Chapter 1 - The Execution

For as long as memory served, many generations at least, they had been the wardens of this holy city, but never had they found treasure. Surely the artifacts of the ancients had been destroyed along with whatever cataclysm had destroyed the city itself. If not, then 3,000 years was enough time to have satisfied many generations of looters. No, all that was left in this City was memory. Memories of an age long past, of a civilization deemed unworthy. There was no treasure here: only sorrow, great sorrow.

And danger. Patrols were always sent in groups of six or more. Fewer men might meet their doom, and had, from the many perils of the City. Buildings could collapse, even the ground could collapse into yawning chasms when and where least expected. And of late fearsome beasts, creatures of legend, had been spotted. Corym had no first-hand knowledge of these beasts, but the rumors persisted and he feared there might be some kernel of truth to them. That did not concern him now. Only dealing with this stranger, this inhuman grave robber who dared to flee from his guard, concerned him

It had taken six of them to grapple with the stranger as he was dragged forth. He had super-human strength, they said. He spoke to them, too, pleading for release in his peculiar accent. It was this they feared. They had called him a demon. They had called him a ghost, he who had spoken in the manner of the most ancient texts. His words were old, and his voice too sounded old. Was he an avenging spirit or a grave robber?

No matter: he ran, he fought, he climbed the God's Tower, he insulted his men and the whole of Dunmere, even the ancestral home, by his actions. He was no avenging spirit of the past but a common criminal. Corym could make out his form in the gloom. He stopped and inspected the stranger, now but a few steps away.

The stranger was donned from head to foot in armor of raw, black iron. The workmanship was crude, simple, but it covered him completely. There was no art, no ornamentation to this armor, just smooth slabs of iron tightly joined. He wore gauntlets of the same ore, greaves, even his boots were iron. His head too was covered by a helm, visor drawn shut. While most helms Corym had seen were ornamented, even fanciful with wings or horns or flairs, his was simple, smooth and rounded. In the shadows of that helm, Corym could see the dim glow of two red orbs staring out at him. Now he knew this was indeed no man. His axe came up off his shoulder as he moved gracefully into fighting position.

The demon stood unmoving, bowed by the chain staked to the ground. He straddled the stake and the chain about his ankles was taut in his effort to keep his feet planted square under him. The chain about his wrists too was taut, but the stranger seemed to have ceased struggling against his bonds.

Corym cleared his throat and spoke. "Know demon, that you have been judged guilty of robbery, of disrupting the graves of our ancestors." He watched this demon as he spoke trying to discern any movement that would give away its intentions. The creature remained still. "You fought and tried to flee the Lord' s justice. For these crimes I judge you guilty. Speak now your last words and I will send you on your way to the pits you came out of."

He stopped, nervous. It was a risk to allow this demon to speak.