Diablo 3: The Reaper of Souls (6 page)

"Florist," Harringer corrected, hoisting the tattered britches and retying the belt. "You think Stretvanger carved the other bodies too?"

The man hawked a wad of spit into the trees. "Couldn't tell you. That man is a mountain of secrets. It's been four days; we've killed seven people, and he hasn't uttered a word of explanation."

Harringer paused briefly, eyebrows drawn in deep thought. He turned suddenly and sped off farther into the orchard.

"Harrin—" The man in the dark armor shook his head and sighed, then pursued the soldier into the heart of the trees. "Damn it, Harringer, hands off, remember?"

When their footsteps faded and the light from Harringer's torch was only a glimmer through the brush, two children stumbled from the darkness. Dalya and Istanten lingered in the path, listening to the soldiers' voices, measuring their distance. And then, pruning shears tucked into her waistband, Dalya scurried toward the bony old carcass swinging from the oak.

"Keep a lookout," she told Istanten. "I'll get him down." The boy pressed two fingers to his throat and offered a croaky grunt of acknowledgment.

Dalya drew the shears and secured them between her teeth. Ducking under the corpse, she moved to the tree and probed the trunk for handholds. Istanten's eyes bounced between Harringer's faraway flame and Dalya's nimble scurry to the top of the oak tree, watching as she navigated the branches and shimmied along the bough toward the rope's knotted end.

Down the path, the orchard echoed with the newcomer's husky cackle.

With one arm wrapped around the branch, Dalya grabbed the shears from her mouth and stretched toward the length of rope. She sawed patiently, jerking the blades back and forth, rope swaying and bough creaking under stress of weight and movement. The first strands of fiber popped and frayed under the shears; she persisted, gaining speed as the rope unraveled and the corpse below sagged lopsidedly.

Istanten pressed two fingers to the apple of his throat and emitted a low growl. Dalya froze. A tense gurgle spewed from his lips, and the boy scampered from the road and ducked into the shadows. She heard Harringer's voice, a ways down the path but growing nearer.

"Istanten!" she whispered, holding tight to the branch. The boy offered no answer from the darkness. She growled, gritted her teeth, and continued sawing at the rope. The light of the torch caught the corner of her eye as spears of it pierced the underbrush and splashed out onto the path. She hacked more fiercely, the muscles of her arm igniting, her breath trapped in her throat. The rope tattered under the blade, its grip on the corpse slackening. Harringer's footsteps were close now; she heard the leaves and rocks crunching under his boots, the gentle clink of his buckles as he walked. She fought angrily with the rope, paring strand after strand with the cold steel of the shears, until Harringer's voice rang through the quiet darkness.

"You there," he called, waving his torch.

Dalya turned her head cautiously, squinting through the firelight at the soldier's silhouette. Her heart thrashed against her ribcage. She made to respond but the words never came, and she held silently to the branch for several seconds. Harringer shuffled forward, his left hand resting on his sword hilt. Dalya swallowed hard and steadied her nerves with a deep breath.

The trees were too dense on this side of the path. However, if she dropped from the branch, found her feet, and sprinted for the brush across the way, she and Istanten might disappear before the soldier even considered pursuit. But if she landed wrong—if she lost her balance or twisted an ankle...

She ran through options in her head as Harringer's silhouette approached. Frozen by indecision, she held tight to the branch and watched the soldier grow closer and closer until he neared the base of her tree. Her fist squeezed the shears and her arm strangled the branch. She tensed and prepared to make her leap, but Harringer kept walking. Dalya felt the heat of his torch as he passed nearby, and spotted the small man forty yards down the path as Harringer's light found him in the gloom of the orchard.

"Sir!" the soldier hollered. "You can't be here."

The diminutive man had no answer. He just shook his head absently, hands kneaded in front of him, and stared up at the young woman dangling from her noose. Harringer repeated himself, slightly increasing his pace. The man pointed at the body and smiled sadly. "My wife," he said. Harringer advanced warily and patted the man's shoulder. Gently he ushered him from the orchard and into the darkness.

Dalya expelled a shaky breath. She pried her fingernails from the bough and held to her perch, wind tousling her hair and clothes. The hanging corpse rotated with the breeze, and the rope gave a dry groan. Istanten wobbled from the brush, waved to Dalya, then pointed at the corpse.

"What is it?" she whispered.

The rope twisted, whined, and gave a final pop, and the body thudded to the earth. The branch shook viciously and tossed Dalya, and she landed hard atop the carcass. Istanten helped her to her feet and allowed her a moment to find her breath before he seized the body by the armpits and dragged it toward the brush.

Dalya tucked the shears into her waistband, swiped the dirt from her clothes, and grabbed the old man's feet. "Careful with his head," she said, and together the children carried the corpse into the trees and toward Middlewick. Neither made a sound as they trundled through the fields; the rush of the river and the squawking of crows were their only company in the middle of the night.

Dalya stripped the rags from her grandfather's emaciated body. She ripped a tatter from his shirt, soaked it, and gently scrubbed the dirt from the old man's chest and face. She cleaned the edges of the lacerations that ran down his form—a bizarre series of symbols carved cruelly into his flesh—and then dragged the cold corpse into the front bedroom. The first splashes of sunlight colored the early morning sky as she pulled him into bed and drew the sheets up to his stubbly chin. She planted a quick kiss on his forehead and trudged out to the shack behind the cottage.

