Diablo 3: The Reaper of Souls

by Vandoren, Elias

  "No. Of course not. But you ask too much. You cannot have your stakes before you win them."

  Nerissa felt herself balanced on a tightrope of decorum, weighing Carlotta's determination to have her own way against the foul creature's obvious hunger. She smiled with practiced ease and gauged the uncertainty in Carlotta's eyes, the nervous twitching of the fingers, the eager pitch of her shoulders. She was the very picture of necessity, mask it though she tried.

  Nerissa stared hard at Carlotta for a long moment, then shrugged her shoulders as if in defeat and indicated the jewelry box again. She cocked her head insolently to one side, daring Carlotta to accept the jewels and baubles.

  Carlotta seethed, her teeth bared.

  "So be it." She clapped her hands, and Nerissa gasped in spite of herself. For an instant, the lamplight had flickered, and in the shadows Carlotta's eyes had glowed like burning embers. The old woman smiled, triumphant and predatory, and Nerissa fought to regain her composure. Carlotta was even more withered and worn-looking than she had been just a moment ago. But she had never looked more deadly.

  Immediately, the patter of bare feet came down the hallway, almost at a run. Carlotta held Nerissa's gaze, the hint of a satisfied smirk twitching one corner of her mouth. Nerissa smiled benevolently, as if regarding a favored guest at a dinner party. Her stomach twisted in a painful knot, but her face beamed with bland goodwill.

  The door burst open, and neither woman moved. Elizabeth ran to Nerissa's side, wearing only her shift, her golden tresses loose about her shoulders, her fine features more radiant and beautiful than ever.

  "Oh, Nerissa, I've had the strangest dream. It was... it... oh, dear." She giggled, her fingers to her mouth. "I've forgotten what it was."

  Nerissa finally looked up at her, turning her head with casual precision. "That's quite amusing, Elizabeth, dear. But I'm afraid I have a rather important guest at the moment."

  Elizabeth seemed to see Carlotta for the first time and recoiled slightly. "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt. Whatever was I thinking?" She appeared to be at a loss, terrified by the horrid crone but too entranced to break away. "I should... go now?"

  The old woman regarded Elizabeth, and the girl shrank back behind Nerissa's chair. "Yes, Elizabeth," Carlotta croaked, her fingers tightening on the head of the ebony cane. "Say goodbye to your sister."

  Nerissa's eyes narrowed to slits, and Carlotta grinned with plain cruelty, all pretense of civility gone. Nerissa kept her gaze fixed on Carlotta a moment longer, then turned a genuine and loving smile on her disconcerted sister. "Goodbye, Elizabeth," she whispered, and Elizabeth involuntarily backed away.

  "Goodbye," she answered uncertainly, then turned, nearly running from the room.

  "Now." Carlotta cut the cards, and Nerissa hesitated, then drew. When the six cards lay on the table, she felt doubt flicker through her again. She forced it down, determined to see this through. She revealed her rightmost card and repressed the excitement at seeing the bishop of stars. Carlotta made a tiny noise of disapproval and turned over the five of serpents. She looked up at Nerissa with rank eagerness in her eyes, and Nerissa had to restrain herself from drawing back.

  She reached out, uncertain, then flipped the left card and heard Carlotta's rude giggle. The two of lions wasn't going to help much. Nerissa glanced at the jewelry box as Carlotta's hand hovered over her two remaining cards, finally descending on one.

  She positively crowed with delight as she snapped over the archangel of stars. She chuckled and bobbled up and down in her seat, while Nerissa's head swam. The highest card in the deck. She looked down at her last card, knowing that it mattered not in the least. And yet...

  "Come now, dearie." Carlotta didn't even bother to mask her malevolent glee. "Turn it over. Let's bring this to an end, shall we?" Her smile was pure predation, and Nerissa found herself wondering how the old witch took people's hearts. Did she suck them out of their mouths? Rip open the chests with those clawlike fingers? Or simply chew through the breastbones like a hideously oversized rat?

