Chapter 3 - 002

Wortham

Fog rolled in from all directions in the swampy area that led into the mouth of the river where Wortham's dock sat. The light of the lantern at the front end of the boat seemed to do nothing to dispel the creepiness of the dark mists. He stood in the boat carefully as the old fisherman behind him began speaking.

"This is it. The dock for Wortham. That whole village has gone to Hell, by the sounds of it. You sure I can't take you someplace else?" he asked, clearly nervous in this foreboding environment.

Keeping his eyes on the dock coming up beside them, Pyresong turned his head enough for the fisherman to see the slight grin, though not his eerie eyes, and said in a deep, though lighthearted, voice, "You could. But you won't." Then, turning his attention to the dock again, "Wortham is beyond the forest, I take it?" he asked more seriously.

"Aye," replied the fisherman, with no small amount of trepidation, "follow the road and be on your guard. Unfortunate things happen to travelers in that forest."

He lightly stepped off the little boat and onto the small dock. "Do not concern yourself over my fate. Death and I are...old friends."

The fisherman had nothing more to say to that. It was clear he was dealing with a Priest of Rathma. Being necromancers, they understood the relationship between life and death in a way most others couldn't begin to comprehend. Nodding to himself, the fisherman shuddered and used his oar to push off from the rickety little dock. He quickly turned the boat around to head for home and away from the creeping horrors he sensed in the fog around that dock.

Alone, Pyresong stood on the end of the dock while he summoned some skeletal helpers. Once ready, he hefted his shield in one hand and scythe in the other. He set his pace at a slow, silent stalk. Mist obscured the land beyond the rickety old dock. He could sense already something dark and dangerous ahead. Twelve years of wandering the world had only sharpened his senses for danger. And the magic of his new sight only enhanced these senses.

His feet had barely left the wood of the dock to land on soft, wet earth when his magically enhanced sight caught movement to his left. Just a few feet away, a man fell to his belly and reached out to him, pleading in silence for help. Even as he turned in that direction, a deeper shadow in the mist appeared behind the man on what used to be a small fishing warehouse. Its grotesquely shaped arms slammed down onto the man's back in a way that left no breath even for a scream. As the man died, Pyresong was already in motion with his scythe and skeletons. Ahead of his own swing, he sent a ball of green spirit fire to stun and burn the barely visible enemy. It was already too late for the man, as he well knew. But whatever it was that killed him would not survive beyond this last victim.

In a second, it was over. The dead man lay still, oozing blood from the hideous wounds he had suffered. And, on top of him, lay a half-rotten corpse.

The undead, he thought in surprise. What fate has befallen Wortham?

He had vague memories of having been in this area once or twice in his travels. It was a village buried in the forest in Khanduras, much like any other. Like most villages, they had not welcomed Priests of Rathma with open arms. Though they grudgingly understood their purpose and work. In some of these more rural places, necromancers were at least tolerated rather than immediately run out of town. Still, he could remember little of this place. In itself, he could recall no real significance with the name Wortham. Though, it was very close to the now infamous Tristram. Another bustling and prosperous village brought down by Darkness and the terrible things that lurked in the night.

Uncertain if what was happening here might somehow be related with that nearby territory, he let his senses roam around him. With renewed urgency, he turned his feet to the path through the forest he knew now would take him to what had been foreseen and dreamt about so many years ago. For twelve long years, he had known something was coming, though he had desperately hoped it wouldn't.

It had begun, just as Rathma had warned him so long ago. Reflexively, he glanced to the sky. The stars were gone. While a part of him knew this was just a result of the thick blanket of fog, he couldn't help a mental shudder at the recollection. He quickly shoved aside those memories. Whatever awaited him, there was no going back now. Helpless people under siege by untold horrors had put out word far and wide begging for assistance from anyone capable of helping. He could not ignore that need.

A few minutes later, he encountered yet more undead, feeding on the corpses of recently slain villagers. Grimly, he set himself and his skeletons to destroying each one. When the little battle was over, he stared sadly at the four villagers' bodies. Two adults and two very young children. A family destroyed. Once again, his compassion tugged at him. He had learned long ago that most Priests of Rathma lost a significant portion of their compassion and trust for the living. If nothing else, they were typically more comfortable with the silent dead than the hostile living. No one liked a necromancer, except sometimes other necromancers; often, not even them. He was something of an anomaly. Despite his teachings, he still cherished life in all its forms as part of The Balance. His particular talents very often lead him to helping the dead as often as the living. Lives cut short were always wrong, to him. This should not have happened.

More lives consumed by the Darkness, he thought sadly, staring down at the bodies. At least their souls had moved on instead of lingering here in torment.

His heart ached at the injustice of it and the fact that there was no time to see to their rites and interment. But it only further strengthened his resolve. He knew now he was needed here, desperately. A slight movement in the mist ahead of him had his feet moving before he'd even realized what he'd seen. A heartbeat later, he watched as a twisted human form in a red hood gripped a villager by the throat.

"Get away from those villagers!" he shouted as the warped man threw the man to the ground.

The red-clothed figure laughed mockingly. To Pyresong, he stank of demonic and hellish influences. Before he could get there, the robed figure sent out a rope of vile-feeling magical energy that made the villager scream. The poor man was twisted by magic into a wretched zombie. He sent his skeletal minions to take care of the zombie as he directly attacked the demon-tainted person that had created it. Though somewhat more powerful than the zombie, it was still a weak human and died with no more than a swipe of his scythe. When it was over, he stared around him at the multitude of other corpses.

Magic, he thought. Something is using magic to create these undead. They're not just rising from the grave. What could—

He didn't get to finish his thought as the mist lit up a little further down the path. His normal eyes would never have seen it. This was his magically enhanced sight, picking up the use of hellish magic nearby. As he ran silently ahead, making no more noise than a cat, he took the scene in in less than a heartbeat and acted. Three more of those people in red hoods were aiming that dark, sinister magic at some helpless villagers in the center of a summoning circle.

Too late again! he growled in his head as he engaged.

With swift, certain movements and mental directions to his skeletal warriors, he killed the now zombie villagers he'd been unable to save, along with those twisted people that made them. When it was over, he stared only for a moment at the horror of all the bodies piled around him. There were easily a score of victims right here in this little area. Unsure of what would happen next, he did what he knew was probably not the best idea in terms of concealment, but at least ensured none of them would rise again to attack him from behind. He used his innate ability to manipulate fire to set alight the piles of bodies. The flames burned high and bright in the misty darkness. Job done, he turned his feet toward Wortham once again.

Minutes later, he heard her voice. Though he couldn't yet make out the words, he could easily detect the filthy intonations behind them that indicated hellish magic. He crept forward carefully, wondering if it might be better at this point to get off the trail. But he knew he was up against magic. There was only so much that could be done to conceal oneself when magic was involved, anyway. Ahead, he sensed and saw the gentle red glow of that filthy feeling and demonic magic in a wider section of the road. Probably a place where travelers camped once upon a time. Now, it was desecrated with a seal carved into the hard-packed dirt, and every crevice of this unholy sigil was filled with blood. Appalled, but in no way deterred, he spotted another human twisted by demonic influence—likely a priestess—across the seal from his position.

She spotted him at the same time. Her red and black robes fluttered in an invisible wind, while her powerful magic staff glowed with unholy red light. She gave a hideous, dark laugh and motioned to the ground in the center of the bloody seal.

"An outsider...drawn where they do not belong," she drawled mockingly. "Yet, you are too late. Wortham is damned."

Before the necromancer could even form a reply, the seal bubbled with far more blood than had been used to make it. An entire pool of rippling blood rose up as he danced back another step to set his stance for whatever came out of it. He realized almost too late that it was a summoning circle. Her red magic only made the raging pool of blood larger. In moments, a massive demon with a mouth across its enormous belly rose up out of the blood pool. And then he saw another flash of red in the background when the twisted priestess disappeared in the darkness and mist.

He had no time to consider her escape. Now his full attention was on this Putrid Desecrator she had summoned. He was not unfamiliar with this type of demon, though he had not been entirely prepared for an encounter of this magnitude. He took a more few steps back while he sent his skeletal warriors after it in a frenzy of blows. At the same time, he summoned a skeletal mage to back him up. Then he began throwing balls of spirit fire at it as fast as he could make them, one after another, again and again. And, even for all that, he was forced to jump back and roll out of the way when the demon bore down on him. On the ground, he used his scythe to swipe the legs right off of the thing. Then he stood back and used a mental command to set his skeletons to finish off the wailing, helpless demon. Seconds later, it melted back into a pool of blood that left only the seal of blood behind on the ground.

Furious now, he took a moment to blast the ground with fire to scorch away the unholy symbol and its central eye sigil. He didn't stop until where was nothing left but a big blackened spot of ground where the summoning circle had once been. Slightly winded by these efforts, he took a moment to dismiss the mage and then turned his feet back toward Wortham. His sense of urgency had only been increased by this unexpected encounter and attack. He must get to Wortham. Now!

