Abigail M. Manuel abigail.manuel@gmail · 2018-02-20 · Abigail M. Manuel about 8,875 words [email protected] The Chosen: A Diablo Story by Abigail M. Manuel "Exciting day

Abigail M. Manuel

about 8,875 words

[email protected]

The Chosen: A Diablo Story

by Abigail M. Manuel

"Exciting day. So many people—more than I’ve seen in ages." Rena’s father, Martos,

said as he rubbed his hands together. "A lot of money to be made." Her father got up from his

stool and paced around behind her, looking through their bags. They had just set up their stall at

the Westmarch market day as they had every third weekday since she could remember. At

thirteen, she was unexcited by Westmarch even though she came from Rolstrum, a much smaller

village. But today seemed somehow different. The air was colder than it should have been; the

sun was brighter. She could hear the pennants on the battlements moving in the wind, and even

though the market was thick with people looking for goods, everyone spoke in hushed tones as if

waiting for something to happen. Though he said nothing, she could tell her father felt it too. He

seemed nervous. He was never nervous. She shivered and pulled her legs up onto the stool and

hugged them to keep warm.

“Today’s going to be a good day, Rena.” Rena nodded to him, agreeing. Her father

fidgeted around more, straightening the quills, parchment, trinkets her father had bartered for,

and the crude daggers she had made. He paused as he looked at the serrated edge of one of them.

It had taken Rena a long time to get the serrations even. They were simple, but she was proud of

the progress she had made as a blacksmith’s apprentice. Martos turned to her.

Manuel / The Chosen / 2

“I was going to wait to do this, but I have a surprise for you.” He picked up the satchel he

kept his money and licenses in and pulled out of it a small pouch tied up with twine. He handed

it to her. “Here, open it.”

Rena unwound herself from her position on the stool and hesitantly took the pouch from

him. They didn’t have much money—especially after her mother died—and she was not used to

gifts.

“Go on,” Martos said chidingly. “You’re not that surprised I’d buy you a surprise gift,

surely.”

Rena carefully untied the twine and let the pouch fall open in her hand. In it, was a small

glass pot of glowing arcane dust, a few tiny veiled crystals, and a small vial of churning death’s

breath—all expensive blacksmithing supplies. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to help her

practice and make something a warrior might use. Rena’s face became hot and she fought back

tears. It was not just a gift, it was a peace offering.

“Thank you,” she said, whispering. Martos hugged her.

“Rena, I know I’ve been… hard… on you. But you’re my only child. I wanted you to be

like me, or your mother. But you’ve chosen your own path, and I should accept that.” He kissed

her on the head and gestured to the daggers she had made. “And look what you’ve done in such a

short time! I can’t help but be proud.”

Rena was about to respond, when she heard something—the clamor of voices together.

Martos heard it too and leaned into the street to see what was going on. A voice called out above

the noise, "Our templar has returned victorious!" The crowd parted, revealing a man in full plate

armor. His armor, though stained with blood, shined brightly—almost blindingly so. The market

erupted in awed voices. He was carrying something, dripping ichor or blood. It was a head in an


advanced state of decay—the head of a horned demon. Its mouth gaped open grotesquely,

flapping as he walked. Its mouth had triple rows of sharp teeth. One eye was open, the eyeball

hanging out by a sinew. The other swollen closed, and one of its horns was broken, exposing

oozing black marrow. As he passed, the stench of it made Rena want to vomit. She had to look

away. When she looked back, he had disappeared in an adoring crowd.

"Isn’t that something, Rena?" Her father asked, awed. "He's killed a demon. How proud

he must be—how proud Westmarch is of him. He will be forever honored." Rena remembered

the blood on his armor. It was everywhere—and fresh. Not all of it could possibly have been the

demon’s, surely, she thought.

"How many are in a templar’s troop?” Rena asked. Martos leaned back into the stall and

looked at her pensively.

“Eight? Possibly ten?”

“Where did the rest of them go?”

“I… I don’t know. I hope…”

Martos looked away and returned to straightening his wares. Rena looked at the pouch in

her hand, but all she felt was anger. She could not believe that he could talk of honoring dead

templar when her mother—his wife—had died protecting their town from demons awakened by

the Fallen Star. At thirteen, Rena was nothing like her father. She didn’t have his easy

personality or his small frame. Rena had a steady temperament and hand and a fighter’s build.

She could easily have been a warrior.

But honor, she thought, it doesn’t bring you home.

“Maybe…” her father said carefully, “maybe they’re here. Why don’t I go and find out?

Would that make you feel better?”


Rena shrugged.

"I’ll be back. Watch the table—and remember to smile. No one buys anything from a

grumpy merchant."

As Martos disappeared into the crowd, Rena sighed and suppressed a teenage eyeroll.

Much of the crowd had left the market, following the templar. People trickled back in as the

commotion died down. With it, the uneasy feeling dissipated. She looked at the goods spread out

before her: spells, plans, books, trinkets, and the crude daggers she had made as an apprentice.

Several people walked by the booth. She smiled at them and patiently answered their

questions. A hooded woman with shining eyes bought her daggers. A nobleman from Caldeum

in bright orange makeup bought a tome. Within a few hours, she had sold almost everything save

a few quills. As it came to be late afternoon, Rena became worried. Her father had not returned.

