Chapter XXXV: What Harps Are Made Of

The Marquis Decarabia, commander of 30 legions of the Kindred Host, surveyed his surroundings, and found himself pleased.

It had not been long, as mortals reckoned time, since he had crossed the barrier provided by his great Dark Lord, marching a contingent of his forces into the Otherworld, securing the land which the initial reclamation force had taken from the pitiful meat things which inhabited it before. Some had run, some had fought, but in the end their so-called “city” fell, just as the other human-infested lands had. Decarabia had been given the honor of being the first member of the true aristocracy to join their ranks, and consolidate the holdings of the great Dark Lord. While the other hordes unleashed upon the mortals were made to sit and wait, Decarabia alone was given the privilege of taking his forces and expanding past the barriers set from bonds beyond time. For the first time ever, the World of Nightmares was to expand, and he would be the forebearer of its glorious victory.

The screaming of the human things at his approach was like sweet music, and he felt the melody of their torment in his bones as he strummed at the harp in his hands, keeping tune. The other Kindred had their own powers to be sure, each more fearsome than the last, but Decarabia had always taken pride in his music. He strummed the chords of his harp again, and took delight at the tears the sounds emitted from his enthralled audience. He did truly love to perform.

The building they were in was sparse, but that was fine with the Marquis. Even in the territory he controlled beyond the veil, he preferred that his abode be simple, even severe, to allow him no distractions while perfecting his craft. He needed but a few servants to prepare and maintain his instruments, awaiting his command there as they did here, shuffled off into the shadows, and, of course, a rapt audience. The mortal shades which had entered the realm some span of time ago were often drawn to his song, but they proved quite useless in providing the reaction he sought. He had fought long and hard to curry the favor which granted him this unique position to play his melody to living ears for the first time, and he was not about to squander the opportunity.

The gathering of hovels which the fleshy things outside of the mortal city seemed to live in had provided an ample listening audience, as well as other tools necessary for his performance. They had been easily enticed by his song, unable to resist its lure, and wept openly as he played for them. He made no demands of them, despite understanding their lurid tongue, called for no extraneous devotions or worship, only that twice a day, each day, they gather in the largest shelter the village had to offer, which its former occupant had graciously offered up after hearing the Marquis play, and listen as he performed for them. This would be necessary “preparation time” he would tell the others should they ask why he had not moved forward. The land was vast and confusing, the inhabitants still strange to them, their forces unsettled by the sight of the sun, the stench of the air. Yes, it was quite important that they remain here, he would inform the others, and if he managed to perform for this small audience in the meantime, what harm in indulging?

The Marquis smiled, stopping at one of the Hume women the village had to offer. He had been told that the children of Altana came in many different varieties, but all he could see was that some were larger and some smaller, other discrepancies seemed cosmetic at best. This one was a female though, he could discern, and he was touched by the way she let her tears flow as he played for them. Decarabia always appreciated these shows of appreciation for his music. He struck another note, looking around the room at his captive audience. With skilled fingers, his haunting composition continued unabated, his harp bringing the music of his realm to life in the Otherworld. It was a unique experience, one he knew he would treasure. If his brethren could see him now, he knew they would be proud. Life for the aristocracy had grown complacent, boring, and this chance to spread his wings, in quite a literal sense, would be the envy of all.

His servants shuffled, grunting at one another in their rather unsavory dialect, a far cry from the high language Decarabia was partial too. Still, even their uneducated tongue was at least decipherable; the few times he had stooped to speaking in the language the meat-things spoke had left his jaw feeling desecrated. His voice was meant for song, not the barbaric speak these things used to communicate with one another. It had been necessary, unfortunately, as he needed to know, as an artist, what his audience thought regarding his performance.

“I have been told,” he said in their harsh, crude words, “that one can hear the screams of the animal from which I strung my harp.” Leaning down to the woman, her face wet with appreciation at his beautiful melody, he peered at her with appraising eyes, hoping for an honest opinion. “Tell me,” he inquired, “can you hear your daughter screaming?”

