The Raven

by Plutonian-Shores

After suffering tragic loss, an exhausted demon hunter struggles to find his purpose.

He let go of his weapon; it fell to the ground with a dull thump.
Time stretched to a stop. Only the buzzing in his ears remained, the faint beating of his heart as he felt it being ripped out his chest. A gush of blood came out of her mouth. She made a strangled sound, clawed at her chest. Her gloved hand shone bright with blood. She didn't look at him. She stared at nothing, eyes wide in surprise, spat blood, then stopped.
His knees failed him; he slumped at her side.
The world had ended with one swift arrow.

...

In Sanctuary there is one sun, and her name is Ella.
Miles and miles you go west, everything is Ella. East you go, everything is Ella. And South, and North... nothing but Ella.

Was.
Her name was Ella.

As he knelt on top of the grave, muttering to himself, Viktor felt one last shiver, the timid sound of his soul's last breath before darkness wrapped around it, never to recede. He knew he'd never be whole again; he would never know the tickle of joy, the caress of peace, the swelling in his chest before a burst of laughter, ever again.
Good as dead.
He was shaking from the bone-chilling rain that poured from the sky, but didn't notice. His body felt abstract, only grief was there, only the hole carved where his heart used to be. Around him, countless other graves had their own story. She chose well her place to die. She would have found it amusing, even. She was fire, she was light, she was everything. The memory of her brought a sharp jab of pain to his chest. He looked down at her weapon, a crossbow she named Joy. He was clutching it, too tight; his knuckles were white, glistening.
This is how it ends. A lifetime of memories and only a weapon to leave on a damp grave... No flowers for Ella. No birds singing. And no sun. Never again.
Through the rain, he heard a crow cawing in the distance, and the faint sound of a heavy door swaying on its hinges. The graveyard's chapel; supposed to be empty, taken care of. Apparently not; intuition told him someone or something trapped inside would eventually burst free and try to do him in. Let him, let them... He wouldn't make a move. His knees dug into the earth, and he imagined himself descend even deeper, inch by inch, until the grave swallowed him whole, bury him alongside her, where he knew he belonged.
Then a man shouted.
It was a call for help. Viktor remained frozen, sunk into the ground. The man's screams became louder as he got closer; Viktor had knowledge of what was chasing him, of what they would do to him when they'd catch him; but it seemed so far away, so long ago already. There was no room left in his heart to care about the living. Her death had shrouded the universe in a thick black cloak that would never be lifted.
After a while the cries for help turned into cries of agony, and then silence. Blessed silence. Viktor shut his eyes, let the brutal rain wash over him. He put a hand on his belt; taken from her cold body before he buried her at his feet, it was a long piece of leather hosting a hundred small daggers, a gift from him to her. For her protection. She was a formidable warrior, but she was so heedless. She loved the battle with passion. She loved everything with passion. She was the brightest and the kindest and his favorite person in the whole world. If he let out a desperate sound, the rain concealed it, or the cackling of enemies as they drew closer.
His killer instinct shivered in the depth of his stomach, but he ignored the call. So, whoever killed this man earlier had decided to come for him as well. He sensed their evil presence in the brisk morning air, and their glee at the thought of splitting him in half. He reached the carved ivory hilt of a dagger that belonged Ella; he hesitated, and left it in its sheath.
Soon their rotten breath fell upon his neck, then scabbed hands grabbed him roughly by the shoulders; he glanced up at the sky.
A horrible sound, painfully reminding him of knives being scraped on glass, came to his ears, and he snapped out of his daze. He saw a flash of dark wings; a shuffle of energy vibrated in the air, and the scabbed hands let go of him. He got to his feet and turned around.
Three reanimated corpses, holding weapons coated in blood, were tangled together in a shallow grave, in a clatter of bones. They were snarling at him, at each other, at whatever distracted them from chopping him to pieces. He heard another flap of wings and looked up at the nearest tree. A great beast of a raven was staring down at them, and snapped its powerful beak. A strange energy radiated from it; something ancient, mysterious... it rippled through Viktor's body like a soft calling... He withdrew a grenade from a pouch around his thigh and threw in it the grave. It burst out, scattering bones and earth and old musty swords.
Good.
They could all die now. All of them. If he could put his hands on them, he would kill them all... Until nothing would stand in his way but the torture of her memory.
Viktor gave a half shrug and turned around; he felt the strange gaze of the bird in his back. Aimlessly, he trudged out of the graveyard and into the wilderness.

He walked a long time... Soaked to the bones, and wilderness stretched ahead, unstirred by his grief; fields of grass heavy with rain, gloomy trees with branches like gnarled hands threatening to grasp him ... The scent of earth still uncorrupted filled his nostrils. He pressed on, knowing the cover of the trees would make it more difficult for a horde to sense him.