The sun was halfway behind Westmarch’s battlements by the time her father appeared

again.

“Where have you been?” She asked incredulously. He had never left her like this before.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“We’ll have to stay here tonight…”

“No, we’ll be fine if we hurry. Pack everything up and let’s go!”

“But… It will be dark…”

“We’ll be fine, Rena… And boy do I have a story to tell you.”

Rena hastily helped her father load the goods onto their horses and shuffled on her

traveling cloak. When they finally passed through Westmarch’s gates, the sun was bloated and

red on the horizon. It would be night before they reached Rolstrum.


Martos and Rena rode on in silence. Rena’s stomach tightened as the sun grew lower on

the horizon.

“We’re not going to make it… There are demons on the moors… and Khazra. And if we

come to another town, they’ll think we are spirits trying to trick them...”

"We’ll make it, Rena. Don’t worry," Martos said. Rena could hear the uncertainty in his

voice. "I lost track of the time. Capt. Hardin told such a thrilling tale!"

Martos launched into telling Rena about Hardin's company and their valiant deeds.

“There were eight of them to start. A village across the moor—quite close to Rolstrum,

actually—was being terrorized by a demon. The thing would come at night and drag someone

off…”

Rena was only half listening, but the sound of her father’s voice and the idea that

somewhere there were people who could defeat the monsters that plagued their land comforted

her as the sky darkened. By the time her father’s story ended with Capt. Hardin the lone templar

slaying the demon, Rena and Martos found themselves in a part of the moor they did not

recognize.

"Where are we?" Rena said quietly, her voice faltering. The road continued, but the

featureless, scrubby moor had turned to a small, dense forest of thin, gray-barked trees. The night

sounds of the moor were silenced, and a putrid, hot fog washed over them. "We never left the

road, but I don’t remember this."

"Me neither, Rena. But this has to be the way."

Rena and Martos hurried their horses through the trees, but didn’t seem to make much

progress. Rena heard something that chilled her to the bone—the baying of a monstrous beast. It


was a strange sound with a pattern—words perhaps, but none she could discern. Her horse

jumped forward in fear. Martos stopped suddenly, bringing his horse around.

"Did you hear that, Rena?"

"Yes, I hope that beast isn’t coming for us."

"What? That wasn’t a beast. It was a woman calling my name!" Rena was confused. Was

what she heard a woman?

As they began walking once more, the noise came again. It was louder now, and clearer.

This time, Rena heard the sound of her father’s name in the animal’s call. Martos’s face was

pale.

"Gods, you’re right. That’s no woman. Let’s get out of here!" Rena grabbed up her rains

and urged her horse into a gallop. She could hear her father’s horse behind her. The forest

seemed to go on forever. The trees were so densely packed that it seemed as if a starless night

had descended and that they were doomed to spend the night on the road.

Her horse glistened with sweat and began to slow down. Just as the horses could run no

further, they saw the thin line of dusk on the horizon and the end of the forest. And in the

distance a few fires flickered—torches on the gate of a village not far away. Rena’s horse saw it

too, taking a deep breath and renewing its charge forward.

As they ran the last few meters, the stars began to appear and dusk turned to a thin purple

line in the distance. As they reached the walls, the night watchman was just closing the iron

gates.

"Wait! Stop!" Her father shouted, waving and putting on his best salesman’s smile. Keys

in one hand and lantern in the other, the watchman raised the torch to look them over.

"We don’t take strangers after dark."


"Please," Martos pleaded. "My daughter and I are lost. We were on our way to Rolstrum

and we won’t make it. Please don’t abandon us to the beasts of the night."

The man’s lantern spilled light on both of them. Rena could not see his face over the

torchlight, but she could tell he was thinking hard about them, trying to judge how likely it was

they were thieves, spirits, or worse. He lowered the lantern and her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

He was a weathered man, with scars across his face. He was missing an eye. To Rena he seemed

the type who would know a demon from a man.

"All right, come in then. My shift’s over and I don’t have time to tuck you lot in. If you

need lodging, the Lion’s Share is in the center of town. Welcome to Edgemoor."

The town was smaller than Rolstrum, and no one was around. The torches on the village

wall were lit, but the city was dark. Rena slid off her horse, and could not see her feet on the

ground. The Lion’s Share was not hard to find. It was the only light and noise of the town. Its

leaded windows glowed with lamplight and the fire of the hearth inside. Muffled laughter and

song drifted softly towards Rena, warming her mind if not yet her body. They surprised the tired,

plump innkeeper when they walked in. She had to wake her gangly, tired son to take their horses

to the stable.

"You’re lucky," the innkeeper said, ducking behind her desk to retrieve their room key,

"Tobias isn’t usually keen on letting strangers into Edgemoor after he’s locked the gate." In the

room beyond, Rena could hear four or five men singing a drinking song and pounding their feet

on the ground. Martos craned his neck to look in the doorway. The singing caught the attention

of the innkeeper as well. "Pay them no mind. You can’t hear all that upstairs. The kitchen will be

open a few more hours. Your daughter's too young to go in the dining hall, but I’ll bring

something up to you, if you like." Her father thanked the innkeeper and shook her hand. Martos


and Rena went upstairs to their room. The room was nice enough but small with a bare wooden

floor. The innkeeper, Ida, had obviously decorated it. The room had a definite feminine touch—

lace and flowers covered everything from the bed to the dressing table. Rena claimed one of the

two beds and flopped face down into it.

