Screams echoed hollowly through the long halls, gibbering cries and wracking moans that seemed scarcely born from human throats.
A tall figure, robed and hooded in gray, walked slowly but unfalteringly down the corridor. At one point, a door of iron bars blocked the way forward, but as he approached, the bolt slid back, and the door squealed hesitantly ajar, screeching in protest with the voice of years of rust. He never changed his pace, knowing the door would be open.
In the cell at the end of the hallway lined with many cells, a smallish old man lay on his side in the chilly stone floor. He was wrapped in a threadbare jerkin of sickly-green wool, and stared at his finger detachedly as it drew meaningless patterns on the rock. He did not turn as the door opened, even when the creeping flies buzzed away from his untouched plate. When the figure in gray rounded him, however, passing through the stream of sunlight from the barred window that formed the square, golden pool where he sprawled, he jerked upward, trailing a thin line of spittle from one corner of his mouth. His wide eyes took in the robe he usually associated with the caretakers, and in his haste to back away, forming the smallest possible ball against the side of the meager, low wooden bunk, he knocked the tin plate rolling.
There was a long moment of silence as the two eyed each other, the robed man seating himself comfortably on the room's only chair, his hands lying loosely in his lap. The other drew his knees up, wrapping one arm around them tightly and making a fist with the other, with the knuckles of which he tapped an uneasy tattoo on his shoulder in the musty air.
"So, Marius," the gray-clad figure said pleasantly after a while, in the tone one might use to address an errant but well-meaning child. "At last I find you."
Marius squinted, his vision unsteady against the sunlight in his eyes, which flared around the outline of the robed man, casting his face in an invisible silhouette of shadow, almost as though the golden glare were a halo.
"Tyrael," he replied in understanding, "yes... Yes, now—now I recognize you... I should have known you'd travel in disguise... I..." He stammered to a stop, glancing from side to side nervously. "They're—they're always watching..."
"I've been searching for you for a long time, Marius," Tyrael admonished cordially. "I was rather beginning to think you didn't want to be found."
"Oh," Marius sobbed, breaking down into tears, "forgive me, Tyrael, please... It... It wasn't my fault..."
Tyrael leaned back, crossing his arms. "'Not your fault?' Tell me, Marius—how was it 'not your fault?'"
Marius's lips moved silently for a time, his eyes fixed on something invisible halfway between the floor and Tyrael's shadowed face. Then, in a desperate voice, he hissed, "The Wanderer! Yes, it was—it was the Wanderer..." He leaned his head back, staring at the damp ceiling miserably as he dredged up the awful memories.
"My days in the Rogue Citadel seemed long ago. I sought refuge from my memories in the company of other outcasts, high in the mountains, past the eastern gate... Oh, I fought sleep for days at a time, for when I dreamed—the memories would return, memories of the monastery, and the evil which had claimed it!" His voice died off in a harsh croak.
"Dreams, memories—I couldn't tell the difference anymore..." He recalled with a shudder the warm, dim interior of the tavern, the little hunchbacked server, platter of glasses held high, the braziers blurring under his gaze as he had lain against the wall, drunk on the smoke of the narlent weed in his pipe. Then, suddenly, the door had banged open, a swirl of snow from the blizzard outside sweeping in, and in the doorway a shadow had been framed against the night...
Marius's tale dropped into a whisper. "Had the evil from my dreams followed me on my heels? How had he found me? Could this broken shell of a man, barely able to carry the weight of his own sword, be the burning terror which drove me into hiding here?" He remembered the gaunt figure's limping path to the next table, using the tall blade as a crutch. He had struggled into a sitting position, almost immediately overtaken by spasms of some kind. "He seemed to have demons of his own, that he struggled to contain... And he was losing..."
The wanderer had jerked unhealthily, knocking over his tankard of ale. The laughter of the other patrons seemed distorted in the thick wake of the man's tortured groans. With a sudden roar, he had leapt to his feet, knocking over table and all, and promptly fallen to his knees, crying out with agony. The others didn't laugh anymore then, not when the creatures had appeared.
Little ones, first, hopping out of the fires and onto tables and beards. Then the floor planking had buckled up, hellish light searing from between the boards. The entire building caught fire—all over, all at once. Charred skeletons tore themselves from the bodies of those who died in the flames and assaulted those still living. Nasty, sluglike things of nightmares crawled from the shadows, their greasy trails eating like acid into stone and flesh.
"As I watched, I became convinced that I was truly mad. The terror, and the—the destruction—the evil that I witnessed!" Marius moaned softly, clutching his head with one hand. He envisioned the maelstrom of fire that had swept upward into the shadows of the roof, its foul wind sucking up the dancing bones of the skeletal monsters in a cyclone of wickedness. "How else could I explain them? Were these the demons from my dreams...or...or were they born from within the Wanderer?"
The gaunt, robed figure had trodden through the howling flames, into the cold of the snow and the night, leaving the burning ruins of the tavern behind. Marius had trailed along, uncertainly, glancing back at the destruction that had been wrought.
"Why did I follow him?" Marius wondered. "Why do things happen as they do in dreams? But when he beckoned, I had to follow him. And from that moment on, we traveled together, into the east...