If he could find a town, or a village, he would find them. Demons and their reanimated minions loved to target the helpless in their home. He was no stranger to it. He and her, saved countless of villagers, and witnessed the aftermath of horror many times.
And he... He should have been dead a long time ago. He would have, if it wasn't for Ella. The first time she saved him, they were only children, and the dead had come knocking on their door. They set the farms aflame. He could still remember the cries of the dying. The sound of swords being thrust into soft flesh and the thick smell of blood that poured out of it. The vacant expression of the dead... His father... His mother... And the terrible cries of Albie... Ella, stalking around the farm with a dagger in her hand, found him cowering behind a pile of hay. They were only children; yet she dragged him out of his hiding place, pulled him by his sleeve until he got himself together. They only stopped after hours, and the sky was still red with the omen of murder.
Viktor stopped to rest between two threatening looking trees. He thought he heard the cries again. The cries of Albie... But Albie died with everyone else when Ella and he made their escape fifteen years ago. The village was gone. The farm was gone. Now Viktor was alone. Or almost.
With annoyance, he watched the raven settle on a large branch above him. It was the same bird he saw, back at the graveyard. With its eyes like two bottomless pits. It shook its head and ruffled its glossy feathers with its long beak. Viktor grunted and moved on, focusing on the sound of his feet squelching into the mud to distract him from his thoughts. He had no idea where he was going. He had a place around here, a place Ella called home; now nothing but another ghost to haunt him.
Minutes turned into hours and the bird was still here, unflinching, following him like an ominous shadow. The arrival of the beast, at the moment these monsters were close to finish him off, made him uneasy. Maybe he owed Death his own soul; and the bird came here to take it. He came here to take his soul back to the deepest Hells, for his faults, for his failures.
"I know you come from the Dark Shores," he said, turning around to look at the beast.
The bird said nothing.
"You carry dark secrets. Deliver only the worst of news..." He paused. "... And eat corn."
The bird said nothing; Viktor hesitated.
"Have you come for my soul?"
The bird screeched, once, that horrible sound he made back at the cemetery. Viktor waved his hand to scare it off, to no effect.
He aimed the crossbow at him, snarling. "I could kill you, you know I could. Get off my back."
He stopped, realized he was holding Ella's weapon. His hand flew out behind his back and felt the cold hilt of his own crossbow; he gave a sigh of relief. Viktor cared about his weapon; Ella offered it to him; and named it Misery. He never got the hang of the joke, but it made her smile, and she was the sun, so that was the end of the matter. And now he found himself holding her precious Joy. He took her belt, and that flashy dagger, but to take her favorite weapon... A voice in his head told him he shouldn't.
"I was supposed to leave this on her tomb," he said, pointing her crossbow at the bird. "You distracted me... Stupid bird."
The bird cawed loudly and flapped its wings. Viktor dropped his head; he wouldn't hurt it; not really. He never saw himself as a good killer. Efficient, he was; deadly? Definitely. But did he like it? He didn't think so. He always thought he was too soft, too passive... Ella was different. She reveled in the job. Every kill was another part of a joke that only her seemed to have the understanding of. When they were kids, she was the greatest dancer, everyone in the village said so. He agreed. He used to watch out for the elder boys that came over to watch her, ready to lash at them if they grew... disrespectful. But she never needed him. Later she used her grace and her agility to tear her enemies apart. Another kind of dance; the demon hunter one. He was good at watching her back while she rushed into battle. At least good for a while. Good until last night.
He saw her fall backwards, blood gushing out of her mouth, and no other sound, he could remember no other sound that the gurgling in her throat...
He walked on, at the edge of the woods, aware of the strange bird following him tree after tree, then stopped short. He crouched in the mud, his instinct racing as the hair straightened on the back of his neck.
Smoke. Smoke bird cawed excitedly. Viktor waved him silent, his teeth clenched. He watched through the branches; it looked like a farm. The fire was dead, only the smoke remained. A familiar sight.

He ventured out of the woods and stalked toward the farm, careful, half hoping for a lingerer or two... But he knew they were long gone... He would have sensed them.
The raven soared down and dug his claws into Viktor's shoulder, cutting through his leather pad and whipping him around the back of the head with its outstretched wing. Viktor cursed under his breath, but wondered; if the bird wanted souls, he didn't have to give his own. The raven only had to follow him and would soon have its share of undead to pick from.
The farm was just another graveyard... Burnt down, the house blackened and the barn reduced to ashes. Viktor stopped for a moment. A few more steps and he knew what he would find. He looked around, trying to get a sense of where he was. It was clear now the dead had risen in different places. Even if they wanted to, they could have never stopped them all. And it used to be two of them. Now, on his own, fat chance.
