The Story Continues ... My Nephew the Crusader

[Occhidiangela]

Walking the horses back to the camp Mikal sees a brief flicker, and then the beginnings of a fire. He then notices a second flicker that doesn’t go away, and he grits his teeth in frustration. His eccentric aunt is bound and determined to aggravate him. Covering the distance at a slow walk, he brings the horses within range of the stone fire circle, and spends extra effort on pounding pickets into the ground and tying them both. His back turned to the two figures sitting by the fire, he seeks the calming memory of his master.

“Mikal, the Light manifests itself in different hues for each person. When you have difficulty with someone, or can’t understand what they are doing, reflect upon the rainbow. The many different colors of light combine to make that glorious sign of hope.”

Hope. He had almost given up hope on her as a guide when she energized that node on the ley lines. Maybe his distrust should be replaced by patience. Taking a deep breath he turns and walks to sit on a rock across the fire from her. The sight of the fire spirit and his all too human aunt sitting next to each other seems an abomination meant to taunt him. He consigns patience to the future.

“If you find my company and principles tiresome, Aunt, summoning demons will hardly improve our discourse.” He nods to the gently glowing figure sitting next to her, a translucent carbon copy of its creator. “This fire creature of yours … is she a surrogate for the Shadow you lost to the Demon Lord?” He picks up a small stick and tosses it across the fire pit, where it strikes the summoned creature – and is consumed in a bright burst of flame. The creatures face remains impassive throughout.

Impassive does not describe the green eyed woman’s expression. A mixture of amusement and annoyance dance across her face as she bites her lip. She opens her mouth and then closes it, then looks into the flame.

“Mikal, I didn’t raise you so that I’d have someone to lecture me on the morality of the True Light.” She pauses. “Some years before you were born my father sent me to the Monastery to become a Sister of the Sightless Eye. I went reluctantly. The whole time I was there, I missed my brother -- your father -- bitterly. My high-spirited, brave younger brother Temp.” Her voice trembling, she continues. “I embraced the challenges that the Sisters’ discipline and training presented. I meditated on the mystery of Anu, the nature of Light, and how sight is both a physical and a spiritual sense. I didn’t forget any of that when I left the Sisters and their petty power struggles.”

She takes a deep breath. “Descending into Hell under Tristram to face the Lord of Terror gives you a new perspective on what’s important in life. It’s a hell of a shock to watch a slain demon lord’s body transform, right before your eyes, into the dead shape of his innocent host: a youth. How often have I cursed the day that Morweina convinced me to go on the grand adventure of demon hunting? The nightmares never completely leave you.”

Her finger interlock and separate as she fights for control of her emotions.

“The Viz Jaq Taar would not have accepted me had I lacked the discipline and spiritual sensitivity I developed as a Sister. The Mage Slayers taught me about the zone between light and dark, that difficult part of reality that shadows represent. Did your Master ever teach you that Sanctuary is like a shadow taking form, a reality poised between the Light of the High Heavens and the Dark pits of Hell?”

She nods her head toward her glowing double. “Fire gives off light. Before you accuse me of summoning demons, Nephew, I challenge you to think outside that stifling tunnel of True Light. Pyra is the spiritual aspect of my inner fire, not a Shadow being. At Ivgorod, I learned another way to experience and embrace the Light. Sometimes, I see the thousand gods as glittering facets on the grand gem that radiates Anu’s eternal Light, and sometimes as rays of Light emanating from the Sightless Eye.”

Mikal’s voice rises in mild sarcasm as he retorts: “Auntie Angela, a philosopher? This is new. Where was all of this wisdom when we lived in Orehold?”

She waves her hand, impatience plain on her face. Her voice acquires a hard edge.

“All wisdom comes with a price, Mikal, and the Light knows I have paid! Miklanjou is dead now, and you’re the Crusader. Before you take on an apprentice, as I gave you to him nine years ago, you must be wise enough to teach.”

