Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.
Chapter 9
The flames leaped and billowed, and Nemeta appeared in Anor Londo.
She looked about. The Lady of the Darkling, the Fire Keeper of Anor Londo, was nowhere to be seen, her bonfire abandoned and unguarded. But what did it matter? Nemeta was too exhausted to care.
If the sorcerers of Vinheim could see Nemeta now – could see the way she slung her catalyst thoughtlessly over her shoulder – they would have shook their heads, and tsk-ed and tutted, remarking upon how that slovenly girl did not treat her instrument with the proper care and respect it deserved. Nemeta trudged dejectedly through the streets of the city, in the direction of the Archives. She wanted to sleep for a week. She wanted to feast on lemon cakes until her stomach was so full and her blood so thick with sugar that she could not do anything.
Her gaze was fixed upon the ground, and so Nemeta did not see the massive plume of smoke rising from the point where the Archives stood. Only dimly did she apprehend the sound of crashing, and crumbling.
At last, Nemeta rounded a particular corner, and raised her chin. She laid eyes upon the Regal Archives, and halted dead in her tracks.
The great edifice was wreathed in flames. Windows exploded with the heat, and, within, Nemeta could catch glimpses of a furious, implacable inferno. Here and there, the roof was collapsing, tumbling into the fires in bits and pieces.
Seath's books were being consumed.
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Patches the Hyena was born with just enough intelligence to appreciate just how stupid he really was.
Patches knew that there were human beings who could use other human beings as though they were pieces on a chessboard. Patches knew that there were men who could persuade other men to hand over fortunes in gold and treasure, using nothing more than empty promises and beguiling lies. He knew that there were politicians who could convince entire nations to go to war, using nothing more than threats and half-truths. He knew that there were clerics who could compel their flock to persecute entire peoples, using nothing more than fairy tales and ghost stories.
And then there were men like Patches, who kicked people down holes.
Trapped now, in the Regal Archives, Trusty Patches was forced to confront the fact that he was not the most fiendish, diabolical puppet master that ever lived.
There were six other people in the Archives – a scruffy pyromancer, a squeaky-voiced knight with a peculiar helmet, a decaying old relic, two sorcerers, and, of course, Quelana of Izalith, the witch that had cruelly, unjustly enslaved him.
If Patches were any sharper, he might have been able to turn this to his advantage. If he were any more manipulative, he may have been able to turn the various Undead against one another.
Take that dishevelled pyromancer, Laurentius of the Great Swamp, for example. Patches knew that, if he were a bit more shrewd, he could have convinced Laurentius that Griggs, the stuffy sorcerer, looked down upon him – thought he was a bit of a savage, you catch my drift? All Patches would have needed to do was whisper in a few ears, stoke a few suspicions, plant a bit of paranoia, and 'ol Laurentius and Griggs would be at each others throats. Nyahahahaha!
But Patches wasn't that clever. He kicked people down holes. No grand manipulator, he.
So it was that, when Patches approached Laurentius on the rooftop of the Archives one afternoon, he did so not with treachery or skulduggery in mind. He did so because he knew that Quelana had him under her thumb, and that he would not be extricating himself from this situation any time soon. Patches went to talk with Laurentius because he was bored, and lonely.
"Here, what's going on with that old sorcerer fellow? I've never caught sight of him." Patches frowned skeptically. "Does he even exist?"
Laurentius chuckled good-naturedly. "What, old Big Hat? Yeah, Logan exists, all right. I actually enjoyed the good pleasure of his company for a few months, when we all stayed in Firelink. I never see him, now, though. Never leaves his books." Laurentius affected an expression of mock hurt. "He doesn't want to talk to me any more."
Patches raised a cautious eyebrow. "Do you reckon he's going Hollow?"
"Who knows? It won't be the first time I've seen someone lose themselves in this land. Even renowned souls like Big Hat Logan can crack and go Hollow."
The pair sat side-by-side, quietly gazing out across the cityscape below. In the skies, high above, the brilliant sun blazed down upon Anor Londo, Gwynevere's rays of light grazing a panoply of palaces, cathedrals, temples, libraries, towers, galleries and shrines, the work of the greatest architects the world had ever known.
Patches spoke: "He could be Hollow now, for all we know."
Laurentius nodded, a faraway look in his eyes."True, true."
Patches continued the thought: "He could be Hollow, and the only reason we don't know is because his apprentice...what's his name..."
"Griggs."
"...Griggs...hasn't told us. He's chained old Logan to a shelf, by his ankles, so he can't get away."
"Yeah, yeah," said Laurentius. "And when night comes, and we're all asleep, he sneaks about the Archives, feeding Logan sprites."
"Oooh!" said Patches, scandalized. "We'd better be careful. Next thing you know, he'll be cutting our throats, and feeding our sprites to his Master!"
"Yeah, yeah," said Laurentius, insouciantly. "And then when we're all dead, and Logan's snarling and snapping at him, he'll lay his head in Logan's lap and cry, because his Master's Hollow."
Another moment passed in silence. Down below, the shadow of a cloud slithered across the rooftops.
"Bloody sorcerers," said Patches.
"I know, I know."
