"There are those who would say that the great object of our existence is peace. That we must strive to live always in harmony with our neighbors. There are those who claim that it is a duty to put an end to wars and disputes. But we know this to be a lie. The object of existence, the sum total of our reality, lies in this one truth: Life is conflict."

Sulyvahn spoke from the pulpit of the small chapel in Duke Wain's castle. The duke was present, of course, as well as his family and all his chief officials and their families: the captain of the guard, the duke's huntsman, the chancellor of the estate, the treasurer, the majordomo. A few high-ranking servants were also allowed to attend in accordance with the trust placed in them by their masters. All sat in the wooden pews and listened to Sulyvahn's words with rapt attention.

"Conflict is striving. All that lives strives. Why? For the right to continue existing. Look to nature. The wolf stalks the deer, and the hawk hunts the rabbit, even as their prey strive to outwit their hunters. The humble ants combat each other for food and territory. Are we, then, the same? Are we mere animals?

No. Our striving is for a higher purpose. Animals sate desires without understanding. They are like a leaf in a river, tossed about by the currents without care for their destination. Not so with us. We are of the Deep. The Deep guides us. We follow its current with knowing, navigating the perils of life with our final destination and final reward always in mind.

The Deep hungers like the wolf and the hawk. Our souls, all souls, will one day sink into the maw of the Deep. But this is not something to be feared. Rather, remember that when your soul is united with the depths, you shall become part of the Deep and be reborn in terrible majesty. Until then, we endure conflict. With what do we contend? With Fire, with Light and with the lies of the old gods. And we shall emerge victorious over these because we understand the true nature of all. The Deep is the fundamental. It is the primordial. It was before the Fire and it shall outlast the so-called First Flame. And here we see the truth fully unveiled. Fire and Dark in conflict. The most basic of all conflicts, the guiding principle that defines our reality."

Sulyvahn paused. He looked into the eyes of each of his congregation. Most looked away, unable to endure that terrible, perceptive gaze.

"We must be strong," he continued. "We must remember that we are the victorious ones. We shall overcome the false gods. And on that day when the last god falls and the banner of the Prophet Aldrich waves over all of Lordran, we shall know that the day of the final victory draws near at last."

Sulyvahn bowed his head. The others followed suit as he gave his benediction.

"All praise to the Deep."

"All praise to the Deep," the congregation repeated.

"All praise to the prophet most wise."

"All praise to the prophet most wise."

"May his Voice speak only wisdom and truth."

"May his Voice speak only wisdom and truth."

The sermon was concluded. As was his custom, Sulyvahn exited before any other was allowed to rise. He walked through the nave, head bowed and hands clasped before him. The others watched, he knew, with awe and admiration as he strode forth from the chapel.


Sulyvahn retired to his chambers beneath the castle. He had taken much time and effort to convert the duke's dungeon into a place of study and meditation. It was the Voice of the Deep's personal sanctum. More importantly, he created a laboratory to test and perfect new magicks based on the many tomes and scrolls he had collected over the years.

He rarely left the castle anymore. His servants and evangelists travelled far abroad spreading his message, and the deacons under Loyce and McDonnell reinforced the faith of the converted with their own charisma. The archdeacons had long since learned to fall in line with Sulyvahn's will. And sometimes, there were messengers from the distant Boreal Valley, bearing new revelations of the prophet that the Voice of the Deep learned to meld with his own interpretations. Aldrich had a long reach, and somehow, on the rare occasion when one of his representatives presented themselves to the sorcerer, much was mentioned of Sulyvahn's most recent schemes and activities. Aldrich had his spies, no doubt. It was a game, a most devious game where he played his own creative license against the prophet's uncompromising fanaticism. But distance was an ally. Aldrich never left the valley, and Sulyvahn found a great degree of security in his castle.

And now, he looked to the future. His kingdom had grown mighty. It was full to bursting with zealous converts eager to spread the word of the Deep to lands beyond that had not yet received the blessing of the prophet's message. Sulyvahn knew that Anor Londo must be the next great conquest of the Deep. The gods must be dealt with. Conflict between the Deep and the Flame was inevitable.

