Nate Kenyon - The Order

Slowly, Cain came back to his senses. He looked up to find a small group of men gathered around him; along with Mikulov, Thomas, and Cullen, there were perhaps a dozen more, most of whom he recognized from the camp, many of them with injuries of some kind. He saw a man with a lacerated cheek, as if he had been clawed, and another with a maimed arm. All had the haunted, beaten look of abused dogs, their eyes darting here and there in anticipation of another attack.

Cain set his trembling legs back under him and wiped his face clean, bringing himself back under control with tremendous effort. His eyes still smarted from the smoke, and his lungs were burning. But now was not the time to panic; if Leah had any chance at all, it would be because he remained calm and rational. Every single moment, every move he made, was crucial.

“We tried to fight, but there were so many of them,” Farris said. They were still gathered in the clearing, and Cain was asking those who remained to tell him exactly what had happened. The youngest and strongest of those who were left, Farris also seemed to be the only one who could speak of the massacre that had occurred without breaking down. “They came with no warning. There were townspeople from Gea Kul carrying knives and pitchforks, and other . . . unspeakable creatures. We saw goat-things and fallen ones, and some kind of monstrous walking dead. Some of us were able to escape into the woods during the madness. I watched from the hill as they surrounded Lund and the little girl. He fought them back with his bow, killing many.” Farris nodded toward the smoke pouring from the cave. “They began burning those who had fallen inside. Some of those bodies in there are not ours but were killed by Lund’s arrows.”

A few of the remaining men muttered their agreement, all of them avoiding looking up at the body of Lund that still hung over them, a stark symbol of their failure.

They made an example of him, Cain thought. A warning to us, should we choose to fight back.

“Tell me what happened to Leah,” he said.

“They killed Lund in front of her. The crows . . . they attacked him, and they were so fast, and there were so many. He could not hit them with his arrows. When he was finally overcome, the townspeople tried to take her, too.” Farris shook his head, his eyes haunted by the memory. “But she fought back. I don’t know how she did it, but she used powerful magic and killed several. It was like an invisible hand was battering them. I saw one who was picked up and crushed against the rocks like a doll. Then they used some kind of dart and drugged her. They dragged her off with them.”

“Was she hurt? Tell me!”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Farris said. He looked around the small group, his bloody face growing flushed with anger. “But this should serve as a lesson to all of us! Many of us wanted to end this long ago, but we were convinced to wait, that help was on the way. Look at what that help has done for us!”

Farris pointed up at Lund’s broken body, then back at Cain. “You are no savior,” he said. “No true Horadrim would have allowed this. That way of life is long gone, and many have lost their lives pursuing it. Sanctuary has changed, and not for the better! It’s time for us to stop playing at fantasies, stop pretending to be something we are not. We would all be well served to accept the truth, run far from here, and live out what time we have left before they come for us again.”

The other men nodded. Mikulov started to speak, but Cain held up a hand to stop him. “You are all good men,” he said. “I thank you for your bravery here today. I am no Horadrim, and never was. I’m only an old scholar. Perhaps Farris is right: perhaps you should all get as far away as you can. I’m sorry.”

Blinded by fresh tears, Cain stumbled, nearly falling to his knees without his staff before catching himself and continuing on, away from the group. It was no use carrying on like this anymore. They had been outsmarted at every turn; what was worse, it appeared quite possible that his entire search for his Horadric brothers had been orchestrated by Rau and Belial. He was like a puppet, and they had been pulling the strings.

He pulled the parchment from his hidden pocket and unfolded it carefully, his fingers shaking. He had spent more than thirty years banishing everything that had happened from his memory, erecting such strong walls around the disappearance of his wife and son, it was as if they had never existed at all. But it was all crashing back down upon him, every moment, every emotion, his overwhelming guilt, his rage, his sorrow, and he was not strong enough to stop it anymore.

Dear Schoolmaster Cain:

We regret to inform you that a wagon was found abandoned and heavily damaged yesterday on the road to the east, one that we have confirmed was carrying your wife, Amelia, and four-year-old son, Jered. Their bodies have been discovered at the scene, along with that of the wagon’s driver. From their conditions, foul play is suspected.

We will be sending representatives to gather more information from you shortly. Please be assured that we will not rest until we have uncovered the truth about this unfortunate incident.

My sincerest condolences,

Cain folded the parchment with the upmost care and returned it safely to his pocket. The lord’s men had suspected bandits, but they had never discovered who had done it. Justice had not been served, not for all these years.

Sometime later, he was not sure how long, Mikulov was at his side. “You cannot mean what you say,” he said in a low voice. “All you have fought for, all we have been through—”

“Is for nothing,” Cain said bitterly. “There are no Horadrim left in Sanctuary. I am not even Horadrim, just a crude shadow of what I might have been. If I had listened to those who loved me, if I had embraced my destiny, I could have stopped this. I could have been strong enough. But I am not.

“We must face the truth.” He stopped, and grabbed Mikulov’s arm, holding on like a drowning man. “We are alone, and Ratham is upon us.”

The tower was trembling.

The man formerly known as Garreth Rau placed his blue-veined palms upon the moist stone of the interior chamber wall and closed his eyes. It had been built for him in less than seven days by inhuman hands, under his very specific instructions, for a purpose only he fully understood. The tower was perfectly straight, each seam of rock flawlessly smooth and strong, its circular interior exact in its measurements, down to the width of a human hair.

It was made to channel the lifespark of the living directly into the arms of the dead. Its shape would harness the demonic magic he called into existence, magic that existed deep within the ether and had been banned in Sanctuary for generations.

The Dark One smiled. The stone hummed under his fingertips, slight enough to be barely noticeable. But he felt it. He was in tune with the vibrations, acutely aware of their power. The tower was a conduit, a focal point of sorts, built upon the well of power he had spent so many months preparing, and upon the graves of thousands of dead mages, buried where they had fallen among the cursed streets of Al Cut.

“You are playing a dangerous game.”

The Dark One turned from the cold stone to face the man who had spoken. The man stood with his hands clasped behind him, still dressed in the same clothing the villager had worn. Physically, this was the same man who had hung above the blood ritual just two nights before, but his spirit was vastly different. The body was only a vessel.

Anuk Maahnor, Bartuc’s captain and one of the thousands who had fallen in the great battle of Al Cut, had returned to serve him.