Chapter XXVIII: What Happens in Bastok

The rolling hills of the Konschtat Highlands, borne from the high, spiraling peaks of the mountains which encroached the area, bristled as wind swept through the high blades of grass carpeting the area. Not far off in the distance, the windmills for which the area was famous groaned as they slowly revolved, straining with their enormous weight and increasing age. The impressive stone monuments had long served the Republic of Bastok as not only a sign of their technological achievement, harnessing the power of the wind for energy, but also a necessary tool for the farmers who toiled in the area, producing the grain and meat which kept the nation fed.

In the distance, the great Spire of Dem towered towards the gloomy sky above, the gleaming white surface of the ancient structure dulled by the pallness caused by the thick gray murk blanketing the sky. The aura of the World of Dreams had spilled over into the land of the living, and the nightmare it had caused was visible now at all times. The sun, the moon, the stars, they all still shone, but the brightness they had previously illuminated the world with was now muted, blunted off by this grim shroud which had broken free of the four nations of overtaken the entire continent. The waking world now walked in a perpetual haze, as if on top of everything else, the demons were trying to steal light itself.

What troubled Emblim the most was the fact that since the catastrophe which had brought him to this point had occurred, he had but a single dream. Every night for weeks, the same story would invade his slumber; a tale he could always remember bits and pieces of, but never, no matter how many times his slumber was broken by a shocked gasp and he found himself upright, blinking off the quickly-fading images escaping from his mind, could he recall in full the events which plagued his imagination. Still, it seemed to be coming in steadily clearer as time went on. There was a flash of something black, moving quickly, and then a green light. . .

The Captain of Bastok’s Mithril Musketeers turned away from his appraisal of the highlands, the land where he had been raised before taking up the call to join the Republic’s proud military. They had trekked across this land for weeks now, enduring the long journey across the La Theine Plateau into the sands of Valkurm, where he and his small company had traveled through the harrowing beasts now inhabiting the land, being forced to sneak about like thieves in order to avoid being seen by the nightmarish things. Only through the utmost stealth had they managed to dodge contact with the monsters that had left Selbina a smoldering ruin. While journeying the sand-swept dunes to the Highlands, they had not encountered even a single survivor, or even a trace that anyone had lived long enough to flee.

Finally, they had arrived here, within striking distance of Emblim’s homeland. They had seen no one traveling from Bastok, nor received any word regarding the status of the city. If what had happened in San d’Oria and Selbina had befallen the Republic as well, then their journey might very well be for nothing. With the three Elvaan accompanying him showing the strain of their harrowing journey, the Paladin worried now more than ever about their chances for success. It seemed that the further away they got from King Destin and San d’Orian refugees, huddled together in the tunnels beneath the city, the more futile and impossible the promise Emblim had made to him seemed.

Behind him, his Elvaan counterpart within the Kingdom, Erilan, gazed apathetically out towards the horizon. The calamity at San d’Oria had been a harsh blow for the normally outspoken and jovial friend of Emblim, and he had spent much of his time brooding with a pained expression clear behind his eyes. Scores of his fellow soldiers, men and women he had come up through the ranks together with and known for his entire career, were dead in the city streets, their demon murderers now in control of the city he had striven to defend. He had been somber since their departure, speaking rarely, and he seemed worn down moreso than any of them by the hardships of their long journey.

Atreides, the bishop from the great Cathedral, stood by them as well. He had abandoned his cleric’s robes in favor of an artifact salvaged from by his fellow priests; a light coat woven from the hair of a siren. In other conditions, it might have been a resplendent sight, shimmering as it did without any natural light upon it, bequeathing the wearer with an infusion of magical force, but in these dreary days it was but a piece of cloth. The devotee of Altana had retained his composure in the face of the tragedy he had borne witness to, and had been invaluable to them not only through his immense command of white magic, but also as a soothing voice when things seemed their hardest. In the weeks since the disaster, he alone of them had managed a degree of stoicism, accepting the purpose of their quest without complaint and urging them forward towards perceived success.

The last of their number, and any reaction he might have had to the demon invasion, remained a mystery to Emblim. More often than not, his face was hidden by the shroud of the heavy black hood concealing all but a few stray blonde hairs which peeked out from underneath, though occasionally he would raise his head towards the sky and stare at the gray pall above with gleaming blue eyes. He had been ordered to travel with the other three by Destin, as one of the few royal mages to escape unharmed and in full command of his powers. Feldin by name, the Black Mage strode wordlessly behind them at most times, speaking only when spoken to, his grim countenance offputting even the most casual conversation. Still, the use of his magic had already proven a boon to them, and Emblim was grateful for his presence.