Shaking her head she looks up and stares directly into his eyes. “You’ve got a lot of learning to do before assuming his role. I don’t think he did you any favors.”

He’s seen her like this before, wound up, itching for a fight or an argument, so he rises and stalks over to the horses. He busies himself with removing a pot, two tin plates, one of the waterskins, and the ever shrinking bundle of salt pork: their dietary staple for the past few days. Look on the bright side, he tells himself, the demon started a fire while it was raining without having to find dry wood. That was convenient.

He returns to the fire and begins the comfortable ritual of preparing a simple meal, the work a substitute for further discussion. As he starts the hunk of salt pork boiling, he sees her get up and cross to the horses herself, digging deep into a saddle bag. She returns to the fire holding a hand weapon with a rounded blade. This was nothing he’d ever seen her fight with. He looks up into her eyes, his eyebrows raised in a question.

“I thought you had hung up your assassin’s tools forever. I recognize that for a blade fist. You taught me well about weapons, hunting, archery, fishing, and fighting.”

She reaches forward, handing it to him with the grips first.

“This blade fist was custom made by Larzuk. One of the things you collect when demon hunting and fighting the hordes of Hell is shards of various gems. Demons seem to attract them. I had Larzuk embed a bunch of crushed diamond chips into the edges of this blade.” Nodding to herself, she sighs. “That man sure knew his way around a blade. What a waste, him staying in Harrogath to be consumed by Tyrael’s grand disaster at Arreat.”

Examining the blade carefully with the aid of firelight, he notices the modification to the cutting edge. She continues.

“Diamonds are very hard. I wanted a weapon to cut through the hard scales and carpaces of some of the monsters we were fighting, but I never needed it. When I hung up the blade talons, I kept this in remembrance of Larzuk. Maybe the Light inspired me. I now know what you need it for.”

Mikal shifts his gaze from the weapon to his aunt. “What I need it for? I fight with a sword, with a mace, not with an assassin’s tools. My honor does not permit this.”

The lilt of her voice borders on laughter as she replies, “No fighting, my brave crusader. I need you to cut some rocks.”

Taking the weapon, he returns to his rock by the fire, sits down, and stares at the pot. He realizes that staring at the pot won’t cook the salt pork any sooner, but it makes more sense than rock cutting. He asks the obvious question.

“How does cutting rocks in an abandoned rogue camp get us closer to Tristram and the fallen star, Aunt?”

“You’re going to modify the waypoint we arrived on. While you were watering the horses, I had an epiphany related to how the ley lines have gone awry, and how the transport stones stopped working as they used to. The symbols are out of tune with the new nature of the world.”

At a complete loss he gapes at her, wondering what she’ll say next.

“Shadow, light, darkness … a mystery of three elements of perception. The Horadrim were mighty in magic, and used geometry for subtle reasons in their works. The destruction of the World Stone changed a great deal in this world, seen and unseen. It obviously changed how their craft works or can work. With that thought foremost, I meditated upon a mystery of three by three and took another look at the runes that glowed when we were transported here. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Moving closer to the fire, she uses her finger to sketch in the dirt a depiction of the waypoint a few paces away. She then sketches a circle within a circle, a triangle enclosed by the inner circle, and two sets of three alternating semi circles filling in part of the inner circle. She then modifies three of the semi circles into ovals, open towards the center of the circle. The other three turn into oval that arch away from the center and intersect the circle’s circumference. She thickens the legs of the triangle. The points of the triangle each land where an outward facing oval and an inward facing oval meet.

“The old waypoint held four triangles within the circle. I think it is out of balance, now. This triangle represents the mystery of shadow, light, and darkness. The two circles represent Sanctuary and the Sightless Eye. Three ovals open toward the center -- actually, those ends are meant to be horns -- represent the three prime evils. The other three partial ovals represent vigilance, justice, and valor as the light exposes the evil trying to hide in darkness and shadow.”

She stops, fingers finishing up small horns on each of the three open ovals. “Are you following me so far.”

He grunts. “Yes, Aunt, the philosophy is obscure, but these symbols I am familiar with from my travels in the East.”

