The tunnels that wound beneath the black earth seemed to grow ever more hostile as he found himself going deeper and deeper. Mercitus gripped the handle of his scepter tightly, eyeing the shadows between the wall-mounted torches. The carrion reek of the newly dead was growing stronger even as the light from the guttering torches dimmed.
Twice already he had come upon small groups of Fallen, though with without a shaman or other leader, they were barely more than a nuisance. Indeed, Mercitus was surprised that they stood and fought at all, rather than scattering, like they usually did, when confronted by one capable of fighting back. Instead, they had all charged him and fought to the death – a quick death, usually, handed out at the head of the paladin's scepter – and Mercitus began to wonder what power drove them on that they were more afraid of it than of him.
Their mistake, he thought with a grim satisfaction, wiping blood from the head of the scepter with a rag.
Pausing a moment to take stock of his situation, Mercitus was suddenly struck by how still and silent everything was. There was no sound at all except for the occasional pop and crackle from a torch and his own breathing – and no movement except the dance of the shadows. Even the rats have abandoned this place, he realized, though they had been thick underfoot up on the higher levels, living off of the scraps and refuse of the Fallen.
When the eerie, warbling cry of a Brute echoed through the tunnels, Mercitus nearly jumped out of his skin. It was a matter of an instant to draw the scepter from his belt and turn to face the source of the sound, but Mercitus was caught off guard – somehow the lumbering beast had snuck up on him, its movements more sure and silent than the paladin anticipated from a monster so large.
Mercitus didn't even have time to curse himself for becoming so distracted before he was slammed in the stomach by the Brute's two fists and thrown into the earthen wall of the tunnel. There was a shower of dirt and stones from the impact, and Mercitus flopped to the ground, gasping for breath. The torch flew out of the paladin's hand and guttered weakly on the floor, casting the whole room into flickering red-gold shadows.
Rib cracked, he realized. Can't see straight, either. Then the Brute was on him, slamming into the dirt with its fists and stomping at him. Mercitus' shield absorbed most of the blows, but he was forced to scramble away from the beast's legs. Finally, he managed to lash out with his scepter and catch the monster in the thigh – a weak blow, but one that forced the Brute back a few steps so that Mercitus could stagger to his feet.
The Brute gave another wail, and this time there were responses from deeper into the tunnels, and Mercitus felt a frisson of real fear. He blinked his eyes to focus them, and raised his weapon in defiance. The beast set itself like a wrestler, its hands wide and outstretched, looking to get around the shield and pound the relatively puny human into paste.
They circled each other for a moment, but then the paladin saw movement in the shadows behind him and knew that he'd need to act quickly or he'd be overwhelmed. He stepped inside the Brute's guard and struck hard and fast, and the scepter made a meaty "thunk" when it hit the Brute's overmuscled chest. Mercitus stepped outside the beast's reach and waited for it to fall, but it stayed on its feet – the paladin's injuries had cost him the speed and strength he'd needed to end the fight in one blow.
Instead, it howled in pain and punched him again, the shock of the impact on his shield sending waves of blinding pain through Mercitus. He gasped for breath and almost fell again, his knees shaking. The sharp coppery tang of blood was on his tongue. Still, in the attack, the beast had left himself open, and Mercitus was quick to spot that weakness. When it swung at him again, he stepped aside and spun with the momentum of the blow, coming full circle and slamming the jeweled head of the rod into the Brute's skull, killing it.
Even as the hairy monster twitched in the dirt, Mercitus turned again to see the lumbering shapes of two more of the Brutes come out of the darkness, and behind them a small band of the Fallen. The ringing in his ears reminded him of the cathedral bells, but the Zakarumite stood straight and tall and defiant. Mercitus spat blood into the dust and bared his crimson-stained teeth at the mass of demons.
The Fallen quailed away from the paladin, cowering behind the Brutes. The Brutes seemed unimpressed however, and simply howled their hatred and bloodlust and strode towards him. Mercitus struggled to raise his shield, the cracked rib robbing him of his breath, his eyes refusing to focus, the overused muscles in his arms afire with pain.
