As they walked, Siggard touched his sword hilt, praying that the battered blade would serve if there was any trouble. The memories of the battle had become something secondary; all that mattered was getting to Emilye and his daughter in time.
Finally, they passed the engraved marker stone for the village, and Siggard breathed a sigh of relief. There didn’t seem to be any damage to the outlying farmsteads, which meant that they had probably made it in time.
Still, there were no people about, which was odd for this time of year. It was the harvest, and at the least the Ealdorman would have had them preparing for the harvest festival. An uneasy feeling began to gnaw at Siggard’s gut.
When they entered the town square, Siggard’s heart almost stopped. Many of the buildings were burned, and in the center of the square lay a pyramid of severed heads.
Sarnakyle looked around in shock. “Perhaps she made it out in time,” he suggested. “She might not have perished here.”
Siggard almost grunted an agreement until he saw a glint of golden hair in the pyramid. He told himself that it had to be somebody else, it couldn’t possibly be her. But when Siggard stepped forward, he saw Emilye’s dead eyes staring at him from the pile, her face a mask of horror, the flies consuming her flesh.
He backed up, unable to speak. Then he fell to the earth, weeping. Everything he had lived for was now gone. Had the demons come at that moment to take his life, he would have had neither the strength nor the inclination to defend himself.
4
BETRAYALS
How can I possibly stay? I have seen my own brother die before the gates of my city, possessed by darkness.
I have seen all that I know changed beyond recognition. I must leave, for my soul is empty of all but sorrow.
—Velinon the Archmage, The Words of Horazon
How long he wept, Siggard could not be sure. He sat by the horrific pyramid and sobbed until his eyes were bloodshot and dry, lamenting the loss of his wife. To make matters worse, he didn’t know if his daughter was alive or dead.
Entirely spent, he looked around weakly. The world was cast in the reddish light of the setting sun. Sarnakyle sat on a fallen tree, regarding him with casual interest. How the wizard could remain unmoved, Siggard did not know.
“We aren’t alone,” Sarnakyle said quietly. “There are at least three people watching us from the shadows.”
Siggard swallowed and stood unsteadily. “Demons?”
“I cannot tell,” Sarnakyle said. “I have a spell ready, though.”
“With luck, we won’t need it,” Siggard stated. He turned and called out to the deepening shadows. “I am Siggard of Bear’s Hill! Are you friend or foe?”
“Siggard, is it you?” a familiar voice called. A gaunt, ragged man stepped out of the shadows, scratching his weathered face. Siggard’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Tylwulf,” Siggard breathed. He turned to Sarnakyle. “There are survivors!”
The wizard shook his head. “This does not feel right.”
Tylwulf staggered forward, and Siggard saw dried blood caked on his face. “We heard the army was destroyed, and we feared the worst,” he stammered. “Then the demons came, and some of us ran, and . . .” Tylwulf broke down into tears.
“My daughter, Tylwulf,” Siggard demanded, taking hold of the man’s torn tunic. “What happened to my daughter?”
Tylwulf shook his head, almost as if he was fighting with himself against horrible memories. “Dead, all dead. They ate the children, and killed all the women they could. Some of the men they took with them.” He glanced at the pile of heads and immediately shied away. “We try not to think about it. If we’re good, they might not come back.”
“I don’t like the feeling of this,” Sarnakyle cut in.
Tylwulf looked at the wizard for a moment, his eyes widening in shock. “A Vizjerei! You travel with interesting friends, Siggard. This is one of the Spirit Clan.”
“Is there a place we can stay for the night, Tylwulf?” Siggard asked. “It is getting late, and I would prefer to be indoors this evening.”
“Camylle and I will put you up,” Tylwulf stated. “Even your friend may come. Come, my farm was untouched.”
After a short walk through the shattered village to Tylwulf’s cottage, Siggard and Sarnakyle found themselves left to the tender mercies of Tylwulf’s wife, who cooked a meal and set a hospitable table. But Siggard wished he could have been here under better circumstances.
