DIABLO: DEMONSBANE

by Robert B. Marks

  “Where did you get them?” Siggard asked, examining the clothes. He held up a warm-looking black-hooded cloak and some leather trousers. Both seemed to be of exceptional workmanship. Then he looked at the remains of the bundle, a long-sleeved gray tunic that seemed to be made of sheepskin.

  “I found them in a chest in the cellar,” Sarnakyle replied. “They seemed to be too large for either Tylwulf or his wife, so I can only assume they must have belonged to his father.”

  When Siggard paused, looking at the clothes suspiciously, Sarnakyle added: “I have checked them. There are no traces of magic on them, either good or evil.”

  “Were you able to find any weapons?” Siggard asked, fondling the cloak.

  Sarnakyle shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Siggard nodded. “Thank you, my friend. If you will give me a moment to get dressed, we can be on our way.”

  The clothes fit Siggard almost perfectly, the only problem being that the trousers were slightly overlarge. That difficulty was easily fixed, though, by Siggard’s sword belt, the empty sheath swaying at his side.

  They strode west on the Queen’s Road, a cobblestone path that Siggard remembered his father taking him along several times. The sky was overcast, and on occasion there was a brief burst of rain. It was enough that Sarnakyle stopped and drew a red cloak from his traveling pack.

  “If we are to fight this archdemon,” the wizard said as he pulled the cloak on, “I do not wish to die of a chill first.”

  Siggard gave him a slight grin, and then they began to walk again. It was difficult to tell how late in the day it was; the sky was completely cast over, and at best there was a brief ray of sun as the clouds scudded across the sky.

  “I fear there may be lightning,” Sarnakyle said. “I can feel it coming in my bones.”

  “Let us hope that we can find shelter before then,” Siggard said. “If you hadn’t let me sleep so long, we could have been there by nightfall. As it is, we will probably arrive sometime tomorrow morning.”

  “Are there any inns on the road?” Sarnakyle asked.

  “I think there is one halfway to Brennor,” Siggard replied. “This is a good road for travelers.”

  “Odd that we haven’t seen any yet,” Sarnakyle mused.

  After a moment, Siggard realized that the wizard was right. They had been traveling for hours, and the daylight was fading. Yet they had not encountered another soul while they walked.

  Siggard shook his head. This did not bode well: especially during the harvest season, there should be traffic along the main roads. With all he had seen, it was not a concern he could easily dismiss.

  “Let us hope that the inn is still there,” Siggard said, his stomach slowly twisting into a knot. Somehow, he dreaded the worst.

  An hour later Siggard’s fears were confirmed. There had indeed been an inn along the Queen’s Road, but now it was reduced to a burning husk.

  Lightning flashed in the darkening sky, the booming of thunder filling the air. Siggard and Sarnakyle pulled their cloaks closer to them and trod around the ruins of the inn.

  “This can’t have happened too long ago,” Sarnakyle said, using a fallen branch to point at a maimed corpse. “These bodies are very fresh, and they have not been used for . . . other purposes. The archdemon must have been in great haste.”

  “Brennor could already be under siege,” Siggard muttered.

  Sarnakyle nodded. “The only way we can find out for certain is if we go there. We need a place to stop for tonight, though.”

  Siggard shook his head and pulled up his hood. “I think there might be a barrow-ground to the south, but that is all there is aside from Brennor itself.”

  Sarnakyle grimaced. “If that is all there is, then that is where we must go. I think I can protect us.”

  Siggard began to follow a small side road near the inn. “Come with me,” he said, motioning. “The burial ground is this way, if I remember correctly.”

  “Have you ever taken shelter there before?” Sarnakyle asked.

  Siggard shook his head. “We always stayed at the inn. My father once took me to see the mounds, though. He wanted to show me where the ancient kings rested. I remember some of the tombs being open at the time. It was many years ago, though.”

  Their walk became a jog as a heavy rain began to fall, quickly soaking both of them despite their cloaks and leathers. The thunder became deafening, and the only thing keeping Siggard from running was the fear of getting lost in the blinding rain.

