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“The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.”
— Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare
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The desolate ravine lay deathly quiet in the perpetual twilight of the mist-draped Shadowland, seemingly empty of the demons that preyed on the lost souls trapped there. That peace was broken by a man.
He shambled into the gorge, his feet raising listless eddies of dust. Head drooping and shoulders hunched, he moved like a sleepwalker, only half aware of his surroundings. He must have been a warrior once but now the fine armor hung on his tall frame limply — its bright shine lost to the teeth and claws of countless demons. The sword he drug carelessly behind him bore the nicks and scars of many pointless battles.
A scaly shadow slithered into place behind a basalt outcrop. It flexed razor talons and flicked a ropy tongue over its rows of jagged teeth. With a hopeful spark dancing in its giant black eyes, it pounced — swift, silent, unseen...
Expected.
The man raised his battered shield a heartbeat before the demon landed on top of him. He twisted and deflected the blow, tossing the startled fiend onto the rocks. It scrambled to get back up. It was too slow.
With a swift lunge and one smooth motion, the man sliced his blade through the creature’s corded neck.
The demon faded into Oblivion.
The man’s clouded eyes cleared as they stared at the spot where the demon had been. He could do that ... let go ... fade into Oblivion.
No. He shook his head, trying to remember. He was waiting. He had been promised something. He had been promised ... Paradise.
With a sigh, he scanned the charred, mist-draped landscape ... his eyes turned ashen and cold again like the dead sky above. His body lost its fighting stance and he wandered deeper into the ravine.
Hours, maybe days, passed. Time had no meaning here, not to him, not to anyone trapped there. A terrified scream shattered the Shadowlands silence. The man ambled forward without urgency. He rounded a bend and spotted the attack.
A young woman cowered at the back of a shallow crevice. She would have been beautiful in life. Now she was as washed out and grey as everything else here. Only her fear tied her to what she had once been. A demon with the body of a huge, decaying leper and the head of a wasp loomed over her. By the patterns left in the settling dust he could tell it had herded her there, playing with its prey.
He lifted his sword and charged. The monster was so intent on its victim that it didn’t even notice him coming. But she did, and her eyes filled with hope. That, the fiend did notice. It turned to face the man just in time for him to sink his blade deep into its chest. The demon pawed uselessly at the hilt as it faded.
The woman scrambled to her feet and threw herself into his arms with a sob. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. It was so awful. You saved me. Thank you, thank—”
Her hysterical muttering ended with a surprised gasp as his sword slid into her side. She jerked away and staggered back a step before slumping to the ground and fading away.
He rubbed at the dull ache in his chest and sat suddenly on a nearby boulder. The young woman reminded him of something ... someone. A terrible, nightmarish reminder. His eyes glazed back over, and the pain faded. He stood and started down the ravine.
“Breskaro Varenni!”
He spun, his sword already poised to block. A woman unlike any other stood several paces away. She smiled at his slow-witted surprise. Even here, in this impossible place beyond death, he had never seen anything like her. She reached one hand towards him and took a swaggering step closer, her anklets of bone clicking. Silver winged-snake tattoos slithered against the unnatural jet-black of her skin, seeming to dance up her arms in a starless night. Her amber eyes trapped his and looked through them into all he had ever been. The alizarin-orange gem embedded in her forehead, her qavra stone, flickered as if filled with torchlight.
Before even he could move in response, she touched him between the eyes. “Awake, champion, your services are needed.”
He stumbled back and shook his head. All the gray numbness and mental exhaustion slipped off him. His eyes cleared and focused on the sword he was still pointing at her. He sheathed the blade and ran his hands over his battered breastplate, until he reached the deep hole over his heart. Not all these scars and punctures were the work of demons.
His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed as he remembered — infidels looming over his broken body, their bloody swords flashing in the sun ... pain ... death ... then this.
“I remember. How — how long have I...” He gestured weakly at the dead land around him.
“Seven years.”
“I have wandered this — this hell for seven years? Why?!”
Her voice was sibilant, seductive. “Those who do not pass into either Paradise or Torment roam the Shadowland until they fade into Oblivion. Most last no more than a few weeks, if they do not fall to demons first.” He nodded as the knowledge came back to him. “But not you, Breskaro. You are not done with life.”
