by Mark B Frost
Atheme would have been dumbstruck had he been given the time. The Daemon charged immediately, snatching his sword with wicked intent as he passed. Atheme hopped back and prepared another fireball, but this time fired it directly at the ground in front of him. A shower of smoke, dirt and flames covered the battlefield and drowned out both men’s senses. Atheme charged and slammed his sare into the crater he had made, vaulting himself forward with both feet outstretched for a powerful kick.
His enemy anticipated this attack in spite of being robbed of his senses. He grabbed Atheme’s ankles and latched on hard, stopping him in midair. Feeling the steely vice of that grip Atheme knew he was in trouble, and thought fast. He gave a twist and let his head drop, collapsing his sare as he fell. He dangled upside down for a second, then angled his sare at the man’s right knee and opened it up to its full length, nine feet. Machine force cracked bone and rent muscle, and both men fell to the ground. Atheme collapsed his sare and scrambled quickly to his feet. He only took enough time for two quick breaths, then used his heel to deliver a powerful blow to the back of his foe’s head. In spite of the finality of this attack, the man still fought the wash of pain and struggled for nearly five seconds to climb back to his feet. Atheme watched in amazement, unsure how to react, until finally the big man collapsed face first onto the road.
The Grand Councilor shook off his stupor and wasted no more time. He needed to put the man into a magically induced sleep, but if he could shrug off a matrixed Fireball, it was unlikely his Sleep matrix would have much effect. He needed a real rune structure.
He unsheathed a dagger from his belt and made a deep slit against the palm of his left hand, and dipped his thumb into the blood that welled forth. Carefully, aware of the sloppy nature of his ink, he drew a rune onto the youth’s forehead. When he finished, he touched it and charged it with a small amount of ether.
The sigil caught and burned away with an eerie light. Small white flames licked the rune into dust, leaving a delicate black line traced against the forehead. The man groaned and twitched for a moment, then went still.
Atheme tore a strip of cloth from his enemy’s ragtag attire and used it to brace the young man’s injured knee. He saw blood on the makeshift bandage and remembered his hand, and used a small dose of white magic to clot the blood and expedite his natural healing process. Then he waved over to the other knights, motioning that it was safe to approach. They did so silently, unsure how to respond to what they had witnessed.
Atheme paid their awe little heed. “Load him onto the peist. We’re heading back.” He turned and walked away, already returning up the road on his own as the others began to move the body. A few yards later he stopped and turned about. “Oh,” he shouted over his shoulder, “and pray that the sleep spell holds.”
Chapter 2.
The Daemon’s Cell
Atheme walked through a stone hallway surrounded by empty rooms on either side. This building, situated comfortably on the edge of the Military and Arcanum properties, was neglected by both factions. The highest ranking members of Felthespar’s councils were aware of the old structure and used it for covert means from time to time. Today it was Atheme’s turn.
As he moved through the halls, he pondered the state of his nation. The country was simultaneously involved in two wars, an offensive crusade to the south and a border skirmish to the west. Neither was going well. Felthespar was the power of Itrius, the ruling gem in the continent’s crown, but the country’s success and wealth—combined with a lack of any real threat to the city’s safety in nearly two generations—had created a lazy, unmotivated populace. Army recruitment numbers were at a historic low. They had so far gotten by on quality, with more soldiers than ever specializing in either black magic, the arcane art of elemental destruction, or white magic, the manipulation of spiritual energies.
Even so, with two wars now raging his nation’s weakness was beginning to show. With the army’s primary focus split, the reduced forces had become a telling factor. As the wars continued and Felthespar gave more ground to each foe, hostilities began to appear on other fronts. The number of skirmishes and smaller wars was rising rapidly, and Felthespar lacked the capacity to respond.
Painted in the light of these problems, the truth of the Terror of Jegan Road had not sat well with the Grand Council. With the image of the Military’s strength diminishing daily domestically and abroad, the fact that a single man had held the entire city at ransom for over a week was information that could not be allowed to spread.
The Dictus—the city’s administrative division—was never more efficient than when avoiding a scandal. Within hours of Atheme’s victory, volumes of fake documents and falsified reports had been generated to reaffirm the myth that the Daemon had been a terrible monster, slain by Felthespar’s own shining star Atheme Tethen.
To avoid deeper scrutiny, a great fanfare was made over the significance of this accomplishment. Regent Shiresta Dauran of the Church sent a letter informing Atheme that he had been remiss in his duties as a Templar, a position Atheme was not aware of holding. Soon after, Lord Herald Michean Kassil of the Arcanum approved Atheme for a position as a Mage, with pending review for the rank of Wizard scheduled for the morning of the next day. Given the staggering difficulty involved in obtaining a rank review within the Arcanum, this event was without precedent. In a ceremony where he was bestowed with honorary membership into the “Brotherhood of Man”, Atheme had been quietly but sternly informed by Vesovius XIV that the review was not optional.
The remainder of the week was spent in a grand festival, where nobles gave exaggerated speeches about how much they had supported Atheme and his deeds. Several of these were men Atheme had held frequent quarrels with, and it was at these speeches he smiled the most genuinely, enormously entertained by their brazen natures. The finale came with Lord Vesovius and the Eldram unanimously proclaiming Atheme a Knight of the Moon. This made him only the third living member of the nation to hold one of the coveted Celestial Rankings.
