The sun was already high when Dorian walked up to the ramparts with Captain Seras. Two nights before, the people of Bezer had admired the courage of the Wayfarer’s Company from there.
The two men trod wordlessly over the walkway that ran along the top of the walls between a double row of battlements. In the surrounding countryside, scattered groups of men piled the Demons’ remains onto wagons. Further away, high flames danced on the burning pyre that received the corpses. The smoke, thick and acrid, hovered over the fields like a disease.
It was a depressing sight. The wanderers’ community that had camped outside the walls had been wiped out, first by the mutation, then by Dorian’s warriors. Deformed bodies were still scattered everywhere, and there were no relatives or friends to claim them.
A row of mourning women emerged in procession from the fortress gates, following a coffin carried by four people: one of Bezer’s men, a victim of the Demons’ assault, was traveling his last mile, headed to his tomb. Similar scenes had been played out again and again since the previous morning. It was only the Company’s swift intervention that had stopped the tragedy from turning into a complete catastrophe.
Dorian observed it all without saying a word; the images of Iarmin’s death were still fresh in his memory.
It was Seras who broke the silence, clearing his throat.
“In a couple of days there will be no trace of the battle, and we will be able to return to our lives. The fields need to be harvested, and the people need to forget these horrors.”
Dorian avoided commenting on the likelihood of things going back to as they had been before. As far as he was aware, at least one household in five had lost men during the assault, and that kind of injury needed time to heal. The people’s morale, already sorely tested by the rumors of impending war, was now at its lowest ebb.
“And yet those wanderers were so peaceful” Seras shook his head “Eccentric, but harmless. They had been living outside our walls for over a week without causing any trouble. Then, all of a sudden, they got sick.”
Dorian nodded. It was always the same, when the Demons showed up. He already knew how the tale would go on.
“We tried to help” continued the captain “But within a few hours they had turned into rabid dogs. And then, into something much worse. Never before had I seen the like. We ran inside the fortress and shut the gates. Not everyone had time to run in, unfortunately. The rest, you already know. We are more than grateful to you for coming to our rescue. Had it not been for you, I do not know how long we would have been able to hold them off.”
“No need to thank us, Captain. It is our duty” said Dorian, raising an eyebrow. He wasn’t used to receiving thanks, especially not from another soldier.
The Company was not associated with any of the regular regiments in the Princedom. However, by royal decree they were free to act throughout the Kingdom’s lands. That alone was cause for suspicion, if not outright hostility, from other soldiers; not to mention the Demons, the Ritual, and all the rest. The reputation of the Company was poised on a knife's edge.
Dorian knew that only the reputation of Abel, the supreme healer known to all as the White Wayfarer, had made it possible for the Company to obtain all the privileges and the fearful respect that followed them everywhere in such a short time. Now, after Abel’s mysterious disappearance, he was committed to ensuring that the news did not leak out. More than once during recent months had he been forced to lie: suddenly, it was no longer the Wayfarer who was leading the Company, but his largely unknown right-hand man, a fact that could arouse much distrust.
Not in Bezer, though. Things had happened too quickly there. A horseback messenger from the fort had caught up with them two days earlier. Desperate, the man had told them in an avalanche of words that something horrible had happened to the wanderers camped outside the walls, something that had turned them into bloodthirsty beasts. Luckily for them, the Company had been nearby, and the request for help had arrived just in time. They had moved swiftly, riding non-stop for a whole day before reaching the fortress kept under siege by the creatures. The rest was history: during one bloody night, with the benefit of surprise, the Demons’ horde had been destroyed.
“About yesterday’s accident...” said Seras, cutting through his thoughts.
“Now we’re getting to the point” thought Dorian, who had from the start suspected an ulterior motive to the captain’s invitation to walk together.
“I still fail to understand how that man managed to penetrate the fortress” Seras went on “He left the bodies of two guards behind him, near the gates: he must have struck them from behind... but how? Was he invisible? No one saw nor heard him until he reached you!”