All his senses heightened, and his magical eyes straining through the fog, he jogged down the road. In the unnatural stillness of this area, he could hear raised voices and even screaming somewhere ahead. Amazingly, he encountered nothing else until he approached the small creek bridge that led directly into Wortham village. As the large village came into sight, so did several armed guards ready for battle. They hadn't even noticed him approaching. Their attention was fixed on something to Pyresong's left, deeper into the forest. Three of the guards disappeared at a run into the mist. The fourth one caught sight of him and stopped. He raised his sword toward Pyresong, ready for a fight right there on the bridge.

"After 'em, quickly!" he shouted to the other guards. "I'll secure the gate!"

Knowing that Priests of Rathma were seldom a welcome sight and that he was still fully armed and ready for combat, Pyresong flung his shield and scythe out to his sides in a gesture of non-combativeness that was recognized throughout Sanctuary. The guard relaxed only slightly, his sword still ready to strike.

"You there! What's your purpose, stranger?" he called, stepping backward onto the bridge to defend it.

Behind him in the village several people wailed and screamed. Pyresong just barely resisted the urge to shove the guard aside and get to the source of those screams.

"I received word that Wortham had been attacked. The mayor requisitioned aid. What can I do to help?"

Listening intently to the noises all around in the mists, he kept his arms out to his sides. The guard's shoulders relaxed only slightly as he exhaled a tense sigh of relief. Apparently, whatever threat did not appear to be within the village behind him at the moment.

"The mayor? Akarat bless that man's soul! Those cultists just attacked the town and dragged our people toward the caves in the west." He gestured to another path where the other guards had disappeared. "If you're here to aid us, then help my men kill those bastards and bring back anyone who lives. They're using the caves to the west. Go! Please, hurry!"

He needed no further urging or information. As he had suspected, demonic cultists were behind this. At a silent, flat run, he took off after the other guards. He'd had run-ins with cults before in his travels, but nothing on a scale big enough or powerful enough to take on an entire village, especially one the size of Wortham. Most cults in such areas were little more than rebellious dabblers wanting to be big, scary demon worshipers. This was too organized, and clearly a real demon was involved. The filthy, hellish magics he'd seen and felt confirmed it beyond doubt. These were no dabblers or wannabes.

"We'll guard the gates with our lives, I promise you!" he heard the guard telling the clearly panicked villagers behind him.

Almost immediately, he heard the sound of the other guards in the fog ahead of him, engaged in battle. Enchanted wolves the size of small horses and giant spiders bigger than the men were blocking the path. Assessing the situation at a run, he made a split-second decision.

"Run to the rocks!" he shouted at the guards as he unleashed his skeletons and a barrage of spirit fire at the wolves and spiders.

Thankfully, the guards, used to obeying orders, did so without hesitation. Moments later the men were clear of the immediate area while the skeletal warriors kept the creatures occupied for a few seconds. He used his power to explode the existing corpses to kill or maim the last twisted creatures that had survived the initial battle.

"Get back to Wortham and guard the gates! I'll find the villagers!" he shouted over his shoulder as he resumed his rather reckless run.

Just a little further along the same path, more giant spiders were holding back another small group of village guards. He growled slightly in disgust. There were few creatures in all of Sanctuary that disgusted him as much as giant spiders. One man in an orange uniform was already on the ground writhing in agony from the venom. Sadly, he had no antidote or antivenin to help the poor guard. He hoped there would be a well-supplied healer back in the village to help the men affected.

"Get back!" he shouted, again unleashing his power and skeletons on the spiders.

As the last of the spiders and wolves died, he spotted a guard on the ground holding a wound on one arm to stop the bleeding. He unhooked a couple of light healing potions from his belt and handed them to the wounded guards.

"The others are guarding the gates. Get to them, quickly! I'll find the villagers."

Not waiting for a reply, he continued following the swiftly narrowing path. While this thick forest appeared to be a well-traveled area, this looked like little more than a hunting trail. Still, he had little problem finding his way through the murk and mist. An eerie sensation of something filthy ahead practically drew him forward. A few minutes later, the mists parted, and he was faced with a massive rock wall and dead trees. The path curved away to follow the base of the rock wall. Thanks to his magical sight, he was well-equipped to see the opening that led downward into very faint candlelight. Slowing only slightly, he inspected the opening. Blood...trails of it leading down and in.

This must be the cavern the guard spoke of.

Not knowing what else he would face inside, he began to creep carefully inside. He dismissed his minions, knowing they would be both easily visible and noisier than he could possibly be on his own. He also knew that more often than not, any creature—especially the nastier human ones—felt safer in their lair and would not expect any kind of assault.

He was right. The spiders left to guard the entrance had likely been well fed recently. They took little notice of him as long as he walked along the opposite wall. Minutes crawled by as he moved from shadow to shadow. Somewhere in the cave's depths, he could hear raised voices shouting in fear. One man's horrified screaming and pleading for his life nearly spurred him into another reckless run. Another could clearly be heard praying loudly for the Light to protect and save him. But he knew from experience, he would help no one if he got caught in some kind of trap trying to get to those people. He struggled against his desperate need to save them. Forcing each step to be placed silently and carefully as he traversed the shadows.

Eventually, he came to the "inner sanctum" of this lair. Hellions and cultists sat around on both sides. There was no shadow in which he could hide in that section. Knowing he would make a lot of noise here, he mentally prepared himself for the fight to come. Summoning another skeletal mage to aid in the fight, he broke cover. He ran back and forth across the slightly wider space, using his skeletal mage to create confusion while he cut down men and hellions with his scythe blade. When he heard more people and creatures approaching from an adjoining tunnel, he waited just long enough for them to cluster into the wider area with all the fresh bodies. Then he detonated all of the corpses in a final blast that resounded through the cavern.

Struggling to keep his breathing quieter so he could hear, he listened intently for any more to come running. After a few heartbeats pause to listen, a woman's agonize screams turned him back to the direction he had been headed. He left a skeletal mage to guard his back, just in case. Just beyond this, he could see the end of the tunnels where several wooden structures had been erected and well lit with torches. Three villagers hung from crosses, ready for sacrifice. He was out of time.

He gave no more thought to whether everything was dead behind him. Jolted by the sight of these innocent people being tortured and sacrificed was more than he could ignore. When there was no cultist visible at a glance, he ran forward into the light and attempted to release the first man he found tied up. There were corpses littering the floor around the edges of the cavern, so very many of them. Three still-struggling men were bound to crosses along the walls just above the countless dead villagers. He raced over to the closest one on his right, hooking his scythe on his belt and pulling his hunting knife as he ran. The man's eyes were wide with fear as he struggled against the ropes in a panic.

"You, friend! Help us! Get us out of here before they—"

Before the man could even finish his plea, Pyresong felt the energy and power of more filthy magic gathering beside him. A vile expletive slipped through his lips at the unexpected surprise. He quickly slipped the knife back on his belt as he grabbed his scythe. He quickly spun and danced backward, away from that coalescing power.

"Ah, another sacrifice arrives..." came a male voice all around him.

As before, there was a flash of sinister red light, and a man in red robes appeared.

"Through your flesh, the Lord of Damnation shall have his prize!" the filthy-feeling priest shouted as the man became solid.

He knew he couldn't give this evil priest enough time to summon another demon, as the priestess had. Acting as much on instinct as experience, he sent his skeletons at the priest. This one was obviously not a novice to combat, either. He threw a fireball at the skeletons before the necromancer could react. Then dodged the return volley of spirit fire neatly, leaving his robes smoking slightly. Suddenly, Pyresong felt himself flung across the cavern while his skeletons were blasted apart. That stunning moment of impact with the floor cost him his concentration. Uninjured, he jumped up and dodged the expected follow-up attack reflexively while already summoning more skeletons to aid him. To his horror, instead of attacking, the cultist priest laughed and unleashed his power on three of the helpless prisoners bound to the crosses that had been erected. Above the mens' heads, unholy sigils flared brightly. The priest glowed with the stolen sacrificial energy.

Damn! he swore viciously in his mind, knowing he'd failed these three.

With only two skeletons, he had to make his move before this priest grew even more powerful from those sacrifices. For one heartbeat, he considered unleashing a corpse explosion to destroy everything in this cave, including the vile cultist. Then he snarled mentally against the idea. He wanted this one for himself. He needed to feel justice for these countless innocent villagers.

He sent the skeletons once again at the priest, including the mage. Then he aimed a barrage of spirit fire to blind the cultist. The priest turned one way to deal with the skeletons and another to dodge the barrage of spirit fire. But, for him, it was already too late. The skilled necromancer had used the spirit fire and skeletons only as a distraction. While the cultist was dazzled by the light and occupied by the attack, Pyresong had spun swiftly to the side and behind the mage. With his scythe, he pierced the red, flowing robes in the back and then pulled hard to shatter the bones that the blade was caught on. The blood splattering across his shield and armor gave him a dark sense of satisfaction. Screaming in agony, the cultist priest went down in a pool of blood where the mindless skeletons stabbed him a few more times until he went still.