Unless, of course...
He shook off the idea. It didn't matter if he failed. All that mattered was to take as many as possible with him to the grave.
He walked on until he reached the well. Several bodies were gathered there; one of them too young. The woman had her arms wrapped around her daughter.
It was just like his family. Growing up on a farm; making ends meet; be together. And then one day... He heard Albie's cries in his head and bit his tongue. That wasn't the time to dwell on the innocent. But when he went up to the house and saw them, huddled together in a woolly bundle, the painful memory rushed back to him. They were so tiny... Their white fur matted with blood. The bird left his shoulder and went up the roof of the small house. Viktor knelt and took the smallest one.
"Lambs cries like real babies. Did you know that?"
The bird said nothing. Viktor stroke the dead lamb's fur, grimacing.
"I wanted to be a farmer." He didn't expect the bird to answer him. And it was better that way. "I was supposed to be a farmer. And I always liked the idea. You know... Grow life."
He looked down at the small creature crumpled in his arms. "I had a lamb called Albie." His jaw tightened painfully. "He cried like a baby when..."
He got to his feet, holding the lamb close. "They even kill the cattle. You know, I always wondered... What's that anything to do with anything? Just leave them alone, they can't even fight back."
But the world wasn't exactly a place of fairness and justice, and he was no stranger to it. Since the moment that woman put a crossbow in his hands, he had been the witness of crimes that even the worst of demons could not take credit for. This world was pure shit. This was no place for lambs. And he was one of them: too weak to protect his loved ones, too angry to go on, soon to be dead. He should just hide under a bush like a wounded wolf and wait for death to come. No more killing, no more burying families...
A sound, like a banging against a door, came from inside the house; Viktor dropped the lamb; the bird cawed and picked at the roof with its beak.
"Shut it."
Viktor went inside, crossbow ready. The sound came from a storeroom. The kitchen table had been shoved in front of the door, trapping whatever was inside; the victims tried to fight this one, but the corruption probably attracted others...Viktor opened the door and the farmer burst out; his eyes were bloodshot, his tongue dangled out of his mouth. Viktor raised his arm; the undead clawed and dribbled all over his glove. He should have been dead; someone buried an axe in his face and one of his eyeballs was popping out. He was nothing but another victim, cursed to harm his own family. Viktor filled with pity for the man as he watched him grapple his crossbow, spitting and growling, trying to snatch the weapon from him. Viktor shook his arm to free it, lost patience, rammed the head of the farmer into the wall. The man stopped moving when his brain sprayed out the back of his open skull.
"God damn it."
He wiped the blood off his cloak and exited the house, leaving the dead man slouched against the wall. The blood reminded him of last night: he lost track of time when Ella died, and was surprised to find himself alive when dawn brought the first ray of light. He woke from his daze surrounded by death and a few of his bolts still hissing, plunged into the undead's hearts, their bodies blue as frost. In his madness he killed them all... They were nothing. Weak minions, unable to scrap a scratch from any trained hunter. And yet one of them got Ella. He couldn't remember tearing them apart. That was unfortunate; he wanted to remember every second of his vengeance.
The rain had stopped. He could see the green hills leading to Tristram ahead. These fiends doubtlessly marched on the town; it would be a great victory for them to take it. The thought of catching up to them and turning them into dust set his heart hammering in his chest. He crossed a few yards, hesitated: the raven wasn't following. Viktor whistled to get its attention.
"Are you coming or what?"
The bird cawed, but didn't come down.
"They're marching on Tristram. If you want death, follow me."
It let out a sharp cry and took flight in the opposite direction, landed on the highest treetop and peered down at Viktor with its black eyes.
"Perhaps you know... You know where death is..."
Viktor joined the raven and let him lead the way.

He walked until the sky darkened, strangely at ease in the woods, eerily silent but for the soft flapping of his new companion's wings. When the raven flew down onto his shoulder again, Viktor said nothing but stopped in his tracks, transfixed by the smokey scent of roasting rabbits. He sensed the presence of people; about half a hundred. They were close, shielded by a curtain of trees, but not smart enough to put out sentries, or they would have seen him by now. Still, he hesitated to press on.
He recalled the night when he and Ella found a similar camp; only days after the destruction of the farm. They stalked at the edge of the trees, drawn by the smell of food. He wanted to avoid people, but the warmth of a fire was too much to resist. Ella led him by the hand, promising they would be alright. Next thing he knew, Pallas, powerful demon hunter and fierce woman that led the camp, put crossbows in their hands and turned them into killers.
Ella loved this life, so he kept silent for years while they trained. But he was relieved all the same when she said she wanted to leave; he thought to convince her to be grateful for their skills, but to settle, maybe get a farm. She laughed it off, as she did everything else.