He fingered the rose-stamped, Eternal Sun medallion still attached to his remaining shoulder guard. A symbol of Seshalla, goddess of love and wisdom. His Goddess. He had been her Knight Champion. He had died crusading for her. But she had refused him Paradise. Even the lowliest recruit steeped in a lifetime of sin earned Paradise if they perished fighting for her. She should have given him a drink from the Cup of Eternity with her own hand as the Matriarch had promised.
“I dedicated my whole life to Seshalla.” He held his hands out in helpless confusion. “I died in her name and this — this is how she honors me?” Throwing back his head, he clenched his hands into fists and roared. “SESHALLA!”
He crumpled to the ground. “Why?” The plea was soft but his voice quickly hardened with slow, cold hatred. “How could you abandon me?”
“She cannot hear you.” The exotic woman gave another secretive smile when he glared up at her. “Perhaps Seshalla abandoned you, and perhaps she did not. Wiser men than you have placed their faith in lies.”
“Who are you, witch, and what do you want with me?”
Her smile only deepened as she touched the telltale qavra. “I am Nalsyrra, of the Ojaka’ari. I have come to take you back.”
“Back? Back to the land of the living? Why? How?”
“I represent a goddess, one who still has power. Though not enough to save her people. For that she needs you. As to how, I can lead you to the Keeper of Death who guards the Way of Return. But you must face him and defeat him alone.”
Breskaro laughed bitterly and climbed to his feet. “I am done serving fickle goddesses, Nalsyrra of the Ojaka’ari. I have learned my lesson through pain. Tell her to choose another warrior to fight her battles.”
“If all she needed were a warrior, do you think we would have gone to the trouble to raise you from the dead? You were the Knight Champion of Seshalla and the commander of the legendary Valiants. You were a mighty warrior, a brilliant tactician, and an inspiration to every man in Issalia’s army. You struck fear into the hearts of your enemies. You survived impossible quests. You are the one we need.”
“I am no hero, not anymore. That man died seven years ago. I am nothing but a shadow now.”
He turned his back on her.
“Reborn you would have the strength and vitality of several men. A shadow? Perhaps. But one with powers you have never even imagined.”
He shook his head and started to walk away.
“You could see Orisala again.”
Breskaro stopped.
“Orisala.” The name rolled off his tongue like a caress. He said it again, with more strength, as if simply hearing it brought him closer to life. “Could I touch her? Could I hold her again?”
“You could.”
His hand strayed to his war-ravaged face. “And would I be whole again? Would I look like myself?”
“Your body was well preserved and most of your wounds mended, but it has been dead seven years. I cannot undo that damage.”
“Orisala.” He whispered her name to himself as his brow furrowed in thought. “No. A walking corpse can bring no comfort to the living.”
“Comfort? Perhaps not. But salvation? Definitely. Orisala needs you, Breskaro.”
“What do you mean?” He spun around to face her. “I made certain she would be taken care of, surrounded by loved ones. My squire, Kedimius, pledged his life to protect and serve her. What has happened?”
“She is alive, but barely. The priests who pulled her from the River Ayre saved her life. She cannot move or speak, though her mind is intact and alert. They have no idea who she is. They care for her out of religious duty but can do no more to heal her. She is all alone and trapped inside a broken body.”
“How could this happen?!”
“That is a tale only she can tell. But if you come back and serve her, Harmulkot can heal her.”
“Harmulkot!? You expect me to trust Harmulkot? You expect me to serve that old wicked goddess?”
“You have no choice. And neither does she. You are her only hope, Breskaro Varenni. Just as she is your only hope of saving Orisala.”
Breskaro straightened his back. “No deceptions. If I return, I will see Orisala healed, and if Harmulkot betrays me, she will regret it.” He ripped the Eternal Sun medallion from his breastplate and tossed it away. “Very well. I will serve Harmulkot, for Orisala’s sake. Now take me back.”
“It is not so simple a task.” Nalsyrra drew her sword and handed to Breskaro. The hilt was onyx, the blade long and razor-thin. “The Sword of Shadowed Light. It is the only other help we can give you. Come. Follow me.”
He took the sword and frowned. “Who is this we? Who besides yourself and Harmulkot is involved?”
“There is another — an anonymous benefactor who is preforming the spell to prepare your body for your spirit’s return. It is a demanding ritual and she has made great sacrifices. See that they are not in vain. Everything depends on you.”
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