“Art for squalor,” Siggard said. “I wonder if the trade is worthwhile.”
Sarnakyle smiled. “When you come to the east with me one day, my friend, you will see why it is. Now, do you know anything of this earl?”
“I served under the Earl of Brennor at Blackmarch, but I do not know if he survived,” Siggard replied.
“We can probably assume that he didn’t,” Sarnakyle said. “I did not hear of any of the leaders living through the battle, and if any had, the bards would have spoken of them in their songs. Does he have a son?”
Siggard nodded. “Tilgar. Earl Edgewulf is a good man, who knows when and how to listen. I have not met his son, though. I have heard that Tilgar is brave, but not much else.”
“We must hope that he is the equal of his father,” Sarnakyle stated.
When they arrived at the stone castle that housed the seat of the Earl of Brennor, they were shown in to a small audience chamber. There they waited, Sarnakyle taking a close look at the tapestries on the wall while Siggard sat in one of the three chairs that had been provided.
“This is interesting,” Sarnakyle said, pointing at one of the pictures. “This shows a battle between Heaven and Hell. I didn’t think that mythology had spread so far.”
Siggard blinked. “We have always believed in Heaven and Hell. We may even have learned of it first.”
Sarnakyle chuckled. “Now there you must jest! No learning could equal the greatness of Kehjistan!”
The door opened, and a rotund man with a bushy gray beard walked in. Siggard looked at him closely, but it was not Earl Edgewulf. The man appeared too old to be the earl’s son, though.
“I am Hunfrith, the steward of Brennor,” the man said. “Please, be seated. I understand that you request an urgent audience with his lordship, Earl Tilgar.”
Sarnakyle nodded and sat. “It is of the utmost importance.”
Siggard blinked. “Not Earl Edgewulf?”
Hunfrith shook his head sadly. “His lordship was slain at the battle of Blackmarch. Earl Tilgar now holds the seat of Brennor.”
“Our condolences,” Sarnakyle said. “But we really must see his lordship now.”
“Now, what this is about?” Hunfrith asked, leaning forward.
“It would be better if his lordship heard it first,” Siggard said.
“Understand my position here,” Hunfrith said. “You are asking to see his lordship, who is a very busy man. Not only is there now a food shortage, due to a lack of merchant trade, but the king’s son, Prince Hrothwulf, was slain with the old earl at Blackmarch, a battle for which we have no reliable accounts. This means that there is now no successor to the throne, and now that his majesty has become ill every landowner who has rings to give away is trying to solidify his power. For all I know, you two could be assassins, or you could have news of minor importance at best. So I need to know that this is worthwhile.”
Siggard decided to take the risk. “There is an army of demons raiding the lands around Brennor. My own village has been attacked and destroyed, and so have most of the settlements around the town. That is why no merchants have come with harvest goods.”
“Their strategy will be to cut off your supplies and then attack the town,” Sarnakyle added reluctantly. “I have seen this before in Kehjistan. From what you have told me, they have already succeeded.”
Hunfrith looked at them incredulously. “Do you honestly expect me to believe this?” he demanded. “An army of demons? I wish that was a new rumor; I think I preferred the stories of goblins and a dragon. This must be some sort of ridiculous joke.”
“It is no joke,” Siggard asserted. “I was at Blackmarch, and I saw what faced us. We were not fighting against men, but the foulest creatures of Hell.”
“You were at Blackmarch,” Hunfrith said.
Siggard nodded.
“And how did you survive the battle, may I ask?”
Siggard shrugged. “I do not remember. I just recall the shield wall breaking, and then I was in the forest with a giant lump on my head. I lost two days.”
“It sounds to me like you are a deserter trying to cover your cowardice with tales of ghosts and goblins,” Hunfrith stated.
“Siggard is no deserter, and we have important news,” Sarnakyle said impatiently. “You may come under attack any night now. Will you kindly let us pass?”