"Tired, eh?" Her father asked.

Rena said nothing but nodded her head with her face still in the quilt. Martos laughed.

"I’m sorry about all this. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have tarried so long and put you in

danger." Her father was never serious. Rena propped herself up on her elbow and then sat beside

him. "And I shouldn’t have said what I said. Honor and glory... It’s never worth it. If I lost you

like I lost your mother…" Tears began to form at the edges of his eyes as he spoke,

Just then, the innkeeper appeared with their food. It was standard pub fare—a mess of

roast and gravy piled on top of steamed vegetables and potatoes. They both ate in happy,

famished silence. Afterwards, Rena got ready for bed. Her father however, readied himself again.

"Where are you going?"

"I’m just going down to the dining hall. You never know when you might make a good

contact." Martos gave her his broad, salesman smile. "I’ll be back soon." Rena sighed, snuffed

the lamp in the room, and slipped into bed. The heaviness of the food and the dark of the room

made her fall asleep quickly.

But it was an uneasy sleep. She dreamed she was riding through the forest on the moor,

but she was alone. The fog was thick but a silvery light led her on, fractured by the gray trunks of

the thin trees dotting the roadside. Rena called to her father, but she got no answer. A woman’s

voice, clear and strong, called her name. She saw a woman, winged and glowing, beckoning her

forward. She felt her heart inside her swell with pride and her skin tingle with anticipation. She


looked down at herself—she was wearing her mother’s armor. Curious, she dismounted her

horse.

"Fight for me, brave warrior. Let everyone sing your praises." Rena looked around

confusedly. Rena thought that surely she was not talking to her. As she turned back to face the

woman, she was gone. Rena could hear fighting in the forest—sword against plate and mail. As

she walked closer, she realized it was a templar—Capt. Hardin. Another templar deflected his

blows with her shield. With each blow, the sigil of Westmarch became harder and harder to

discern. She was yelling something at him and there was fear in her eyes. She would not strike

him back. She watched her, and thought of her mother. The two women were similar in stature,

though this one had flowing auburn hair—not black—and was shorter than her mother had been.

With each blow the woman stepped backwards, and finally she tripped over the body of another

templar lying behind her. As she lay on the ground, Hardin delivered one last blow, taking off

her head. Blood splattered the front of his breastplate.

Rena woke screaming. She looked around the dark room for her father, but he had not

returned. The moon was high and almost full. A cold light poured in from the window. She held

herself for a moment, her heart slowing from her night terror. And then she heard it: metal on

metal—just like her dream. It came closer and closer. With each sound, her body went colder.

Shaking, she crept to the window and opened it. Peering out, she saw a templar in armor below

her, walking haltingly through the village square. She squinted at him, trying to discern if he

wore the sigil of any of the nearby cities, but his shield was turned away. It's just a man, she

thought, don't be silly. She wondered though how the templar had gotten into the town at this

time of night. The guard had barely let them in.


A warm light and the sound of revelry spilled into the night as the templar walked inside

the Lion’s Share. Rena shut the window carefully and pulled the shades across it. She slipped

into bed, and after a few moments of staring at the ceiling, her mind finally calmed enough for

her to drift off into a peaceful sleep.

#

It was morning and Rena woke with a start. She could tell by the sun that she had slept

almost to midmorning. She looked around, but her father still gone. She stumbled into her

clothes, out the door, and down the stairs. The inn was deserted. When she left the inn, she found

there were many people out on the village green—older or elderly people and children. Ida the

innkeeper was among them. She hurried up to her.

"Child, do you know where they've gone?" The innkeeper said, grabbing her by the

shoulders.

"Who?" Rena said, startled, "My father?"

"No! All of them!" Rena gently pushed her away.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about."

"They all left in the night following some man in armor who knows where…" A chill ran

down Rena's spine.

"Was my father with them?"

"I don't know!”

Rena ran back inside and packed her things quickly, leaving money for the innkeeper.

She took special care to wrap up the present her father had given her. Her mind raced as she

thought of what might have happened. Did the man have some sort of mission for them? Where

did he take them? Was he a spirit? Where has father gone? She decided she would look for them


along the road. Somehow, she thought, if she could find that forest once again, she would find

her father.

The day was maddeningly sunny and cheerful. The road was clear, and the moor's scrub

and high grasses stretched on to the mountains dotted with heath. She walked for hours towards

Westmarch, and found no gloomy forest or even one leaf of a tree. As Westmarch took form on

the horizon, she realized that she had gone too far. She looked around. There was a fork in the

road behind her, one going north and the other south. Instead of taking the fork north to

Rolstrum, they instead had continued on towards Edgemoor. The roads created a rough triangle

around the moor, keeping out of the lower-lying boggy marshes. Wondering if the forest might

be just off the road near the fork, she steered her horse off the road and wandered away, studying

the horizon and looking for tracks. As she rode, she crossed the road many times but found

nothing.