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A red-robed figure shuffled around the corner, and Griggs flashed his most winning, eager-to-please smile. "Master Ingward!" he said. "How are you?"
"Hello, young man!" Using his staff to steady his gait, Ingward hobbled up to the table at which Griggs was seated. "I am as well as a withered old man can be. How fares your master?"
"Master Logan is well," said Griggs. "He is hard at work upon Seath's research."
"Indeed, I seldom catch sight of the man. Ah, young Master, forgive the imposition of an old fossil, but...the thing is, I spent many years keeping watch over the ruins of New Londo...all alone in the darkness, with the ghosts...you see, it rather fills me with misgivings when I see a person so wilfully neglecting the sun..."
"Master Logan will come to no harm," said Griggs. "I can assure you."
Ingward smiled kindly, and turned away, and as he left, Ingward could dimly hear him muttering something about young men's bones being ground beneath the wheels of old people.
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The days went by, and the Undead joked and gossiped about Big Hat Logan.
Naturally, they knew that it was rude to tattle about the sorcerer when he was not there to defend himself, but, really, what else was there to talk about?
They weren't in the humour to talk about Nemeta. Not until she had returned from Nito's domain. Not until she was safely back among their number.
Ironically, while the Undead made their snide little remarks about Logan, another of their group was proving just as reclusive and unsociable as the increasingly-unhinged old sorcerer, and yet her absence went almost entirely unnoticed. Perhaps the reason was because her seclusion was not nearly as ridiculous and belligerent.
Sieglinde spent long hours each day in the remotest, most far-flung region of the Archives that she could find. She did not come here so that she could concentrate on academic study. She did not come here for peace and quiet.
Sieglinde had slain her own father. She often hadn't the temper to face the others.
Sieglinde knew that there wasn't really any reason for her to stay any longer in Lordran. However, as a noble of the court of Catarina, she felt that she had a knightly obligation to remain. Soon, a new Queen of Sunlight would be crowned, and diplomatic considerations dictated that a representative of Catarina be present to witness the coronation. Her father may have been put to rest, but her duty to her king forbade her from leaving just yet.
Heavens, but Sieglinde was grateful that Anor Londo was so thoroughly, meticulously clean! The rest of Lordrean had certainly not agreed with her; Sieglinde was tired of sleeping in the grass, tired of the mud sucking at her boots. Even as she mourned her father, she was thankful that she had somewhere civilized to stay while she waited for Nemeta to claim her throne.
Each night, Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight, retired to her bedchambers, and the black night settled upon Anor Londo. The Archives became completely dark, and a stifling quiet descended, pervading each corridor and passageway, filling the space between each bookcase.
On the final night in the Archives, the dark came as normal, and Sieglinde prepared her pallet. She laid down on the floor, and waited for sleep to come.
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Sieglinde slept, and dreamt that she had returned to the shores of Ash Lake.
How clearly she remembered the lifeless waters.
How vividly she could imagine the terrifying immensity of the place, and the deathly silence.
In her dreams of Ash Lake, Sieglinde wandered the lonely beaches, and crossed the white dunes. In her dreams, she neared the crest of a tall ridge, and wondered what she would find beyond.
She clambered to the top, and looked down. Her father was scrabbling up the other side, reaching for her.
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Siegmeyer's voice gibbered and giggled and howled, and Sieglinde knew that a thousand happy, cherished memories had become tainted and besmirched.
Siegmeyer's eyes seeped with perverse, degenerate lust, and Sieglinde knew that her childhood had somehow been poisoned, corrupted.
Siegmeyer reached out with hungry, searching hands, and Sieglinde drew her sword, tears streaming down her cheeks.
And then she screamed.
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The scream wound its way through the Archives. It drifted and floated, past the shelves, through the halls, down the steps, underneath the doors, travelling all the way to the ear of Big Hat Logan.
Logan's eyes flicked from the words in his lap, and for the first time in more than a month, his focus was broken. He was alone in his little den, nothing for company but a half-melted candle, its orange light cast upon the countless stacks of tomes that had accumulated around him.
Bewildered, Logan peered into the darkness. What was that noise? Normally, Logan would be enraged that his concentration has been disrupted, but for some reason, this little disturbance did not bother him at all. He was not irritated, he was...intrigued.
Logan waited, and listened. Moments passed, and then his patience was rewarded. Another scream. Though the sound was distorted and warped by the distance, and the countless corners and obstacles that it had to pass, he could clearly hear a human crying out.
Logan pushed himself off the floor, gnashing his teeth as his knees and spine cracked and popped. Looping a finger around the handle of the candle holder, he set off to investigate.
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Sieglinde dreamed that her father seized hold of her. They tumbled together down the ashen dune, ravenous hands clutching...
Sieglinde screamed, and Logan followed the noise. It was a woman, he could tell. Nemeta? No...
Sieglinde dreamed that her father's helmet came loose. She saw how his eyes had become dried and opaque. She saw how the skin had sunk into the skull, how the lips had drawn away from the teeth.
She screamed, and never had an inkling that a hunched figure was creeping through the archives, a candle outstretched, drawing closer and closer.
At last, he found her.