Thus it was a surprise to all three of them when it was Feldin, a stray wind stirring the folds of his heavy black cloak, pulled down his hood and stared outwards towards the mountains stretching out from the rolling hills around them. He had been paused for a moment when the others realized he had stopped walking, and turned to regard him questioningly. The blood-red inlaying of his garb stretched out as he craned his neck, seeming to follow something in the breeze, until, turning his head back to look at his companions, he finally spoke in a voice both deep and quiet.

“We are no longer alone,” he said simply.

It took a second of realization for his words to sink into them, but in the next moment, Erilan had already drawn his sword, a harsh gaze directed at their surroundings. Emblim did not move so quickly, but still nudged his shield forward as Feldin drew his hood up over his head once more. Atreides was already casting magic, the air around the quartet filling with protective magics he conjured forth. The Black Mage, however, stood carelessly away from the rest of them, and made no move to defend himself or prepare to attack. He merely gestured vaguely to the east, and then let the long sleeves of his robe tumble down past his hands. The others looked to where he had pointed, seeing nothing.

“What do you-“ Emblim started, but stopped as an unfamiliar figure crested the hill.

He was old and weathered; a thick man with dirt on his clothes and short, thinning gray hair surmounting a bearded face. Walking with a pace worn down by the strain of many years, he struggled up the hill, deliberately looking towards the four as they tried to determine what to make of this new development. Erilan lowered his sword, though did not sheath it, but it was Emblim who made the first move. Taking a step forward, he saw the lines in the old man’s face, the wear of decades spent facing the sun and the winds, and beyond that, the stray flecks of red dotting his visage.

“Atreides!” Emblim gasped as he realized that blood was covering the Hume. The healer picked up his gait and walked with the Paladin as they reached the old man, who looked back and forth between the two faces, confusion overtaking his glassy eyes. Atreides cast a probing spell over him, but shook his head as he faces Emblim.

“He seems uninjured,” Atreides reported, “I don’t think that blood is his own.”

“Blood?” The man murmured, touching two sun-darkened fingers to his face where the dried liquid had been spattered. “They’ll take more. It’s never enough for them.”

“Sir,” Emblim said directly to the old man as he placed an armored hand on his shoulder, trying to hold his attention, “sir, I’m one of the Mithril Musketeers. What happened to you?”

He only stared blankly, numb and shaking, before finally collapsing forward on his knees. The man gave a hoarse wail, and a flood of tears burst forth from his eyes. Atreides gave Emblim a look of alarm as the two kneeled down beside the Hume, confusion reigning over the situation. Erilan and Feldin drew closer, the former finally putting away his blade at the sight of the man’s outburst and cautiously approaching as the latter moved in seemingly only to remain in proximity to his companions. After a trembling gasp, the newcomer finally found his quavering voice.

“They’re killing them,” he cried, thick tears rolling down his cheeks, “rounding them up like sheep and laughing while they do it. Those terrible laughs. Decarbia.”

“Decarbia?” Emblim puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“Decarbia . . .” Atreides repeated aloud, his eyes going slightly distant. “There’s something familiar . . . “

“Who?” Erilan suddenly spoke up, kneeling down in front of the crying man. “Who is being killed, old man?”

“We’re simple farmers,” he continued, answering Erilan’s question only by mistake in the course of his ranting, “their demands are so harsh, and they keep on killing us, even when we do what they say. Why? Why do they kill us?”

“Old man!” Erilan bellowed, his eyes alight, “Stop rambling and tell us what you mean!”

“Erilan, he’s in shock!” Emblim chastised his friend. “Go easy on him!”

“No.” The Elvaan replied in a harsh snarl. “It’s obvious what this old farmer is talking about Emblim, don’t pretend it isn’t. If he doesn’t snap out of this, more people are going to die.”

The farmer raised his eyes towards Erilan, something about his words striking a chord within his affected mind. Mouth agape, he took in the sight of the Paladin, fully armored, sword at his side and shield strapped firmly to his left arm, and then once again muttered the same word as before. “Decarbia,” he repeated, his words a shallow whisper, “he’ll kill them all.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” the Elvaan Captain rebuked with disgust. “Emblim, there are demons around here. I’m going after them.”

“Don’t be a fool, Erilan!” Emblim reproached his comrade, “We can’t just run in, swords drawn, not knowing what’s there. Think this through.”