  Finally, they came to a large grove of evergreen trees. Inside the grove lay several mounds of earth, each grass-covered. For a moment, Siggard thought he could see vague shapes moving among the mounds, but when the lightning flashed, it appeared to be only his imagination.

  Sarnakyle shook his head. “This is a place of the dead. I do not know how welcome we will be here.”

  “What choice do we have?” Siggard asked.

  As if on cue, a bolt of lightning struck one of the trees. As the flaming branches fell to the earth, Sarnakyle shrugged and said, “On second thought, a barrow can’t be that bad.”

  “We have to find an open one,” Siggard shouted, his ears still ringing from the thunder. “There will be a curse on us if we defile an unbroken grave.”

  Siggard strode around one of the mounds, only to find the ancient stone door standing resolutely shut. A look at the tomb across from him revealed another sealed doorway.

  Siggard suddenly felt himself being drawn. He walked towards one of the middle barrows and stopped. The wide maw of the open mound seemed to welcome him, as though it was where he belonged.

  “Sarnakyle!” Siggard called. “I’ve found one!”

  Siggard turned to see the wizard jogging up, his makeshift staff swinging in his hand. Siggard then turned and entered the tomb, disregarding Sarnakyle’s shouted warning.

  The inside was mercifully dry, and as Sarnakyle followed, he set his staff on fire, providing a crude torch. In the flickering light, Siggard saw several skeletons lying by the stone wall, their bones jumbled together. In the center of the mound lay a large stone sarcophagus, its sides ornamented with ancient runes and carvings of battle.

  Something glittered in the torchlight, catching Siggard’s eye. He stepped forward, to find a long, shining sword lying on top of the coffin. The crossguard was shorter than he was used to, and the pommel was large and ornamented. On the blade itself several runes were carved into the fuller, runes that seemed to writhe with life in the torchlight.

  “I wouldn’t touch that if I were . . . in the name of Horazon!” Sarnakyle exclaimed. “This is a sword forged by Velund!”

  “It is a special blade,” Siggard mumbled, only half aware of his words. The sword drew all of his attention, and he wanted more than anything to pick it up. On the edge of his consciousness it seemed he could hear the whisper of a song coming from the blade itself.

  “These swords were forged to be great allies,” Sarnakyle said eagerly. “They choose their masters carefully, and serve them to the death. If it calls to you, and you can name it, the sword is yours.”

  Siggard turned to look at the wizard. Sarnakyle’s eyes almost glowed with wonder, and then something drew Siggard’s gaze elsewhere. Several of the skeletons had moved, or so he thought, and empty eye sockets seemed to gaze at the two.

  Siggard slowly reached forward, placing his hands on the ancient leather of the hilt. As he touched it, the sword came to life, singing to him of glory and battle. It sang of armies of angels and demons, and battles at the gates of Heaven itself. And throughout the song there was a single name, a name that Siggard only had to say once, and the blade would serve him forever.

  Siggard turned and raised the sword. Around them, the skeletons shifted, the bones coming together, as though they might rise up to strike if the wrong words were spoken.

  “Do you know the sword’s name?” Sarnakyle asked.

  Siggard nodded and called out at the top of his lungs. “Guthb
reoht!”

  With a clatter, the bones fell back to the earth, the skulls turning away from the two wanderers. Sarnakyle drew a breath in wonderment.

  “They were the guardians of the blade,” the wizard said, watching the last skeleton slump down and turn away. “Had you said the wrong name . . .” He shuddered.

  Siggard sheathed Guthbreoht. “The sword has a new guardian now.” He suddenly looked towards the entrance, listening. The rain had stopped, and the cloak of night was broken by a brief bird song and the chirping of crickets.

  “I wonder how long you’ve been drawn here,” Sarnakyle muttered.

  “The storm is over,” Siggard said.

  Sarnakyle nodded. “Let us rest outside, my friend. This place has brought me much closer to the underworld than I ever desired to be.”

  Siggard nodded, and they left the tomb. For a moment, Siggard felt something watch him leave, but when he turned, the barrow was empty of all but shadows.