To this end, Sulyvahn delved deep into taboo lore once locked away by the Way of White. He had become quite the innovator in magical methods. Mutation and magical augmentation especially fascinated him. He foresaw a generation of soldiers bound to him by mind and soul. They would possess strength beyond that of ordinary men, and be bolstered by his ice magic to do great harm to their foes. He envisioned them as his outriders into foreign lands, striking deep into enemy territory and serving as his ranging eyes and ears.

He inspected the subjects' cells. What had once been prisoners' quarters were now homes for his experiments. They were people of little consequence: beggars, miscreants, those without property or title. He had taken whom he wished. He looked into the windows of each cell and sighed. Failures, one and all. Deformed and wretched, most barely able to speak anymore, some unable even to walk. The sorceries Sulyvahn drew from the Deep wreaked incredible deviations on human flesh.

Failures, but instructive ones. He was certain he was close to perfecting a fusion of Deep sorcery and his own ice magic that would yield the first successful outrider specimen.

Sulyvahn entered his personal quarters in what had once been the warden's office. He seated himself at his study desk and drew out the lacquered box that contained his greatest pride in the field of sorcery. He opened it, revealing three rings, the last remaining rings he had forged to serve as vessels for the magic that shaped the outriders. In time, he would need to make more, but the process was exhausting and required a great expenditure of stamina and magic. He recalled that forging the very first ring had left him bedridden for four nights.

Besides, they needed tweaking. The rings attached to the subjects were unsuccessful. He would need to …

Sulyvahn closed his eyes as he felt the aura come over him. He felt his senses drift away as his mind left his body. The sensation was most disconcerting. He felt as if he was tumbling through empty space. Who would it be this time? Through whose eyes would he see?

The disorientation faded, and his vision reoriented itself into a ground level view of a cell's straw and filth-covered floor. The creature whose senses he now shared was lame and couldn't even lift itself with its arms. It writhed on the floor like a worm. He heard its moans through borrowed ears. It was trying to reach the door, limp arms flopping toward it in desperation …

The sights and sounds faded, and Sulyvahn was in his own body again.

"What will it take?" he muttered to himself as he picked up one of the rings.

They did work, after a fashion. This was their purpose – to allow him to see and hear through the eyes of his servants. But he could not control the when or where. On the few terrible occasions when the auras had occurred in the presence of others, he had managed to pass them off as moments of contemplation. But what if they should occur in the middle of one of his sermons?

He must solve the mystery of this new magic soon.

As he inspected the ring, he heard a knock on the door. He ignored it and reached for a tool to further refine the artifact's delicate design.

The knocking continued, louder and more urgent than before.

Hissing a quiet curse, he carefully put the ring back in its case and closed the lid.

"Enter," he barked.

It was Rathe. Old and faithful Rathe, his hair as white as snow, his skin cracked with age and toil.

"Forgive me, master," he said in a voice as weary as his appearance. "Our lookouts on the north wall have found something of great import. They request your presence."

"What is it?"

"One of our men has been butchered. They say there is a sigil of omen placed near his corpse."

"Remove the body and burn it. I will not countenance such superstitions with my presence."

Rathe hesitated. "The men are fearful. I have never seen them like this."

The mere fact that Rathe was so insistent upon his master convinced Sulyvahn to reluctantly comply. Rathe was as compliant as a dog. Only a serious matter would make him push his master so.

"Very well. Show me. And I trust you are not wasting my time."


The body was found impaled on a tree about a mile north of the castle, Rathe explained as they rode out. A hunter had come upon the body. He was terribly frightened and ran back to the village when he met three guardsmen patrolling the road. Upon seeing the corpse for themselves, they, in turn, had sent one of their number to the castle to inform Rathe, who had come to Sulyvahn.

It all struck Sulyvahn as a pointless farce. The Deep had many enemies. This would not be the first time his faithful had been attacked. Even so, he noted the haunted terror in the eyes of the hunter as he knelt before Sulyvahn and the nervous whispers between the two guards as they stood at a respectful distance.

Sulyvahn inspected the corpse. It was barely a day old. The spear that had run it through was thick and large, the type used in battle. The body's face was frozen in a mask of deathly fear.

"Where is this sigil you spoke of?" he asked Rathe.

Rather guided him to the other side of the tree. One of the guards let out a low moan.

