Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3)

by Golden Czermak

  Did he make a Pact? Dajjal’s mind raced when it should have been focused. How could he do that so quickly?

  As another blow landed, his time to his leg, the great demon was left with one of two choices, neither of them good.

  Flee or die?

  He chose to the former, needing to get somewhere… anywhere else… and recover. Strength in very short supply, Dajjal snapped his fingers, focused on smiting Botis in the hopes he could use this as a diversion.

  Botis took the bait, summoning a magical barrier to defend against the attack. When it appeared, engulfing him in a sphere of blazing light, it blinded them both momentarily. Luckily, Dajjal he didn't need the luxury of sight and as Botis waited, no strike landed against his shield.

  He vanished it as quickly as it had been called, immediately scouring the area for Dajjal but there was no sign of him beyond the bloodstained ground. The rat had departed, but Botis was free.

  Wilson’s bluish eyes fluttered open as those demonic memories retreated back into the confines of his subconscious. He was still there, face down the mud and grass – cold, wet, and in so much pain.

  What am I? he asked, yet his voice broadcast only in his mind, locked up in his own mental prison. In each of those cells were the faces Dajjal had smited and Wilson, unable to look away, was forced to recall each and every one.

  He was driven to weep and those whimpering tears were lost in the rain. What have I become? I –

  Wilson was suddenly dragged away screaming, scratching with his invisible nails against the intangible ground. His human eyes clouded with dark ash, a fire sparking in their pupils.

  Dajjal was back in control.

  AFTER WHAT SEEMED like hours of crawling, the only indicator time having passed being an ever darker sky, Dajjal pulled himself up to the top of a short flight of stairs at the front of the mansion. He was alone, nobody having come to his aid.

  The double doors to the manor were shut tightly, but after standing up on his shifting

  feet, they unexpectedly opened, a rush of warm air passing over him.

  Cautiously he entered the foyer, crisp without a trace of dust in the air, spying a tremendous staircase directly ahead. It was surrounded with an impressive collection of paintings, lending to the grandeur of the space. Above, a Bohemian chandelier capped it all off, its six hundred lamps shining brightly through the crystals.

  Dajjal strolled beneath, a fleeting memory of a night ride beneath a star-filled sky came, then went; he wasn't even sure if it was real.

  Entering a dark and sweeping corridor beyond, he passed by large chambers on his way to the Great Hall, each successive room becoming more breathtaking than the last. The Hall had been used in its former life (just a few days ago) for banquets and other large scale functions, but had since been repurposed by the demons as their new command center.

  As he limped further into the dark, Dajjal couldn't help but think this place was far more suitable for leadership, with the potential of becoming a symbol of power. There was even a multi-level library housing well over fifty thousand books, though truth be known, most of the human classics would likely be burned, replaced with more suitable lore and spell books, arcane tomes, and one or two forbidden grimoires.

  At last, Dajjal shuffled into position right outside the Great Hall. After a brief respite, mainly to gather enough power to push the heavy door, he entered and was immediately met with the sight of a gigantic painting depicting a fox hunt filling the walls.

  The ergonomic desks, though anachronistic, looked far more at home in the center of the opulent space while the knotted potion tables looked like antiques repositioned along the outside walls. The expansive ceiling, with its chunky ornamental moldings, shot up nearly forty feet, dousing any inkling of claustrophobia that might have clung on from the cafeteria at Whittingham. The stench of French fries and peanut oil still loitered in Dajjal’s nose and throat.

  Around him, there was a confident energy in the air as all the lessers moved with purpose, once again running like a well-oiled machine since the last of Keli’s influences had been scrubbed away. The move seemed like a great idea until…

  … the bustling slowed before outright ending.

  Frozen in place, the gathering noticed Dajjal had entered, his disheveled appearance unable to take a thing away from the fear instilled by his mere presence. That was clear, shining like a beacon from the eyes of those looking at him, especially as they realized yet again the only way out was blocked.