Dorian could not make out if Seras was trying to justify his shortcomings as head of security, or if he was just looking for a rational explanation.
“You saw it with your own eyes Captain: he was no longer an ordinary human being. The mutation had given him inhuman abilities. He could have caused much worse trouble, believe me.”
“But fortunately for us, he seemed more interested in reaching you and your Company” Seras said pointedly.
Dorian did not take up the challenge.
“It is true, he was looking for us. But fortune had nothing to do with it. The consciousness that was inside him, that of the man called Iarmin, fought hard against the mutation. We would not have defeated the Demon so fast if he had not helped us from within.” He shook his head. “I wonder where he found the strength to resist. And how many trials he had to face in order to make it back to us...”
Seras gave him a quizzical look.
“It may seem strange to you, but I think we have to thank Iarmin for what he has done in standing against the evil. We cannot blame the death of anyone on him, on the contrary, we owe him the lives of many others: the Demon would have slaughtered all in its way if Iarmin’s will had not kept it at bay.”
Seras gave a shrug.
“Commander” he said “I am a simple man-at-arms; your words have little meaning for me. Demons, mutations, and those ghosts rising from the battlefield... Those things were not part of my world before...”
“Before your path crossed mine?” asked Dorian, resigned. “Do not deny these are your thoughts, Captain. I do not blame you though: in the eyes of the sick, a treatment is often confused with the disease itself.”
Seras showed no enthusiasm for the explanation, but neither did he prevent Dorian from continuing.
“As you have surely heard, our Company came about at the hands of the White Wayfarer, when the mutation first appeared - the same mutation you have witnessed in recent days.”
“Mutation, that word again...”
“Yes, mutation. Entire communities affected without warning by a dark evil, the origins of which we are still ignorant, and which causes a monstrous metamorphosis. One day they are men like you and me, the next they are what we now call Demons.”
“But why here, at Bezer?”
“We do not know. The cases are increasing; this is a fact. It used to happen only in the wilderness, or nearly always so, but now the evil has shifted toward the center of the Kingdom. A great change is taking place Captain, and I fear that soon we may not be able to face it alone anymore. Not without an army to cover our backs.”
Seras frowned at the idea.
“Do not fear” Dorian continued “I am not saying that you will have to line up at the front with your soldiers. With all due respect, you couldn’t do it. Every single member of our Company has undergone extreme training before being allowed to face the Demons head on. They are chosen warriors in the truest sense of the word. And I will tell you more: power and strategy are not enough against this kind of enemy.” He looked away. “There can be no victory, without the Ritual.”
“Yesterday morning, at dawn” inquired Seras, the light of curiosity in his eyes, “Is that what I think I saw Commander?”
“Yes, and you should feel privileged. You are among the
few who have witnessed the Ritual of Liberation. I cannot pretend to be able to explain its essence to you: only the Wayfarer himself fully understands it in truth. But I will try anyway, in my own words. One question though for starters. Do you believe that men possess an immortal soul Captain?”
“So I was taught. It is the breath of the Gods within us.”
“And do you believe there is a link between the soul and the body that hosts it?”
“I suppose so, but I am not a cleric so I do not know for sure...”
“But you believe it, and so do I. The Wayfarer shares this same certainty. Just as he believes that the mutation of a man into a Demon corrupts his soul and makes it a prisoner of the flesh, a slave to the worst demonic instincts...”
“That is inconceivable!”
“That is why we carry out the sacred Ritual taught us by the Wayfarer. It is the only way to break the chains that imprison these souls. If the soul trapped in a Demon’s body is not released through the Ritual, it faces a horrible fate: eternal captivity inside a shell that does not belong to it anymore.”
Seras shuddered.
“The Ritual allows us to spare them that fate. Alas, at the cost of their lives…”
He paused, but Seras showed no inclination to interrupt him.