"It's them. They've come for us …"

The sigil had been carved into the bark. It was a simple shape: a narrow crescent resembling a waxing moon. He recognized it. It was a symbol he had encountered before in texts, though he had never seen it in life before now.

"They're here to punish us," the guardsman continued. "The vengeance of the gods."

"It's the Dark Sun," the hunter said. Still bowing, he tugged on Sulyvahn's robes, as if they granted him safety. "Please, Master Sulyvahn! Don't let him take us!"

"Away! I will not have you groveling. And you two," he said to the guards. "Enough prattle. Is your faith so weak it falls away at the slightest tremor?"

"It's the Darkmoons, master," they replied. "The avengers of Anor Londo! Their blades seek the blood of sinners."

"Be silent."

Sulyvahn mulled over this omen. The Blades of the Darkmoon were a covenant of warriors much feared, true, but he had a fortified castle and an army of loyal soldiers.

"Burn the body," he commanded. "And the tree. Let nothing of the sigil remain."


Fear is a virus, Sulyvahn thought to himself. The slightest exposure, and it spreads through a community with unrelenting speed. Before the day was out, rumors of the corpse and the Darkmoon symbol spread through the castle. Servants walked about with twitching eyes, soldiers on patrol clenched their weapons tightly. There was everywhere an atmosphere of expectant dread. Where was their faith? Where was their confidence? Did the victories of the Voice of the Deep count for nothing?

Sulyvahn could use fear to his own ends. He had done so for a long time. Fear of the fading Flame, fear of deprivation, fear of death. Fear was a tool. Sulyvahn could stoke fear into anger, and anger into a raging inferno to burn away his enemies.

But doubt? That was a thing far more dangerous. He sensed its tiny tendrils worming into the minds of his followers. Doubt debilitated. What use was the Deep if no one trusted in it? What use, indeed, was his own authority if his followers did not trust him over their dread?

He must dispel their doubt. And so, the following morning, he assembled Wain and his officials in the ducal office.

"I know you have heard the rumors," he began. "They are true. A body was found with the symbol of the Darkmoon covenant nearby."

"They seek to intimidate us," the chancellor said.

"Indeed," Sulyvahn agreed. "But we shall not be intimidated, shall we, my friends?"

The men answered with vigorous agreement.

"The Darkmoons may come, or they may simply attempt to sow seeds of disorder. Regardless, we shall stand defiant in the face of their cowardly tactics."

"Here, here!" the duke agreed. "Let them behold the power of the Deep! We shall flay their corpses and leave them for the ravens!"

Sulyvahn nodded. The Duke, he knew, was a true believer. He would follow Sulyvahn to the grave.

"We shall, if need be. Nevertheless …" His gaze scoured their faces. "Double the guard at every gate. And triple the patrols within five miles of the castle. We are not fools, to make ourselves easy prey. What say you?"

More voices of agreement. Except one.

"Will it be enough, though?"

It was the duke's huntsman. He was a tall and stout man with a grizzled beard. His name was Dergan.

"What do you mean?" Sulyvhan asked quietly.

"The Darkmoons are not human," Dergan explained. "The blood of gods runs through their veins, it is said. What's more, everyone knows they recruit Hollows. We are but mortal."

"Not merely mortal," the sorcerer corrected him. "We are of the Deep."

"True," Dergan assented, "but should you test the fates by remaining here, Master Sulyvahn? You should seek refuge. In the cathedral or the Boreal Valley."

Sulyvahn's words were slow and measured.

"Are you suggesting that I flee?"

As inconspicuously as they could manage, the other men shuffled away from Dergan.

"No, not flee. But to test the gods …"

"We have tested them from the very start."

"And they have done nothing for years, Dergan," Wain pointed out with a scornful tone.

"Perhaps they were testing us, in turn," another man, the treasurer, suggested. "Perhaps they wanted to see how far we would build up our forces, and then wipe us out in a single stroke."

"Oh?" Sulyvahn's eyes stared into the treasurer's face. The man's face tightened and he looked away uncertainly. "Do you also suggest we run away?"

"No, but Dergan has a point. We are fighting gods."

"Enough of this!" the duke shouted. "You dare defy the Voice of the Deep? Master Sulyvahn, by your leave I shall drag these two out and flog them with –"

"No."

Sulyvahn remained silent for a long while, long enough to let his two critics stew in their own fear. Then he responded with a disarming smile.

