Chapter 1: New Tristram
Marcus Bastiat shivered as he trudged onward, the new-fallen snow slowly soaking into his old boots and numbing his toes. His breath misted in front of him with every step. It was colder than it should be for a mid-September night this far south. The cold didn't feel right. It was more than just the uncomfortable shift from the oppressive heat of The Burning Wastes, it felt . . . heavy. Oppressive. Even the gnarled, old trees that lined both sides of the beaten dirt trail seemed to sag down, their branches drooping low and threatening to tangle the inadequate clothing he'd brought from the desert.
He shivered again. He had thought the mountain crossing to the east had been cold, but it was a dry cold; down here it was a damp, humid cold that straight to the bones with every breeze. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, settled the crossbow more comfortably against his shoulders, and marched onward.
The path wound its way deeper into the woods. The trees grew closer together, their branches snarled into a massive tangle that blocked out the moonlight. The breeze died away, blocked by the dense treeline and leaving Marcus in a growing stillness, a silence stretched tight, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He paused, slowly scanning back and forth in the dim light. The silence rang in his ears. Something did not feel right. He slowly slipped his crossbow off its sling and clutched the seasoned old wood close. He cranked the string back and felt left-handed in the quiver at his side for one of the two-dozen goose-feather fletched arrows without taking his eyes off the path. He set the shaft onto the weapon and knocked it to the draw string.
He took a slow, deep breath, and started moving forward again, carefully placing each foot. He had taken a handful of steps when he heard it; a low snuffling sound. It didn't sound like any animal Marcus had encountered, and combined with the rumors and secondhand accounts he'd been seeking out . . . could it be? Could this be the epicenter, the ground zero for the cursed star that had fallen from the sky and sent whispers and shadows across the land?
The soft ground cover of pine needles and mulch masked Marcus' footfalls as he approached. He used the sound to guide him off the path and into the deeper gloom. But he had to be careful now, easy . . .
Slowly a shape formed, a darker outline low to the ground, hunched over something. What was it? Could it be a snap.
The creature whirled towards the sound of the twig snapping beneath Marcus' feet. Marcus raised the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed at the center of the shadowy outline and pulled the trigger. The now-string snapped forward with a twang and the creature fell backwards as the bot thudded into it.
Whatever it was, it didn't die.
Instead it screeched and howled in pain, shattering the tense silence of the night. Marcus immediately started cranking the draw-string back, but it took time, and more sounds were coming from all around him in the darkness, drawn towards the creatures' moans. The string snapped back into place and he whipped another bolt from his quiver.
There were a lot more sounds now, and more than the rustle of foosteps and damp leaves. He could make out more dark forms shambling through the darkness, moaning. Marcus raised his crossbow. Then the creature he'd hit climbed to its feet again.
Marcus lowered the crossbow and ran. But he was no coward. He did not retreat to the safety of an inn, drawing whatever these monsters were after him; he ran forward, charging down the path past more half-seen creatures.
He was breathing heavily by the time he broke out of the trees. The tenuous path merged with a more well-established, beaten dirt road. A slow-burn torch tied to a metal post illuminated a half-broken sign reading "New Tristram."
Marcus charged into the light and turned to face the woods, raising the crossbow. The light stretched to the first row of trees, their bare branches knifing out at all angles, casting deep shadows. And out of the shadows they came, stumbling, slithering, and crawling into the light.
Marcus felt his lips pull back into a snarl.
They were ugly, these things that had once been human. They had risen up from their graves, planned or unplanned, and the risen showed it in their various states of decay. Some were largely intact, though their heads lolled uncontrollably from necks snapped by a hangman's noose. Others were almost entirely degraded, their bloated, blue-faced corpses barely holding together. Still others bore hideous marks of torture and violence.
There were lots of them . . . too many. Far more than the bolts left in his quiver. His finger tightened on the trigger as he tunnel-visioned on the nearest corpse. Its lips had rotted away, leaving a clench-jawed grin beneath the empty eye-sockets.
No. He took a slow breath through his mouth to avoid gagging and eased his finger off the trigger. He only had one shot, and he didn't know what was lying in wait ahead of him. He grimaced, turned, and ran towards Tristram.
The road to town was an awful sight. Wagons lay smashed and flipped where they'd been swarmed under by hordes of the risen, and a handful still remained, desperately clawing at the last shreds of flesh on the horses' bones. The driver and his family were in slightly better shape; you could still tell which gender they had been, but it was just a matter of time before the zombies finished off the meatier creatures and returned their attention to the scattered bodies. None had made it more than ten paces from the wagon
Marcus hurried on towards the town, scattering crows as he went, though it didn't take long for them to settle back in to their grim task. But it wasn't only humans and beasts the crows feasted on. Risen had been cut down as well, their limbs hacked off and smashed in. Many still twitched feebly, their malicious spirits straining to make use of limbs no longer there in the endless attempt to feed. And as evidence of resistance to the tide of hellspawn grew, he could make out sounds in the distance over his belabored breathing – no, not just sounds, the clangor of battle. There were still survivors in this New Tristram.
He charged forward now, more confident in his footing as torches grew more frequent. At last he rounded a bend and stumbled onto a pitched battle in the clearing at the town's gate. Marcus took in the scene quickly, unfazed by the all too familiar sight of ghastly creatures crawling out of the woods to his right. He slid left, towards the barricades set up around the town gate, and brought up his crossbow.
His first bolt took what had once been a woman through the eye socket, dropping the creature instantly. His second snapped the arm clean off a monster as it tried to strike at one of the town's defenders, a hulking man in battle-stained leather armor that held the center of the gap in the fortifications. The man didn't hesitate, seizing the advantage and slicing deep with his bloody sword. The creature fell, and the man waved urgently. "Oi! Get inside, as quick as yeh can!"
Unfortunately, whether due to the man's shout or Marcus' bolts he couldn't tell, the zombies had noticed his arrival as well. Time seemed to slow, and terror threatened, its icy fingers clawing at his mind as dozens of broken and shattered faces turned to look at him in an endless moment, their empty eyes aglow in the light of burning corpses in the stake-lined trench to the defenders' right and left.