“Demons are implacable enemies. We can mow them down with our swords, we can fell them and chop their bodies apart, but if the souls trapped inside them are not released through the Ritual, a new beginning occurs at nightfall. Those damned things draw strength from the darkness. They can rise again and continue fighting indefinitely, if necessary. Two nights ago I saw amputated limbs still struggling, detached from their bodies. A most grotesque sight, I can assure you.”
“And not one to be forgotten quickly” asserted a pale Seras.
“Most certainly so, Captain. The opponents we face shield themselves with human bodies – and the physical death of their hosts does not affect their own life force.”
He stressed the last words, hoping they had the desired effect.
Seras could not conceal his fear:
“Of what use is the steel of our swords then? Your company is less than a hundred, but you know how to extirpate this evil at its roots through your witchcraft! If what you say is true, what could the three Princedoms’ armies do, even united, against such an opponent? We would be practically unarmed!”
Dorian tried to reassure him:
“There is no need to panic: my men know their enemy well, and know how to deal with it. We have had no problems so far, and I do not see why we should begin to.”
He uttered the last sentence with false conviction: he was not sure at all. How could he banish the image of Iarmin’s tragic death from his mind, a brave man overwhelmed by evil and killed by his own comrades in arms?
“Are we really in control?” he asked himself.
He couldn’t shake off the feeling that a change of some kind was required now that Abel was gone. That there was another path to follow. But which one?
At the foot of the walls, the bodies were still being piled up on the wagons. Dorian couldn’t begin to estimate how many Demons they had killed in the clash; demons almost helpless against the Company’s overwhelming force. It did not really matter. Anxious to distract his mind from the bloody episodes of the battle, he decided to move the subject to politics. The Kingdom was facing a period of great instability, and it was wise to keep abreast of the facts in order to avoid unpleasant surprises.
“Captain, our duty has kept us away from the cities lately. I am curious to hear the news.”
“Do you refer to the war? Bah! We are cut off from the freshest news too, Commander, but I have received disturbing dispatches from the capital. Prince Hiram is obviously tempted by our lands: his troops are amassed along our borders, and they are not even trying to make it look like a drill!”
“Bad news indeed...”
“Hiram knows how fragile of character his brother is - our Prince. That is why he is putting him under such pressure. I am afraid it is working: Feledan has already admitted his fear before the Council, and there is even a risk that he will surrender without a proper fight.” He spat on the ground in disgust. “Weakling! He is not fit to rule! He may be an esteemed poet, but it is not his petty verses that will save our lands from invasion. We should take up arms now, before it is too late, and run to strengthen the borders!”
He clenched his fists in frustration.
“But without a direct order from His Lordship our hands are tied, dammit! We have to stay here and wait for those filthy men of Hiram to come and take our homes and women!”
“There is a rumor that Hiram offered good terms of surrender...” said Dorian “Didn’t he state that he desires no suffering for the people? That he just wants to get back the lands that belong to him by right of inheritance?”
“Lies! No one has ever wasted a good word on that cruel imitation of a prince! He is crazy, ambitious and bloodthirsty. He thinks of only one thing: absolute rule over the Kingdom, united under his heel as it was under his late father’s. Ah, our beloved King Feldnost, may the Gods have greeted him with full honors!” he sighed nostalgically. “Things were going the right way in those days. It is beyond me how such an admirable king could give birth to those three: a tyrant, a spineless artist, and that nefarious Prince Gomer! If his ambition was equal to his passion for food and children he would be ruling all the lands from here to the ocean!”
Dorian had to agree with Seras’ merciless analysis:
“I share your concerns, Captain. Difficult times are coming.”
The lack of a stable and steady leadership, the kind that the late King Feldnost had provided, was deeply felt in all three of the Princedoms that had been born of the Kingdom’s dismemberment. Moreover, Feldnost had been the strongest voice in support of Abel, when the Wayfarer’s Company was still new and taking its first steps. Without the unconditional support of the king, the Company would never have received the power it still enjoyed.