"Yes, my friends, you do make a fine point." He clasped a hand on each of their shoulders. "A fine point, indeed." The smile vanished. "Faith is only truly known when it is tested."

He gestured to the duke. "Put them in the gibbets. Three days."

The men didn't protest as they were dragged away. There was only weary resignation.


The sight of the two men hanging from cages on a corner tower silenced many of the bolder doomsayers. But the mutterings continued behind closed doors and in the dead of night. Sulyvahn defiantly carried on with business as usual.

The next day at dawn, during the changing of the guard, two men were found absent from their posts. They weren't in their rooms. They weren't in the lavatories or the kitchens, or even sneaking drinks in the cellars.

Their remains were eventually found half a mile away from the castle, at a crossroads. During the night, two gallows had been erected and the men hung from it. One of them had a parchment stuck to his chest with a dagger.

The parchment was brought to Sulyvahn. He read it impassively in his laboratory.

The price of sin is paid in blood. You who spurn the grace of Fire, your names are writ in the Book of the Guilty. By Velka and Gwyndolin, you stand condemned.

Sulyvahn angrily threw the parchment away.

"Dramatics," he muttered. "Let them come. I am ready."

He rose and inspected the cells. Three subjects had died in the last two days. He replaced them with two new ones.

When the huntsman and the treasurer disappeared from the gibbets, no one questioned it. The peons knew better than to challenge Sulyvahn's will, and the nobles, with their inkling of what Sulyvahn was capable of, dared not raise an objection. Besides, the two men were clearly not among the faithful.

This thought filled with Sulyvahn with a strange sort of satisfaction as he opened the window to look in on Dergan. He was hunched in a corner of his prison. The ring was tight around his finger. Its magic had already taken away his speech. Wild patches of hair covered his upper body like a furry mane. Otherwise, he was healthy. He was holding up well under the ring's influence. Sulyvahn had high hopes for this one.

He closed the window when he heard footsteps approaching.

"What is it, Rathe?" he asked with an edge to his voice.

"Two more dead, master. Found on the roadside by their wagon. The wagon was burned, their throats slit."

"More guardsmen?"

"No, peasants from the nearest town."

"Peasants can be replaced."

"Yes, master." Rathe nodded, then turned on his heel and left.


Sulyvahn recognized the Darkmoons' campaign for what it was: A war of attrition. The assassins picked off a peasant here, a guard there, to eat away at the morale of his followers. The castle was becoming a place under siege, perhaps not in actuality, but certainly in mentality.

His sermons grew ever fierier. He received and sent out evangelists. He forbade any public declaration of fear of the Darkmoons or questioning of the Deep's ability to save from death. But the doubts lingered in the people's minds.

Then the desertions started.

Guardsmen and servants left in groups of twos and threes. At first, it was believed they were dead, but when no bodies were found, and when it became clear that food and supplies was disappearing with them, the truth became clear. Sulyvahn set a curfew. The gesture was futile. There were fewer and fewer men to enforce it.

He felt his control slipping, and it enraged him.

In a fit of pique, he went through his test subjects and exterminated all but the most recent two. He threw the corpses into the moat that night, then spent the rest of it pouring over his texts, seeking inspiration for his sermons that would rekindle the zeal that had once burned so brightly in the castle halls.

When the candle burned down, Sulyvahn left his quarters for the open air. It was nearly dawn, and the first glimmer of light was brightening the shadows.

Something was amiss. People gathered on the battlements, pointing at something and talking excitedly. There was a foul odor in the air, the smell of burning.

Squires were leading horses out of the stables, and Wain's knights were mounting in full armor. The duke himself was among them.

"What goes on?" he demanded.

"The village, Master Sulyvahn! It is alight!"

Sulyvahn raced up the steps to the top of the wall and looked out. It was true. A bright blob of orange stuck out from the pre-dawn darkness. The town nearest the castle was the largest and most prosperous in his domain. And now it was wreathed in flames. The thatched roof houses blazed like torches.

By the time the duke and his knights were ready, a sliver of sun peeked over the horizon. In the growing light, Sulyvahn saw peasants fleeing the town, some carrying what they could, others running empty-handed.

Below him, the gate was lowered. The knights rode out.