  She shook her head to dismiss such horrors and smiled at Carlotta. "Of course, it's not too late to call it a draw. Or to change the stakes..." She picked up the jewelry box once again and fingered the sapphire on the comb, traced the jewels of the stiletto's handle.

  "No," snapped the old woman, leaning forward in her chair. "You agreed. You have lost. Now turn over the card and let us finish the game."

  "Yes," Nerissa answered, pure steel in her voice. "Let us finish the game." And with a swift motion, she drew the stiletto from its sheath. Carlotta shrieked and raised the cane to ward off the blow, unnatural flame flaring from its handle, but Nerissa flipped the knife and plunged the blade into her own chest. Crimson blood spurted, splashing the cards, and Carlotta recoiled, snarling in animal rage. The bright arterial blood hit the table with gouts of steadily decreasing force, until Nerissa's eyes rolled in her head and she slumped back into her chair. The blood leaked gently now, slowly soaking her brocade bodice.

  Carlotta sat still for a long time, her breath coming in shallow pants, her forked tongue licking scaled lips. Her gaze shifted from the cooling corpse to the unfinished game on the table.

  From somewhere in the house she heard the muffled patter of Elizabeth's feet and realized, with mounting distaste, that the spell she'd cast on the young woman would last until the game ended. The crone hissed and reached out to flip over Nerissa's final card, but she stopped herself short. The act would be futile. The terms of the game were set, unbreakable.

  Until I turn my last card, Nerissa had said.

  With great effort, Carlotta rose to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane.

  "Well played, my dear. Well played indeed."

  She turned her back on the blood-soaked cards and, with slow, painful steps, hobbled from the room.

  MiddleWick

  The soldier raised his torch and leaned forward, leathers creaking. His eyes were narrow in their examination. The light of his flame sent shadows waltzing through the orchard, twisting and morphing through the brush like dark appendages slithering in retreat of the starlight. Above him, the wind—stiff and unseasonably chilly for early autumn—wrestled through the canopy of leaves and branches, ushering all seven of the corpses into a lazy sway from their nooses.

  He lingered for several minutes at the bloodied feet of the old man, hanging heavily from a short oak tree. The glow of the torch's flame darkened the contours of the carcass's frail frame and accentuated its skeletal fragility; between tears in the clothing, the light found liver spots, open sores, jagged veins, and something odd behind the ribbons of fabric fluttering against the cadaver's sunken chest. The soldier craned his neck. Cautiously he lifted a gauntleted hand, squinting through the firelight as he pinched the fabric between two fingers. He brought the torch closer and tilted his head as he gently tugged downward on the loose flap of cloth, following the series of intricate red creases that split the skin of the old man's breast and trailed down the sternum, over the belly, and—

  "Harringer," a man barked from the tree line. "Stop undressing the corpses."

  The soldier spun, torch extended, splashing light onto the dark path between trees. The newcomer grinned, hands on his hips, his black armor nearly camouflaging him against the shadowy brush. He sashayed forward from behind that smile—two rows of perfect white teeth set against an austere landscape of deep wrinkles and heavy stubble—and took his place beside the young soldier.

  Harringer turned back toward the carcass swinging from its rope. "Stretvanger's lost his mind," he said, stretching again to scrutinize the scratches on the old man's torso. "Have you seen what he's done to this fellow?"

  The man in dark armor shook his head. "I haven't. And neither should you. Hands off, remember? We're not supposed to touch these things."

  "Why not, you figure?"

  "Not my area." He chewed his lower lip, looking up thoughtfully at the old body. "Stretvanger wants them to bleed out. We're not to to
uch them till the big man gives the order, you understand?"

  Harringer gave an absent nod, eyes passing over the corpse's moist, milky flesh. "He's carved symbols into this poor man's chest and stomach." He moved the torch to the opposite hand and continued his probing.

  "He's drip-drying the blood out of them. Stretvanger was adamant. Wants them dry as raisins."

