A Demon's Quest the Beginning of the End the Trilogy Box Set

by Charles Carfagno Jr.

It was around midday when Chief Weis and the others came across the knights’ deserted camp. Tranter dismounted, took two steps forward, and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “What is it?” Weis asked him.

  The tracker held up his hand and remained motionless while studying the area intently. Impatient, one of the guards dismounted and walked past the tracker. Tranter made an attempt to stop him, but he was too late, and everyone watched in horror as a row of two-foot long spikes sprung up from the ground and into his stomach. The man choked on his blood and died. Chief Weis dismounted and rushed over. Tranter anticipated his actions and stopped him before he made the mistake of rushing into another trap.

  “It’s too late for him,” Tranter said.

  Several arrows were fired from their flank, killing two more men. Rhanh galloped off toward the direction of the attack and was immediately hit in the throat by a well-placed arrow. The guard tumbled from his horse. The rest of the men dismounted and took shelter behind a few trees. Tranter and Weis squatted low to the ground just as another arrow flew by their heads. The tracker recognized the holy symbol etched on the arrow’s shaft.

  “Why would Knights of the Blessed attack us?!” he said.

  “What?”

  “The arrow carries their makings.”

  “They are mistaking us for someone else,” Chief Weis said.

  Another arrow whizzed by his head, missing him by a few inches.

  “KNIGHTS OF THE BLESSED, WE ARE NOT HERE AS ENEMIES,” Tranter shouted. “AND WE MEAN YOU NO HARM.”

  A few seconds later, someone answered, “Throw down your weapons and come out.”

  Weis looked over at Tranter, who nodded, removed his weapons, and stood with his hands held high.

  “Tell the others to do the same, or we will kill you.”

  Weis and the other guards did as ordered. Two armored men, one with a large ax and another with his bow pointed at Tranter, came out of hiding.

  “Who are you?” the knight with the ax asked Weis.

  “We are a search party hunting down a known criminal.”

  “I didn’t ask what your purpose was, I asked you for your name.”

  “My name is Chief Weis.”

  “Weis. You must be the leader of them.”

  “And you, tracker. What is your name?” the bowman asked.

  “My name is Tranter.”

  “What is the name of the one you hunt?”

  “We are looking for a killer who goes by the name of Norice.”

  Granit was seething with hatred as he began reaching for his hidden dagger while plotting exactly what he would do to the knight holding the ax. The scene played out in his mind how he would enjoy running the dagger across his throat and watch his blood ooze out of the wound until he choked to death. The knights did not notice his arm inching closer toward the blade. Just as he was wrapping his fingers securely around the grip, one of the other guards lunged toward the bowman, who fired out of instinct, shooting him through his throat, then reloaded quicker than humanly possible.

  Weis quickly shouted for the rest of his men not to move. Granit moved his hand away from the blade, suddenly fearing that his own plan would end in failure as well.

  “Does anyone else want to die?” the bowman asked, pointing his weapon at Weis’ head. “Good, I didn’t think so.” He continued, “Now, what did this Norice character do?”

  “He is wanted for several heinous crimes, including the murder of a young stable boy named Tay,” Weis answered.

  “Is that so? We met him a few hours ago, and he says that you and your men ransacked his town, killed his family, and are chasing him.”

  “That’s a lie,” Granit interjected.

  “Well it looks like you have your version, and we have ours,” the knight with the ax said, holding his weapon menacingly.

  “I thought your Order wasn’t supposed to pass judgment hastily?” Tranter asked.

  “Fair enough. How about you tell us everything, then we’ll decide whether to let you live, send you back from where you came from, or allow you to pass.”

  Chief Weis told the knights everything from the beginning, and when he was finished, the knight with the ax spoke, “The man we met last night does not appear to be the man you’re looking for, so we’d like you to turn around and leave.”

  “We’re not leaving,” Chief Weis firmly stated.

  “Then you will die,” the bowman said, pulling back his bowstring.