No, he would not be afraid. He reached into the fire at his core and let the heat of his hatred burn away the last tendrils of fear.
He charged the line, firing as fast as he was able. The creatures fell before his crossbow, but he was still twenty paces away when his hand came up empty – he was out of bolts, and the creatures rushed in, oblivious to the horrendous casualties inflicted by the defenders as they turned their backs on them and charged at this new, closer prey.
A risen missing both arms rushed him. Marcus sidestepped and smashed it with the butt of his crossbow, sending it sprawling. Two more came at him, their shredded fingers stripped down to bony talons. Marcus used his crossbow as a club, smashing the left creature's head. It went down hard, but the blow smashed the crossbow's delicate arms, leaving Marcus with a splintered chunk of wood. The second risen grabbed him, scratching mercilessly. He shoved it back, but another crashed into him, sending him stumbling backwards. His feet caught on the severed torso of a zombie and he crashed ot the ground hard.
The monsters swarmed him, piling on top of him and pinning him to the ground. The risen's dead flesh was cold against his skin. The writing pile of corpses forced the air from his lungs. Marcus twisted, bucked, and pushed with all the strength of desperation, but it was useless. The weight grew even heavier and Marcus' face, pinned against the ground, started to sink into the churned up, ice-cold earth. His struggling weakened as more and more effort was required just to draw in breath.
He was sinking. Half his face was under the muck now. He gasped breath through the side of his mouth, closing his left eye against the dirt, while his right watched as a risen's snarling head inched its way through the pile, rotten, spiky teeth already working in anticipation of the soft flesh of his face.
It was the end.
Marcus felt conflicting emotions. Part of him seethed with anger, but part of him felt a sort of relief – no more nightmares, no more hatred, no more violence.
A steel blade clashed through his tomb of flesh and pierced the risen's skull, pinning it to the ground. Marcus stared at it, watching as the dead, black blood dribbled slowly from its gaping jaws, no pulse to force it from the cracked skin.
The weight lifted off him abruptly and Marcus gasped for air. He pulled his face out of the muck with a squelch and looked up to see the huge man in leather armor. He reached a gloved hand down and grabbed Marcus' limp, gasping form by the shirt and hauled him to his feet.
"Come on, get up. We have to get you inside."
Marcus coughed, which the man seemed to take as assent. He threw Marcus' arm over his huge shoulders and broke into a jog towards the battle line, which wavered in his absence, but held. For the moment.
The man bulldozed his way through the monsters until, at last, Marcus' savior shoulder-checked a risen aside and there was a man beyond it; exhausted, filthy, and bleeding from a handful of wounds, but still a man. He stepped aside, more than half on instinct, as the juggernaut charged through and deposited him roughly against the inside of the gate before charging back to the front.
Marcus savored a long three breaths of just lying motionless. Then time was up and he hauled himself to his feet. The city was ringed by a solid wooden palisade as far as he could see, topped with sharpened stakes. The gate itself was maybe a dozen paces wide and the men fought packed tight, too bright to see through clearly. But there, out front, was that massive broadsword swinging high, splattering blood. Too high, really. Like a farmer chopping wood, not a soldier. He brushed the thought aside and looked up at the palisade's top. It had no battlements, but they'd built two little watchtower posts. He slung his crushed crossbow and scrambled up the ladder to stand beside a terrified-looking boy who was a teenager, at best.
The broken palisade on the other tower told clearly enough what had happened to the other archer. Marcus hoped without much faith that the fall had killed the boy and pushed him from his mind.
"Stand aside boy." He moved quickly enough, the war between fear and duty finally tilted by the excuse, and Marcus stepped past him, plucking the bow from the boy's nervous fingers. He stepped up to the firing stand, eyes cold, and let drew the first shaft.
It took another fifteen minutes before the last corpse fell to the earth with a sickening squelch of steel through flesh. Marcus let out a slow breath as the adrenaline drained from his system and the burning weight of overworked muscles began to register. He turned to climb back down and found the boy still there, staring at him wide-eyed. He sighed again. "Stay calm, breath out with the release, hold it steady. It's easy enough."
The boy kept up his wordless staring and Marcus shrugged helplessly before plopping the borrowed weapon into the boys hands and brushing past him to the ladder. Either he got it or he didn't. That was kind of how it went with archery. Besides, Marcus had never been much for words.
The town itself wasn't the smallest he'd seen, but it certainly wasn't large, either. Six, maybe eight homes, all built around an inn that looked packed to the rafters. No wonder the lifeless were so desperate to get in. That much life packed that lose together? It must be driving them mad. And when they breached the walls it would be a slaughter. Honestly it was nothing short of a miracle they hadn't gone already.
Regardless, they wouldn't hold out for much longer. Another few days, a week at most, assuming they had that much food. He shrugged and settled down against one of the inn's outer walls, beneath one of the overhanging eaves. The wood was warm from the fires within and the inn blocked the wind. It was enough.
He had just closed his eyes to try to get some rest when a shadow fell over him. He peaked an eye open to see the giant who had saved him earlier. "Hello there, friend. Thanks for your help at the gate. I've never seen anyone fight like that."
Marcus shrugged. "They were hellspawn. They had to die."
The man nodded and extended a huge hand. Marcus took it reluctantly and shook, though as the man's hand swallowed his nearly up to the wrist it was more of him shaking Marcus. "I'm Captain Rumford, by the way. What brings you to these parts?"
"I'm here to find evil and kill it."
Rumford blinked, nonplussed. "Well, there's no shortage of that around here. We'll be glad to have you around." And with that he set off.
Marcus hunched back down in relief and wrapped his tattered cloak tight around him.
…
"Over there! It's the hero of Tristram, let's go see!"
