Elias inhaled slowly, to buy himself time to reply. He turned to the peasant and flashed a smile. “I had… less on my mind today that required our Lord’s guidance.”
Balvonak narrowed his gaze. He glanced back and forth between the two. Something lingered in the priest’s throat. Unspoken words. He couldn’t pinpoint it. The fire demon had grown accustomed to the aggression that bled off of holy men where witches and other corrupt enchanters were concerned, but this particular individual… this ‘Father Deverell’… he came out of nowhere when the subject of Amadeia came up. He even seemed to defend the ‘wicked’ in his own diplomatic way. “Forgive my ignorance,” Balvonak murmured, tipping up his hat, “but I have never heard of a ‘holy walk’. What does such a thing entail?”
Before Elias could reply, the peasant chimed in. “At the start of every week, Father Deverell heads out to the forest after service with his satchel of supplies, to listen to the wisdom of the Angel Lord in peace.” The man grinned proudly, as if retelling the tale allowed him to touch a shred of Father Deverell’s greatness. “Some days he’s gone for a few hours, other days his absence stretches into the evening, but… I suppose it’s always different, how one connects with the Angel Lord and all. Different needs for different problems.”
Balvonak arched a brow. He flicked his eyes to the priest, tilting his head to the side. “Is that right? You… talk to the… Angel Lord…” He choked the words out, as if they pained him. They did. But Balvonak did not wish to highlight the sting the words left in his throat.
It took a long while for Elias to reply. He stared at Balvonak, his gaze unwavering, before he let his carefully orchestrated string of words leave him. “Not a moment passes that I do not feel the connection with Brigovia’s greatest creator.”
A grin stretched onto Balvonak’s face. He recognized the response for what it was. Not a lie, but certainly not the full inclusion of the truth. He was familiar with it. It was a tactic he, too, employed often. “How curious. Can I ask you something, Father?”
Elias drew his shoulders back. “Anything at all.”
Taking one step closer, Balvonak leaned in. He had no desire to be near a priest—no desire to come close to touching the raw power that holy hands had over his kind—but his confidence thrust him within a foot of Elias’ face. “Why must you leave the church to participate in these almighty exchanges? I was under the impression that Brigovia’s greatest creator made His home in the church.” Balvonak paused, unable to suppress the enjoyment he found in asking. “Or does He prefer not to shit where He eats?”
Who was this man? This brazen being? Elias showed no effect to his unabashed choice of words. Instead, the priest studied him intently, trying to decide whether or not he was a threat to Esven, given his undeniable interest in her late-mother. He focused on his eyes and lifted his chin. “Any house becomes a prison if that is the only place we can go. Fortunately for us,” he started, studying Balvonak’s face, “the Angel Lord does not need to bow down to the laws of confinement. He can go everywhere. Men, however, are not so lucky.”
A veiled threat? Could priests even make threats? Balvonak’s brows vaulted on his face as he chuckled and leaned back, holding up his hands in surrender. “How right you are, Father.”
The peasant blinked, glancing back and forth between the pair with a slack jaw. A peculiar exchange to witness between Father Deverell and… anyone, let alone a stranger. “Well, I… must be off,” he muttered. “The wife needs eggs if she’s to have dinner on the table at a timely hour.” He stole a final look at the two men before easing himself out of the uncomfortable situation, and disappeared into the crowd.
Only Elias’ ears followed him out. His eyes, he kept on Balvonak. “Tell me, young man… how long do you plan on staying in Pinesguard?” he asked.
The priest’s inquiry earned him a smirk. “As it turns out,” Balvonak uttered, readjusting the hat atop his head, “I was just leaving, too. A pleasure to meet you, Father.” There was no need to stay. He had gathered enough information to keep him busy for the next day. Tipping his hat, Balvo turned on his heels, strutting through Pinesguard’s market with an air of poise that earned him several probing stares.
Elias found his muscles tensing once again. A slow exhale melted the tightness from them. He didn’t catch the man’s name. He should have. Quickly turning, he searched the crowd, finding the tunic that the peasant from earlier had been wearing. The priest made his way through the gathering of people and reached out to tap the man on the shoulder.
