Curse of the Daemon Beast

by Francis James Blair

  Most of the people out and about knew her and her father by sight. By the time the training house came into view she’d lost track of how many people had called out hello to them. Seemed every one of them knew what she was up to today. Hard to keep any secrets in a town this small.

  “You feeling nervous?” her father asked.

  “Nervous?” Temperance repeated, trying to play off the question with a laugh. Instead, her voice squeaked like an old fiddle in need of tuning. “What for? I only failed the last two tests grandpa gave me. Not like he threatened to leave me out in the hills if I failed any more. After what happened with those miners and Mister Rawlin’s barn, I’m lucky he’s giving me a third opportunity at all.”

  “Don’t forget the time with the wikilou.”

  “Right. Thanks Da.”

  “Ah, don’t let it eat at you. Your grandpa is only hard because he knows you’ve got talent. Nobody expects any less from the daughter of James Whiteoak Junior, after all.”

  Temperance giggled at this, despite herself. “I suppose I have your reputation to live up to, don’t I?”

  “Sure do. Why I’ve shot at what, two, three daemons now? Or perhaps they were coyotes.” Her father scratched at the back of his head.

  “Thanks Da,” Temperance said again, and meant it this time.

  Her father grinned and doffed his hat. “Anytime, sweetie, anytime.”

  Inside, the main hall was empty. Temperance waited while her father hung up their coats, giving her more than ample time to worry away at things she’d rather not.

  My gut already feels sour about today. Grandpa is sure to have something extra difficult to make up for last time, and he won’t be satisfied with me unless everything goes perfect.

  At this rate, I’ll never get my own hexbullets.

  They found her grandfather kneeling on the floor in one of the larger rooms, a circle drawn in chalk next to him, with a birdcage at its center. A raven croaked and flapped its wings against the bars to little effect.

  James “Brimstone” Whiteoak, inventor of the hexbullet and first of the Pistol Warlocks. In his younger days he had rescued towns and defeated more daemons than a man could count, if the tales were true—and Temperance believed every single one of them. Even now, years into his retirement, he was an imposing figure.

  He was also a sorcerer without equal. Temperance had never understood why this mattered, only that it was for this reason that there was no church in Cold Valley. The one time she had asked, her grandfather simply said that, “Some folks don’t like what they don’t understand.”

  James grunted as they entered, then continued making several marks inside the circle, muttering incantations under his breath. Temperance could feel the crackle of energy in the room.

  “Rendeso Qui Solvor! Rendeso Qui Casabe!” With the last word he extracted a feather from his pocket, and opening the cage he brushed it across the raven’s beak. The bird croaked indignantly, and Temperance noted the feather wasn’t black, but a bright blue, so bright it almost shone in the morning sun.

  Her grandfather withdrew his hand and the raven hopped out after him. It spread its wings, croaking once more in what sounded like an act of defiance before it took to the air. A moment later it had slipped through an open window and disappeared.

  “Arrogant creature.” Temperance turned to see her grandfather dusting the chalk off his hands. “Still more reliable than the damn post though, that’s for true.”

  “Another message to Martin?” his son asked. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until his next visit?” He paused. “You . . . you solved it?”

  “I did, earlier this morning in fact.”

  “That’s . . . this is wonderful news! Did you send a message to Stephen?”

  “No, no, there will be time for that later.” Her grandfather turned his gaze towards Temperance. “There are more important tasks ahead of us today.”

  Temperance did her best not to wither under that stare. It wasn’t easy.

  “Well, let’s not be all day about it. You think you’re ready to carry real hexbullets, do you? How many times have we tested you now? Two?”

  “Three,” Temperance said. Then quickly added, “Sir.”

  “Hmm. I have something different in mind than your last tests. Tell me, Temperance, what makes the men I train different from other Pistol Warlocks?”

  The question caught Temperance off guard. “Different?”

  “Yes, how do my apprentices compare to some city-bred fool who just buys his hexbullets like they’re no different from his horse and saddle?”

  “Oh!” This was a conversation she had heard around the dinner table plenty of times growing up. “They know what goes into them. What makes each bullet precious. Your students leave knowing never to fire a bullet unless they can make it count.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “Um, let’s see.” She thought fast, running through a dozen conversations she had half slept through the first time. “They don’t just know pistol-craft. You also train them in other things. Survival skills. Tracking. Sorcery.”

  “And what is the purpose of all these skills?”

  Temperance hesitated. “To better prepare them for their jobs?” She glanced over at her father, but his face was a mask, unreadable.

  “Their jobs? Interesting.” Her grandfather took a step forward, and Temperance snapped her gaze back to him. “So tell me. What, exactly, is their ‘job’?”

  That was an easy answer. “To fight. To kill monsters and bad people.”

  Temperance knew she had said the wrong thing even before the frown spread over her grandfather’s face like a winter storm. The elder Whiteoak shook his head.

  “Oh, Temperance, is that what you think we are about here? Is that what you think I do?”

  “I suppose?” She started to shrug, then thought better of it. “It’s what you do in every story.”

