Chapter 4 - Vengeance Served

Two dark eyes were watching the soldiers as they neared the edge of the woods. The eyes had watched as the three of them had awoken to find that their troop had left them behind. The owner of those eyes laughed as they stumbled around through the snow, trying to get their bearings. Red Elite was the name of the troop. It seemed that there was little to call "elite" about these three. "But," the man whispered to the tree he hid within, "there will there will be plenty of "red" soon enough."

As the three approached the woods, two of them became more and more nervous. Finally, one of them spoke. "I don't think we should go in there, Bart. And I'm sure Benny agrees with me."

The lead man, Bart, turned and looked skeptically at his companions. "And why would that be, Virgil. Scared of furry little woodland creatures?" His tone became mocking. "Are you to run from the first squirrel that we meet?"

Virgil let the insult slide due to his real concern. "The Fangora ruins are near these woods. You've heard the tales, haven't you?"

"Nonsense fairy tales of a demon bound to avenge the fall of the noble house? Purely idiotic. I would have expected better out of both of you."

"But-"

"But, nothing! These woods are the quickest way back to the capital. It is our duty to report back as quick as possible, do you understand?!" The harshness in his voice caught Virgil and Benny off guard. "Besides, such stories are never true. There is a fairy tale surrounding every noble house since their downfall." Barth turned and began once again to walk towards the woods.

After a few feet, He heard strange sound come from Benny. It was a sharp barking noise, close enough to his name for him to instinctively respond and turn. "Now what do you-" His words were instantly cut short by fear as he saw streams of blood running down from the gash in Benny's neck. Virgil lay on the ground with a sharpened willow branch thrust through his chest. Bart's fear stole his legs from him, and he had to pick himself up off the ground.

Could he have been wrong? Could his fellow soldiers be right? Was he going to die here? To this last question his mind produced a defiant 'No!' Bart drew his sword and scanned the forest. "Do you really think that will help?" The voice, behind him of course, sent a giant shiver down Bart's spine. He turned slowly and saw the man. The demon. The man/demon stood with a sword at the ready. A long, slightly curved sword that was red twice over. The red of the steel and red of Benny's blood that smeared the blade. It was almost beautiful, Bart realized.

The man/demon walked slowly towards Bart and he knew he saw the fires of hell itself in the demon's eyes. In the demon's left hand, flame appeared. Not in the lovely red and orange that was normal, though. This flame was blacker than pure darkness and twice as frightning. The demon drew back his arm and hurled the flame at Bart. Stricken with fear, Bart was unable to move. He willed his legs to move, to run away, but the horror created by the thing he faced had severed the link from his mind to his body.

The flame struck him, but strangely, Bart felt it pass through him. It traveled into his body, causing no external harm. Within seconds, though, he felt a strange warmth within him. The warmth became heat, which then became burning, unbearable pain. Bart finally regained control of his voice and he used it to let out a bloodcurdling scream just before his heart exploded in a gout of black flame.

The demon took a cloth from his bag and began to clean the darker of the two colors from his blade. He idly watched as what would be the last snowfall of the year covered the fresh corpses he had left. Finally noticing the chill, the man/demon walked back towards his shelter. "Should have listened to your friends."

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As Toriban entered the ruins of his former home, a sense of peace settled over him. It had been four years since the manor had been destroyed, and Toriban had lived there since then. His vow of retribution was now complete, though. With these last three kills, he filled his quota: one soldier dead for each person mercilessly slaughtered by Issin's troops. Toriban scratched the last three marks onto the stone that held all the others.

The blood of 243 people was on his hands now, but it was on Issin's hands as well. Toriban wondered angrily how many more Issin had slain in the four years it had taken him to catch up. "It's time to find out," he said to the empty ruins. He gathered all the supplies he could carry and set out to find the one man who could help his revenge. "Time to see if the brat-Prince is still alive."