A/N Thanks to Mirajane-fan and midnight6277!
Chapter 2: The Fallen Star
There was a celebratory meal that night. It was a little too lean to call a feast. Johanna was the guest of honor. She'd tried to insist that Marcus be as well, but they'd been hesitant, and he'd just shaken his head when she'd looked over at him. He much preferred being over by himself in the corner, or better yet, outside. At least he'd gotten something out of it—Rumford had turned his stolen knife into a gift, though he'd winced when Marcus had kept the bow and asked for another quiver.
Still, the whole thing felt . . . strange. He hadn't been run off yet, for starters. But to have a party while the dead still wandered past your gates . . . There was a dark undertone here, even he could sense it. The cheer was a little too forced, the wine a little too free, and the tables with a few too many empty spaces. It set his teeth on edge. But, he reminded himself as he took another pull of ale, it didn't matter. Another day and he'd be completely recovered. Officially, at least—Marcus was confident he was already back to normal after Johanna's second treatment, especially after she'd forced him to go bathe in the river first. He always recovered faster than people expected.
Marcus' attention was drawn as the Crusader, still in full armor from her shift at the gates, was pulled aside by a red-headed girl. Unlike the usual loud toasts and thanks the girl drew her a little away and spoke quietly enough that Johanna had to lean down to hear. And whatever she said made the woman frown and nod. Not five minutes later the Crusader excused herself and slipped over to her tent.
Marcus frowned and slowly put down his oak mug.
…
Johanna rubbed the crack in her shield ruefully. She was fairly certain it had happened when she'd rammed that wretched mother, but the subsequent abuse had widened it to almost an inch. It was going to be a problem. But, as always, duty called. She scooped up her flail and peaked out of her tent. For the moment, at least, nobody was looking. She slipped outside and moved towards the river at the back of the town. It was virtually unguarded, left alone save for the ferryman they'd kept on constant alert in case they had to evacuate across the river. She considered Leah's words again as she walked, feeling the cool evening breeze against her face.
Her grandfather, Deckard Cain, still somewhere in the old Cathedral. It didn't seem possible he could still be alive after all this time. But she'd been insistent. Apparently he'd had plenty of food as he'd been prepared to stay there studying for some time. So technically he could still be alive. But with the place overrun by risen, wretched mothers, and the light knew what else, it wasn't likely. Still, Leah had insisted he knew the old cathedral better than anyone else alive, and apparently the place was a labyrinth of hiding places. Which, of course, meant it would next to impossible for her to find him either, but really, that was all beside the point. The town was more or less safe now, and whatever was causing this mess was almost certainly in that cathedral. If she could find the girl's grandfather, then so much the better.
"Well, no time like the present. Hello there ferryman. Would you mind dropping me a little ways up the river form here?"
The older man doffed his hat uncertainly. "Um, of course miss, I mean, my lady . . ."
The ride upstream was uneventful. Johanna watched idly as the ferryman's horse pulled against the draw ropes, moving the ferry slowly but surely up river, throwing a little bow wave off the old timbers of the raft. The man wisely kept his horse and craft to the Wortham side of the river until they'd neared the furthest opening into the woods she could talk the ferryman into taking her.
He brought her within a couple of feet but refused to actually touch the shoreline, positive the land itself was cursed. Johanna just shook her head. She gathered herself and made a leap, splashing in the mud as she landed and waded her way forward to dry land.
…
Leah waved goodnight to Bron and Angela before closing the door to her room with a sigh. The smile melted from her face and the worry lines she'd tried so hard to hide reappeared across her forehead and she sagged against the door frame. Uncle Deckard, please be okay. It probably wasn't fair of her to pile her concerns onto Johanna after all she'd already done for them, but she'd had no one else to turn to.
At least she could have another day to rest, and maybe take some of the militia with her now that the need at the gate wasn't so pressing, so it shouldn't be too ba—"
"What did you tell her?"
Leah jumped in fright at the hissed words and whirled, eyes wide, to see a man dressed in black rags standing in the corner, his blue eyes boring into her.