"Always east..."
A tall figure, robed and hooded in gray, walked slowly but unfalteringly down the corridor. At one point, a door of iron bars blocked the way forward, but as he approached, the bolt slid back, and the door squealed hesitantly ajar, screeching in protest with the voice of years of rust. He never changed his pace, knowing the door would be open.
In the cell at the end of the hallway lined with many cells, a smallish old man lay on his side in the chilly stone floor. He was wrapped in a threadbare jerkin of sickly-green wool, and stared at his finger detachedly as it drew meaningless patterns on the rock. He did not turn as the door opened, even when the creeping flies buzzed away from his untouched plate. When the figure in gray rounded him, however, passing through the stream of sunlight from the barred window that formed the square, golden pool where he sprawled, he jerked upward, trailing a thin line of spittle from one corner of his mouth. His wide eyes took in the robe he usually associated with the caretakers, and in his haste to back away, forming the smallest possible ball against the side of the meager, low wooden bunk, he knocked the tin plate rolling.
There was a long moment of silence as the two eyed each other, the robed man seating himself comfortably on the room's only chair, his hands lying loosely in his lap. The other drew his knees up, wrapping one arm around them tightly and making a fist with the other, with the knuckles of which he tapped an uneasy tattoo on his shoulder in the musty air.
"So, Marius," the gray-clad figure said pleasantly after a while, in the tone one might use to address an errant but well-meaning child. "At last I find you."
Marius squinted, his vision unsteady against the sunlight in his eyes, which flared around the outline of the robed man, casting his face in an invisible silhouette of shadow, almost as though the golden glare were a halo.
"Tyrael," he replied in understanding, "yes... Yes, now—now I recognize you... I should have known you'd travel in disguise... I..." He stammered to a stop, glancing from side to side nervously. "They're—they're always watching..."
"I've been searching for you for a long time, Marius," Tyrael admonished cordially. "I was rather beginning to think you didn't want to be found."
"Oh," Marius sobbed, breaking down into tears, "forgive me, Tyrael, please... It... It wasn't my fault..."
Tyrael leaned back, crossing his arms. "'Not your fault?' Tell me, Marius—how was it 'not your fault?'"
Marius's lips moved silently for a time, his eyes fixed on something invisible halfway between the floor and Tyrael's shadowed face. Then, in a desperate voice, he hissed, "The Wanderer! Yes, it was—it was the Wanderer..." He leaned his head back, staring at the damp ceiling miserably as he dredged up the awful memories.
"My days in the Rogue Citadel seemed long ago. I sought refuge from my memories in the company of other outcasts, high in the mountains, past the eastern gate... Oh, I fought sleep for days at a time, for when I dreamed—the memories would return, memories of the monastery, and the evil which had claimed it!" His voice died off in a harsh croak.
"Dreams, memories—I couldn't tell the difference anymore..." He recalled with a shudder the warm, dim interior of the tavern, the little hunchbacked server, platter of glasses held high, the braziers blurring under his gaze as he had lain against the wall, drunk on the smoke of the narlent weed in his pipe. Then, suddenly, the door had banged open, a swirl of snow from the blizzard outside sweeping in, and in the doorway a shadow had been framed against the night...
Marius's tale dropped into a whisper. "Had the evil from my dreams followed me on my heels? How had he found me? Could this broken shell of a man, barely able to carry the weight of his own sword, be the burning terror which drove me into hiding here?" He remembered the gaunt figure's limping path to the next table, using the tall blade as a crutch. He had struggled into a sitting position, almost immediately overtaken by spasms of some kind. "He seemed to have demons of his own, that he struggled to contain... And he was losing..."
The wanderer had jerked unhealthily, knocking over his tankard of ale. The laughter of the other patrons seemed distorted in the thick wake of the man's tortured groans. With a sudden roar, he had leapt to his feet, knocking over table and all, and promptly fallen to his knees, crying out with agony. The others didn't laugh anymore then, not when the creatures had appeared.
Little ones, first, hopping out of the fires and onto tables and beards. Then the floor planking had buckled up, hellish light searing from between the boards. The entire building caught fire—all over, all at once. Charred skeletons tore themselves from the bodies of those who died in the flames and assaulted those still living. Nasty, sluglike things of nightmares crawled from the shadows, their greasy trails eating like acid into stone and flesh.
"As I watched, I became convinced that I was truly mad. The terror, and the—the destruction—the evil that I witnessed!" Marius moaned softly, clutching his head with one hand. He envisioned the maelstrom of fire that had swept upward into the shadows of the roof, its foul wind sucking up the dancing bones of the skeletal monsters in a cyclone of wickedness. "How else could I explain them? Were these the demons from my dreams...or...or were they born from within the Wanderer?"
The gaunt, robed figure had trodden through the howling flames, into the cold of the snow and the night, leaving the burning ruins of the tavern behind. Marius had trailed along, uncertainly, glancing back at the destruction that had been wrought.
"Why did I follow him?" Marius wondered. "Why do things happen as they do in dreams? But when he beckoned, I had to follow him. And from that moment on, we traveled together, into the east...
"Always east..."