Hunfrith stood up. “Absolutely not!” he bellowed. “You are lucky I don’t order you two hanged for cowardice! Now get out of my sight before I change my mind!”
Siggard shook his head and stood angrily, turning to Hunfrith. “This is not over.”
The steward smiled thinly. “Shall I have the guards escort you out?”
“We know the way,” Sarnakyle said bitterly. With that, they turned on their heels and left.
They found a suitable inn shortly before sundown. The accommodations were acceptable, but barely, and it was the best they had seen in the northern side of town. At least the help didn’t try to harass them while they ate.
“We will have to try again tomorrow morning,” Sarnakyle said, supping on some thin vegetable soup. “If this town isn’t prepared, the archdemon will simply walk through it.”
“We’ll need a way to get past the steward,” Siggard said, ignoring his own soup and longing for some of Emilye’s delicious mutton stew. The very thought of her brought a tear to his eye, and as he wiped it away he had to wrench his thoughts back to more immediate matters.
“Perhaps we can deliver something,” Sarnakyle suggested. “Is there anything the castle is in desperate need of, besides a new steward?”
Siggard shrugged and stood up. “I have to get some fresh air.”
“One moment,” Sarnakyle said. “I’m almost finished.” He downed the last of his soup, left a small silver coin on the table, and joined Siggard.
In the street, Siggard took a deep breath, but the air was not as fresh as he had hoped. Sarnakyle leaned against the inn’s gray stone wall, and together they watched the few townspeople meander around, some looking as though they had some sort of direction, others appearing to be lost souls.
“Do you remember anything about the archdemon you fought?” Sarnakyle asked. “Anything at all could help.”
“Lots of horns,” Siggard replied.
“Most greater demons have lots of horns,” Sarnakyle said. “I have no doubt that the Prime Evils themselves must look like balls of spikes. Anything else?”
Siggard thought for a moment. “There was a symbol on its chest. I can’t remember what it was, though.”
“A glyph,” Sarnakyle said. “That could be very ill news. That means that the archdemon is enchanted in some . . . do you smell smoke?”
Siggard started and inhaled sharply. Indeed, an acrid stench now filled the air. He looked around to see a large pillar of smoke rising from the eastern side of town.
Siggard was overcome with dread. Part of Brennor was burning, and there was no thought of it being an accident; surely the demonic siege had begun.
7
FIERS AND DEMONS
What is bravery? Are those who fight in a hopeless cause brave, for they die for their beliefs? Are those who run from death brave, for it is easier to die than live? Or is bravery instead pushing aside one’s fear to do what is necessary, be it to live or die?
—Godfrey of Westmarch, Questions
Siggard and Sarnakyle pounded through the streets of Brennor, desperately racing eastwards where the fire burned. As he ran, Siggard searched his memory for what was in that section of the town, from the few times he had visited with his father or wife.
There was the service entrance to the castle, along with the main barracks and armory . . .
A cold chill began to run down Siggard’s back. If the demons destroyed the armory, the town would be lost. Brennor had already been cut off from any new supplies.
He cursed and skidded to a stop. They faced a dead end, terminating in a small shop selling wicker baskets. The sho
p was closed for the night, and a wooden sign hung from the oaken door informing all who could read when it would be opening the next morning.
They whirled about and raced towards a side street. “This place is a labyrinth,” Sarnakyle called. “Do your people not plan their towns carefully, so that it is easy to get from place to place?”
Siggard panted and shook his head. “Most towns just grow in Entsteig. People find a good place and live there. I’ve heard the capital is even more of a maze than Brennor. There was a left turn back there. If we take that, we should be able to find our way.”
His robes and cloak flapping, Sarnakyle shouted, “Right!”
They wound their way quickly through the maze of streets and alleys, passing several ladies of the night who barely had time to call out their wares even as the two passed. After several turns, always keeping the plume of smoke in sight, they nearly collided with a fire brigade.