Ella wanted to protect the innocent, and he wanted to protect Ella. The matter was settled then.
Now she was dead, and the innocent wouldn't stand a chance, and he was still the starving boy from all those years ago. He didn't think Pallas would be waiting for him in this camp; she was such a powerful force that he would have been able to sense her from miles away; but he was terrible with people. Hated to be spoken to, hated to be looked at, hated people's gratitude and hated smelling their fear... Ella was the one mixing with people, drinking ale, laughing out loud, sharing stories and beds, and she sheltered him from them like she sheltered him from loneliness and despair.
What was the worst that could happen, though? The worst had already happen. People are no threat to you when you're haunted by ghosts. He glanced at the quiet raven on his shoulder, and grimaced. The smell of meat wafted through the trees and his stomach gave a loud rumble. He clenched his teeth and his crossbow, and pressed toward the scent.

He stepped out of the shadows and found himself in a circular clearing, protected by a natural barrier of trees. It was small, grassy. Meager fires were lit all around the camp; a larger one on the other side lit the front of a decrepit stone house. Everyone was so quiet, as if trying not to wake the dead. Their dead, most likely.
He saw old people and small children huddled together around the closest fire. His stomach clenched at the sight of the rabbits, roasting a few feet away. Checking on them, two frail women were preparing squirrels. They all looked harassed, beaten down. Few of them carried weapons, and none of them proper. They wouldn't last long here. If he found them, no doubt the dead would, too. Judging by their appearance, they went through this before. This was a survivor camp.
At last, the women by the fire took notice of him and dropped the half skinned squirrels. He watched them as he drew closer, anticipating somebody to try to strike him, to defend their camp; no one moved. Three goats were enjoying the warmth of the fire; it grew brighter as he stepped in front of it, and the animals bleated nervously. Then a girl shrieked behind his back, and two middle aged men came stomping forward, wide-eyed; he felt their fear in the air, like imperceptible waves that softly rippled through him. To them he must have looked frightening, clad in black from head to toe, shrouded in his cloak, his eyes as bright as a predator's in the night. But he was a threat to no one alive.
The raven left his shoulder with a screech and disappeared into the nearest tree. Viktor pushed back his cloak to reveal his face, hoping to reassure the women. They stumbled backward into a young girl that was rushing in the opposite direction. She grunted and pushed them aside, brandishing a small axe. She wasn't much bigger than a mouse, he noticed with a faint curiosity. She stopped short at the sight of him.
"Viktor?" Her voice was squeaky, almost strangled.
His eyebrows met in a frown. He didn't know her. Or did he?
"Viktor, is that you?" She stepped forward and into the light cast by the fire.
She had dirty blond hair and a shiny nose; she looked familiar, but everybody looked the same to him. He hesitated, wondering if he was hungry enough to pretend to know her.
"That's alright, everyone." The girl said, lowering her axe. "That's Viktor, he's not one of them..."
One of them? One of what?
"And he's going to protect us."
Hang on.
Before he could say anything, she grabbed him by the arm and dashed across the camp, pulling him like an obedient child. He avoided the curious looks the people gave him, but was relieved when the girl plopped his ass onto a tree trunk by the stone house. As he shifted in his seat, the flames in front of him grew several inches taller. He wrinkled his nose when he recognized the familiar scent of disease and decay. She noticed and pointed to the house apologetically.
"We keep our wounded in here."
Behind her, he spotted a cart they used to store food. His stomach rumbled hopefully. The girl knelt by his side and smiled, an eager, grateful smile, that relatives you haven't seen in forever usually reserve for you. He looked away for fear of drowning into her enormous eyes.
"Are you hungry? Or wounded?" She eyed him up and down, squeezing his arm, and bit her lip. "I've got Gilead balm, I could..."
He stared awkwardly.
"Of course you're hungry."
She jumped to her feet and busied herself gathering food from the cart. He observed her in silence. When she put a plate of bread, dried meat and berries in front of him, she saw the look on his face and let out a sigh.
"But you don't know me." She shook her head and started twisting her hands in her apron. "I mean... You don't remember me, do you?"
He said nothing, put as much food as he could into his mouth instead.
"Mercy? From Woodlock?" There was a hint of bitterness in her voice when he didn't react. "I served you, for two years? At my father's inn, barely two miles from here?"
Sure. Mercy from Woodlock; the servant girl; he remembered now. The inn where Ella and he had their quarters. She always acted all nervous around them. Like everyone else, she worshipped Ella.
"Hi."
