Diablo 3: The Reaper of Souls

by Vandoren, Elias

  She knelt before him, locating his eyes behind the swath of sweat-slicked hair. "Did they find my grandpa?" The boy did not respond. He only huffed and gasped, his shaking finger still leveled toward Middlewick.

  Dalya sprang up and leapt into the thicket, branches and vines tugging at her hair and clothes. She stumbled over rocks and roots but maintained a steady balance while racing toward the village, oblivious to her exhaustion and the fire in her lungs, and erupted from the tree line in a flurry of jerky breaths and churning limbs. She vaulted fences and cleared fields, kicking up earth in her wake. Head down, arms pumping, heart thundering, she moved through the streets, evading people, carts, wagons, and packbeasts until she rounded the corner toward her grandfather's cottage.

  The road was empty. The cottage was alone and quiet at the head of the street. A flood of relief washed over her like rain. Dalya's legs liquefied beneath her, and the girl collapsed on the cobbles. There she sat—a mess of hair and tears and heavy breathing—measuring the cottage in wondrous and exhausted respite.

  Suddenly a shadow fell across the road, so wide and so large she thought the sun might've disappeared behind the clouds. Dalya turned, a ball of anxious pain growing in her belly.

  Stretvanger loomed over her, an oak of a man swaddled in royal robes. His face was hidden beneath the dark folds of his hood, but his chiseled chin jutted out like a slab of stone from the edge of a cliff. The baggy garments betrayed the immensity of his form save the belt fastened round his belly; thick and smooth, the glossy leather strap, when stretched to its maximum length, was taller than she was, Dalya figured. Several soldiers—Harringer and his black-armored compatriot among them—were fanned out behind the gargantuan bishop, stiff and stoic in their posture.

  He reached down, his body creaking and popping, and wrapped a gentle hand around Dalya's arm. With a tender tug, he lifted her to her feet. "Little girl," he said, a brooding impatience dripping in his voice. "Is your grandfather home?"

  Dalya raked a strand of hair from her eyes. The burn of Stretvanger's gaze wilted her confidence, and all she could muster was a shake of her head. When the weak rebuttal failed to break his stare, Dalya pointed with trembling fingers toward the western wood. "He's in the orchard," she squeaked. "Where you left him."

  "A clever answer, child, but a wrong one. Your grandfather wandered off last night." His eyes flicked toward the cottage door. "But death makes for a vicious handicap. I suspect he didn't get far." He pinched Dalya's soil-stained sleeve between two fingers and ogled the veins of cakey dirt that streaked across her tunic and trousers. His lips narrowed into a tight grin. "Have you seen him?"

  "No, I think—"

  Stretvanger nodded toward the cottage. "Might we have a look around, then?"

  Dalya stepped warily toward the house, out of the bishop's enormous shadow. "No."

  "Such discourtesy!" he jested, a syrupy chuckle rumbling out from the darkness of his hood. He turned and woofed an order at the throng of soldiers locked in formation. They percolated toward the cottage; Stretvanger followed, stepping nonchalantly around the small girl in his path.

  A flush of angry, panicked heat rose in Dalya's throat. "This..." she started, "this isn't right! What you're doing to these people—what you're doing to us—isn't right!"

  Stretvanger called a halt. He half-turned, eyeing Dalya from over his shoulder. "Sheep need not be privy to the shepherd's motives. Just rest easy. We're cleansing this country."

  The trepidation in her heart boiled over, steaming into ire and lacing her words with bitter rancor. "You're wrong."

  The giant shrugged. He mumbled, "Children have no place in politics," and gave a signal to his soldiers. The air hummed with the ring of steel; soldiers crowded the cottage, swords raised and spines rigid as the front door was kicked from its hinges. "Search the wardrobes. Raid the attic. Check the outhouse. The body is here, and I want it back."

  The militia charged through the doorway.

  "Blood!" he hollered at their backs. "The bastard's still bleeding. Look for dark, sour blood."