These events were topped off by a secretive order from the Senate, commanding Atheme to execute the Daemon and have Lord Herald Michean dispose of the body. This was where Atheme drew the line, sending a sternly worded response that the Senate had overstepped their bounds, and the Grand Council would address any national security issues.
That went over as well as could be expected, but his battle did not end there. The Grand Council was of the same mind as the Senate, anxious that the matter be concluded. Atheme argued that the man could represent a more serious threat they needed to uncover. The Church and Eldram councilors, while acknowledging this possibility, were skeptical this information could be attained without resorting to unethical methods. But it was Gaspar, who held the position of Champion of the Knighthood, who was particularly adamant on the matter. Gaspar had always held a firm distaste for Atheme, and his resistance to anything the youngest councilor wished was typical. As an elder statesman and a hero of many battles, his word often held more weight than Atheme’s own.
The Grand Council finally came to a vote, and a tie was reached. In the event of a tie the final decision fell to the Lord Grand Councilor. He announced that, officially, he was left with no other choice and sided with Gaspar and the Dictus. But in writing up the final draft of the order he used specific language, making it clear that it fell to Atheme to “make the Daemon disappear”.
Atheme did not fail to recognize the leeway he had been given here. The Lord Councilor was an old friend, and had left him a narrow window to work within. In the event that anything went wrong, the Grand Council would disavow complicity and Atheme would likely lose his position.
He could not say he was thrilled with the solution, but he had suffered worse political losses. With the rest of the city burying the matter, he had autonomy to handle the situation to his liking. So the Daemon had been brought here, to the hidden cells of a dilapidated prison.
Atheme reached the deepest cell of the lowest basement and grabb
ed a nearby chair, placing it in the middle of the hall and taking a seat. He stared forward silently for a moment, setting the atmosphere. In front of him stood a thick wall of ephemeral runes, floating eerily in the air and shifting from moment to moment. The ghostly runes represented a magical barrier that blanketed the entire cell, crafted by the Archmagus Kinguin Peet, Atheme’s fellow Grand Councilor.
The wall was massive, and the cell it carved out represented nearly a quarter of this level of the prison. It was far too big of a structure for the single man presently placed there. To Atheme’s surprise the prisoner was on his feet, although clearly his knee was still causing him a good deal of pain. The man met his captor’s gaze evenly, showing an equal resolve. Atheme knew this was not going to be easy.
“Alright. Let’s start slow, then. Can you speak?”
“A rather insulting introduction, don’t you think? You may have bested me, but I ought have earned more respect than that.”
Atheme stared for a few seconds, masking his surprise. He would have guessed that the man had been uneducated, certainly a commoner at best, but he spoke with an accent and clarity that sounded distinctly of nobility.
“My name is Atheme Tethen,” he replied. The man offered only a grunt in response, and Atheme raised an eyebrow. “You wanted me to be more polite, this is me being polite. This would be the part, then, where you tell me your name.”
“I am the Daemon.”
“Ah, so that is your name. I thought we might have given you that one. That is what you call yourself, then?”
“It is the only title I know.”
Atheme rubbed his hands together. “A title isn’t a name. I would like to know your name.” The man looked away, breaking his gaze for the first time. This display of uncertainty at such a simple matter piqued Atheme’s interest.
“If I held a name once, I do not recall it. I have lived in the wilderness for as long as I can remember, living off of the land and fighting for my survival. It is only within the past year that I have learned to fight for more.”
Now Atheme felt he was getting somewhere. The educated dialect had caused him concern, but his original suspicions seemed to be confirmed. The Daemon was a wild man that had been found by someone and deliberately pointed in Felthespar’s direction. Atheme wished to drive the point further, but he decided to ease off for now and play the more subtle route.
“So someone else must have started calling you the Daemon, and you took to it. Is that right?”
“I suppose. Does it matter?”
“It’s just a peculiar name, is all. Do you know what it means?”
“I am not concerned with it.”
“Supposedly it is the name of an ancient demon, terrible in its wrath. It was said that, when riled up, a daemon would go into a berserk rage that lasted for days. Warring cities would sometimes use them against each other, or so legend has it. See, they would form a small group, a war party, and they would find a sleeping daemon and enrage it. Then they would run, luring the creature into an enemy stronghold. There the beast could cause incalculable damage. Even if ultimately brought down, it could be the turning point in a war.”
“As I said, I’m not concerned.”
Atheme squinted as he continued to talk, trying to read signals but having little success. “Of course, my people have been calling you the Daemon since before I brought you in. So somehow your title must have slipped. It can’t be that we would just happen to give you a name you already held. Especially such an obscure one. A daemon has never actually been sighted in anyone’s lifetime. Nor have any corpses or fossils been found. They’re almost certainly a myth and never truly existed. To my knowledge, most of the citizens of Felthespar have never even heard of the creature. Honestly? I had to look it up before coming here to talk to you. So I can only assume you left survivors. Someone you attacked slipped past you, somehow, and made it into our city.”