Chest still heaving from the battle, he turned his attention to the carnage around him. There were bodies in the shadows all around him behind the wooden structures: men, women, and children. Scattered among them were several vivid orange guard uniforms. The three he had initially tried to help on the crosses were nothing more than desiccated corpses now. Heaving a sigh as much to calm his breathing as to exhale his frustration, he turned his attention toward what was left of the cultist priest. Maybe he had something on him that would give more information about what was going on in this place.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a slight movement from one of the corpses. It brought his attention back to the fact that the undead were everywhere in this place. Though he hadn't sensed any magic activated, he half expected all the bodies in here to begin rising. He raised his scythe, ready to strike writhing body in front of him. Then he froze as he realized this was no corpse. The man was covered in blood but bound and gagged and trying to scream something. He was wriggling his way out from under several other bodies.

He's alive!

Dropping to his knees, he gave his skeletons a mental command to guard the tunnel entrance behind him. Much as the other, this man was struggling against the ropes in a panicked frenzy, making it impossible for him to cut them with his knife without further injuring the man. Gripping the man's face painfully tight in one gloved hand, he let his magical eyes bore into the man's wide, terrified brown ones.

"Be still!" he hissed.

The big man all but collapsed limply. Seeing him comply, he nodded and then removed the gag first. As he cut the ropes, the man began babbling in a panicked, stuttering voice nearing hysteria.

"Gods, h-he...killed them! He killed them all!"

"You're all right, friend," Pyresong said soothingly. "Tell me, do you have the strength to make it out of here?"

While he cut away the last of the rope around the man's ankles, the large man started to massage some life back into his hands and feet. Pyresong handed him the last healing potion off his belt. The big man nodded uncertainly and accepted the potion. He quickly downed it, making a face at the horrid taste, and handed the empty bottle back.

"Y-yes, I think so. M-most of the b-b-blood isn't mine."

He helped him to his unsteady feet and scanned the room again in the hopes of finding at least one more alive. Nothing. At least there were no lingering spirits needing help moving on. He had more than half expected several with the sheer number of unexpected and possibly torturous deaths here. This cave would definitely need cleansing. But that would have to be a problem for later.

"Wait!" the man said excitedly. "One of the others had portal scrolls, but we couldn't reach them…"

The large man turned to rummage through the clothes of another victim nearby. Pyresong mentally applauded the man's practicality in the circumstances. Most wouldn't dare to loot the corpse of a friend or fellow in the community. He was just glad he didn't have to do it himself for once. Most people tended to frown on looting corpses, even if you were the one planning to use the corpse later. Using his magical sight, he scanned the other corpses once more with his necromantic senses. As always, there was some part of him desperately hoping for more survivors. Definitely no signs of life and no lingering spirits, either. How this one managed to survive was little short of a miracle. But he'd happily take it...for now. Silently, he vowed there would be retribution for every corpse he saw here.

"There! There it is!" the man finally shouted excitedly, earning an irritated glare from Pyresong.

He handed over a couple of the scrolls he had found. Then he quickly unrolled the one scroll he'd kept with badly shaking hands.

"Come, let's leave this miserable place forever!"

Assuming the man knew what he was doing, he nodded, and the man used the scroll to bring up a portal. Still on his guard for further attacks, he watched down the tunnel. When the portal opened, he shoved the other scrolls into his side satchel, not sure if they might come in handy. Besides, portal scrolls were obscenely expensive. At the very least, he might be able to sell them later. He gestured for the man to go through first. Covered in gore as he was, as well as being a Priest of Rathma, it would not be a good idea to come through first. Necromancers never got a warm welcome under the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best of circumstances. He waited an extra few seconds after the man had gone through while he hooked his shield on his back and his scythe on his belt. At the very least, he could present as no threat.

He stepped through the threshold of the portal to find himself standing in the middle of Wortham's waypoint in the village square. Behind him, the portal began to close rapidly. A handful of other villagers were already leading the poor man away to be cleaned up and tended. Spotting him standing there on the platform, a small group of half a dozen guards stepped in his direction threateningly. Obviously, they were wary of an open portal and now turned their full attention on him, weapons ready. Again, he put his unoccupied hands out to the sides, palms out to show he was no threat, and fixed his expression to his customary serene mask.

"He saved me!" the big man shouted, turning back toward them. "He saved me from those monsters! Don't you—"

One of the guards raised his hand to silence the burly man, and everyone lowered their weapons slightly.

"I've come to offer aid to Wortham," Pyresong again explained. "I'm combat experienced."

"You're a bloody necromancer!" a voice in the crowd shouted. "You're just like those cultists out there!"

"I am a Priest of Rathma. I am not a cultist," he replied calmly, almost tiredly. Yes, now that the initial battle was over, he felt the weariness creeping in.

Another guard now spoke up, "He's the one that saved us out there. If you turn him away, I'm leaving too!"

Several more voices, including many villagers, began arguing both for and against. Keeping his expression serene, Pyresong stood on the waypoint stones and waited. He was all too used to this kind of reception and even much worse. Either they would accept him and his aid or not, and nothing he said at this point would make a difference.

"That's enough!" shouted the lead guard. "He's proven himself. And we need all the help we can get." Stepping forward, though not sheathing his sword, the guard motioned toward the village center. "You're welcome here. And thank you."

Pyresong bowed, priest to soldier, out of formal courtesy. That seemed to make most of the gathered villagers relax. With that, the crowd dispersed...somewhat. Caught in the grip of a nightmare they couldn't escape, many of these people from outside the village whose homes had been destroyed or raided had nowhere else to really go. So they continued to mill about the village square. Slowly, not really meeting eyes with anyone, he nodded and stepped down from the little waypoint platform.

For a moment, he just took in the central part of the village, its few buildings, a church, and then the rickety old wooden planks that served as the village's gates to the south. It would take but one fireball to demolish a whole section of those makeshift gates. And the remains of the wall around the town were little more than stacks of rubble. This place was not really a defensible position. It seemed a narrow creek that wound around the east and south of the village served as the typical barrier between the heart of this village and its many miles of thick woodland. While he made plans for defense in his head, he caught bits and pieces of terrified whispers of conversation.

"Well, I heard a rumor that late at night, strange lights flicker in the church. What if some of the townspeople are secretly cultists?"

"Wortham's too dangerous, nowadays. I'm thinking of leaving this place. I have family in..."

"I doubt things are much better up there! The whole world's gone mad!"

He walked through the village, following stone-paved paths at random, checking the overall perimeter. He counted maybe a score of guards in uniform, most of whom didn't look like they knew which end of a sword to hold. He had no idea how long this attack had been going on, but it seemed very likely the first waves had decimated the well-trained and official guards. Many of the guards he saw now looked to be farmers or craftsmen, unaccustomed to combat. Very likely, they would be better off with bows. Even most farmers were halfway decent with a bow due to their hunting skills.

Here and there, children roamed, looking more excited than afraid by all the commotion. Some older kids tried to corral the younger ones, who could sense the fear in the air. The tension was palpable. It was nearing bedtime for everyone, yet no one had any intention of doing so. He didn't blame them. The nightmares outside the village's thin, crumbling walls didn't make for good rest.

Despite the guards patrolling every inch of the walled part of the village, there just wasn't enough to entirely stop another incursion from these cultists. He could only guess how many were out there. Though, he had easily seen enough in that one cave to know this was no small gathering. There was a greater purpose here, and they were too well-organized. While he walked, he dug into his backpack to retrieve some more healing potions to put on his belt. Likely, that attack had not been isolated. He could easily see many places where it could happen again. He made a mental note to warn their guard captain to post more sentries at specific locations. If he didn't have enough, it was time to start pulling from the villagers- anyone capable of holding a weapon. He shook his head mentally when he looked up. Several multi-storied buildings here near the walls, and not a single archer on any roof or in any window.

Clearly this village was entirely inexperienced with any kind of assault or defensive tactics. He would have to give their captain a quick lesson and hope he understood. He had no desire to coordinate the defenses himself. Aside from the many loathing looks thrown his way, there were likely few that would listen to an outsider, even if he wasn't a necromancer.

By chance, his feet took him back around from the little fishing docks that stuck out onto the creek. He frowned darkly. It was clearly way too vulnerable with no wall, no gate, and only a short hop across the water. He circled around and headed back toward the village square. Already, he was looking for a uniform that would indicate a leader here. There had to be someone here with at least enough experience to get people moving in the right direction.

Back at the center of the village, the man he had rescued from the cave came running over. The man had been cleaned up and had fresh clothes on. Pyresong was glad to see no oozing bandages or crippling injuries. Yes, he was only one of many in that cave, but at least it was a life saved.

The man reached out to shake his hand, saying, "You know, I didn't thank you properly, friend." He turned away and walked toward a nearby smithy, motioning for Pyresong to follow him. "I'm Korrin, Wortham's blacksmith. If you need to improve your armor or weapons or pretty much anything you need, please see me. No charge for you, ever."

He smiled slightly as they arrived at the smithy, and Korrin gestured to all his tools. "Master Pyresong, Priest of Rathma. That is most generous. Thanks are not needed, but much appreciated," he replied, still feeling the hostile glares all around him.