  From the street, Dalya heard the shattering of pottery and the sharp splintering of wood. Arms crossed, sun on his back, Stretvanger watched his men scour the cottage from his spot on the lawn as he rocked unsteadily on his heels.

  Droplets of sweat dripped into Dalya's eyes. Numb with fury, she did not blink them away. The salt stung and muddied her vision, but she never lost focus on the lumbering man in the heavy robes overseeing the ravaging of her grandfather's house. Her house. She listened as they ransacked her vault of memories, the font of her solace—the only place ever worthy of being called her home. And she trembled with rage.

  She pried a pointed cobble from the road. Teeth gritted and brow narrowed, she measured Stretvanger's back and, knuckles white around the rock, stalked toward him, eyes locked to the space just inches below his belt—the base of the giant's spine. She moved rapidly, betraying stealth as her footsteps smacked the street, but Stretvanger never turned. When she was within arm's length, Dalya hefted the rock, tightened her grip, and zeroed in on her target.

  But before she struck, Harringer lurched through the doorway. His sword was tucked into his scabbard and his fingers were riddled with cuts and splinters. "We found blood on the old man's sheets," he said.

  The bishop's lips parted slightly. "Blood?" The word rumbled from the hood like a drumroll. "Yes?"

  Harringer did not match gazes with Stretvanger, opting instead to study the ground between the giant's feet. "But there's no body. We looked absolutely everywhere."

  Dalya's brow furrowed. She dropped the stone and staggered backward. Stretvanger was silent for several seconds before pivoting on his heel and peering at the child. He tore into her with his cold stare for a few tense moments, his emotions concealed behind the shadows of his hood, before swallowing hard and offering a subtle nod.

  "Right," the bishop mumbled, pushing past the girl and hurrying into town.

  Eventually the last of the soldiers filed out, leaving Dalya mired in a mess of clothes and upturned chests at the foot of her grandfather's empty bed. The sheets, stained dark with dirt, wrapped her like a sordid cocoon. She cried, knees pulled tight against her, and surveyed the wreckage through a mist of tears. She spent several minutes curled there, more than once turning to check the cot for the old man's frail form. The narrow imprint of his body was still embossed in the bed, along with the dried blood and grime, but the corpse was gone, vanished like smoke in a windstorm.

  A stray cat screeched off in the distance.

  Dalya wiped away her tears with the filthy sheet and staggered to her feet. Shuffling through the clutter, she moved to the window and drew the curtains. Warm spears of sunlight spilled through the pane, catching faint spirals of dust sailing through the bedroom. Numbly she tottered to the cherry chests in the far corner and began straightening the ruffled clothes within. Her mind was still as she worked, the thoughts in her head knotted in a quiet, deadened stasis. She collected her grandfather's things—old notes, a few tarnished rings she had never seen—and filed them precisely into the chests along the walls.

  In the opposite corner of the room, beneath a pair of crumpled trousers, Dalya recovered the old man's worn diary. The cover, dark and wrinkled and coarse with age, hung intact by a few weakening strands; the pages lolled out from the spine like a hundred brittle, yellowed tongues, and Dalya caught glimpse, for the first time, of the crude scrawling under the book's craggy jacket. The lettering seemed familiar, like the cuts on the old man's body, but the language was lost to her—random words and symbols sloppily transcribed on each page, overflowing into the margins, through most of the diary. She found some sketches near the back, doodles of flowers or simple landscapes, but nothing she immediately recognized.

  The stray cat shrieked again, from somewhere just beyond the door. The sound of frantic, muffled scratches caught Dalya's ear. She laid the book on the floor beside the chests, cautiously crossed the room, and po
ked her head into the hallway.

  "Hello?" she called.

  For a moment, the cottage fell silent. Then the furious mewing started again, from the kitchen at the edge of the hall. She moved warily toward the sound, one careful footstep after the other, until she rounded the corner and stepped onto the cold stone tile of the vacant kitchen. Jagged fragments of decorative plates littered the floor, and the supper table was upturned and shoved against the far wall. The anxious screeching was louder now. Deeper. Human.

