2

For the Fallen

"It's not so bad, being poor. Rich people are always worrying about this or that. I think we're the lucky ones, Isla. If you don't own anything, you can't lose anything, can you?"

- Iona, a candle-maker's daughter

The town proper of New Tristram was smaller than Iona had expected. The area had once been the seat of power for King Leoric, the ruler of Khanduras, and the site of the old Horadric monastery—the very cathedral that had been crushed by the Fallen Star.

Iona, like most demon hunters, did not believe in coincidences.

Old Tristram was an unrecognizable ruin. New Tristram was just a motley collection of merchants and tradesmen, a handful of farmers, and the odd adventurer or two who plundered the cathedral for treasure while the scholars plundered it for knowledge and prestige. Iona's childhood home had not been far from here. The town of Dunvale, or what was left of it, lay beyond the aptly named Fields of Misery. After Leoric's final death, hordes of demons had been scattered to the four winds by the King's eldest son, Aidan. Ten years later, they had found their way back. They ransacked Dunvale, along with all the other villages not under the protective mantle of Westmarch. Now there was only New Tristram and its hidden riches to carry on the memory of the glory of Khanduras. Iona had no love for her native country, but she felt a strange tugging at her spirit, nonetheless. It was as though the damp earth beneath her feet was welcoming her home, tasting the ashes of the Dreadlands on her boots with disapproval while long blades of grass brushed fussily at the ragged edge of her cloak.

Grunting, a guard heaved another corpse into the growing bonfire as she passed. A shower of sparks flew up from the burning branches as the body landed in the fire, a momentary blast of heat found its way under her hood, and then the cooler air of the night was back, caressing her cheek. I should have burned Isla, she thought. I may have to, if this spreads.

Li Xia's voice was in her mind at once, searching for weakness. Could you? If you saw your sister rise from her grave, could you put a bolt through her head and give her to the fire?

There was no hesitation. Yes, Iona thought firmly. I would purchase her peace with every weapon I own, if that was what it took.

A heavily-muscled man stood dejectedly by the corner of an inn. His hands were blackened and calloused, and there was a dark blood blister beneath one of his thumbnails. Probably from a bad hammer strike. But he's no carpenter. A smith, then, she thought. He had the look of a man who had decided to work and work until his body simply gave out and died. Only a special kind of grief could drive someone to that.

"Blacksmith," she said gently. "You look weary."

"It's my wife," he replied in a low voice thick with sorrow. His eyes were hollow and beseeching. "She's very ill."

"Then she will need you to be strong for her." Iona's tone was soothing, and the smith nodded silently.

"You there!" a shaky voice called out. "Excuse me, but I—I need help!"

Iona turned and followed the sound to its owner with her eyes. A short, fat, bald man in an extravagantly embroidered outfit stood beside an over-laden cart with a broken wheel. She gave the blacksmith's shoulder a soft squeeze and approached the caller.

"Yes, you!" he cried excitedly. "I need your help. I'm trying to leave this horrible place, but my cart broke, and now it's blocking the way to the road."

A woman threw down a basket of blankets and balled her hands into fists. In the flickering of the firelight, Iona saw clean tear-tracks on her dirty face. "Don't you dare help our mayor move his wagon! My brother died fighting those things while this bloated coward ran away and hid!"

"Is this true?" Iona asked him.

He blotted his ruddy face with a handkerchief, then stuffed it back into his pocket, trembling. "I tried to tell them all, there's no point in staying here! Those things are still out there, and they're going to take the town sooner or later! I may be the mayor, but I'm not a fool. I'm getting out of here! We're all going to die if we stay!"

"If you've lost all hope," Iona said coldly, turning away, "then you're already dead."

The mayor reddened even more and mopped his face again, sniffling. Iona bent and retrieved the basket of blankets, handing it back to the woman who had dropped it. "Your brother's death will not be in vain. Are these for the sick ones in the cellar?"

"Yes, milady."

"You are very strong to nurse them so selflessly even in grief. Your brother would be proud. What was his name?"

Someone else answered. A soldier, bandaged heavily from his chest to his pelvis, leaned on his lance like an old man with a walking stick. "Marko," he groaned through his teeth, shaking and sweating. "It was Marko…I promised I'd protect him, and now he's dead. I'm s-so sorry, Tansy."

"Back to bed, my love," Tansy scolded, putting the basket back on the ground and lifting his arm over her shoulder, supporting his weight as well as she could. "I've got more than enough to worry about without trying to keep my fool husband from sneaking back out into the fighting. We've held for days, and I imagine we'll keep holding. You've gone and done your part. Now the others will just have to do without you." She kissed him and smoothed his hair away from his pale face. "Because I can't," she whispered.