The blonde-haired San d’Orian stared long and hard at Emblim, his eyes narrowed into slits as he visibly fumed over the words. With a snort, he turned away, not responding to the other Paladin, but not taking off on his own, either. Emblim breathed an internal sigh of relief as he looked once more to the farmer, who was staring ahead with a haunted look in his eyes. He steeled himself for what lay ahead. While he had no intention of charging blindly forward like Erilan had intended in his rage, nor would he delude himself into thinking he had any choice in this matter. There would be battle done today.

“Emblim,” Atreides said, standing and facing him, “what shall we do?”

“Do what you can for him, Bishop,” came his response, “and then join us over the next hill. We’re going to stay low and as out of sight as possible until we figure out what’s going on.”

“And then?”

“And then . . . we’re going to make it right.”

The sun was high, a boon to the task at hand as demons seemed to have trouble seeing well in the light. Emblim, Erilan, Atreides, and Feldin skulked along by the bases of the hills of Konschtat, still unaware of the exact details of what had befallen the farmer and his fellows. Nearby, the windmills of the highlands groaned in the wind, creating an unpleasant sound which traveled towards them, a sound like a person moaning in misery. Emblim tried to ignore the thoughts it conjured in his mind as they pressed forward. The farmer Atreides had given some reassuring words laced with a mild incantation, assuring he would sleep, and perhaps be cleansed of his dementia upon waking. The Elvaan priest did not seem exceptionally hopeful for the chances of his spells’ success, however.

It had not been long after they departed from the farmer that they were set upon.

Their attacker, however, was far more surprised than they were at his sudden appearance when Erilan, reacting seemingly by instinct, flung the man to the ground, causing him to let out a loud yelp when his greaved foot was pressed down hard into his shoulder. In a fluid motion, his sword was out and ready to swing before Emblim grabbed his arm, but the Elvaan simply shrugged his companion aside, laying the point of the sword down at the back of his assailant’s neck.

“Erilan, look!” Emblim urged as the man on the ground lay breathless and stunned. “It’s just a kid!”

Sure enough, on the ground at Erilan’s feet was a boy of what appeared no more than his middle or late teens. Sandy-colored hair that had not yet begun to sprout on his cheeks surmounted his head, and from the part of his face that was not pressed into the ground they could see his cheeks were smooth and unlined. The tan in his color painted him as another farmer, but his raiment told a different story. He wore heavy, red-colored gauntlets, and a faceguard of tempered steel. He had a cloak which had been flung off to the side when Erilan circumvented his ambush, and it concealed a sheath on his back which was now empty, but looked as if it were there to hold some great weapon. He stared up at them as Erilan leveled his sword ruthlessly, digging his booted feet in has he tried to find some leverage.

“Who are you?” Erilan demanded of the youth. “Why did you leap out at us?”

“Who am I?” he replied indignantly. “Who are you? Where is Salvador?”

“You’d better answer my question, kid.” Erilan warned, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

“I’m not a kid!” He shouted back angrily. “I’m seventeen years old!”

“Eighteen won’t be a possibility if you don’t start talking. Where did you come from? Who is Salvador?”

“Erilan!” Emblim once again reprimanded, and was quickly growing frustrated with having to deal with his friend’s unsupressed rage following their flight from San d’Oria. “Let him up, please. There’s no need to hold him on the ground, he doesn’t pose a threat to us.”

Erilan snorted, removing his boot, but not his sword. Slowly, the lad found his footing, coming up with a wary stare towards the quartet.

“Now,” Emblim managed to maintain a degree of calm, despite Erilan’s sword still being trained on the young man’s throat, “explain to us what’s going on here.”

“First, please tell me,” he said, stretching out his arms to reinforce that he now meant no harm, “have you seen old Salvador? A big man, gray hair, dressed like a farmer?”

Emblim shared a look with Atreides. “We’ve seen him,” he replied cautiously, “not too far from here.”

The sandy-haired lad let out a visible sigh of relief. “Thank Altana.” He murmured. “We thought they had taken him.”

“Who?” Erilan queried.

“The demons of the Marquis Decarbia.” He responded, and his eyes took on a look dangerously reminiscent of the one which had haunted the farmer they now knew to be a man named Salvador. “My name is Etrien,” he finally supplied, “and I’ve been here since just before it happened.”

“Before what happened?” Atreides asked, puzzled. “Who is this Marquis Decarbia?”

Etrien took a long breath, steadying himself against a flood of unpleasant memory stirred up by the question. “It’s a long story,” he said in a low, woeful voice. “and I’m afraid that it’s end means the destruction of the Konschtat Highlands, because it begins with the fall of Bastok.”

Etrien began relating his tale, and Emblim’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.