Chapter 31
Jeria waved the guard’s forward. Before them, a young Outwalker motioned the party forward. Jeria had spent much of the trip trying not to laugh at the earnest young human, obviously one of those who had heard the exaggerated tales of his exploits. It bothered Jeria that the ruling council refused to allow him to correct the stories that were rapidly growing around him. It seemed that they felt it served everyone for him to be a larger than life hero. Everyone but himself- and even with all of their rationalisations he refused to take up the mantle as the Chief of the Outwalkers or to take a seat on the ruling council. The Master Harpist had not taken that refusal well!
He moved with the group of diplomats, mostly dwarves travelling from Fort Livian to Harmony Hall, though a few Dark Paeons had used the caravan, with its heavily armed guards as an opportunity to return to their homes after visiting, or more generally doing business with the dwarves. Bringing up the rear, riding next to a cart filled with cold iron, rode Mekior. In deference to his dead love, he wore his natural shape. To make his allegiance more obvious, he had engraved, and embossed in gold, the symbol of Harmony hall- the city’s coat of arms easily visible into the scales on his right shoulder. On the left, he had the coat of arms of the destroyed city of Weald Hall, though here the embossing was in black, his mourning for the lost city not yet done.
Mekior smiled and nodded at Jeria as he saw his gaze upon him, but his smile slipped as he gazed beyond his friend. Jeria turned quickly, in time to see the legs of the young Outwalker standing in the front disappear down the gullet of the massive cave worm before them. The guards moved forward quickly, pushing the diplomats behind them as they freed their crossbows from their backs, bending, and working their cranks, loading them with bolts of cold iron. Other guards took up position before them, their pikes sticking out in front, forming a defensive wall of sharp points.
Mekior looked at the massive black and purple worm. “Jeria, you know this thing? The non-tainted ones are used for mining in some areas underground. The tainted ones are stupid, just keep it away from people and you should be able to pick it off!”
Jeria didn’t look back as he answered. “I have seen the ones used for mining, they are half the size of this one.”
Jeria raised his arm, and the crossbowmen knelt, their aim steady as the worm rushed forward, falling back before the points of the pike. As Jeria dropped his arm, the crossbowmen released their bolts, their cold iron tips sinking deep into the flesh of the worm. Enraged, and not yet dead, it reared up, crashing down onto the pikes. Several men were flung upwards from its weight pushing against them; one had the handle of the pike driven backwards into him, the end piercing his mail, driven into his midriff, crushing his diaphragm, pushing bits of ribs into his lungs. He sank to the ground, coughing blood into his hands.
The rest of the guards reformed into a circle surrounding the worm, poking and prodding it, slowly widening its wounds. The ground began to get slippery from the ichor of the worm that was spurting out, while two moved their wounded comrade away from the combat arena. The ground was rapidly becoming wet, making the footing treacherous on the slippery, wet rock. The crossbowmen frantically reloaded, then turned to release another volley into the enraged, near mindless creature. Finally, the combined effect of the cold iron, and lost body fluids could be seen working on the worm as it collapsed, twitching feebly as it tried to reach the group, but could no longer move.
Jeria moved forward, kneeling by the wounded man. He examined the open wound, the chips of bone, and the ichor that had splashed onto the man, mingling with his blood.
“I’m sorry”, his whisper was inaudible to all but the wounded man, and the two guards that had moved him. With tears in his eyes, he drew his dagger, keeping it out the wounded mans view. Eyes locked together, he quickly drove it in, beneath the chin, punching through skin, cartilage and veins into the brain. Standing, the two guards quickly lifted the body onto the back of the iron bearing wagon.
The group fell back into position, and moved off, heading down the passage, past the new tunnel burrowed by the worm. As they moved past the hole, the guards moved between the diplomats and the opening, nervous what might come out, what unknown areas were now linked to this formerly safe passage. All passed by safely, all seemed fine, and as it disappeared into the darkness behind them, the light from their torches disappearing into the distance, no one noticed the figure emerging, the twin glows beneath the helmet contemplating the figures now deep in the darkness ahead.