  Why are they all just standing there?

  Don’t they have work to do?

  Why didn't they come to my aid?

  Were they that afraid… of me?

  Similar questions continued to pour out of Dajjal’s mind, so fast that he couldn’t keep up with the deluge that threatened to drown him.

  A young demon approached from his left, host about twenty if he were even a day past his teens. “Are you okay?” he asked Dajjal, trying to recall him.

  It hadn’t worked, the boy’s words pounding away in Dajjal's head. Each syllable was so loud and excruciating, not to mention the blinding pulses of lights that careened in at random. Dajjal attempted to focus through the chaos, asking the lesser to stop talking, but his words spilled out as a mumble, driving more unwanted conversation.

  “Are you okay?” the demon repeated, concern on his face. He didn't want to get too close, but was already well within arm’s reach.

  I'm going to see how you feel… Wilson’s voice crept in like a stalker within Dajjal's mind… when I make YOU do something you don't want to.

  “I… I have no idea what's wrong with him,” the lesser told the others and instead of stepping away, he remained to continue coaxing his lord.

  I think that I'm only going to be able to do it once, Wilson continued, droning in ever quieter whispers, so it'll have to be worth it. A spectacle that is, how did you put it, played to glorious music?

  “My Lord!” the lesser shouted as a final attempt to get Dajjal's attention, placing a hand directly on his shoulder.

  Consider this payback for making me suffer… you goddamn piece of shit!

  In that instant of mental weakness, the control Dajjal had over Wilson’s body faltered, allowing the man to unleash a torrent of pent up rage. There was no finger snapping this time but no warning either.

  Wilson grabbed the lesser’s hand, staring at him with those piercing blue eyes. Wrenching the hand off his shoulder, Wilson slammed it right into the bridge of the demon’s nose. It was broken and bled as Wilson twisted, grabbing the demon’s head with one hand and reveling in this new level of strength he had.

  “Berserk host!” shouted one of the crowd as gasps rose to occupy the silence.

  Wilson snarled as he squeezed, digging deep into the demon’s face. There were cracks and grotesque popping beneath his vice like grip, signaling him to fling the captive into the adjacent wall, the back of his head smashing against the heavy wood paneling before he did it again, and again, and again.

  Pieces went everywhere as Wilson flipped the body around and repeated the process with his face.

  The closest demons scattered, fleeing in terror while they could. Others only shielded their demonic eyes, locked in place by dread and shock. Although they had seen worse in the pits of Hell, something about this smacked their core with a horror unlike they had ever felt before. Being so close and personal, they were afraid in the truest sense of the word.

  During the panic, the chaotic mess in Dajjal's mind reversed and he found himself back in control. His psyche had wrestled the vestige of Wilson to the mental equivalent of the abyss, and he was, at least for now, relieved.

  Glancing over as he knelt, his eyes changed over and he saw what was left of the lesser’s body, ruined by the onslaught and already malodorous with rot. Even he was aghast, looking away but meeting with the terror stricken faces of the others.

  “Return to work,” he told them all, though emptily, before limping out of the Hall h
imself.

  Sleep beckoned at last, calling Dajjal to recuperate. He made his way down the passage searching for the bedroom he had seen on his way down. The other demons just stood there, gazing to the floor and the meat that laid upon it. Eventually, some moved and tried to resume their duties while others began laboring in the dismal cleanup process.

  Fear is necessary in this empire, Dajjal justified to himself as he staggered down the way, but it needs to be tempered by respect, with strength, otherwise tyranny rules and true leaders are no more.

  As he dwelled on those words, so innocently thought from his malevolent mind, he realized that was why Gage was so successful in undermining the demons. It wasn't that his nemesis was the most liked, in fact many individuals and some entire species outright despised him and what he represented. No, it was because he commanded respect, forged through strength, while being renowned for both good and terrible deeds – depending of course on who was observing.

