WARLORDS IV – STORY

Chapter Six: In Death's Hands

There was, above all else, beneath all else, and all around him, cold. Not the dry, scouring cold of a clear winter's day, nor the wet cold of the pounding rain, which soaks through skin, and flesh, and bone. No, it was a cold more ancient and awesome than these, the cold that existed in the dark void before the gods poured shape into the universe, the cold that still exists, sometimes, in moments when the gods seem to have vanished once more.

There was cold, and there was darkness, so absolute that even with an eternity, his eyes would never adjust. The cold and the darkness were not things, but the absence of things -- it was not that his eyes could not see, but rather that there was nothing to see, nothing at all, and nothing to feel save nothingness itself.

But he was in the void, something within the nothing. And who was he? What was he? There had been a name, a body, tired flesh wrapped around broken bones, sealed up in skin burnt and rent. Skin, flesh, bones -- there were still the words in him, but they had no meaning here. What had he been? Dig deeper. Blood pumped through veins and spilled in the dirt, blood that carried in its memories, a name, a people. What people? There had been cities, great cities of stone and timber, stretching from coast to mountain, from forest to plains. Had been. What was there now? There was one city, he remembered, broken down and faded, filled with the dying. What city? There had been a name.

But he couldn't remember. It didn't matter.

Well then, who was he? What was in his blood if his people were the dying embers of a burning empire? There had been a House, a family. A father. A sister. Dead. Dead. There had been a balding uncle with an easy laugh. Dead. There had been a crest, a burning sword. Broken, gone.

Dig deeper.

There was him. He was alive.

No. No, he wasn't.

There had been dreams, or memories of dreams, of a time when mankind spread across the world, full of vigor and hope, certain that each dawn brought us one step closer to a golden age of peace and prosperity.

There had been delusions, nothing more, that shattered on the hard stone of reality. The void was no place for delusions.

Then there had been his own hopes. Rekindling the fire in his people's hearts, rebuilding the ruins of his city, restoring his House, drawing man back from the brink of doom. Beneath the flesh, within the blood, beyond the delusions, there had still been hope.

And in the blackness of the void, there shimmered a single star, a tiny pinprick of light almost wholly subsumed by the darkness. Yet there it was, defiant.

A name. Daerec.

He rolled the name around in his mind. It felt comfortable, like a well-worn boot or a familiar meal. Yes. Daerec.

The star swelled a bit larger.

A name. Nothing more. Clinging to false hopes and a pathetic identity. That was not enough, the cold warned him, prying away at the name. Not enough by any measure. A name alone does not justify life, and hopes. . . Hopes were ever the coin of the weak. Destiny is forged by steel and fire, dreams crushed or created by those with the will and power to take them. In the struggle of hope and truth, hope had never been the victor. And here is truth, in the cold and the dark: every man dies, and with him die his hopes. Every empire falls, every race is destroyed, flame turns to ash when its course is run. Remember the Dwarven halls; remember the twisted being on the rack. Remember the broken lands of Kor.

But each of these challenges lent him a hook. Kor. The prisoner. Duernoth. And then: Kurgen, Arvad. . . Terrwyn. The light grew larger and larger still, now the size of a child's fist.

Kurgen is himself broken, and his race fades to naught. Arvad flees his past but can find no haven, and the memories that pursue him will be his doom. And Terrwyn is the plaything of the deathknight, bent to his will and powerless before his might. What comfort are they?

No comfort. But a spur. For beneath dreams lies duty. And duty cannot be relinquished, not in pain, not even in death. He owed a duty to them, to protect them.

A duty? Surely not. What duty is owed to the wizard whose failed sorcery doomed his comrades? What duty to the Dwarf who failed to control the golem, whose claims it was that started this hopeless quest? And the Sirian? Who mocked, who failed, at the final hour, who could neither fight the golem nor the will of the deathknight? What duty is owed to the weak and foolish, who have betrayed. . .

But there was a voice.

Soft.

Tender.

Distant.