Suddenly, her horse tripped and she pitched forward, landing face down in the damp

earth. With a groan she lifted herself up and dusted a few clods of dirt from her tunic. As she

looked down, the sun glinted off of something in the grass. She picked it up. It was the shoulder

guard of a suit of armor. Turning it in her hand, she marveled at the craftsmanship. It was light

but sturdy, and though it had obviously seen battle, it was still holding its shape.

From her vantage point on the ground, she could now see shards of metal in the grass

stretching out towards Edgemoor. Some great battle must have taken place here, she thought.

Bits of the dream she had the night before surfaced: Capt. Hardin with his eyes ablaze and the

other templar’s shield. In her mind, the Hardin's sword crashed thunderously against her shield.

She brushed the thought away. Father’s story stuck in my mind, that's all, she thought. Perhaps


they train here. Or they slayed the demon… Rena, finding no sign of her father or the men and

women of Edgemoor, returned to the crossroads and wandered home.

#

As Rena arrived into town around sunset, she was relieved to find Rolstrum just the way

she had left it. A few children played on the village green while their mother shooed them away

from the well. The Murky Moon, the town inn, was just lighting its lamps and she could smell

dinner on the fire inside. Over all of it, she could hear the tapping of Gunther's hammer as he

worked in the blacksmith's shop. She decided that would be the first place she would start.

The noise and the warmth of Gunther's shop were comforting. She stopped in the

doorway to watch the crackling the fire and Gunther as he took a glowing, heated blade to his

bench. She could tell that this blade was almost complete. She admired the stooped, bald man

with his dirty hands and leather apron. He didn’t care about honor; he cared about making useful,

beautiful things. When I find my father, she thought, I’m never leaving this workshop again.

Gunther was tending the bellows when she finally entered the shop. It took him several

minutes to realize that she was behind him. When he finally did, he quickly left the bellows and

wiped his hands on his apron.

"Rena!" Gunther called. He looked confused when he saw that she was leading her horse

by its reins. "I thought you had already made it home."

"No, I returned just now, why?"

"Oh, well, I thought I saw a light on in your house." Rena felt a glimmer of hope that her

father had lost his way and had returned. She ran hurriedly to their row house a few streets from

the village green. When she got there, she did not see any sign of a light or of anyone inside. Her

stomach turned as she realized Gunther must have been wrong. She called to her father, moving


from room to room. His pack was not by the door where he would have left it, and his shoes

were not by his chair. The larder had not been disturbed and neither had his bed or hers. A spider

had already begun to take advantage of their absence, stringing a single strand from her father's

bedside table to his headboard. She waved it away with her hand. As she came out to check

around the building, Gunther was standing outside.

"Where is your father, child?" It was then that gravity of Rena's situation finally hit her.

Her father was gone, and she had no idea where he was. She wasn't even sure what "gone"

meant. She wept openly, and her outburst surprised Gunther. Though he had known her since she

was very young, he was at a loss at what to do. Shakily, he put his stained hand on her shoulder.

"What is wrong, Rena? It can't be as bad as all that." Rena stood and wiped away her tears.

Haltingly, she told him what had happened, but not all of it. She could not bring herself to tell

about the dream and the forest. None of it made sense to her. All she knew for sure was that they

barely made it to Edgemoor before nightfall, and her father went to the Lion's Share Inn in

Edgemoor and never came back. Gunther began cursing softly and ran his calloused hand

through across his sweat-streaked head. "That's not like your father, going off without a word."

Gunther looked out onto the horizon. The sun was almost below the horizon. "They'll be closing

the gate now, but in the morning we'll go looking for him, I promise."

#

Her home should have made her feel calmer, but her father's absence made the house feel

foreign and cold. The moon rose, casting shadows that distorted the foot of her bed and the wall;

she could have been anywhere. Deciding finally that she was not going to be able to sleep, she

sat up. The moon was so bright outside, that she found her pack resting against the wall without a

lamp. She looked through it and found the present her father had given her. Just holding it was


comforting. But uneasiness, unbidden, began to build again. Outside, she heard a familiar sound.

Slow and shambling, the clinking sound of metal on metal echoed through the town. Looking out

her bedroom window, she saw the templar again walk past. She looked at his shield. The sigil

had been battered shapeless, but underneath it she could just make out the first few letters of

"Westmarch." Fear gripped Rena. It was the same man who had come into town before her father

disappeared. Rena dressed quickly and threw on her traveler's cloak. If she followed him, she

thought, she might learn what happened to her father.

When she ran into the street, he was gone. There was no one around, and in the silence,

she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. As she got nearer to the center of town, she relaxed

as the loud laughter and song from the Murky Moon drifted towards her. They would not let her

in because of her age, but she felt she had to know what was going on inside. She went around to

the back to the kitchen entrance, stooping below the windows to avoid being seen. The door to

the kitchen barely clung to its hinges and creaked loudly when she tried to open it. She stopped,

looking around to make sure no one heard her. A burst of laughter from the dining room

confirmed that no one had. She opened the door just wide enough for her to pass through. The

kitchen was dark and empty. Plates and dishes, yet to be cleaned, sat in a basin. The spit was

empty, and below it red wood embers turned to pale ash. Cautiously, she opened the door into

the inn and crept towards the dining room. Meeting no one, she pulled the hood of her traveling

cloak down over her head and quietly sat down at a table in the corner.