Grix watched as the group moved onwards, chuckling to himself, happy with the result of his little experiment. He extended his senses, moving them beyond the mundane, into the arcane realms and beyond, feeling the currents around the young half-fiend. The power and potential were obvious, the question was how to turn him, corrupt him to his service. With the Archmagus and this one serving him it would be an easy matter to gain a seat at the ruling table.
Mekior, felt something, but could fathom no reason why; he just knew he was uncomfortable, watched. Turning he looked back into the darkness, but his eyes were defeated by the darkness, and the arcane power hiding the demon from his sight. Disturbed, knowing he felt something, but unable to account for it, he moved forward, urging his mount till he rode alongside Jeria.
“There’s something out there. I don’t know what it is, but I know it is there.’
Jeria looked back, his eyes taking a faint sheen, piercing through the darkness, but seeing nothing more than the empty darkness not even his vision able to see through the arcane protection hiding Grix. He stared backwards, waiting as the rest of the convoy moved past him. He trusted in the Fiend Hunter’s instincts, in his ability to detect fiends and their works.
‘We will push on. We can reach the city’s gates by late tonight, if we push forward and take no rests. Stay behind, watch our backs. I will let the guards and diplomats know what is happening, and break the news that we are going to push on with no breaks.’
Mekior nodded at Jeria’s words. “No one is going to like it. The guards will follow orders, but you may have to drag those useless diplomats along.”
Jeria laughed. “I’ll just whisper in a few ears. A little hint that we may be being followed should be enough to get them moving.” His face turned serious, “of course that is not just a hint, but a suspicion we both share. Truthfully, I have no desire to hurry back. Young Shedrig has a large family, and over protective mother, who is also a council member. She will create a scene about his death, and most likely bring it up in council. .And the death of Kirilos was blow. He could have survived that wound, but there was no doubt that he had been infected by the taint with that amount of tainted fluid on him. I hate the decisions of command, Mekior, having to decide whether a wounded man, one with whom I have fought, drank and wenched, will get the healing draught or the merciful dagger,”
Mekior clapped him on the shoulders, falling back, keeping watch for what he felt must be there, but could not be seen. In the meantime, Jeria moved forward, letting first the sergeant in charge of the guards know of the forced march, and then the merchants, diplomats and hangers-on. As expected, the soldiers accepted, the decision, the merchants clenched their teeth and said nothing, while the diplomats raised their voices in complaint. Assistance came from an unexpected quarter as one of the Dark Paeons, who had decided to travel in the safety of the caravan, spoke up.
“Be quiet, all of you! You make a cacophony of sound that reminds me of the out of tune noise emanating from striplings in their first concert. Do you forget who speaks? This is the Outwalker that brought the ones that saved us. This is the one who led the group into areas in which no other would venture, who spoke to ones before whom others trembled. If he says there is danger behind us, then we must take his word and do his bidding!”
The rest of the group looked at the Dark Paeon. Throughout the trip he had been quiet, moving in silence, never bonding, never talking in a way that would bring attention to him. Now, for the first time, the others truly looked at the young man. He did not seem remarkable, until one took in the details. A cloak cut in a certain fashion, a flash of colour from beneath the sombre black he wore, the little earrings, with shining stones- heartcells from deep within the earth. This was no Dark Paeon from Harmony Hall, but one from one of those other cities buried deep, and hidden well, one pf those who had cut themselves off from the other races in favour of keeping their slaves and a solitary existence. Questioning looks flashed between them, since when die those cities venerate the half-devil?
Jeria smiled at him in thanks as the disgruntled diplomats fell silent, amidst a mix of curiosity, pique and shame. The Dark Paeon bowed his head and smiled, before moving along with the rest of the group, sticking to the edge, and to him-self.
After eight hours of marching and the group was losing its cohesiveness. The grumbling of the diplomats had moved from a subdued murmur to continuous and loud protests. Protests that had become loud enough to lead the sergeant of the guards looked questioningly at Jeria. Jeria shook, his head. They were two hours away from Harmony Hall, attempting to quieten the diplomats now would create more problems and delays. With an exchange of hand signals, the sergeant directed part of his force to the sides while Jeria dropped back, joining Mekior at the rear.