He watched Sarnakyle sniff a plate of roasted beef cautiously, and then began to eat slowly, as if the wizard was tasting every part of the food. Siggard shook his head and ate a couple of bites, then put the plate aside. He was just too depressed to eat; the death of his family weighed heavily on him, a wound that might never heal.
“You should have some,” Tylwulf said, eagerly tearing at some meat. “You’ll need your strength to help us rebuild.”
“I fear it will be an eternity before I have an appetite again,” Siggard said. “I have lost too much, and seen such carnage . . .” He shook his head.
“What happened at Blackmarch?” Camylle asked, tousling her auburn hair.
“I don’t remember,” Siggard admitted sadly. “I remember the shield wall, and then the demons attacked, and something was happening in the forest. But then I must have blacked out and been carried off. I woke up alone in a forest in Aranoch two days later on the Night of Souls.” He blinked. “At least, I think I was in Aranoch.”
“And that is where you met the Spirit Mage?”
Siggard nodded, sipping some ale.
“A strange tale,” Tylwulf muttered.
“How many survived here?” Siggard asked.
“Ten,” Tylwulf replied. “We were able to hide while they did their work. They killed all of our animals, so at least we have meat.”
“Have you sent warning to Brennor?”
Tylwulf shook his head distractedly and muttered something about not having time, and then excused himself. Oddly, Camylle gave Siggard a come-hither look, and then left for one of the bedrooms, her tattered dress falling around her legs.
Sarnakyle leaned over. “Something is very wrong here.”
“What was your first hint?” Siggard snapped. “The pyramid of heads? Or how about the burning buildings?”
“I understand that you are grieving,” Sarnakyle said quietly. “I respect that. However, please look around and see what there is to see.”
Siggard scowled and looked at the plates of food, wishing he was sitting at Emilye’s table and holding his child. But that would never be. He began to sob again, only barely aware of Sarnakyle standing and keeping a watchful eye on the door.
Tylwulf came through the wooden hallway bearing a torch. “Your lodgings are ready. I trust you are willing to share a room; we only have one to spare.”
“That will be fine,” Sarnakyle answered quickly.
Tylwulf led them down the hall to a small chamber with a large bed. To the side was a round table with a bright candle slowly burning down. Siggard thanked him and sat down on the bed.
“If you need anything, my wife and I are in the next room,” Tylwulf said, closing the door.
“Prepare for battle,” Sarnakyle said quietly. “There will be treachery tonight.”
Siggard shook his head. “How could you possibly tell that?”
Sarnakyle sighed. “I know it is difficult, but you must see clearly. You are not asking the questions you should be. How did they survive when barely anybody else did?”
“How did I survive Blackmarch?” Siggard retorted. “There is such a thing as good luck.”
“Next question,” Sarnakyle began. “How did they know I was a Vizjerei? And why did he call me a ‘Spirit Mage’? Through your journeys with your father, you are well traveled, and you didn’t know until I told you. Has this farmer honestly seen as much as yourself? Has he visited the east?”
Siggard shrugged.
“The words ‘Spirit Mage’ ar
e only used by two groups of people, my friend. The first is by the other Mage Clans. The second is by the demonic forces themselves. Add this question: where are the graves? Have you seen a single fresh burial or body?”
A chill went down Siggard’s spine. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Put out the candle and wait. And refrain from killing the one that attacks us.”
Siggard nodded, and they silently stuffed their pillows under the blankets. As quietly as he could, Siggard drew his sword and snuffed the candle. He took position at one side of the door, while Sarnakyle stood at the other.
As they waited in the darkness, Siggard’s mind spun with both hope and fear. Perhaps Sarnakyle was wrong, and the carnage in the town square had unbalanced him. Yet, at the same time, the wizard’s concerns could not be dismissed. Siggard had known Tylwulf for years; they had even been friendly rivals for Emilye’s hand. The only time the man had ever left the village was to go into Brennor for supplies.