  Dajjal continued, at last finding the bedroom. It was on the opposite side of the hallway from where he remembered, proof that he was out of it. Entering without delay, he found it unoccupied but expectedly opulent, fitted with lavish sheets and welcoming pillows on the king-sized canopy bed.

  To the left, a tiny nightlight in the adjoining bathroom gave off a warm yellow glow, bouncing invitingly off the red walls. It called him over like a moth to a flame.

  As he approached, removing what remained of his clothes, some pieces of fabric clung to his torn skin. Letting it all crumple on the floor, he cranked up the shower on high and got inside, the steam penetrating him while the water flowed over his naked body. He stood there for a time before placing his back against the wall, sliding all the way down until seated. Setting his head in his hands, the blood and bile was washed away, circling the drain with hot, red swirls.

  Rising after ten minutes of humid bliss, he switched off the water and exited, moving to the mirror. The glass was stretched horizontally, a triple strip of lighted edging enhancing both his physique and his injuries. With water dripping from his undried body, he placed his hands on the vanity and looked down, unable to bear gazing at himself in glorious imperfection. However, even Dajjal had to face his own inner demons, so naked and laid bare in judgment of himself he looked.

  What he saw sickened him, along with feelings of shame and even pity. However, repentance was nowhere to be found nor considered, his ego too great to ever let that happen.

  As he continued to fall into the chasm of his own deep eyes, he envisioned storming the Otherworld itself, swarms of demons laying waste through the gates of their lands. He had an unrelenting impression that all of their squabbling was over one of the artifacts, something that belonged to him and no one else – be they monster, elf, or human.

  Humans… urged forward by that merciless pain in the ass Gage Crosse.

  As reason took over, the true scope of what was a suicide mission became clear. Instead of such folly, he decided it would be best to have his teams get ahead of Gage for a change, finding the location of the other two items. He once again had something to move himself forward and was renewed in his pride.

  Do you actually like what you see? Wilson’s voice broke, catching Dajjal off guard. He looked at his reflection, staring back with hate. I think you may be lying to yourself.

  “I thought I destroyed you after that stunt you pulled,” Dajjal muttered, his expression unchanging.

  You had, Wilson answered, but I think no matter what, some part of us always remains tucked away inside. You need us…

  “That’s unfortunate,” Dajjal responded.

  For you it is, demon, Wilson countered, for you.

  LATE WAS THE hour that Danann, descended from a proud succession of Kings that hearkened back to the days of Haldran, had his doubts. It was the eve of battle and preparations had been made over the passing days for nearly fifteen-thousand of his best infantry and cavalry to assail his one and only daughter. The clock was ticking and as such, his heart was racing.

  Danann was not a malicious man, though he could be rather capricious at times, and certainly pompous at others. This often lead him into situations just like the one that would toll at dawn’s first light, the fateful hour creeping ever closer. He normally had Meriden there to help him diffuse things, and also the love of his life Alliden, before her premature exit from the realms. Oh how he yearned for either of them to be there right then yet, obviously, neither would. Never before had things between them gotten so dire. He was afraid.

  Set in his bed chambers, the King began to pace anxiously beside an ornate sideboard made from elder wood. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he flung the doors open and swiftly removed several bottles of wine from the inside, setting them on the tabletop with loud, successive thuds. Uncorking the first, he poured himself a gurgling glass in an attempt to improve his attitude, though as if by magic the wine was gone a few short seconds later.

  That’s why I keep plenty in stock, he told himself proudly, promptly filling his glass again but downing it in the same span of time.

  Fenran was watching intently from a plush armchair in the corner; the King appeared to be unraveling at the seams. Normally better collected, the wear of indecision and toiling emotions weighed heavily in Danann’s mind, showing in his burdened gaze. The room had grown stuffy and the air still, permeated with the stress that filled each and every corner.

  Regret and disappointment displayed on Fenran’s face, he imagined all of their plans unraveling in the same, depressing manner as the King’s mind.