Unexpectedly, a scream rang out on the other side of the square, startling everyone. Spinning around, he laid a hand on his scythe before catching sight of what was now standing on the waypoint platform. A hideously burned and charred human was shambling its way off the platform and into the square. His blackened skin and charred clothing crackled as he walked. The sickeningly sweet and all too familiar smell of burnt human hair and flesh permeated the thick, still air. The agonized groaning with each step was chillingly audible amid the sudden unnatural silence.

While others backed away in wide-eyed horror and mute fear, he stepped forward. Already, he could see this man was somehow actually still alive, not some shambling corpse. His heart twisted in empathy for the man's gruesome suffering. His gut twisted both with revulsion and anger when he saw an aura of familiar hellish magic. His initial instinct, born of compassion, had been to end the man's suffering quickly. But the sight of the filthy, vile magic around the poor man made him realize there was something else altogether going on here. Something was keeping the poor man alive for a purpose. As a necromancer, he was all-too familiar with using flesh as a weapon. When a few brave people moved forward as if to aid the stricken man, he reflexively stuck his arms out and motioned them back.

"Stay back!" he shouted as guards came running. "There's dark magic at work here!"

With horrified gasps, more people stepped even farther away. A few vomited and a couple even fled. He approached cautiously. The tortured man collapsed to his hands and knees with an anguished, wordless cry of pure suffering. Shaken and uncertain what was happening here, Pyresong struggled against the urge to end that suffering. Suddenly the body went rigid as it began to explode in blood and fire. The man screamed in unspeakable agony, earning echoing cries of terror from some of the onlookers. He started to lift his scythe to end this awful scene. Magical trap or not, he couldn't take this level of suffering. He prayed he would be able to end it quickly for the poor man.

Before he could even use his scythe, the ballooning bubble of blood and fire coming out of the man's chest exploded again in all directions. The already hysterical screaming all around them, took on a pained cry as some of the nearby onlookers were singed. Many more of them took off running in all directions. Already shielded with his own power, Pyresong stayed where he was only a couple of feet away from the edges of the flames. While others fled to the nearby buildings or took cover anywhere they could, he just shielded his eyes from the flames with his free arm and then watched in silent horror.

The image of a demon's head outlined in blood and fire now formed above the village center. He made sure to take in every detail of its visage. He marked it well, knowing this was likely only the beginning of so much more. Whatever had begun here was the thing he had been warned of so very long ago now. Even Rathma had seen it coming. Whatever else happened, he would find a way to stop this demon and its plans.

In a deep voice that instilled horror and fear in everyone around it, the demon began to speak to the dozen or so villagers frozen or cowering in fear all around them.

"My eye is upon you. Weep and despair! For the sin of your existence will be bled away."

Despite his revulsion and fury at the suffering of this poor victim, Pyresong watched with his serene, emotionless expression. The blood and fire rapidly evaporated, leaving the village center once more in the shadows of a brooding, misty night. Then, he turned his attention to the ravaged body that collapsed to the cobbles. Hooking his scythe back on his belt, he approached it. He went to one knee warily as he whispered prayers for the dead to rest in peace. He used his power and magical vision to sense what was left in the corpse. Those who had been too frozen in shock to run began to come out from their hiding places. Some even began to speak against his actions when his hand glowed a soft whitish green over the corpse. What they didn't know was that it was a passive spell to ensure the body was truly unoccupied. Nothing more. He knew all too well that those who suffered horrifically in their last minutes of life would often linger, becoming angry ghosts or even enraged phantoms. Whatever else this person had been, he did not deserve that level of suffering on top of everything else.

Nothing remains but char, he thought with relief.

Satisfied, he turned his attention to their disgusted and angry gazes and spoke with a serenity he certainly did not feel. His heart was already pounding with the unexpected surprise. But more so now that he began to understand the magnitude of what was happening here. This was no little demon having fun with an isolated village. The power behind that illusion and what he had seen from the cultists implied a demon lord.

"He is dead. His soul has passed on. It is safe to remove the remains," he explained calmly to the angry villagers.

Now it was up to them to discern who he had been and what burial rites they would use. He had more important things to deal with. Even before he could step away, hysterical screaming broke out from the nearby church at the north end of the village center. Again, he took his scythe off his belt, running toward the attack. The moment he stepped into the well-lit church, he realized it was no attack. It was just a crowd of hysterical villagers explaining what had happened to an elderly man near the front dais. The harried man was waving his hands and trying to calm everyone down, to no effect. The people were all a screaming jumble of words.

"It's a demon!"

"There's a demon in Wortham!"

"Help us!"

"Please, remain calm—"

"We have to get out of here!"

"Where's my boy?"

Though he caught snippets of these jumbled shouts, he was at least certain there was no attack going on in here, undead or otherwise. He hooked his scythe again with a mental sigh.

"Please, remain calm, everyone," the old man was trying to say, yet again.

From the doorway, he used his own voice to finally silence them. "Enough! Be silent! Now!"

That did it. He knew his deeper voice and its projectiveness could carry across a massive crowd. Over the years, he had taught himself to speak softly and often soothingly. But he knew when it was time to use the power of his voice, and this was one of them. This three dozen or so people had no chance of not hearing it in the enclosed space of the church. And, more to the point, they had no chance of not obeying it when they were startled to silence. The sudden silence rang like a gong. The elderly man's eyes sought out the source of the voice.

"That's better," Pyresong said, much more softly.

He walked down the central aisle as the crowd parted to let him through. When he approached the old man who seemed to be some kind of leader here, he kept his eyes averted, watching others out of the corner of his eye. It wouldn't be the first time seemingly hysterical villagers had run him out of a church. Most people found the magical seals that covered his once-blue irises unsettling at the very least, and outright terrifying in some cases. These people did not need more to fear, especially from him right now. He had already taken in what he needed to know of the elderly gentleman by this point.

The old man was wearing somewhat ragged, but high quality robes, a couple of satchels, and and he carried a clearly magical staff that glowed faintly in Pyresong's magical sight. This was clearly not the mayor. At first, he thought of him as a village elder or even the mayor. But no mayor would likely allow himself to look so...shabby. This man obviously had other priorities than looking the part of a leader for his people. Village elder, maybe? No, he was something else. Something very powerful, according to his magical vision. If anything, this old man might know enough of what was going on to help him get a grasp of what had happened here.

He approached the elderly man as he began his little calming speech to those gathered here in fear once again. Pyresong kept his eyes roaming back and forth around the room to gauge the reaction. Aside from hoping they would all calm down, a part of his mind was always suspicious in such settings. It was always possible that any one of the people here could be somehow involved with the cultists, perhaps plotting a way to get their fellows into the village. At first glance, he saw only naked fear in all of them.

"Remain calm, everyone. We are not bereft of hope, yet!" the old man said in the frightened silence.

By this point, Pyresong had stopped only a couple of feet away from the dais, directly in front of the old man. The man's face twisted from one of tired concern to one of warm greeting, much to Pyresong's surprise. Still watching the others around them, he bowed his head and shoulders in greeting to the man, priest to village elder since he was uncertain of the station of this one. Still, he wanted to show respect to ensure at least some cooperation.

"Ah! Hello, friend!" the old man said warmly in greeting, returning the bow with head and shoulders. "You've arrived at a difficult time. As you can plainly see, the townsfolk are ill at ease."

Knocked almost completely off guard by the man's sincerity and warmth, he again glanced around the room. He almost wanted to question his own sanity with some amusement. But, feeling the far less welcoming stares of the others present, he knew he hadn't lost his mind. A tickle of suspicion crept through his thoughts as he once again reminded himself: no one was ever happy to see a Priest of Rathma. Before the thoughts could take hold, the old man turned his attention and speech back to the others present in the crowded church.

"But we should be safe enough here for the moment!" the old man told all of them.

The old man's attempt to get some of them to leave failed. People always felt safer in a church, even when it was blatantly not true. Pyresong saw no reason to disillusion these poor, simple people and gave his full attention to the man before him. The old man, sighing heavily and still watching the crowd as they began to settle wherever there was space, shook his bald head. The old man showed clear signs of near exhaustion. Whatever was going on here had not just started today.

"My name is Deckard Cain. I'm a bit of a traveling scholar, one might say."

And a whole lot more, he thought to himself.

Still sensing the immense power behind Cain's simple facade, he just barely managed to resist the urge to cock a skeptical eyebrow at the old man. Though his dark suspicions were trying to tell him something, he could not find even a hint of hellish energies about the scholar that would link him to the cultists. His instincts were tugging him in a completely different direction, and he wasn't sure he liked it any better. Keeping his expression serene, he watched the old man move toward a young woman standing nearby.

"Lyra, here, mentioned you saved Korrin from the cultists before that sudden commotion in the square. Please, tell me everything!"

Before he could speak, Cain finally met his eyes directly and gasped in surprise. This was far from the first time Pyresong had met with such a reaction.

"Your eyes! Come closer."