The oncoming thunder of children's footsteps prompted Marcus to crack open an eye. A whole herd of children charged straight towards him, pointing and laughing with excitement. Marcus half rose, confused. They didn't think he was a . . . the kids charged right past him, thumping through the inn's front door. Marcus settled back down with a grunt.
Stupid kids.
…
Johanna Svetsal looked up as the front door of the morbidly-named Slaughtered Calf Inn slammed open and the children ran inside, chattering away and throwing conspicuous glances in her direction. She gave them a big smile which produced a slew of giggles before they retreated back out the front door.
"You'll have to forgive the young ones. They've never seen a Crusader before. And after all the stories they've been hearing about your defense of the front gate, I'm afraid their curiosity gets the better of them."
Johanna looked back at the young woman sitting across from her. "Please, Leah, there's nothing to apologize for. Now, is there anything more you can tell me about what caused all of this?"
Leah sighed and stared at the chipped mug held tightly between her hands. "I wish there was more I could tell you. Uncle Deckard and I were studying some records in the old Monastery when something just, just smashed through the roof. The floor collapsed and Uncle Deckard must have fallen deeper inside. I tried to look for him, but the dead were already rising. I came back here to rally the militia, but that . . . that . . ."
Johanna reached out and put a comforting hand on the young woman's shoulder. "It's alright, Leah. You couldn't have known."
Leah choked back her tears and nodded. "Th-thanks. I just wish I could tell you more about what's causing this. But nothing can be done unless we find a way to slow down the dead."
The Crusader leaned forward, her fingers steepling thoughtfully in front of her. "Now that I've had a chance to rest I'll go speak with Captain Rumford and see what can be done." She nodded once more to Leah, rose from her chair, and stepped over to Rumford's table, all the while willing herself to ignore the many eyes that followed her every move when they thought she wasn't looking. Rumford hastily climbed to his feet. "My lady."
"Please, Captain, there is no need."
"Of course, my lady." Still, he didn't sit until she had taken her own chair. Somehow, despite the shortages of everything, another drink seemed to materialize in front of her. "Captain, what can I do to help with the risen?"
The big man shrugged helplessly. "Honestly, my lady, I'm not sure. We've had some success holding the walls, but beyond that . . ."
Johanna smiled bracingly. Don't sell yourself short. You and your people have done remarkably well."
Rumford flushed, but sat up a little straighter. "Thank you, my lady."
"Now, why don't you tell me what happened when you did go beyond the walls. I'm sorry to press you, but I need tok now what I will be facing out there."
He nodded and swallowed hard before beginning. "When Leah told us the dead were pouring out of the Cathedral we quickly went to put an end to it. At first it seemed we were succeeding, but th- but they just kept coming." He glanced around at the already frightened townsfolk and leaned in, lowering his voice. "There were these monsters, these women . . . things. They sort of vomited up more and more risen. There were just so many of them. We- well, we were overcome. Captain Daltyn and the men fought valiantly. They protected me. I am no solider. I am- I was a farmer. I should not have been out there with them. I do not know how I made it back here. None of the others did. And now, somehow, I'm supposed to lead the militia."
"And lead them you have, Captain." She emphasized the title ever so slightly. She put a hand reassuringly on his shoulder as she rose to her feet. He rose a half-second later. "Thank you, milady."
The eyes followed her again as she walked calmly to the exit and, at last, the door closed behind her and she was alone. She dropped her head and closed her eyes, just for a moment, just to refocus until . . . what was that smell? She glanced over and saw- was that a man?
It was. He was mostly covered in a tattered cloak of mottled gray and back and huddled up against the inn's wall. He seemed to be asleep. She dropped to a knee at his side. "Hey, are you alright?" It was hard to tell, it looked like half his face was covered in mud. She reached out to tap him on the shoulder. "Hello? Are you—"
Steel flashed in his hand and she stepped back, surprised at the snarl on his face. His eyes almost seemed to . . .
In an instant the knife vanished back into his cloak and his face blanked, but he couldn't quite keep the hostility out of his voice. "What do you want?"
Johanna climbed back to her feet warily. "I was making sure you were still alive. Clearly you are, so I'll be on my way." She turned and started the walk to her tent, shaking her head. Some people.
…
Marcus watched the woman warily as she turned to go. There was something . . . off about her. He watched her as she walked away, trying to put his finger on it. She was tall, a couple of inches taller than him at least, and built solid where he was wiry. She wore close-fitted pants and a tunic, both black, with the trident of the Zakarum faith stitched across the chest.
Well, it hardly mattered. So long as she didn't get in the way, he had no quarrel or business with her. She could go on and save as many towns as she liked. His business was with a much darker lot.
…
Johanna entered her little tent set up on the village green and breathed out a long, slow sigh. In here she didn't have to hide her weariness or the worry lines. The situation was growing desperate. She'd held the gates now for several days, but she had to sleep some time, and every time they had taken casualties while she slept. And the attacks were getting worse, not better. No, she couldn't help them wait it out here—she needed to take care of the root of the problem, whatever it was.
Well, there was no sense delaying the inevitable. She breathed out a long slow breath, then reached out to grab the first piece of armor. Putting it all on was a rather complex operation, but over the past two centuries of wandering necessity had forced her predecessors among the Crusaders to develop methods of putting it on themselves. Sometimes there was an apprentice to help, but often there was not, and they certainly never had anything like the squires the Paladins, their distant cousins, boasted.
The armor itself had been heavily modified by the many hands it had passed through since first leaving Kejistan all those years ago. It was heavier, stronger, and lighter than anything else like it. Still, she thought with a little ooph of effort as she slipped on the breastplate, it's heavy enough to be getting on with. At least it was wearable enough to live in it if she had to. She slipped the white tabard with its black trident of Zakarum that served as her surcoat and marked her as a Crusader over her armor. Finally, she picked up her shield and flail. Right. It's time.
She took one more look around. Everything was still packed—she'd never unpacked. There was nothing else to take. She stepped out from the tent and marched towards the front gate, taking care to smile at the people who had started to gather and wave, hiding inside the tired sigh. Oh, for goodness' sake! The guards at the gates were saluting her now.