She nods. “What I need you to do is take that blade fist and carve the transporting stone we arrived in so that the circle is all that remains. Remove the corners of the square. Then, I need you to etch in the inner circle, and finally the six ovals as I have sketched them here.”

He puts his hand on hers, and looks seriously into her eyes. “Aunt, are you asking me to perform sorcery?”

She shakes her head sharply. “No, I’ll do the spiritual things, Mikal. I need your strength. You can cut that stone a lot faster than I. Your smooth hand at engraving I remember well.” She grins. “Your time working with that blacksmith in Orehold was well spent.”

She gets up, brushing the dirt from her hands, and returns to her stone by the fire, and her attentive fire spirit. She reaches behind the stone and pulls up a small bag which clinks with metallic sounds.

“While you get started on that, I need to meditate on the odd items I found lying about this old camp. When the Kashya led the sisters back to the Monastery, and when Gheed took the rest to Lut Gholein, they left some things behind.”

Looking at the fire now, he asks the question she’d heard a hundred times when he was growing up.

“So what do we do about dinner, Auntie Occhi?”

A wave of joy and grief wash through her at the change in the tone of his voice. She leaps from her spot and vaults over the fire, surprising him with a warm and energetic embrace.

“Mikal, Mikal, Mikal.” Tears spring from her eyes and pour down her cheeks as she grips him even harder. “There’s not a day goes by when I look at you that I don’t see your father. Love is hard, oh so hard.”

She begins to sob as he hugs her back, and continues.

“I never expected to have children. Raising you was the best and hardest thing I ever did. I know I was stern with you, but the world is unforgiving. I can’t change how much love I have for you, the hopes I have for you, and it hurts me when you talk to me in that aloof Crusader tone.”

She leans back slightly and puts her palms up to his cheeks. “When you went away with Miklanjou, I spent nights worried sick that I erred in letting you follow the Crusader path. It was less than a season before I had to leave Orehold. That town was home because it was where you and I lived. With you gone, there was no reason for me to stay. I hurt so badly … oh, Mikal, you have no idea. Temp was dead. Sonya was dead. You were gone for a Crusader. Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and harms. My soul has scars a plenty, Mikal, and some are from the wounds of self-flagellation.”
She stops and bursts into a new shower of tears before rambling on. “Your father would be so proud of you, your mother would brag to the whole world in that crazy way of hers about her brave and noble son!”

Mikal had rarely ever seen tears in those grey green eyes, so he marvels at this new experience while trying to soak up this sudden avalanche of emotion. Had he wanted to say anything, his habit of reticence saves him from doing more than staying in the moment. He lets her hold his face in her hands until the waves of emotion finally subside and she regains her composure. The rain drops gently wash some of the tears from her face. He notices, in a brief moment of clarity, the fire spirit sitting on the rock next to the fire, face still impassive. Something in his heart connects, and he sees the face in front of him like he’s never seen it before. In the depths of those gray green eyes, he sees something he never quite understood: parent's love of a child. He finds his voice.

“The first scars I remember getting was the day I beat the sass out of that miner’s son who told all the other children that my aunt was crazy. I’ll try not to add to those while I cut that rock.”
=========
For all of her confidence in his strength, cutting the corners off of the waypoint stone is hard going. He adds his master’s old war hammer to the tools to speed up the work. Losing himself in the work, he stops when he realizes that it has stopped raining, and the moonlight breaks through the low lying clouds. He realizes that he is soaked to the bone.

Looking back toward the fire and sees his aunt curled up next to the circle of rocks, guarded by the glowing figure of the fire spirit who remains seated, face unreadable. He returns to the fire and sits. The fire spirit - Pyra - picks up the pan and hands it to him, revealing the remaining portion of salt pork. He gravely accepts it and eats slowly, watching the moon go in and out of the scattered clouds. His thoughts drift and fuse with shadow and light as they make changing patterns in the sky. He lets the contrast of shadow and light from the dying fire blend with his quiet prayer for peace.