It came from within the star, from beyond the star, beyond the darkness. "Daerec," it whispered. "Come back to us."
There is peril in that voice. Life is agony. Die now, and still in your dreams, you might imagine that things happened as you had hoped -- Lysea renewed, the light victorious over the darkness. Die now a hero's death, sword in hand, defying your enemies, against odds insurmountable. A return to life is a return to captivity, to die at the executioner's hand, or upon the torturer's rack, knowing that all your hopes were false and all your labors for nothing. Die now, Daerec, and embrace your dreams.

"Come back to us."

It was so hard to move in the cold, to stir at all. His limbs were stiff and leaden, his blood icy and unmoving. But still, he dragged himself forward, toward the star, the voice, life.

Yet the journey was so far. What seemed an inch was a mile. The light had seemed within reach, but now the distance yawned and the darkness mocked. The pleading voice, tiny and hopeless, was powerless before the void.

Daerec was going to die. For the first time, the thought settled upon him with complete certainty. At first, when he was unaware of himself, he knew only that the void threatened to consume him, without understanding all that it entailed. Now, knowing himself, remembering life, he realized that death was overcoming him. There was no strength left in him to fight it, and the force of duty could propel him no further.

The star flickered and began to shrink, drawing farther and farther away. "Please, Daerec, breathe. Let me save you as you saved me." Terrwyn's voice was beyond despair. "Please, take my life."

And as the star fell away, a thin tendril of light stretched out from it, speeding through the night, questing toward Daerec. "Please, Daerec, take my life. . ."

And then the tendril touched him, and the darkness fell away amid a rush of sound and beauty.

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But this was not life.

Not his life.

Instead, he found himself assailed by the thoughts of someone else, echoing in his mind as if they were his own. He could not catch hold of them, or make sense of them, and madness washed up against his consciousness as he struggled to maintain his identity.

And then, before him, or inside him, one memory took concrete shape.

He -- no, not he! -- knelt before an ancient king, whose white hair hung in a tired mane all about his face. He had a great beard, or what might once have been great, but now seem straggly and limp. The king's eyes were milky blue, and were covered with splotches of translucent skin. Below his head was a thin neck, hanging with skin and veined in blue. Above it was a crown of gold that looked terribly heavy atop such a fragile head. Centered in the crown was an enormous ruby, and across the king's lap was a sword so polished that it seemed to glow even in the dim light of the throne-room.

"My liege," he said, but with a voice not his own. "I beg you -- if what the Dwarf-lord says is true, we must move swiftly, and crush this threat now."

The king wheezed and coughed, clearly his throat with a painful rattle. "What trouble is it to us that enemies beset the Dwarves?"

Daerec felt his body tremble with barely contained frustration.

"King Halwende, we have ever ridden forth to face the hosts of darkness, wherever they do battle."

A wheezing laugh answered him. "Do not seek to remind me of history, girl. I have carried our people's burden for many, many years of grief and war. And now, with Bane driven north and Sartek defeated. . . now we have peace."

"At what cost peace?" he challenged, rising to his feet. "Without honor, there can be no peace, only slavery! The Dwarves were our allies of old --"

"You forget yourself!" snapped a voice from beside the throne. The chancellor, with hair the color of iron and eyes just as hard, stepped forward. "Our king is our honor."

But King Halwende raised his hand to stop the chancellor. "If this . . . child, who knows nothing of war's price wishes to learn," he bobbed his head and wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth, "then let her. Go, Knight Terrwyn, seek out your battle and your fame and your honor. But do not return to Marthos with hands unbloodied; do not return until you know. . ."

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Daerec gasped for air and retched, vomiting bloodstained bile on the hard stone ground. He sucked in more breaths and felt his body convulse once more. He blinked, then blinked again, clenched his fists, shook his limbs.

And then saw before him what had dragged him from death's grip.

Terrwyn knelt on the ground beside him, her hand placed upon his heart. He looked up at her face; it was changed. A lock of her hair had gone from golden to purest white. Gone were the harsh lines and frosty eyes, replaced by a trembling smile. "You've alive," she said, and never had any voice sounded more sweet.

