Bladeshire 27
By David C. Daoust
Young and old, villagers’ days were wrought with work; marching through fields, hauling water. Such chores made them strong. While this made up most of their day, even the children of such villages were not without some form of combat training. In fact, most of their time, outside of chores, was spent training with some form of simple weapon. Usually, a spear or staff. Most things that could be used as a farming tool, could be implemented as a weapon. Intent was what made a weapon a weapon. Children of such villages were to be ‘militia ready’ by their mid-teens. Most cottages had at least one sword, issued by the lord for times of trouble. All men, may, at any time, be called to war. Thus, most sons of such farmers had a weapon to train with.
Of course, Khadory was an orphan raised in a monastery, surrounded by monks that did not leave their corner of heaven. This did not change the fact that he was meant to be militia ready. And he was, all those chores made him strong… But all the time in between, where he could go and do what it was he wanted to go and do, involved games that spanned from stone-throwing and wrestling, to horse-riding and archery. Khadory had spent many an hour sparing with neighbors, mostly with wooden swords, little more than sticks. Some days the entire afternoon would be lost in mock battles.
All of this helped the boy when the wiry old man approached, and, abruptly, lunged for his axe.
Khadory was surprised, instinctively he decided not to let him take it. Honestly, if the old man had asked for it, he may have just handed it over. It was old-man Hindal after all, a respected elder. The oldest man in the village, everyone knew him…everyone cared for him. But there was something in his movements, a darkness under his brow.
Khadory let his instincts take over. He knew, he was not going to let this man have the axe…
The elven queen in the peasant girl’s body noticed the old man’s odd behavior as well. The lunge for the weapon, the ferocious growl as the boy had the good sense to keep it from him. Even with the odd behavior, to her trained eyes the darkness around him was all-telling, it writhed and moved as a whole other entity.
She was remiss to admit, yet, that demon may have been a bit more of a threat than she had initially assessed. The fiend should have been forced from the burrow with her light-spell, flushed out with the shadows. Maybe hidden in what tiny recess the darkness may still possess, but surely diminished.
The magical light was strong… she held the snail staff higher and willed it brighter. It did not help, the darkness clung, it’s very core burrowed into its victim. The old man was possessed, and this was surely no minor imp. Maybe she should have guessed. By all reckoning this was a demon who had probably herded the ghoul here, kept it safe from the light… probably even found the shrew for it to feed off its scraps. She had to guess that it did all this in the hopes of releasing the creature in a moment of chaos. To create pain and suffering… Such things would feed the demon, raise its value to the Darkness. It probably was not happy that she had diffused the ghoul-threat with her elven magic.
The demon must have focused all its energies into the old man. She could only guess how it could have fooled the man into, willfully, giving up his control so completely. She knew such immortal creatures could be crafty in their machinations. Experience, centuries of experience doing just that very thing, was a very powerful thing.
Chut had just arrived on the scene; he spat the dirt from his mouth as he stood up from his face-plant into the cold earthen floor. The rope, despite being secured above, was long enough to slide in behind him and began to coil, forcing him further in. Close enough to witness the action.
The demon in the crazy old-man suit was one thing, but Chantilles being ‘not-Chantilles’ is what really threw him. She had a snail-staff in hand, glowing with magics that forced most shadows from the room. It was an uncomfortable area to drop into, to say the least.
The inches-high Spriggan remembered about the cross. He remembered how the young girl had taken to clutching it. He ran back to the rope, began to untangle the leather strap. Whatever had her, was surely meant to be warded away by this cross.
Khadory was forced back as the angry old man pushed forward. Hindal did not swing fists at the boy like a normal combatant. The demon attacked with an open hand, fingers clenched tight, as though sharp talons erupted from their ends. They did not.
Of course, the boy could not attack the man with the axe, but he could not relinquish the weapon either. Khadory bobbed and weaved as the old man’s continually more frantic attacks whizzed past him. He had the axe behind him, playing keep away. Occasionally batting the man with the extinguished torch in his other hand, pushing him back. Forcing him from reach.
Khadory was not sure how to reason with the old man, or ultimately what may be wrong with him. He was aware that Llyalith’s attention was on the bout. He pictured old man Hindal shrunk down to a thimble sized figurine (and trying to explain it to his fellow villagers) even as he moved the ‘combat’ from the burrow, and back out into the carved-out chamber. A chamber full of shattered coffins, dragged down from the ceiling.
The wizard followed anyway, the light of her staff illuminating more of the environs even as he intentionally kited the combatant away from her.
The old man spoke in some weird guttural language, Khadory thought he grasped some of it. Mostly that he was angry, becoming more frustrated, but that could be deciphered from the expression on the man’s face alone.
“The demon has him,” Llyalith said to Khadory in respone to the demonic tongue, “Fully.”
This was at least an answer to some of his questions, “What do we do?”
“Unless you want to hurt the man,” Llyalith began, “I suggest finding a way to restrain him.”
“Just, just don’t turn him into a statue,” Khadory stated as though she had offered to use her magics.
“A living mortal man is too strong, even without the demon…” Llyalith explained that it could not be done. “That ghoul was weak beyond reason.”
Khadory understood that what he had feared, was not even an option. More so, by her attitude, that he was on his own in solving the situation. He could not bring himself to hurt old-man Hindal. Demon possession was not really something he knew a lot about, and he was less confident in the ideas he had, after the first altercation with Chantilles and Llyalith.
The cross! Brommus gave Chantilles a cross. With a sudden burst of inspiration, he deftly flipped the axe around so that he was holding it just under the head, and crossed its haft with the extinguished torch– forming a cross.
Khadory pressed forward as the demon screamed out in pain, forced back.
“How did you…?” Llyalith expressed in wonder even as she watched the darkness seem to ripple around Hindal– still the fiend held within him. “It’s not enough.”
Khadory ignored her words. He knew she had no faith in God. He knew she would not understand. She had already confessed to dealings with demons.
The demon-possessed-man began to back up, to retreat into the burrow… Khadory did not want him to move in that direction. He feigned a stumble and let the makeshift cross falter… the fiend lunged in at the opening. Khadory was ready for just that reaction. He dodged past it, turned the combat around and remade his cross. He forced the demon further into the chamber of disturbed graves, Llyalith and the burrow full of unconscious elders at his back, as the cross repelled the demon into moving backwards. He guided the fiend to a target in the distance.
Once the fiend stumbled back into the open coffin, Khadory moved quickly to seal it. Not as quick as Llyalith, however, as she used some form of magic to finish the job for him. The lid suddenly popped into the air and twirled forward to cover the demon within.
Khadory considered sitting on the lid to ensure it stayed shut. Although it seemed as though it was stuck either way. Whatever spell she used to close it, may have sealed it, or so Khadory guessed as the demon banged against the confines of the coffin. He hoped the old man would forgive him, even as he made sure it would stay shut.
No sooner had the boy turned to face Llyalith, triumphant in his Faith, than the girl suddenly wretched. Her face twisted in fear and revulsion. “NO,” Chantilles suddenly screamed, “Get it off me… so much blood. I can’t… take it.” The young girl was frantic, completely different than the calm elfess wizard that had possessed her body but moments before. She was mad, crazed, trying to wipe something from her body, her mouth.
Khadory could only move to try and comfort her… the snail-staff flung from the frantic girl’s grip. The light-spell extinguished as soon as it hit the ground with a hollow clunk– the Darkness retook the depths.