She nodded to them in acknowledgment and hurried past them and out into the woods. Only when she was out of sight of the gates, and at last away from the smell of burning bodies, did she finally start to relax a little. There were just too many people, too many eyes watching her every move in there.
Of course, that meant it was time to deal with this "falling star," whatever it was, and be done with this thing one way or another.
…
Rupert watched the Crusader in her heavy and massive shield with awe as she marched past the men at the gates with awe. She was going out there to assault the armies of the dead single-handedly, like something out of a story. All too soon she was out of sight and his mind returned to his own duties, however dull they might seem compared to a hero like her. He reached out to pick up the long-bow he was supposed to be guarding the town with, but his hand came away empty.
He looked down at its regular perch and gulped. It was gone, and not just that. A full of quiver of arrows was missing to. Captain Rumford is going to kill me . . .
…
Johanna stayed off the main road, which seemed to attract the things like flies to a corpse, and kept to the woods. Yes, there was definitely something wrong here—the woods seemed to be getting darker, like it was twilight moving into night, despite the early hour. There was a feeling in the air. The wind cut to the bone with an icy chill and there was a tension in the air, like steel stretched to the breaking point and ready to snap at any moment.
This, whatever it was, was beyond some rogue wizard.
Another risen scrambled towards her out of the bushes, hissing through black and broken teeth. She brought the three-headed flail down with a crack of splitting bone and the dead body lay still once more. She took a slow, shuddery breath and tried to bring her heart rate back down to a normal cadence. Where were these things coming from? There shouldn't be this many bodies just lying around out in the woods. It was almost as if they were being summoned or created somehow . . .
A strangled howl brought Jahanna's flail around in another crushing backhand, shattering the ribcage of yet another risen. It scrambled back to its feet, awkwardly unbalanced by the new hole in its chest. Her next blow crippled its left leg, and another crushed its skull.
Yet the gutteral howl didn't stop. In fact, it seemed to be coming from . . . Ice cold hands closed on her neck from behind. She flinched, jerking away from the contact. One fo the hands ripped free, fingernails raking bloody furrows into the right side of her neck. She spun left and crunched an elbow into something bony with a sickening squelch. But where a normal opponent would have let go, or at least loosened their grasp, the undead merely grunted and clamped its hand back around Kyrena's neck, choking the air from her. She dropped her flail and shield, too close to use either effectively, and grabbed at the hands tightening around her like vices.
The creature inches away from her was hideous, the rotting remains of what had once been a woman. Patches of black hair covered sickened, yellow skin. It opened its mouth and Johanna braced herself for the bite, but it didn't come. The mouth kept opening wider and wider, jaw completely unhinged. To Johanna's horror, something was coming out of its mouth. Fingers, followed by a hand, a wrist, an entire forearm of another risen reached out from inside the monster and grabbed her face. She tried to jerk away, to turn her head, to knock them over, anything, but it was hard to think over the pounding in her head, hard to see past the explosions of color in her vision.
Something whistled through the air and landed with a muted kathunk and she could breath again. She collapsed to a knee, sucking in deep breaths. There at her feet was the hand that had chocked her, completely severed.
The risen reached for her again with its own hands, but staggered as an arrow crunched into its shoulder, throwing off its balance.
It was all the opening she needed. In an instant the flail was back in her hands and she smashed in what was left of its head with a two-handed swing. It crumpled to the ground and lay still. Johanna stood still for a moment as well, panting painfully through her sore neck and trying to work her way through what had just happened. Someone had saved her?
How became clear as a man strode warily into the clearing, a bow in his hands, arrow knocked. Then she saw the disheveled, shredded black clothing and it clicked into place. "It's you . . ." she wheezed out, her voice raw.
He put a finger to his lips and advanced slowly, never taking his eyes off the creature. He paused about a foot away, studying it carefully for a long moment before nodding to himself, drawing back the bow, and sending an arrow thudding into it. Satisfied that it was dead he turned and started examining her neck without ceremony.
"Did it bite you?"
Johanna shook her head.
"Good. Try not to talk. Now go back to town and let Rumford know that . . ." He broke off as she shook her head more vigorously. She might be a little taken aback, but her place was out here, fighting these monsters, not cowering back in the inn.
The man's eyes tightened for a moment. "You'll die."
She shrugged. Her master would be disappointed she hadn't completed her tasks, but she'd be even more disappointed if she didn't fight. "What . . ." she struggled to get out in a hoarse whisper, "what is it?"
"That? It's called a wretched mother. They eat whatever bits of corpses they can find and reassemble them inside their stomach. See how bloated the stomach is as a result? That's where they get their name." He paused for a moment to take in her expression, trying to gauge how shocked she was. And she was shocked, to a point. But at the end of the day, evil was evil. The magnitude or type of evil might change, but it didn't change her duty.
"Still," he muttered to himself," wretched mothers don't just happen. They are made . . ." He shrugged and bent to scoop up the heavy knife he'd thrown to sever the hand that had choked her. He carefully wiped off the creature's black blood which hissed as it wilted the grass. She recognized it as Captain Rumford's and shot him a questioning glance, but he ignored it.
"Go back to town or don't. It makes no difference to me." And with that he set off into the darkness.
Johanna let him go. She wasn't entirely certain she could stop him even if she tried. Besides, he could clearly take care of himself, and the more of those things they killed out here the fewer the townspeople would have to face. He'd certainly proved a point, however—she needed to be more careful.
After one more slow breath to gather herself she set off again, eyes searching the darkness for any more of those wretched mothers. The next body she encountered, however, was staying dead. For the moment, at least. She approached the face-down form slowly, but it was very dead.
She took one more quick look around but she was alone. Johanna bent over and rolled the man onto his front to get a better look at him. It was one of the militia that had gone out with Rumford before her arrival. His face was bone white, locked into an expression that was equal parts fear and pain. The massive wound in his back had been what took him down, but he'd been clawed all over even after he fell. Killed in the mad flight back to New Tristram.