Sarnakyle began to snore. Siggard started and looked over at the other side of the door, to see the wizard’s eyes open and alert. He nodded and began to make a snoring sound himself. The ruse was worth a try.
So quietly that he nearly didn’t notice it, the door began to open. Siggard watched as both Tylwulf and Camylle crept towards the bed. The two farmers took positions on opposite sides of the bed and raised their hands. There was a flash of steel, and Tylwulf brought a dagger down onto one of the forms under the covers, right where the heart would be.
With a shout of anger, Siggard leapt forward, followed by Sarnakyle. Tylwulf gasped in shock and dropped his blade as Siggard’s sword came to meet his throat. There was a startled cry from Camylle, and Siggard looked to see Sarnakyle holding her tightly by the waist, a dagger of his own at her neck.
“Talk,” Siggard demanded.
“They’ll kill me,” Tylwulf said.
“So will I.”
“They came to free us,” Tylwulf began. “They gave us power, but we had to give them everybody pledged to the light. We told them that the demons would show them mercy, and they surrendered. They didn’t even fight when the demons started killing them. They just stood there in disbelief.” Tylwulf leaned forward against the blade, drawing a drop of blood. He spoke again, a mad glare in his eyes. “I especially liked watching them kill Emilye. You never did deserve her. Then they let us have some of their spirit, and we got to share in the children. A freshly born babe is a taste to die for, you know, and we didn’t waste a single cut of meat. Of course, they had to kill the livestock so that we could eat. After all, there aren’t always people around to feast on . . .”
Siggard gasped in horror as he listened. As the traitor spoke, a reeking vileness seemed to clutch him. With an angry blow, Siggard struck Tylwulf’s head off.
Then the rage took control. Screaming for vengeance, he pulled Camylle away from Sarnakyle and plunged his blade into her breast again and again. Then, once he finished watching her die, he roared in fury, stalking out of the house.
Eight people stood outside, all holding farm implements, and in each eye there was a dark madness. Siggard growled and attacked, not caring that he had once called them friends. The first one he slew was an old farmer from the western end of the village, who barely had time to raise his hoe. Siggard killed him with a slice to the throat, leaving him gurgling as the blood sprayed from his neck. He then turned on a woman with a cooking knife, spilling her intestines with a single stroke.
“Vengeance!” he screamed, sidestepping as the third one, the village leather worker, attacked. Siggard cut the hoe in half with his sword, then with his free hand snatched up the broken wood, driving the stake into the man’s face. He growled in satisfaction as brains hit the earth.
He felt a piercing pain in his back, and turned to see a slight woman, the blacksmith’s daughter. She was a girl no older than nineteen, still blossoming into womanhood. She held a long bloody knife in one hand, and her face bore a demonic smile. He thrust his sword into her heart, killing her with one blow.
The last four tried to run, and he screamed in fury as he cut them down. The last one turned and tried to fight, a fat man whose face was oily with sweat. When he struck the man’s head off, his sword broke in half, as though it could take no more. He found himself once again in the village square, his hands and clothes covered in blood and gore.
Then the rage left him, and he felt a combination of horror and disgust. He collapsed to the ground, throwing up everything he had eaten in the last two days. Even when he had nothing more to vomit, he still retched, and finally he sat up, trying to spit the horrible taste out of his mouth.
“When you get angry, you don’t do it by half measures, do you?” Sarnakyle said. Siggard turned to see the wizard sitting on the overturned tree again, watching him.
“I’ve done something monstrous, haven’t I?” Siggard asked weakly.
Sarnakyle shook his head. “Although this won’t make you feel any better, you did what had to be done. I have never seen a demonic possession ended without the death of the host.”
“I feel so hollow,” Siggard mumbled.
“This kind of killing does that,” the wizard said. “You were not in the middle of battle, you were slaughtering those you might consider defenseless. But they were clutched by evil, and could not turn back. You probably did their souls a favor.