"I didn't, I mean, what are you doing here? Get out of my room!"
"You're lying! What did you tell her? Where did she go?"
"I don't know what you're—wait, she's gone? She left? Alone!?"
The man nodded darkly. "Now, what did you tell her?"
…
Leah was terrified. Half of her was deathly afraid of what might be out there waiting for her as she stumbled along after the half-visible black cape. She had seen more than her fair share of strange and terrible things helping Uncle Deckard with his work, but this . . . this was something else. There were things out there, shuffling, sniffling in the night, but somehow they always seemed to just barely miss running into them.
The other half of her was terrified of just what might happen to Johanna if she charged in there to the cathedral, surrounded by monsters, only to find the gate locked. She had to get there, had to set this right.
They stepped out of the trees and onto the path.
"We should be close. Where is it?"
Leah squinted into the night, lit only by the dying embers a from a day-old campsite's fire pit. "I told you, it should be just up this path. Captain Daltyn and the others fought their way back to my mother's old hut and hid the key to the cathedral there. Wait, is that . . . oh no, not you to Jarom!"
She rushed over to the camp fire, willing herself to be wrong. No, she'd recognize the silly, too-big blacksmith apron anywhere. Jarom was gone.
"He's dead, forget him. Come on." The demon hunter's voice was harsh and urgent.
She turned, tears threatening to break out. "How can you be so heartless? Don't you care that people died? These were my friends!"
Marcus grunted. "No. How about this then; they're coming. Leave him or die with him."
Leah's eyes went huge as she heard the unmistakable, indescribable groans of the risen dead growing closer and she bolted after the grim-faced mas as he moved on into the dark without a backwards glance.
He really would have left her there, she realized with a shock. Marcus broke into a brisk jog down the trail and she followed suit. By the time her mother Adria's hut came into view she was breathing heavily and struggling with her traveling quiver which bounced awkwardly against her back with every step.
Marcus pointed without breaking stride. "Is that it?"
"Yes," she gasped.
"Damn. We'll need time to search. Get inside and start looking, I'll slow them down." With that he darted into the woods off the path and seemed to vanish. A moment later she heard the twang of a bow-string and an unearthly shriek of rage that sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system. She practically crashed through the front door, sending dust flying, as she finally came to a stop, chest heaving.
Key, key, where was that darn key!
The hut was definitely the worse for the wear. Much of the furniture was broken and trampled in a flurry of violence. And there were . . . bodies. Two of them in the rough leather armor of the New Tristram militia. She searched them as quickly as she could, eyes blurry with tears that fell freely, refusing ot see their aces, to recognize the good men they'd once been, to be the one to have to tell the already grieving wives and snuff out that last, faint hope.
Her hands were bloody and shaking by the time she'd finished with them, but still no key. The demon hunter appeared in the doorway. "Where is it?"
Leah scrambled to her feet. "I don't know, I don't know, I can't find it!"
He shut the door behind him and squatted to peak out through a gaping slice in the heavy wood, left by something with claws. Big claws. And she couldn't help but notice that he'd gone through more than half of his arrows already. No, this couldn't be happening!
Marcus took his time lining up the shot as the risen shambled in from all directions. There was no way he could get them all before they made it to the hut, and it was too thin a dwelling to make an effective fort, as those dead militiamen had discovered. No, he couldn't stop them, so instead he made every shot count.
His pointer and middle finger let go and the fletching buzzed past his cheek to fly true, straight through an undead's eye socket. The monstrosity dropped instantly, but he'd known it would from the instant he'd let it go. By the time the thing died its second death he had another shaft knocked and drawn.
He felt good. He was here, doing what he was supposed to do, killing monsters, and it looked hopeless, which was fine by him. He brushed the handle of the dagger strapped to his chest, making sure it was ready. They might finally take him down, but they'd pay a far greater price than they knew for it.