He spun. “Oh! Father Deverell. It’s you again.”
“It is,” the priest replied, smiling apologetically. “Forgive my interruption of your day, but, might I ask if the man you were speaking with gave you his name?”
The strangeness of the question made the peasant’s nose wrinkle for the second time that day. “I believe so. What was it again? Something a bit ridiculous—probably from the eastern half of Brigovia, if you know what I mean. The strangest names come out of those villages.”
Elias maintained a polite and patient smile. “Even the smallest inkling of what you remember would help.”
“Right, uh…” He scratched at his scalp until his fingers snapped in excitement. “Balvo,” the man said, nodding with unmatched confidence. “It was Balvo. First name, last name, I’ve no idea, but… that’s what the man said.”
The name sank into his mind, nestling into an easily accessible place. Balvo. He’d remember it well. “Thank you,” Elias said, patting the man on the shoulder. “That will be all.”
When the peasant returned to his daily activities, Elias turned around. He stared in the direction he’d last seen Balvo head toward: Pinesguard’s exit.
He’d have to keep his eyes and ears open. Something told him there was more to ‘Balvo’ than met the eye.
Having exited beyond the market town’s gates, Balvonak shoved his hands into his pockets as he strolled. A tune whistled through his lips, and when he was certain that he had sauntered beyond the sight of any eyewitnesses, he paused. A thorough assessment of his surroundings led him to believe he was alone.
A priest. Balvonak scoffed and knelt down, staring at the ground. A curious priest with secrets. Even better than the standard version. Most had the common decency to wear their shortcomings on their robes for all to see.
Balvonak had an inkling that there was more to ‘Father Deverell’ than met the eye. Better still, if it had anything to do with Amadeia Greenbriar. Based on the holy man’s inquisitive interest in the conversation Balvo had shared with the peasant, he suspected—or hoped—that it did.
“The grass is still warm from your feet, Father.” Balvonak smirked, running his hand over the ground outside of Pinesguard. He winced, sucking air between his teeth, as he pulled his hand back and cradled it against his chest.
The familiar bite. The constant sting. Father Deverell had been here, and he had been here recently.
“It is with great fortune that we’ve concocted methods to avoid your holy ground, Father,” Balvonak whispered to himself as he stretched his neck from side to side. “Wouldn’t want to feel the burn all the way to whatever it is you’re hiding.”
Though his fingertips still throbbed, he lowered his palm back to the ground. A clear space, where the priest had not set foot. Balvonak glanced once more over his shoulder to ensure his privacy before he uttered inaudible words beneath his breath.
In moments, the skin around Balvo’s arm turned a charcoal hue, hardening and cracking. Where the flesh had split, the golden radiance of molten heat hid underneath. It traveled up his arm, his neck, stopping when it consumed half of his face.
As soon as he lowered his hand to the grass, the footsteps of Elias appeared. Glowing as if coated in barely-living embers, the prints stretched far beyond Balvonak’s line of sight, disappearing into the forests ahead.
“Awfully far off the beaten path,” Balvonak muttered, rising once more to his feet. If the priest was, indeed, on
a quest to speak with the Angel Lord, it seemed he had to enter raw wilderness to find Him.
With that, Balvo followed the smoldering footprints, careful not to step on any of them. There was no risk in others trailing them; holy footprints were only lit for the eyes of demons. Still, he needed to make haste. Balvo had less than half an hour, at best, before the embers died away, and the footprints with them.
With some luck, he might find where the trail ended, before the illumination faded. If his suspicions were correct, Balvonak would find something at the end of it; and he doubted very much that it would be the Angel Lord.
Chapter Four
The soft illumination of the burning footprints had finally faded. Balvonak trailed after the still-lingering smoke that wafted up from the dry grasses. The scent was strong enough. When there was nothing left to follow, he found himself in a small clearing, no different than any other. That was a common trait, as far as forests in Brigovia’s mid-lands went. Trees. Trees. Occasional clearings, and more trees.