  "That's odd, don't you think? To cut in patterns?"

  The newcomer shrugged. "No odder than storming Middlewick and ordering the execution of four farmers, two barmaids, and a midwife without discernible reason or cause."

  Harringer followed the trail of cuts down the cadaver's stomach and started yanking at his waistband. "This one wasn't a farmer. He was the florist, I think." He unfastened the drawstring belt with one hand, lowered the shredded pants, and traced the gashes down both gaunt thighs. The noose groaned against the bough.

  "For all that's righteous, Harringer, there's a whorehouse in Southfield. Finish your patrol and I'll treat you to a go-around, but for whatever goodness is left in your heart, button the poor farmer's trousers."

  "Florist," Harringer corrected, hoisting the tattered britches and retying the belt. "You think Stretvanger carved the other bodies too?"

  The man hawked a wad of spit into the trees. "Couldn't tell you. That man is a mountain of secrets. It's been four days; we've killed seven people, and he hasn't uttered a word of explanation."

  Harringer paused briefly, eyebrows drawn in deep thought. He turned suddenly and sped off farther into the orchard.

  "Harrin—" The man in the dark armor shook his head and sighed, then pursued the soldier into the heart of the trees. "Damn it, Harringer, hands off, remember?"

  When their footsteps faded and the light from Harringer's torch was only a glimmer through the brush, two children stumbled from the darkness. Dalya and Istanten lingered in the path, listening to the soldiers' voices, measuring their distance. And then, pruning shears tucked into her waistband, Dalya scurried toward the bony old carcass swinging from the oak.

  "Keep a lookout," she told Istanten. "I'll get him down." The boy pressed two fingers to his throat and offered a croaky grunt of acknowledgment.

  Dalya drew the shears and secured them between her teeth. Ducking under the corpse, she moved to the tree and probed the trunk for handholds. Istanten's eyes bounced between Harringer's faraway flame and Dalya's nimble scurry to the top of the oak tree, watching as she navigated the branches and shimmied along the bough toward the rope's knotted end.

  Down the path, the orchard echoed with the newcomer's husky cackle.

  With one arm wrapped around the branch, Dalya grabbed the shears from her mouth and stretched toward the length of rope. She sawed patiently, jerking the blades back and forth, rope swaying and bough creaking under stress of weight and movement. The first strands of fiber popped and frayed under the shears; she persisted, gaining speed as the rope unraveled and the corpse below sagged lopsidedly.

  Istanten pressed two fingers to the apple of his throat and emitted a low growl. Dalya froze. A tense gurgle spewed from his lips, and the boy scampered from the road and ducked into the shadows. She heard Harringer's voice, a ways down the path but growing nearer.

  "Istanten!" she whispered, holding tight to the branch. The boy offered no answer from the darkness. She growled, gritted her teeth, and continued sawing at the rope. The light of the torch caught the corner of her eye as spears of it pierced the underbrush and splashed out onto the path. She hacked more fiercely, the muscles of her arm igniting, her breath trapped in her throat. The rope tattered under the blade, its grip on the corpse slackening. Harringer's footsteps were close now; she heard the leaves and rocks crunching under his boots, the gentle clink of his buckles as he walked. She fought angrily with the rope, paring strand after strand with the cold steel of the shears, until Harringer's voice rang through the quiet darkness.

  "You there," he called, waving his torch.

  Dalya turned her head cautiously, squinting through the firelight at the soldier's silhouette. Her heart thrashed against her ribcage. She made to respond but the words never came, and she held silently to the branch for several seconds. Harringer shuffled forward, his left hand resting on his sword hilt. Dalya swallowed hard and steadied her nerves with a deep breath.

  The trees were too dense on this side of the path. However, if she dropped from the branch, found her feet, and sprinted for the brush across the way, she and Istanten might disappear before the soldier even considered pursuit. But if she landed wrong—if she lost her balance or twisted an ankle...