The first Brute to come within reach was careless and Mercitus was quick to shatter the beast's knee with his scepter and then put it out of the fight entirely with a shield bash to the face. The second, however, simply grabbed the paladin in its huge arms and crushed him to it in a deadly bear hug. The pain from his ribs nearly overwhelmed Mercitus as he was lifted from the ground, but he had no breath left with which to cry out.
The paladin was dimly aware of a ragged cheer rising up from the mob of Fallen. The dark tunnels grew blacker as his vision began to fade around the edges. Even when he managed to gasp for breath, the cold air burned his lungs like fire.
He realized that he was going to die, alone and in pain in these tunnels, his duty incomplete. The monsters would keep coming from beneath the earth until the rogues were overwhelmed… there would be no safe place to run anymore, no haven for the refugees I had shepherded.
He still had a grip on the scepter, though his arms were pinned at his side. Gritting his teeth, he fought against the Brute's grip. Every shallow gasp made him want to scream in agony, but it kept the blackness on the edge of his vision at bay.
The kingdoms of the West will be isolated, cut off from one another…until they are dragged down into oblivion in storms in blood and fire. Laughter will die, and soon after even the weeping will be silenced. Amalia's better world will turn to ashes.
Mercitus had sworn an oath to be Amalia's champion as long as he drew breath – and she and the rogues were counting on him now. Dying right now would be easy. But I've still got more to do. Blood and sweat ran into his eyes. Focus, he commanded himself. That better world won't die on my watch.
The paladin opened his mind to the spiritual plane fully. Madness and evil rose up from the very earth around him, threatening to drown his soul, and Mercitus felt himself begin to get sucked in. Resisting the sweet pull of madness and death, he brought to the fore of his mind images of the rogues – Kashya's implacable resolve, Akara's compassion, and Amalia's irrepressible hope for a world full of light and laughter. They kept the dark power of the tunnels at bay, and allowed him to cast his spirit Heavenward, seeking his strength.
"The Light is my strength," he ground out through blood-stained teeth. He felt the gentle tug of holy power from the scepter, and he leaned on it. "Victorious and unconquered!"
It is not the will of the Light that I fall here, Mercitus promised himself. "I carry on the fight in Your name," he shouted, smashing his helmeted head into the Brute's bestial face. It let out a cry of pain and surprise, and its grip loosened enough for Mercitus to reach into his belt and pull out a healing potion.
"My blades are Yours!" he hissed, crushing the cap on the vial and bringing it to his mouth.
The Fallen chattered in dismay all about him as he dragged himself from the Brute's grip and wound up on his back in the dirt and blood of the cavern floor. They tried to rush him while he was down, but Mercitus had his breath back – their scimitars couldn't penetrate the shield and mail, and the paladin's scepter ended their lives one by one. Even when the mortal muscles swinging the scepter had failed him, the Light kept them moving, putting holy power behind each of his blows. Finally, the survivors broke and scattered into the shadows, and Mercitus was left alone in the chamber, with blood, both that of the demons and those of his own, turning the dirt and dust of the floor in a vile mud.
He staggered and almost fell, leaning against the cave wall as he whispered the words of the healing psalm over and over again until his the crippling pain eased to bearable and his spiritual reserve was exhausted. Mercitus blinked twice, pleased not to be seeing double, and wearily bent to retrieve his torch. Grimacing in distaste, he rifled through the dead bodies, and found nothing with which he'd consider burdening himself.
It was several more minutes until Mercitus felt well enough to continue. A second healing potion went a long way towards mending the cracked rib, but the paladin resisted the temptation to quaff a third – as long as he could fight unhindered, he'd best save his precious cache. Only the Light knew when his situation would again become dire.
He leaned against the tunnel wall, eyeing the narrow descent. When he took his first step, and the aches abruptly sharpened, the paladin halted, his nerve almost failing him. Even as he forced himself to take another step down, doubts began to assail him. What was he doing, plunging deeper into this foul hole? The smell of death was growing with every step, and the unnatural chill was beginning to sap his strength. How many more times would the Light allow him to cheat death? Was this the end he wanted, hacked to death and his body desecrated, or worse, corrupted to rise again as one of the undead?
