by Kenyon, Nate
We are coming for you, sooner or later, as we came for your mother and father and your kin before them. We always do.
As the small group progressed through the city streets, the number of people following them grew, so that by the time they reached the upper limits, there was a grim parade tailing behind them. The guards led them to a fairly modest home near the city walls that overlooked the valley and the gulf. A building twice the size sat behind it, surrounded by a patch of dead grass and a path worn down to the dirt. Thick black smoke poured from double chimneys, and the whoosh of bellows came from inside.
The people finally began to disperse after the guards put their hands on the hilts of their swords and ordered them back. The lead guard knocked hard on the door and waited.
The harsh clang of metal on metal ceased for a moment. The guard knocked twice more, but the hammering started up again. He glanced at his companions, then slipped the catch and entered. The others followed.
It was blazing-hot inside. Prickles of moisture sprang up on Jacob’s brow and the small of his back, the heat burning his lungs. The air wavered, making objects seem to ripple and change. Wire brushes, jigs, and fullers lay on tables or hung on hooks next to grinding stones. A fire roared in a hearth at the far end, where a huge man wearing a thick leather apron and glistening with sweat hammered at a white-hot edge of metal on an anvil, his arms bare to the shoulders.
The guards waited for him to finish. He worked quickly and with impressive skill, honing the edge of metal to a thin blade, before he looked up and finally acknowledged them. After setting the sword in a bucket of water, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a cloth and walked toward the lead guard.
As the man approached, Jacob heard a brief intake of breath from the necromancer; Jacob thought Zayl might have recognized him, although it was difficult to say.
A quick explanation followed, but before the guard could finish, the huge man waved him away. “I’m Borad Nahr,” he said, gripping Tyrael’s hand and holding it for an extra beat as he kept Tyrael’s gaze. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him. “Been expecting you. Garand, take the men back down the hill and watch the woods.”
The guard hesitated just a moment and then nodded, backing out of the room and closing the door. The blacksmith wiped his brow again and removed his apron, taking his time before hanging it on a hook. He kept his back to them. The others waited. “You bring word from Westmarch?” Nahr said, only half-turning toward them, in a voice filled with a mix of anticipation and dread. Most of his face was in shadow.
“We come from the road to Tristram,” Tyrael said. “Your guards are vigilant. We stumbled upon four of them in the woods on our journey. But now you send them away before speaking plainly. Are you expecting some sort of trouble?”
“They are loyal,” Borad Nahr said. “But one can never be too careful, not today.” He finally turned fully to face them, his eyes shining in the firelight. “Now, give me the word from my son, and make it quick.”
His son? “You’re no blacksmith,” Jacob said.
The huge man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Jacob up and down, then moved on to the others, lingering on Zayl. Whatever Nahr saw seemed to set him more at ease, for his shoulders relaxed slightly. “My father was the best in the land,” he said, “and he taught me well before I joined in service to the king. My skills in battle were needed then, as they are now, more than ever.” He motioned to the fire and his tools. “This I do when I need to think. It calms my mind. But you’re not here to talk about smithing, and I’ve misjudged your purpose. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you in so easily.”
“We mean you no harm,” Tyrael said. “If you would indulge us for a few minutes, perhaps we could explain—”
“If you were assassins, you would have made your attempt already,” Nahr said, holding up his hand. “And you’re not in league with Norlun; that much is clear. He would never entertain the likes of you. Anything else can wait until there’s food in your bellies. You look like you’d eat a rat to survive.”
As if in answer, Jacob’s stomach rumbled. He looked around at the others. There had been little to eat over the past few days except for dried meats and stale bread that they had brought in their rucksacks. It was nearly noon. A good meal would be more than welcome.
Tyrael nodded his thanks.
“Come on, then,” Nahr said. “Let’s find something warm.”
He took them into the modest home, where another fire burned on the hearth and stew thickened in a pot that hung above the flames. It smelled delicious. “My men often eat with me,” Nahr said, “but today you’ll take their place. It’s early for venison, but I’ll wager you could use it.”
He spooned large quantities into wooden bowls and set them down on a table in a small room overlooking the building from which they had come. The group set at the food ravenously, and Nahr watched them from a seat in a well-worn chair near the window.
“Thought you were carrying a message from Lorath,” he said, as the bowls rapidly grew empty. He lit a cigar and puffed at it, his gaze going distant. “Why it took eight of you to deliver it was what worried me. I was afraid . . .” He shook his head, his eyes focusing again on his guests. “But you have nothing to deliver, and it’s clear you’re not merchants from Caldeum or any other place.”
He stood up and turned to the window, his broad shoulders set, the cigar’s crumbling ash falling unheeded onto the wide, worn floor planks. “You might ask why I invited you to a meal, after you played us all for fools with that Caldeum story,” he said. “I recognized one of you from long ago. That, and the dreams . . .” He shrugged. “I saw you coming, you might say.”
“You’re the former commander of the Knights of Westmarch,” Zayl said. “I remember you. You were under General Torion, if I recall.”