  Dalya gasped and ran to the larder. Rolling clear the toppled barrels of rice and potatoes, she curled her fingers around the edge of the floorboards and pulled up a square section of paneling. Beneath the floor, in the hole under the larder, sat Istanten; the boy stared up at her with wide, wet eyes, the corpse of her grandfather draped over him.

  She grinned. "Are you stuck?" Istanten snarled. He reached up from the bottom of the pit. Dalya grabbed hold of his hand, and together they pried him out from under the weight of the body. He climbed free and, with his sleeve, wiped the remnants of tears from his cheeks. Dalya hovered over the hole for a moment, studying her grandfather's crumpled cadaver.

  "Is... is he hurt?" she asked. The boy rolled his eyes and shrugged, raking the hair from his face. Her grandfather was slumped awkwardly, neck crooked and arms twisted in the cramped crater. "I hate to leave him like that, but I think he's safer here than anywhere else."

  Istanten grunted his agreement. Dalya slid the paneling back into place and squeezed past Istanten and into the kitchen. "Will you stay and keep watch?"

  His eyes darkened and he furiously shook his head.

  Dalya nodded. "Fine. But we need to finish the grave. Tonight." She stepped into the hallway and headed for the door.

  Istanten grumbled softly and followed her, his footsteps resonant in the empty house.

  Eventually the last of the soldiers filed out, leaving Dalya mired in a mess of clothes and upturned chests at the foot of her grandfather's empty bed. The sheets, stained dark with dirt, wrapped her like a sordid cocoon. She cried, knees pulled tight against her, and surveyed the wreckage through a mist of tears. She spent several minutes curled there, more than once turning to check the cot for the old man's frail form. The narrow imprint of his body was still embossed in the bed, along with the dried blood and grime, but the corpse was gone, vanished like smoke in a windstorm.

  A stray cat screeched off in the distance.

  Dalya wiped away her tears with the filthy sheet and staggered to her feet. Shuffling through the clutter, she moved to the window and drew the curtains. Warm spears of sunlight spilled through the pane, catching faint spirals of dust sailing through the bedroom. Numbly she tottered to the cherry chests in the far corner and began straightening the ruffled clothes within. Her mind was still as she worked, the thoughts in her head knotted in a quiet, deadened stasis. She collected her grandfather's things—old notes, a few tarnished rings she had never seen—and filed them precisely into the chests along the walls.

  In the opposite corner of the room, beneath a pair of crumpled trousers, Dalya recovered the old man's worn diary. The cover, dark and wrinkled and coarse with age, hung intact by a few weakening strands; the pages lolled out from the spine like a hundred brittle, yellowed tongues, and Dalya caught glimpse, for the first time, of the crude scrawling under the book's craggy jacket. The lettering seemed familiar, like the cuts on the old man's body, but the language was lost to her—random words and symbols sloppily transcribed on each page, overflowing into the margins, through most of the diary. She found some sketches near the back, doodles of flowers or simple landscapes, but nothing she immediately recognized.

  The stray cat shrieked again, from somewhere just beyond the door. The sound of frantic, muffled scratches caught Dalya's ear. She laid the book on the floor beside the chests, cautiously crossed the room, and poked her head into the hallway.

  "Hello?" she called.

  For a moment, the cottage fell silent. Then the furious mewing started again, from the kitchen at the edge of the hall. She moved warily toward the sound, one careful footstep after the other, until she rounded the corner and stepped onto the cold stone tile of the vacant kitchen. Jagged fragments of decorative plates littered the floor, and the supper table was upturned and shoved against the far wall. The anxious screeching was louder now. Deeper. Human.

  Dalya gasped and ran to the larder. Rolling clear the toppled barrels of rice and potatoes, she curled her fingers around the edge of the floorboards and pulled up a square section of paneling. Beneath the floor, in the hole under the larder, sat Istanten; the boy stared up at her with wide, wet eyes, the corpse of her grandfather draped over him.