Sieglinde had taken refuge in a cramped reading room, deep within the bowels of Seath's keep. She was sprawled now across the floor, bedsheets and pillows twisted and tangled about her. Off to the side, her armour was neatly arrayed against a wall, her helmet losing none of its character, despite the fact that no head was in it.
Logan saw that Sieglinde's faithful broadsword lay alongside her. Clamping a hand to his mouth, he forced a chortle back down his throat. Oh, such trouble there'll be, if she catches me! He looked around. No. No. She'll never catch me.
Logan tiptoed behind a bookshelf, and smothered his candle. The goopy darkness swallowed him whole, and Logan peered through the gaps between the books, gazing at Sieglinde's sleeping form.
It seemed young Sieglinde was in the grip of nightmares. Her head whipped and darted about, tightly-shut eyes straining to see imaginary phantoms and apparitions. She thrashed and struggled, slashing and clawing at the insubstantial shadows. She babbled and stammered, and Logan had no hope of ever understanding her words.
How beautiful women are, when they're terrified.
The thought entered Logan's mind, unbidden, and it seemed so natural, so self-explanatory, that he did not once doubt that it was his own.
Are women ever more entrancing than when they plead with fearful, beseeching eyes?
Is the female form ever more intoxicating than when prostrate before you, vulnerable, helpless?
Is there anything more sublime in this world than the terror of women; their tears, their screams, their hysterics?
Is there ever a time when the exquisiteness of woman is more apparent than when she is half-mad with dread, and all her passions and emotions take full flight?
In the spaces between the books, Sieglinde writhed and squirmed, and Logan drank in the sight of her.
See how she cowers! How she performs for me!
Decades, decades I have devoted to the study of sorcery! My entire life, I have dedicated to the furtherance of our understanding of magic! Oh, it was worth it...the benefits magic has brought humankind...and yet...and yet...
The sacrifices I have made!
The pleasures I have denied myself, for so long!
The temptations I have suppressed, all my life, though they gnawed at my mind, distracting me, tormenting me!
If I were to perish this moment – this very moment – would I be satisfied?
Have I lived life to its fullest?
Remember, Logan, the countless nights you spent in your study, nothing but books and papers for companionship?
Remember, Logan, all the fantasies that you refused to indulge, though they constantly tormented and vexed you?
Remember, Logan, the appetites and sensations that went neglected, the desires that went unanswered?
In the cracks between the books, Sieglinde wriggled and shrieked and cried, Logan's heart beating faster and faster, his blood rushing quicker and quicker.
No more. No more.
I will gorge myself upon this world.
I will immerse myself in all the carnal delights that womankind has to offer.
I will surround myself with that succulent, delectable flesh.
In the gaps between the books, Sieglinde battled invisible tormentors, and roared and bellowed at nothing. Logan's thick lips twisted into a smile.
Look at the little lamb. So frightened. So confused.
Surely she would welcome comfort?
Surely she would welcome some strong, powerful man to come forth, to take her in her arms, and comfort her?
Perhaps I should take on the task myself?
Yet again, a filthy, guttural laugh built in Logan's belly, and he had to force it down, lest he be discovered.
Perhaps I should reveal myself.
Perhaps I should lay myself down, and take her trembling shape into my arms.
Perhaps I should whisper soothing comforts in her ear, and hush her crying.
Perhaps I should claim a little kiss for myself.
Did not the god Morphos seduce the maiden Sortoria, as she lay in the embrace of sleep, hmmm?
Would young Sieglinde not be grateful for the solace I could offer her?
Lurking in the darkness, Logan prepared to step forward. She is so far from the others, he thought. They will never know. They will never know.
Logan took a deep breath, and prepared to leave his hiding-place.
And then Nito stepped from the shadows.
Tattered, black rags hanging from his bony shoulders, a mountain of skeletons swaying and shifting as he moved, the hulking enormity of the Gravelord strode from the black nothingness, looming over Sieglinde as she convulsed and whimpered at his feet. His eyes bulging, Logan pressed his fists into his mouth, and did not notice when the teeth sank into the skin. A scream swelled and buffeted in his chest, threatening to push his ribcage apart, but Logan knew that he must remain silent, that his very life depended upon it.
Sieglinde tossed and turned in her fever-dream, and as Logan watched, petrified, Nito knelt at her side.
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Quelana knelt at Sieglinde's side, and examined the young girl.
She had been drawn here by the sound of screams. Half-expecting to find an unfortunate Undead being dragged away by slavering Hollows, Quelana instead found this Knight of Catarina, in the throes of a nightmare.
Quelana was torn. On the one hand, this really was none of her business. This soul was in all probability scarred by her experiences in Lordran, and could well expect to endure frightening dreams for many years to come. It was not Quelana's place to protect her, or to mother her.
On the other hand, Quelana dearly wished to return to sleep.
She came to a decision. She crouched next to the girl's head, and flattened her palm. Her flame jumped to life in her hand.
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It did not matter that Sieglinde was asleep.
It did not matter that her eyes were squeezed closed.
In her mind, Sieglinde saw Quelana's flame – and Nemeta's flame, and Salaman's. Three strange fires, burning in a dark void.
The memories of her father dwindled to nothing. The memories of Ash Lake faded away.