The large man turned back. “Yes. Commander Nahr, at your service. One of his closest advisers, years ago. I work closely with him still, along with the duke of Bramwell. And you helped us rid the city of a plague of demons back then.” He nodded. “The knights don’t make it a rule to trust one of your type. But Lady Salene grew fond of you, didn’t she? How is she now? Does the house of Nesardo still stand with the king?”
A shadow crossed Zayl’s face. “She is gone,” he said. “Taken by black-winged things—beasts of some other realm. I tried to save her, but I was too late. She delivered a message to me, that I was to seek a man of your description in Bramwell and that you hold information vital to the safety of these lands. But I did not know it would be you.”
The commander sagged, then sat heavily in his chair. “It grows worse every day,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “There is evil at work in Bramwell; we have seen it. Seen them, the black-winged devils of which you speak. They steal our citizens away in the night. The duke has fallen ill with some sort of plague, although no healers can help him. And in the midst of it all, Norlun would dare try to use this to his advantage . . . It makes me wonder.” He realized his cigar had burned down to a stub and put it out, then looked at Tyrael. “Tell me what you want,” he said. “Perhaps we can help each other.”
Chapter Fourteen
Commander Nahr
Tyrael explained as best he could, leaving out all mention of the High Heavens and the soulstone. They were a party of spellcasters and warriors, driven together by a quest to rid Sanctuary of the black-winged creatures that the necromancer had mentioned and to bring peace once again to the land. They were also in search of the location of a place of great power, one that could contain the key to stopping the evil that stalked the people of Bramwell.
The explanation skirted the truth, but instead of becoming more skeptical at this talk of magic and demons, Nahr told them more about the sightings of such creatures. They were elusive, barely within sight for more than a moment, like phantoms in the dark. The people were terrified, he said. It began with dreams, haunting the sleep with a feeling of hopelessness and visions of terrible death and dest
ruction, before a loved one would disappear, never to be seen again. He had stepped up the patrols of the city walls and the roads leading in and out, but even a few guards had gone missing, vanishing without a trace.
“I’ve been here in Bramwell more than five years and have never seen the people so afraid,” he said. “I came to this city on a special mission under General Torion’s orders, to secure it as a stronghold of the knights so Bramwell would serve King Justinian should Westmarch descend into chaos. Even then, the general could see what was coming to Westmarch . . . what I fear is now upon us.”
“Is that city haunted, as this one is?” Tyrael asked.
“That may be,” Nahr said. “But General Torion is more concerned with the templar, and with good reason.”
“Templar?”
“Aye. They’re a secretive order. Many have never heard the name, but those who haven’t soon will. They began as an extension of the Zakarum Church and the knights themselves. But they took on their own customs, converting their soldiers through dastardly means. From what I know, these converts were often born-again felons, thieves, and murderers, their minds wiped clean through torture and starvation.”
“I know something of them,” Cullen said. “But there is precious little to go on. The templar now rejoice in violence and blood, claiming a holy mission to cleanse Sanctuary of evil. They may have been more honorable at some point, but from what I understand, today they bring far more evil themselves than they take away.”
“The leader of the main templar order is someone they call the grand maester. I don’t know where he resides. But the sect that has grown like a weed in Westmarch is perhaps even more extreme than the rest. It is led by a man named Norlun, a snake who would kill his own mother if it suited his purpose. They’ve quietly gained control of the cathedral in Westmarch and are using it as a base of operations for their dark deeds. General Torion believes they are preparing to assault the knights and attempt to control the palace. My own son Lorath—he has a touch of spellcaster in him, I do say—is a member of Torion’s guard there.” Nahr hesitated. “Lately, there have been more disturbing rumors about the true origins of the templar initiates. They have gained a few recruits from the knights themselves, good men, far from beggars and thieves—most, I fear, are acquired by force and torture. I await word every day that Lorath has fallen to them.”
“I’ve heard stories of a few travelers to Westmarch disappearing without a trace,” Cullen said.
“They are stealing ordinary citizens and soldiers and forcing them into service. General Torion believes the templar are also responsible for the disappearances here. I am not so sure. But the people cannot sleep, and the duke is no longer able to command the guard. I am preparing my men here for the word to come from Westmarch, and we will go to their aid against the templar. I only hope we don’t lose half our forces while we wait.”
It made some sense that the things they had seen would be tied to such an order, Tyrael thought. If the templar were indeed recruiting by force, the dark-winged beasts could be their unholy messengers.
Did the templar have the power to conjure and control such creatures? That was far less likely. Another, more disturbing thought had occurred to him; he wondered if it was possible that Imperius had already begun his reign of terror in Sanctuary, and the creatures were some kind of force from the High Heavens, the first wave of a much more violent attack.
But even as the Council had slowly shut him out before he left the Heavens, Tyrael was almost certain he would have heard about something like this. And these creatures did not sound like members of the Luminarei or any other Heaven’s guard.
No, these were something else entirely. Tyrael thought of the birth he had witnessed, the gray tendrils that had snaked around the angel’s glowing orb and incorporated themselves into her essence. Somehow these were connected. A chill ran through him. He was afraid they were running out of time.