“Not all who travel your road make worthy opponents.”
“I suppose not. According to the records on you—the ones that I read before they were tampered with—you have only murdered soldiers, not civilians. Is that about right?”
“I murdered no one.”
“I beg your pardon,” Atheme answered, waving toward the prison’s entrance, “but I have a small collection of corpses that would beg to differ.”
The man took a step forward now, anger beginning to show in his voice. “I fought battles against soldiers who had dedicated their lives to battle already, and I defeated them. They had accepted the possibility of their deaths. If they had not, then they were hypocrites and had no place serving in the army of a mighty nation. But I have murdered no one. A murder implies a victim. Combat is entered willingly on both sides.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. But many of the knights who fought you only did so because they felt they were fighting for their lives, or perhaps for their country’s safety. They did not enter the battle willingly, gleefully, as you did. You may have thought you were participating in honest fights. I am willing to give you some benefit of the doubt and accept that you believe that. But you are wrong. Those knights died fighting for their lives, as you say you once did. In all likelihood, brave as they were, they died scared, and uncertain as to why.”
The man took a step back and returned to his previous position, but did not offer an argument. Atheme stroked his chin for a moment, aware that he had gotten off course. He was beginning to get a feel for the man. Once drawn into speaking, the Daemon was blunt. He was firm in his convictions and knew how to voice them if he chose. This could mean that Atheme would not have to worry about deception. If he could get the man to speak at all, it seemed likely he would get the truth.
“As I said before, you left survivors. You made victims of armed travelers, but not unarmed ones. Your attacks had a specific pattern to them. To me this suggests that you were looking for something. Perhaps someone.”
The man nodded in response, but said nothing.
Atheme’s eyes widened slightly. “Who? Who were you looking for?”
“I was looking for you.”
Atheme nodded eagerly. “I’m not entirely surprised. I am a man of some reputation, it’s only a matter of time before people start coming for me. But why? Who sent you?”
The man shook his head at this. “You misunderstand. I was not looking for you, in any specific manner. I was looking for a man like you. In the lands to the north, it is widely said that there is no mightier nation than Felthespar, and that nowhere on the continent can mightier warriors be found. When I heard this, I resolved that I would come here. I would find a mighty warrior and I would face him in combat. I would keep fighting until I found a battle I could not win, and then face a glorious, noble death.”
“What?” Atheme slunk back in his chair in disappointment. “That’s it?”
“I had begun to doubt the truth of your nation’s might. I was nearly ready to leave, perhaps journeying to the west, when you arrived.”
Atheme kept the conversation moving, but as he did so his mind was racing, now retracing the conversation and searching for evidence of deceit. “Had you arrived a few days earlier you would have encountered our Dragoon Corps as they were returning from an away mission. Then you would have certainly met a worse fate than the one I have offered you.”
“I would willingly have accepted that fate. You have stripped me of all honor by imprisoning me here, in this insult of a cage.”
“Insult?” he chuckled. “On the contrary, this is the most powerful cage my city possesses. Rumor has it that Kinguin once kept a dragon in here for some time, although he’s evasive on the subject. Still, it is certainly no...”
Atheme stood to his feet and moved closer to the wall, staring intently. It was only then that he began to notice inconsistencies within the runes. Several were broken, or shuddering. Some were faded beyond recognition, and only as he began studying more diligently did he find several spots where runes were outright missing.
“What did you do?” he asked softly.
In response to this question, the prisoner’s fist slammed into the other side of the wall, stopping only inches from Atheme’s nose. He was unable to repress his instincts, leaping back across the hallway and drawing his sare to full length. The structure did not budge, however, and the two men remained separated. Atheme watched as the wall shivered and more runes began to decay.
“You can only hold me here for so long,” the Daemon responded through clenched teeth. “Your cage will crumble. When it does, I am coming for you, Atheme Tethen.”
Atheme sheathed his sare and took a step forward. He prepared a few spells and spent nearly two full minutes casting them, reinforcing the rune structure and rebuilding the broken segments. When this was done he gave his prisoner a wink and a smile, then began walking away.
“I’m going to go find you a name,” he shouted back. “Try not to escape before I get back, if it’s not a bother.”
* * * * *
Atheme’s office was a large, splendorous room. The walls were covered by tapestries depicting scenes of battles, a lush red and gold carpet covered the floor, and a large mahogany desk with a matching chair occupied the center of the room. Shelves were stacked with books and papers, and a large window overlooked a grassy field where soldiers trained. The room was designed for the Lord of the House Saelen on the High Council of the Military, a position Atheme had once held. He sat at his desk, leafing through several ancient texts of old legends.
Since his promotion to the Grand Council new quarters had been offered to him, but Atheme was fond of his little office due to its convenient location. It was on the northern border of Military property, only a few hundred yards from Felthespar’s main residential sector in the southeast. This was where Atheme’s favorite bar, The Camarilla, resided. He was just south of the border that separated the Church from the Dictus. The Church held Felthespar’s northeastern property, and the Dictus the central northern stretch. It was here that the Chamber Vesovia resided, where the Grand Council conducted its meetings.