  This could not have happened at a worse time, for Fenran at least, right on the cusp of eliminating the threat posed by Meriden and her ilk.

  This had to be fixed and something had to be done, even if matters were taken into one’s own, hard working hands.

  “It seems like your mind is heavy,” Fenran observed as he snatched up Danann’s wine goblet, clinking it against his own. “Nothing a fresh cup won't help remedy. Now take a seat and I’ll get you another.”

  Danann obliged, setting himself in a second chair that was just opposite Fenran's.

  Fenran moved himself to the makeshift bar, spotting one bottle drained and another halfway there. It was the King’s favorite vintage, explaining his proclivity for an empty glass – twenty-year-old red grapes from the gentle foothills of the Sapphire Hills, far off in the Land of the Wise. Fenran poured them both a hearty helping of the expensive beverage, gazing out at the twinkling lights of the southern stretch of the city.

  Fenran plucked a tiny, crystalline vial from an inside pocket. He unstoppered it, hovering the open end just above the goblet. He cleared his throat with a gentle cough. “So tell me Danann, based on all this… interesting behavior, do you feel it prudent for us to call off this battle?”

  He waited patiently for an answer; it felt like forever.

  “Fenran, I… I simply do not know,” he replied at last. “My heart is heavy with woe and Meriden, well she is blood, and that is one of the sacred Trinity. I cannot raise up arms and attack her, without losing all credibility. I was so caught up in the moment before that I didn't see this fact until now. Perhaps we should at least reconsider other options?”

  Fenran continued in subdued tones, though lower. “Yes, my King, other options are good.” He upended the vial, its entire contents dribbling into the cup. Smirking wryly, he approached the King, returning the glass to his hand. “We must do what our hearts tell us is right, isn’t that what they used to say?”

  “They did indeed! Thank you, Fenran,” he said, lifting the goblet to take a whiff. Fenran’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest, though the feeling passed when the King didn't notice anything out of the ordinary; he continued to speak as normal. “It is great having you as a friend I can rely on for counsel.”

  Fenran smiled, a glimmer like a distant fire in his eyes. Raising up his own glass, he offered a toast.

  “To friendship and their eternal bonds.”

  A
CRISP SEMBLANCE of morning crept over the purple mountains, their snow capped peaks aglow even in the dingy light.

  With the dawn came revelations of deeds done in the dark of night, treacherous in nature that only served to fan the untenable flames of emotion. Tumult rose amidst the streets; cursed yells and lamenting wails becoming a chorus of the death of the King.

  Fenran walked those busy paths dressed in general’s armor, though he had no weapon save his dagger or shield as of yet. He was accompanied by one of the city's three stable masters, a fresher elf with flowing blonde hair set on his fair skin. Two guards were with them also, dressed for battle and trailing close behind. They all made their way from the central court toward the stables in the eastern region of the outermost ring; there Fenran receiving the rest of his gear and a mount. Walking for some time, they passed by countless shuttered merchant shops and down empty streets, discussing the status of the cavalry amongst other strict business.

  Eventually, time passed by and their destination loomed ahead. Stepping through a narrow gate, they emerged into the large stable area.

  Many riders had already taken to their mounts, attended by stable hands, armorers, and blacksmiths before departing for the battlefield. All around activity was still high as swords were sharpened, lances collected, with shields and helmets borne. Though they were all restless for the battle ahead, showing abundantly in their faces, it was tempered with resolve, carried internally.

  The stable master had an expression brewing on his face since nearing the gateway, one indicating he was eager to say or ask something; and ask he did.

  “My Liege, is it true?” he blurted out.

  “About the King’s passing, Gildan?” asked Fenran, saying nothing more at first as the barren look he wore on his face should’ve been enough of an answer. However, Fenran could tell that it wasn’t quite quenching the young elf’s curiosity. So it was that he recounted a version of what had happened that to Gildan’s ears, the absolute truth.