This is going to be far more difficult than I thought, he said to himself as he placed two pieces of wood on the fire and lit them with a wave of his hand. They came to life almost instantly, a merry blaze springing up and beginning to warm the icy chill that had pervaded the room, despite the bright sunlight outside.
He stripped off his gloves and rubbed his hands together before the flames to warm them. The insidious cold had even crept its way between the thick fabrics of his sword gloves, which had kept his hands warm through a driving snowstorm once, long ago, a much farther way north from here. Hunting evil in the snowbound tundra of the far northlands had been his first, and his least favorite, assignment as a fully named Arbiter. The cold here was indicative of more than just a long winter, and it would rob this place of the last sparks of life if left unchecked.
He did not intend to let anything like that happen.
Once the room had warmed to his liking, he sat on the sparse bed and crossed his legs before him. He did not need to sleep, only to wait for a few hours in a trance to refresh himself completely, and even less than that if he had a manna font nearby to draw from. The one that he had visited in the chapel a few blocks away was too far corrupted to draw upon, though, so he would have to rely on the earth itself to deliver his power to him.
D’Arden drew forth from its place on his belt the tiny, perfectly round, pointed and tapered blade that thrummed with a soft blue light, looking very much like a heartbeat. The heartblade pulsed in his hand with its energy, and he sighed. With only a moment’s hesitation, he opened the front of his shirt and positioned the tiny blade just below the chest muscle on his left side. There was a tiny amount of pain as the perfectly sharpened instrument pierced his flesh and the muscle, and then just brushed the outside of his heart. He held his breath tightly, because any slight movement in the wrong direction could slice open his heart and send him to an early – and quite embarrassing – grave.
The hyper-concentrated manna within the heartblade released in a flash, and he felt the warmth and the ecstasy wash over him. He pulled the tiny dagger free from his flesh, and the wound healed as the blade exited, sealing immediately with the fresh power contained in the heartblade. It would recharge itself in time, though it might have more difficulty without direct access to a pure manna font. The heartblade was very important, and several failsafes had of course been written into its design. As the pain faded, he settled in for his regenerative trance.
He would have said a short prayer to the gods, but the last time he had seen someone do that, a magical gate had opened in midair, great beastly tentacles had reached through the opening and dragged the man through bodily, screaming and fighting and yelling and cursing the whole time. All those around him had simply averted their eyes, for they had known what was happening, and he had simply been left to stare, dumbfounded, watching as a man was snuffed out by those whose favor he sought.
It was not wise to speak to the gods.
Part III: The Low Quarter
Images swirled around D’Arden’s mind as the room faded away around him. His hands were placed securely on his knees, and though the thin mattress on the bed was softer than he was used to, he was able to find a comfortable enough position that allowed his consciousness to sink into trance.
As he did, he felt the corruption swell up around him, clawing at his consciousness, desperately seeking a way past his wall of purity and clarity. It wanted to get its claws into him, to drive him mad as it had done to the Arbiter who had preceded him here, to take away his sanity and drive him screaming into the catacombs beneath the city to vanish forever.
A thought haunted him that had crossed his mind briefly before; could it be that the source of the evil energy here was actually that Arbiter who had been here five years ago, and perhaps still was? Could it be not a demon at all, not a creature from another world, but a member of his own flock gone rogue? The thought troubled him deeply, to say the least, and it was with that thought on his mind that he descended fully into his healing and regenerative trance.
Normally he would perform his trance in the glow of a manna font, but he dared not do any such thing in this terrible place. Even the font in the graveyard had too much corruption for him to effectively draw any power from it. It was frightening and dangerous to be so cut off from the comforting source of his power, to have to reach far and away to replenish the manna that dwelled deep within him.
Reach though he did, sending his consciousness far across the land, trying to find the green grass and warm fields beyond the desolate landscape that surrounded Calessa. He longed to return to the high stone gates among the mountains that were home to the Arbiter’s Tower, the place where he’d been raised, the place that he called home. There was a manna font seemingly on every corner there, always a place to draw their power from.
Finally he found himself able to connect to the land, just at the very edges of his spiritual reach. The corruption from Calessa was spreading, and if it was left entirely unchecked it would soon spread to the surrounding cities. If the demon’s influence touched Aldur, a city nearly forty leagues to the north, the Arbiters might not have the forces to combat the demon at the height of its power.
He would not let that happen. He wished there was a way that he could contact his fellows, but there was no chance that the message would reach them in time. As always, they were spread to the far corners of the globe, searching out and destroying evil wherever it could be found. There were barely more than a handful of them now, plus a few in training at the Tower. Word would never reach them in time. It was up to him to destroy this evil and stop it in its tracks before it grew large enough to shake the foundations of the world itself.
D’Arden planted his spiritual feet upon the ground outside the range of the corruption, drinking up the sweet power of the land into himself, into his soul. It was sweet and cool and refreshing but also pleasantly warm in a way, making him feel as though he were home once again. There were only tiny traces, small inklings of the corruption in the manna that he drew inward.
For a few hours he sat outside the twisted land, reveling in the replenishment of his energy and a chance to truly rest. He’d expended much of his power in the mausoleum, fighting that dry corpse and the legions of its minions, and then expended yet more fighting against the undead in Calessa Heights. Although his power was nearly unlimited when he was near a pure manna font, without one nearby he became weak, and useless.
He hoped that there was still a chance to purify the manna font in the low quarter. The boy, Mikel, had said that the corruption was weaker there, that it hadn’t yet spread to much of the populace. That alone was a hope, that he might be able to establish a foothold here in the city so that he might work outward to cleanse it of the danger.
When his strength had fully returned, he slowly drew his spirit back to his body. Carefully he returned to his flesh to ensure that he was not too quickly overwhelmed by the corruption during the transition back to the physical realm. The manna he had absorbed bolstered him though, heightened his strength both physical and mental so that when he returned to his body he no longer felt exhausted, drained and defeated; but instead energized and ready to face whatever dangers and trials lay ahead for him.
D’Arden opened his eyes once again. The fire he had lit in the fireplace had long since burned out, and the cold was creeping into the room again. A few weak embers glowed in the hearth, but the rest was cold, black ash. The room looked the same as it had when he had closed his eyes, but the slant of the sun was significantly lower, and the shadows in the room longer from the light streaming in the window.
It had been several hours at least, he mused. Slowly standing to ensure that nothing untoward had happened to his limbs while he’d been entranced, he made his way over to the window and looked at the sky. The position of the sun told him that it was well into afternoon, which was well enough. That would have given the captain and his men plenty of time to seal up the entrances to Calessa Heights, which would significantly reduce the danger to the rest of the population of the city.
He crossed the room and exited, making sure to the lock the door behind him. Slowly, he descended the staircase and entered the common room.
The patrons for the evening were beginning to trickle in, and there was a common sense of anxiety that seemed to pervade the room. As he crossed the threshold and entered the room fully, he saw a man clad in armor rise from his seat at a nearby table. It only took D’Arden a moment to realize that it was Mikel, the boy solider that had accompanied him to the Heights.
“Have you been here all afternoon?” D’Arden asked him as the young man came to greet him.