  “You men have no honor,” Granit added.

  The situation was about to come to a head when Tranter spoke up, “All we want to do is take him back and have him stand trial, not kill him.”

  The knights looked at each other, contemplating the tracker’s words, then back at Tranter.

  “That will be acceptable only if you allow us to come along,” the bowman said.

  “Fine, but if he refuses to be captured, I will take matters into my own hands. He needs to pay for his crimes, one way or another,” Weis said to the knights.

  He was about to pick up his weapon when the knight with the ax stepped closer. “And if you’re lying?”

  Weis grinned. “You may have my head. Now what are your names?”

  “My name is Prol,” he lowered his ax, “my brother is Hrist.”

  Hrist nodded and slung his bow over his left shoulder. Chief Weis picked up his weapon and began walking toward his horse.

  “Chief Weis,” said Hrist, “if we are wrong, we will make amends for our own actions.”

  “You are wrong, so start by helping my men bury the dead,” Weis coldly said.

  Chapter 13: Demons Running Wild

  Except for a few guards and merchants, Torhan’s arrival in town went virtually unnoticed. He was a little hungry and in need of supplies, so he stopped a young lad passing by.

  “Excuse me; do you know where I can find an armory and the best food in town?” Torhan asked.

  The boy reminded Torhan of himself when he was an adolescent.

  “Well…” the boy began as he rubbed his chin, thinking. “There are two armories in town. Killington is over there,” he pointed west, “and Wakefield is down there.” He pointed south. “If you want quality weapons and great service, go to Killington. If you are looking for a bargain then Wakefield is your better bet.” The boy suddenly looked around, then back at Torhan. “As far as the best food in town, go up that road.” He pointed north to a street that was slightly to the left. “You’ll run into the Inn of the Wolf. The stew is the best in the land.” The lad looked around nervously.

  Torhan reached into his pouch to grab a coin. When he looked up again, the boy was gone. Odd, he thought.

  While debating where he should go, his stomach grumbled loud enough to convince him he was hungrier than he thought, so he walked toward the inn.

  Along the way, he passed various establishments, including the Mayor’s house, Valor’s Potions, Mintor’s Melody Store, and several outside merchants selling their wares, such as clothes, perfumes, cheeses, and crockery.

  When he finally arrived at the Inn of the Wolf, he was taken aback by the pungent fragrances wafting out of the place and recognized them as roasted wild boar, chicken, and berry pie. His mouth watered in anticipation, and he quickly succumbed to the aroma and entered the building.

  The inn was crowded with merchants, warriors, priests, and a few other common people as they enjoyed their midday meal. He paused long enough to find the only available table. He walked to where it was located in the far corner and sat down.

  A few minutes later, a very attractive serving wench, wearing a tattered dress, walked over.

  “What can I get you, my lord?” she asked, brushing aside her long, blonde, curly locks that clung to her face.

  “What are your specials?” he kept his eyes on hers in order to restrain himself from staring at her well-endowed cleavage.

  “Well, we have two specials today: wild boar stew and greens, and roasted fowl with potatoes.”

&nbs
p; Torhan’s mouth salivated with anticipation, as it often did, and he ordered both dishes, because he couldn’t make up his mind.

  “Would you like some ale, my lord?”

  “Indeed, I would,” Torhan responded eagerly.

  “Excellent, sire, I’ll be right back with your brew,” she said and walked away.

  Torhan couldn’t help but stare at her lithe, delightful body as it swayed back and forth until she was through the kitchen door.

  As he waited, he took notice of the patrons who were seated all around him. One table, in particular, caught his attention. There were three gentlemen dressed in black robes sitting quietly. Each prominently displayed a religious symbol of some sort and carried very strange-looking maces with long, sharp spikes. He thought it was odd that holy men would be carrying those types of weapons. He tried to get a momentary glimpse of their features, but it was impossible, because the cowl to their robes was covering their faces.

