re dead. Now go and fetch my weapons and get me that wine. Chop, chop.” The terrified boy stumbled off toward the field, then changed his mind and ambled off toward the farmhouses. Aestelle was surprised when a significant force thudded into one of her legs, knocking her back a step. She looked down and saw the little girl who had momentarily escaped from the demons, her arms wrapped tightly around Aestelle’s leg. While a part of her appreciated the gratitude, Aestelle had never been particularly fond of children. Then the little girl looked up at her with pure admiration in her deep, brown eyes and the biggest smile Aestelle had ever seen. Aestelle fought to stop the smile from becoming infectious, and failed. Her opinion of children changing in what seemed like an instant, Aestelle found herself involuntarily returning the smile back down to the little girl.
Her father, color returning to his pain-wracked face, limped over to place an affectionate hand on top of the girl’s head.
“Hello,” Aestelle said quietly.
The girl stared up mutely, still smiling. Aestelle found herself thinking on her own childhood, on the loss of her parents at a similar age, and how it led to her induction and education at the hands of the sisterhood. She found herself pitying the little girl and all of the trials that life had ahead. Being captured and nearly eaten by demons was one experience that a child definitely should never have had.
“Don’t you ever worry about what you saw today,” Aestelle said seriously. “These monsters, they scare people. But I scare the monsters even more.”
“You’re funny!” the little girl laughed.
Aestelle paused for a moment to consider how to interpret the unexpected response.
“I shall take that,” she flashed a smile.
“I like your hair!” the girl continued, pointing up at the lines of beads and pearls woven into the strands of blonde hair that fell down from one temple.
Aestelle reached up and slid one of the colored beads off.
“I take them from all of the monsters I kill,” she winked, handing it over, “but this one is yours now.”
“Go on,” the girl’s father forced a smile, looking nervously around him at the horizon in each direction. “Go inside.”
Aestelle watched the girl go and looked to the house, wondering what was taking so long with her wine.
“Those Abyssals,” she said to the father, “how many of them are there around here?”
“We’d heard all about them,” the pale-skinned man said, “but they’re the first we’ve seen. All the folk for leagues have said they’ve seen them. That’s why we were heading south. This isn’t my farm, this belongs to my brother. We were just staying here overnight, and then… well, then they were here. Are you one of the survivors from the force sent from the capital?”
“Yes,” Aestelle replied, “well, sort of. I’m attached to… wait! What do you mean, ‘survivors’?”
“The battle,” the farmer said, “there was a battle between the legion and these demons, some nights ago now, to the north. A friend of mine said he saw the battlefield the next day. He said there was over a hundred dead from each side.”
Aestelle turned away, taking a deep breath and fighting to compose herself at the news. If that was true, then the Dictator-Prefect’s entire force was dead and gone. The last barrier between the demonic incursion and the helpless people of the rural north, away from the major military bastions and barricades, was now also gone.
“Are you sure?” Aestelle demanded.
“It is only what I have heard,” the man said nervously, “but you’ve seen the evidence for yourself. There are demons here! Walking our lands! In broad daylight!”
“And the entire force sent from the capital?” Aestelle asked again. “You say they’re all dead?”
“That is what I have heard,” the farmer exhaled, his breathing still labored from his beating. “My cousin says he has a survivor at his tavern. But he drinks a lot. He says the soldier was brought to him in the night by an Elohi. But he…”
Aestelle’s eyes widened.
“Where is your cousin’s tavern?” she demanded.
***
Sat on the rough, wooden windowsill of the latest in a procession of taverns, Tancred looked out at the evening sky apprehensively. Their progression south had been slow but steady, and now that they were back on the coastal road, there was at least a greater chance of running into a legion patrol or some sort of military presence between the great cities of the sout
h and the strongholds of the northern borders. The surviving paladins had regained their strength during the move south, to the point that after their own recovery, those who were trained were able to use their powers to heal the wounds of the other party members. Now, the twenty strong group of soldiers, squires, and supplymen continued on toward the origin point of their journey in the hope of meeting up with a military force that may or may not have been assembled to reinforce them.
