Chapter XXXVI: The Marquis and the Sorcerer

It was not any sense of camaraderie with those he traveled with which had brought Feldin into the fight. Nor any immediate desire to see the demons punished, or even any exceptional sense of outrage at the acts he saw the Marquis Decarabia commit against the villagers of Konschtat. Truth be told, he felt their very presence here to be in direct conflict with the mission handed down by King Destin; that being finding aid for the San d’Orian refugees and a safe haven for them to regroup. Clearly this place offered neither, and in his opinion, it would have been far more beneficial for them to move on. Once San d’Oria had recovered from the treacherous sneak attack the demons had dealt it, there would be vengeance enough for all those killed or tortured dealt out at the hands of the royal army. Getting personally involved was simply unnecessary.

He was the King’s personal sorcerer, the highest-ranked mage in the entire kingdom. Feldin alone stood astride the Elvaan race as the master of black magic, subduer of those elements which had led to shame for their people so many times at the hands of Windurstians in the time before Lanfeaur d’Oraguille. He knew the value of patience and the importance of priorities, and held a deep-seated disdain for frivolous activity that benefited no one. He hardly even spoke if not in some way necessary. To engage in personal combat with a demon of such obvious power would only serve to delay the achievement of their goal, and he despised that the others had not seen the foolishness of their actions, risking their lives now when they might save so many more later.

However, the Bishop’s words had rung in his ears. No longer about San d’Oria or Bastok, he had said. A matter which concerned them all, the cleric had gone on to allege. As he had watched his traveling companions fall before this unnatural creation, the idea of Decarabia advancing into the San d’Orian villages outlying the city began to take hold in his mind. Feldin had stifled the images, remembering the orders his King had explicitly laid out for him to follow. Then, the Marquis had pinned down Atreides, an official of the San d’Orian Church, and it had not been a far journey in Feldin’s mind to picture King Destin in his place.

Stopping Decarabia now, Feldin thought as twin rivers of flame burst forth from his palms, was an unfortunately necessary distraction from the task at hand.

Stones burst up from the ground and shattered into dust as Feldin approached the demon lord. Sneering, he summoned forth the elemental fury he commanded, and the air crackled and distorted from the heat as a volley of fireballs struck the Marquis. His robes aflame, he staggered back, obviously unprepared for such an assault. The sorcerer gave no quips or declarations past his initial statement; he only did what he was best at. There was a sudden overwhelming pressure around the demon, and the wind itself sliced into him unrelentingly. The glittering garb of the aristocrat was shredded and torn, blood-spattered pieces of it being torn away from the rest by Feldin’s spell. Grim-faced as the winds brushed his blonde hair away from his own face, the Black Mage took another step closer, lightning sparking in his fist.

The Marquis stared at the tattered remains of his resplendent robe as Feldin advanced on him, and, anger creasing his demonic brow, directed a wave of his dark energy at the mage in the form of a single protracted note. The howl struck Feldin like a fist, and he halted as he shook off the effects, allowing Decarabia time to recover. Skilled fingers strumming the bloody strings, the demon played a tune on his harp. The blood of his Elvaan opponent ran cold.

Wailing as unnatural as anything Feldin had ever experienced numbed him to the bone. He felt his mind rebelling against such sound, striving to get away as the Marquis played. For his part, Decarabia, his robes shredded, skin smoking and bleeding, looked but mildly amused as Feldin ground his teeth together, struggling against the power of his twisted requiem.

“How delightful,” Decarabia’s voice was like glass cutting through glass, “you’re enthralled by my music. I have prepared to play for you of the Otherworld since times your mortal mind could not grasp.”

Feldin said nothing, but a spasm shook him as the Marquis’s music filled the night. The sounds his strings produced were coupled by the pitiful cries of the villagers of Konschtat, still huddled within the central hall the Marquis had made his home, and Feldin realzed that each meaningless scream which pulsed through him was the cry of a loved one piercing through their hearts. Angrily, he cursed the Bastokans for making such a mess of things and forcing his hand. With all the strength of will he could muster, he concentrated through the song, digging his fingers into the ground. The houses around them began to shake, shingles falling from rooftops, cracks appearing in the foundation. Decarabia turned his head, suddenly aware of the disturbance, and Feldin took the chance to strike.