"Sssh," said Quelana, as peace washed over Sieglinde's face.
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Quelana could not make Sieglinde forget her father, of course. She would wake in the morning, and remember everything. But at least the terrors had been banished for a night.
Quelana rose from her haunches, and looked about. She made a quick search of the reading room – she would feel terribly foolish if a Hollow was hiding there, and carried Sieglinde away when she was gone.
But there was nothing. Quelana returned to her hidden alcove, and fell back into slumber.
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He shows himself.
At last, he shows himself.
Logan staggered through the Archives, steadying himself on walls and shelves as he went. Here and there along the way, the occasional noisy disaster: a large wooden globe sent tumbling from a table, a bronze sundial clattering loudly on the floor. Logan did not notice that he was single-handedly demolishing Seath's lair; he stumbled obliviously onwards, his eyes wide and haunted, his face a ghastly white.
I will never be rid of him.
I will never be free of his trickery, his mockery, his, his...
Oh, heavens, must the sight of him blight me so?
He, he will not be satisfied until I fear to turn every individual corner, until I live in dread of the horrors I may find!
He will not be happy until each tree branch knocking against glass, each creaking plank of wood, each rat scurrying beneath the floor, causes the most repulsive spectres to spawn in my mind!
He will not be content until I live in abject, miserable horror of every shadow in the world.
Damn you! Damn you, Nemeta of Vinheim! It was your duty to destroy him!
Gulping at the air, his skin slick with sweat, Logan blundered his way out of the Archives, into the crisp chill of night. He shambled in haste through trees and bushes, and then the ground began to slope downwards, and the mud and grass beneath his feet was gradually replaced by the hardened texture of crystal.
Always, he will torment me.
Always, skeletal fingertips scratching against the window!
Always, his gruesome visage looming over me as I sleep!
Always, Nito on his throne in the Tomb of the Giants, devising new means of deranging me!
Immense spikes and spires of crystal rose into the air, towering above Logan's head, and he ventured into Seath's cavern. He lurched down rough-hewn pathways, across invisible bridges, over gaping chasms, ranting and hissing each step of the way.
I will destroy him.
I will imprison him forever in a crystal sarcophagus.
Let Nito spend eternity yearning for the death that he visited upon this wretched human race!
At the very heart of the crystal cavern, Logan tottered falteringly to the edge of an outcrop, a deep abyss stretching out beneath his feet. His face contorting with a frenzied smile, he shed his robes, and stretched his arms wide.
A wind came to life in the cave. Weak at first, it grew stronger and stronger, an eerie howl winding through the chambers, becoming steadily louder. As the wind blew, hundreds upon thousands of tiny crystal flakes were plucked from the ground and borne through the air, swirling and whirling through that massive place. The crystal fragments settled on Logan's pale, corpulent flesh, and an expression of ecstasy came upon him as his skin began to freeze and harden.
All throughout the cavern, massive shapes were stirring. When Seath died, his enormous crystal servants became sluggish and torpid; now, however, the cave was beginning to swarm with activity. The golems stomped slowly along the paths and bridges, silently answering their summons.
Strange, that such beautiful things as crystals be carved into such brutish, thuggish shapes.
At last, Logan's transformation was complete, large patches of his body infested with icy, shining clusters, his hat fused permanently to his head. He turned around, and below him, an army of crystal golems stood waiting.
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They'll all be sleeping soundly beneath their blankets. They do not suspect a thing! My crystal behemoths will gather their little sleeping heads in their massive crystal fists, and crush their skulls with a single squeeze! They'll never know! They'll never know!
Lumbering servants at his heel, Logan stalked up the hill, back in the direction of the Archives.
That primitive pyromancer – vanquished! That prattling antique – crushed to dust! The Knight of Catarina...mmmmph...I'll squirrel her away, safe and sound. Oh, such delicious nightmares she will have, when she sees what becomes of her friends!
Oh, but young Sieglinde is only the secondary prize...
Nemeta...you should be coming home, soon...the Archives will have changed, in your absence...I'll be waiting to welcome you with a warm embrace...
As he neared the entrance, however, Logan became aware of a rather bothersome tactical disadvantage. In all the weeks that he had lived in the Archives, Logan had never once shown the slightest interest in the lives of his fellow Undead. He did not know of their comings or goings, or their routines, or their plans. Logan had rarely set foot outside of his improvised study; the trouble was, he now intended to ambush them, but he had no clue where any of them slept, nor where they could be found.
No matter. These are my Archives, my domain! I have the advantage here! My servants will rush through the place, and overwhelm the intruders. I still have the advantage of surprise.
At the doorway, Logan turned to the giants massing behind them. "There's no hope of you fellows remaining stealthy. Just be swift, and fill the passages and halls as quickly – "
"BWAWK! BWAWK! Nasty! Nasty! Snuggly...scared! Wakey wakey! Wakey wakey!"
Far above, Firelink's enormous raven hopped and fluttered about on the roofs of the Archive, scratching loudly with her talons upon the tiles, screeching fit to wake Anor Londo itself.
"Crushy crystal! Crushy! And...magic man! Magic man! Bwawk! Wakey wakey!"