His voice was rough, unused. He cleared his throat. People were gathering around them, their sunken faces looking to him with a mixture of hope and fear, and he fought back a feeling of revulsion toward them... or toward himself. He wiped the sweat of his brow. Now that he was seated, he really took notice of how exhausted he was.
Mercy gave a wan smile and put a cup of wine in front of him; Viktor stared at it with wonder. Wine in this sort of camp; a rarity. Or they had a wizard around. A slight discomfort weaved through him, and he focused back on the girl. She was trembling, her washed out blue eyes filled with tears.
"Viktor, Woodlock is gone," she said, but he knew that already, or she wouldn't be here. "Our home is gone. The demons have come and burnt it all. My father..."
She pulled threads out of her apron, struggling to control her voice.
"It was horrible... They came at night, they set everything on fire... My father told me to run, to help the weak, the children... He promised he would come back... But he never did, so we did in the morning and..."
He watched her eyes glitter in the light of the fire, transfixed. She really looked mousy.
"They even killed the cattle," she said with a sniff.
Of course they did; Viktor pursed his lips.
"So I took the children, and those who made it alive joined us, and we ran," she said. "We found this place and we've been hiding here... We don't know what to do."
He glanced up.
"The dead is marching on Tristram." He wolfed down the last piece of his bread. "Woodlock was on their way. Soon they'll be all over. You're not safe here."
"But you can help us, can you?"
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, unwilling to hurt her feelings, but at loss at what he should say. He could help her tonight, sure, but then what? Unfortunately for her, she was the sort of person who'd always need saving. He couldn't wipe out the whole of Sanctuary's demons, not if the lady monk's prophecy was right. And all the signs pointed toward the conclusion that she had been right all along. And if they'd only listened... If he'd only listened...
She stared with an expression of incomprehension, then some realization hit her. She finally asked the question he dreaded.
"Where's Ella? Where's your sister?"
His stomach churned; the food he just consumed threatened to make an unexpected comeback. Ella's gleeful voice and the last words she'd said to him rang inside his head. "I'll be ahead of you, as usual."
"Like Woodlock," he said. "Gone."
Mercy gasped. Her eager face was deformed with compassion and he felt a flash of annoyance toward her. He looked away once more, jaw tight.
"What happened?" She asked.
He focused on a breadcrumb in the middle of his empty plate.
"The undead held a chapel, near Hilltop; the one with the old graveyard. We went to clean it up." He paused, cleared his throat. "She took an arrow."
She dashed across the graveyard, pouncing between headstones, shooting bolts left and right, laughing as fire, earth and dust rained down upon them. She didn't wait for him. Impatient as always, she kicked the door of the chapel open before he could even reach it, and the bolt took her by surprise.
There was a great gush of blood...
She was dead before he even understood what happened.
The image of his twin sister spitting blood and clawing at her chest would be the one to haunt him until the day he died. Soon, he figured. He emptied the cup of wine and screwed his eyes shut. Mercy put a hand on his arm, but withdrew it when he shuddered.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Viktor scanned the treetops in search for the raven. It was nowhere to be seen. He was irritated to find that he cared. Cared that a wretched bird would decide not to remain by his side. He thought the beast was leading him toward a great fight. The final fight. He didn't come here to share wine and talk about his sister. He passed a hand over his face.
"What are you going to do now?" Mercy said after a minute, her small hands still wringing the apron.
Kill them all, what else. Destroy them until darkness clasped its cold black fingers upon him.
The thoughts were clear in his head, but the words wouldn't come out. Conversation was pointless; just people trying to convince each other to do things their way and not the others'. Viktor always deemed it easier to nod and give them what they wanted. But not today.
"Vengeance."
She opened her mouth to say something, but hesitated. "And then?"
He thought for a moment."That's it. When I leave I won't come back."
She was close to rip the apron apart; he tried to avoid her gaze.
"You want to take them all... By yourself?" She said, sounding worried. "No one can do that, not even you. You'll die."
He let out a sigh that was a mixture of weariness and impatience. "It doesn't matter."
He looked up; night had fallen and the clouds were masking the stars. Everyone was headed toward Tristram these days. He could be there too. If he made it through this night. And the next. But he found he didn't really want to, and he welcomed the thought has an old friend.
But was if the prophecy was right? And it was the end of the world? There were so many people in this world, weak, who needed to be protected. It was his duty to help them... But no one could save them all. Especially one that failed to protect his own sister. He shook the thought away, only to find Mercy still staring at him.
"You could stay with us, protect us. We could build a village again."
"They'll find you again." He paused. "Unless someone kills them."
"Stay and defend us, then. You can't go and kill them all. It's impossible. It's silly."
He sighed. "I don't belong here."
"But you could..."
He almost told her to shut up, took a deep breath instead.
"I'm a demon hunter. I hunt and I kill demons, that's what I do."