Still, perhaps Rumford had been mistaken; in the noise and chaos of the fight, perhaps another militia-man had survived. It gave her something to focus on besides her own fear at least, and their flight came from Old Tristram, which seemed to be the center of this whole mess. She could hear scuttling from the woods—more risen were nearby.
Not much time then. She mouthed a prayer of forgiveness, gripped her flail tightly, and brought it down with a sickening squelch on the skull of the dead man, which burst apart. Rest easy, warrior. You won't become one of them. She turned and raised her weapon as the corpses skittered towards her in the darkness.
…
Marcus watched the crumbling walls of Old Tristram from his perch up in a tree as old as the city itself and thought. Something seemed wrong about all of this. The risen were wandering in loose groups, resorting to the most primitive of human instincts for company. It made running into one of those herds a dicey proposition, but if you could get around them then picking off the lone wanderers wasn't too difficult, as the half-dozen arrow-riddled corpses between him and where he'd left that fool woman attested. Unfortunately he didn't dare retrieve the arrows, and he was running low.
That meant he couldn't afford to waste time fighting the risen; he needed to find the source of this problem. But there just didn't seem to be one. Anger shot through him as he thought of his oath, and he forced his jaw to unclench. He had no choice. Discipline! Fight smart or die with your task undone, your vow broken. His breathing slowed as the phrase his teacher had told him that first day echoed through his mind. Okay. Something clearly started this, awakening some of the risen and at least a couple of dormant wretched mothers. Yet for all that there was no real intent, no objective, to their movements. Whatever had woken them up wasn't controlling them now. That meant dealing with it would be easier, but that finding whoever had started this mess would be harder.
Damn.
Well, his only real option then was to get into town and start looking for any evidence that had been left behind. He dropped silently from his tree branch perch and crept forwards to the base of the crumbling walls. A moment later and he'd scaled them and dropped to the ground inside.
…
Johanna was sweating despite the cold by the time she caught sight of the old city gates. She'd killed another two wretched mothers, but her armor now sported another half-dozen scratches. The closer she got to the old ruins the more of the things there seemed to be. She dropped her flail for a moment to run a gloved hand through her greasy hair. Some of the blonde strands had escaped her pony-tail and were plastered to her forehead. Hardly a glorious image most people envisioned when they thought of a crusader out battling evil. Somehow that thought didn't bother her very much.
Still, one thing was pretty clear. She could be out here for months and she still wouldn't make much of a dent in the number of these things. No wonder Rumford and his fellows had been driven back. She couldn't just wander around here killing them; she needed to go deeper, needed to find what was causing all of this. The fallen star had hit the old Cathedral, so that was where she needed to go.
Groans sounded from her left, another horde of risen shambling towards her. She slung her shield across her back and broke into a trot that was about as fast as she could go in full armor. More risen were drawn to the sound of her jangling armor, and soon the sound of risen came from all directions. She was committed now. She was going in.
…
Marcus was stuck. He'd snuck his way into a burned-out cottage frustratingly near the cathedral grounds. But before he could move past it another herd of risen had moved in and taken up residence. He'd managed to climb up to one of the the still mostly-stable rafters where he now lay, face pressed flat against the blackened wood that still smelled of smoke. But even if he could make his way past them, he could see that the thick wall around the old church was still intact, and that someone, probably the militia, had chained shut the gate.
Below him the risen muttered and milled about aimlessly, and he left the problem of the gate for later. They milled about aimlessly, but seemed to be following a wretched mother, the largest he'd ever seen. He closed his eyes and force his patience, testy even at the best of times, to hold firm as he listened to the abomination vomiting out yet another wretched mother. Damn. Even if he'd had a full quiver, there were too many of them for him to take out. And what he actually had aside from his dagger was a single heavy knife and eleven arrows. All he could do now was wait for them to move on.
Marcus opened his eyes as he heard something in the distance. A moment later and the risen rustled, their moaning quieting for a moment as they, too, heard the sound—the clinking of heavy plate armor. Huh, she's still alive. Still, from the racket she was making she'd have a thousand of the things all over her in about a minute. He readied himself to make a break for it. He itched to kill that monstrosity, almost physically needed to kill it. It was what he did, who he was, his way out. But it was impossible. Unless . . .
…
Johanna took in the shattered remains of Old Tristram quickly. The hordes of risen would be on her soon. Even now they shambled towards her, arms reaching out, eager to do to her what they'd done to the militia who's bodies she'd jogged past, one by one, trailing a horde of risen in her wake. She'd done what she had to do to ensure their rest, pausing just long enough to mouth a quick prayer on their behalf.
She scanned the burnt out, overgrown remains of the village for a place to hole up and bottleneck the endless swarm of the dead while she figured out what to do. That building there, the old blacksmith's, might work, or—woah, that was a lot of wretched mothers by that old home. Could that he what was causing all of this? At the very least, taking some of those things out before she went down could only help the village. And right in the middle of them was a huge wretched mother, easily two feet taller than she was.
Okay. Priorities. One: kill that thing. Two: kill the other wretched mothers. Three: get back to the village. Well, that was that. She nodded to herself, unslung her shield, and charged.
…
Marcus couldn't help but be impressed. He'd seen enough knights, and even a paladin or two, that plate armor itself wasn't enough to impress him. And while the flail was a little unusual for a weapon, there was nothing particularly special about it, either. No, what impressed him was how fast she did it, how fast she changed mental gears.
Every demon hunter with more than a year or so of experience had, at one time or another, committed themselves to a fight where they believed, deep down inside, that they were going to die if they went forward. Even for the most seasoned it took a moment, a minute, to shift mindsets from fighting to survive to fighting to kill, from leaving open an avenue of retreat to simply spending yourself well. But the woman out there, she did it in a heartbeat, in a single breath.
The armored woman stormed forward. The handful of risen between her and the clump of wretched mothers bounced off her raised shield as she plowed onward, eyes locked onto the oversized wretched mother in the shredded, moldy white burial dress.