  She ran through options in her head as Harringer's silhouette approached. Frozen by indecision, she held tight to the branch and watched the soldier grow closer and closer until he neared the base of her tree. Her fist squeezed the shears and her arm strangled the branch. She tensed and prepared to make her leap, but Harringer kept walking. Dalya felt the heat of his torch as he passed nearby, and spotted the small man forty yards down the path as Harringer's light found him in the gloom of the orchard.

  "Sir!" the soldier hollered. "You can't be here."

  The diminutive man had no answer. He just shook his head absently, hands kneaded in front of him, and stared up at the young woman dangling from her noose. Harringer repeated himself, slightly increasing his pace. The man pointed at the body and smiled sadly. "My wife," he said. Harringer advanced warily and patted the man's shoulder. Gently he ushered him from the orchard and into the darkness.

  Dalya expelled a shaky breath. She pried her fingernails from the bough and held to her perch, wind tousling her hair and clothes. The hanging corpse rotated with the breeze, and the rope gave a dry groan. Istanten wobbled from the brush, waved to Dalya, then pointed at the corpse.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  The rope twisted, whined, and gave a final pop, and the body thudded to the earth. The branch shook viciously and tossed Dalya, and she landed hard atop the carcass. Istanten helped her to her feet and allowed her a moment to find her breath before he seized the body by the armpits and dragged it toward the brush.

  Dalya tucked the shears into her waistband, swiped the dirt from her clothes, and grabbed the old man's feet. "Careful with his head," she said, and together the children carried the corpse into the trees and toward Middlewick. Neither made a sound as they trundled through the fields; the rush of the river and the squawking of crows were their only company in the middle of the night.

  Dalya stripped the rags from her grandfather's emaciated body. She ripped a tatter from his shirt, soaked it, and gently scrubbed the dirt from the old man's chest and face. She cleaned the edges of the lacerations that ran down his form—a bizarre series of symbols carved cruelly into his flesh—and then dragged the cold corpse into the front bedroom. The first splashes of sunlight colored the early morning sky as she pulled him into bed and drew the sheets up to his stubbly chin. She planted a quick kiss on his forehead and trudged out to the shack behind the cottage.

  There she traded shears for shovel and set off for the woods outside of town—the cluster of trees opposite the orchard. As she strolled through acres of twilit fields, her mind rendered numb from last night's raid, she found herself curiously engaged by her grandfather's spade. The old man had owned it for decades, but the tool had acted more like ornament than instrument; elaborate hieroglyphs decorated the dark wood of the shaft, spiraling downward until they dead-ended at the base of the ivory head. The head itself was narrow and acutely pointed, finely etched with patterns of flowers and vines.

  It was a striking tool, and in her twelve years, Dalya had never seen her grandfather use it.

  She found the clearing just as the sun broke over the mountains. After double-checking her measurements—six feet long, four wide—she buried the ivory spade in the dirt and wrenched free the first shovelful of earth from between her feet. She spent the morning ripping into the forest floor, careful not to break any roots or damage the surrounding flora, chipping away
at the soil, sinking deeper and deeper into her grandfather's grave.

  At noon, she stopped to rest. She scampered from the hole, strands of hair plastered to her forehead, her face and clothes clotted with dirt. Several minutes passed. She basked in the cool woodland breeze, recouping her energy and meditating to the birdsong. The feeling was short-lived.

  The pitter-patter of hurried footfalls and the crackling of the underbrush sent her stomach into knots. She lurched to her feet, spade hefted in defense. Pivoting in the churned soil, she scanned the trees for the source of the sound, eyes flickering between shifting shadows and swaying branches.

  Istanten tumbled from the bushes. Dalya flinched and teetered backward, catching her balance near the edge of the hole.

  The boy hunkered over to find his breath, sucking air in choppy, guttural wheezes.

  Dalya stabbed the shovel into the earth and laid a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"

  He glanced up at her, chest heaving, and pointed west toward town. With his other hand, he pressed two fingers against his throat and emitted a low grumble.