"It's the Darkmoons!" someone or another said.

"The Duke will strike them down!"

"Nay, there are too many!"

"The Darkmoons are few! The prophet's followers shall prevail!"

Sulyvahn watched the knights, forty men in total, ride out to the town. The banner of the church of the Deep was held aloft by one of their number. He squinted in the morning light. He saw no enemy. What was this talk of the Darkmoons? Ah, but of course, every tragedy was the work of that unseen foe nowadays, wasn't it?

The knights reached the first of the fleeing peasants. The men and women scattered aside to make way for the galloping horses.

Figures came out of the flames like wraiths. They trotted out on black horses, seemingly untouched by the fire. Swords flashed, and the slowest of the villagers fell face-first into the dirt.

The sun rose quickly, and its morning light was bright and blinding, all the more for the smoke refracting its red gaze. Someone shouted and pointed to the east. From that direction appeared a third cavalry silhouetted against the dawn. Masked by the sunrise, the mounts had approached unseen. Now they rode swift as an arrow for Duke Wain and his knights.

The duke saw this. His formation faltered and slowed as uncertainty seized his men. This new threat was approaching fast, much faster than the others from the village. After a moment's delay, the formation turned to face it. A fatal mistake.

The knights charged. Then, just as the two cavalries were about to join battle, the enemy circled around suddenly, as if in retreat. Knights lurched forward in their saddles. Horse archers. They rode away just out of reach, loosing arrows as they did and winnowing the numbers of Wain's men.

The duke's destriers were strong and hardy, but their speed was no match for the enemy's swift ponies. As perhaps a dozen or so knights fell, the charge fell apart. Duke Wain tried to rally his men into a tight formation again.

Then the riders from the village struck.

They rammed into the knights' unprotected flank. Men and horses fell dead to the ground as magic sparked and swords cleaved. The battlefield was consumed by confusion as the duke's party was nearly engulfed. Those on the flank nearest the castle tried to retreat to the safety of the gates. Alas, the horse archers returned.

The pony-riders rode out between the knights and their refuge. Sulyvahn saw their bows replaced with swords. They closed in to entrap the survivors between the two enemy groups. Duke Wain's defeat was complete.

A few stragglers somehow managed to escape the encirclement and rode fast for the castle. Once the enemy had dealt with those left behind, they rode after them in pursuit.

Sulyvahn watched all this with dispassionate interest. Duke Wain was dead, as were his best fighters. It was a terrible loss, but nobles and knights could be replaced. He commanded the sentries to close the gate.

The order was followed promptly. The gate was pulled up. Below, he heard the lamentations of peasants who had not yet crossed the moat. Beyond them, the surviving knights halted, then desperately turned this way or that when they saw their only escape was closed to them.

So, the Blades of the Darkmoon had made their first move in the open. They were formidable, indeed, and cunning. Sulyvahn admired that. But they would not break him. The castle was well-stocked for a siege, though he had not yet seen any war engine or sappers being brought against him. He would never yield, regardless. Anor Londo had shown its hand, but he would show himself the stronger.

A scream. Shouts of warning and panic. Sulyvahn turned around. People were running through the courts, and guards were rushing with weapons drawn.

He hurried down the steps and grabbed a soldier by the arm.

"What is happening?"

"The northwest tower, master! It is overrun!"

"How –"

There was another scream. A man fell from a parapet and crashed through the roof of the blacksmith's forge. Yes, the Darkmoons were there, on the tower's roof, slaughtering its residents. But how was such a thing possible?

As he barked orders to his remaining guards, the depths of his enemy's scheme dawned on him. They had set fire to the town, drawing out the majority of the castle's defenders. And as all eyes were on that battle, another contingent had infiltrated the castle from an unwatched quarter. How they had done so was immaterial. The castle was breached.

Sulyvahn made way for the keep, commanding whatever sentries were left to follow him. Ignoring the cries of the dying as the Darkmoons spread throughout the castle, he entered the central keep with his small retinue and ordered them to bar the doors.

He would hold out here. He knew nothing of the numbers confronting him, so he would wait for them to come to him. And he would kill them, as many as need be, until they were all dead or fled.

