from without to avoid feeding the creature further with corrupted power, and shot a bolt of azure light at the animated corpse. It let out a terrible, rasping shriek as the manna fire engulfed the body and consumed it to nothing within the space of a few seconds.
'What… what was that?' the boy gasped, staggering backwards.
'Exactly what it looked like,' D'Arden said with a grimace. The pain in his wrist lanced through his body as the manna purified the corruption that remained behind from the child's teeth. 'You came through with that sword, boy. I'm impressed with that swing. If you hadn't, I'm not sure I could have gotten my blade up in time, and then the beast would have been at my throat.'
'But… that child…' Mikel stuttered.
'Yes, the child. The child that hasn't been a child for quite some time. Who knows how long she may have been lying there, just waiting for you or one of your companions to cross the gate and attempt to come to her aid. It's the corruption, boy. It's all around you, it's everywhere… and it spares no one from its horror.'
D'Arden checked his wrist. The wound had already begun to knit itself back together, and blood no longer seeped forth from the torn flesh. The manna was in his veins, in his blood, and he could already see the little wisps of blue fire that crept along the ground from the scarlet drops that had fallen, seeking out the corrupted manna and purifying what little of it was present. He flexed the healing joint once, twice and then nodded sharply.
'It appears it may be more dangerous here than I thought,' D'Arden said, reaching his hand back behind his shoulder and grasping the handle of his crystalline blade. With its characteristic rasp, it came free from its holding, the blue glow pulsing slightly as it immediately sprang to life.
Mikel stared at the crystal sword with wide eyes. 'That's a manna blade. Is it dangerous?'
'Not to any but those who are cut by its edge,' D'Arden answered. 'It does not radiate uncontrolled power like the fonts do. Every drop of power within this blade is controlled carefully by me, and none escapes without my explicit direction.'
The boy let out the breath he had been holding. 'That's good.'
D'Arden glanced around them in both directions. The child had been the only person on the street. Everything else was silent, desolate, lonely. He did see, though, that on the far side of the street there was a door to a richly decorated building that hung slightly ajar, revealing only darkness within.
He raised one hand to sight along it, extending one finger in a gesture of indication. 'There. That is where we go next. We must determine where the demon's source of power is, and whether these folk are only his food, or whether he dwells among them, perhaps forcing them to venerate him as some sort of sick, twisted deity.'
'Do demons do that often?' the boy asked.
'Perhaps too often,' D'Arden said.
They crossed the street and approached the open doorway. D'Arden slowed his pace considerably once they reached within a few steps of the arch, holding out one hand behind him to indicate that his armored companion should slow his gait as well. Carefully, cautiously, he crept closer to the aperture, listening intently for any sounds that might emit from within.
Only silence issued forth.
Holding his hand out behind him once more to indicate that the boy should stay where he was, D'Arden pushed open the thick wooden door. Its hinges let out a creak so loud that it felt for a moment as if the silent world had been torn asunder.
Damn. Now, if there was anything inside, they would know for certain that he was coming. It seemed to be his luck these days.
Suddenly tiring of stealth, D'Arden shoved open the door, allowing the sapphire light from his blade to illuminate the darkened interior.
He was greeted with only more darkness.
D'Arden stepped carefully across the threshold. Sorcerers could do terrible things with the manna when they tried, and he had come to find himself extremely cautious when crossing a doorway. They could lay traps that would explode violently when triggered, and they would do it with abandon. A man who dared to use the manna, who had a will strong enough to control it without falling immediately before its grace and majesty, was a dangerous animal – and nearly always fell victim to their own corruption. Sorcerers were often in league with demons, for whatever reason. Promises of wealth, power, sometimes even of eternal dominion over the land itself… promises that were always broken, never fulfilled.
In a place this corrupted, there could be a sorcerer hiding around any corner.
What he found within was obviously once a carefully-decorated entryway to a home. Cloaks hung on the wall and there were boots piled along the floor, lying haphazardly, strewn in every direction. A layer of dust had settled upon them; they had not been used, nor even disturbed in some time. The same layer of dust covered the floor, and there were no recent footprints. This place might not have any relevance at all to the demon's whereabouts.
A sound – a low, aching moan – came from within. He immediately stopped moving, unsure if perhaps it had been made by one of the floorboards beneath his feet. When he heard it again, longer this time and slightly louder, he knew that there was someone… or something within.
He moved swiftly and smoothly across the floor, pressing his back against the wall as he reached the next doorway that would take him inside to the house proper. It was dangerous to investigate, he knew, but if the boy outside got wind that there was someone inside and he didn't properly determine whether said person was still human in this awful place or not, he would have a very small, manageable mutiny on his hands, but one that would still be quite unfortunate.
The next door was slightly open also, and D'Arden shone the light from his blade through the small opening. There was rich furniture within, all covered with the same layer of dust. That same sound, the low, sad cry issued once more from beyond the nearly closed portal. It was a sound of pain, a sound of mourning. D'Arden felt his hackles go up. It was not uncommon for a fel beast to feign death or near-death in order to lure its prey close enough so that it could reach out and feed when one approached just one step too far. The child had been one of those, and he'd seen many before. The loved ones of a man would come home to find him crying out in pain and with desperate pleas for help, and they would find themselves quickly devoured by the beast that had assumed his form.
The door creaked softly as he pushed it open.
'Who's there?' the voice groaned from within.
Two words strung together. Could there be someone truly alive in here?
As he stepped through the second doorway and came fully into the room, the blue light illuminated a scene which he could have lived for many years without seeing, and have been perfectly happy about it. A man sat in a chair, and if the description had ended there, D'Arden would have been far more pleased.
The man – if he could still be called a man – was strapped down to the chair with heavy leather bands that wrapped around each wrist and the chair's arm. His head lolled back, and his guts had been opened as though with a vise. His innards lay strewn around the room, spread about him, and wrapped around his neck, and strung up and nailed to the ceiling in such a way that it looked like some sort of gruesome spider's web. There was blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, the man himself was covered in it almost from head to toe. D'Arden wondered just how it was that this poor creature was still alive, and then he noticed the trails of crimson light that crept up from the ground, infusing him with just enough manna to keep him from dying completely.
It was a truly gruesome scene of torture, and it had obviously been constructed very much on purpose.
The head lolled towards him, the eyes staring blankly as the man let out another groan. 'Why can't I die? Why won't I die?'
'What happened here?' D'Arden whispered.
'They… they…' it started as what seemed almost a stutter, and then became a mantra as the man simply kept repeating the word over and over again.
It had happened already. The man's consciousness was lost. He still lived, but it was not a natural life, and what might had remained of his sanity was long fled this awful place. This grisly sight might have sat here for days, or even weeks, the poor wretch's life extended artificially through a careful application of the corrupted manna – leaving him not quite alive and not quite himself, but neither exactly dead.
'The horrors,' the man whispered. For a brief moment, his eyes focused on D'Arden. 'Save yourself!'
That's when D'Arden discovered just who 'they' were.
From all of the rooms of the house they suddenly came, the dead pouring out of the doorways as though they