"I was blinded once, and a witch healed my sight," he explained simply

He obliged the old man by widening his gaze. Almost anyone he encountered who did not outright loathe Priests of Rathma wanted a closer look. For him, it was just an irritation he would rather not deal with.

"Very ancient sigils," Cain mused. "Likely not seen for thousands of years."

At this, Pyresong blinked in surprise; unable to completely hide his reaction. For all those who had scrutinized the faintly glowing seals over his eyes, including a number of mages, no one had yet recognized the symbols of the seals. Clearly, this one did, further intriguing him and again tickling his darker, more suspicious instincts. A flicker of thought made him almost want to question the old man further. Shaking this off, he got back to the point.

"It seems dark forces have set their eyes upon Wortham. The cultists' leader mentioned a Lord of Damnation...said he was seeking some 'prize'. That face in the flames could only have been his."

Shaking off the distraction of Pyresong's eyes, Cain frowned thoughtfully for a moment.

"'Lord of Damnation...' Things are far worse than I imagined. The forces of Hell are seeking a shard of the Worldstone, an artifact with the power to create entire realities," Cain warned, still eyeing Pyresong closely, almost warily.

He could easily sense the old man gauging his reaction when those eyes met his head-on again. Were it not for the fact that his magical sight detected no magic at play, he would have suspected the man was probing him. Still, he was most certainly surprised, and yet not. He maintained his serene expression, giving nothing away as he began to understand the larger scope of what was happening in this large village. He also knew this was the event that those dreams had warned him about...or at least the beginning of it. The fact that it was so much worse than he thought it would be initially was not entirely unexpected. What was still unexpected was Cain's complete lack of loathing.

"I am Master Pyresong. You are familiar with the Priests of Rathma?" he couldn't help asking.

Cain's smile widened on his wrinkled face. "Very much so. One of my dearest friends is a necromancer. We..." he hesitated as if uncertain how much to divulge. "Traveled together for a time. Maybe one day I will tell you the whole story. For now, we have other matters to deal with."

Setting a grim expression, Cain continued, "I was there with my friend, a Priest of Rathma, when it all happened. Five years ago, the demon lord Baal nearly brought all of humanity under his thrall using the Worldstone. If this demon were to obtain even a shard of it, the results would be catastrophic. We cannot let that happen..."

Now he remembered where he had heard the name before. Much as had so many others, he had heard the stories. A Priest of Rathma had fought against a Prime Evil, Baal, and prevented the corruption of all of humanity but was unable to prevent the corruption of the Worldstone itself. Then, the Archangel Tyrael destroyed the corrupted Worldstone. Mount Arreat had exploded, and pieces of it and the Worldstone had been flung all over Sanctuary. Most of the Worldstone had simply evaporated or disappeared beyond this physical plane of existence. No one really knew where the bulk of it went. It was not entirely surprising that pieces had survived the destruction, though Tyrael had not. Knowing what little he did of the legendary Cain spoken about throughout the world, he did not doubt the man's intentions, at least. Relieved, he let go of his earlier suspicious thoughts regarding this unassuming traveling scholar.

"I'm here to help in any way I can," he assured the tired old man.

Before more could be said, a guard came running up the aisle.

"Priest! Cain! The cultists are attacking the western gate! We need help holding them back!"

"You stay here and keep the people calm," he told Cain reflexively. "I'll handle this."

Cain's snowy white eyebrows shot up in something akin to amusement. Pyresong once again unhooked his shield from his back. For a moment, he grinned mentally to himself. He realized what he'd just said and who he'd said it to and nearly laughed. If this really was the same Cain from the stories, this elderly scholar probably knew some incredibly powerful spells that could protect the village without his help. More to the point, the man had already survived in places no mortal has ever seen and lived to tell the tale. Except for one, of course: his former companion, the unnamed Priest of Rathma.

"Very well," Cain agreed, thankfully amused and not insulted.

Turning, Pyresong motioned the guard to get moving. Together, they ran full-tilt out of the church and back down the paths. People were still milling about in panic like a herd of sheep throughout the village.

"Get inside to safety!" he roared in his most powerful voice.

Then he tuned them out completely when he focused on the sounds of raging battle ahead. A handful of guards had already engaged a small mass of the undead and a single cultist controlling them. Still several feet away, he sent a blast of spirit fire ahead of him to create some confusion. When he got to the front line with his skeletons and began swinging his scythe with precision, he shouted to the other guards.

"All of you! Get back! Now!"

Once again, as with any soldier or guard anywhere in Sanctuary, they were used to taking—and obeying—orders. In only a couple of seconds, the area was clear of all but the foes that he and his skeletal warriors cut through in a near frenzy. He knew the cultist was the one that needed to be taken out. These zombies were just weapons and distractions. Sensing as much as seeing the area around him was clear of all but enemies, he extended his power outward in a wave and directed all the corpses already on the ground to explode in the direction of the cultist. As the wave of explosions began, he raised his shield to protect himself and the others behind him from the gory carnage as much as possible. Thankfully, most of the guards mimicked his movement just in time. When the chaos settled, all of the undead and the cultist controlling them were little more than recognizable parts scattered all over the ground. One of the guards stepped up to him with wide eyes.

"The attack came from the west. There must be another stronghold out there. Don't worry about the town. Go! Show those cultists no mercy!"

He nodded and headed out through the shattered remains of the gate, carefully stepping through the slippery remains of so many corpses. With some irritation, he noticed all the guards standing around staring with pale-faced shock. He hadn't even found the time to locate their leader and give him information on ways to better secure the place. He barked over his shoulder at them.

"Get a barricade in place! And archers on the roofs!"

He ran back out into the forest to the west. A few seconds later a short, wooden bridge spanned across another narrow creek. Following his magical vision as much as instinct in the dark, misty night, he headed down a path. Almost as soon as he crossed the creek, several large figures materialized out of the thick mists. He was once again engaged with twisted forms of the local wildlife. Direwolves, massive spiders, even deranged porcupines using their quills as projectiles. For a while, it was all he could do to keep them all from wounding him. As one skeleton fell, he summoned another. Acting on pure instinct, he followed the feeling of filthy energies that were lined with these magically twisted creatures. It was almost as good as a road sign leading him right to the source.

After nearly an hour, there came an unexpected lull in the near constant fight...and a silence that did not sit well. Given how thick and dark the forest around him was, it somehow felt all wrong for it to be so still all of a sudden. Taking advantage of the moment, he gazed around with his magical sight.

There you are, he thought darkly.

He caught sight of a cave entrance nearby guarded by a half a dozen cultists. He carefully reigned in his growing rage. The dark miasma of evil and almost unbelievably powerful magic oozed out of the cave. He knew that making a lot of noise to kill them would only bring others out of the cave. Very likely, this was their main base, and the other cave had just been a sacrificial chamber. There was too much raw power and hellish energies here compared to the other one.

Pulling back on his rage and desire to cut them all down where they stood, he formed a hasty, if somewhat reckless, plan. He ran up to the opening, smiled wickedly at the group, and then turned and ran back into the mists. He knew these cultists were used to dealing with terrified and unarmed villagers or even half-trained farmers in uniforms. It never occurred to them that someone without a guard uniform would dare to turn back and fight them.

It was over in seconds. Now it was time for stealth.

Just as before, the cave was lit with a number of torches and candles. He dismissed his skeletal helpers. It was easy to slip from one darkened area to another, making no more sound than a shadow. He had specially padded his articulating, flexible chest and back armor over the years with bits of leather and wool to ensure nothing scraped or clanked when he moved. His entirely incomplete set was a mismatched hodgepodge of castoffs and things he could afford to buy. So very many parts he did without completely, to focus entirely on the main areas that needed protection. Shins, thighs, hands, forearms, biceps, chest, and back were all covered. Items for knees, elbows, feet, and other areas inevitably either restricted his movements or scraped and clanked. And he had never appreciated helmets of any kind. He could not tolerate the lack of visual range for many. Others just felt heavy and awkward. For him, it was all about stealth or flexibility and reflexes. Even then, he had more scars than he could count from all his years of wandering Sanctuary.

As usual, no one was seriously watching for an assault on their own lair. He slipped past at least a score of these demon-tainted humans who wore red and proclaimed themselves cultists. Most of them had no more magic ability than any villager. But every one of them was armed and fanatically dangerous. All over the cave, on the walls, floors, and even ceiling, were carved the same seals of some kind of demonic eye; many were filled in or painted in blood.

The blood of so many innocent villagers, he thought to himself, stoking his rage.

Once again, needing to feel the justice he meted out here, he cut the cultists down by twos and threes as he made his way through the tunnels. He didn't even bother with spirit fire or summoned minions to create confusion. He wanted them to see him coming. And it wasn't some twisted sense of honorable combat mindset. It was pure desire to see the fear in their eyes as Death came for them.