He ascended the keep, up the spiral staircase to the highest floor, where the duke's private chambers were located. He entered the bedroom and looked out the window. The Darkmoons were efficient in their carnage. Already, nearly the entire castle was overrun, and the gates had been lowered to allow the horsemen to enter and assist in dealing with any remaining opposition. And they had begun to set the place alight.

"My lord?" a voice called out behind him.

Sulyvahn turned. He just now noticed that Rathe was among their number.

"What do we do, master?"

"Patience. The Darkmoons seek me most of all. They will come. We shall be ready. Is the stairway door barred? Good. Two of you, to the roof and watch the battlements. The rest of you barricade the balconies and the windows. Who can tell if these flies can crawl up walls, eh?"

Sulyvahn's air of quiet authority calmed them, and they diligently carried out their tasks. The balconies were blocked with whatever furniture was at hand, and the windows were shut tight.

He moved to the duke's library and considered his options. He knew that they there few. He was forced onto the defensive. He must wait for his enemy to move against him.

He heard severe pounding on the stairway door. It lasted perhaps a minute. Then there was silence for a moment. Sulyvahn noticed movement at the library's balcony. Two dark shapes blocked the gaps of sunlight shining in the barricade. The barricade shuddered as they battered against it.

Rathe saw it, too, and stabbed his sword through at one of the Darkmoons. His blade glanced off armor, but the warrior backed away. Another man joined him in deterring the assault.

There was the sound of a loud crash elsewhere in the keep, and of shouting and fighting. The library barricade came under a renewed assault and gave way enough for a Darkmoon to reach through with his weapon and slice Rathe's companion in the sword arm. The man fell back, gripping his bleeding limb.

Then there was a hum and a glow, and clear, loud words of incantation. Sulyvahn quickly dodged out of line of sight of the balcony.

There was an explosion of blue light, and the barricade shattered as a great soul spear sorcery penetrated it. The wounded man was crushed under the debris of a bookcase, and Rathe was knocked off his feet.

Two Darkmoons entered. One wore black armor and wielded a curved sword illuminated by cerulean light. The other had the look of a sorcerer, with long purple robes and a catalyst of polished black wood.

Sulyvahn picked up the dead man's sword and attacked. The Darkmoon warrior defended against his blow, then stepped around Sulyvahn's reach to strike the sorcerer in the side. Sulyvahn blocked the full force of the strike, but not before the edge cut through his robes and grazed his skin. Sulyvahn seethed. The warrior's blade was empowered by magic that burned like fire. The warrior backed away, clearing a path for the magic-user to summon another soul spear. Sulyvahn dodged, and the spear exploded against the far wall.

Sulyvahn kept the pair at bay long enough for Rathe to lift himself up. The enemy sorcerer was so focused on his prey that he did not see the old man come up from behind with drawn dagger. He gasped as the dagger entered his back.

The warrior's blade lost its hue. Sulyvahn pressed against him, pushing the Darkmoon back out the balcony entrance. The warrior was valiant, but at the last, Sulyvahn skewered him like a stuck pig. He pushed him over the rail and watched the man fall into the court below.

"My lord," Rathe wheezed. His head was bleeding. "More in the other chambers."

Sulyvahn strode past him into the bedroom. Another of his cronies was dead at his feet, and a trio of Darkmoons were overwhelming the two survivors. One of the assassins turned and charged him with a spear. Sulyvahn swiped the spear aside and moved in for the kill. The Darkmoon leapt back and swept the spear in a long arc that caught Sulyvahn in the gut. The spear was hooked. He felt the puncture and grunted as he kicked the spearman back.

Rathe leapt between his master and the enemy. The Darkmoon was caught with his spearpoint facing away from Rathe, but he simply responded by jabbing the butt of his weapon into Rathe's stomach. The old man stumbled backwards and smacked his head against the wall. He slid to the floor, his eyes unfocused.

A second Darkmoon joined in the fight against Sulyvahn.

Sulyvahn fought back like the cornered beast that he was. The sword danced and twirled like a thing alive in his hands, the product of decades of perfected killing skill. He sliced open the neck of one of his opponents. The other assassin somersaulted over a couch and kicked it forward to block Sulyvahn and shouted something to his surviving companion. Then he retreated toward the stairs.