Eager for the opportunity to rest, most of the bedraggled party had already retired for the night, some sleeping in the tavern rooms while others took to the stables or used tents they had been able to acquire on the journey. Only Tancred, Hugh, Jeneveve, and Xavier remained in the tavern along with a small number of travelers and merchants. His other two surviving paladins, Reynaud and Tantus, had retreated to a small chapel not far away for evening prayers. Now, several days away from the demonic incursion, the number of fleeing refugees had thinned out to next to nothing, and this far south, many of the locals dismissed the Abyssal attacks as nothing more than fanciful rumors.
Tancred looked over to the other side of the tavern where Hugh sat alone, a serving girl bringing him his evening meal as he stared despondently at the facing wall. Tancred wondered which of the many things it was that had silenced the outspoken nobleman for the last few days; whether it was his perception of personal failure, the guilt of being one of a very small number of survivors, or the loss of his two aides who had died bravely to allow the others to escape. Perhaps it was a combination of all of this and more, but Tancred wondered if Hugh was even capable of feeling guilt or loss. He looked back out of the window, hoping and praying that other survivors would suddenly appear; a column of disheveled paladins and men-at-arms, exhausted but relieved to find their leaders again. Tancred remembered seeing Orion fight, without a shadow of a doubt the finest display of swordsmanship he had seen in his life as the huge knight cut down demon after demon surrounding him. It felt like even the Wicked Ones themselves could not slay Orion and, not having seen him fall with his own eyes, Tancred clung to the hope that the big man had somehow survived and escaped. But deep down, he knew it to be all but impossible.
“You look thoughtful, Lord Paladin,” Jeneveve’s voice came from over his shoulder.
He turned briefly to glance at her, saw her venture a gentle smile, and then looked back out at the surrounding fields darkening under the enveloping evening sky.
“Just wondering whether anybody else escaped after all. Maybe Orion managed to fight his way out.”
“Brother Orion is dead,” Jeneveve replied, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary, Tancred felt, “the same as all the others.”
“But did you see him fight!” Tancred smiled fondly. “He took down so many of them before he fell! Like something out of an epic song! When we get back, I shall ensure his final stand is made known to the entire Order! He deserves that much.”
“He deserves no more than any of our other fallen brothers and sisters,” Jeneveve countered. “Yes, he could fight, but that was all there was to him. He was a bully. A course, rough, bully. He did not join us in prayer, he gave no alms to the poor, he served nobody and nothing other than his own obsession with besting every warrior he met in single combat. He was my brother in the Order and I certainly wished no harm onto him, but I do not think he deserves to be immortalized in legend. He had his flaws, the same as the rest of us. Perhaps more so.”
“…and Gideus declared to all, ‘mortal man should not judge, for the final judgment shall be cast onto all by the Celestials themselves at the sunset of time’,” Tancred quoted. “Chapter Three, Daven’s Letter to Cortisians.”
“I do not need lecturing from the Eloicon,” Jeneveve said defensively, “I know it well enough.”
“Then perhaps you should spend more time contemplating its words,” Tancred said as he stood and turned to face her, “and less time casting shadow over the memory of our Brother.”
Tancred left Jeneveve and walked over to stand by Hugh. The Dictator-Prefect continued to stare silently at the far wall for some moments, his food growing cold on the table before him. He eventually looked across at Tancred.
“Yes?”
“Just seeing if there was anything to discuss, Dictator-Prefect,” Tancred offered quietly.
Hugh took a long swig from a broad, wooden mug of wine.
“No, nothing I can think of.”
“I shall leave you in peace,” Tancred said as he took a step back, nodding his head respectfully.
“No, no, please sit,” Hugh replied, coughing and thumping a clenched fist against his chest, “I…I…”
The coughing intensified, and within moments, Tancred met the dark realization that this was something more than simply a disagreeable cup of wine.
“Hugh?” Tancred darted forward, thumping the man on the back as he struggled to his feet, his face red with the violence of his coughing and choking.
By the tavern’s bar, the serving girl began to scream hysterically. Xavier and Jeneveve dashed over as Tancred placed his hands on Hugh’s torso, frantically looking for the source of an injury he could use his powers to heal.
“He made me do it!” the serving girl yelled, her eyes screwed tightly shut and her hands clamped over her ears. “He made me serve that wine!”
