A quick exhale banished Vahldod’s heated breath from its invasion of his nostrils. Balvonak ground his teeth together, only making his appearance look all the more unsightly when he formed it into a smirk. “May the best man win.”
Another snort. Vahldod shook his head. “No such thing as a best man,” he said, stepping away from Balvonak to adjust his tunic. “Only better demons.” After a theatrical bow, Vahldod glanced up from his bent posture and winked. “Farewell, Balvo.”
Watching with a rigid stance, Balvonak waited until Vahldod was out of sight. Until the woodlands swallowed his body whole. He did not know where the demon headed. He only knew that he needed to find the finish line sooner. With a newfound focus, he turned away, traipsing in the opposite direction.
Come on, Balvo, he chastised himself, shoving tree branches out of his path. Focus. You’re close to the prize. You need only to concentrate your efforts.
He did not know how far he had walked into the forest. Vahldod’s appearance got the better of him; made him lose track of time. The demon had that effect on others, all races, in fact. There was no single living thing that could ward off Vahldod’s desire to manipulate.
It was what Balvonak admired most. It was also what he dreaded the most.
Had he known that Marumon would have panicked at the mention of Amadeia’s death, and brought in additional recruits, he would have kept his damned mouth shut.
No—that would not have worked either. As soon as word touched Marumon’s ears that Balvo kept critical information from Him, through one force or another, the Demon Lord would have incinerated him at the first opportunity. Bound to the Netherworld or not, gods had ways of exercising incredible force to get their way.
Low grumbles of disapproval slipped passed Balvonak’s mouth as he trudged deeper into the woods. Long gone was the luxury of unhurried effort. He actually had to try now. It was easy to bide his time when he was the only demon running for the prize, but with Vahldod in the picture…
Balvonak sighed, cursing under his breath. He needed to find Amadeia’s offspring. He needed to—
–go back to Pinesguard and forget the whole thing. Or, perhaps, search elsewhere. This place held nothing. Useless, empty forest. Jutting out his lip, Balvonak spun on his heels and headed in the opposite direction. A carefree tune whistled through his mouth as he stepped over a fallen tree limb.
Nothing over there. Nothing to worry about at all. Nothing save for Marumon, the Demon Lord, and His crushing ability to make Balvonak’s life nightmarish if he failed to do His bidding. Nothing but… but…
Balvonak stopped. A frown fell over his face.
What just happened?
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes drawing to slits. Those thoughts were not his own. Not in a million years would he disregard the reality that Marumon could crush him like an insect.
Where, then, did that sudden internal indifference come from?
Balvonak started once more in the direction he had just approached. With his heart dead set on finding the Greenbriar child, he trudged forward, determined to find him or her at all costs. He would walk to the ends of Brigovia if it meant—
—a flagon of ale sounded perfect. Pinesguard had little to offer, but it knew its way around liquor. Balvonak spun on his heels again and started to return to the town, stopping himself when thoughts of Marumon’s rage resurfaced in his thoughts once more.
The demon closed his eyes. Something was amiss here. It tingled on the surface of his skin. He knew the feeling. It was familiar. Lifting his nose, he sniffed at the air. The far off scent of Vahldod lightly clung to the breeze, but also, something else. His pupils spiked and shrank. Balvonak grinned.
“A protection spell,” he muttered.
A non-violent one at that. Whatever wizard, sorceress, or witch placed the spell, they did not intend to cause bodily harm to the trespasser. It had some potency; a normal individual would have certainly failed to recognize that their thoughts had shifted them in a different direction.
Balvonak, however, had a small share of experiences with enchantments. It had been a while. He nearly hadn’t recognized it for what it was. Through sheer force of will, and an undying resolve to beat Vahldod to the reward of freedom, he felt it.
His eyes scanned the sky, hovering near the highest branches of the trees. He needed to find the source of the spell. He couldn’t have it messing with his mind if he intended to discover what it was that the protection spell was hiding.