Sulyvahn smiled. The fool had left his comrade to die. But when he turned toward the final Darkmoon, the man pulled out what looked like a bone. He squeezed it, and the bone crumbled into dust. His body was engulfed in pale light and vanished.

Sulyvahn frowned. He glanced at Rathe. The old man still lay against the wall, breathing heavily.

Only one other had survived the melee. "Get to the roof," he ordered him. He turned back to Rathe.

"Can you stand?"

"I think so, master." Rathe slowly, painfully, twisted his legs around to come up to one knee. Then, with a heave, he pushed himself to his feet.

He nodded. "I am ready to serve, mas–"

His words were cut off with a sizzle of sorcery. The spell's projectile cut through his torso. He stood there, looking confusedly at the hole in his chest, then toppled face-forward.

The magic-user emerged from the office. Sulyvahn was dumbfounded. He had seen the man die. Rathe's blow should have been fatal. Even if not, no one recovered from such a wound so easily.

His foe seemed to read his mind. A faint smirk appeared on his face as he summoned forth a horde of homing orbs to assault Sulyvahn.

Pain pierced him like a hundred needles. He focused on that pain, turned it to rage and murderous impulse, and came upon the sorcerer with blinding speed and fury. This one was no match for close quarters. He was hacked apart with a slash that spilled his innards. Sulyvahn stabbed him once more for certainty's sake.

He made for the roof. As he limped up the stairs, he heard voices and running footsteps from below. More were coming.

He reached the topmost door and shut it behind him.

He looked at the three survivors waiting for him.

"Are we to die today, master?" one of them asked.

When Sulyvahn answered, his voice was hard. "Life is conflict. All praise to the Deep."

"All praise to the Deep," they repeated automatically.

He turned and looked out from the rooftop. Smoke rose from below. The stables, the smithy, the kitchens, the gardens – all were ablaze. In the smoke he could see the dark forms of the assassins scuttling like insects among the corpses of his followers.

His men looked at him expectantly. They knew he had a plan. They knew he would save them and the castle.

Sulyvahn knew that this was not true.

Where could he go? An army lay below him. He could not sprout wings and fly away.

It was all slipping through his hands. Everything he had strove for.

The door rattled as something heavy flung itself against it. The solid oak would take hours to break through with mundane means. But, of course, there was magic at the enemy's disposal.

"Master, are you alright?"

Sulyvahn groaned. His thoughts were fluttering away. Another aura was coming over him. He did not try to disguise his disorientation. He sunk to his knees and let the vision come over him.

When he regained his senses, he smiled wolfishly. A new avenue of escape had presented itself from a most unexpected quarter.

"Master?" his servants said worriedly.

Behind them, the door broke apart in blue fire. Through it stepped …

… the same sorcerer Rathe and Sulyvahn had killed.

His robe had been torn apart by the greatsword. His chest exposed, Sulyvahn now clearly saw what he was.

A black circle covered his upper torso, a black hole wreathed in a ring of flame. There was nary a scar upon him.

A Hollow.

The Hollow sorcerer pelted Sulyvahn and his men with spells, while a large horde of Darkmoons spilled out of the door behind him. Sulyvahn commanded his men to step forth and defend him. As they did so, he retreated to the roof's edge.

His men were easily killed, but they had bought him time while Sulyvahn surveyed the battlement opposite the keep.

The Darkmoons did not speak. No words of condemnation, no words of triumph. They approached him with the simple intent to kill.

He leapt off the keep.

The hot wind blew against his face as he fell through smoke and ash. His hands reached out like eagle's claws.

He hit the outer wall. His fingernails dug into the crevasses between stone blocks, and his feet scrambled for footing. His hands caught on a precarious handhold, and he jerked to a halt.

Sulyvahn looked down. He was about fifty feet from the ground. He looked over his shoulder. His enemies were invisible behind the black smoke, as he was to them. To his left and a little below him he saw a landing. He unhooked a hand and reached out, his fingers testing for a new grip. He found one, and slowly began moving toward the landing.

A bit of stone crumbled beneath his feet. He grunted, holding up his full weight with his arms alone. He scuttled along until he found new holds for his feet, and continued until he was directly over the landing.

He let go. He landed in front of a room filled with Darkmoons. They saw him and cried out an alarm. He waited no further and ran down to the courtyard as fast as his legs could carry him.