Balvonak tilted his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. His skin had finally returned to its more human state. The remnants of the volcanic-looking crust that had formed on his arms, and up the sides of both his neck and face, had traded places with the far less threatening visage of smooth flesh.
Sweeping his boot over the taller grasses, the demon narrowed his eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary. What had drawn the priest to this place? Balvonak did not deny the holy man’s loyalty to his god—the smell of the man’s faithfulness to the Angel Lord made his nostrils burn. But he doubted highly that it was the good Lord who had beckoned Father Deverell to this place.
The grass bent to his will as he walked over it, continuing to swish his footwear through. There had to be something. Balvonak did not believe in coincidences. Divine intervention, sure, but the way that the priest appeared as soon as he caught wind of Amadeia’s mention…
Surely, there was more to the man’s behavior than mere curiosity.
A crunch sounded under his foot. Balvonak stepped back and lifted his boot. Beneath where he had stepped, the fresh carcass of a small fish laid. Little bones jutted out of cleanly stripped flesh.
The demon arched a brow. It was an unlikely place for fish bones to rest. Too small of a meal to be of any interest to a bear, and even if it was, the beast would have surely swallowed such a delicate morsel whole.
A bird may have swooped into a nearby stream and plucked it from the waters—but it was far more likely that any avian creature would carry its meal back to a nest. Balvonak bent at the knees and squatted beside it, cupping his chin in his hand. He frowned shortly after.
As strange a find as it may have been, it hardly seemed to have anything to do with the priest, or his quest to find the Greenbriar child, lest he or she dined exclusively—and barbarically—on small fish.
Not far from the bones, Balvonak spied another interesting visual. Grass, flattened from something other than his own feet. He stood from the area and traipsed over, leaning to gaze upon the area where two adult bodies had clearly sat.
A scandal, perhaps? Did the holy Father of Pinesguard have a secret lover? The thought made Balvonak snicker as he spun and adjusted his hat. It wouldn’t be the first time he had encountered a sinful priest. As was human tradition: even sanctified men were full of flaws.
He did not have much time to find amusement in it. An identifiable smell infiltrated his nose. Something other than priest-stench and fish bones. As scent was a strong tie linked to memory, Balvo recognized it immediately. It was a rare aroma to come across in Brigovia—and it could only mean one thing.
Spinning around, Balvonak tried to find the source of the smell. He did not need to look long.
A voice from the side captured his attention, and for a split second, evoked a startled alarm.
“By Marumon’s blood… Balvo—is that you?”
He hadn’t heard that voice in decades. Still, Balvonak knew it instantly. It was a hard one to forget. The only one he had ever heard that evoked equal parts admiration and contempt. “Vahldod,” he announced, his eyes settling on the figure who walked out of the tree’s shadows.
Vahldod: one of the few other demons of the Netherworld who managed to trick their way to Brigovia’s surface. Once upon a time, Balvo had esteemed him greatly; it was Vahldod’s tactics that Balvonak emulated to initiate his own escape from the fiery underworld. But for every ounce of respect that Balvonak held for Vahldod, an equal particle of caution matched it. “By Marumon’s blood, indeed,” Balvo replied. “It’s been—”
“—years, I know.” Vahldod sported his traditional sly grin, that looked like one a fox might make, if it was capable of such a thing. The demon raised his hands, sliding them through his hair, which was slicked back with something that smelled like animal musk. An attempt to mask his scent, perhaps? If that was his end game, it didn’t work very well.
Vahldod extended a hand, shaking Balvonak’s as he simultaneously gripped his forearm.
With a slack jaw, Balvonak attempted to rein in his shock. Of all the places in all of Brigovia, Vahldod had found his way here. The knowledge was… uncomfortable. “What are you doing here?” he asked, releasing the fellow demon’s iron grip.
“Working for Marumon,” Vahldod announced, his grin widening. “Same as you.”
The way that he said it spread a chill over the demon’s typically heated core. “Is that so?” Balvonak uttered through a coerced smirk.