She gave a wail he found common in these creatures, collapsing forward at his feet. The Marquis grimaced as he pulled his robes away from the female, aghast at the thought of them being soiled by the thing. Providing an audience was one thing, but actually touching one of the uncouth mortals was a disgusting thought to the Marquis. Her reaction was too intense anyway, far too emotional. He suspected she was deliberately attempting to sway his opinion of her by making him believe she had greater enthusiasm for his art than she actually possessed, and the Marquis despised a dishonest patron. Shaking his head, he moved a delicately carved claw against his smooth, blackened horn, then pointed down at the woman, even now still hysterically attempting to make him believe she truly loved his music with her sobbing. He sighed, looking around the room at the rest of his audience, hoping they would be more truthful with their criticism. He could not advance without proper criticism. Even as he lowered his harp, two of his servants came forward, grabbing the female and dragging her away. She protested, and for a moment the Marquis thought that her struggles might have been born of an actual desire to remain and hear him play longer, but then he reminded himself how dishonest and prone to embellishment these creatures were. Turning his back, he strode to the other side of the room as the woman was carried out the portal to the open sky above.

It was night now, a full moon hanging overhead. His minions were much more comfortable in this environment than with the foreign daylight overhead, though the pall of Dynamis which they had worked feverishly to cast over this world did protect them from that during the day, the darkness growing stronger the longer it remained. They would dispose of the female as they had so many others, a number the Marquis was disturbingly reminded of as he looked at his diminished listeners. Soon it would be time to move on, but with what he had gleaned here, he knew he was now ready for a larger audience. A few more days of practice in this collection of hovels would not hurt, however.

The screaming of the female fleshling outside began rising, and Decarabia unconsciously strummed his harp, skillfully keeping tune.

Emblim stared in abject horror at the scene below. When Etrien had related to them the story of Bastok’s demise, and what had befallen the farming village of Konschtat in the weeks which followed, he had not been able to process such atrocities. His mind was unwilling to believe, to admit that his home nation could be so brutalized, so completely destroyed. Furthermore, the tales Etrien had spun about the demon who spoke in a comprehensible tongue and tortured others with his music were just too bizarre, too unreal to even consider.

Now he stared, too shocked to move, as he witnessed the music of the Marquis Decarabia. He had living people eviscerated to string his instruments, hewn from the bones of those same souls. The sounds it produced were shattering to listen to, and even from the distance intervening the hut the Marquis occupied and the knoll Emblim and the others observed from, he felt as if a part of his soul were being drained away by its song. How long had these people been suffering like this? He reflected on the old man they had found, Salvador, whom Etrien told them had once raised chocobos for the villagers. His possessed mania was a mystery no longer. No man could long hold on to his sanity after being subjected to Decarabia’s playing.

Erilan’s fist was white against the hilt of his sword, and Atreides had closed his eyes, softly muttering a prayer to Altana as the scene unfolded. They all remained quiet, stock-still for fear of discovery. Emblim knew he had to do something. Even with his spirit crushed by the news of Bastok, his mind reeling from what he had just witnessed, he felt deep in his heart that he still could not simply stand idly by and allow this to continue. The Marquis was hardly alone, however, as he had counted no fewer than twenty demons keeping the village folk in line. There were more, many more, but they had been scattered about the countryside or sent back to Bastok on some errand. Even with such a reduction, Decarabia alone was too great a horror to comprehend, fighting him and a score of his soldiers would be nearly impossible.

When fear and despair come into contact with hope, however, even hope in the form of four outsiders with no idea of where to even begin addressing the situation, rage can blossom in the oppressed heart. Once rage sets in, once the damaged soul is allowed to feel something other than the crushing force weighing down upon it, it takes root and grows exponentially, until there can be no outlet for it save for action. The decision of whether or not to get involved was made for Emblim in the form of a 17-year-old youth, tears staining his cheeks and his hands trembling, drawing forth a one-handed axe and sliding down the hillside, unable to sit by and watch for a second longer.