The mothers clustered around the monster unhinged their jaws and new risen started clawing their way free. The woman didn't slow, instead smashing headlong into the group with an almighty crash. The impact sent them all sprawling down to the icy ground. The creatures shrieked, their limbs awkward as they struggled to regain their feet.
Now! Marcus struck, launching himself from his perch and driving the heavy knife deep into rotten flesh. The wretched mother screeched as the blade knocked off its spine and lashed out in pain, backhanding Marcus with far more than the strength she'd had in life.
He took the blow on his chest and flipped over onto his back, the wind completely knocked out of him, and helplessly tried to draw breath.
…
Johanna had no idea where the man had come from, or how he'd managed to appear a second time when she was in trouble, but she was grateful for it as she took advantage of the momentary distraction he'd provided and regained her feet. She charged back in relentlessly, but too slow to stop the blow that flung him aside. He didn't get back up.
She brought her flail down on the beast again and again and again until with a final cry it fell still.
…
Marcus struggled to get back to his feet. He was still dizzy, his sense of balance off-kilter, his vision swimming. He held onto his borrowed bow but his hands were shaky, too weak to draw back the string. The knife was gone, leaving him only one choice. His fingers clenched on the hilt of his dagger. It was time. He was more than ready.
And yet . . . he hesitated. Through the fuzziness eh could still see the armored woman on her feet. She was backing towards him, her feet set widely, holding the ground at the burnt-out hole in the wall against the horde of risen.
Defending him. She was defending him. He laughed at the irony of it, though all that emerged was a feeble cough.
What was she doing now, muttering to herself? Cursing herself for getting cornered protecting his sorry ass? Or could she be praying? Ha. He knew all about prayers whispered as the demons closed in around you, and he'd learned one thing for sure.
They didn't work.
His hand slipped from the knife's grip as unconsciousness closed in, the sky shifting colors wildly, shapes shifting in the darkness, and the woman's flail glowing orange with fire . . .
…
Rumford stood before the narrow opening in the gates, the men he was only now beginning to think of as "his" men stood behind him. And they were joined by a handful of women wearing ill-fitting leather jerkins, awkwardly but fiercely wielding pitchforks or swords. They'd insisted on taking their wounded or dead husband's places, and they'd been adamant. "If Johanna can fight, then so can we," and they'd said it in that tone all women seemed to have that brooked no argument. The Crusader had certainly made an impact. He wasn't sure how he felt about that yet, but the truth was he needed every able-bodied person he could get. There had been no more arrivals from the nearby farms since the Jorgens had come in wild-eyed and smelling of smoke almost a week ago.
Come on now, Rumford. They're looking to you now, don't let your thoughts go wandering off. Especially on a night like this.
Another inhuman shriek split the night and he was far from the only man who flinched. Whatever was happening out there seemed to be getting worse. The trees were rustling with movement, and it had been nearly two weeks since he'd seen any sign of an animal out there. Or rather, an animal that was still living. The shrieks continued, more of them now, though thankfully still distant.
Captain Daltyn would have said something reassuring, something to give his people courage, but nothing was coming to mind. "Steady now," he said. A boy barely sixteen, just become a man, looked over at him and swallowed hard. But then he nodded and set himself more firmly. Akarat knew he was no Daltyn, but he'd do what he could.
He hoped it would be enough.
The shrieking got worse over the next long hour, which seemed to last an eternity. That was when the smoke started to rise, its murky outline blocking out the stars from the direction of Old Tristram.
Jacob, Rumford's unofficial second-in-command, stepped closer to him, nervously tightening his grip on his sword. "Do you think she's alright out there, Rumford?" he whispered. The Captain nodded as confidently as he could. "She's fine, Jacob, I'm sure she's fine. You've seen that giant flail she waves around, haven't you? Why, she's probably kicking their arses!" He forced out a chuckle and hoped it sounded more natural than it felt.
"But supposing they got inside her reach, how do you think she'd—" "She's fine, Jacob." Rumford glanced around meaningfully at the watching, half-terrified faces around him. "She'll be fine," he repeated a little less harshly.
In the distance something flashed bright enough to light up the darkness for an instant and the howling in the night grew louder. Please, Akarat, let her be alright.
Things grew quieter over the next hour. The torches were replaced. The other shift came out, their steps apprehensive, while his shift positively fled back behind the gates. Rumford held his ground and forced his eyes to stay open. He couldn't keep this up much longer. He was already weaker than he should ever have allowed himself to become, but with the cut rations and this shift being without the Crusader, or Johanna as she'd always insist he call her, who normally lead them, well, it was hard to find time to get some shut-eye, and . . .
"I see something!" hissed one of the lookouts, Thomas' boy, thought Rumford. The Captain stared into the darkened shadows of the trees made all the darker by the flickering torches on the gates. He couldn't see anything. He signaled their little home-made guard towers and felt a momentary bubble of pride as they immediately obeyed and drew back on their bow strings but held their fire, awaiting his second command. They were starting to come together. Heavens knew they'd had enough practice at it.
"Captain, I'd appreciate it if you had your men hold their fire." The strong, steady voice of Johanna visibly relaxed the guards, even with its faint note of exhaustion, and a relieved grin broke across Rumford's face. "That I can do, m'lady." In fact, they had already lowered their weapons, but Rumford paid it no mind. His eyes, like every other, were drawn towards the armored woman as she strode out of the night. Her armor gleamed with reflected torchlight, somehow no less bright for the splattered mud and blood or the black-clad figure draped over a massive shoulder pauldron and arm. They stared as if at one of the archangels themselves, come to rescue them.
It took a moment for Rumford to get past that first look and see that she moved stiffly, with a bit of limp that favorered her left leg. The right side of her armor looked scorched somehow, as if it had been held for too long near an open flame, and her exotic hair so blonde it was almost white was smeared with ash, which also clung to the sweat on her face.