Several minutes had ticked by before he spotted it. It was hard to detect amongst the neutral tones of the forest. Balvonak’s efforts were rewarded when his eyes zeroed in on the small satchel of salt hanging high up from one of the thicker tree limbs. “There you are,” he whispered, feeling a sense of victory course through his veins.
Approaching the trunk of the tree that held the salt bag, Balvonak placed his palms on the bark. The grey and moss-dappled texture was soft beneath his skin. The sack was far too high to reach up and pluck down… but that didn’t matter. Pinpointing the bag as it swung in the wind, Balvonak dug his fingernails into the gnarled wood.
His flesh tore once again. The glow of magma lit beneath the charred cracks of his skin. From the tips of his fingers, a small trail of fire leapt. It crawled up the tree, leaving a snaking path of black in its wake, where chunks of bark smoldered and darkened from the heat.
All the way up the trunk, the flame darted to the side. It crawled along the tree limb, reaching, stretching, leaving chaos in its wake, until it stopped on the twine that held the bag of salt. Gray smoke fizzled up from the ropes, weakening them, until the weight of the sack was too much to bear.
Balvonak centered himself below, his hands outstretched. The salt bag fell into his waiting palms. Above, the flame fizzled and died on the tree’s branch. After throwing it up once in the air and catching it again, the fire demon smirked, and incinerated the bag whole.
There would be three more. One in each cardinal direction, if he remembered the requirements of the spell correctly. He could waste time looking for the other three, but it did not matter. Eliminating one of the four would be enough to weaken the spell. The existing pieces would hinder him, but not enough to keep him from whatever the enchantment protected.
The walk beyond the line of defense was filled with thrill. Admittedly, Balvonak had not felt the sentiment for quite some time. Every once in a while, he’d be stabbed with a rogue thought to go back—likely a side-effect of the existing three enchanted salt bags—but nothing he couldn’t handle. He did not claim to know much about magic in leaps and bounds, but he knew enough not to be hindered by the sorcery. Balvonak clung to that. It was his only weapon against it.
The farther he trekked, the more the heightened excitement faded at the corners.
He had wandered far.
Far enough that he thought he should have seen something by now.
It was only more forest. Trees, again, as far as the eye could see. Balvonak frowned, spinning around to try and soak in more of his environment.
Nothing. Leaves and shrubs, and little else.
As he was about to try another route, sunlight caught something to his side. The fire demon squinted his eyes, trying to detect the source of what had captured the light. There didn’t appear to be anything there. Just more natural elements. Moss. Nothing more than—
Wait. Balvonak took a step forward. Did his eyes deceive him? Was that… a window? He narrowed his gaze and took another step. Yes. A window. Hidden though it was beneath layers of vines and overgrowth, enough of the glass stuck out to reflect the sun that penetrated through the trees.
Once the window came into view, the remainder of the camouflaged building fell into sight as well. A simple, box-shaped shack, covered in modest flowers and moss. It was no wonder why he did not see it at first. It blended in with its environment perfectly.
“A house,” he whispered to himself, finding the same thrill he had in the beginning. Was this what had
beckoned that priest into the area? It would have certainly been more of a scandal if it had. A protection spell like that could not have come from the fingers of a holy man. Men of the Angel Lord had precious little power, other than the sanctified hold they had over demons… and their ability to invoke the name of the great god, Himself. But even that power was not their own.
So many questions. Questions that he needed answers to. Balvonak licked his palms and slicked his hair back before using the same saliva to tame his eyebrows. He needed to appear presentable. No doubt whoever dwelled there would find his presence a surprise, given the efforts they utilized to keep everyone out.
The fire demon did not take more than three steps forward before he tripped over something. Stumbling in the crunchy leaves that littered the top layer of the forest floor, Balvonak reached out, steadying himself on the trunk of a tree. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the source of his misplaced footing.
“Mrow.”
