21
The Feeder
Deckard Cain found Mikulov and Leah near the water’s edge, where Mikulov was teaching the girl how to skip stones. They had found nothing to eat. Gulls screamed above their heads, also searching for food. By the time they returned to the Red Circle, it was late afternoon.
There was no sign of Cyrus. The inn still slumbered, those few who remained present sleeping like the dead, the smell of stale ale and sweat drifting through the downstairs rooms. Mikulov found more rancid stew in the kitchen, and they ate what they could stomach before the first few patrons began to stumble in, bleary-eyed and sour, and wet from the rain that had again begun to fall.
Out of earshot from Leah, Cain explained to Mikulov what Hyland had told him. The Horadric scholars were apparently real, and had been close to Kurast. Perhaps they were still in Gea Kul. It was as much as Cain could ask for, considering the circumstances. But their connection with the creature Hyland had called the Dark One and his feeders was troubling. Cain had little doubt that this Dark One was the false leader from the book of Horadric prophecies that he had found in the ruins and, most likely, the same man Mikulov had seen in his visions. He was probably also the “master” referred to by Lord Brand back in the village.
Had this sorcerer killed Rau and the Horadric scholars? Or were they plotting together against the people of Sanctuary?
“Al Cut,” Mikulov mused. “Do you suppose it’s a living man?”
“The text is quite old, and it referred to his tomb, so I’m assuming he’s dead unless it is a prophecy of coming events. But I have never heard of such a person in all my years of studying history. One would think he might be written of, were he this important.”
“Hmmm.” Mikulov shrugged. “Gea Kul is not far from here. Perhaps a day or two’s journey, if we make good time.” Darkness was falling outside as they set their dinner bowls on the table near the kitchen. They listened to the sound of the wind moaning against the eaves. “At the monastery,” Mikulov said, “the masters teach us to listen to the earth and sky and wind, that the gods are in all things if only you learn how to open your mind to them. They are speaking to us now.”
Cain nodded. There was something heavy in the air, a presence like the promise of violence and blood. Leah seemed to feel it too; the girl had been mostly silent since the docks, keeping close by Cain’s side, and once, as a group of large men came into the inn with voices raised, her small hand had snuck into his and squeezed it. Her skin was clammy, her bones as fragile as a bird’s wing.
They returned to their room, and Leah fell asleep on the bed of straw. “Forgive me,” Mikulov said, “but I sense something else is bothering you.”
“Everyone has a history they would like to forget.”
“Some more than others,” Mikulov said. “The Patriarchs say that if we do not face these things, we are not whole. And we are vulnerable to the darkness.”
“I’ve seen horrors that most other men would not recover from,” Cain said. “I have seen my friends murdered, my town destroyed. I’ve lived most of my life with guilt because I let these things happen, and did not fight back soon enough.”
And Leah, he thought, but did not say it: What was her role in all of this, and what did she mean to him? A chance to change things, a way to fight back against the darkness that had plagued him most of his adult life?
You cannot change the past.
Mikulov studied his face for a long time, as if looking for some kind of truth written there. “I sense there is more, much more. Whatever else may be inside you, it is your burden alone to carry. But should you need a friend—”
“Thank you, Mikulov.” Cain removed the Horadric book of prophecies from his rucksack. “Now I must search for more answers, before the morning comes. We have only five days before the prophecies say Hell will come to Sanctuary. There is no time for this. We must rest soon, and be on our way again.”
Mikulov opened his mouth as if to speak again, then shrugged and nodded. “As you wish.”
Cain pored over the text until late into the night, searching for anything that might help them, but he found nothing else of substance. An increased sense of urgency drove him on far longer than he might have thought possible; time was getting away from them, and they were no closer to a solution. It was maddening.
Finally he fell asleep sitting up, the book dropping into his lap, and he dreamed he was walking down a long, dusty road lit by fire on all sides, the heat prickling his skin and turning the hairs on his arms black and twisted. Somewhere nearby there was a presence so foul, so filled with evil, it made his stomach churn with sickness. He was searching for someone he had ignored for far too long. The evil presence had taken that person from him.
He became aware that feeders were following him, flitting like ghosts on the road’s edge, their pale, crab-like forms mirroring his pace. He went faster, but they grew closer, hundreds of them. As he walked down the road, he could make out two figures in the distance holding hands, one taller than the other. They walked away from him, and no matter how fast he went, they remained distant specks on the horizon.
He increased his pace until he was running, his staff banging the ground, rucksack flapping against his shoulder. But he could get no closer.
They are mine, a voice boomed inside his head, loud enough to make him cry out. Laughter echoed across the landscape, following him as he ran ever faster. I took them years ago, snatched on the road to Caldeum. Now they suffer for all eternity. The laughter raked him like claws as the fire roared up, and a tiny child’s voice began screaming.
You were blind, and now you see.
He awoke in a cold sweat, his mouth dry, legs numb. The room was dark and filled with the faint sounds of Mikulov’s and Leah’s breathing. The text had fallen to the floor. He gathered it up and slipped it back into his rucksack, trying not to think about the dream. It had been more vivid than any of the others, and the voice of the evil presence had sounded real.
Cain wiped tears from his face. That was many years ago, so many years. There was nothing he could do about it now, and no way he could change the past. He had to go on. That had become his mantra, recited so many times in his own head he had come to believe in its power to erase his history and to bring about his redemption: I must go on.
A low moaning sound drifted from somewhere down the corridor, beyond the closed bedroom door.
Cain froze, listening. He had heard similar noises the night before, but this one seemed to rattle him even more; it was a haunted, lonely sound, that of a dying man.
The moan came again, followed by a dull thud, like something heavy falling to the floor.
Cain took his staff and opened the door, peering out into the hallway. It was filled with shadows broken only with a dim light that filtered through a single window at the far end. The night outside was a gray-blue, the color of deep water. He paused, waiting, and heard something move from behind a door about ten feet down on the right. It sounded like a heavy object being dragged across the ground.
An icy draft wafted over him, bringing chills. There was something in that room. Every instinct told him to turn around, gather Leah and Mikulov, and take them far away from this place. But he also sensed that whatever was happening behind that door could not continue. Someone was in terrible danger.
Cain crept down the hallway as quietly as possible, keeping close to the wall. As he went, he imagined fires burning all around him from his dream, pushing him forward.
The door was open a crack. Darkness loomed inside.
Another soft moan broke the silence. Cain muttered words from the Horadric spellbook, his staff taking on the familiar blue glow. He pushed the door wide.