But with Hiram in command...
The name alone made his blood boil. He had a score to settle with Hiram. A debt of blood still waiting to be paid off. But he was just one of the many in line wanting to kill the Prince. Of Feldnost’s three successors, it was the eldest son who had turned out to be the worst character: driven by his obsession to surpass his father in greatness, he had immediately rejected the idea of sharing the Kingdom with his two brothers. But the King’s will had been plain, and he now had only one way left to achieve his ambitions: war.
In the face of his inept brothers’ opposition, it could be a very short-lived war. The thought of Hiram being the undisputed ruler of the Kingdom made him shiver: hard times were coming for everyone. The Wayfarer’s Company itself would have to struggle to maintain its autonomy. It was no secret that Hiram feared and hated them, unlike his late father. But it would be a huge mistake on his part to dissolve the Company, thus leaving the people at the mercy of the Demons.
Yet again, Dorian regretted Abel’s absence.
The Wayfarer always knew how to act in these situations, to the point that even the most powerful figures were impelled to listen to his words. What could he do in Abel’s place? The battlefield - his daily bread – was one thing, but he felt like a fish out of water in the halls of diplomacy.
He tried his best to appear confident:
“Do not put the cart before the horse, Captain. Perhaps Feledan’s counselors will manage to instill a little common sense in his mind and encourage him to defend his lands.”
Seras shook his head glumly.
“I doubt that will happen, Commander. We must expect a war. Hard times indeed... as if the battle of two nights ago wasn’t enough to start with.”
“True” admitted Dorian.
He was short of arguments to lift the captain’s morale, or even his own. He kept walking at a slow pace, his mind full of questions about the turbulent future waiting on the horizon.
“Forgive my c
uriosity” asked Seras, looking away; “The White Wayfarer... Abel, as you call him... Is he not here with you? I much wanted to meet him in person.”
“He is still on the road, but we will reunite soon” said Dorian, hoping the Captain would not try to dig deeper.
“I understand” said Seras, his eyes still focused on the thankless task of the soldiers at the foot of the walls. After a while, he turned his attention back to Dorian and parted his lips in an uncertain smile.
“My question may seem foolish to you, but forgive me if I ask it all the same. Is it true what they say of the Wayfarer? Is he really immortal?”
“I know no more than you Captain. He has a youthful appearance, no doubt, but to say that he does not age...”
In reality, though he did not want to show it, Dorian had also begun to believe in those rumors: he had known Abel for years, and his appearance had not changed the slightest in all that time. The same smooth white skin, the same curly hair and golden beard, the same piercing blue eyes. According to Dorian’s calculations, based on the stories that had given life to the legend of the White Wayfarer, Abel must be at least a hundred years old. He was a living enigma, and during all those years of friendship and co-existence Dorian had never been able to elicit a single confidence about his past.
“And is he indeed a great healer?” Seras continued, without masking his skepticism.
“This I can confirm without a shadow of doubt” said Dorian, more at ease with the topic “With my own eyes I have seen him perform miracles of healing. Sometimes merely his touch is enough to alleviate the pain of the injured, or to revive a dying man.”
“Sorcery...” whispered Seras, his eyes wide with suspicion.
“Please avoid that term in my presence” replied Dorian grimly, “It casts a bad light on me and my men.”
“Pardon me, I did not mean to offend” said Seras. There wasn’t the least sign of regret in his look though.
Dorian decided it was time to return to his men. He took leave of the Captain with a quick handshake, and walked away. From the corner of his eye, he saw Seras standing still where he had left him, his brow furrowed. He did not seem heartened by their long conversation.
“If I myself am not sure if we are on the right path” Dorian thought “How shall I convince others?”
He began descending the stairs within the walls, grateful to no longer have to see the sad sight of the dead.
He had been in no hurry, but a sudden commotion brought him round.
Shouts and curses.
And they were coming from where he had left his men.
IV - Separation
City of the Automatons Page 3