I cannot let this town fall, Iona thought, gazing down at the blankets. Each one represented a life. A suffering human being. She felt a shifting sensation in her heart. Securing New Tristram from the threat of the risen dead took priority in her mission, now. The Fallen Star would have to wait. Li Xia had taught her that demons could take as many forms as there were stars in the sky. A good hunter could detect their touch, and Iona felt the greasy heaviness of old malice in the air like a foul wind rising from the crypts. The suffering of these people at the hands of their buried loved ones would be a particularly delicious spectacle for the denizens of the Burning Hells, even if no demons were directly involved.

The Slaughtered Calf Inn was packed with the wounded, who lay on pallets on the floor. The cellar must be full, Iona thought with some trepidation. These people bore the bites of creatures with flat teeth. The dead had gotten to them. The ones in the cellar were the first, then, the sickest. These could not be far behind, for they were certainly not long for this world. The smell of sickness was cloying. Iona saw eerily green tinges in gray skin, hollow cheeks, and distended bellies. A fly landed on the emaciated face of an elderly man, and he lifted his hand a few inches before it fell back onto the pallet, too weak to brush the insect away. Iona knelt beside him and, viper-like, snatched the fly from his cheek, catching its wings between her fingers. She crushed the struggling thing beneath her boot heel. A tear made its way from the corner of the man's eye, and she smiled reassuringly, sweeping it away with her gloved thumb before she stood.

"People say demon hunters have hearts as hard as stone," someone said quietly. "I've never believed it. You don't become a demon hunter unless you know what it's like to love someone with all your heart, do you?"

Iona glanced behind her at a girl only a little younger than she, with short brown hair and somber hazel eyes filled with a spark of cleverness that belied her age. A curiously shaped amulet—a Horadric symbol, if Iona was not mistaken—lay against her skin, near her heart, suspended from a thin chain. Something about her tugged at Iona, at something deep and dormant within her, a sense she did not know how to use. She frowned, brushing the feeling away. She could examine it later. She lowered her hood.

"You must be Leah. Captain Rumford said that you were in the cathedral when the star fell."

"Yes. My uncle, Deckard Cain, was there, too, and we got separated. Then the dead started to rise. I came back here to rally the militia, but th—"

"Get back!" Iona said sharply. Her crossbows were in her hands in an instant, pointed at the sick, who were writhing and groaning, working themselves into a frenzy as they died. They all began to get to their feet, dripping with sweat and other bodily fluids, eyes devoid of life. As one, they turned and shambled toward her, arms reaching, fingers grasping, teeth gnashing. The old man she had soothed tripped and fell, but pulled himself steadily along with the others, salivating as his nails scraped the floorboards. Iona's thumb was still damp with his tears.

"May darkness grant you peace," Iona whispered. Her eyes burned. She squeezed the modified triggers of her handbows, putting a bolt through his eye and the throat of a dead man behind him. Soon, all of the victims lay still, each with a single bolt planted in their flesh. Iona holstered her crossbows and let out a long breath. This had been like shooting fish in a barrel. The real battle would not be so easy.

"This is killing business," the barkeep joked nervously as he levered himself up behind the counter. Iona spared him a disapproving glance, then looked away, shaking her head. Everyone had his own way of dealing with death, after all. If everyone chose her way, the world would be a joyless place.

The fletchers would be as rich as kings, though, she thought, suppressing a pained smile. It was the sort of thing she might have said to her sister, to make her laugh. Isla had always been so serious, always lost in thought, pondering philosophy—as much philosophy as a poor candle-maker's daughter could get her hands on, anyway. Now that she was gone, it seemed she had left all of her seriousness with Iona for safekeeping.

"The Fallen Star caused this?" she asked carefully, gesturing to the corpses.

Leah nodded. "I think so. We've been here for more than a year. This place was just a boring little town until the star hit the cathedral. I think Uncle Deckard knew something like this would happen. If you find him, he can tell you more. He's alive down there. I just know it. I can feel it."

"I believe you can," Iona said softly.

Leah slung a shortbow over one shoulder and strapped a quiver of arrows to her hip. As she moved, a charm braided into her hair caught the light and glinted. Iona watched her silently. As children, she and Isla had worn such things, weaving them into each other's hair for good luck. She hoped that Leah's charm had granted her enough luck to keep Cain alive during the collapse of the cathedral. The rest was in their hands. "The guards locked the doors to the cathedral behind them when they retreated, but the Captain told me they left the keys in Adria's hut. I can take you there."

Rumford was frantic when they reached the gates. His pauldron had come loose again, and he did not even seem to notice when Iona tightened it for him this time. "You can't mean to go out there! The dead are about to come through the barricade!"

Iona held Leah's gaze firmly. "Can you kill?" she asked tersely.

"Yes," the girl replied with a brave sort of pain in her eyes. "It's…not my first time."

"Nor mine." Iona softened her tone and faced the barrier. "We'll be all right. Let's put them back to rest, now."