Logan snarled, a scalding tide of fury bringing with it the revelation that there was a creature in Lordran that he despised more than Nito. He fired volley after volley of glowing projectiles from his catalyst, but the raven glided hurriedly out of sight.
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Laurentius was the first to know that something was wrong. The only individual that was awake at the time, he was keeping guard at the main entrance, away at the opposite end of the Archives. His focus was on his pyromancy flame, his attention fixed upon the bewitching glow, when suddenly he heard the raven's frantic warnings.
Bolting to his feet, he ran to investigate.
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Sieglinde wondered if she had dreamt of a startling commotion on the roof of the Archives.
So hard to tell reality apart from a muddle of nightmares.
She lay on her side, waiting. A minute later, heavy stomping noises began to reverberate around the building. Sieglinde grabbed hold of her sword, and scrambled across the floor to her armour.
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Hours before, Ingward had nodded off in a chair. The raven woke him, but he remained seated, thinking all was well. The gigantic golems began tramping through the Archives...but Ingward was partially deaf, and assumed it was one of the other Undead.
Then came the din of crashing wood and scattered stones, and Ingward reached for his catalyst.
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Laurentius raced into the west atrium, and skidded to a halt, the carpet bunching under his feet. Twelve crystal golems were shambling towards him.
He took refuge in the passage between two of Seath's massive bookshelves, reasoning that the space was too cramped for the golems to follow. Of course, the golems were strong enough to push the shelves over. Four huge bookshelves toppled over like dominoes, Laurentius dropping to the floor to avoid being crushed to death, a shower of the Duke's accursed books cascading upon him as he went.
"Curse the heavens!" he exclaimed. On his belly now, in the narrow space where one bookshelf lay at an angle to another, he began crawling towards the way out. The golems clambered upon the fallen bookshelves, the wood crunching beneath their prodigious weight, and began blindly smashing their great fists through the boards, attempting to flatten their adversary.
Brushing piles of books aside, Laurentius wiggled his way out from the shelves, and brought himself to bear on his foes, his flame burning in his fist.
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Emerging in the east atrium, Sieglinde was swiftly set upon by the golems – the same creatures that had imprisoned her, months ago.
But Nemeta was not here to save her, now.
To her chagrin, Sieglinde discovered that the iron of her broadsword had little effect upon the golems' crystalline hide – though, luckily, the divine enchantment that Andrei had worked into the blade caused some damage. It was not enough, however, to dispel the encroaching press of her enemies. Forced backwards, Sieglinde was driven up a staircase.
Sieglinde wondered: What are we to do in the event that the Archives are attacked?
Where do we rally?
Who decides upon a course of action?
The golems pushed Sieglinde further and further upwards, she conceding ground step by step. At least, in the Archives, there was plenty of room to beat a tactical retreat.
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Ingward alighted upon a landing, three flights of stairs above the ground. Peering over the parapet, he saw the chaos unfolding below.
Laurentius was engaged in battle with a horde of crystal giants. As he fought, more of the colossal creatures swarmed up the stairs, filling up the entire chamber. The fiends were entering from the direction of the crystal caves; an endless torrent of them plodding through the entranceway.
Ingward took aim, and fired several bolts of magic at the golems. It did not please him to find that the beasts possessed a formidable resistance to sorcery.
To his side, there came a disconcerting creaking noise. Ingward turned his head, and saw that the creatures had reached his floor.
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The moment Griggs understood that things were amiss, he rushed directly to Master Logan's study room. If anything could rouse the curmudgeon from his reading, it was the peril of an abrupt invasion.
Whether he was willing to leave his books, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter...
Logan was nowhere to be found. The room was empty; no venerable sorcerer, just mounds of leather-bound tomes strewn about in an order which only he understood.
A succession of horrifying scenarios flitted through Griggs' mind, and then he set off running through the Archives, calling Logan's name.
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There was a sickening crackle, and then a golem fell through the staircase on which it precariously stood. A few moments passed, and then an almighty explosion, several tons of crystal coming to rest upon whatever was unfortunate enough to be underneath it.
Sieglinde gazed in horror at the gaping hole in the steps just beneath her. Gingerly leaning forward, she peered down through the splintered hole: hundreds of feet below, a massive cloud of dust was spreading across the hall, the colossus struggling to regain its feet amid a pile of obliterated furniture.
The golems that had being queuing behind, waiting patiently for their turn to fight, now could not reach her. The expressionless automatons turned around, and began searching for an alternative route. At least the mishap had granted Sieglinde a few moments' rest.
Lowering the tip of her sword, Sieglinde looked about. Across the atrium, at the opposite side, she could see jets of magic flying about; Ingward, attempting to defend himself. Sieglinde doubted he was having much more success than she.
How could we all be so blind?
Did we never imagine that something like this would happen? Why did we not decide on a place where we would all muster, in case we were attacked? Why did we not discuss these things?
I am a Knight of Catarina! I should have known!
This...this is the reason that Rhea of Thorolund perished.
We were all so caught up in our own little problems, that we never took the time to think of our friends and allies.
Could we be so foolish? What was so important that we could not see what was so obvious?
In the corner of her visor, Sieglinde caught a throng of golems marching around the corner. She raised her sword once more, and ruefully bit her lip as she realized it was becoming heavier.