  6

  ARRIVALS AND SETBACKS

  Cherish all of Mankind, for Man has as much of the divine as the Archangels themselves. But unlike the Heavenly spirits, Man must overcome his failings, and chief amongst them is pride.

  —The Holy Scriptures of Zakarum

  They spent the night sleeping under the stars, Siggard holding Guthbreoht in his hands as he slept. The sword sang to him, and during its song, Siggard dreamed.

  He stood again in the shield wall at Blackmarch, watching the demonic army break through the treeline. Giant boulders smashed into the ranks, flattening entire groups of soldiers. Still the lines held, the spear-men shouting insults at the demons.

  Old Banagar smiled. “This is the way battle should be!”

  “I’d rather be home!” Siggard shouted, raising his shield as the arrows started to fly. The goat-things stood before the army, holding great bows in their hands. Each time they loosed, a soldier fell, screaming in agony.

  The smaller dog creatures and several of the goat creatures charged, bearing crude axes and clubs. They crashed against the shield wall, and the front lines became a struggle for survival. Siggard cut a goat-demon down with his sword, the force of the blow nearly unbalancing him. Something seemed strange about the blade, though, as if it wasn’t really the one he should have . . .

  The rush subsided, leaving the shield wall intact. Before the front lines lay a pile of bodies, some human, most monstrous. For the first time since the enemy came out onto the field, Siggard felt hope. Now that most of the demonic force was in the open, he saw that Entsteig had the advantage in numbers. More demons came out of the treeline, but they were outnumbered fivefold.

  Once again they charged, this assault even more furious than the last. Siggard found himself barely able to think, his reflexes alone keeping him alive. As one creature came before him, he lifted his shield, the blow from an axe nearly knocking him over. His counterthrust took the creature in the belly, and the monster keeled over, screaming in anguish. As it fell, another took its place, and Siggard’s blow almost severed the creature’s head. The monster fell back in a spray of blood, a flap of skin the only thing holding its head to its neck.

  “I think we might just win this battle!” Banagar shouted in triumph, raising his shield to mock the enemy.

  With a fierce rustling, the shadows at the treeline parted , and a horrific monster strode into the open. Several of the Entsteigian archers loosed their arrows at it, but the shafts bounced harmlessly off the terrifying thing’s muscular crimson chest.

  Siggard gasped. The demon was a giant, easily dwarfing the goat creatures assailing them. Its eyes shone bright red, and horns protruded from its shoulders, elbows, and knees. It wore only a primitive loincloth and a belt, and it bore a giant sword. On its chest a strange symbol was emblazoned, and Siggard could not tell if it was a tattoo or something the creature wore.

  “I am the favored of the Lord of Terror!” the creature bellowed, shaking the ground itself. “You will drop your weapons and submit to me, or all of you will die!”

  A voice, tinny in comparison to the demon’s, but still proud, called out. “We will never surrender to darkness. Go back to the underworld and trouble us no more!”

  Siggard blinked, suddenly recognizing the voice. It was Prince Hrothwulf himself, the heir of Entsteig, a man beloved by the entire kingdom. He hadn’t realized that the king had sent his son with this army, and for a moment he wondered if it was a good idea.

  The demon smiled, and in that grin Siggard saw more malice than he had experienced in an entire lifetime. “Then all of you will die!”

  The monster walked back into the trees, and the shadowy things moved again, covering its exit. There was a moment of silence, as Siggard and the rest of the army wondered what would come next.

  “They’re behind us!” came a startled cry from the rear of the line. Siggard turned to see several soldiers cut down, seemingly by nothing. Yet the blood spilled was real. Then a creature materialized, holding a long jagged knife, right in the middle of the shield wall.

  Confusion reigned, and in that moment the demons attacked. This time, they broke through the shield wall, and Siggard found himself trapped in a sea of enemies. He fought like a madman, taking several of the creatures down, but there were still more, and the line was broken.