“Etrien, no!” Feldin whispered when he realized what the boy was doing, but it was too late.

“I’ll save him!” Erilan shouted, but the Black Mage stopped him, grabbing him by the arm before he could follow after the young warrior.

“Use your brain, fool!” he hissed. “That lad means nothing, if anything we should use this distraction to escape. We can be well out of here and avoid that monstrosity before – “

“Sorcerer Feldin,” said Atreides, raising his eyes from his prayers, releasing his hold on the beads round his neck, “there is no going back now.”

Before Feldin could ask what he was talking about, he saw what was happening at the bottom of the hill, and let out a frustrated cry.

Etrien’s appearance took the two demons standing over the dismembered woman by surprise, and one of the howled as he slashed it its arm, slicing it open with his axe. With startling speed, he ducked underneath as one clawed at him, a wide swing that was far too clumsy and overconfident, returning the favor with a blow from his weapon that left a deep gash across the demon’s chest. With power borne of anger and adrenaline, the youth hacked and slashed for all he was worth, seeking to cut the two murdering beasts into kindling where they stood.

The wind was driven out of him when the first of the demons regained its footing, hammering a blow from its massive fist into the young man’s stomach. He doubled over in pain, and the second one batted him aside, snarling as it clutched at its bleeding chest. The claws of the first demon tore at the ground as it strode over to where Etrien fell, kicking him in the stomach before pulling him upright, hissing in his face as its wings flared outwards. The second one shouted something in the language of the demons, and the first twisted Etrien’s arm behind him, holding him still as his comrade drew near, drawing from his side one of the ugly and demented weapons the demons armed themselves with. With a pale glow behind its yellow eyes, it thrust forward, perhaps seeking to present its master with material for a new harp.

Its arm never completed the trip, as Emblim’s sword severed it at the elbow.

The demon howled as it jerked its crippled limb back, blood spurting out from the wound as it screamed. Emblim silenced it with a swing that took the edge of his blade through the monster’s mouth, and it toppled forward dumbly as the upper portion of its head hit the ground, some few feet away. The demon holding Etrien shoved the boy aside, lunging for the Paladin, but gasped in shock as the Captain of Bastok’s Mithril Musketeers plunged his sword into its chest, the tip bursting through its back, right between its wings.

“Justice for Bastok,” Emblim told the demon trembling on the edge of his sword, “begins here.”

He tore the blade out, letting it slide to the ground with a thud. Two demon corpses littered the ground around him. He raised his shield, lowering the tip of his blade as he cast a glance over at Etrien. The lad had already regained himself, snatching his axe up off of the ground and loosening the other one which he had held in his belt. The two stood side-to-side, facing in opposite directions in front of the home which Marquis Decarabia occupied. The sound of leathery wings in flight, accompanied by angry, incomprehensible shrieks, began filling the night. Emblim let his eyes wander, searching for a sign of which direction the attack would come from first. His rescue of Etrien, and the youth’s initial assault, had not gone unnoticed. Now, there would be real battle.

They began emerging from everywhere. Hissing and growling, eyes glowing in the dark with an unnatural light as they grew closer. Some were empty-handed, but most carried weapons; black, wicked-looking scythes and axes, swords and knives, honed and gleaming in the light of the full moon filling the sky. They touched down, surrounding the duo, their intent clear. Emblim and Etrien stood their ground, awaiting the inevitable.

“Idiot Bastokans,” Feldin disdainfully spat from atop their place of concealment. “Let us escape their fate. This has nothing to do with San d’Oria.”

The look Erilan directed at him could have shattered stone. “Then go back to San d’Oria,” the Paladin ordered the other Elvaan with a blistering tone, “and don’t let me see your face again.”