But she was there, and she was alive. "I see you've returned to us, and thoughtfully retrieved our little thief while you were at it. He eyed his own knife at unconscious man's belt in irritation, but it melted away as he looked back at her. "You're as generous as ever, m'lady."
"Johanna," she responded absently. "And I had to bring him back, Captain. He saved my life."
Rumford wilted at the hint of reproach in her voice, but she softened it with a smile. "Many, hopefully most, of the wretched mothers are dead. Things will be easier now, I hope. But if you don't mind, I'd like to get some rest and take a look at our mysterious friend's injuries."
"Of course, m'lady," he said, nodding deeply in a half-bow. "Brendan, Hoyt, give her a had with that shield!"
The two men untied the huge thing from her arm and staggered as its full weight hit them.
"And it's Johanna, Captain!" she called over her shoulder with fond exasperation.
By Akarat, the woman was invincible. How had he ever doubted her?
…
Johanna collapsed the moment the tent flap closed behind her, completely spent. The man groaned but didn't awaken as he rolled off her shoulder. She lay there, utterly exhausted and half asleep for a while. She had to get up again, sooner or later, she knew. Probably sooner. The armor wouldn't take care of itself, after all, especially after how singed she'd gotten it. Her flail was probably in quite a state, too. She'd never forced it to hold the fire of divine wrath for so long before, and she was a little surprised it was still in one piece. Yet every time she decided to get up the thought of lifting all that armor again kept her limp. Gathering my strength is all. I'll get up in a moment. Any second now. Ugh, this is why I need an apprentice.
"My lady J-Johanna, it's Angela. Auntie Mary sent me over with some dinner for you. May I come in?"
Johanna's eyes shot open. "Um, Just a moment!" she called, muffled by the dirt and the jangling of her armor as she tried to surge to her feet, only to collapse again, spread eagled.
"What was that? I can—oh!" Angela positively squeaked at Johanna's undignified posture but, thankfully, managed not to drop the big plate piled high with steaming chicken and vegetables. It smelled so good Johanna's mouth watered.
"I'll eat in a minute, dear, as soon as I get my armor off. Thank you very much for bringing it by. Could you put it on the ground there, next to my shield? Yes, right there will be fine," she directed from the ground. "Thank you."
"Yo-you're welcome," she replied uncertainly, edging towards the tent flap. Once within arms reach she bolted for it.
"Tell Mary thank you for me!" Johanna called out after the girl, hoping she kept any of the, ah, irregularities of their conversation from getting out.
…
"She was what?"
Bron the Barkeep, as he was known on formal occasions, looked up from counting their remaining supplies at his wife Mary's exclamation. This evening's meal for that crusader of theirs had put quite a dent in their stores, not that he was complaining, you understand, but someone needed to keep track of these things.
Uh oh.
He'd seen that look before; eyes set with determination so fierce she looked like one of the royal hunting dog with its ears pinned back, locked in on a target. In fact, it reminded him distinctly of the look on her face immediately prior to his completely independently and of his own free will asking her to marry him, not that he'd ever regretted it, mind you. But when she got that look things seemed to happen just the way she wanted them to.
"Bron, dear, I'm going to borrow Angela for a while. Will you be alright? The Lady Johanna has asked for a hand with something."
"Yes dear, I'll be fine." Bron ducked his head back down and kept counting. He knew better than to get int eh way of that particular force of nature.
"Good, now Angela, go fetch your mother and have her bring a bucket and a good towel, the nice yellow one, as well as . . ."
…
Johanna figured standing up would be much easier if she got rid of some of the weight, and it was perfectly simple to remove at least some of her armor from right there in her leaning rest position. In fact, she could be even more efficient by resting her eyes at the same time, building up strength for her triumphant charge to her feet.
She'd gotten off her right glove and was getting to work on the vembrances when she heard voices approaching the tent. More specifically, she heard Mary's voice. Uh oh.
"My Lady Johanna, may we come in to take your dishes for you?"
"Ah, I'm afraid I've not quite finished dinner yet. I'm feeling a bit, um, indisposed at the moment."
"I'm sure you are, dear, and I've brought just the thing to help."
The flap brushed aside and Johanna heard at least one slight intake of breath at her rather unceremonious pose, but the venerable Mary merely stepped over her and put her hands on her hips.
"My, but that is certainly no pose for a lady, even one as fearsome as yourself," she observed, and arched an eyebrow with enough power to mystically grant Johanna the energy to slowly, painfully climb to her feet, after which she promptly plopped down onto the stool Genine placed behind her with a look very much like that her daughter Angela had given her on first stepping inside.
"Now, let's see about getting this armor off you." Yet Mary hesitated a moment, glancing disapprovingly at the man still flopped on the floor.
"It's all right, Mistress Mary. I'd intended to check over his wounds is all," she said, flushing slightly as the woman's other eyebrow arched to match the first. "It's not like he had much say in winding up here."
Still, Mary insisted they send Angela for a mat first, which they placed him on, head turned away, before they started helping her remove the armor, and not without frequent suspicious glances in his direction from Mary.
But then it was off and she felt gloriously light, almost like she was floating. So much so, in fact, that she could almost walk unassisted. Mary had had her eat her dinner, which was even better than it had smelled, while the women heated water over a fire outside and peeled off her clothes and underclothes, and unbinding her chest. They clucked disapprovingly as they saw the deep bruises on her shield arm, the purple welts and scratches on her neck, and the bright burn marks where the heated armor had scalded her skin. She never should have let the risen she'd set on fire get that close to her in the first place, not to mention close enough to jump on her.
No, don't think about that now. Think of how good this food tastes, how good it feels to be unbound, how nice to have company again.
The plate had somehow been whisked way as she finished the meal and amazingly warm water rained down over her. There was a sharp intake of breath as the water met her burned skin, but then everything was warm and good as the women gently washed her, chatting away as her eyes slowly drooped closed.
I don't think . . . her mental voice was interrupted by a yawn, I don't think I've felt this relaxed in years.