He was... after all; a demon hunter. He never saw himself as one until now. He always thought he was just Ella's brother, following her around, worrying about her.
"I always thought..." her voice trailed off. "I always wanted to be like your sister."
Viktor scoffed. Everybody wanted to be Ella. Hell, he wanted to be Ella right now, if that involved him getting some peace and quiet.
"And you, I always thought..." Mercy interrupted herself; her cheeks reddened. "Anyway... I was wrong. I've seen hell with my own eyes but... It's your attitude that truly breaks my heart."
Her gaze turned cold, distant. He stared deep within her eyes, frowning. "Why?"
"You forget yourself." There was defiance in her voice now. "You think the world has ended because you lost someone close to you."
The Sun had set. She was right.
"Guess what?" She said. "You're not the only one. Everyone here has lost somebody, had their families ripped apart. There are people fighting for their lives in the very house behind you. You don't see any of them giving up."
She held his gaze. "You want to drown yourself in revenge and get yourself killed. You have such a powerful gift and you can use it to save people. No one cares if you go and get yourself killed. You'd just be as useless as me. And Ella... Ella wouldn't care for it either. I knew her, and she was brave, and she was- "
"Stop it," he said softly.
He stood; it was time to take his leave. She didn't try to stop him; didn't even look up. He almost patted her on the head, but refrained from doing so with a grimace, and picked up Joy instead.
He trudged toward the edge of the trees, looking for the bird. He couldn't find it, and he sunk down the trunk of a large oak tree with a sigh of relief. Nothing but silence and darkness to envelop him. The scent of earth filled him and he let himself savor something like peace for the first time since his sister fell. The memory of Ella's death shattered the pleasant feeling.
She was everything to him; he had no more purpose, now that she didn't need him to protect her; there was no point in carrying on. He would be like this guy back at the farm, an empty shell, corrupted by hatred, haunting the grounds until some bastard delivered him.
And yet if Ella was alive she would berate him for not defending the innocent; abandoning his duties; forsaking the great set of skills Pallas had given him. But Ella took the easy way out when she took an arrow; she left him behind. He could do what he wanted for the first time in his whole life. And what he wanted was simple... Find them and destroy them until nothing was left of them... or of himself.
He fell into an uneasy sleep with his fists clenched.

He jerked awake when an hellish sound blasted his ears, and crashed the back of his head against the tree. He looked around at what had awakened him: the bloody raven was back on his shoulder. It screeched again, flapping its wings in Viktor's face; he was seeing double from his encounter with the trunk and tried to shove the beast away with the back of his hand.
Then he felt the pricking in his thumbs, the low snarl growing in the pit of his stomach. He froze and listened.
The dead. Their diseased souls was a stench corrupting these very woods. A large group, aiming for the camp; to finish the job, probably. Viktor got to his feet; they were drawing near; he had to warn them.
The raven took flight ahead of him, blessing the camp with his horrible screeches.
Who brought them here? Fate? The bird? Himself? Did it even matter? The night was cold and dark and filled with the promise of death. Viktor reached the center of the camp where the two wide-eyed men were throwing stones at the bird, surrounded by terrified people. Viktor gave a short whistle and the raven came back to him, scraping his shoulder. Mercy came up to him, still half-asleep.
"The dead are coming," Viktor said.
She rubbed her eyes, yawning. "Hm?"
"Now, I mean. They're here now."
Cries of panic rose into the air. Mercy straightened up, fully awake. She ran to the cart to pick up her axe. Viktor watched as the people scrambled to their feet to find the nearest weapons. They gathered together sticks, farming tools, worn out swords for the lucky ones. The raven snapped its beak, and Viktor shivered. The beast knew just like him that they would all die tonight unless a miracle happened. Or a demon hunter.
Viktor hesitated and looked around: Mercy was shouting orders to conceal the youngest in the house. He heard the first sounds of the monstrosities making their way through the woods. They would emerge from them any minute now. He dashed toward Mercy and grabbed her arm. Her bones felt frail and brittle, like a small bird.
"Wha-" She broke free, rubbing her shoulder with a disgruntled face, her eyes sparkling with determination.
"Get the kids and the others out of the house. I have to draw them in there."
"Why?"
"Just do what I say."
She knitted her eyebrows together. "How can you make sure they'll follow you?"
He let out a bitter laugh. "I know. They'll follow the most aggressive opponent."
When she finally agreed with a nod, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Listen; you have to protect your people. Destroy those who separate from the group; keep the kids together around the fire; arm them with whatever you can find, and the women to defend them."
He made to turn but paused to look at her. "Don't do anything stupid," he said.
She scowled. "Try not to die like an idiot."