“I’ve had the dreams, too,” Nahr said, a far-off look in his eyes. “They come to me nearly every night now. I dream of Lorath in templar armor, bloodied and beaten, and when he raises his sword to me, I see nothing but emptiness in him. He does not recognize his own father. I dream of the deaths of my people—of a town full of the dead. And lately, I’ve been dreaming of you.” He looked around at the others gathered before him. “A figure shrouded in darkness showed me your faces and told me I must help you. What that means, I don’t exactly know, but I’m a good judge of character, and I believe what you’ve told me. Perhaps Lorath got his gift with spells from me. So tell me more about what I can do.”
“We believe that a secret Zakarum repository lies somewhere close,” Tyrael said. “There may be clues within it to what we seek.”
He expected Nahr to look confused, even skeptical. But the large man merely nodded. “There have been rumors for many years about such a place hidden somewhere in these hills. The Zakarum and the knights have searched for it without success, for it supposedly contains an original scroll written by Akarat himself, a lost part of an early version of The Visions of Akarat that describes his vision that led to the founding of the Zakarum faith.” He suddenly stood and left the room, returning a minute later, delicately holding a crumbling book in his hands. “Last year, my men discovered a hidden room in the remains of a building that had fallen into disrepair and was thought to be cursed. The room contained many Zakarum texts, a few of which I kept. The people say it was used by Master Sayes years ago.”
“The Way of Dreams,” Cullen said. “Master Sayes was actually a man named Buyard Cholik—a Zakarum priest who fell under the sway of the Hells and founded a new religion that worshipped Kabraxis, a demon that was thought to be able to grant eternal life. Cholik gained great power, some say immortality, before he was killed by a man named Lang, who wielded a holy sword called Stormfury.”
“That rings true,” Nahr replied. “I wasn’t here then, but the people still remember Sayes and his church. Some say he was a healer, others a demon himself. The church he founded burned down several years ago, but an outbuilding remains where Sayes—Cholik, as you say—supposedly lived.”
Cullen raised a hand toward the book. “May I?”
Nahr gave it to him, and Cullen took it gently, almost reverently, opening the pages with careful hands. “This is a book of the history of Rakkis’s family,” he finally said, “and their ties to the Zakarum faith. They were prophets in their own way, bringing the tenets of the faith to the west.” He looked up. “There are more of these, you say?”
“I have several,” Nahr said. “I am no scholar, but I have read some of them. I kept those that appeared to be of value. There may be others still moldering away in the ruins of that cursed place.”
“You must take me there,” Cullen said. His eyes were shining brightly like two lanterns in the dark. “Please.”
Chapter Fifteen
Cholik’s Lair
“I don’t like this.”
Shanar stood on the street corner with Gynvir, who looked terribly out of place with her broad shoulders, generous breasts, and lots of bare skin. The wizard spoke in a low voice as Jacob surveyed their surroundings, studying the people of Bramwell as they hurried from place to place, heads down and eyes searching the ground. They appeared haunted, their faces drawn and pale, clothes seemingly bleached of color.
But they were watching nevertheless.
A shape moved in a window above the street. A fat man caught staring turned away quickly and hurried around the corner. A young girl, scrawny and covered with sores, watched with huge, moon-shaped eyes from an alley, her face barely visible in the shadows.
The group had come here to the lower eastern edge of the city for supplies while the others went to the remains of Cholik’s residence, and Jacob had hoped to speak to the people to learn more about what they had seen and the dreams Nahr had described. He felt a strange kinship with them, as he had begun to dream over the past few nights of his father covered with the bloody carvings of r
unes, the rage plague turning him into a violent monster, and looming, faceless creatures that reached out to Jacob with black-clawed wings and dragged him down into darkness.
But Jacob’s group had been shunned as soon as they had set foot in the streets, and as they approached the butcher’s shop, someone had pulled a shade and locked the door. The tavern was shuttered and dark, and the only trade cart was empty and hitched to an ancient, bony mule that stood with its head down, dozing in the cool air, no owner to be seen. This was a city that fed on the movement of goods, and they were in an area that the traders would have frequented. But at this moment, nothing was being sold, and no business was being conducted. The air smelled of smoke and mud and spoiled things left too long outside.
Bramwell is dead.
“We should move on,” Jacob said. His back itched. They were exposed out here, easy targets, and although he didn’t think the people would go so far as to attack them, he wasn’t willing to put their lives on the line to prove his theory.
As if in answer, a voice drifted toward them like the call of a wendigo, echoing between buildings. A few moments later, a woman tottered around the bend, shuffling on bare, weathered feet, her hair hanging in gray strings across a face that looked utterly mad. Her sunken mouth moved constantly as she babbled and howled, skin run through with blue veins. She kept her hands out, grasping blindly, keeping close to walls or other landmarks that she could touch.
“I-fear-the-dark-pulls-close-it-brings-no-solace-no-peace,” the old woman muttered, milky eyes rolling, her voice rising so that the last words turned into a cry of anguish, a sob. “They should know what I see, what I know!”