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.
Showing posts with label Marquis Decarabia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marquis Decarabia. Show all posts
Friday, February 12, 2010
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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