Chapter 70

Tristan tossed the boy a sword. “Sleep with this tonight, and be on guard. Braeden will be in the bedroom beside you and I’ll be right down the hall.” “I’ll be fine,” Sam said. “Goodnight.” Tristan showed Braeden to his room – his own old bedroom – and took Lord Lyons’ master bedroom for himself and Sander. “You can have the bed,” he told Sander. He wasn’t showing kindness towards the Uriel; he just couldn’t sleep in that bed. He couldn’t sleep anywhere underneath this roof. If demons attacked, this time he’d be ready for them. “I don’t suppose you’d untie my wrists, too?” asked Sander. “Not a chance.” Sander sat down on the edge of the bed. “It was worth a shot.” After a pause, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” “About what?” “Whatever it is that happened in this house. I know the look of a haunted man.” Tristan leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll pass.” “The telling of it releases the toxin, you know. I won’t think you weaker for it,” said Sander. Tristan’s temper rose. Who was this man to lend his ear without his asking? Perhaps Sander had never been a prisoner before, and Tristan had certainly never before taken one, but he was damned well sure this charade of compassion was not the norm. “Why should I want to talk to you about it?” “I think I’m more likely than most to understand,” Sander said. “I left the home my wife and I shared because I couldn’t bear to be in it without her. My daughter visits sometimes, to pay her respects, but I haven’t gone back since she died.” Tristan sank onto the carpeted floor, his legs suddenly tired. “Look, I know your wife meant a lot to you--” Sander’s eyes grew fierce. “She was my world, Tristan. And when she died, I stopped living. If it weren’t for Addie, I’d have given up right then and there.” Sweat coated Tristan’s brow as buried memories resurfaced, and he swiped his hands against the carpet surreptitiously. “I didn’t witness a death or two, Sander. I witnessed a holocaust. I don’t see why you need me to retell it. The world knows what happened to Finchold ten years ago.” “Aye, we all heard about Finchold, and Linmoor and Valfort too.” said Sander. “But the retelling is for your benefit.” Tristan swallowed. “There’s not much to tell." He hesitated, and then the words spilled from his mouth, at first in starts and stops, and then in a torrent. "It was the dead of night when the demons came. I wasn’t asleep because I was fifteen and stupid, and I had it in my head that I was going to sneak out to meet friends." Tristan licked his lips, and continued in strained tones. "Maira caught me – that was my brother’s wife – and she brought me downstairs to the dining room so she could give me a proper setdown without waking the whole house.” He swallowed again, shutting his eyes against the pain. “I heard Danny cry out first." He looked up at Sander. "My brother." He smiled weakly. "Complete shite at fighting. He was always rescuing me from whatever scrape I got myself into and bandaging up my knees and elbows, but he was utter rubbish with a sword. He had no chance, even if he’d kept a knife at his bedside. “Maira and I rushed upstairs, or tried to. The entire hall was swarming with demons, twenty of them or more. I’d never even seen one before, but Maira had. She asked me if I had a knife, and I produced the one I’d tucked into my trousers. ‘They won’t die until you cut off their heads,' she told me. 'Remember that.’ I told Maira there were too many of them, that there was no way we could win. We needed to leave the house or they would kill us both. She refused: ‘I’m going to get Danny,’ she’d said. “I confess I was a coward. I turned around to go back down the stairs with every intention of leaving. Maira could be a fool if she wanted to; I wanted to survive.  But it was too late – the demons were on the first floor of the house, too, and were crawling up the stairs. “Somehow, Maira and I managed to make it to Danny’s bedroom unscathed. We didn’t stop to fight; we pushed our way straight through. It didn’t matter. Danny was already dead. His corpse lay in the bed he shared with Maira. A demon – a horrible creature with the naked body of a human man and the head and tusks of a wild boar – knelt by Danny’s side, gnawing at his belly and intestines, grunting and snuffling like a pig. “Maira grabbed the knife from my hands and ran at the demon. I don’t think she’d ever held a knife before except perhaps to clean it, but fear and anger made her strong. She put the weight of her body into the thrust of her knife and drove it straight through the demon’s neck. “It wasn’t the end of it though, not by half. Demons poured into the bedroom, attracted by the smell of blood and dying. Before I could react, Maira shoved me into a dark closet and closed the door.” “The door had a small keyhole, and I put my right eye to it. The demons advanced on Maira, and she bravely held up the knife. She snarled at the bastards and swung her knife without art or practice. “They got her, too, eventually, and she died slumped against my closet door. Her bloodied head blocked off my keyhole, and inside the closet was pitch black. But I could still hear the demons rip into her. “I don’t know how long I stayed in that closet. I fell asleep at some point, after the screaming had stopped. Daylight filtered through the crack where the closet door met the wall. I pushed the door open with great effort and nearly swooned at the sight of my sister-in-law’s half-eaten carcass. “The demons were gone, presumably because they’d killed every last living human except me. We had a large household, and none of my family or any of the servants had been spared. The dead were strewn about the house – a few demons, but mostly humans – and their faces and bodies were so mauled that I couldn't identify them. “I was in shock, I think, but I had the sense to leave my house and go for help. But all of Finchold was much the same. Every home looked like mine, and dead bodies littered the street. The vultures had already come calling, gorging themselves with the demons’ leftovers. “I stayed in my house another week before hunger forced me to leave. There was no food here, and the waterway was tainted with blood and excrement. So I packed up a few spare changes of clothes and my father’s sword and what little money I could scrounge up, and I left. This is the first time I’ve been back." His story finished, Tristan looked over at Sander to gauge his reaction. The Uriel was silent, pity absent from his gaze. If he had to judge Sander’s expression, he’d characterize it as angry. “Say something,” said Tristan. “How did you end up joining the Paladins, after that?” Sander asked. “The High Commander found me in an alcove just east of Luca. He fed me and brought me back with him to the Center. He took me under his wing and saw that I received proper training. He has a knack for guessing at gifts, and he saw that I had talent for the sword.” “That’s not what I meant,” said Sander. His voice shook with fury. “Where were the Paladins on the night Finchold was attacked? Where were they when Linmoor and Valfort were decimated?” “I don’t know,” said Tristan. “Other cities were attacked that night.” “So it was decided that Finchold, Linmoor and Valfort weren’t worth the effort? Why? Because those towns are land rich and cash poor?” “I don’t know,” Tristan repeated, gritting his teeth. “I was a boy when it happened, and the Paladins afforded me the opportunity to avenge my family. It was enough.” “You’re a man now,” said Sander coldly. “It’s time to open your eyes and grow up.”