After gathering their few things and taking only a moment to drink at a small stream nearby, they resumed their journey, the monk in the lead. They had camped a few hundred feet from the road and reached it quickly enough, setting out down the middle with grim determination.
The day was gray and cold, wind ruffling their clothes and bringing a stench to their nostrils. The smell of death, Cain thought. Perhaps Leah wouldn’t recognize it, but Mikulov, he realized immediately, certainly had; the monk glanced at him with a somber expression.
They crossed a branch of the river again, this bridge intact and strong, running over rushing water that cascaded through rocks. The sky darkened, and the wind picked up, until the first drops of an icy rain fell over them. The trees had become withered and bare, the ground gray and lifeless. Once, Cain thought he smelled smoke, and they passed the remains of a fire that appeared to have been hastily doused. But there were no signs of people.
They proceeded more cautiously, keeping Leah between them. The last of the trees gave way to small, deserted shacks; piles of trash and broken furniture; and, once, the rotting carcass of a horse.
And then, opening up before them like a boil on the face of Sanctuary, was the city of Kurast.
19
The Red Circle
The area they had entered appeared to be deserted. Crows flapped and cawed overhead as they walked down the wide road and through the open city gates. Parchment flipped across the street, carried by the breeze, and the scent of the mudflats near the docks permeated their clothes, along with smells even fouler and less identifiable.
The former center of power in Sanctuary, the height of learning and culture, reduced to this: a ghost city filled with beggars and thieves. The tragedy of it all nearly brought Deckard Cain to his knees. He was catapulted back in time to the day he had arrived here after his traveling party, pursuing the Dark Wanderer. The city had been under siege then, and the people had been running for their lives. They had met the last of these people at the docks, rushing away with their belongings tied into cloth sacks: men, women, and children with haunted faces, forever scarred by the things they had seen.
Kulloom’s warning about Kurast came back to him once again, like a whisper on the breeze: The people there will take what they can from you and leave you to die on the road. And there are other things . . . Things that are not so kind.
Larger drops of rain began to spatter down, and Leah shivered. It wouldn’t be long before nightfall. They had to find shelter soon.
In the streets of Lower Kurast, all was silent. The small, communal huts were abandoned and falling into ruin, their doorways dark and empty. This had been the poorest section of the city, meant for laborers, and a good place to hide, if hiding was what you desired. Above them rose the larger buildings of Upper Kurast, the forgotten temple and reliquary looming over all. The things that had lived beneath these places the last time Cain was here made his blood run cold: underground chambers and sewers full of lurching undead and beasts, both mortal and demonic. So many of the people had been blind to the horrors that were lurking just beneath their feet, as many more across Sanctuary still were. They did not believe in angels and demons, or worlds beyond this one.
Leah moved nearer to Cain and Mikulov, the three of them closing ranks as a rat the size of a small dog skittered across the street in front of them. “Stay close, little one,” Cain said. He glanced at Mikulov. “We must remember why we have come. Somewhere in this city is a man who may hold the answers to whether the Horadric order is still alive and well.”
Something else moved in the shadows between two huts, something large and raw and glistening, slipping out of sight quickly. Cain stepped closer; the corpse of a woman sat propped up against one wall, maggots squirming in her empty eye sockets, her neck half missing, as if something had been chewing at her. The wound was still wet.
A sickeningly sweet smell wafted over him, and he imagined her turning slowly toward him, her wound like a second mouth, eye sockets fixated on him as she raised her arms for an embrace.
A low, distant moan drifted beyond the buildings ahead. About twenty feet away, an emaciated male figure stumbled into the street, weaving drunkenly sideways before correcting himself and standing rather unsteadily before them. The man was hardly taller than Leah herself, wearing ragged clothing stained with dark blotches that might have been blood or feces, his hair long and hopelessly tangled, his wispy beard caked with filth. His nails were so long they curled back toward his palms, and there were raw patches where he had cut into his own flesh with them.
The man glanced around, muttering, his face contorting as he chewed at his own cheek. His glassy eyes rolled wildly before he suddenly fixated on the three travelers. He shambled forward, hands up in supplication. “Do you have any food for us? We are hungry. Please.”
“We seek lodging,” Mikulov said, stepping in front of Cain and Leah. “A place to stay for the night.”
The man stared at him, openmouthed. He began to chuckle, quietly at first, then louder, lips curling upward to reveal yellow, broken teeth. “You want to stay . . . here?” he said, wheezing with laughter, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes. “Are you mad?”
“We’re looking for a man named Hyland,” Cain said. “If you take us to him, we can pay you well for it.”
“It’s too late for you now. It will be dark soon. Poor souls.” The man cackled again, glancing around as if afraid he might be overheard. “We’re all damned. We cannot escape. They take from us what they need and leave nothing.”
“Whom do you speak of?” Cain asked.
The man stared blankly at him. “They come from Gea Kul, traveling far in the night. You will see.” He nodded again, eyes fixed on a point of reference that was not in this world. “You will see.”
The man tilted his head, exposing his neck. It was covered in dark purple bruises, as if he had been gripped by giant hands.
Leah tugged on Cain’s tunic, pointing to the huts. Others had gathered in the shadows, all of them watching silently. They were all as thin as this man, and dressed like beggars, faces as white as parchment. He saw a girl about Leah’s age, standing by someone who might have been her mother, and another woman old enough to be the grandmother.
An old wound tugged at him, an emotion he refused to acknowledge.
Cain reached into his rucksack, removing some of the seeds he had collected back in Lord Brand’s manor. “There is black magic in these,” he said, extending his hand toward their visitor. “You may have them, if you help us find lodging. Plant them outside your door during the day, and at night they will grow up into a forest of roots. You must be careful, because they will grab and hold anyone within reach. But they may also protect you from what preys upon you. Black magic is not discriminating about that which it entraps.”
The man snatched the seeds away. He looked around furtively, as if expecting an attack at any moment.
“Come with me,” he said.
The man led them through the narrow streets without speaking, shuffling from side to side. The sky darkened as evening came on swiftly. The rain continued to patter down. They saw no others on the way, but as they left Lower Kurast and neared the docks, they began to hear music: a lyre, from the sound of it, plinking out a muffled tune, accompanied by raised voices. They followed the strange little man down a wider street, the buildings no longer quite as deserted. A light glowed from one window, and farther down was a row of abandoned shops, the windows of the largest of them filled with light.