MARTSIRT

By Dominick









"What fires burn within my heart and force me to contend

With the perils that await me at this tragic journey's end?



I have walked the roads that lead to Hell, I have challenged all but Fate.

I have fought and bled and carried on just to reach this final gate.

And now the task before me looms, this dire deed undone;

I shall make my stand against the Three until the battle's won



What fear or wound could ever still this last defiant cry,

As I stand against the Shadow 'neath the endless burning sky?"



- C. Vincent Metzen



Regrettably, I was the only man in the little village of Martsirt who knew about the Spiritstone concealed underneath our village's ancient chapel. As the last descendant of the time-honored Solmire clan, I alone knew the truth about what this minute scarlet stone held locked within it. Maybe if I'd told them all about it, our quiet little village would have been spared. Perhaps this horrible creature would have never been born.

In truth, I suspected that it was the Deacon Enero who first fell victim to the Spiritstone's resistless force. He had been sent from the merchant city Neitorp as a missionary of the Cisum Church. Veiled with the Holy Light as he was, no one even thought of the treachery he proved to be capable of. It was Enero who discovered the glowing-red stone within the labyrinth under the Chapel . . . It was he who shattered it.

Whether it was insanity or some other reason that made him do it, Enero released upon us an unspeakable horror, Diremyth a demon from the underworld. Diremyth was fought, defeated, and imprisoned inside the Spiritstone, by my ancestors. And now was set loose upon our world once again. Somehow, Diremyth used his hell-born powers to mutilate our chapel into a gateway that led straight into the gaping mandible of the underworld itself. His murderous servants took up residence within our holy church and killed anyone foolish enough to try and stop their master. Even our noble King Edward, fell under Diremyth's power and spiraled down into the depths of lunacy and turmoil. As our king gripped the land with a fist of iron, his only son, Prince Marc, was kidnapped by Enero and taken away into our now tainted monastery. Diremyth used his power to twist and create monsters and creatures from Prince Marc's nightmare. We hopelessly gazed as creatures of evil under the earth began to venture into our tiny village, terrorizing all who had chosen to stay.

In the day we worked our farmlands as we always had, trying not to notice the growing sense of fright which radiated from our ruined chapel. By night, we huddled with our families and prayed for the light of morning to come. After what seemed like an eternity, people came and made their appearance.

A raging river of heroes and adventurers from all across the world came to investigate the rumors they had heard about the evil in Martsirt. Some came seeking great wealth and glory, while others sought to test themselves against the grotesque monsters which slept underneath the ground. Even wizards from the ancient Nimativ Mage Clan came to study the evil that had awakened in our fair village. Though the many adventurers nearly took all our supplies and basic needs, they were our only hope for salvation.

Amidst all the warriors and sorcerers, there was one man, quiet and somber, who stood out from the rest. None of us caught his name, or spoke more than just a few words to him. Yet he had a certain calm and focused appearance that made even the strongest of the other would-be heroes quiver. It was this mysterious man who fought his way into the bowels of our church. It was he who was bathed in the blood of his own and that of his enemies. It was he who finally beat Diremyth . . . or so it seemed.

When I close my eyes, I can hear the sound of Diremyth's tortured death-cry echoing in my ears. It rumbled up from the deep earth and shattered the windows of our chapel and made deaf those who were standing outside. It may only have been my imagination, but I distinctly remember the sound of a young child screaming in the midst of the wretched roar. The echoes of that cry still torture the few hours of sleep I am able to get.

I distinctly remember looking at the blood-soaked warrior as he crossed the church's stone steps and looked out into the light of the sun. He looked as if he had walked through Hell itself, and who's to say? . . . Maybe he had. He fell down onto his knees and in his hands he held a bag. Strangely it seemed that inside was a ball or a circular object. But I already jumped to a conclusion that it was neither. I presumed that inside lay the head of the traitor, and deacon, Enero. The nameless one rested in my hut for that whole night, but before he slept he gave me the sack. Although I never opened it I presumed that it was the head of Enero. In the morning, when he awoke, my eyes were drawn to a strange wound on his forehead. The wound looked as if something that was alive, burrowed deep into his forehead. But since it seemed that the wound was already healed. I never questioned him about it.