Finally, there was an opening that led to a massive chamber that angled down a considerable way. Ahead of him, his magical eyes and arcane senses could detect the almost unbelievably powerful aura of a cult priestess standing before an unholy altar. It appeared to be some kind of small, crystalline structure. It was a vivid blood red and only maybe as long as his hunting knife. It was small enough around to easily fit in her smaller hands. This object she held before her was enhancing her own power to a degree he'd never seen before. It gave off a filthy feeling he struggled to block out as much as he could. The potent and violent energies radiating off that thing told him that this must be the shard Cain had spoken of. He could not imagine any other artifact possessing so much raw power.

A corrupted fragment that holds the power of Creation itself, he couldn't help thinking almost in awe of it.

The priestess appeared to be using it and the vile altar to communicate with the demon lord. His image in the flames hovered above her and the six other mages around the seal. Pyresong inched his way through the shadows to hide behind some unlit candles sitting on a boulder near the entrance. He listened and observed, hoping for an opening in which to strike.

"Lord Skarn, the shard is ours, and the rite is nearly finished!" the priestess called out.

He recognized that voice. It was the same woman he had encountered outside Wortham. This was the one that had so very easily summoned a Putrid Desecrator, no minor demon or imp. He knew he would have to act fast to prevent her from summoning another demon to help her this time. Worse, she was not alone. There were six other mages, if not priests, to contend with as well. This might actually be more than he could take on by himself. Already his mind was racing through plans and options.

He wasn't leaving without that shard.

"The way will open," she finished, with her hands raised in supplication to the altar.

A moment later, he was caught off guard when Skarn's voice came out of the fiery image. He hadn't even had a chance to settle on a plan of attack when his concentration was shattered. Beside him, he felt a red barrier go up. It stank of hellish energies. And it completely blocked his way back out of this cave. He almost laughed. He wasn't planning on running, anyway. The demon had just ensured no further reinforcements would interrupt his battle.

Not the brightest move, he thought, smiling wickedly.

"You are not alone, Eskara." Skarn's voice filled the cavern. "Slay the intruder in my name."

He had been unprepared for this. His intention had been a quiet ambush, if he was lucky. Too late for that. Reflexively, he summoned a couple of skeletal warriors and a mage as fast as he could. He leapt out of his concealment in the shadow, still smiling. At the same time, the other cultist mages released their ritual to focus on him. The vision of the demon lord evaporated, much as it had in Wortham.

He didn't waste any time on words as he ran across the open space to engage. Each of the mages had summoned a flesh fiend and was preparing fireballs to fling about. He muttered a vile obscenity. He couldn't possibly be lucky enough for them not to allbe summoners. Meanwhile, the priestess was already beginning the summoning of a much more powerful demon. They all backed away from the enormous sigil on the floor to give her space to work. These acolytes and lesser demons were just a distraction.

Guarding himself as best he could, he directed his skeletal minions to attack pretty much anything that moved at this point. His target was the priestess. He ducked under the melees going on all around him, sending barrages of spirit fire in every direction. Eskara, focused on her summoning, paid no attention to the chaos around her at first. When she caught sight of the necromancer's shield coming right at her, she was forced to let go of the summoning and dodge. Squaring up with her, he did all he could to keep her attention and watch for an opening. Like so many other mages, overconfident in their power, she wore no armor. Still, that wasn't going to be much help if he couldn't get to her.

Behind him, there was a small explosion that knocked a couple of his skeletons right out of the fight. Using the corpses of lesser demons and cultists now littering the cavern, he set off a much bigger explosion that stunned all but Eskara. Still, it wasn't enough. He summoned a skeletal mage to appear behind her. In the blast, he had momentarily lost track of the battle around him, and his back was now exposed. Something heavy hit him squarely in the back, disrupting his own summoning and throwing him forward. Recognizing the squealing and claws trying to get at his flesh through the armor, he knew a flesh fiend had launched itself at him. To dislodge it, he turned the painful blow into a roll. On his knees, he regained enough concentration to continue re-summoning skeletal warriors. Now, he let them watch his back.

As Eskara raised her hand to fend off the skeletal mage that had appeared behind her, he finally found the opening he needed. He knew she would blast the skeleton away before it could strike, but that bought him just enough time. In the split second of her distraction, he was able to close the distance. Even as she turned back toward him, his now fully empowered and glowing scythe sliced the air with a scream before burying itself in her abdomen. With a vicious tug, he ripped her wide open. Then, he turned his attention back to finishing off the other mages and flesh fiends.

Unfortunately, whatever unholy power had been granted to the priestess was more than Pyresong had anticipated. On her knees with her guts spilling onto the unholy seal filled with blood on the floor, she gripped her staff in both hands and raised it above her head. The shard flared powerfully above her as if responding to her call. Sensing the gathering power around her, he quickly stepped away from the seal, summoning yet more skeletons to help. Despite gasping in obvious agony, she was not about to lose this fight. Eskara raised her brightly glowing staff and slammed it onto the now glowing seal.

"Hell comes for you!" she screamed, echoing around the cavern.

Her scream triggered a red lightning storm that nearly filled the cavern. Stepping further back, almost to the blocked exit, he raised his shield in the reflexive hope of not being hit by the lightning storm. A few of his skeletal warriors were blasted apart, returning to dust in puffs. He reflexively summoned more to replace them, unsure what he would be facing.

Then, he realized the lightning was the least of his growing concerns. The explosion that came as Eskara disappeared in a mist of blood and lightning left behind something far worse. She had used her damaged body and waning power as a sacrifice to summon something much larger and more powerful than anything Pyresong had ever yet faced. For one, racing heartbeat, he was frozen in shock and fear.

The lizard-like demon made of blood, flame, and blackened flesh roared as its bulk nearly filled the cavern. Its tail shattered stone columns at the far end as he swung around. Its scream of fury reverberated throughout the cave system. Flames erupted from its mouth in a wide spray that only just missed him as he ducked behind another column. When it swiped a massive claw at him, shattering the column above his head, he had some small spark of hope that the thing would just collapse the cavern on itself.

No such luck,he thought, swiftly ducking behind another column.

He quickly sized up up the monstrous beast. Having fought demons for years now, he knew certain weak spots existed on them all. He knew there was no chance of getting to the eyes himself. They were just too far off the ground, some ten feet above his head. And regardless how powerful his skeletons, none of them were intelligent or strong enough to withstand blows from this monster. Even his largest summoned minion wouldn't be more than a distraction to the damned thing.

When the tail swung around again, he took the hit to his shield and rolled across the room back to his feet. Mentally, he directed all of his skeletons to go after the legs in a mad frenzy, praying this thing wasn't intelligent. The skeletal mages he used to direct blasts of spirit fire toward the thing's bulging orange eyes. These distractions had the beast whipping around in a frenzy as if batting away attacking bees. It spewed raging flames from its mouth at every unseen target.

And all of that was just a distraction to buy him time to think of something—anything—that might actually harm this giant monster. Realizing his dodging and dancing around was getting him nowhere, he gave in fully to his combat instincts and let them do his thinking. He sent a large barrage of spirit fire at its eyes from his current location to blind it momentarily. Then he sprinted across the cavern to his left and did it again. He knew the skeletons wouldn't last more than a few heartbeats, so he used the distraction to sprint up under the creature. Though there was a high risk of being crushed by its bulk, it was the only real weakness he could get to. Like most demonic beasts, the hide was well protected with rock-like burnt flesh. The underbelly on this one, at least, appeared somewhat softer.

Dodging the frantically flailing claws and tail, he went from a sprint to a slide across the bloody floor. Putting every bit of power he could muster into the glowing blade of his scythe, he slit it along the belly as deep as the straight blade could reach, some two feet. The monster screamed in obvious agony, making the cavern walls tremble. At least that had done something.

He wasn't fast enough getting back to his feet to evade being caught underneath it. In an instant, he was drowning in the guts and blood of the beast as they poured out of the new five-foot-long opening. He could sense his skeletons had already been destroyed. He was alone, and there was no time to summon more. Instead, he held his breath and focused his energy on the handful of corpses still littering the cavern. Crushed under the weight of the demon as it writhed and squirmed in agony, he ignited all of them with a corpse explosion. He was so frantic and desperate, he hadn't even bothered to use his magic to shield himself. Perhaps it was the beast's own entrails that had protected him. Whatever it was, he had no time to think about it.

He was already feeling the telltale burning in his lungs as they screamed for more oxygen. He felt like he was literally drowning in demon blood and entrails. Unable to focus properly for another spell, he instinctively continued slashing with his glowing blade in every direction. Becoming more desperate by the second, he hoped to cut a way out of this mess and back into the open air.

As the mass of gore pressing down on him left him no way to breathe, he felt it coming. The burning in his lungs increased exponentially as his arms and legs began to tingle with weakness. The demon was still thrashing blindly above him as if trying to grind him into the floor. Somehow, he lost grip on his shield in the chaos. He could feel his hand weakening its grip on the scythe. With his eyes closed tightly, he knew the deeper darkness was closing in as flashes of light danced around behind his eyes. Still, he never stopped trying to slice his way out.