Rocks formed from the earth, stone jutting up in all directions. Like a shockwave from Feldin’s hand, it ripped through the ground, growing in intensity as it snaked towards the Marquis. Decarabia sensed his peril, and his wings flared outwards, lifting him into the sky. No sooner had his taloned feet left the ground, however, than a spike of stone burst forth from beneath him, striking him in the chest. He swerved erratically, off-balance in the air, and came back down to the ground skidding on his side where he collided with the stone base of a Konschtat home. With frustration, Feldin saw that it had not made him relinquish his grasp on the harp he held. The Elvaan growled, and a fireball sprang to life in his hands which he hurled towards the instrument of the demon lord. Balefully glowing yellow eyes seeing its approach, the Marquis stretched out one hand and caught the burst of flame, turning it over in his palm before Feldin’s astonished eyes.

Languidly, the demon stood, and with a clench of his fist, dispelled the blaze he held.

“You have talent I did not think to find in this barbaric place,” the Marquis complimented Feldin. “I shall save you, I think. Yes . . . when this land belongs to me, I will perform an aria with you.”

“Just die.” Feldin snarled at him, and a burst of lightning closed the distance between them, striking the Marquis in the chest. He stumbled a step or two, and then replanted his foot, shrugging off the blast.

“You are trying to hurt me?” the demon’s eyes were incredulous, and rapidly filling with anger. “You actually presume you could harm a member of the aristocracy? What madness grips you that you would possess such . . . such arrogance?” His words were spoken with rising fury in his unbearable voice.

Feldin did not respond with magic, gathering his power instead. That this was a revelation on the part of the Marquis was troubling to say the least. “What did you think I was doing?” he demanded.

Decarabia raised his harp, claws poised over the strings as he sneered menacingly at the Elvaan. “Auditioning,” he replied.

Feldin’s knees nearly buckled beneath him as wave of pure sound struck him. Marquis Decarabia’s harp screamed out a debilitating torrent of noise which emitted from his instrument. The demon’s frightening visage was full of bitter contempt as his fingers strummed the chords, their tortured cries striking the Black Mage like blows with every new note that was plucked. He had not imagined Decarabia to possess such power, and he fought a losing battle to remain upright as the Marquis closed in on him, the sounds from his cursed harp growing stronger with every step he took. Focusing on his training, his mastery of the elemental forces of magic, Feldin groped blindly through his connection with the powers he possessed, but for every redoubling of his efforts, the Marquis’s harp shattered his concentration once again. A trickle of blood formed from Feldin’s nose and ears, and he clutched at the dirt as he fell forward on his palms.

“This world belongs to me and my brethren, the Kindred. Animals cannot claim what is rightfully ours, yet you attacked me – me! – whom sought to give you a useful function.” Decarabia’s voice was like a battering ram, and Feldin raised his head, a fight just to keep his eyes open against the pain of the Marquis’s song. He had one spell, an ancient incantation he knew would end this conflict, but he would need time and focus to prepare it. He had neither. The rest of his life might well be measured in seconds.

“I apologize to you, despite your failings,” Decarabia told Feldin, looking down his fang-filled muzzle at the Black Mage as he scraped at the ground. “You will never know the sound of the symphonies I will compose when I truly establish myself in this world.”

The Marquis pressed his fingers to the strings of his harp, raising the instrument up and away from his body as he closed his eyes in reverence to the tune. Feldin choked back a scream as he began playing, a feeling sweeping through him like all the souls murdered to make the Marquis’s instrument were trying to wrench his own spirit away from him. He writhed under Decarabia’s song, and in the back of his mind, cursed the fools he had come here with. Who would safeguard San d’Oria now?

There was a distinct thunk. Somewhere, several yards away, the handle of an axe trembled as the blade was stopped by contact with the wall of a wooden house.

Something slim and heavy dropped in the ground in front of Feldin. He was so shaken from the Marquis’s spellsong that the lifeless things which fell before him almost went unnoticed as they wriggled, spreading thick, dark blood across the grass.

Decarabia’s jaw hung open, as he soundlessly searched for words. His harp had fallen silent, and he stared with disbelieving eyes at his hand. The blood-drenched wires of his obscene instrument had been rent in twain, and beyond them, he gaped at where his fingers had been sliced from his body.