The little village of Maltsirt was never so happier. Nature seemed to be pleased as well. Flowers jumped from their slumber, and grass grew from the once unholy earth. Forgotten laughter began to appear through the air and little tugs could be seen at the sides of the villagers faces.

The chapel's dungeons were cleared out to make a new, holy, sanctified church. All the pathways leading to the stained catacombs were lucked up to never be used again. Traveling warriors coming to village seems to steadily decrease, while the joy continued to accumulate.

We all believed that our village had been saved, and we threw a big party in rewards upon our nameless hero. Despite the praises and honors we gave him, he slipped deeper and deeper into a depression. My imagination couldn't picture the horrors he had seen beneath the dark earth. I could only see through my eyes what our once tainted monastery had done to his heart and his mind.

He stayed in Martsirt for quite some time. He had no family and nowhere else to go, so it seemed logical that he should be welcomed in Martsirt. Though he was polite to those who came to him, he was usually left alone and kept to himself. He seldom came out of the new hut we had built for him. Shuu, the innkeeper of Martsirt suggested that we throw another celebration in the hope that a strong drink and good company would snap him out of his dark mood. We were deeply mistaken. At some point during the celebration he slipped away and left us having a party for no one. Later in the evening I paid a visit to his home. Nothing in Martsirt, nor the whole world could have prepared me for what I saw in his hut.

The nameless warrior sat along in his own hallway. Swaying back and forth, side to side, and muttering to himself in different languages, some of which had not been used in centuries. Some of the languages were: Naoi, the language of the Ogre; Peguide the language of the Mandrake; And Daemon, the language of the Undead. When he turned toward me, the firelight glinted off his tortured features, revealing the distorted image of a man who was no longer a man. His eyes glimmered with a crimson glow and an eerie red light pulsed from the hood of his cloak. The wound on his forehead had opened . . . And I thought I saw . . . No, it was probably just a trick of the light playing with an old man's overactive imagination.

I asked him if he was feeling okay, the only answer was a constant ramble. I knew a few words from the Ogre, Mandrake, and the Undead languages. I translated them in my head and came out with the words "seek" "destroy" and "vengeance". I was deeply concerned by the whole event and started to go back to the party in order to bring help, when suddenly he jumped up, grabbed me by my neck, and held a sharp blade to my throat. He spoke with an icy voice that filled my heart with paralyzing poison. "The time has come to leave this place. My brothers await me in the east. Their chains will bind them no longer." He let go of me, screamed in pain, and cut his own wrist. He once again spoke in the languages. I froze and translated in my mind. He was saying "Equi, Equi . . ." which translated to "Run, Run. . ." What could I do? I ran.

That day was the last day I saw him. Our nameless hero left Martsirt early the next morning. Later I heard from the watcher of the eastern gate that he went through the gate with only a pack of scrolls and his sturdy sword. I can only guess what he went searching for. Shortly after his departure, our worst nightmares came true. The demonic servants of our chapel came back. The malicious creatures of the night returned to our village.

Now I am the last survivor of the Solmire Clan and the last survivor of the village of Martsirt. I ran away from our village the day our nameless warrior left. All of others stayed, only to be slaughtered by the minions of a greater evil. Why the monsters have returned and why they butchered so many innocents men, women, and children? I will never know. All that I am certain of is that their arrival is somehow connected with the nameless one's departure . . . I have written all of this down in the hopes that someone will find the notes and ideas of an old man and attempt to right what is wrong.

I expect that my life will soon end, and maybe these writing will help to prevent this tragedy from beginning the end of other villages. I will remain here in the village of Maltsirt, until either help arrives, or the creatures find me first, because as dangerous it is, I cannot bring myself up to leaving this dismal place. My surroundings are dead trees, my family are all but corpses. Heaven help your lowly servant.

Seek out the nameless wanderer. Find out what he is searching for. I fear that Martsirt is only the first of many villages to be dissipated by the evil he sought to fight.