“Damnation,” Siggard muttered. “It’s begun.”
Siggard and Sarnakyle slowed to walk down the side street, passing the guardsmen. One of the guards turned and called after them to stop, but they both ignored him.
The street emptied out into a small square, where Siggard saw several soldiers crowded into a circle, desperately fighting for their lives. They were surrounded by froglike creatures that appeared strangely indistinct, as though they were here and yet not. Behind the battle stood the stone walls of the barracks, fire belching forth from every window to sear the air.
Siggard felt rage begin to take hold, and he drew Guthbreoht. The sword’s song filled his being, fueling his fury, and he screamed an ancient battle cry whose words were older than the world itself.
He rushed into the fray, cutting down one of the demonic things with such force that the monster was sliced in half. His sword sang in exaltation as he turned to the next demon, quickly spilling its guts onto the cobbled road. Had anybody been watching, they would have wondered if he wielded the sword or vice versa.
He heard a shout from Sarnakyle, and a bolt of fire struck behind him. He turned away from the heat to see one of the demons staggering back, its body a living torch. With a quick thrust Siggard pierced it through, and turned again to barely dodge another demon’s lunge. The claws of the thing scraped past him, and Siggard’s blow severed the monster’s spine.
He looked to see the soldiers forming into a shield wall and charging. His frantic attack had distracted at least half of the demons, giving the guardsmen a chance to rally. Two of the monsters fell to the soldiers’ swinging blades, but the melee was not without a cost. One of the guards went down, clutching at his gaping throat as his lifeblood poured out in a scarlet rush to stain the ground crimson.
Siggard began to work his way towards the wall, suddenly realizing that if he didn’t join the other soldiers, he could be surrounded and killed. Two more creatures fell to his sword, Guthbreoht’s song becoming stronger with each demonic life it took.
Just before he reached the advancing shield wall, he felt an evil presence behind him. He reversed his grip and struck, feeling the sword pass through flesh and bone, but when he turned to look he saw that the steel impaled thin air. An ichorous blood began to run from the blade, and one of the creatures slowly started to appear, Guthbreoht transfixed in its neck. Siggard wrenched the sword clear, levering off the demon’s head.
And then the shield wall overtook and engulfed him, and he took his place at its head. The soldiers continued to advance, cutting down every demon in their path. With Siggard in their ranks, they had become unstoppable, his sword destroying a monster with every stroke.
Several bolts of lightning struck down from the sky, killing the last of the demons. Siggard turned to see Sarnakyle nearly staggering from exertion, his face a sweaty mask. The wizard was reaching towards the heavens, and where he pointed a small cloud had formed. Finally, Sarnakyle lowered his hand, the thunderhead above vanishing into a bluish mist.
Even as the firemen rushed past them, the captain of the guard, a large mustached man with a slight limp, stepped up to Siggard. “Sir, I thank you. If it hadn’t been for you, they would have destroyed us and burnt down the armory.”
“So long as the armory is safe,” Siggard said, feeling the exhaustion as the adrenaline left his system. He stepped over to one of the dead soldiers and said a small prayer, then wiped his sword clean on the body’s tabard. He didn’t know if blood would rust a blade forged by Velund, but he didn’t want to take any risks. Strangely, the edge was not dulled at all, as though he had been cutting through cloth rather than flesh and bone. He sheathed Guthbreoht and sat on a wooden bench at the edge of the square, watching as the bucket brigade formed and dashed water on the billowing flames.
Sarnakyle walked over and sat beside him. “Given the clear skies, I didn’t know if that lightning spell would work. I’m glad it did.”
Siggard patted the wizard on the back. “You did well, my friend.”
“Do you suppose the steward will allow us to see the earl now?”
Siggard raised his head and surveyed the square. The firemen continued to pour bucket after bucket into the rising flames and choking smoke. “They won’t be able to put it out, will they?” Siggard mused, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell.