Mekior looked disturbed, his green scaled skin showing a sheen of some oily substance, an effect Jeria had not seen in the many years he had known the fiend. He reached over, his hand lightly touching the fiend-hunter’s shoulder.
Mekior jumped, his hand darting to his sword as he twisted to face Jeria. He relaxed as he saw his friend, but his eyes held a hint of panic.
“I don’t know. Something is out there. Something or someone. Perhaps if I had grown up in the planes of Hell instead, of being one of the native born I would understand more, know more. But all I have is fragments, vague stories of the effects the powerful can generate. I don’t know what is out there, and, for all my abilities at detecting at fighting fiends, I am scared.”
Two hours. May the Gods grant us just two more hours of peace. Jeria let the group, including Mekior, move ahead. His gazed travel backwards as he relaxed and let his mind free. He raised his hand to his mouth, the red skin hovering besides his dark red lips. He bit down, tasting the bitter blood, and surge of power as he swallowed. He had only attempted this a few times since the power of his blood had been revealed in the battle outside Harmony Hall, and always in secret. He stood still as the power surged through him, as his face changed, the skin darkening till it was almost black, his eyes becoming deep red pits in which flames danced.
“Well done, fledgling. “ Grix’s voice came through to Jeria as he stared at the demon before him. “Most impressive for one who knows so little of himself and is stumbling blindly along; learn the power of your blood, it will serve you well.”
Jeria drew his axe, grasping it near the blade, letting the blood from where he had bit through his skin drip down the blade.
Griz eyed the axe, with the blood winding down the blade warily.
“Never fear fledgling, I am not foolish enough to attack you. Not when you can see me. I don’t know which would prove more potent, my enchantments of protection, or your blood; but I do know I have no desire to test the matter.”
Grix stepped back, circling round Jeria warily.
“I bring a warning, and a word of advice. First the warning. Beware your allies, there are those whose despair takes them beyond the mundane limits of sanity, and in their abandoning of all sanity, they embrace far more power than they know. As for the advice; know that Jelial’s grip tightens as he grasps at divinity. If you seek to break that hold, then you must travel north, travel beyond sane limits to the very edges of reality.”
Jeria looked at the demon, his voice stressed with the control he had to exert over his body from the rage and power suffusing his body from the blood.
“Who are you? Why do you tell me this?”
“I am Grix. And some of your questions will be answered when you understand that he who brought on my downfall, thinks to now use me to his own ends. A bargain has been struck, but his insanity, though increasing his power, has made him careless. The bargain makes us face one another, would make me bring on your downfall. And if you follow my advice, that is your most likely fate. If you do not follow my advice, then you have already lost.” Grix smiled, a most unpleasant sight, but one that did not trouble Jeria for long. For even as he let his control go, as he let his power drive him to swing his axes, a feint in a half circle that turned into a slash upwards, the axe blade swinging up, blood dripping as it slashed upwards towards Grix, who disappeared, teleporting to his place of safety.
Jeria stood, trying to reign in his anger, the blind fury that overcame him each time he tasted his blood. He moved in jerks as he fought down the fury, fought down the urge to turn around, to sink his sword into the bellies of the smug, loud diplomats, the parasites his men had defended, and died for! Kirilos dead, for what? For those rich, obnoxious dandies that complained about a little march? Jeria turned, screaming somewhere deep inside. He knew he should calm down, he knew that those ahead were not his enemies, but the blood ruled him.
He stumbled forward, his sword swinging forward as he moved past Mekior. His bloodshot eyes turned towards Mekior, contemplating the half-fiend. In the light, the dark embossing of the symbol of Weald Hall was invisible. Perhaps on purpose? Maybe he had made it so when he met his friends in the dark, when he had plotted their downfall. He turned to Mekior, to the fiend he was sure had betrayed them, brought that worm onto them, killed his men.