  Just then, the serving wench arrived with his order and placed it down.

  “Here you go, my lord,” she said.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “Those men in black robes, who are they?”

  She looked around and saw the table Torhan inquired about. “Those men belong to the religious order of the Temple of the Wind.”

  “Why do they carry spiked weapons?”

  “Priest Abiathar demands that they do so for protection.”

  “Protection from what?” Torhan pressed.

  “From the demon whom we don’t dare to mention his name.”

  “A demon?” Torhan paused.

  “A long time ago, a demon tried to enslave our town, and if it wasn’t for Priest Abiathar, he would’ve succeeded, and we would all be imprisoned.”

  “How did he stop him?”

  “I was told Priest Abiathar used his book of magic to banish the demon to another plane.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Everyone loves and respects him for saving us. He’s our guardian,” she stated with glee in her eyes. “I have to go back to work. Is there anything else, my lord?”

  “Not right now, thanks.”

  ****

  Torhan ate his meal reflecting on what the serving wench said about the priest. Lord Sim and Ailith told him one version, Grappin another, and hers; it was certainly going to be tough figuring out whose story was right. He was halfway through dinner when the innkeeper made an announcement.

  “Attention, everyone!” he bellowed. “Priest Abiathar’s sermon will begin shortly. The inn will be closed during this time. Please leave.”

  At once, the three cloaked figures simultaneously rose and left the building. They were followed by the remainder of the patrons.

  Bells chimed seconds later and Torhan stood up, took one last swig of his beverage, grabbed the chicken leg, and left a hefty tip for the serving girl. He walked out the door to join the ever growing masses. He followed the townspeople toward the enormous temple several streets away, and noted people of all ages walking with a purpose. Some spoke in hushed tones, while others gleefully talked about the priest like he was the second coming of a god. Overall, they appeared to be enthralled with him, which added to the mystery of who he was.

  Once they arrived, the people filed into the building, while Torhan stopped directly in front and stared up in awe. The structure was easily forty feet high, carved out of granite, with columns made of dark marble supporting the copper-shingled roof. The doors were made of thick iron. He waited until most of the people were inside before entering.

  The inside of the cathedral was just as elaborate as the outside. Rows of dark wood pews lined both sides of the aisle and ended at a platform stage with a large gold altar set upon it. Tapestries decorated the walls, elegant-looking curtains sealed off the windows, and brass chandeliers dangled from the ceiling.

  Acolytes wearing black robes quickly escorted people to the pews with Torhan being led to the far left side of the room and seated next to an elderly couple. After everyone was seated, the doors to the entrance were closed with a loud thud, silencing the chattering voices of the people. It was so quiet that everyone in the church heard a coin hit the floor near the front.

  A few minutes later, a door behind the altar opened and in stepped a tall, husky middle-aged man wearing blue vestments. Hanging loosely around his large belly was a strand of autumn-colored beads. The priest wore his gray hair in a ponytail and his salt and pepper beard braided down past his chin. When he was positioned in front of the pulpit, he spoke.

  “Welcome, my children,” he began, “we are gathered here today to thank our god, Hecadoth, for the protection he has bestowed upon our town, and for providing the abundance of food for our tables.” He proclaimed as he raised his arms high in the air, “Let us bow our heads and thank him with the chant of salvation.”

  At once, everybody bowed their heads and repeated the priest’s words.

  “Oh mighty Hecadoth, You have given us salvation and protection from all that is evil. Please continue to shine Your love upon us and deliver us to Your kingdom.”

  Torhan had never witnessed any kind of holy services before and couldn’t comprehend how dedicated these individuals were. After they finished reciting the chant two more times, the priest addressed them again.

  “My children,” he said and lowered his arms, “it wasn’t long ago that Hecadoth provided me the power and strength to exile the demon named Dybbuk and to protect our home from his return. Last night, the Almighty spoke to me in a dream saying the foul beast has broken free of my spells and will be returning to enslave us all. To me, this is—”

  “What will we do?” a patron cried out, interrupting him.