Sarnakyle shook his head. “It is too far gone. I only hope that nobody was trapped inside.”
“We should probably help.”
“Probably.”
“In a moment.”
“Yes,” the wizard agreed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Once we’re rested.”
Two more people entered the square, both wearing tunics of office and rich cloaks. One, a tall red-bearded figure, wore an ornamental mace at his side. The other was shorter and rotund. They talked to the captain of the guard for a moment, who pointed first at several of the monstrous bodies lying on the ground and then at Siggard and Sarnakyle. They spoke a few words more, then the two newcomers strode towards the weary pair.
Siggard sighed in frustration when he realized that the first man was Hunfrith. He didn’t recognize the second man, though. As they approached, Siggard stood, Sarnakyle following his lead.
“These are the men who sought an audience with me earlier today?” the strange man asked Hunfrith.
The steward nodded, and Siggard realized who the tall man was.
“It is an honor to meet you, your lordship,” Siggard said, bowing. “Siggard of Bear’s Hill and Sarnakyle of Kehjistan, at your service.”
“From what Captain Hagan has told me, I owe both of you several debts of gratitude,” Earl Tilgar said. “You may have saved our town. You may have however many rings you wish from my treasury.”
“We have more important matters,” Sarnakyle stated. “This town may be under siege by a powerful demon within a matter of days. We request an audience so that we may tell you what we know.”
Tilgar nodded. “I will see you at midday tomorrow. Come to my castle, tell the guards your names, and they will bring you to me. Hunfrith will take care of any arrangements. If you will excuse me, there are several things I must do now.”
Siggard and Sarnakyle both bowed as the earl turned and walked back to the captain of the guard. Hunfrith remained and wrung his hands uneasily.
“I believe I owe both of you a grave apology,” the steward said. “Please pardon me. We have heard many strange stories about the death of the old earl and prince, and it is easy to be suspicious.”
“I understand,” Siggard said. “I too have witnessed many things that I would not have believed a year ago.”
“I will see you both tomorrow then,” Hunfrith said, bowing. “It would be good decorum to wear your finest. The earl is a royal cousin, and there are matters of politics to be aware of.”
With that, Hunfrith returned to the earl. Sarnakyle shrugged to Siggard, and the two strode back through the winding streets to their inn. When they reached their room, Siggard removed his cloak, sword, and tunic, fell onto the bed, and within moments was i
n a blessedly dreamless sleep.
8
WARNINGS
It is possible to have freedom, and it is possible to have peace.
It is rare to have both.
—Dil’Gerran of Kehjistan, Sayings of the Northmen
Siggard was up at the crack of dawn. He rose from the bed and opened the shutters to watch the town come to life. First the merchants began to open their shops, and then the apprentices came out, buying the items their masters would need to go about their business, cleaning out windows, and preparing the displays.
The street peddlers arrived next, jockeying for position to hock the passersby. After them came the retainers of the minor nobles’ houses in the city, and the streets filled with the sounds of vendors calling out their wares.
From Siggard’s few trips to Brennor, he knew that this was just the surface. Inside, the blacksmiths would begin to forge iron and steel, and bladesmiths would prepare new arms and armor for the city guard. There were also illuminators who would even now be drawing new illustrations on their manuscripts, artisans creating tapestries, bards composing the next saga of Arkaine, and any number of other artists and master craftsmen plying their trades.
With a start, Siggard realized that it was not just a fortified town that hung in the balance, it was an entire civilization.
He turned away from the window to see Sarnakyle beginning to stir, wiping his hands on his white underrobe. Once the wizard was up and about, they would go to the castle and seek their audience with Earl Tilgar. Before that, though, they would have to be ready.
Siggard picked up his tunic and frowned. The once-gray shirt had become covered with brown bloodstains. He would be able to wear it while he bought a new one, but it would certainly not serve when he went to see Earl Tilgar.
DIABLO: DEMONSBANE Page 5
