Nate Kenyon - The Order

Something invisible yet immensely powerful exploded out of her. He felt as if an unseen hand punched him in the chest, lifted him into the air, and threw him against the wall. He tumbled to the floor in a heap as pain radiated throughout his body. Fear flooded his limbs, and he scrambled to his feet, fumbling in his robes for what remained of the drug he had used to keep her still.

As he moved toward her once again, he felt his master stir.

The girl is strong. Belial’s voice thundered in his head. His hunger for her was like a ravenous beast’s. The Dark One felt the demon’s need rush through him, propelling him back toward her like a slavering madman before he stopped himself with every last ounce of strength he had left. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, and her mouth was working soundlessly.

He sensed her power waiting for him, and he also sensed that if he tried to feed upon her as he fed upon the others, she would destroy him.

The thought filled him with fresh terror. Quickly he knelt and pierced the skin of her arm with the needle, then stepped back again as she began to rise up from the floor, her mouth opening as if to scream, before she sank back into silence and sleep.

The Dark One tried to calm his thudding heart. How had she reacted to him with such brute strength? The drug was barely containing her now. There had been two incidents in which his strength had been put to the test, with worrisome results.

He had to prepare the more elaborate ritual to tap into her power and focus it properly. A new blood ritual. He held up the small vial with a few drops of her precious life’s essence. He had to prepare further. The ancient Vizjerei magic, Bartuc’s legacy written in blood, would hold the key.

The Dark One felt Belial slowly contain his raging hunger. Even the true ruler of the Burning Hells understood what had to happen. The Dark One smiled. Once again, he felt in control. When he’d been just a boy in Kurast, he had been ordered around, ridiculed, and beaten mercilessly. After all, what was a simple servant boy compared to the great sorcerers of Sanctuary?

They had not known the truth: that he held the blood of legends in his veins, and that his destiny had been foretold centuries before.

The Dark One went to the window and looked out at the creatures below, more than three hundred of them now, and more coming. He felt them return his gaze, their calls of excitement rising up to him. He held out his arms and screamed into the frigid air, and the creatures responded in kind, their cries growing to a frenzy of mindless lust. He watched as several of them turned upon one of their own and tore it limb from limb, bathing in the demon’s blood. The cries rose up to him through the mist, echoing off the surface of the water and causing the crows to lift into the air in a deafening symphony of flapping wings. The wind washed over his face, and he closed his eyes.

The old man was on his way, along with the monk: he could feel it. He welcomed the challenge. This was what he had been waiting for, a clash of epic proportions, and revenge for his ancestor, who had sacrificed himself for the greater good and been condemned to entombment for all eternity with a demon. Jered Cain had been responsible for that, and his offspring would pay the price. Belial had already baited Deckard with the thought that his wife and young son had been tortured and killed by demons, their life’s essence dragged off into the Hells to suffer for all eternity; did it matter that this was a lie, that this could not have been possible? No. It did not matter how they died; the truth was irrelevant. The important thing, as Belial had taught him, was how you used the information and, in this case, Deckard Cain’s pain and suffering.

Let them come. His plans were almost complete. They were entering the month of Ratham, he held the lifespark of thousands within the tower, and the girl was here. The old man had no army; even if he made it this far, his life would end quickly. The Dark One almost felt disappointed at the thought. Deckard Cain still had a role to play in this game, even if it was short-lived.

When he opened his eyes, the creatures below were battering themselves against the base of the tower, trying to get in. Their ranks seemed to grow even as he watched. But this was nothing compared to the legions of faithful servants he was about to call back to life. Together they would spread out across the land, claiming Sanctuary for the coming of their lord, and to hell with anyone who stood in their way.

The Dark One turned from the window to begin his final preparations for the end of this world and the birth of his new kingdom.

Cain stood under the trees on the edge of the clearing, leaning heavily on a crude piece of wood he had found for a walking stick. Every bone, every muscle in his old body ached terribly. He was falling apart like an old wagon, the sides cracking, wheels coming loose from their axles.

I am no warrior. The old man barely managed to sigh at the thought. He had never pretended to be one. Wasn’t his journey across the wilds of Sanctuary something for much younger, stronger men to do? How had he ever thought that he had a chance to defeat this terrible evil, with or without assistance?

The truth was, he had never thought such a thing. His hopes had been built around the promise of finding a surviving brotherhood of Horadrim, men stronger and more resourceful than he was, who would take up the battle for him.

Instead, he had found this.

Mikulov had gone to pray to the gods for answers, and Cain was alone. Across the clearing, the remaining members of the First Ones were gathering the few personal items that remained. The fire inside the cave had finally died down enough for them to enter, but most of what had been inside was so badly burned or damaged by smoke, it was useless. The men had piled the meager supply of weapons to one side, but Cain had a feeling they wouldn’t be needed; Garreth Rau had crushed the group beyond repair, and against his strength the remaining members of the order were like flies battering themselves against a lantern. Those who were left would be gone soon, returning to the shattered remains of their homes or simply disappearing into the hills, slinking away in the night like beaten animals from the slaughter.

When he thought of Leah, his panic returned with a vengeance—a galloping, savage terror that threatened to overwhelm him. He remembered her anger and fear when they had first left Caldeum, the night at the bridge when he had told her about her real mother; how she had run from him, into the hills; their escape from Lord Brand and the things beneath the graves; how she clung to him as they entered Kurast. Her distrust had slowly changed to something else as they went along. And he, in turn, had learned something from her: he was capable of caring about another human being far more than he cared about himself.

He hadn’t felt this way since the loss of his wife and child, so many years ago. Yet it had come far too late for his salvation.

She called me Uncle.

Cain wiped fresh tears from his eyes. He realized with a start that his objective had changed. He was no longer driven to save Sanctuary from the invasion he knew was coming; his purpose had become much more personal. There were thousands of ravenous creatures between him and the girl. There was no hope of reaching her. But he would go anyway, and he would die trying.

He watched as Farris argued over a blackened cook pot with Thomas, the two men growing red-faced and heated. This could not be where it all ended. He remembered the stories of the Horadrim his mother had told when he was a boy, and how he had questioned the truth of them, while a part of him had remained a believer in the nobility, the ethics and bravery of the order. Even then, he had wanted to believe in the legends. He had spent the last decade of his life dedicated to the order, immersing himself in the lore, trying to make up for lost time. He was an old man, but he was not helpless.