Daerec nodded, and then let his head fall back.

Almost immediately, his rest was broken by the mocking voice of the deathknight, Eligos. "And I thought the paladin lacked the strength." He pushed Terrwyn aside and stared down at Daerec, his fiery eyes burning holes into Daerec's mind. "You were a fool to come back." He turned to his Gnolls. "Get him up and bind him."

As Daerec was dragged to his feet, he saw that Kurgen's arms were chained, as were Arvad's, whose mouth was gagged and fingers bound together with rope. He felt the Gnolls yank his arms behind his back, felt the claps of iron upon them, but at the same time ignored it. His eyes were on Terrwyn, whose eyes were in turn on him, each seeing behind those eyes the memories they had exchanged, and the lives they had saved.

"Don't bother with the paladin," the Daemon told his followers. "She won't go anywhere." He turned his gaze on Terrwyn and cupped her face in one gauntleted hand. "Will you, my little rose?"

She pulled away, but gave no reply.

"Bring them!" Eligos shouted. "We go now to Aceldama! Those who lag are those who die!"

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The march across the wasteland of Kor was lethal. For the first three days, they marched for so many hours that when at last the Daemon called a halt, many of those who collapsed to rest never awakened. The companions were kept separate, but even had they been together, none would have had the energy to speak. At last, seeing his army dwindling from a horde to a few tattered packs, Eligos slowed the pace. "Curse you weaklings!" he snarled, gutting one of the slower Gnolls with his cruel blade. "Curse Sartek for spawning such useless beasts."

The Gnolls groveled and tucked their tails between their legs and gave no reply. Still, with the slower pace, they seemed happier.

The land had changed slowly from plains to brackish marsh, but the heat did not diminish. Rather, it became more oppressive, and was accompanied by the endless buzz of enormous, blood-sucking insects. With their thick fur, the Gnolls appealed little to the bugs, but the humans and the Dwarf, unable to protect their skin, made fine pickings. Welts and sores soon covered Daerec, adding to his misery.

It was in that misery that first he heard the voice.

The same voice from the void.

Daerec, it said to him.

"Terr. . . Terrwyn?" he replied, uncertainly.

Then there was a grunt from a Gnoll, and a whip cracked down across his back. "No speak!" it barked, whipping him once more. "No speak now, or no speak ever, hu-man!"

Daerec, he heard once more. Can you feel this? Can you hear me?

Daerec saw Terrwyn glancing his way from where she stood beside Eligos.

He nodded to her. I hear you, he thought, hesitantly.

This may be the only hope we have, he heard. But "heard" was not right. Rather, the words, or the meaning of them, welled up from within his mind, accompanied by all the doubt and fears that assailed Terrwyn. The Daemon does not know what we have shared.

What have we shared? he replied.

Life.

And then she fell silent, and Daerec could see that Eligos had wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Impotent fury filled him, but all he could do was lower his head and lay one foot before the next, and continue, one step at a time, toward whatever hell the Daemon had planned.

I will kill him, Daerec promised, to himself, but with such ardor that he knew Terrwyn could hear his rage.

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On the sixth day, the mud of the swamps had turned a crimson hue and the air stank of death. The trees that grew from the marsh were withered and skeletal, reaching out with branches shaped like claws, covered in inch-long thorns. Daerec's wounds had been healed by Terrwyn's gift in the caverns, but the exhaustion of the journey was taking its toll on his body. He had not looked up from his feet for hours, had not communicated with Terrwyn -- he was too weak.

So, it was not until the Gnolls gave out a raucous cheer that he saw their destination.

Perhaps once, ages past, there had been a reason to build a city in such a place. Indeed, from the look of the ruins, the city's birth had been long before the histories of Lysea had begun. Marble statues, shattered into cruel mockeries of human forms, adorned avenues overrun with creeping vines and swamp grass. The ambition of the palaces Daerec saw was matched only by the extent of their destruction. No roof stood, no walls were left without crumbling ruin. It was a city of the dead.

"Welcome to Aceldama!" Eligos laughed. "Welcome to your doom."

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