He let the arrow fly and glanced behind him to see the girl in a sorry state, staring into space and muttering. Shock. "Hey, keep looking for that key! And give me your quiver." She complied and started numbly searching by the time he'd turned back to the window. They were close now, fifteen yards or less from now on. Easy shots.
They were banging on the back wall now, their shattered spirits long past the subtleties of doors, but the already broken walls would only hold them for moments, if that.
Almost time now. He took a deep breath and readied himself.
"I found something!"
Leah's voice surprised him and he turned to look just as a risen plowed through the back window, face-planting onto the old, moth-eaten rug.
Marcus sent a shaft through its leg and looked over to where Leah was frantically gesturing. A trap door. She'd found a damned basement of all things. A way out, perhaps.
Not yet, then. Damn oath.
He dashed over as another risen battered the door he'd been firing from to splinters with supernatural strength, and dove for it, falling down after her and slamming the trap door shut behind him.
The basement was dark, almost pitch black. The only light came from hints of starlight that snuck through the battered roof and filtered down past the floorboards.
Leah held absolutely still as she listened to the risen stumbling about just inches above them, searching. She hugged her knees to her chest and struggled not to sneeze at dust and cobwebs all over her. A shiver ran through her at the thought of all the spiders that could be down here, while her conscious mind berated her. Spiders are definitely better than what's up there.
Something shifted in the darkness.
The movement caught her eye but she had not a clue of what was down there, in the black, with them. The urge to sneeze was forgotten as Leah stopped breathing altogether. It moved again and Leah caught the faintest glimmer off a breastplate. Stunned disbelief flooded through her. She knew of only one person from Tristram that wore a breastplate.
"Capt—"
An iron fist clamped over her mouth almost instantly. She struggled for a moment of blind pani until she realized it was the demon hunter. Then she listened with growing horror to the deep, unnaturally twisted voice that called out.
"Gerard? Rumford? Is that you?"
The blood seemed to freeze in Leah's veins, and she could have sworn the air was getting colder as goosebumps broke out on her arms and the back of her neck.
"Six days, we waited for Rumford. Run off like a coward while we held. Came down to the dark to hide, but one of them came down after us. It got Gerard, got him good, bit me, too. Then the waiting. Nothing to eat but risen flesh, nothing to drink but the hottles we couldn't read in the dark.
Gerard, you're not doing so good, are you? No, not talkative today. Not today. Maybe a little more of your leg off today will make you more talkative, eh Gerard?"
The squelch of flesh being torn prompted the mad gurgle of a risen and insane giggling. "Oh, that got you talking, didn't it?"
The hand slowly eased off Leah's mouth and she could feel the demon hunter start to move very slowly away from her. More than anything in her entire life she wanted, needed him to stay close, but she couldn't make a sound, couldn't move a single muscle.
"Gerard how could you say that, they'll come back. They would never abandon us. No, they'll come back, and they'll bring food with them, so many arms and legs, and—what!?"
The voice cut off in alarm followed almost instantly by the sound of steel cutting flesh. The temperature dropped dramatically and Leah began shaking all over, her teeth chattering. She could hear them fighting in the dark, punching, wrestling, tearing flesh.
It seemed to go on forever as Leah squinted into the black, desperately trying to see, yet afraid to look. And then it stopped.
Silence.
Then, at last, the snap-hiss of flint striking sparks and a flam burst to light. The demon hunter stood hunched over, as upright as he could get in the cramped confines. Below him lay the sunken features of a risen in the uniform of a militia, with the demon hunter's knife stuck in it. It had huge chunks of its legs and arms, and even its face, missing but it seemed to have been alive, or as alive as risen got, until just now. And behind him was . . .
Leah threw up, the gag reflexes overcoming everything else at the sight of that abomination, but she couldn't un-see the image burned to the back of her eyelids.
It had once been Captain Daltyn, one of the best men she'd known. It still wore his breastplate and uniform, but blood was splattered all down the front and stained into his neck and all around his mouth. His skin was bloated yellow with bright purple splotches, but his eyes, still open, were completely black.
His head was almost completely separated from his body.
