Chapter Two #2
In a corner of the enclosure, a low wooden platform covered an area ten paces across, and when Lorath stepped up onto it, his footsteps sounded hollow, as if there were a deep opening in the ground beneath the wooden beams. He soon found a trapdoor secured with a padlock that broke under a few blows from the metal foot of his weapon.
He kicked the shattered lock away, then bent to lift the door.
The smell that erupted from the opening drove him back.
He buried his nose and mouth in his sleeve at the elbow and realized the odor was different from the stink of death that surrounded him: it was the smell of living human waste.
He approached the opening again, and peering down into the hold, he discovered the blood-drinkers’ food stores.
It was difficult to see in the darkness, but in the column of pale moonlight that fell through the opening, human prisoners lay in a stupor of despair, weltered in their own piss and shit. Lorath dropped to his knees and called down to them, “Hello! Can you hear me?”
One of them looked up, raising her head slowly, as if she were too weakened even for that movement. Through the filth that covered her face, she appeared to be Lorath’s age, with dark hair, or hair made dark by mud and blood.
“Hello?” Lorath called to her.
“Wh—what?” she replied with a weak, hoarse voice.
“Don’t be afraid,” Lorath said. “We’re here to free you. Rouse the others, if you can. I will return.”
He then raced back toward the central campfire and altar, where he enlisted Tyrael’s help, and together they worked to lift all the survivors out of their subterranean prison.
Tyrael even volunteered to go down into the pit when necessary to aid those too weakened by their ordeal to climb out on their own.
The Horadrim shared what food they had, and Tyrael led them to a miserable little spring he had located that fed the fort’s supply of potable water.
As the survivors revived, they recounted how they had come to be in that place, and all told a similar tale of attack and capture by warriors who could not be slain.
“They can be slain,” Lorath said, sitting next to the woman he had seen down in the pit.
“You may have killed six of them,” she said, “but can you kill fifty? Because they number at least that many.”
“We will find a way,” Lorath said. “This horror will soon be ended. For now, rest.”
He left her and went to relieve Donan on the watchtower.
The younger scholar then went down to consult with Tyrael, and Lorath turned to face the causeway and the marshland beyond.
The fog had begun to break apart into wisps, while off in the trees, the flames of the burning corpse had diminished to a smoldering flicker.
He saw no signs of the returning blood-drinkers, and some time later, as the first ruddy flush of dawn appeared on the horizon, Tyrael climbed the tower and stood next to him.
“We have searched the encampment,” he said. “This place contains only the evil that humanity is capable of inflicting on itself.”
Lorath nodded, unsurprised, already feeling defensive and wary of what he knew would come next.
“It is as I tried to tell you,” Tyrael went on. “This was not our hunt.”
“Then whose hunt is it? What good are the Horadrim if not to stop this kind of evil?”
“Do you suppose it is easy for me to witness the suffering of others?” Tyrael gripped the wooden railing of the watchtower and stared down into the moat.
“As much as I might loathe these blood-drinkers, I founded the Horadrim to fight a far greater threat than they could ever pose. What you have seen here is nothing compared to the suffering this world would endure if the Burning Hells should ever succeed in conquering Sanctuary. That is the kind of evil we Horadrim must seek out and destroy, wherever we find it. Enmity may rule this day, but humanity must learn for itself how to stop the suffering of its own making.”
Lorath’s neck and shoulders tightened, and he gestured over the Blood Marsh. “Do you remember the last time you and I were here?”
Tyrael sighed. “You know I do.”
“It wasn’t a demon who almost destroyed Sanctuary.
” A part of Lorath wanted to stop himself from going further, but his frustration proved stronger, and he turned to face Tyrael.
“It wasn’t a demon who created all this chaos.
It was one of your kind. It was an angel.
The suffering we’ve seen here is happening everywhere.
Do you feel no responsibility for that?”
“I have labored long to defend humanity from demons and angels alike, and I will continue to defend you.” Tyrael’s eyes flashed with a force that would have made Lorath quail, were he less stirred by anger.
“But do you not see? I am now mortal. This body will perish one day, and when it does, I will not leave Sanctuary defenseless. The Horadrim must be strong enough to endure.”
The thought of losing Tyrael cooled Lorath’s temper, though not yet to the point of surrender. “What about justice?” he asked.
“What of it?”
“You were once the archangel of that virtue, yet the Horadrim you founded are still denied it.” Lorath nodded down at the people huddled together below them, wounded, frightened, grieving for the loved ones butchered before their eyes. “Where is their justice?”
Tyrael cast his gaze upon the settlers, and he watched them for some time. “You are right,” he said at last. “These people do deserve justice. But are you certain it is truly justice that you seek?”
Before Lorath could ask what he meant by that, Tyrael turned away and faced the marsh.
“I will take the watch,” he said. “Go see if you can be of use to Donan.”
Lorath could only shake his head. “Yes, Tyrael.”
He climbed down from the tower, and after checking on the freed prisoners, he found Donan near the blood-coated altar, studying an evil-looking tome.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Their scripture,” Donan said. “The writings of some corrupt necromancer, though not a true Priest of Rathma. Most of it is meaningless ravings, but there are a few interesting spells. I assume you noted the symbols on the big one’s skin?”
Lorath folded his arms. “Briefly.”
“That was blood magic.” Donan jabbed the open book with his finger. “According to this, those symbols were the source of his power. I suspect that’s why he didn’t show any sign of pain until I pushed him into the fire. The flames destroyed the symbols, you see, and that broke the spell.”
“So, mar the symbols, break their strength?”
“I believe so.” Donan closed the book. “It’s one hypothesis, at any rate.”
“I like your hypothesis.” Lorath had gone to see if he could be of help to Donan, but Donan had proven to be of greater help to him. “You’ve given me an idea.”
“An idea for what?”
Lorath clapped his comrade on the back. “How to kill the lot of them.”