Vahldod responded with a laugh. “That face. I love it.” His chest expanded as he breathed in. “Yes, He came to me in my dreams, calling for me to return to the Netherworld shortly after your last visit. I’m never too eager to go back there, but, you know… it’s unwise to piss on the wishes of the Demon Lord if one wants to see another sunrise.” A cunning smirk crept onto his mouth as he crossed his arms over his chest. “He filled me in on your little bargain. Quite a deal, that one.” Vahldod closed his eyes, as if he needed to drown out the physical world to enjoy the fantasy of his imagination. “There is no prize greater than eternal freedom.”
“No,” Balvonak replied, his muscles tensing beneath his clothing. So, that was why Vahldod appeared.
He was competition.
“No, there is not,” Balvo forced himself to say.
Vahldod chuckled, opening his eyes once again. “I wish I would have known about it sooner.” He wagged his finger at Balvonak, grinning all the while. “You little devil. Keeping such a big prize from me. Your friend.” He shook his head, waving his hand as if it swept away his false sentiments of disappointment. “No matter. I would have done the same.”
“I had everything under control,” Balvonak snorted, shrugging a single shoulder. “I mean, have. I still do. I just need a bit more time.”
“More than seven years?” Vahldod’s laughter sounded like piercing knives. He reached out, patting Balvonak on the shoulder. “It seems Marumon is wanting faster results now that Amadeia’s dead. Can’t say I blame Him.” He found Balvonak’s bitter stare as he tilted his head and leaned forward. “I suppose He thinks I might produce the wanted outcome a little quicker than most.”
Balvonak clenched his jaw. How much had Marumon shared with Vahldod? Concern swirled in his stomach. He caught the rivalry in Vahldod’s voice. Theirs was not to be a friendly reunion at all; not if Marumon intended to pit them against one another to vie for the same prize.
He should have known. The Demon Lord was no fool. It only made sense that Marumon would utilize more of His surface pawns to expedite the process of achieving His goal.
Still… to be in competition with Vahldod… and for there to be only one reward…
It was enough to make demons into monsters, far more terrifying than they already were.
Balvonak squared his shoulders as he assessed Vahldod. His old friend seemed to have made more progress in days, than he had in years. It didn’t surprise Balvo. Vahldod was observant. Conniving. Intelligent. He used all those
characteristics, and more, to seduce his way out of the Netherworld far earlier than Balvonak had. The knowledge made the fire demon’s fingers curl tightly into his palms. Friend or not, Vahldod had no qualms doing whatever was necessary to get his way.
“So,” Vahldod leaned back, slipping his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his feet, “I must ask.” Though he seemed to know the answer before he uttered it, he did so anyway, merely to drive the blade of his bitter words in just a bit farther. “Have you found the Greenbriar child yet?”
Unable to suppress his depraved chuckle, Balvonak held both of his arms out at his sides. “I think you can see quite clearly that I have no humans stuffed into my pockets.” No. He did not locate the Greenbriar child yet. But Balvonak knew that if Vahldod was here, he had to be on the right track.
“I’m getting close,” Vahldod whispered, as if he could read his comrade’s mind. “I can feel it.” He inclined his chin to gaze up at the sky, his eyes alight with a sick thrill. “It’s only a matter of time now.”
Melodrama. Balvonak recalled Vahldod utilizing it in bounds. He nodded, soaking in the fresh knowledge that his efforts to claim his prize had a new time limit. Seven leisurely years to find what Marumon sought wouldn’t cut it anymore.
He needed to break away from Vahldod, and fast. Any time spent talking with his competition was time wasted. “Well,” Balvonak uttered, sporting his finest charismatic smirk, “I wish you the best of luck.”
Vahldod laughed once more, the wind swallowing his amusement. “No, you don’t. I don’t wish you any, either.” He took a step toward Balvonak, his face inches from his old companion’s. With a sing-song thrill, he twisted his neck to peer at Balvonak from an odd angle. “Only one of us will earn eternal freedom from the Netherworld and its Demon Lord, Balvo. I cherish our friendship, of course…” He trailed off, his cheeks lifting with his sadistic grin. “But it will be me.”
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