1

Search and Destroy

"Rage. Hate. Fear. They all feed upon one another. A demon hunter learns how to direct hate. But such a balance is precarious. And when that balance is lost, the cycle begins: Hate begets Destruction. Destruction begets Terror as Terror begets Hate."

Josen, veteran demon hunter

There is no smell in all the world so immediately recognizable as the stench of death. Something in the mortal mind snaps suddenly awake when decay is near, sensing its own inevitable demise, reminded of its own fragile existence inside the crude matter of its fleshy shell. Flesh was made to rot. Man was made to die. This single immutable truth of life, a truth men fight tooth and nail to deny, is encompassed in that simple, entirely unique smell.

Iona knew it well. Her vocation demanded it. She felt the ghosts of revulsion trying to rise within her as she surveyed the carnage before her, but she quelled the feeling easily. She was no stranger to death. It was her constant companion, and she fed it frequently on demon blood, delivered by the arrow, the bolt, and sometimes, her bare hands. Consequently, she did not fear it as she once had, as a child of ten who had watched in horror and agonized helplessness as her parents were torn apart by hellspawn. Nor did she long for its numbing embrace, as she had when her sister, Isla, took her own life, her mind shattered by what she had seen. Ten years ago, Iona had been one of the hunted, easy prey for the legions of the Burning Hells. Now she was the huntress…and she would send as many demons to death's ever-open arms as she could.

"Temper your hatred with discipline," Iona's mentor, Li Xia, had often told her after the nameless group of demon hunters—all survivors like herself—welcomed her into their fold. "Properly balanced, our anger is our greatest ally. Its fire keeps us pure, safe from the corrupting influences of the demons who so easily enslave others. The ferocity of our hatred makes it impossible for them to possess us. Our thirst for vengeance gives us the strength to face terrors beyond human comprehension. But beware: your anger must be cold, so that you can use it. Anger which is hot uses you. Therefore, we must hold fast to discipline at all times, to keep our hatred cold, so that it does not devour us. Hot anger brings us ever closer to the domain of Mephisto, the demonic Lord of Hatred. Every demon hunter who has ever been exiled was twisted by his own lack of discipline. Not by demons. Remember this."

Iona came back to herself, lowering her hood. Beside her, a man stood panting, his hands on his knees for support. Sweat dripped from his hair and face, and he wiped is brow with the sleeve of his tunic before straightening once more. His eyes were bloodshot and glistening, half-lidded against the smoke. Dozens of cadavers burned in a mass funeral pyre nearby…but these people had received their final rites before, when they were first put in the ground. Now, in the shadows over New Tristram, the dead were rising.

And they were hungry.

"Thank Akarat you arrived when you did, milady. I've never seen anyone fight like that, before," the man said, once he'd caught his breath. "What brought you here? I didn't think word of our…problem…had spread, yet."

"I was told that a star fell from the sky and landed in Tristram," Iona replied, pulling a crossbow bolt from one of the risen dead and whipping the blood from its shaft with a jerk of her arm before placing it in one of the two quivers at her hips, where her enchanted hand crossbows hung by their stirrups within easy reach. "I have come here to find it."

"Well, you're welcome to it," he said wearily, eyeing the shimmering crossbows with an expression of mingled awe and nervousness. "It's caused us nothing but trouble since it fell. The moment it hit the ground, the dead began to rise, and they haven't stopped since. I was…I was the only survivor when Captain Daltyn went out to fight them off. Now I'm supposed to lead the rest of the men, but I'm no soldier." He shook his head miserably. "I am—I was a farmer. The Captain and his contingent protected me, and they died for it. Now the rest are looking to me to lead them, calling me Captain Rumford. You've seen what we're up against. I…I never wanted this responsibility."

"Few men do. But the others are looking to you for strength. You are all they have, Captain. You must lead them. It is your lot, now. What you want is irrelevant."

Iona stepped toward him and tightened the strap of his left pauldron. She was a beautiful woman, small and slender with silky hair as black as coal, but Rumford shied away from her touch. There was something terrifying behind the perfect symmetry of her sharp features and the methodical fluidity with which she moved. Seeming to sense his discomfort, she stepped back, pulling the hood of her dark cloak over her head once more. The fiery brightness of her eyes, shining out from beneath the cowl, confirmed his suspicions about her true nature.

"You're a demon hunter," he whispered, his voice tinged with the smallest note of hope.

Before Iona could answer, a tearing sound alerted them to movement among the corpses that awaited the fire. A human torso clawed at the earth, separating its upper half from the rest of its body. With a look of mild disgust—and perhaps a touch of pity—Iona stepped on its neck and crushed its skull with the butt of one of her crossbows. It did not move again. "Where will I find the fallen star?" she asked soberly.

Rumford gestured to the open gates and the small town beyond them. "It blasted a crater in the middle of the old cathedral. There was only one survivor, as far as we know. Leah. She and her uncle have been here for about a year, now, studying the old tomes inside the cathedral. No idea what they were looking for, and frankly, I don't want to know, but they were in there when the star hit us. You can find her at the Slaughtered Calf Inn. Pretty girl, about your age, I'd say, give or take a couple of years. She's one of the only ones who haven't taken ill from the bites of these infernal creatures. Mind their teeth if you come across them again, milady. I don't think the sick ones are going to make it through the night. We've had to lock most of them in a cellar in case they rise again when they die, like these ones."

"Thank you, Captain Rumford. After I've spoken with Leah, I will avenge your fallen comrades and send these unholy creatures back to their graves. You have my word."

Rumford watched the dark huntress as she strode past him into the cursed town. Her cloak whipped smartly in the wind, briefly revealing an arsenal of weapons secured neatly in holsters strapped to the light, flexible armor that covered her slender body. He was again struck by how very small she was. Then he remembered the ruthless way she had slaughtered the risen dead, firing magical bolts from each of her two crossbows simultaneously and flinging a storm of bright blades from a hidden place beneath her cloak. She never missed a mark. He only had to look down at the broken bodies of the dead to know that size was not everything.