His howl was like no other sound he had produced yet. The harp he held clattered uselessly to the ground as the Marquis clutched at his ruined hand, the digits which he dedicated to his music severed and bleeding out on the ground in front of Feldin. There was no magic behind his wail, no force or waves of screaming, only the pain of a loss too horrible to comprehend. The Marquis clutched at his ruined hand, spinning his head to the direction from which the axe had flown. Panting from the effort, his arm still outstretched with the motion of the cleaving toss he had performed, Etrien, a gaping hole through the tunic he wore still smoldering from where Decarabia had forced him back, stared up at the crippled demon lord.

“What have you done?!” Decarabia demanded, the force of his outrage striking Etrien in a baleful torrent. “What have you DONE?!”

The young warrior was frozen in place as, screaming his anger, Decarabia’s powerful legs closed the gap between them. His terrible gaze paralyzed the youth in place, and as those monstrous jaws closed in on him, Etrien could do nothing to defend himself.

There was a glint through the air, and the Marquis stopped as a sword, hurled with such force it would only be recognized as something other than a flash of light until it lodged itself hilt-up in the ground several feet away. The demon turned, teeth bared at the sight of Emblim, who had thrown his sword in between Decarabia and the hapless Etrien. Screeching his splintering howl, Decarabia charged at the Paladin, the claws of his remaining fingers outstretched. Bracing for the impact, Emblim raised up his shield, and when the demon lord struck he was practically rattled out of his armor with the intensity. The blow carried him off his feet, and for a moment he thought he was falling. Then Emblim realized that he was still, suspended in the air.

Decarabia’s claws, embedded in the shield Emblim carried, bore his weight as the Marquis lifted the Paladin over his horned head. Flecks of spittle borne from rage foamed at the mouth of the demon as he bunched the muscles of his arm, and with a titanic heave, sent Emblim crashing to the ground. The Paladin found himself embedded in the dirt and grass, a hole formed where Decarabia had slammed him. Struggling to move, he saw the demon lift his foot, preparing to crush the life out of him.

“No!” a voice shouted out, and Emblim was shocked when a mass of silver and white crashed bodily into Marquis Decarabia. Erilan, bouncing off of the demon’s stone-like frame, grunted as he collided with the ground, rolling over quickly in an attempt to regain his footing. Decarabia, knocked off balance by the surprise assault, could not stop Emblim as he pushed himself free, the Marquis’s taloned foot stomping into the spot where he had been not a moment later.

“You are animals,” Decarabia declared, a rasp evident even in his distorted voice, “beasts with illusions of self-awareness. I gave you my beautiful song, and this is how you repay me? Can you not even comprehend the generosity I showed you?”

“Murderer!” Emblim retaliated, feeling the indignity of the Marquis’s words stinging at his very soul. Grasping his shield in both hands, he brought the end of it down into the gut of the towering demon, and there was a crack like thunder as the combination of Emblim’s strength and Decarabia’s resiliency collided. The shield broke into shards, the edge of it embedded into the stomach of the aristocrat. He threw his head back with a pained cry, clutching at the wound with his one good hand.

“Now,” someone said from behind them, “while he is weakened.”

Emblim and Erilan both were caught unprepared for the surge of holy energy which cascased past them, striking the Marquis with blinding intensity. Veins of golden and white force illuminated the demon from within, and light shone out of his body like a beacon as the force overwhelmed him. Gargling on blood and spit, trying to form words, he stumbled backwards, failing to keep himself steady. Sinking to his knees, the demon lord raised his trembling head, the blood from his wounds forming a pool at his feet.

Atreides, the wand he carried alight with the holy power he channeled through it, lowered the instrument as Feldin stepped forward. The air around him shimmered and distorted with the force of his aura, and his hair and robes blew back as he stared across the battlefield towards the Marquis, eyes alight with the power brewing within him. The ground trembled at the Black Mage’s feet, and when he raised his fist at the demon, a shudder passed through Decarabia at the touch of Feldin’s power.

“You couldn’t . . . “ Decarabia protested, “you just couldn’t have this kind of power . . . “

“Clearly, you have underestimated us mindless animals.” Feldin was not normally one to quip, but there was no stopping the onset of his spell now. He released his clenched fist, and the power poured out of him like a river breaking through a dam.