  She grinned. "Are you stuck?" Istanten snarled. He reached up from the bottom of the pit. Dalya grabbed hold of his hand, and together they pried him out from under the weight of the body. He climbed free and, with his sleeve, wiped the remnants of tears from his cheeks. Dalya hovered over the hole for a moment, studying her grandfather's crumpled cadaver.

  "Is... is he hurt?" she asked. The boy rolled his eyes and shrugged, raking the hair from his face. Her grandfather was slumped awkwardly, neck crooked and arms twisted in the cramped crater. "I hate to leave him like that, but I think he's safer here than anywhere else."

  Istanten grunted his agreement. Dalya slid the paneling back into place and squeezed past Istanten and into the kitchen. "Will you stay and keep watch?"

  His eyes darkened and he furiously shook his head.

  Dalya nodded. "Fine. But we need to finish the grave. Tonight." She stepped into the hallway and headed for the door.

  Istanten grumbled softly and followed her, his footsteps resonant in the empty house.

  Middlewick shimmered like a lantern under the black sky, alight with fire and the screams of the dying. Dozens of militiamen paraded through streets and fields and farmland with torches raised and swords drawn. Desperate pleas and crackling flames permeated the icy night air as Stretvanger's soldiers shattered windows, smashed doorways, and set houses ablaze. Townspeople poured into the streets like rodents, clutching their children and possessions, stumbling confusedly about in charred nightwear.

  Stretvanger's voice boomed through the chaos like the call of a war horn drowning the clatter of battle. "They have scars! Look for the scars!" the bishop bellowed as people flooded past him through the road. "Look for the runes and purge their bodies with flames! If they bleed, then they're not dead!"

  Dalya sneaked low through the fields, the stench of smoke stinging her eyes. On her hands and knees, she circumvented the town, crawling its perimeter until she found her grandfather's cottage beyond the tall grass. Conjuring the last ounces of energy from her muscles, she dashed toward the house and bolted through the fractured doorway. She sprang down the hall, collapsed as she entered the kitchen, and sprawled awkwardly amid the cracked dishes. Her legs were cold beneath her, and she did not have the balance to stand; instead she inched her way into the larder, fully prepared to slither from Middlewick, grandfather in tow, if she could not find her feet.

  Rolling aside the toppled food barrels, she ripped the loose paneling from the floor and peered down into the hole. The reek of decay burned her nostrils and choked her like a tangle of fishhooks. A violent sob rose in her chest, and Dalya began to shiver.

  The hole was empty. Cautious footsteps echoed through the house.

  "Istanten?" she called, but there was no answer.

  She sifted through the debris on the larder floor, brushing aside shards of plates and splintered spears of tile and wood. Dalya scrabbled through the mess, looking for a knife or fork or a spike of broken dish big enough to slash her way through to the doorway, but she froze mid-search when she spotted the pruning shears in the hallway beyond the kitchen.

  Bloodstained, handle to blade.

  Torchlight sprayed over the walls, and Harringer—his frame bowing beneath heavy armor—stepped into her vision and darkened the larder doorway. He took a momen
t to study her in the light, then leaned back into the kitchen and hollered, "I found her! She's in here."

  There was muffled chatter from somewhere outside. Harringer offered his hand, but Dalya shuffled backward, closer to the empty hole. "What's happening?" she asked, the words husky and cracked as they slogged past her lips.

  "Nothing like I've ever seen," he said. His eyes were round and slick with worry. "The other six bodies have vanished from the orchard."

  "Vanished?"

  "Gone. Disappeared."

  "And my grandpa?"

  Someone screamed outdoors. Harringer's fingers brushed the hilt of his blade. His eyes flicked back to Dalya, and he offered his hand again. "We have to go."

  She gawked up at him for several seconds, her breaths hard and uneven. "I don't think I can stand."

  Harringer stepped in and scooped her up from the ground. Dalya wrapped her arms around his neck as he backed from the larder and out into the kitchen. The ruins of plates and silverware crunched under the young soldier's boots. Just as they turned into the hallway, Stretvanger planted a mammoth, gnarled hand on Harringer's chestplate.