  “Stories are just that—stories. Real life is another matter. Here, I want you to look at something.”

  He led her over to a bench. Several hexbullets lay in a neat line upon the surface. Temperance didn’t recognize any of them from what little she could see of their runework. Her grandfather picked up the nearest one.

  “Do you know what this is for?” Temperance shook her head. “It can put a man in a deep sleep for several days. Now, why would I want to do something like that, if I’m nothing more than a killer?”

  Heat rushed across Temperance’s face, but her grandfather continued on down the line without a pause. He picked up the next bullet. “This one burns a tracking brand into a man’s skin, leaving him otherwise unharmed. If all I do is kill, why would I have need of such a thing? There are more direct ways to deal with a problem.”

  He turned to Temperance and kneeled so they could see eye to eye. When he spoke at last, his voice had a warm timbre to it, even as the rest of him remained as hard as river stone. “The apprentices I train must know how to deal with any eventuality. Some require patience, or wit, or perseverance. Some require them to move quiet as a shadow or remain as still as a mountain stone. Often they end up in situations where fighting only makes everything worse. In these times, they turn to the training I provided, to find a solution where none seems possible, so that innocent lives are not lost. That is what makes us different. A true Pistol Warlock’s job is not to kill, Granddaughter, but to save. Never forget that. It is who we are.”

  Her grandfather stood up and crossed his arms. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so, Grandpa. You want to make sure I—”

  “James!” A young woman burst through the main doors, a gale of cold air following her inside. “Master, come quick!”

  “Ezra, what is the meaning of this outburst? It’s too early in the morning for you to be jumping around like a blood-fevered dog!” Her grandfather seemed to grow several inches, his presence taking up the whole training house. Temperance had the sudden urge to slink off and hide
in a corner. Today just wasn’t her day.

  Whatever had Ezra spooked was apparently more intimidating than the angry expression on her master’s face. She kept casting glances back the way she came as if expecting trouble any second. “I was up on the southern slope, checking those traps like you told me to, and I saw something moving through the woods. Several somethings. Whatever they were, they was big, and coming our way fast. I only barely got ahead of them.”

  “A pack of wikilou, perhaps?” Temperance’s father suggested.

  James shook his head. “They barely tolerate each other’s presence during mating season. No, it was likely . . . .”

  Her grandfather paused and stared at nothing a moment. For Temperance, who was used to the consistency of his all-knowing expression, this change in demeanor was almost more terrifying than his anger.

  Temperance glanced between the three adults, all of whom wore different expressions, but none of them good. This has to be part of the test, she told herself. He wants to see how I handle myself in a crisis, that’s all. She tried to squelch the tiny voice inside her that was screaming in panic. Just another test.

  At last her grandfather regained his previous composure. “It couldn’t be. I would have felt them coming sooner.” James shook his head, frowned, and shook it again. He turned to a nearby table covered in jars, vials, paperwork, and a tall stack of leather-bound books. He shifted several objects about hurriedly, then in a sudden surge swept most of the table’s contents to the floor. The outburst caught Temperance by surprise, and a high squeak escaped her lips before she could stop it. Neither of the adults commented, however. Both looked as shocked as she felt.

  Her grandfather dug through the remaining papers, and with a grunt held an object aloft. Temperance saw it was a clear stone, with a smaller reddish gem set inside. The stone pulsed with a steady light.

  “What does that mean?” Temperance’s father asked.

  “It means trouble.” James turned around. “You two, grab what guns and ammo are in the other room, as much as you can carry.” The other adults gawped open-mouthed. “With luck we won’t need it by half. Well, what are you two waiting for? Get!”

  Ezra and Temperance’s father darted off, looking like scolded children. Temperance looked up as her grandfather turned his attention upon her. “Come with me.”

  She followed James to the far side of the room. Her grandfather ran his hands across the wood paneling, muttering. Temperance only half caught any of it, but knew enough that the words brought a flush of color to her face.

  Then her grandfather pressed one of the wall panels, and Temperance forgot his language. With a hiss and a sudden rush of air, part of the floorboards swung away, revealing a rough cut passageway beneath the training house.

  “How long—”

  “Not right now. Get inside, and don’t open it up for anyone other than me or Junior, you understand?” Her grandfather squinted at her until at last she nodded, then motioned for her to hop down.

  The tunnel was not particularly deep. Temperance had to stoop to keep her head from striking the ceiling, and someone as tall as her father would have been on his hands and knees. No sooner did her feet touch the ground than James pressed the panel again and the floor slid back into place.

  From down below, Temperance listened to her grandfather cross the room, his feet making a steady tap, tap, tap across the floor.

  Temperance glanced around. Light drifted in through the cracks above, just barely revealing what was around her. The tunnel was rough-hewn, wide enough for her to stretch her arms out to either side. It ended at the base of the building, the other direction stretching off into the dark, towards the nearby hills. If the tunnel had an end she couldn’t see it from here.

  Just another test. Then, to reassure herself further, she repeated out loud, “Grandpa know what he’s doing.”