No one noticed her entrance. Her chest tightened when she saw what held everyone's

attention: the templar, standing in the middle of the room. His armor was shining brightly now.

The air was cold despite the bright red fire. Most of the adults from around town were there: the

old farmer Yanik and the miller's wife Twinda, the tanner, Dorin, Meyer the butcher, and even


Gunther. Seeing him there filled her with dread. If she could not stop what was happening

tonight, she would surely lose him as well.

The templar was just finishing his grand story.

"And for a fortnight I chased the demon. Injured, it was still powerful. Oh, how I wish

that last blow had killed it. I hunted the abomination by day and in my dreams at night. I was so

close to victory—to glory and fame! If only I had the strength to go a bit further and companions

to help me…"

The old farmer, Yanik, who tried to stand three times before he succeeded, spoke first.

"If ye need someone to help ye fight the evil of the Burning Hells, I'd be a man at your back!"

The miller's wife was next, pledging her support of the templar. One by one, the people she

known all her lives raised their glasses to the templar, expressing a secret wish for honor, glory,

and recognition. She had not known them to be unhappy, but looking at them it dawned on her

that they aspired to more. Only she knew the sacrifice any warrior fighting against the Burning

Hells made. It had cost Rena her mother. The templar's story did not tempt her.

The last of them, Gunther, finally swore to help the templar. The templar raised his glass.

As he did so, Rena noticed that underneath his arm and behind his breastplate there was a hole in

his chain mail roughly the size of the head of a spear. Around it black-dried viscera and caked

blood.

Rena had been staring so intently at the templar that she didn't realize her hood had slid

slightly back. When she sat back in her chair, Gunther was giving her a chiding look she knew

well. Quietly, he stood and walked towards her, and led her outside through the front door by her

arm. Her heart started racing. This was her chance. If she couldn't save all of them, at least she

could spare Gunther from his fate.


"What are you doing here, Rena? The Murky Moon is not a place for someone your age."

Rena pulled her arm from his grip angrily.

"What am I doing here? What is that templar doing here! This is exactly what happened

the night my father disappeared. You're all going to go running into the night and never come

back."

"You're making that up, Rena."

"No! I'm not! The same man came into Edgemoor and led the entire inn away!"

"If that's true, then why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because it didn't make any sense before. And it doesn't make that much sense now. But

if you go off with that man, you won't come back."

Gunther stared at her for a moment and Rena looked him hard in the eye. She saw a

glimmer of doubt in him. Perhaps she was getting through. But then the templar burst out of the

door and the blacksmith turned away.

"Follow me, my friends. We shall taste honor and rend glory from the corpse of our

demon foe. To arms!"

Meyer, the butcher, went inside his store and brought out the tools of his trade—knives,

cleavers, even the hooks on which meat was hung. He passed them out into the crowd. The

Gunther walked away to his workshop, and Rena trailed after him calling his name. She could

not rouse him now; he seemed as if he was in a trance. He picked up his heaviest hammer and

joined the growing throng of villagers. Rena pulled at his arm.

"Gunther, no. Don't leave! You don't know…" With uncharacteristic cruelty, he threw her

down into the dirt.


"Unhand me, child. You will not get between me and my destiny." Rena pulled herself up

and sat in the dirt. She looked at all of them as they lighted torches and prepared to go into the

night with the templar. In the torchlight, they glowed magically with a cold lifelessness. Their

weapons gleamed with a magical aura, and their eyes—black and featureless—reflected the

torches and the moonlight. None of them looked like the people she had known her whole life.

What was left were shining shadows of them, gilt with light and gold. The templar yelled for

them to follow, and they began to march into the night. Paralyzed, Rena wondered what to do. If

she followed them, she might fall under the templar's spell or they might turn on her. But she

couldn't let them go; if there was a way to save them, she had to find it. If there was a way, she

would have to be prepared.

She turned and ran back to her and her father's house. She grabbed her bag pulled out

what she thought she could leave behind—clothes, soap—but she kept the package that her

father gave to her. The comfort it gave her mitigated its weight. She grabbed a lamp and threw an

extra tin of oil into her pack and hurried out the door.

She lit the lamp, but set it low. The torches from the men and women ahead were more

than enough to keep her on the path. They made their way out of the gate and onto the road but

then the templar left the path and headed across the moorland towards Westmarch. At first the

moorland was lighted by the moon, but soon the fog on the moor and a thin wisp of cloud

plunged the terrain into darkness. Suddenly, Rena could only see a few feet around her.

Instinctively, she opened her lamp and filled the area around her with light. The fog around her

reflected the light back on her creating a wall of white. Shuttering the lamp again, she was

plunged back into darkness. Rena knelt down, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Once they did, she


could see the torches of the templar and her fellow townspeople as a dimming light on the

horizon. Her eyes on her feet, she picked her way as quickly as she could through the moor.