Even over Hugh’s coughing, Tancred could hear a struggle and commotion outside in the courtyard. He quickly assessed the scenario that was unfolding around him. His eyes opened wide.
“Jeneveve! Go and get that man! He’s outside! Get him before he escapes! Xavier, help me!”
Jeneveve bounded across the tavern, her heavy footsteps creaking the floorboards until she barged her way through the door and out into the night. Xavier took Hugh by the armpits, gently guiding him down to lie across the tavern floor as a trio of legion soldiers sprinted down from the rooms on the first floor, hurriedly pulling on their mail coats and sword belts in response to the commotion from the ground floor. Tancred looked down desperately at the Dictator-Prefect as thin streams of blood trickled from both sides of his mouth. Xavier’s fingers glowed blue with magic as he moved his hands over Hugh’s torso, but to no avail. Hugh looked up at Tancred desperately as the coughing died away.
“I’m so sorry,” he managed hoarsely, “I made such a mess of things… I’m so sorry…”
Realizing that nothing could be done, Tancred dropped to one knee next to the dying man and held his hand, quickly quoting the Litany of the Soul’s Transition.
“Shining Ones, accept your son Hugh into your hearts, prepare a place for him at the peak of The Mountain, let his soul transition to you to rest in a place of love and holiness…”
“Thank you,” Hugh coughed weakly, tears streaming down his face as his hand gripped onto Tancred’s tightly. Halfway through the litany, Hugh died. Tancred continued to recite the verses to the very end, determined to complete the litany for the fallen Dictator-Prefect. The three soldiers dragged the crying serving girl across as Jeneveve reappeared at the doorway, dragging a tall, thin man in his forties dressed in a dark cloak and hood.
Tancred leaned over to respectfully straighten Hugh’s arms and legs, tilting his head to stare directly up at the ceiling. He turned to look up at the serving girl.
“She had no idea,” the silver haired man in the dark hood said coldly. “Let her go.”
Tancred nodded to the soldiers who released the crying serving girl, and then he walked over to stand before the man in the dark hood, looking up into his emotionless eyes. He felt a darkness emanating from the thin, stone faced man, similar to the malice and blackness he had felt in the moments leading up to the Abyssal attack on the hilltop encampment. He glanced over at Xavier. The veteran paladin nodded. He felt it too. Tancred turned back to the captive.
“Why did you poison him?” Tancred demanded.
The hooded man said nothing and stared straight ahead. Tancred’s fraying temper snapped. He slammed a fist into the man’s stom
ach, causing him to bend over double and cough painfully, dropping to one knee. Tancred grabbed him by the neck and dragged him off toward one of the tavern’s back rooms.
“Wait!” Jeneveve demanded. “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to find out who this bastard is, and why he murdered the Dictator-Prefect,” Tancred replied evenly.
“You cannot do that! This is the magistrate’s jurisdiction! You have no right to beat information out of this man!”
“There is not time for that nonsense!” Tancred bellowed. “This man is in league with the forces of the Abyss, he has forsaken his legal rights!”
“You do not know that!” Jeneveve pointed an armored finger at Tancred in accusation. “We do not choose which laws we like and do not like! We uphold all the laws of the land!”
“Not when it comes to demonology!” Tancred exclaimed.
“Orion would tell you the same!” Jeneveve spat with venom. “He would stand against you!”
“Then draw your sword, as he would have!” Tancred hissed. “But Orion would have stopped me, because he was the better swordsman! You are not! I am your senior in our Order, and you will follow my commands!”
“Not if those commands are not legal!” Jeneveve slammed an open palm into the table next to her.
The assembled soldiers and tavern patrons stared on in astounded silence.
“Then try to stop me,” Tancred decided, “for I am taking this man into that room, and I intend to beat the truth out of him even if it kills him, as The Ones are my witness!”
Jeneveve looked across at Xavier pleadingly.
“Xavier?”
The older paladin shook his head slowly.
“I am sorry, Sister,” he said quietly, “we know what is coming from the north. There are bigger things afoot than the rights of a single man. I support the Lord Paladin’s decision.”
“Then may The Ones have mercy on you both!” Jeneveve shook her head before turning on her heel and storming out of the tavern.