There she traded shears for shovel and set off for the woods outside of town—the cluster of trees opposite the orchard. As she strolled through acres of twilit fields, her mind rendered numb from last night's raid, she found herself curiously engaged by her grandfather's spade. The old man had owned it for decades, but the tool had acted more like ornament than instrument; elaborate hieroglyphs decorated the dark wood of the shaft, spiraling downward until they dead-ended at the base of the ivory head. The head itself was narrow and acutely pointed, finely etched with patterns of flowers and vines.

It was a striking tool, and in her twelve years, Dalya had never seen her grandfather use it.

She found the clearing just as the sun broke over the mountains. After double-checking her measurements—six feet long, four wide—she buried the ivory spade in the dirt and wrenched free the first shovelful of earth from between her feet. She spent the morning ripping into the forest floor, careful not to break any roots or damage the surrounding flora, chipping away at the soil, sinking deeper and deeper into her grandfather's grave.

At noon, she stopped to rest. She scampered from the hole, strands of hair plastered to her forehead, her face and clothes clotted with dirt. Several minutes passed. She basked in the cool woodland breeze, recouping her energy and meditating to the birdsong. The feeling was short-lived.

The pitter-patter of hurried footfalls and the crackling of the underbrush sent her stomach into knots. She lurched to her feet, spade hefted in defense. Pivoting in the churned soil, she scanned the trees for the source of the sound, eyes flickering between shifting shadows and swaying branches.

Istanten tumbled from the bushes. Dalya flinched and teetered backward, catching her balance near the edge of the hole.

The boy hunkered over to find his breath, sucking air in choppy, guttural wheezes.

Dalya stabbed the shovel into the earth and laid a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"

He glanced up at her, chest heaving, and pointed west toward town. With his other hand, he pressed two fingers against his throat and emitted a low grumble.

She knelt before him, locating his eyes behind the swath of sweat-slicked hair. "Did they find my grandpa?" The boy did not respond. He only huffed and gasped, his shaking finger still leveled toward Middlewick.

Dalya sprang up and leapt into the thicket, branches and vines tugging at her hair and clothes. She stumbled over rocks and roots but maintained a steady balance while racing toward the village, oblivious to her exhaustion and the fire in her lungs, and erupted from the tree line in a flurry of jerky breaths and churning limbs. She vaulted fences and cleared fields, kicking up earth in her wake. Head down, arms pumping, heart thundering, she moved through the streets, evading people, carts, wagons, and packbeasts until she rounded the corner toward her grandfather's cottage.

The road was empty. The cottage was alone and quiet at the head of the street. A flood of relief washed over her like rain. Dalya's legs liquefied beneath her, and the girl collapsed on the cobbles. There she sat—a mess of hair and tears and heavy breathing—measuring the cottage in wondrous and exhausted respite.

Suddenly a shadow fell across the road, so wide and so large she thought the sun might've disappeared behind the clouds. Dalya turned, a ball of anxious pain growing in her belly.

Stretvanger loomed over her, an oak of a man swaddled in royal robes. His face was hidden beneath the dark folds of his hood, but his chiseled chin jutted out like a slab of stone from the edge of a cliff. The baggy garments betrayed the immensity of his form save the belt fastened round his belly; thick and smooth, the glossy leather strap, when stretched to its maximum length, was taller than she was, Dalya figured. Several soldiers—Harringer and his black-armored compatriot among them—were fanned out behind the gargantuan bishop, stiff and stoic in their posture.

He reached down, his body creaking and popping, and wrapped a gentle hand around Dalya's arm. With a tender tug, he lifted her to her feet. "Little girl," he said, a brooding impatience dripping in his voice. "Is your grandfather home?"

Dalya raked a strand of hair from her eyes. The burn of Stretvanger's gaze wilted her confidence, and all she could muster was a shake of her head. When the weak rebuttal failed to break his stare, Dalya pointed with trembling fingers toward the western wood. "He's in the orchard," she squeaked. "Where you left him."

"A clever answer, child, but a wrong one. Your grandfather wandered off last night." His eyes flicked toward the cottage door. "But death makes for a vicious handicap. I suspect he didn't get far." He pinched Dalya's soil-stained sleeve between two fingers and ogled the veins of cakey dirt that streaked across her tunic and trousers. His lips narrowed into a tight grin. "Have you seen him?"

"No, I think—"

Stretvanger nodded toward the cottage. "Might we have a look around, then?"

Dalya stepped warily toward the house, out of the bishop's enormous shadow. "No."

"Such discourtesy!" he jested, a syrupy chuckle rumbling out from the darkness of his hood. He turned and woofed an order at the throng of soldiers locked in formation. They percolated toward the cottage; Stretvanger followed, stepping nonchalantly around the small girl in his path.

A flush of angry, panicked heat rose in Dalya's throat. "This..." she started, "this isn't right! What you're doing to these people—what you're doing to us—isn't right!"

Stretvanger called a halt. He half-turned, eyeing Dalya from over his shoulder. "Sheep need not be privy to the shepherd's motives. Just rest easy. We're cleansing this country."

The trepidation in her heart boiled over, steaming into ire and lacing her words with bitter rancor. "You're wrong."

The giant shrugged. He mumbled, "Children have no place in politics," and gave a signal to his soldiers. The air hummed with the ring of steel; soldiers crowded the cottage, swords raised and spines rigid as the front door was kicked from its hinges. "Search the wardrobes. Raid the attic. Check the outhouse. The body is here, and I want it back."

The militia charged through the doorway.

"Blood!" he hollered at their backs. "The bastard's still bleeding. Look for dark, sour blood."