…
Angela blinked in surprise as she noticed the mighty Johanna had drifted off to sleep upright on the stool somewhere between treating her wounds after the bath and brushing out her hair. She looked up at Aunti Mary who gestured for her to keep brushing with a knowing smile.
"Remember dear, no matter how important or strong, or alone and small, a woman may be, beneath it all she's still a woman like you or me."
Angela nodded, sensing that, like a lot of things Auntie Mry said, she didn't understand yet, like stuff about boys. Later, maybe, she would. But just like normal girls? Auntie, have you seen this hair? Where hers was long and dark brown, like most girls she'd met (except Marianne and her daughter Elizabeth, with deep midnight black hair, but they were all the way over in Lake Town, so they didn't count), Johanna's was so blonde it was practically white! But she wasn't nearly old enough for white hair. No, Angela knew, Johanna was definitely special.
"Now ladies, let's lie her down on her cot and let her rest while I deal with this young man here."
...
Marcus bolted upright the moment his eyes opened, his hands scrabbling over the bare skin above his heart. He rounded on the only person nearby. "Where is it?" he hissed through anger and fear so deep the words were barely intelligible. The person, a woman, had jumped to her feet and taken a step back, eyes wary. She pointed with one hand. "There."
He whirled, following her gesture, and snatched up the worn leather sheath, hastily slipping his head through two of the thongs and sliding the third under his left arm. The whole thing had been carefully designed and measured to leave the blade tightly against his chest, right over his heart. Only then, right hand clenched reflexively on the grip, did he begin to take in his surroundings, to feel the pounding headache in his skull, and to sag back down to the rough mat he'd been lying on.
"What happened, where . . . where am I?" He cradled his head with his left hand. His right never left the blade.
The woman, the same one from the fight, stepped closer. "We are back in New Tristram. I carried you here."
He blinked. It was hard to credit her with the giant in armor standing over him from his memory, but he stopped and really looked at her for the first time. She was big, easily taller than him, and much more solidly built. Well toned muscles built for strength distracted the eye from her already only modest curves. Her platinum blonde hair had been braided into intricate designs that framed her attractive face and green eyes with a hint of blue in them. He'd put her at maybe thirty.
She was good. Everything he'd never be. But the point was, there wasn't much doubt she could do it, and if she said she'd carried him, then he wasn't going to argue.
"Fine." He nodded as curtly as he could manage. "My thanks, but I must get back out there." He reached for his borrowed boy and arrows, but they were gone. At least Rumford's knife was next to where his dagger had rested, and he picked it up, examining it for nicks.
"Slow down there friend. I haven't finished treating you yet."
He glanced down at the bandages across his chest before looking the question at her. They seemed to be fine to him.
She sighed and shook her head. "If you charge off alone with a half-treated concussion you'll only get yourself killed."
Marcus reminded himself, again, that she'd saved his life. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation this long, but he supposed he owed her. But that debt had limits, and he was fast approaching them.
"You don't understand. I have an oath."
She laughed and Marcus' eyes burned at the mockery, hand ready with the knife, but stopped in confusion as he heard the real humor in her voice.
"Believe me, friend, few people understand what that's like better than I. I also understand delaying, for a time, so that an oath can be more fully fulfilled. Come, it will take me another day or two to recover enough myself to finish healing you. Sit for a while and tell me of this oath of yours."
Marcus hesitated, on the knife's edge. Through the open tent door he could see the woods calling to him. There were more of them out there. He could feel them, and the very thought of delay boiled his blood. And yet, he'd hesitated, and in that moment he felt the weakness of his limbs, the pain in his head. He would die out there.
But wasn't that the point? Wasn't that the decision he'd made? Wait. He'd hesitated, not just now, but back in the burnt-out ruins. He held out his betraying right hand and stared at it, half angry and half confused.
"Why am I still alive?"
"Because you are worth saving."
He startled at the response, surprised he'd spoken aloud, then bristled at the words she'd said. "No, that's not what I . . . No, you speak of things which you don't understand, could never understand," he snarled. He wanted to run, to flee, to fight, to do something, but it was too late. If he stayed, if he was careful, he could kill more demons by waiting than by charging out there now. Damn that oath to hell!
She'd gotten him thinking again, and that was the one thing he couldn't kill, the one place from which there was no retreat save madness or death. He bit off another curse and glanced at his tormentor who sat watching him. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
She took his aggressive tone in stride, unfazed. "I'm not keeping you here, friend. My guess is it's that oath of yours."
"You wouldn't understand," he repeated. He looked away, unable to keep eye contact, feeling a strange mixture of bitterness and embarrassment.
"It doesn't seem that bad. You saved the town, after all."
Marcus shook his head. "No, you saved the town. I killed monsters and demon spawn."
The woman watched him curiously. "Is that your oath, then? To hunt evil?"
Marcus shook his head and looked away. "No. My oath is to kill. To kill demons and their ilk mercilessly, relentlessly, and unceasingly, until they kill me. It is what I do. It is who I am."
That gave pause even to this damnably inquisitive woman, and there was a long moment (at last!) of silence before she spoke again. "That is a hard oath, friend. I hope it gives you peace."
"Peace?" He laughed once, the first time in a long time, but it tasted bitter in his mouth. "Perhaps once. Now it gives me war."
She rose from her seat and stepped closer. "I'm ready to give you another treatment now, if you're ready. I warn you, you will need at lease one more before you're ready to fight again."
He nodded. "Do it."
She placed her hands on his head with a warning. "You might want to sit down for this."
The Demon Hunter flinched at her touch but let it pass. He was too distracted by the strange feeling in his head. There was a strange pressure that slowly faded, leaving him feeling better, clearer, but still not exactly back to normal.
"You used magic . . . you're no wandering knight. What are you?"
She smiled faintly, looking a little drained. "My name is Johanna Svetslan, and I am a Crusader. And you?"
He supposed he owed her that much. "I am Marcus Bastiat, and I am a Demon Hunter."
