He made his way through the corridor, passing several demons who appeared to think that since he had gotten in, he must have some legitimate business. He smiled inwardly as he came to the door of the war room, a red light flowing from the crack between the hinges. It was seemingly unguarded, but Siggard knew better.

As quickly as he could, he slashed the air with his sword, and the heads of two Hiddens fell to the ground, the bodies appearing and crumpling shortly afterwards. He looked around again to ensure that there were no other demons in sight, and then opened the door and stepped in.

The huge form of Assur loomed before him, but the archdemon's back was turned. A second shadowy thing turned toward him, however, as if realizing he was not possessed, and charged, talons outstretched. As lithe as a cat, Siggard disemboweled the monster, and the creature faded, screaming in agony. Guthbreoht's song began to grow in strength.

Assur turned, fixing Siggard with angry black eyes. The archdemon drew a giant sword of his own from a sheath at the side of his loincloth.

"You are foolish, mortal," Assur rumbled. "No weapon wielded by the living can harm me, not even a sword of Velund."

Siggard held up Guthbreoht and began to speak, every word filling him with rage. "I am Siggard of Bear's Hill, whose family and village you slaughtered. Know now that I died inside the day my wife did, and my soul is empty of all but a lust for revenge. I will have my vengeance upon you, for you fight a dead man this day!"

Siggard roared in fury and attacked, his assault pushing the demon back. The two swords clashed with incredible speed, crying out with a ringing of tormented steel. Assur's face was a mask of amusement, but it quickly turned to anger as the onslaught continued.

"Die in truth, mortal!" Assur bellowed, counterattacking. He raised his blade and brought it down with all his might, Siggard barely blocking the deadly stroke. He thrust forward, forcing Siggard to dive out of the way. Snarling, Assur rounded on him, attacking again. The power of the blows drove Siggard back, every parry numbing his arm until he thought that it would take superhuman strength to defeat the demon.

Then Guthbreoht's song filled his spirit, and Siggard began to laugh. With an ancient battle cry, he lunged forward, striking the sword from Assur's hand. As the demon recoiled in shock, Siggard thrust, impaling the glyph and driving the steel deep into the monster's flesh.

Assur screamed, a cry of rage, fear, and pain. Blood poured from the wound as Siggard wrenched his sword, bringing the archdemon to its knees. With a cruel yank, Siggard freed his blade.

"Now it is over," he said, and with a great sweeping blow struck Assur's head off. It flew across the room, thudding against the wall and falling to the floor. As Siggard watched, the demonic face melted into the visage of a middle-aged man, a look of horror painted across his face. Siggard turned to the body to watch it topple to the ground. Silently, it changed into a human corpse in tattered robes.

He walked from the war room and strode down the corridors, exhausted. A pair of demons approached him, but even as he turned they gave a shrill cry of agony and exploded into flames. He stepped over to one of the windows and looked out across the ruins of the town. Brennor was alive with small blazes, dancing fires running around like creatures in torment and then vanishing.

"You slew our master!" came a cry behind him. He spun, sword at the ready, to find a guardsmen with mad bloodshot eyes lunging at him. Siggard sidestepped casually and slashed, cutting the possessed man down. Then he continued on his way out of the castle. If there were still some demonic forces in the town, so be it; he had his revenge at last.

Siggard sat on a hill near the crumbled walls of Brennor, watching the sunrise. He shook his head, trying to understand why he still felt empty and unfulfilled. His family had been avenged; surely that was enough to give him some peace, wasn't it?

And there were some other things that he had only just begun to think about. Little aspects of the last few days that had been nagging him, but he hadn't had time to consider. Horrible things, that could only lead to one terrifying conclusion.

"You've done surprising well," a familiar voice said.

"Tyrael," Siggard said, raising his head to gaze upon the placid face of the gray-clad archangel. "I thought you would come."

Tyrael nodded. "After Brennor fell and you stayed behind, I had to see what you would do. You should be proud; you've rid the world of a great evil."

Siggard tried to smile, but he found he just couldn't feel happy. "I've been thinking about some things. My missing days, my lack of appetite, how I was untroubled by wounds during the battle, those sorts of things."

Tyrael sat down on a rock and pursed his lips. "And?"

"Assur's glyph was absolute, wasn't it? No living hand could slay him."

"That is true."

Siggard wrapped his cloak around him and tried to stave off a chill. "When did I die, then?" "At Blackmarch," Tyrael replied. "You were stabbed in the back by a Hidden during the last crush of the battle. The blade sheared through your mail-coat and slew you."

"And Heaven brought me back," Siggard added.

Tyrael shook his head. "No, we didn't. You did that all by yourself."

"I don't understand."

Tyrael leaned forward. "Very rarely, perhaps but twice in ten millennia, there is a soul so full of life that death cannot claim it. I have seen it only once before. All I did was direct you to where you could do some good. Your timing, I am pleased to say, was excellent."

"Am I a ghost then, or a ghoul?"

"No," Tyrael replied thoughtfully. "It is difficult to say what you are. Death cannot claim you, but neither can life. You are trapped in between, until you find some way to rest your incredible vitality. And then, perhaps, death will find you."

"I suppose now that I've avenged my family, I can rest," Siggard said. "That's the way the ghost stories go, isn't it?"

Tyrael shook his head sadly. "You will not find your rest through revenge, no matter how hard you try. Vengeance is an act of hatred, and hatred never brings peace. No, if you are to discover some peace, you must do it through an act of love. I think you will find it, although it may take you centuries."

"Lovely," Siggard grumbled.

"Do not feel too badly about it," Tyrael said. "The way I see it, you have a choice. You can search for some act of love that will bring you peace, or wander the earth and help us in our fight against Hell." The archangel leaned back and regarded Siggard warmly. "You have quite a gift, you know. The only hand that could possibly still your heart is your own. This was but one battle in a much larger war. The Prime Evils now want dominion over the mortal realms, and they will continue to seek it. You would be an ideal soldier against them."

"It is a great deal to think about," Siggard said.

Tyrael smiled and began to fade away. "Do not worry," his voice echoed. "You have all the time in the world. May the light go with you, my friend."

Siggard sat for a while, considering. Then he stood, stretched, and began to walk back towards Earl Tilgar and his men. He had a long road ahead of him, but at least he knew his first destination.