He didn't answer, and left her to deal with the children. In the center of the camp, the people, terror painted over their faces, held their weapons in front of them with trembling hands. Viktor took a deep breath, scanning his surroundings. He could get a very good idea of their position just by sensing their hatred. If the creatures were smart, they would have attacked from all fronts, making his life very difficult. But those pawns were only animated by pure venom and they came at full strength from the east. Viktor took a deep breath; the familiar pounding of his blood in his ears was always a sign he was ready for a fight.
He sensed them all, one by one, unwelcome, and fed from the hatred that animated them. It felt the same, and yet he felt different. Restless and focused at the same time. His heart was racing, and he could trace the mad flow of his blood in the intricate canals of his veins. He reached out for Misery in his back; the weapon buzzed under his touch. A comforting feeling.
The demons, skeletons risen from the grave, armed with rusty axes, swords and bows, stepped into the light of the campfire, eyes glinting with cruelty; some of them were still clad in moth eaten rags, and some rare ones wore the rusty armor they had died in, but most of them were too ancient to carry anything but their own dirty, blackened bones.
They were strangely oozing, as if the corruption wanted to seep out of their decaying bodies to violate the very air. The wind blew their stench ahead of them, and the villagers moaned; the kids started crying. Viktor watch the undead lurch forward with growing hatred: to him, every member of this clattering mob wore the face of his sister's killer.
"Into battle, then."
The raven took flight and let out a terrible scream.
It sounded both horrific and magnificent; the whole area was shaken by a great wave of energy; the skeletons were brought to their knees. The power of the cry rippled through Viktor; earth, dust and pebbles rose in a eerie cloud around him, humming with energy. The bird lashed out at the first creature in his path, picked it off the ground and tossed it back into the forest. The others brandished their rotted fists at the raven, some still trying to get their balance back.
Viktor loaded a bolt into Joy and shot; the arrow tore the night sky; it buried itself in the ground in the middle of their group. The dead ones stared dimly; the bolt exploded with a deafening sound. Bones flew in every direction.
The rest of the crowd, snarling in outrage, all turned to look at him, and those who couldn't sense his hatred saw it reflected in his burning eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched; now he had their full attention.
Four undead archers targeted him with their weak arrows; Viktor vaulted out of their way, with even more ease than he was used to. It made his blood boil with renewed anger.
He whirled around and raced across the camp; most of them followed him as moved toward the lonely house, but a few stray ones couldn't resist the sight of the women and children huddled together by the fire.
Brave villagers came out to meet them, Mercy among them. She flung her axe around madly, nearly striking the friend that fought by her side.
A scream came to Viktor's ears; a skeleton had pinned an old man to the ground and was ripping a hairy chunk of his arm. Mercy, shouting, split his skull in half and the thing crumpled in a pile of bones. Half a dozen of these monstrosities were still drawing closer to the fire; Viktor swiftly reached for Misery; he watched as the bolt split the air, gleaming with magic. It circled the undead as they closed around the screaming children, turning each of them into a frozen statue. Men crushed them into powder with their clubs. Viktor met Mercy's eyes; they widened in fear at the sight of his.
The bird came back charging at the group, making a diversion for the civilians to regroup. Viktor shot another bolt; it split into a dozen others and rained down on his enemies. Their rage and confusion was plain of their animated faces; they followed him once more and Viktor barged into the stone house. He scanned the structure in a quick glance. It was even smaller than it looked, damp and dirty, a perfect place for these scums to die.
They all came rushing after him, snarling and growling, some of them crawling or limping, their limbs missing. The ones in the back pushed the other forward, and soon they started to trample over each other in a madness to reach him.
Dark arcane power held these bones together and the same kind of power would stop them altogether, but in the fire they would all be cleansed. Viktor took a step back and his back hit the wall; he reached in his quiver and pulled out Ella's signature arrow. He took a lasting breath, his finger trembling on the trigger. Let's all feel the kiss of fire then.
He shot it; it pierced through the skull of a skeleton with a set of missing teeth and exploded instantly. Viktor expected the powerful blast to reduce him to ashes as well as his enemies; he didn't expect the ground to cave in, sending him straight through the floor and down face first in moldy earth. He jumped to his feet, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He found himself in the smallest and dampest hidden tomb. Fitting.
The survivors of his blast took no time to regroup, and threw themselves in after him. Something caught him in the forehead; watching from the edge of the hole above his head, a disgruntled skeleton had just thrown his tibia, and was about to repeat with his spare arm. Viktor shot a bolt that impaled him on the ceiling of the stone house, blue as frost.
The tomb was soon filled with the undead; their weapons lost in the previous blast, they went at him with anything they could find - mostly parts of their own bodies. With no space or time to reload, Viktor swung his crossbow at one, kicked another, but was soon forced to drop his weapons to unclench their cold dead hands from around his neck.