Running through the fumes, all was confusion. He saw enemies in the smoke and heard the rush of their pursuit. How many? He did not care. He must reach the dungeon.

He dashed down the descent into his quarters and burst through the door into his laboratory. His eyes flashed over the cells.

Footsteps drew nearer.

He fished out his keyring and unlocked one particular door just as a group of Darkmoons entered the corridor behind him. He ducked behind the door as a lithe, hirsute form emerged from its prison. He heard a guttural growl that grew into a roiling roar. He peeked around the door to see the creature attack the Darkmoons. An icy mist clung to its body, freezing the flesh of the enemy with every swipe of its claws.

How fortunate had been that aura, to show him that his most recent experiment, the one once called Dergan, had been successful. Now the man who urged him to flee would enable him to do so.

The Darkmoons fell before the unchecked ferocity of the beast. It took many blows, but did not seem to feel them as it pushed forward on its rampage. It was unrestrained, uncontrollable … Sulyvahn would bear that in mind for the future. For now, that wildness was an asset. Sulyvahn let it strike down the Darkmoons, then followed in the wake of its slaughter.

The beast emerged into the courtyard. Sulyvahn came out cautiously, ensuring that it did notice nor turn on him. While the Darkmoons gathered to put down the beast, Sulyvahn quietly made his way for the castle cellars.

Duke Wain had taught him all he knew of the castle. Among these secrets was that the fortress had a hidden exit for times of siege or imminent downfall. Not, as would be expected, in the keep, though that, too, had its share of secret passages. It was in the cellar at the base of the north wall, leading beneath the moat and exiting onto a hillock some distance from the castle, near the forest. This was what Sulyvahn sought.

He found the storeroom and entered it. He searched among the barrels and crates for a sconce, a single sconce on a hinge that was the lever serving to open the hidden path.

He tried every single one, ripping them off the wall in his haste. At last, he found the lever, and the passage was revealed. He ducked through it, found a chain on the other side that when pulled moved the panel back into position, then scurried away to his salvation.


Twilight. The forest came to life as night descended. Nocturnal birds sang, and crickets chirped. In the distance, wolves howled their warnings to one another. Fireflies twinkled like wayward stars.

Sulyvahn saw none of this. He saw only the face of his own humiliation.

He had lost everything. Everything he had built over the course of decades had fallen in a single day. He had nothing save for bitter memories. Even the greatsword that held the power of the Profaned Flame, his greatest and most powerful possession, had been left behind.

He sat in a grove against a tree. He felt like a tramp. Ah, but wasn't that what he was now? He was alone. As when he had first entered this world, he was again at the mercy of its capricious cruelties.

But not for long. Never for long. Sulyvahn was meant for more. He would not die alone in the forest, nor would he fall at the hands of his foes. He would rise again, and he would take his revenge.

He looked out into the night. It held little darkness for him. The shadows were as light to his eyes. He must search out the cathedral, first, and determine if Loyce and McDonnell were still alive. If so, he would gather them and their deacons and make way for the Boreal Valley.

He did not desire this. To return to the valley meant facing Aldrich. It was a risk. But the valley was the only shelter he knew would be able to repel the Darkmoons. He had seen Anor Londo's strength. He had underestimated them. Never again.

He started walking.

He realized that he had always thought of the city of the gods as a faraway land that figured vaguely into half-formed plans. How naïve he had been. No more wistful thoughts, no more illusions of invincibility. The Deep had not saved him. He had saved himself.

He knew what he was capable of. He knew his capacity for manipulation and cruelty. Lesser men saw these as evil things. He was not a man, he was far more. Let the little ants scutter about their insignificant lives only to be stepped on. He was the one who would challenge the gods. They would know that the Voice of the Deep did not suffer their blows with impunity.

A bubbling anger rose in Sulyvahn's chest. He sought power, he sought knowledge, he sought respect, and he had found these things. Always, it had been for himself. He knew this, but now, stripped of what he had gained, he understood once and for all that the self was all that truly mattered. As long as he lived, he could overcome any enemy.

He would have revenge. And he would place his foot on the beaten, broken body of Dark Sun Gwyndolin and proclaim his victory absolute. He would never be a slave, not to king nor to gods, nor to madmen and zealots.

Nor to the Deep? Well, only time would tell.