When he is finished, he looks back at the fire spirit. It nods to him, and stands up in a mocking imitation of a soldier standing guard duty. He nods back, and curls up to sleep facing the fire.
======
Mikal wakes up well after sunrise, the sound of soft singing and loud scraping blending in dissonant harmony. He stands quickly. The horses are no longer tethered, but are standing quietly next to fire ring. His aunt, the source of the singing and scraping, stops and leans back, hands on knees, to examine her work. She rises while wiping the dirt and rock chips from her hands and knees. Turning to walk to the fire ring, her face lights up in a smile as she sees him.

“Are you ready to travel, Crusader Mikal?”

He nods, and moves to pick up some of the tools still lying on the ground. As he returns them to their bags and pouches on the horses, he notices the completion of the pattern he had started the night before. Gone are all of the runes, gone any trace of the crossed lines. In the dirt around the symbol laden stone circle lie an assortment of odds and ends, each with a particular glyph cut into them. A hammer, a spear head, a sword handle, an old boot sole, part of a table leg, and a rusty old lantern. Embedded into each glyph is what appears to be a flake of Fool’s Gold.

He walks to the center of the circle and guides the horses next to him. He takes off his cloak and covers their heads, their reins firmly in his hands.
“I am as ready as I can be, my one and only Aunt, but I will ask: where are we headed this time?”

Her reply comes back with a nervous edge in her voice. “Tristram, and a reunion that I was hoping never to have.”

Taken aback by her change in mood, he reaches up to calm his horse and himself. “Reunion? Who are you meeting?”

She stops short of the circle, eyes staring intently at the collection of odds and ends encircling the transport point. She slowly moves around the circle, touching each item gently in the center of the glyph.

“An old acquaintance who nearly got me killed on countless occasions. One thing I discussed with the Sisters was the source of the rumors surrounding Tristram, and of the new Tristram. The new town is a base for treasure hunters who came to loot the old cathedral’s catacombs, after the Lord of Terror was slain. Most of them are never seen alive again.” She kneels and reverses the orientation of the sword hilt. One last touch in its glyph and she is satisfied, so she steps into the circle.

“That grizzled son-of-a-whale-cow will be the death of me yet, but he’s the only focus I have to give direction to this transport point. If this doesn’t work, I’m not sure where we’ll end up.”

Mikal stops stroking the horse. “If it doesn’t work? If this fails, won’t we just end up standing here as we did in that stone circle?”

She shakes her head. “No, this will all be consumed by what we are about to try. If you have any prayers for safe passage, now’s the time to say them.”

He puts his head on his horse’s nose, and mutters salvanozekristof before turning to her again.

“I am not big on omens, but I notice that you put flecks of fool’s gold in the glyphs you carved into those remains of the old camp. Aren’t you tempting fate to use fool’s gold when dealing with the power of the world itself?”

She bursts into laughter. “Fool’s gold? I suppose you are too young to remember. That isn’t fool’s gold. Those golden flecks, are the leavings of a Horadric beard. Do you remember, from the days we spent in Harrogath, the old man who told you stories in the square? He wore a gray robe, always scratching his beard.”

“Yes, I remember him. He was kind, but Mahla always scolded him for trying to scare me with his fanciful tales. I remember spending more time with her and Larzuk than with him.”

“Those flecks, Mikal, are pixips from his Horadric beard. There is a strange magic in them, but they work.” Her voice raises in volume. “You and I are headed for a reunion with that crazy old man. We are off to see” – her voice becomes a shout—“Deckard Cain!”

She grips his left hand and slams her foot down hard in the middle of the triangle.

This time, the feeling is different. This time, the stone emits a hot, blue-white hue. This time, his feet get warm, then hot, and then the horses are screaming and jerking the reins from his hand. This time, instead of the air collapsing, the ground suddenly goes out from him and he falls, the wind whistling past his ears as he accelerates downwards, a death grip on her hand.

And then everything goes dark.