Balvonak cocked his head toward the sound, at first unimpressed by the sight of the black cat who fell into his vision. It gazed at him with equal parts indifference, though the feline had somehow perfected the look.
“A black cat, crossing my path…” Balvonak huffed, readjusting the skinned vest that hung around his shoulders. “I hate to break it to you, my friend, but you’re a little late to dampen my luck.” He glimpsed the house behind him, quietly chuckling. “This is the luckiest I’ve been in years.”
A lazy yawn split the feline’s jaws in half. Its tail curled around its front paws as it sat, flicking at the tip. When it finished its display of boredom, it stared at him with partially open orbs, a blend of dull yellows and olive greens.
There was something about the creature. A sentience that most mammals did not possess. Balvonak raised his chin, scrutinizing the animal. It judged him. It judged him with the ferocity of any mortal man. It was almost… human. “You’re a familiar,” he stated, analyzing the cat further, “aren’t you?”
A slow blink was his only reply.
Balvonak couldn’t say for certain if his suspicion was correct. Almost all cats came with some level of contempt, but this one... there was something extraordinarily responsive about it. The thought ignited him. Of the few enchanters in all of Brigovia, only witches utilized animal familiars.
Could it be…?
Balvonak quieted his growing enthusiasm. He did not want to chase excitement only to have his optimism dashed. He glanced once more at the hidden home, tucked carefully into its wooded world.
The door, made of chestnut and oak, blended in with the rest of the structure. Even still, it called to him, as if it wished to stand out from the other natural elements. Absent of fear, Balvonak approached, stopping just outside the entrance. Though he did not hear the feline follow him up to the door, he noticed the black blur of fur at his feet when his eyes fell to the ground.
“Quiet little thing, aren’t you?” With a hand on his hip, the fire demon lifted his knuckles. Seconds separated him from discovering what waited on the other side. With everything that he was, he hoped it was his key to salvation.
The sudden knock startled Esven from her reading. She jumped, her gaze piercing the door from her place across the room.
Who could it have possibly been? Elias? He was the only one who knew about the existence of her home—the only one who had stumbled upon its location, especially with the protection spell she’d placed around the property.
But, she thought he had left for the day.
When the priest discovered her home five months ago, his knock brought alarm with it. He proved to be kind, of course, but the odds of uninvited guests turning out to be friendly was an unpleasant 50/50.
What was the time? Esven leaned over, trying to spy the sun’s position in the sky through the window. Though the trees outside were thick, she gleaned enough information to know that it couldn’t have been Elias. He had to perform his second service around this time of day. The world could be crumbling outside, and Elias Deverell would still hold service for the attendees of his church.
She stood, careful with where she placed her feet. Esven wanted to make no sound. With heightened caution, she placed her simple spell book in a drawer, out of sight, and crept toward the door.
If it wasn’t Elias… there was little else that could have stood outside her door that she wished to invite into her home.
Had her protection spell failed? It had allowed Elias to walk through her perimeter all those months ago… perhaps whoever waited outside the door shared the holy man’s spirit?
Realizing she was unraveling, Esven straightened her posture. This was no time to fall apart. The woman sucked a calming breath into her lungs and steadied her nerves. Amadeia’s words rang through her mind: do good. Be good.
She had to answer. If it was a wayward nomad in need of assistance, should she not be there to lend a hand? The thought of helping a person did not hold the same interest as it had since her mother’s death… and it was almost certainly a person who stood on the opposite side of that doorway. Esven frowned. It was hard to do good—to be good—if she lingered in paralysis.
All that, and lingering in paralysis grew more suffocating by the day. It would be impossible to break out of this prison that she had built for herself if she remained too leery to open a damned door.
Esven found herself a foot away from the entry, staring hard at the handle. She would do it. She’d answer.
Amadeia would have done it.
Slender fingers were slow to undo her locks. She placed a booted foot in front of the door, an extra precaution, should anyone try to force their way in. Opening the door inch by inch, she stopped when she saw the outline of a man.