So young, and so alone, a voice seemed to whisper in his ear. Sent away by a Church that did not desire thee, to die, forgotten, in a strange land. What loyalty dost thou owe to such a temple? Thou, who hast already done so much.
There is no need to sacrifice thyself needlessly. Turn thee back.
"I swore an oath to help the Rogues," Mercitus said aloud. "I cannot turn my back on Duty, no matter what the cost to myself."
Duty, the Voice said dismissively. Duty is owed only to the worthy. What have the Rogues done for thee? They failed even to properly reward thee for the rescue of the farmers. They dismissed thy pain and sacrifice, mocked thee, and then sent thee out to die where they themselves feared to tread.
"That's… that is not how it went. I came to this place to help them, because they had already sacrificed so much…"
The Voice seemed to grow even more scornful. The witch woman used and then abandoned thee. Just like the Church. Never has anyone treated thee with the respect and honor that is thy due. Always they ask thee for more and grant thee less and less.
"A Knight of Zakarum does not fight for any temporal reward or fleeting earthly honor, but for the rewards of the spirit," Mercitus rejoined, the formulaic words a comforting protection against the confusion and doubt. He took another step deeper into the darkness, holding his torch before him and keeping his scepter at the ready.
Hollow words, written a thousand years ago by a man who had never faced the horrors that lie before you. A Knight is still a man. Still he must desire the regards of his fellow man, and the comforts of luxury and companionship.
"I have no such desires," Mercitus whispered to the darkness. Yet he knew it to be a lie. Images rose up unbidden in his mind of his former traveling companion, dancing before him as the firelight flickered over her flesh… then Amalia was kneeling at his feet, her clothes and armor discarded, worshipping him with her body. Her skin was pale, her eyes black and empty, an empty plaything for him to do with as he desired. This, then, was to be his reward…
This is what you deserve, you brave man, for all that you have given and all that you will become. The Voice was quiet, insistent, and growing excited, becoming thick with passion. This is what I can give you… a reward that those heartless puritans in the Church and those weakling Rogues could never provide, and would withhold even if they could. All you need to do is throw away that tabard and that cross, and agree to serve me. It would be so easy.
"Easy," Mercitus whispered, leaning against the stone wall as the ache of old wounds threatened to drag him off his feet.
The young paladin breathed as deeply as his bruised ribs would allow, inhaling the foul chill of the cave. Finally, he grasped the silver cross slung on his belt, and held it up before his eyes, where is reflected the torchlight. It was slightly tarnished from his long campaign, and flecked with mud and blood, but it was still unbent and still beautiful. Light, be with me now, Mercitus prayed. "You were foolish in your offer, Voice," Mercitus told the darkness around him. "You offered me rest and stagnation when what I wanted was progress. You offered me dominion when what I wanted was peace! And, finally, you shadow-spawned Bitch, you offered me the beauty of that woman's body when what I desired was the beauty of her soul."
Still gripping the Cross of Zakarum before his eyes, Mercitus once again stood straight, his voice thundering with conviction. "And so I abjure thee, Voice, thou whorish whisper of darkness, and I command thee back to whatever pit that thou callest home – for if ye stay here, the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye will lead me to thy lair and I shall end thy foul existence forever!"
For a brief second, there was nothing, and then the paladin's torch flickered and nearly went out as the Voice sounded one last time, no longer a seductive whisper but an enraged shriek. So be it, thou foolish son of clay! I offered thee pleasure and ease beyond compare, and thou hast chosen to refute me and insult me, and now I shall offer thee nothing but Death! Bring your righteous wrath and the aid of your weakling women to me and I shall extinguish you forever – for I am ANDARIEL, and I am the Maiden of Pain!
The aftereffects of the demoness' shriek still resounded in Mercitus' head when an eldritch, blue light began to shine from far down the passage, deeper within the fouled earth. The unnatural chill in the air grew more and more numbing, and the deep-throated moans of the walking dead began to echo in the tunnels, coming from all directions.
Mercitus planted his torch in a root on the earthen wall, and drew forth his scepter and shield. "So be it," he told the darkness as he awaited the oncoming mob.