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When the golem caught hold of him, Ingward knew that it was important to make the most of the time that he had left.
At least I saw my duty through to the end, he thought. I do not begrudge the other two their decision to leave...but the Seal had to be protected. The Darkwraiths had to be contained. It pleases me, the suffering that was averted.
The golem hefted Ingward above its shoulders, and tossed him over the railing. Ingward plunged towards the distant floor, smashing against a bookcase as he fell. He struck the ground with an audible crack, and was still.
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Eventually, Laurentius' pyromancy exhausted itself. He soon found himself with his back to a bookshelf, and half a dozen golems bearing down upon him.
I don't think these creatures have mouths.
Well, at least they won't eat me for supper.
Hah hah hah hah!
See! I'm smiling!
This time, at least, it doesn't seem like I'll have time to become afraid.
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Even Griggs had his limits.
Griggs carried Logan's luggage. He hunted his meals, and cooked them. He washed his clothes. He prepared his lectures. He assessed his students' dissertations. He endured Logan's constant complaining and quibbling. He shielded Logan from all the people that he offended.
Griggs endured much for his Master's sake. However, when Griggs discovered Logan in a massive theatre, completely naked but for his hat, part of him realized that he had endured enough.
There would be no more humiliation. No more kowtowing or sycophancy. It was time for the apprentice to stand up to the teacher.
Then the horror of the situation returned to him. The brief indignation passed, and Griggs remembered that he was trapped in a citadel teeming with murderous monstrosities. A shudder running through him, Griggs realized that his Master's skin had become horribly discoloured, and that his flesh was in places encrusted with that unnerving crystal growth...
"Master, are you alright?" he asked.
Logan raised his catalyst, and a beam of incandescent light, tinged with blue, projected out onto the floor. A stream of icy magic surged across the ground, and Griggs cried in fear and alarm as shining spikes sprouted upwards, impaling him through the legs. In his pain and shock, Griggs fumbled his own catalyst, fingers grasping powerlessly as the thing rolled away across frosted carpet.
"Rather painful, isn't it?" said Logan, as Griggs goggled uncomprehendingly at him. "Fear not. In a few minutes the crystals will deaden the sensations, and you may delude yourself that you are not grievously wounded."
Logan's voice was ragged and cracked, and if Griggs were a little less frightened, and a little more focused, he may have surmised that his throat was lined with a crystalline coating. "Master, what is the meaning of this?"
Turning his back upon his stricken student, Logan brandished his catalyst, and a torrent of liquid crystal began pouring out, covering the floor and walls; he seemed intent on enveloping the entire theatre. As he worked, he called over his shoulder, raising his voice to be heard over the tinkling and smashing. "A thousand years, Griggs. A thousand years, Seath the Scaleless searched for the secret of immortality. Can you imagine how many trees he chopped down, to fill this place up with books? Thousands upon thousands of books, filled with theories and hypotheses and calculations and conjectures. It would take me decades to sift through the entire bulk of his work, Griggs! A century! I'd die of old age, trying to learn of immortality! But I have had a revelation, Griggs. Seath's research, which I have spent the last six weeks tirelessly studying? It is all useless."
"The crystals mean nothing. The Primordial Crystal? A sideshow, a distraction. Oh, don't misunderstand, from an academic point of view they are fascinating, but as it pertains to immortality, the crystals are irrelevant. Seath intended the Primordial Crystal to bestow him with eternal life, but, in the end, it was useful merely for protection..."
The pain was fading gradually, replaced with a disquieting chill. "Master, please..."
"Seath achieved immortality, Griggs. Oh, the irony of it is so sublime. For a thousand years, he formulated the most fathomlessly complex magical arts in order to create his crystals. He filled his collection of books with the most convoluted, complicated sorcery I have ever set eyes upon! But eventually, Griggs, he realized the truth."
Ceasing his work, Logan fixed his gaze upon Griggs' frightened, reluctant eyes, demanding his attention.
"Seath realized that complexity will not bring everlasting life," he whispered. "The secret of immortality is so elegant, Griggs. So simple."
Logan's blackened eyes came alive with wonder and delight, and for a moment, Griggs remembered all the times when his Master taught him of the wonders of sorcery.
()()()()()()()()()()()()
"Oi! Take care below!"
The Archives seemed to freeze still, briefly, and then a very large, very ornate, and very old oaken desk hurtled one hundred feet through the air, and landed squarely on the head of a golem.
Laurentius looked up. Far above, the mechanized stairways of the Archives rotated when one pulled a particular lever. Trusty Patches had manoeuvred the heaviest piece of furniture that he could find onto the steps, and shoved it off as the stairs passed over the spot where Laurentius was trapped.
The golems were stunned for an instant, but it was all that Laurentius needed. He leapt onto the bookcase, forcing himself skywards with all his strength, clambering up three shelves at a time. By the time he reached the top, the bookcase was violently shaking, the golems intent on pushing it over; Laurentius dashed across its width, vaulting over a railing as the improvised floor fell away, landing safely on a walkway on the other side.