Tall. Young. Bearded, with dark eyes. He wore simple clothes, no visible emblems. If he was a member of the Brotherhood, he hid it well. Esven watched as a warm grin split across his lips. She failed to return his gesture. “Can I help you?” she asked, keeping a firm stance in front of the door.
Balvonak’s skin tingled at the sight of her. She seemed young. Early twenties. The appropriate age for Amadeia’s progeny. He tried not to get too excited. His luck was not always such that he would just stumble upon his ticket to freedom. Balvonak tried to assess her, but a majority of her features hid in the shadows of her home. Even still, he caught a good glimpse of her apprehension. It was thick. He’d need to lay on the charm if he wanted to ensure an invitation into the homestead.
Clearing his throat, the fire demon summoned his most pleasant tone. “Good afternoon, my darling.” He took a step back, simply to allow himself space to remove his hat and bow. “I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“That depends,” Esven replied, tightening her grip around the door. “What are you doing here?”
Distrust. He identified it in her tone immediately. He’d need to lay down a much thicker blanket of charisma if he wanted to charm his way into her home. What did witches like? If memory served, and she was, indeed, a witch, they were nature-loving things. He’d try to play off of that. “Just a wayward nomad, breathing in the fresh life of the forest,” he replied, spreading his arms out at his sides. “When I spied your home, made of the raw beauty that the earth provides, I just knew I needed to meet the individual responsible for its creation.” He sucked air in through his nostrils, as if the act alone rejuvenated his spirit. “You have mastered living off of the land. Would you be so kind as to share what you have learned with me? It’s my dream to live as you do one day, far from the confines of communal oppression.”
Esven’s eyes narrowed. It certainly wasn’t the reply she had expected. It seemed rehearsed. While his animal hide vest indicated that he did live off of the land to some degree, something about his tone stopped her from feeling total ease. She was about to kindly usher him elsewhere, perhaps point him back in the direction of the nearest town, when Maritimus meowed from down near his feet.
“Maritimus.” A brow arched on Esven’s face as she fol
lowed the cat’s gaze to the man who stood before her. “Is this something you dragged in?”
Balvonak blinked. Dragged in? Was she not impressed with him? He had utilized his finest material, put on his best act, his best face. It had worked quite well in the past. “I beg your pardon?”
Maritimus licked his paw and swiped it over his head. The action drew a sigh from Esven as she flicked her eyes toward the stranger. The feline was always there to push her. Amadeia’s familiar never let her stray far from her mother’s teachings, even when he did not exercise them himself. Be kind, she reminded herself.
Be kind.
“I apologize that you’ve come all this way, but I don’t invite strangers into my home,” she said, trying to tame the heat in her words.
After tearing his gaze away from the cat, Balvonak found her face. He smirked, tipping his hat. “A wise woman. In that case,” he started, softening his tone, “allow me to introduce myself. I’m Balvonak. But you, my darling, can call me Balvo.”
The young witch stared at him, a lack of enthusiasm at the forefront of her gaze. With hesitation, she let up on the grip she had on the door. “You can call me Esven.”
“Esven,” Balvonak repeated. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”
“Right.” Esven felt her jaw tighten as she tucked a heap of red hair behind her ear. She searched once more for an excuse, any excuse, to get him to leave—but Maritimus’ well-timed mewling clogged her ability to arrive at a swift explanation for why he should leave.
The feline slithered his body through the open crack in the door, sauntering into the room with a sway in his step. He judged her from his place on the floor. She felt the familiar weight of his eyes burn into the back of her skull. “I… suppose you could come in,” Esven gave in, hoping the gesture earned her a heap of good karma. “But only for a moment. I’m just getting ready to have some dinner.”
“That would be most kind,” Balvo said, waiting until she opened the door fully before he entered the homestead. He stooped to enter, the door nearly too short for the height of his body. Tucking his hat beneath his arm when he entered the home, Balvonak spun, taking in the fully illuminated sight of the young woman.
Followed by Fire Page 7