  “Help us, Priest Abiathar,” another worshipper pleaded.

  Priest Abiathar held up his hands to stifle the crowd. “My children, Hecadoth has given me the necessary steps to overcome the beast and banish him once more.” The priest paused for effect. “As I speak, Dybbuk gathers a force to invade our home, and we must repel him at all costs. The first thing we must do is arm ourselves. I want every man, woman, and child to become proficient with a weapon, whether it be a sword, spear, dagger, or even a sharp pointy stick.”

  “Priest Abiathar, do we know when they’ll attack?” someone near him asked.

  “No, but it will be soon.”

  “We don’t have any weapons that will hurt him?”

  “I was given knowledge to construct new weapons of power that will banish him and his horde and burn them in eternal damnation forever.”

  The crowd stirred. “How is he able to return? You said he couldn’t,” a young man near the stage shouted.

  Some of the other people voiced their concerns as well.

  “He has grown stronger, but our god has said for us not to worry. We will prevail.”

  The crowd continued to stir and talk over each other.

  “FEAR NOT, MY CHILDREN, WE SHALL OVERCOME THIS OBSTACLE,” Priest Abiathar shouted. The crowd went still. “I have already crafted one of my special maces. It is designed to send evil back to hell. Would you like a demonstration?”

  “Yes,” someone shouted, followed by many others.

  Priest Abiathar smiled and called forth one of his acolytes. The servant walked over and presented a dark black mace. Torhan noticed that it was similar to the ones the other followers from the inn were carrying. The priest moved from behind the altar and accepted the unholy-looking weapon.

  “Bring me some deviants,” he commanded.

  Two of his servants disappeared into the back and brought forth a couple of dirty-looking men who could have passed for thieves.

  “Now watch me send them into oblivion.”

  The men were shoved forward. When they were within striking distance, the priest unleashed his assault with amazing speed and accuracy, hitting one, then the other. Both men cried out and were engulfed in gray smoke. When the thick smoke dissipated, they were
gone. The crowd, amazed by what had happened, cheered and clapped their hands in delight.

  The priest smiled. “When we meet Dybbuk again, our new weapons will send him to the abyss.” More cheers erupted. “My children, to be protected against him you must receive my protection and have your sins purged from your body. Now who among you will step forward and accept my anointment?”

  “Pick me,” a man, not more than ten feet away from Torhan, shouted.

  “No, me,” a woman, halfway up front to his left, said.

  Soon, people were in a frenzy, each one wanted to be the one selected.

  “My children,” Abiathar responded in a joyful voice, “Hecadoth would be very pleased with each of you. I will now contact our god for the selection.”

  The townspeople quieted down as the priest began to chant softly at first, then louder with each passing minute. Suddenly, he stopped.

  “Hecadoth chooses Jonah.” Jonah stood up. “Come forth and you will be rewarded with eternal salvation.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Jonah said in a calm voice, kissed his wife, and walked up to the front of the stage.

  Two acolytes stepped in front of him, assisted with the removal of his red woolen shirt, and gave him something to drink.

  “Come forth and lay your weary body upon the altar of new life, my son,” Abiathar commanded.

  Jonah did as he was told. After he lay prone, Priest Abiathar reached into his robes and extracted a snake-shaped blade.

  “Hecadoth blesses you, my son.” The priest lifted the weapon high above his head and chanted.

  The crowd shouted joyfully in response to his words. Torhan thought about intervening but decided not to. The priest brought the dagger down into Jonah’s sternum and worked the blade up and down his body with such precision that Jonah didn’t squirm or make a sound.

  Minutes later, the priest removed the blade, reached into the opening, and pulled out a black organ.

  “This was the sin growing inside of Jonah’s body.” He held it in the air. “Jonah, you have been cleansed. Go with my acolytes and become one with us.”

  The bloodied Jonah rose to his feet and was helped off the stage.