The land suddenly changed. The fog of the moor rose from the ground. The clouds above

disappeared and were replaced by the bows of dark, thick-leaved trees. She recognized the gray-

trunked trees from when she and her father had rode to Rolstrum. Beneath her feet, the road had

disappeared, but she could see where it would have been. The soft ground created a mound on

top of it where trees seemed unable to grow. Rena left the path to examine the trees. From afar

they seemed real enough, but up close the bark appeared painted. There was no real depth or

texture. She touched it, and it gave slightly—like the hide of a beast and not a plant. She pulled

her cloak around her tighter and ventured on down the path.

As she walked, she heard a familiar sound: the shrill call of a beast. Looking into the

woods, she saw the templar sitting on the ground in front of a fire. Around him in a circle were

the people of Rolstrum, their attention on him. She could not hear him, but by his manner and his

hand gestures, she could tell that he was telling them another story. His hand to his brow, he

looked as if he were surveying a battlefield. He swung an imaginary sword and buffeted blows

with a phantom shield. From somewhere beyond the circle, the old farmer Yanik appeared,

taking his place back with the group. He had a wild look on his face and he looked back and

forth at the others suspiciously. She heard the shrill howling again. Gunther looked up and

around at the people seated next to him. The howling came again. Rena recalled what her father

had said when they went through the forest. He believed a woman was calling his name. Rena

steeled herself. The sound made her insides quake but she knew she had to follow Gunther.

Following him, she found herself in a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing,

Gunther knelt before the form of a woman. It hovered before him, a figure of mist and silvery


light. It seemed not unlike an angel—wisps of a wing trailed behind it. As Rena got closer, she

could hear what it was saying.

"Only you, Gunther, can stand against the demon."

As she looked at it, she was filled with awe. It had a beautiful, porcelain face and golden

hair that flowed around her. Its lips were the color of blood, and its teeth… Rena's awe faded she

looked more closely at its mouth. Its teeth, she noticed, were pointed like the mad fish she and

her father had pulled out of the lake after the star fell on Tristram—jagged and triangular and

meant for tearing flesh. Once she fixated on the creature's mouth, the rest of the illusion fell

away. Where the angel once stood was a tall mound of grey, pulsating flesh growing out of the

forest floor. It was vaguely the size of a tall man but had no discernable features—except for the

void of teeth.

Gunther walked out of the clearing and back towards the camp. Rena rushed up to him

and again grabbed his arm. He turned to her, surprised.

"Rena! What are you doing here? You should go home."

"Gunther, come back to Rolstrum with me, please!"

"No, I can't go back now." He took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. "This

is my chance. Do you think that I decided as a young boy to be a blacksmith? Of course not. This

is my chance to prove myself." Rena realized he was already gone. His eyes were black and

glassy. A queer smile spread across his face. Rena said nothing. Gunther let go of her and walked

back to the circle. Rena followed him and watched as each of them was called away to the

monster and returned. The final man, the butcher, took his seat back around the campfire. They

all seemed eager and suspicious of one another. The templar stopped his tale, listening as if he

had heard a sound.


"Do you hear it?" He said, drawing his sword from his scabbard, "The demon draws

near!" Rena listened and heard the rustling of leaves and the howling of the demon, unfettered

now by any pretense. "The chosen one! The chosen one must defeat the demon!" The templar

shouted. He walked away, disappearing in the trees.

"I will slay the demon!" Old Yanik yelled, getting up from his seat but falling over again.

He waved his meat hook above him even as he lay on the ground.

"You silly old man," Twinda said, laughing. "I am the chosen one! Only I can slay the

demon."

"Slay a pie maybe, if it was on your plate, Twinda," Dorin the tanner said, brandishing a

thin, sharp knife. "Let a real chosen one kill the demon!"

In turn, all of them claimed to be the chosen one. The argument became heated. Finally,

Yanik shoved the Meyer the butcher feebly. In response, the butcher hacked open his neck with a

cleaver. The farmer was bloodless before he hit the ground. Believing The miller's wife killed the

innkeeper with a carving knife she had taken from Meyer. Meyer surprised her from behind with

the cleaver. In the end, it was the Meyer and Gunther circling one another. The butcher lunged at

the blacksmith, but he sidestepped him and swung his hammer at the back of Meyer's head. The

momentum was so great, it was as if part of the man's head had exploded.

At the same moment, the templar reappeared from the woods behind Gunther. Rena

shouted to him, but it was too late. Gunther swung around just in time for the templar to run him

through with his sword. Gunther lost his grip on the hammer, and it skidded across the ground

towards Rena at the edge of the clearing.

With inhuman strength, the templar pushed the blacksmith off of his sword, but the hilt

broke in the process. The templar threw the useless weapon down and turned towards Rena with


a strange quickness. Around them, the trees bent down and pulled the bodies of the dead

townspeople away into the forest. Whoever or whatever was in control of the templar and the

forest did not care whether or not its puppet show was convincing anymore.

"You," it said simply. Behind the voice was the shrill howl of the demon. "I have seen

you before."

Rena picked up the hammer at her feet. It was covered in gore and dirt, but its weight was

familiar. She thrust it in front of her. If she had to wield the tool as a weapon, she realized that

she could. The templar walked towards her, its arms outstretched.