Eventually, Laurentius managed to catch up with Patches. "You're the second person to save my life!" he said. "This land can't be that bad. Thank you, I will not forget my debt to you."
"Yes, I am jolly heroic, aren't I?" replied Patches, while thinking: I'd probably enjoy it more if it wasn't forced, mind you...
The pair decided on a direction, and set off to find the others.
()()()()()()()()()()
Quelana thought: Mother always took special care to guard her daughters from deviants and degenerates. Seath, especially.
Still. I'm a big girl, now.
She would have liked to have listened to Logan's rantings a little longer. They were...deranged, and not a little perverse, but also rather informative. Unfortunately, Logan had pinned his apprentice upon a bed of crystal spikes, and the centuries in Blighttown had not deadened her such that Quelana was willing to remain in the shadows while he struggled and groaned.
Besides, if Logan kept filling the theatre with his crystals, Quelana would soon find herself entombed.
She made the best use she could of the element of surprise. One moment, Logan was shambling about, spouting insanity, and the next, the ground beneath his feet was ablaze with belching fire. Logan screamed, and howled, and flailed around, Quelana's flames enveloping his entire body, devouring his flesh. He collapsed in the inferno, his spasms soon concealed by thick black smoke.
Turning her back, Quelana approached Logan's prone apprentice. Streams of blood trickled down the crystal spikes that held Griggs in place, and as she stood over him, he gawped at the menacing blackness of her cowl.
If it had been Sieglinde that found Griggs, she might have whispered words of comfort, soothingly brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Had it been Laurentius, or Patches, or Solaire, they would have encouraged him to remain brave, and find the strength to persevere.
Quelana grabbed hold of him, and yanked him bodily off the spikes, Griggs crying out in pain as the tips left his flesh. She lowered him onto the floor, and knelt at his side.
She could see his eyes flicking about, could see him peering into the shadows of her hood. He swallowed, with difficulty. "Thank you," he rasped.
She inclined her head in the direction of Logan's smouldering corpse. "That was your mentor, was it not?" she asked, and Quelana idly pondered whether one day Nemeta would frustrate her so much that she would try to murder her pupil, also...
Griggs nodded. "The poor fellow went Hollow..."
"No," said Quelana. "Hollows do not speak."
Like many teachers, Quelana preferred to allow students to come to answers and conclusions by themselves. But Griggs would never make sense of what she had told him, because at that moment a forest of crystal spears erupted beneath them. Griggs bore the brunt of it, twitching a moment, and then falling completely still. Quelana lurched away, shards of the detestable substance lodged in her legs.
A deformed parody of a human being crept from the smoke. Where Quelana's fires had burnt the skin away, there were now slatherings of crystal.
She should have made sure he was dead. It seemed the centuries as Blighttown's most powerful inhabitant had left Quelana somewhat complacent.
When the entity spoke, it was as though a putrid wind was blowing through ice-wreathed caves. "The progeny of the Witch," it said. "Surprising indeed that thou retaineth thine fair form, Daughter of Chaos. Didst all Izalith not fall to cataclysm? Dost thine mother and siblings not languisheth in thine profane flame?"
Hissing through her teeth, Quelana yanked a splinter of crystal from her thigh.
"Hmmm. Ordinarily, I taketh great pleasure in the fits and fevers of woman, though, alas, thine mother and sisters hath lost much of thine beauty..."
Screaming in rage, though she really wished not to, Quelana lobbed handful after handful of searing flame upon her foe.
The entity made little effort to resist. It didn't care. Let this irrelevant vessel burn to ashes.
()()()()()()()()()()
With Logan's death, the golems again descended to a state of passivity. They had certainly not been rendered harmless; if a soul ventured too close, they would trouble themselves to crush it to a pulp. Overall, however, the golems seemed content to stand around and do nothing, and occasionally collapse through floors.
Laurentius and Patches were able to reach Sieglinde, and together they found their way out of the Archives. They stood at the front entrance, waiting, hoping to see Griggs, or Ingward, or, yes, even Logan, emerge.
Instead, they watched in puzzlement as a figure swathed in ragged black robes, her face occluded by darkness, appeared before them. "Oh, splendid!" cried Patches, his voice treacly with scorn, and both Sieglinde and Laurentius looked at him strangely. "So glad to see you've safely returned, your highness!"
"I am Quelana," said the figure, pointedly ignoring Patches. "We have not been acquainted, but...I teach Nemeta in the ways of pyromancy."
"Nemeta didn't mention anything about pyromancy lessons," said Sieglinde, the doubt in her voice amplified by the echo of her helmet.
"No," said Laurentius, and from the way he breathed his words, it was obvious that he was coming to a realization. "But I have noticed that she wields the most remarkable flames..." Straightening himself, Laurentius attempted to appear as dignified as possible, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the bedraggled demeanour and abundant stubble. "My lady, may I ask: are we in the presence of the famed mother of pyromancy?"
Had Quelana's face been visible, they would have noted a raised eyebrow. "Are you not worried about your friends, pyromancer?" she asked.
"Er...oh, yes," replied Laurentius, deflating. "Yeah, I hope they've come to no harm."
"My lady, you came from the Archives," said Sieglinde. "Did you chance upon our companions?"