“I only wanted to make music . . . “ Decarabia said. “What was so wrong about that?”

No one had time to answer before the ground itself shuddered and hissed, steaming fissures breaking through the earth. The Marquis screamed, then was cut short as the quaking ground collapsed upon him, crushing him with terrifying force. One moment he was in the epicenter, the surface roiling and heaving around him, and the next there was naught but a coffin of stone, jagged rocks spiking out from its surface. Kicking up a cloud of dust and rock, it collapsed, and then was still, Decarabia’s skewered form entombed within.

Then, there was silence. Blessed silence for the village of Konschtat.

“You wanted Vana’diel so badly,” Feldin thought to himself as he brushed off the sleeves of his dirtied cloak, “enjoy this small piece of it.”

His thoughts were interrupted as there came a great whoop of triumph, and he turned as the Knight-Captain Erilan rushed into him, sweeping him off the ground in an embrace.

“You did it, Feldin! You beat Decarabia! We – “

Whatever they were, Feldin decided to leave it a mystery. Erilan collapsed backwards in shock as a spike of electric energy pulsed through his body and Feldin touched lightly down on the ground.

“Don’t you TOUCH me,” Feldin warned, his voice dripping venom. “This entire situation could have been avoided had you listened to reason from the start. That whelp could have gotten himself killed without it affecting our mission one way or the other but thanks to you and that Bastokan imbecile we are now injured and weakened, our mission delayed, and for what?”

“Feldin,” Atreides said in his solemn, preaching tone that the Black Mage so despised, “we have saved these people from an evil – “

“What we have done is murder a member of the demon aristocracy. The Kindred, as he called them. Do you believe that these other Kindred leaders will not notice his passing? Or the several hundred or so normal Kindred still lurking through the area? This village is no safer now than it was an hour ago. The only difference is that without Decarabia to stay their hands, the demons will slaughter this villagers all the sooner.”

“You heartless - !” Erilan fumed, but he was cut off as a hand pressed against his chest. Emblim stood in front of him, halting his friend. His visage was clearly angered, but his look was not venomous as the others were. Troubled, perhaps, but whatever rage he had was not directed at the Black Mage.

“Sorcerer,” the Bastokan began, “you’re right.”

“What?!” Erilan shouted, but Emblim continued talking.

“I will apologize to King Destin upon our return and take responsibility should anything happen because of our actions here. I made a tactical error that placed us all in jeopardy.”

“Captain,” Atreides said, confused, “what we did here was noble – “

“That may be,” the Musketeer plowed over protests of the Bishop, “but it was not what we were sent to do.”

Feldin gave no reply. Snorting his disgust at the whole situation, he only turned and walked away, towards the open square where the villagers were beginning to emerge, slowly grasping the situation. Some were incredulous, others weeping openly. They had been freed from a great terror.

“You can’t believe that,” Erilan said in shock, grabbing Emblim’s arm.

“Hmm? Oh, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t be happier that we killed that demon bastard.” Startled at the reply, Erilan was completely befuddled when Emblim turned to face him, a grin spread across his face. “But after seeing what he did to Decarabia, do you really want him angry with us?”

Erilan’s jaw dropped as Atreides gave a chuckle, and then winced as the pain from the demon lord piercing his trapezius with its claws shot up his neck. He had healed the wound, but part of his tunic was still torn away, and blood had caked the outside of it. “I must say,” the cleric intoned, moving one hand over his wound, “he does make a point though. If this Marquis was but part of a larger demon aristocracy, the others will not take his death lightly. It would be best that we move on with some expediency.”

“Excuse me,” they heard, and the trio turned to see Etrien standing beside them. He appeared as savaged as the rest of them, and clutched at one shoulded as he approached, legs dragging with the effort. When he raised his head, however, his eyes were clear, and shone with appreciation. “Thank you,” was all he could muster after a long pause attempting to gather himself. “Thank you.”

There were questions which remained, problems to be dealt with, and the still looming task stretching out before them. For now, however, as the sun crested the hills of the Konschtat Highlands, that they had silenced this one evil, lent their powers to those who needed them, was enough. For now, amongst the villagers crying tears of gratitude, they could rest.

The dawn was upon them, and a long night had ended.