"Don't come any closer!" She swung the hammer in front of her a few times, but the

templar laughed without opening its mouth. The templar lunged forward and grabbed her by her

throat. His hands were cold and stiff like iron and he smelled like death and decay. Rena's vision

started to fade as the templar hoisted her by her neck into the air. All the while, she kept her grip

on the hammer. Rena kicked him hard in the breastplate and she heard something tear. The

templar's grip on her slipped. She brought the down with both hands on the top of the templar's

head as she fell from his grip. The templar's head shattered to rotten pieces. The templar fell to

the ground and did not get up again.

Rena did not stop running until she was out of the forest. Over her shoulder, she saw the

forest finally for what it really was--miles of the swirling black tendrils of an enormous demon.

At the center, she realized, was the head of the demon—the horrible mouth that called her father,

Gunther, and the towns of Rolstrum and Edgemoor to their doom. It was a clear night, and in the

distance she could see the lights of Westmarch over the next rise. There, she thought, people

were going on with their daily lives unmindful of the evil that had taken root just miles from


their city's ramparts. A shambling form appeared out of the whipping tendrils. Obscured by mist,

it stepped slowly, quietly forward. Without seeing it clearly, she already knew: it was her father.

"Rena," the demon said in her father's voice. She couldn't help but stop. As she focused

on him, the forest appeared behind him again. The creature's hot breath turned again to harmless

mist and the moon lit the trees, giving them a silvery glow. He walked closer to her, smiling. He

looked just as he had when she last saw him days ago—better even.

"Father?"

"Let's go home, Rena."

She stood still as he came near her. They would go home, she thought, and this nightmare

would be over. Gunther would be working at his workshop, and the Murky Moon would be

serving dinner again. Her father walked towards her and embraced her. She closed her eyes. She

imagined the smell of his clothes and the warmth of his arms around her. His grip on her

tightened slowly.

"It will be over soon, Rena."

Her father's grip was so tight she couldn't breathe. Her panic broke the demon's illusion.

The shambling corpse's cold arms constricted around her. The nauseating smell of decay burned

into her nostrils with every small breath she could steal. She finally ducked down and wriggled

out of the corpse's grasp.

"Rena, where are you going?"

Looking at him, she still wanted the illusion of going home even if it meant death. The

reality of an empty house and an empty town was too much for her to face. But she thought of

Westmarch and the people sleeping there. If she did not destroy this demon, then it would

doubtlessly continue to feed and spread its lies of false honor, glory, and fame. She understood


why her mother would choose to return to battle. Unlike the templar who had journeyed from

Westmarch to bring glory to their order, her mother knew the real consequences of allowing evil

to reign unchecked. Her faith in the Light was her hope—that one day the Western Kingdoms

would be safe again.

She had never called on the Light before, but she found herself saying a small prayer. In

the grass, the light from the moon illuminated the sword of one of the fallen templar hidden in

the grass. Rena picked up the blade with both hands. It was heavy, but she had been hefting

smithing hammers for a year now, and the weight was not a burden.

"Come with me, darling. Let's go home and rest. It's dark out. I'm sure you're frightened."

Her father's corpse shambled closer to her. His hair was matted to his head with blood. It

appeared as though he had been struck there. There was not much blood anywhere else. At least,

Rena thought, his death was quick. Rena stopped listening as the demon chattered on in her

father's voice. She would not be fooled any longer. It was not just about her now or her father. It

was not about honor. It was about the innocents like her that would suffer if she did nothing.

She forced herself to see the man in front of her as not her father but as a cadaver made

undead by the demon within the forest. Rena swung the blade and closed her eyes. The blade,

was lethally sharp. Rena only barely registered the sword connecting to her father's neck as she

swung it in a high arc in front of her. When she opened her eyes again, the body of the corpse

was in front of her and the head had landed several feet away. She carefully stepped away from

it, trying to keep from looking at the dismembered body of her father.

In the distance, the demon's tendrils whipped furiously. The demon's shrill voice rang

out.

"Take this token, Rena."


She turned. On the ground where her father's head had been, a demon's head rested

instead. It looked almost exactly like the head Hardin had proudly marched into Westmarch the

day that she and her father went to the Westmarch market.

"Take this token and bask in fame and glory. Songs will be sung in your name

forevermore. You will want for nothing. You will be a hero."

"I will not hear your lies, demon."

Rena looked around her. It was going to take more than a sword to take down a demon of

its size. Her lamp, out of oil but still intact, sat on its side in the grass. She picked it up and

dusted it off. Rena then remembered her pack and began looking through it. She still had two tins

of oil and the package her father had given to her. Looking at the vials, she realized that by

striking the crystals together and igniting the oil, she could burn the forest down.

"It is not a lie, human. Kings are made by valiant deeds, fame and honor."

Rena left the sword and picked up the lamp and her pack. She tore out the lamp's wick

and readied some the crystals. As she crossed the perimeter of the demon's tendrils, it began to

attack her, whipping her face and arms. She hunched down and ran. The tendrils were long, but

not very flexible. The closer to the ground she stayed, the safer she was. She shook one of the

tins behind her, leaving a trail of oil. When she entered the clearing, the demon began to speak to

her again. It was not trying to hide anymore. The gaping maw of teeth set in amorphous grey

flesh spoke to her again.

"I can make you a noble—or a queen."