The beast, blind and in too much pain even to think, rolled over onto its back to escape the cutting agony underneath it. As it did, he was somehow ejected from the mass of entrails and sailed helplessly across the room. He hit the floor hard on his right shoulder and slid in the gore several feet before rolling to a stop. The impact had forced the air from his lungs in one gagging explosion. He was stunned and seeing stars when his head bounced off the floor. Too dazed and weak to move for a moment, he watched the demon thrashing around on its back for a few more seconds before it finally went still. When the beast finally stopped thrashing, an unholy red light and blood began to boil around it until it disappeared altogether.

He had a brief, random thought of his shield lost somewhere in the gory innards of the monster and nearly laughed. The almost laugh was interrupted by the thick, hot blood in his mouth. Gagging, he rolled to his hands and knees and began vomiting and coughing it all up. Thankfully, it wasn't much, but it was still disturbing enough to make him retch again. He shuddered at the idea of demon blood inside of him and gagged again. His scattered thoughts giving him mental images he didn't even want to consider. He struggled to shove them aside and focus on the air now stinging his lungs. Breathe. He just needed to breathe.

Some disjointed part of his scattered mind wondered at the blood on the floor inches from his face. Given the flood of adrenaline coursing madly through his system, he wondered how much of that blood might be his own. At the moment, he couldn't feel any injuries beyond the pounding of his head. There was no time to find out. Instead, he tried to get away from the blood. He staggered to his feet, barely able to stand. Only then did he realize he was covered in blood, making his stomach flip again. He staggered as he retched yet again, trying to purge himself of that filthy sensation of demon blood inside of him, like some kind of infection.

Then something penetrated his hazy, swirling thoughts and disgust. A few feet away, in the center of the main seal on the floor, floated a dark red crystal. It flashed and pulsed, giving him the bizarre sensation it was talking to him.

The shard! he thought, when his voice failed him as he coughed up yet more thick blood.

He summoned a skeleton warrior more out of habit and instinct than any conscious thought. Then he collapsed back to his knees, shaking violently. Finally, a voice somewhere below consciousness and in the levels of instinct screamed at him. He was injured, trapped in a cavern sealed by a major demon, and his goal was right in front of him.

Take a damn potion! the voice screamed in his mind.

He nearly laughed, realizing it was his old master's voice. He knew now he must be in shock. His trembling hands fumbled with his belt, amazed to find the bottles of healing potions unbroken. His hands were shaking too badly to uncork the damned thing. He finally pulled the cork out with his teeth. He downed the foul-tasting substance, forcing himself not to throw it back up instantly. Immediately, the warmth and tingle of healing spread through his body. When it concentrated into heat in some areas, he finally became aware of a multitude of other minor injuries. He shoved it all aside when he began to feel more steady. The rest of the injuries would have to wait. At least now he could stand.

Carefully, he approached the hovering shard. The raw power of vile corruption emanating from it was almost overwhelming in his weakened state. His insides writhed in denial of its evil when he realized it was pulling at him. It was speaking to the Darkness buried in his own soul. On a level below conscious thought, it whispered to him, wanting him to pick it up and use it for himself. He slammed his mental doors against it, reeling in disgust. As sickening as the thought was, he still had to take it. He had to get it away from here.

By Rathma... An endless sea of souls have perished because of this stone. It is a beacon to Life and Death, he thought with mingled loathing and horror.

With a mental growl of frustration at himself, he shoved it all aside. He gave no more thought to what it could do. His mind was already blurring, and he couldn't stop shaking. He had to just get it and himself out of here before he collapsed again. The effects of the healing potion wouldn't last more than a couple of minutes. And then it would all come crashing back on him again.

Focusing all of his well-trained shielding abilities into his gloved hands, he reached up slowly. There was a brief flash of something that felt like defiance from the shard before he engulfed as much as he could in his glowing hands to try to silence it. All it did was pull at him harder, trying to find some hold on him in his weakened state. He reinforced his mental doors on those feelings. He shoved it into a satchel at his side.

When he turned back toward the still-blocked cavern entrance, he caught sight of his shield nearby. Summoning another skeleton with his fast-waning reserves, he staggered over and retrieved it. Only now his bleary thoughts began to focus on how the hells he was going to get out of this place. On the other side of the red glow, he could see the masses of cultists gathering. They were raging to get at him.

"Cain will know what to do with it," he mumbled, not even realizing he was speaking until he heard his own faintly slurring voice.

A brief flicker of thought passed through his mind as he wondered why Skarn hadn't dropped the barrier yet. His shocked mind couldn't hold the thought. He was reeling, and the cave was starting to spin around him. The momentary strength and clarity of the healing potion was already fading. Somehow he had to get out of here before it ran out. His shock was only getting worse. He realized he was still shaking from head to toes, almost uncontrollably.

Something of his survival instincts finally kicked in, recalling the portal scrolls he'd stuffed in his satchel earlier that night. He had no idea where this one would take him, but he couldn't stay here. The light of the portal stung his eyes at first, making him flinch away from it. And then he felt a numbing sensation spreading from his head. His darkening vision wavered, and he staggered a couple of steps toward the glowing blue portal and collapsed right through it. The last thing he heard were screams, but he couldn't find the energy to get back up.

The darkness swallowed him.

***

The next thing Pyresong became aware of was voices. There were always voices when he let his guard down. Their whispers had been with him since earliest childhood. His training at the Necropolis had taught him how to close them out, and he did so now. But they were still there. It was so dark, and the voices were so far away. He struggled to hear them. Somewhere in the darkness, he felt a sense of urgency, followed by much pain. There was something important, something dangerous he had to deal with. He came back to his body in a way no one ever wants to return to consciousness.

Everything hurt.

Injuries he hadn't even remembered acquiring were tormenting him now, aching painfully. Forcing himself to calm, he clamped his teeth down on a groan. Now he could hear and understand the voices. They weren't the voices of the dead whispering through the ether. These were living voices, tinted with fear and stress.

"He's waking," one woman said calmly. "You might want to take a step back. We don't know—"

"It's all right," he said out of reflex as he opened his eyes.

Instantly, he regretted it when he was assaulted by the bright light of open windows nearby. He blinked a few times and eventually managed to get his eyes to focus. A couple of the people present stepped further back in fear from those glowing blue eyes with their magical seals.

"Where am I?" he asked, struggling against the pain to sit up.

Sensing there was no arguing with this one, the woman who appeared to be in charge motioned the others back away. His swiftly returning thoughts and memories flooded back into focus as well. He realized he was in someone's home, on a pallet on the floor. He rubbed his eyes to rid himself of the blurriness. Quickly, he spotted his armor, weapon, and other possessions piled in a corner nearby. He was clean, as was all his gear. Though still in considerable pain, he could feel there were no serious injuries or broken bones, at least. Seeing he was aware now of his surroundings, the elder woman answered.

"You're back in Wortham. Quite the spectacle you made with your arrival last night."

Nodding in relief, he began to struggle out of the makeshift bed. He again bit back a groan as more minor injuries made themselves known with his movements. Well aware he was clothed in little more than underwear, he shook off the discomfort rapidly. It's not like he had anything they hadn't seen before. Besides the multitude of scars that crisscrossed his body, he was as human as any of them. Stiff but steady, he walked over to his pile of gear and his backpack to retrieve some clothing.

"I must see Deckard Cain right away. Is he still in the church?"

"Yes, he's expecting you as soon as you are able."

"I'll be on my way to him in a moment," he told them as he dressed himself, covering his numerous aches and pains with gritted teeth. "How much do I owe you?"

The old woman sniffed. "Owe me? You saved the village at least twice that I know of. I should be asking you that question."

Though he had his back to her, he couldn't help a grin.

Practical and generous, this one, he thought to himself dryly.

As a necromancer, money had its uses, usually in finding places to sleep where he would be otherwise unwelcome. He was by no means wealthy but had acquired quite a sum after all his years looting the corpses of the people who had tried to rob or kill him. Dressed, he reached into his pouch and produced a handful of gold. He knew he had been quite the mess when he arrived. That was no small amount of cleaning. And clearly, he'd been seen by a decent healer. Rarely did a healer bother with more than the bare minimum to keep a necromancer alive. Still, he was grateful. At the time he had escaped the cavern, he wasn't entirely sure what condition he had been in or if he would even survive. It would be a few more days before he was fully recovered, but they had done well by village standards. Usually, he got little more than some stitches and bandages. This one had at least cared for his more serious injuries with active healing.

Silently, he set the money on the nearby table and quickly put on the rest of his gear. He was both relieved and disturbed to feel the satchel still radiated filthy corruption. At least the shard hadn't fallen into someone else's hands.

"My thanks," he said simply as he left the house.

The women watched in silence as he left. Outside, he oriented himself in the dim, unnaturally overcast day. It was perhaps mid to late afternoon. He'd been out for quite some time, likely healing sleep. He was on the east end of the village, near the fishing pier. People were still milling about like frightened sheep, but he paid them no mind. Several still glared balefully at them when they walked past. Others bore expressions of wide-eyed hero worship, not unlike some of the children. Keeping his expression to its default serenity, he simply nodded to those who made eye contact and continued toward the church. As expected, there he found Cain on the dais, but this time alone. The old man was pouring over some parchments and books laid out on the altar like a makeshift desk.