  She wasn’t sure how long she crouched there before she heard the scream. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. A second scream followed the first. Without warning the ground shook, knocking Temperance against the wall, the white clay of the tunnel leaving a smear on her jacket.

  Through the floorboard cracks, she watched as the main door of the training hall flew open. A shape stumbled into the room, hand clasped to their gut. The stranger made it five steps into the room before collapsing near her, blocking out most the light from above.

  Temperance slithered further down the tunnel. Once past the figure, she turned around and peeked through the floorboards.

  Ezra’s blank expression stared back at her, eyes forever locked in wide-eyed terror. Temperance drew in her breath, heart suddenly hammering. This had to still be part of the test, didn’t it?

  As she stared at her grandfather’s apprentice, something dripped down onto her forehead. She swiped it away, then looked at her fingers. Even in the dim glow from above she could make out the crimson color splashed across her palm. Another squeak wormed its way past her lips before she could swallow it back down.

  More drips followed the first, and she slid further down the tunnel to avoid them. Another tremor shook the tunnel. Only her hand against the wall kept Temperance from falling.

  “Not a test,” she breathed out in a rush of terror. She scuttled backwards, kicking off the dirt floor in her haste to get somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here. “Not a test, not a test.”

  More tremors shook the building, and with a deafening clatter one of the ceiling beams detached and fell to the floor below. Temperance flinched as the boards above her shuddered. She turned and fled down the tunnel, not sure where it would lead her and not caring much either. Behind her, the building let out a drawn-out groan, then collapsed inward on itself.

  Chapter Two

  Sunrise caught Temperance like a slap to the face. That was the third one in a row now. Three sunrises, three cold nights on bare stone, three days sitting at the bottom of this crevasse, or pit, or whatever word you fancy. It was a hole, no getting around that, and she was stuck in it.

  Her grandfather’s jacket was just visible, tied to the branch of a nearby tree. Belial had made sure it was somewhere she could see it, yet out of reach. The cold nights without it just added insult to the whole affair. The daemon would pay double for that when Temperance caught it.

  She would have died before now if a storm hadn’t raged that first evening, filling every nook and cranny with water. It wasn’t particularly dignified, licking at rocks to slate her parched throat, but better than the alternative.

  This also meant the last few nights had been a constant battle not to succumb to the chills. So far she didn’t have so much as a cough, but that could easily change. Stronger men than her had died from a lot less.

  Just a little longer, she told herself for perhaps the hundredth time. Astor must have gone to look for help, he’ll be back once he finds someone willing to follow him. But as the third day stretched on she questioned this assumption more often, what with little else to fill her time.

  Surely Belial hadn’t gotten to her horse? She and Astor had parted company below where the trail was still wide and open enough for him to traverse. He would have seen the daemon sneaking up on him, wouldn’t he? Sensed him, at the least. Oh, why couldn’t their bond allow him to communicate unless he was only a few feet away? It didn’t seem right fair.

  Her belly growled, the sound low and hollow. There had been a constant ache that had been growing since yesterday that no amount of water could quell. She contemplated whether it would be possible to eat her boots. If not today, then certainly tomorrow. Even the moss growing in the shadowed corners was starting to look appetizing.

  For lack of anything else to do, Temperance walked the perimeter of her hole, looking for any cracks. The walls, however, were unforgiving in their lack of footholds, washed smooth by too many years of rain and snowmelt. How had Belial stumbled on such a perfect prison? It almost felt planned, but she wasn’t willing to give the daemon that much credit.

  She leaned
back against the wall, feet sliding out from under her as she sank down, head coming to rest on her knees. This isn’t how I want to go. Dying gutshot or torn to pieces doesn’t sound pretty, but it has be better than wasting away like this.

  When Temperance had first set out earlier that year, she had known her plans came with a certain amount of risk. After all, she was hunting Varconis, a daemon few people had even heard of. That daemon had destroyed her family, her town, and every other part of her life as she knew it. She would have her revenge.

  Before she had any chance of taking down Varconis, though, she needed more ammo. That’s where Belial came in. While not particularly powerful, the vile creature was worth a sizable amount of kos from his decades of terrorizing the eastern seaboard. Selling the daemon to the church would keep her in hexbullets for years.

  Which is why falling for its trap was particularly painful. She couldn’t fail here, before she even had caught a whiff of Varconis. There had to be a way out.

  What was it her grandmother used to say when she prayed to the Three? Temperance tried to remember, but the memories were old and worn now, the words too far gone to recall. Still, she tried anyway.

  Divines, if you’re out there, I know I’ve never offered you much in the way of devotion, but I’ve never asked for anything, neither. Never saw much reason, what with you letting my grandpa and parents and everyone else I know die under your watch when you could have—She stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. Please, see fit to help me out of this, and I’ll pay my dues in church hours, or giving to the poor, or—

  The sound of crackling underbrush brought her back to the real world. Temperance leapt to her feet, poised to shout at the top of her lungs, then froze. What if it was a bear? Or Belial, returned to gloat over his victory? She stood there, unsure what to do.

  In the end, her growling gut decided for her. Better to die quick than waste away in here another minute.