"I'm not interested!" She yelled. "You killed my father, you ended my life. Now you offer

me another?"


Rena quickly filled the lamp, pouring in some arcane dust for good measure. She felt the

spidery, prickly influence of the demon. Something was happening. On the other side of the

clearing, shadowy figures rose from the ground. The demon was raising an army out of the dead

villagers of Edgemoor and Rolstrum. Her hands shaking, she dipped the wick inside the lamp

and began to strike the crystals to light it. Finally, despite her fear, the spark caught, but as she

hoisted it into the air, the wick burned her and she dropped it. The demon laughed uproariously.

"You are nothing but a child. Do you really think you can defeat Nynevex, lieutenant of

Belial and Devourer of Vain Pride?" The wick slowly vanishing, she picked it up again and

hurled it at the demon. The clearing exploded in a shower of sparks and the heat threw her a few

meters. The demon howled wretchedly, and the sound tore at her mind. The villagers fell to the

ground. Remembering the scattered lamp oil, she picked herself up and scrambled out of reach of

the demon.

By the time she had gotten back on the moor, the demon was ablaze. The tendrils had

stopped moving. As the fire reached them, the tendrils glowed then curled, blackening and

crumbling in the heat of the flame. She felt the demon's presence no longer.

In the distance, Rena could hear the sounds of galloping horses on the road. The fire

would have been easily spotted from Westmarch. She thought for a moment about staying. She

could tell them what had happened and that she single-handedly slayed the demon. But no, she

thought, she would be no better than Hardin. No one, she thought, can ever know. She ran

towards Rolstrum and her empty home.

#


Rena woke around midday to the sound of men on horseback. The burn on her hand

ached, and her arms were sore from exertion. Quietly, she tiptoed into the front room to watch

them, crouching by a window. She hoped they would leave.

"Hello? Is anyone here? We've come from Westmarch to help."

"Forget it, Constable. This town is just like Edgemoor. There's no one left here. We

should go home and make a report."

The two men, one in priestly robes and the other in the tunic of a town constable, walked

toward her house. She ducked down as far as she could, but she realized too late that the

constable had seen her. The constable came to her door and knocked loudly.

"Hello? I know you are in there, child. Come out. We just want to talk."

Rena hesitated for a moment, but opened the door. The Constable was a weathered,

portly man with a thin mustache. His grey eyes looked her over.

"Come out here, child. What is your name?"

Stepping out into the sunlight in her nightclothes, she shielded her eyes from the sun. The

thin, willowy priest behind the constable looked on with interest.

"Rena"

"Rena, I'm Constable Grenn from Westmarch. Where is the rest of your town?"

"I… I don't know, sir. They left in the middle of the night."

"A man came to town. A man in armor?" Rena could not help but flinch when he

mentioned the templar. She had to at least tell him that.

"Yes."

"And they left with him?"

"Yes."


"Did you see the smoke from the fire last night?"

"Yes."

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"No."

Grenn looked hard at her. Rena looked away, believing that somehow if their eyes locked

he would learn the truth of what had happened.

"Father Selfridge, will you hand me your satchel?" The other man gathered his robes and

walked swiftly to him, giving him a pouch he kept around his waist. Grenn took a scroll from the

satchel. He held it just at arm's length.

"Did the man's shield look like this?" Rena reached for it, and as she did, her sleeve

pulled back and revealed the burn on her hand. Rena hastily pulled the scroll back and examined

it. It was the sigil of Westmarch. She nodded and handed back to him. He looked at her again,

and then out towards the moorland and the direction of the fire.

"Took three mages to contain that fire. Father Selfridge here said he detected a demon's

presence but that it was dissipating. Probably killed in the fire." Rena nodded dully.

"Lucky for us, I guess."

"Yeah... Lucky. "

He nonchalantly dumped out his pipe and put it back in his pocket. "Damnedest thing

though. We'd had the demon's head on a pike out in front of the cathedral. After the fire it

changed. Turns out it was really the head of Beata Olvados the second in command of our

templars. Hardin confessed he killed her. Bewitched by a demon, he said." Rena couldn't contain

her surprise. It made sense now. The demon lured men and women to it with the promise of


glory then set them against each other. It feasted on their corpses then sent one person back to

spread its legend. Grenn eyed her suspiciously.

"Whoever set that fire's blessed by the Light--and a hero." Father Selfridge put in. "A real

one, not like that boy Hardin. He'll hang. Good for nothing." Rena looked away.

"You don't say much, do you?"

"Haven't got anything to say, sir." After a moment, Grenn looked around.

"Well, maybe after a meal or two and some company you'll feel different. Get your

things."

"What?"

"Did you think I'd let a young slip like you hang around here all by herself? Come on

now. We'll find a place for you."

"Where?"

"There are places for men and women like you. And I hear Westmarch is looking for

more templars. Do we understand each other?"

Rena hurried inside and grabbed her things. The demon may not have chosen her, but the

Light had. As a templar, she would protect Sanctuary no matter the cost.

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Abigail M. Manuel abigail.manuel@gmail · 2018-02-20 · Abigail M. Manuel about 8,875 words [email protected] The Chosen: A Diablo Story by Abigail M. Manuel "Exciting day