Feldin scoffed at the affront, but his offended tone turned to shock as Erilan slid down the hill, rushing to join his friend.

“Erilan!” Feldin called after him, “What are you – “

“This is no longer about San d’Oria or Bastok, Feldin,” Atreides said, his tone as flat as his stare as he glared at the Black Mage, pulling his hewn wooden wand from the golden rope belt at his waist. “This concerns all of us. These beasts are no different from the ones which destroyed our kingdom as well.”

Before Feldin could raise a word of protest, Atreides was joining the fray as well. He was alone, the words of his companions ringing in his pointed ears.

Emblim had but a moment to count, but his initial guess had been spot on. There were nine demons around him, and a matching set facing Etrien. He highly doubted he could stand against them for very long, but if they did not come all at once, maybe he would be able to take a few down with him . . .

Etrien cried out as they all surged forward as a unit, seeking not so much a fight as a massacre. They howled as they came, their paralyzing demonic howl, permeating fear in a way which nothing born of Vana’diel could do. To his credit, Etrien stood his ground, right alongside Captain Emblim. The two met the assault, prepared for the worst.

Erilan reached them first, but the time between his sword slashing a demon’s wing off of its back and the burst of holy magic searing one through to the bone was negligible. Atreides wove a mystic sigil in the air, his wand alight with the divine power he wielded, and spells of protection blossomed to form an invisible cocoon around all four of them. The demons withdrew from the sight of such holy force, but only for an instant. Then the battle was joined in earnest.

Slashing his sword with savage ferocity, Erilan cut a demon nearly in twain, the small host still surprised by the appearance of the second Paladin. Using the opening, he took a spot by Emblim’s side, the two standing with shields at the ready as the demons came upon them. They cast aside a series of attacks, guarding themselves well even as they heard Etrien shout behind them. The young warrior staggered back, a wound in his side, but stopped as a rush of healing magic staunched his bleeding, sewed back his severed flesh. Enraged, he plunged the blades of his axes into the gut of the offending demon, tearing them out in opposite directions. The demon’s legs twisted and bent as it tumbled backwards, entrails pouring out of it to sizzle on the ground beneath. Atreides wove another spell, and a rush of energy pumped through Etrien’s veins. Even as Atreides worked the same magic on the two Paladins, the warrior felt lighter, faster, and defended himself with renewed vigor.

Emblim buckled for a moment underneath the conjoined attack of three more demons, his shield denting from the impact, but Erilan bashed his shield into the chest of one, splintering its bony ribs with the force. It spat out blood, which bubbled as it rolled down their armor, the acidic nature of it useless against the holy wards on their raiment. Emblim took the chance to run it through with his sword as Emblim fended off the other two. Atreides unleashed another shot of holy force, keeping one at bay as it sought to take Erilan unawares, then nimbly shuffled his feet as another hit the dirt face-first after just barely missing a claw-first dive for him.

Etrien knew he was outmatched, especially in comparison to the people he now fought beside, but with the courage of a tiger he continued to fight. The demons seemed weakened by the magic Atreides possessed, and frightful to approach the holy auras of the two Paladins. For a point in time, though heavily outnumbered, it seemed as if there might be a way for the quartet to yet claim victory. Then the door to the building beside them flung open.

The other demons froze, ceasing their attack almost immediately. A pall fell over the village as the four stopped, staring at the central hall, and at the figure emerging from it. His hooked claws tapped at the ground as he lightly stepped forward, his wings flared back and then folded as he crossed the threshold, so as to not touch be blocked by the opening too small to allow them free passage. He wore robes of scarlet and gold, flowing and ornate with runic patterns far beyond anything found on Vana’diel stitched into their strange fabric, which seemed to be humming softly. He loomed to his full height; eyes alight in the night, and opened his fang-filled mouth, speaking with a voice like a thousand nails scratching against one another.

“This is far too raucous,” Marquis Decarabia complained. “I am trying to hold a performance.”