The sight was too horrible. She had to look away. The only other thing to see was the demon hunter, carefully searching what seemed to be old shelves with dusty bottles filled with different-colored liquids. In fact, the floor was littered with empty bottles, some shattered, some still intact with traces of their half-drunk contents still inside.
It was too much, and Leah's ind struggled to take it all in, to make sense of it. It kept getting stuck on the small things.
"How did . . .how did you see the bottles? You didn't step on a single piece of glass . . ."
Marcus ignored the question and turned back towards Leah. She was . . . not doing well. And it wasn't going to get better any time soon.
"You're mother had her secrets . . ."
"P-people said she was a witch, but . . . I never believe it . . ."
He turned from the shelves with a dusty book in his hands. "I found the key on him." He tossed his head towards the dead man across the cramped room. "I also found this, some sort of journal."
Leah rallied a little bit at the sight of the journal, something she could understand, something she could do. "That might be my mother's journal. There could be answers in there about my family." She snatched up the book and started to open it, but hesitated. "But after, afterwards . . . we have to save Johanna first."
"No. You've done enough. When the risen disperse I'm taking you back to New Tristram. I move faster on my own, and worse things than this Daltyn of yours are surely waiting for me inside the cathedral."
Leah shuddered and hugged her moth's book to her chest.
...
Johanna finished off the last risen with afinal sweep of her flail. It collapsed ot the cold dirt with a final shudder and Johanna paused to get her bearings. She ahd to be getting close now. The risen were getting more and more common. Fighting her way through them was wearing her out and slowing her down. But she had to be close now.
Yes, there it was, coming into view around the bend. Wow. She'd been a little skeptical of the term cathedral way out here in the country, but the huge stone building certainly lived up to it.
Or, perhaps, had once lived up to it. Its thick walls were overgrown with ivy so dense it had torn out sections of the masonry. The grounds were in disarray, the grass marred with streaks of barren dirt and patches of weeds. Some of the gargoyles still stood watch, but most of those had chips and cracks. The biggest problem was the great hole in the ceiling where something, undoubtedly this star the townspeople kept talking about, had crashed down with enough force to blow out what was left of the stain glass windows, leaving gaping dark chasms in their place.
The grounds themselves were surrounded by an old but very sturdy-looking stone wall, the gate of which should be right over . . . uh oh. Johanna jogged over to the ornate but serviceable wrought iron gate. It was locked by a heavy chain and padlock. She gripped the cold metal in her heavy gloves and gave them a yank.
They clanged and rattled uncomfortably loudly in the dark and she heard at least one risen groan in response.
Not good. She gave it another hard jerk and it clanged more loudly still, but it didn't budge. She was definitely drawing a lot more attention than she'd hoped. She couldn't afford to mess aroudn with this. She needed to get in their before she had an army of risen all over the place.
She backed up, attached her flail to her belt, and raised her shield. This was going to be very loud. And probably hurt. Maybe a lot. But there was nothing else for it.
"Blunt force isn't always the best way, crusader."
Johanna whirled to stare into the dark. After a long moment the demon hunter materialized out of the night and suddenly his tattered mottled black and gray clothing made sense; it made him practically invisible. "What do you suggest then?" Scale the fence? I'm not as agile as you are, Marcus."
"Simple." He stepped past her and pulled out a heavy iron key. The padlock fell open and he unwrapped the chain.
"What is your purpose here, Marcus?"
"To kill demons."
She blinked. "Are there demons here?"
"Inside." He offered no more explanation.
"I'm here for this fallen star and Leah's uncle. He's an old man, white hair—"
"I know."
"How?"
"The girl described her." He brushed past her, and that was that.
Well. Having a conversation with that man was like beating her face against a wall. She followed him through the gate and wrapped the chain around to hold it closed, but left the padlock off. Hopefully it would be enough to keep the risen inside. By the time she turned around the illusive man was gone.
The risen were gathering, drawn to her noise. A little help form the man's bow wouldn't go astray just now. She sighed and readied her flail.