“When I was back in Viz-jun, I was called upon to investigate a possession. A small child, no more than two years old, had killed his parents. Even in the heart of Kehjistan, there was nothing that could be done. Finally, I had to kill the child to banish the demon. My reaction afterwards was almost identical to yours.”
Sarnakyle leaned forward. “Had you not reacted this way, I would have wondered if you were still human.”
“I have killed the traitors,” Siggard said. “Why don’t I feel as though I am revenged? Is vengeance truly this hollow?”
“Sometimes,” Sarnakyle said. “In your case, I think you have not destroyed what you needed to destroy.”
“What do you mean?”
The wizard pointed to one of the bodies around them, his orange-red robes billowing in the breeze. “These were victims themselves. These are the effects of the illness, but the ailment still lives. Their crime was to be weak-willed in the face of darkness. The death of your family, and all of this horror, has been ordered by the archdemon leading the demonic army. It is he who must die.”
“How do you know there is an archdemon?” Siggard asked.
Sarnakyle smiled. “Armies like this are led by a baron of Hell. The lesser demons will not follow one of their own kind. Some greater power must lead them.”
“I see,” Siggard said. He stood up, his resolve giving him strength. “I swear, by the blood of my family, and the lives I have taken today, that I will find this archdemon and destroy it.”
Sarnakyle nodded grimly. “That is a worthy goal, my friend. Come now; we should rest for the morning, but first I should tend to you, and make certain that none of this blood on you is yours.”
5
PLANS AND JOURNEYS
Arkaine spoke, opened his word-hoard,
“Fate will always aid when one’s bravery holds,
and when one’s cause is great and just.”
—The Lay of Arkaine
“You’re rather lucky,” Sarnakyle said, bandaging Siggard’s back. “You were wounded once, and it was very light. Already it is mostly healed.”
Siggard stood and looked around. At Sarnakyle’s suggestion, they had retired to Tylwulf’s cabin, for, given the farmer’s words, all of the village traitors were dead. Still, the wizard had insisted on placing wards around the cottage, just in case there were one or two others that Tylwulf hadn’t mentioned.
Siggard donned his tunic, wincing slightly as his back strained against Sarnakyle’s bandages. The flames from the torches mounted on the wall cast an eerie, flickering light, and for a moment Siggard just wanted to leave and be d
one with the place.
“It will be morning soon,” Siggard said. “Perhaps a couple of hours until sunrise.”
“We should rest in the time we have,” Sarnakyle said. “But first, we should draw up a plan. Where do we go from here?”
Siggard shrugged. “We find the archdemon, and then we kill him.”
Sarnakyle smiled, an amused look on his face. “That might just work, assuming our enemy’s army has decided to take leave of him. If I might suggest another plan: when we were fighting Bartuc, he would raid the undefended villages, cut off the support to the walled towns, and then attack them. It seems to me that this demon would do the same; it makes strategic sense. Perhaps we should go to a fortified town, and let this archdemon come to us.”
“Very well,” Siggard conceded. “We’ll go to Brennor, then.”
“I will hold watch,” Sarnakyle offered. “You look like you could use the rest more than I.”
Siggard nodded and wearily stepped into the master bedroom. His eyes widened when he saw blood smearing the walls, and a demonic star painted on the window. He shook his head and walked into the kitchen lying opposite the room they had been attacked in.
“At least I might be able to sleep here,” he muttered. He lay down on the wooden floor, fully clothed lest some harm come in the night, and fell into a slumber.
His dreams were a maelstrom of faces, most in torment. He saw the people he had killed, laughing at him as he struck them down again and again. And then he saw Emilye, her beautiful eyes filled with sorrow, as though in pity for what he had become.
He sat up, his body awash in a cold sweat. Sarnakyle stood over him, some fresh clothes in his arms. “It is mid-morning,” the wizard said. “I decided you should rest as long as you could.” He passed the bundle to Siggard. “Try these on; they will suit you better than what you have now.”
DIABLO: DEMONSBANE Page 3