Mekior looked at Jeria, saw the change in him. He could see the change in Jeria’s skin, the eyes that were red pits in which flames danced, lips black with suffused power. Mekior felt fear, real fear. He did not know what had happened to Jeria, but he could feel the power, could feel the fiend within. He stepped back, scared of what he saw, scared of the obvious power Jeria had. And he knew that Jeria was by far the superior of the two if it came to a clash of weapons.
“Jeria, what is wrong?” Mekior continued to back away, his eyes on his friend as he did so.
“You betrayed us, did you not? You brought the worm to us, fed my men to it. You have always been in with your fellow fiends, merely biding your time until you could do the most damage. You just lost control did you? Just sought to spill a little of our blood, and thought we would never find out!’ Jeria stalked forward, his axe held low, both hands on the shaft.
Mekior took in the words, his appearance, the blood dripping along the axe. He reached out with his mind, trying to make contact, to touch his friend mind to mind, but all he met was a maelstrom of fury, a raging tempest that threatened to engulf his own mind, sending him fleeing in terror.
‘Ah my friend, whom have you faced? I will not run. Strike me if you must, but I will not fight.” He stopped spreading his arms, the light from the phosphoresecent moss on the walls giving his green scales a strange yellow air- making the emblem of the lost Weald Hall dance in the dim light.
Jeria stalked forward, a sneer on his face as he raised his axe. He brought it up, the blade of cold iron silvery in the yellow light, black were his blood dripped along it. He held it suspended, ready to strike, but the blow never fell, for from behind, undetected by him in his single minded fury, a dwarf gave a blow to his head, knocking him senseless and sending him sprawling.
Mekior heaved a sigh of relief.
“My thanks are endless, corporal. But what brought you back here?”
“I came to see that you were all right, fiend hunter. I saw Captain Jeria here menacing you, and could see he was not in his right mind? You think it taint?’
“I do not detect taint within him, but there was something following us earlier, and whatever it was disappeared a short while back, just before he returned and confronted me. Keep him under watch, but keep him safe, we will ask Sister Egrit and the other healers to look at him when we are within Harmony Hall. If it is taint, and he cannot be recovered, then at least it will not be me that condemns my friend!”
“Its true what you say, fiend hunter. But the Captain here is never the one to spare himself hard decisions. I guess that’s why he is Captain and we are not. I, too, would never be able to make the decision that would condemn a friend!”
Soldiers loaded the unconscious Jeria onto the back of one of the wagons. The muttering of the onlookers was loud, and the accusatory tone many were taking against Jeria set Mekior on edge. He whirled around, only to have the sergeant place a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Carefully now! They are scared and looking for someone to blame. We only have a few more hours march to the city, and then they will be off our hands. “
Mekior held himself back, his back to the diplomats and merchants as they went on ahead. He searched down the corridor, his senses straining, trying to detect that chilling presence he had felt earlier, but seemed to have disappeared. Every instinct told him that Jeria must have encountered something, someone, and that his condition was as a result of the encounter. What he couldn’t understand was how fast the taint seemed to have affected Jeria, if taint it was.
Their arrival back in the city was a muted, despite the diplomatic reception. Tired and angry from their forced march, the diplomats had shrugged off the festivities and made their ways to their respective lodgings, embassies in some cases, rooms in some of the better inns in others. Mekior had watched them disperse thankfully, able to focus his attentions on his unconscious friend. Jeria had yet to stir. So Mekior watched, scared of the result, as a fiend hunter bent down and pierced his skin with a testing pin. The two fiend hunters stood together, though the human would not look at Mekior; since he had revealed his deception and started to wear his natural form none of his former compatriots had spoken t him, not just because of his deception, but because of the doubt it raised- if they had been unable to detect him, how many others had similarly infiltrated the city?
So they stood, watching the prone body, bound to a stretcher with chains of silver metal, laced with cold iron, strong enough to hold all but the most powerful of fiends. Was he twitching? Was his body about to convulse, to tear itself apart as the taint within fought with the poison of the testing pin? Or was he just lying their, free of taint and assailed by some other malady? They waited, and when the bells tolled and no change had come over Jeria, Mekior breathed a sigh of relief; his friend bore no taint, but the mystery of his condition remained; he showed no signs of waking.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