"Ah, there you are, my friend! I was just about to come check on you. How are you?" Cain asked with some concern.

"I will mend."

"Stoic as all the rest of you Priests of Rathma," Cain commented with a chuckle. Then he got serious, "Please, remember, we need you."

Again, he was taken aback by the man's concern and warmth. It was rare in his profession to meet anyone other than a fellow necromancer that in any way appreciated the existence of what most others called a "death mage". The vast majority of people, even other mages, viewed necromancers as those who feed on death, when that was so very far from the truth. For a moment, Pyresong was at a loss for words when he realized he actually liked this old man.

Becoming more animated, Cain continued, "What you've accomplished is miraculous, my friend! To face such foes and live to tell the tale...simply astounding!"

He shook his head with a soft laugh. "I almost didn't. How did you know?"

Cain waved a hand dismissively. "Just a bit of divination. I sensed the demon's summoning and had to look."

"Ah, I understand," he replied, vaguely familiar with many various types of magic. "More than anything, we were lucky. And lucky I arrived in time. The cultists were summoning demons. Their leader, Eskara, called out to this Lord of Damnation, a demon named Skarn. And he replied. This wasn't just some plot by a group of cultists trying to attract attention. They were directly coordinated by the demon lord," he finished grimly.

"Skarn...I have never heard his name before," Cain repeated in clear frustration. "And, as far as I know, there is no Demon Lord of Damnation. Most troubling."

"Indeed," he agreed darkly.

Distracted, his mind wandered back to thoughts of the shard and what it could do. It took him a moment to realize his thoughts wandering back to it was because it was trying to get his attention. Still sensing the vile energies and pulling, he recoiled mentally. Then he snarled back it. He could literally sense a part of himself listening. The shard was trying to convince him he needed that shard for...something. Despite being mostly recovered and nowhere near as weak as he had been, this thing still managed to get through. He reached into his satchel to retrieve the shard. His hand glowed brightly as he forced as much shielding as he could around it. He was still loathe to touch it even for all of that. Again, its tugging, almost demanding feelings battered at his mental shields.

"And there's the matter of what we do with the shard. This sort of power does not belong in mortal hands," he told Cain darkly.

He held the shard out toward Cain in his gloved palm. For a brief moment, there was flicker in the shard's radiating power. Again he viciously squashed the feeling that he should keep the damned thing for some reason. No, this object was far safer in the hands of a man who knew how to protect it, even from himself. He was surprised to feel just how much of a struggle it was not to be distracted by it. Sensing he had been preoccupied fighting it for a minute, he took a deep breath and refocused his mind against it.

He blinked and returned to the moment to find himself under the very close scrutiny of the elderly man's boring eyes. For a moment, he felt something akin to shame when he realized Cain had sensed the brief struggle. Still, neither said anything about it as Cain's glowing hand took the shard and placed it carefully into a magically shielded pouch. The old man's wary eyes never left Pyresong's while he did so. Sensing the old man's concern, he took a step back. The scholar's frown turned into a soft smile of approval under his beard at seeing his. He couldn't help feeling as if he'd just passed some test in the old man's eyes. He didn't care. He was just relieved beyond words that he couldn't feel that damned thing pulling at him anymore.

"On that, we agree," Cain told him. "You see, I did not come to Wortham by chance, my friend. A Horadric ritual allowed me to divine the location of several Worldstone shards." He paused for a moment, frowning as if recalling something unpleasant. "One was here in Wortham. The other lies somewhere in the nearby cemetery of Ashwold."

Heaving a tired sigh, Cain motioned to his packs and what little equipment he had nearby. "I came here hoping to obtain the shards and destroy them, if possible...before calamity descends upon us all...again."

Despite that last word being little more than a whisper, Pyresong's sensitive ears caught it as much as the exhaustion and near despair in the old man's voice. He was somewhat surprised to find himself reaching out to grip the old man's shoulder in comfort. He was not a heartless man, though many thought Priests of Rathma were. But this man's tired appearance and deep sorrow had moved him more than he expected.

"I will help as much as I can," Pyresong offered.

Cain met his eyes with a weak smile in return. But there was no more time for words when a portal opened in the middle of the pews only a few feet away. Acting on instinct, he reached for his scythe as he stepped between it and Cain. He raised his scythe warily just as a skeletal warrior came through with its own sword raised. Before he could strike, it dropped the ancient, rusty sword to the floor with a ringing clang. He froze with his scythe upraised when the skeleton displayed empty hands out to the sides as if mimicking a human's non-threatening stance.

"Be not alarmed, my old friend!" came a powerful and familiar voice from the skeleton. "For these frail bones come to you with an urgent request."

"Master Xul," Pyresong said in surprise when he recognized the voice. It had been many years since he had spoken with this particular Master Necromancer.

"These frail bones come to you with an urgent request," it repeated, as if expecting a response.

"Go on," Cain said, seeming just as surprised.

"My apprentice, Lethes, through foul means acquired a shard of the Worldstone. In her pursuit of power, she has brought ruin upon Ashwold. The dead rise from their graves, and the Balance teeters on the brink of disruption!"

Damn, Pyresong thought angrily. The last thing this place needs is a rogue necromancer on a rampage with that much power. These poor people...

Xul's voice continued to Cain, clearly not seeing or recognizing another presence, "Much like I, you cannot have forgotten the significance of that stone or the sacrifice it took to end its threat. So, I beg of you to lend your aid, however you can."

With that, the already weak summoning collapsed into a pile of bones before them. While he had never mastered such a spell for himself, Pyresong was aware that such weak summonings could sometimes be used as magical messengers. Just this once he wished they could do more. He had so many questions about what was going on over there. Instead, he turned his attention to Cain.

Cain briefly covered his grim expression as he placed a hand on his forehead to massage it slightly. Pyresong waited; he already knew the request was coming, and his mind was racing ahead. He had known for many years that something was coming. Something big enough for Rathma to have seen in his dreams. Something important enough that he had been sought out and told to leave his quiet monastery hideout to find it. He had left the monastery more than a decade ago. More than once, he wondered if the prophecy was just a load of bunk. Now, he began to realize that there was at least some truth to it. Whatever had begun here in Wortham was just the beginning. There were much larger forces at play here than a single shard.

"Darkness is spreading once again," Cain said wearily, "and it seems I must ask the impossible of you. Will you help me collect these corrupted shards and save our world from oblivion?"

He had already settled his thoughts and put aside the memories. A part of him had known even before he'd heard of the attack on Wortham that whatever he was walking into was much larger than a single event. Just as Rathma had said, the stars had gone out. That had been his sign. He almost considered telling Cain what he knew. But there was no time right now. Something had begun, and now he was firmly involved. It never even crossed his mind to say no or walk away. Prophecies or no, he knew this was why his life had taken this path so very early in his childhood. He nodded, meeting Cain's pleading eyes.

"At the moment, I've learned there is a rogue Priestess of Rathma terrorizing Ashwold. That is my first priority, as only we can deal with her and her abilities. That is my responsibility." He couldn't help a grim smile as he continued, "Beyond that... The infinite power of creation, held by a being who would claim dominion over damnation itself? I can think of no greater threat to the Balance. I will gladly help, but it begins with hunting down Lethes and the shard she possesses. I cannot leave Master Xul to that alone."

"From the depths of my heart, thank you, my friend!" said Cain warmly. "Before you leave, I have a few gifts for you. The first of which lies here on the altar. Take those maps. They are simple but contain the details of the immediate countryside around Wortham and Ashwold. It will surely aid you."

Reaching into another satchel, Cain pulled out a scroll. Pyresong took it curiously.

"Here, this portal scroll has been specially attuned. Once you have reclaimed the Worldstone shard from Lethes, you can use that scroll to open a portal to Westmarch. I have a workshop there. And this place is too unprotected for me to risk keeping this one here. I will get it back to my shop, where we will find a means to destroy the shards forever."

He took the items gratefully. "Very well, friend. I will meet you as soon as I am able."

When he turned to walk away, Cain gripped his arm gently to stop him. He forced Pyresong to meet his eyes once more. Then seemed to change his mind about whatever he was about to say. Pyresong couldn't help but feel that there was something more there. The old scholar seemed to want to add more. Though he couldn't begin to guess what it might be, he was definitely more than a little curious. If his suspicions were correct, there was more between Cain and Xul than met the eye. He had always wondered if the Priest of Rathma from the stories had been Master Xul. But it wasn't as if he had gone around questioning other priests about their whereabouts at the time. Cain just smiled and shook his head at himself.

"Be cautious on your journey to Ashwold, my friend," Cain said instead.

"Be safe, friend."

He was somewhat surprised to realize his return smile was genuine. There was something about this elderly scholar and his sincere warmth that seemed to easily penetrate the walls he had lived behind his entire life. Aside from the trust he knew was not misplaced when it came to the great Horadric scholar, the legendary Deckard Cain, there was something else. He couldn't even begin to identify it right now, though. Maybe one day he would have more time to speak with the old man and learn more.

For now, he turned his steps toward the next battle