Etrien, practically foaming at the mouth at the sight of the demon lord, rushed the Marquis upon his appearance with both axes drawn. The subservient demons were either too slow to react or simply did not know if they should as Etrien closed the distance between them in mere moments, howling with fury as he raised his axes into the air, his last step a vault which took him directly towards the head of the Marquis. Decarabia regarded him for less than heartbeat, and then extended his arm outwards. A shockwave of dark magic rippled through the air, striking Etrien dead on. The youth went flying backwards, axes twirling as they were separated from his grip. He and they landed some yards distant, skidding across the ground before coming to a dazed stop.

Emblim and Erilan, both with swords drawn, rushed forward towards the demon lord, attacking as one. The Marquis raised his arms defensively, and took several steps backwards in accordance with their simultaneous charge, their sword strikes bouncing ineffectually off of his upraised forearms. After several seconds of enduring their barrage, Decarabia slashed his arms out to the side, and a tremendous force took the both of them in opposite directions. Emblim fell to the ground as he collided with a rock face hard enough to leave an impression on it, and Erilan spun helplessly out of control, rolling over and over on the ground until his momentum finally ran out, leaving him bruised and disoriented. The Marquis clasped his hands behind his back, the wind stirring his robes as he stepped forward again, face calm and unperturbed.

His glowing eyes fell on Atreides as the Priest’s holy energy surged within him, and he prepared to unleash all that he could upon the noble demon in front of him. Bidding his minons to stay their hands, Decarabia continued to advance, even as Atreides threw out his hands, ready to release his deluge. The Marquis opened his mouth, and with the voice of hell itself, sang his blasphemous song. The force shredded through Atreides’ mystical defenses, and he clutched at his ears as he sank to the ground, overwhelmed by the power of the Marquis, and the unadulterated terror of his voice. No sooner had his knees touched the dirt than the massive hand of the demon was pressing down on his shoulder, preventing him from rising.

“You are different from the others,” Decarabia told Atreides, curiousity in his voice. “You have a connection to your diety, as I do to mine.” The Bishop cried out as the demon’s claws dug into his trapezius, and with his other hand, the Marquis began drawing his talons along the siren’s hair tunic Atreides wore, directly over the stomach. “I wonder,” he continued, “what music I could make from you.”

Before Decarabia could make another move, he trembled as the ground began to quake beneath him. Confused, he tossed his head about, and then shouted out as a surging bolt of lightning struck him in the chest, its energy making him convulse on his feet. He took a staggering step back, and then, for the first time, felt surprise.

The light of the full moon was obscured beneath the roiling, furious black clouds which had formed beneath it. Electricity danced out of them as the wind swirled rocks and dust off of the ground, hurtling them like tiny projectiles into the demons still standing around the Marquis. There was a crack of lightning, and then deafening boom as thunder leveled the monsters, sending them to the ground clutching at their ears. Decarabia alone remained upright, but was struck aghast as from the darkness, twin streams of fire burned through the night, walls of flame which engulfed his minions, sending them shrieking and calling out for help which none could provide.

All at once, the clouds lanced out lightning, each one striking a flaming demon as it touched the ground. The earth was torn asunder by each impact, the wind carrying the shattered debris and adding to the thick cloud of rock swirling through the air. Decarabia held one arm over his head defensively, the other going to protect the harp at his side. Peering forward, he saw an aura of magic flaring up through the dark, and a mortal form coming implacably forward, chains of lightning dancing around him.

“I am Feldin, Sorcerer Supreme of San d’Oria,” the Black Mage said, though it felt as if his voice was the thunder itself. “You have attacked my kingdom, murdered my kinsmen, and defiled the ancestral home of my king. You have earned my ire.” The ground shook with his every word, stated with such clarity and calm and the fury swirling around the man became all the more unsettling.

“My wrath,” the word was accentuated as a swirl of lightning bolts struck the ground all around the demoralized Marquis, “is substantial.”