"Griggs and Ingward perished, I fear," she said, and Sieglinde and Laurentius visibly sagged.
"These two are in perfect health, though!" grinned Patches, clasping both knight and pyromancer by the shoulders. "Saved them myself, you should know!" he added, waggling an eyebrow.
"What about the old toad, Logan?" said Laurentius.
"The sorcerer Logan was responsible for this madness," said Quelana. "He was possessed, by Seath the Scaleless."
"Possessed?"
"Yes. Seath attained immortality through the means of obsession. The books in these archives are a chronicle of every fixation, every preoccupation that ever festered within the Duke's mind. His every desire, his every madness, his every depraved fantasy, all recorded on paper and stored in these shelves. When Logan began to study Seath's notes, he made himself vulnerable to this insanity. Seath's obsessions became Logan's obsessions, and, in time, Seath's personality overwhelmed Logan's mind."
"Where is Logan now?" asked Laurentius, his voice faint.
"Vanquished," said Quelana. "I defeated him with my pyromancy. But we are not finished yet. Seath's madness still inhabits the books that he left behind. We cannot allow them to remain, can we? If any mortal reads them, they will be susceptible to Seath's influence. The books must be destroyed!"
Quelana stepped forward, and stared into Laurentius' eyes. "Pyromancer," she said. "These Archives must be burned to the ground. Seath's books must not be allowed to fall into innocent hands. We must burn them to ashes, until not a single scrap remains. Can you assist me in this?"
()()()()()()()()()
With Laurentius' aid, Quelana cast great sheets of flame over the bookshelves of the Archives. Seath's legacy – a thousand years of research into magic and immortality, a monument to his insanity – was bathed in fire, slowing turning to ash.
Quelana and Laurentius retreated back outside, and, from a hilltop, the surviving Undead watched the conflagration. The fires climbed the walls of the Archives, a massive column of leaden smoke slowly rising over Anor Londo.
"Back to Firelink, I suppose," said Laurentius. "I did come to Lordran to attune myself to the natural forces, I guess."
"It kind of takes away all the fun when you actually have a good reason for burning down a building, though, doesn't it?" said Patches.
Sieglinde was pensive. When at last she spoke, her voice seemed to be weighed with a grudging acceptance that more hardship was ahead. "We are not finished, yet," she said.
"How so?" said Laurentius.
"The books," she said. "They have not all been destroyed."
For a moment, the group stared at her in silence. Then, Laurentius' eyes widened, and he slapped his forehead. "Oh, heavens!" he gasped. "I completely forgot about that!"
"What?" said Quelana.
"The six-eyed sorcerers!" said Laurentius.
"We never could keep them out of the Archive," said Sieglinde. "There were so many secret passages, and hidden doors..."
"Logan said they were stealing books!" said Laurentius. "And he was right! They were stealing Seath's books because he was dead!"
"Hang on, hang on," said Patches, confused. "If someone reads one of them books, does that mean they get possessed by Seath?"
"We have to find them," said Laurentius. "We have to find where those sorcerers are, and burn the rest of those books to cinders!"
"But where could they be hiding?" said Sieglinde. "They could be anywhere in Lordran..."
"Not in Lordran," said Quelana. "Those books are gone, now."
All eyes fell upon her. "Gone?" said Patches. "Where?"
"Who knows?" she replied. "Astora? Vinheim? Catarina?"
Sieglinde gasped in dismay, and put a hand to her mouth; she was wearing her helmet, so the palm landed against metal. "Those books may be on their way to Catarina? Oh, I must warn them!"
"Yes," said Quelana, simply. "You must. You all must. Sieglinde, you must return to your home, and warn your king that a cult of sorcerers are smuggling a cursed book into his realm. If a king, or a prince, were to fall prey to Seath's will..."
Quelana banished the thought from her mind. "Laurentius, you must go, also. Return to the Great Swamp. Tell your people about Seath, and his madness, festering in mens' minds like a disease.
"But Laurentius is Undead!" said Sieglinde. "As soon as he sets foot in the Great Swamp, they will throw him back into an asylum! They will never listen to him!"
"Naw, naw," said Laurentius, dismissing her fears with a wave of his hand. "We have Nemeta, remember? Why, it'll take me a few months to reach the Great Swamp, by my reckoning. Should be time enough for Nemeta to link the Flames. Yeah, the Darksign should be gone, by the time I get back, and I'll be human again! As long as everything goes to plan...pity I won't be around to see the coronation..."
"Others need to be warned," said Quelana.
"Well, we could always try and find that Solaire fellow," said Laurentius. "He could set off to warn Astora. I think Andrei's a bit too old to be embarking on long journeys, to be honest...and Rickert of Vinheim is too much of a coward..."
Laurentius paused, and cleared his throat. "But...I will of course do my duty, and return to the Great Swamp. The thing is...my lady, I have never in my life seen fires as spectacular as yours. Please, tell me: what would it take to be accepted as your student? If I were to return to Lordran, when the task is done?"
"Do not waste your time searching for me, pyromancer," Quelana said, softly. "I am content with the student I have."
From behind came the sound of boots scuffling upon stone. Quelana turned around, and Nemeta gazed at her with entreating, questioning eyes.