It was difficult to breathe and nearly impossible to move; he was completely surrounded. Above, the last ones to try to slip through the hole had completely sealed it; and in their haste and stupidity had become an entanglement of bones and weapons. He heard them snarl and clack their teeth in their useless attempts to kill each other to get to him first.
Viktor hurled some of his enemies away with all the strength he could muster; they collapsed in a pile of bones against the clammy wall, but those behind him bit him with all their might. His leather padded armor resisted their attacks, but he didn't know for how long.
The thought appeared to him that it could be over soon. Just to let them do it. But it was blown away by a fierce desire to survive these scums, these low-level minions, and to press forward; he wanted his death to be something else than being chewed to death in a sad old basement. He wanted his death to be worth something.
And perhaps his life, too.
Remembering that he carried Ella's dagger, he whipped it out and plunged it in the nearest eye socket. The skeleton screamed in pain and punched him in the face. Viktor cuffed him back and stuffed his fist into its mouth. There was nothing but chaos for a while; no air, no light, only the muffled sounds of his ragged breathing and the mad noises of the dead as they struggled together, the deafening screeches of the raven outside the house, the clatter of steel splitting bones as the villagers attacked his enemies from above.
Then it him him. Ella's dagger wasn't the only life saving tool he took away with him. Her belt was still wrapped around his waist, clicking softly with each of his moves. He cursed at his thoughtlessness, and tried to wriggle his hand free from a rib cage while keeping his fist into the mouth of the other fool. He let out a cry of pain when a something bit through his glove and sliced his finger to the bone. He fumbled for the mechanism; his fingers were slippery with blood. He gulped for air, received nothing; a veil passed over his eyes. The face of the cadaver in front of him was shaking in frenzied laughter. Viktor's eyes widened; the skeleton stared back stupidly.
"Found it. "
The mechanism activated and the belt clicked. There was an uncomfortable sensation of pressure, and then relief. The hundred daggers burst free from the belt and ripped through the air, some blue with frost and others burning bright, turning his enemies into pincushions.
He looked up and caught a glimpse of Mercy's face watching him from the surface before he fell to his knees.

After all of this was done, he was retiring for sure, he decided, as he clawed up the piles of crumpled bones to make his way back to the surface. The remains of his enemies were tangled in his hair, his belt, his cloak, and his boots, rattling as he climbed.
Panting, he accepted a villager's helping hand and rose to the surface on his hands and knees. He let out a cry of exhaustion and swung on his back. He could barely see the ceiling for all the villagers staring down at him. Viktor looked around at their wide-eyed faces, still trying to catch his breath.
Nope. Not now.
He staggered back to his feet, took a few shaking steps. Mercy opened her mouth to say something, but remained silent. They cleared the way for him.
Outside, dawn was on its way. The raven claimed back its spot on his shoulder. Viktor stroke its feathers, his breathing returning slowly back to normal. He found a bucket of water and fell to his knees, splashing the cool liquid it all over himself, taking no notice of the outraged cawing of the bird.
Mercy came to him as he was shaking off the last of the bones from his hair. She no longer carried her axe, but held his weapons. She stared at him with her enormous, eager eyes; he looked down at his feet.
"You look terrible," she said in her choked voice.
He cleared his throat and took his weapons; he fixed Joy on his back and kept Misery close. "Thank you."
She smiled and made to touch his arm; she halted and clasped her hands together instead. "You saved us... once again. You should stay. Really, you should stay."
He shook his head while re-sheathing his dagger.
"I could take care of your wounds..."
He paused to look at her; her cheeks were pink and shiny. "I'm sorry. I can't."
"We could really use you."
He managed to produce a faint smile. "They need you more than you need me."
She held his gaze; after a while, she returned his smile.
Viktor wiped water out of his face. It was time. He stared ahead at the trees, then the sky, his head still swimming from his ordeal.
"West?" He asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
She watched at him with an odd look on her face, then pointed toward the darkest sky. More people gathered around them. Someone handed him a bag that contained his daggers; inside, some of them were still hissing.
"Of course."
He thanked the others with a nod.

He turned his back to the people staring with their mouth hanging open, and headed for the forest stretching ahead of him. The bird flapped his wings and soared into the black sky.
"At least you've found a traveling companion!" Mercy said.
Viktor watched the raven; back to its silent self, its powerful wings cut through the sky, its smooth feathers reflecting the moonlight.
"It can't be helped," he said.
He glanced at the eastern sky, whose colors were brightening with the promise of dawn, and sighed. He set off the opposite way.
And so he marched on, his dark companion leading the way, his two crossbows glinting in the receding night.