  There was a gurgling cry from Banagar, and Siggard turned to face another of the materializing demons. With a great blow, he split open the creature’s head, but more came, and Siggard found himself in a crush of men such that he couldn’t move.

  At that moment, sheer panic took hold.

  He startled awake to see Sarnakyle standing watch. The wizard had draped his damp cloak over one of the tree branches, and seemed to be waiting for it to finish drying. The morning sun was still close to the horizon, giving off a pleasant heat tempered by a light breeze.

  “It is a good day to be alive, my friend!” Sarnakyle said, motioning towards the clear sky. “This promises to be a great day.”

  Siggard stood and stretched. “I only hope that the people of Brennor agree with you.”

  Sarnakyle walked over, a piece of meat in his hand. “I was able to catch a hare last night. It was a bold creature; it almost walked right up to me.”

  Siggard took the offering with a nod and ate a small piece. Then he put the rest away.

  “You really should eat more,” Sarnakyle said. “This cannot be healthy.”

  “I found out only two days ago that my family was dead,” Siggard pointed out. “How can you possibly expect me to be hungry?”

  “If you don’t eat, you will not have the strength to meet the foe, and you may end up joining your family before you can claim your vengeance,” Sarnakyle chided. “Do not soil their memory by dying needlessly.”

  Siggard conceded the point and finished off the meal, even though he had no appetite for it. It seemed to settle, though, so he turned his mind to other things.

  He stood and walked to the edge of the clearing, looking out at the barrows. In the morning light, they appeared old and decrepit, as though they were merely old tombs that would soon be forgotten. Perhaps one day they would fade into the land, and be passed by travelers who would mistake them for small hills.

  Such is the way of things, Siggard thought. All things must be forgotten in the end.

  “We should go,” Sarnakyle said behind him. “The open road awaits.”

  Siggard nodded, turning away from the mounds. Somehow, he knew that he would never see them again in his lifetime. He pulled on his cloak, and joined the wizard as they ventured off towards the Queen’s Road.

  Around midday, they finally came to Brennor, and as with every other time he had been there, Siggard felt overwhelmed. The town was huge, surrounded by a large stone wall that was said to be impenetrable.

  They stood at the gate, watching the guard allow a trickle of travelers inside the wall. The guards were impressive, their deep blue tabards and shining mail putting the entire army of Entsteig to shame.
<
br />   “So this is your idea of a town,” Sarnakyle mused. “Quaint. I like it, though.”

  “Surely you can’t think this to be small,” Siggard scoffed. “This is one of the greatest towns in the land.”

  “In Kehjistan, there are villages larger than this,” Sarnakyle said. “But that is Kehjistan, and this is Entsteig. Standards are different.”

  “Let’s go in and see the earl,” Siggard sighed. He didn’t want to get the wizard started on another long-winded story about the wonders of his homeland.

  Sarnakyle held his hand up for a moment. “You saw how easily a demonic presence can lurk in a human form. We must be cautious, and tell only the earl what we know.”

  Siggard nodded. “Or the enemy might know our secrets. Don’t worry; I understand.”

  As they approached the gate, the two guards lowered their spears to block the way. “State your names and business.”

  “Siggard of Bear’s Hill, and Sarnakyle of Kehjistan,” Siggard replied. “We are here to stay for the night, and then head southwards on the King’s Road.”

  “Why are you heading south?”

  Siggard pursed his lips, then spoke. “My friend and I are visiting some of my relatives in Gellan’s Pass.”

  The first guard’s mustache bristled. “You might have some difficulty with that. We haven’t had word from the south since shortly after Blackmarch. Pass and be recognized.”

  They entered the town, immediately assaulted by a menagerie of sights and scents as they went along one of the narrow winding streets. The blocky stone buildings rose high above them, and several times they had to dodge a rain of reeking excrement as somebody emptied out a chamber pot.

  “I suppose some people enjoy living like this,” Siggard muttered, wiping some mud from a passing horse off his cloak.

  “People like to dwell together,” Sarnakyle said. “And in a city or town you can find artisans, craftsmen, all those trades that cannot flourish in a village.”