Curse of the Daemon Beast

by Francis James Blair

  “Hello? Is anyone out there?”

  There was a clattering noise, like someone falling over, followed by silence. After an unbearable pause, a man’s face poked over the lip of the pit. He was the most wrinkled and weatherbeaten human Temperance could recall ever seeing. Long gray hair cascaded over cheeks cracked and pitted like a dried piece of fruit. His eyes were wide with surprise, the whites showing a web of stringy veins.

  “What? What? Now ain’t this a surprise! You look right stuck, eh?”

  Temperance blinked and tried to process the man’s words. His existence at all. “Can you get me out? Do you have a rope or anything?”

  “I expect I do here somewhere.” The head disappeared. Long minutes passed. Temperance was starting to consider yelling out again when a length of rough cord slipped over the edge. The man appeared alongside it.

  “Don’t know if this will hold, but you look a tiny thing. Give it a pull, eh?”

  Temperance wrapped a hand around the cord, relief flooding through her, and gave the material a tug. It held, and a moment of scrabbling against the sides later she dropped to all fours at the top of the sinkhole. Never had the simple sight of dirt been such a cause for joy.

  The old man waited off to one side while she gathered herself up. He wiped a grimy hand off on a pair of dull gray linsey-rak trousers and held it out to her. She looked at it, then heaved herself up on her own.

  “Where’s my horse?”

  “Horse?”

  “Didn’t you follow him up here? He’s a large bay stallion.” She waved her hands for emphasis, though to what end she couldn’t right say at the moment.

  The old man shook his head. “Haven’t seen no horse ‘round here, Miss, bay or otherwise. Just came out to check my settings.” He wiggled his shoulder, and for the first time Temperance saw the pair of spring traps slung over his shoulder. They didn’t look large enough for bear. Wolf, maybe?

  She dragged her attention away from the traps as the man held out his hand again. “Name be Sventa Jacoben, that I am. Most just call me Sven for short.”

  “Temperance.” She shook his hand. Sventa looked at her a moment, as if waiting for more. When she said nothing, the silence stretched between them, until at last the old man coughed and continued on, jabbing a finger at the crevasse.

  “What in the Three were you doing in there? Ain’t nobody ‘round these parts, you were lucky I happen to come by.”

  “I was traveling. Must have lost my way.” No sense telling the man a daemon like Belial was in the area unless she had to. It was enough to send even large settlements into a full-blown panic.

  “That you did. Nearest road must be a good three or four mile as the lark flies. You looking for Shady Hollow?”

  “Not particularly. That a town?”

  Sventa shrugged. “Close enough. Been my home for near ten year now. I’ll show the way, if you like. But here now, you look a might famished, eh?”

  Temperance’s gut gurgled its agreement. The old man smiled, showing the gaps between his teeth. “Sit a spell. We’ll have our dinner, then I can take you the way to Shady Hollow.”

  Temperance wanted to get looking for Astor as soon as possible, but she was likely to pass out from hunger before she got more than a dozen steps. Besides, Shady Hollow was as good a place to start her search as any, she reckoned.

  Her gut gurgled again, more insistent this time, setting all of Temperance’s muscles to quivering. Right, food first, worry about the rest later.

  She settled onto the ground, making sure she was a safe distance from the edge of the crevasse. Sventa lowered himself to a rock with several loud creaks of his legs, and pulled out a pouch wrapped in a simple handkerchief.

  The pouch turned out to contain a pile of flapjacks, soaked in lard and so dense they must have weighed their measure in lead. Temperance didn’t care; they were a sight better than eating her boots. She wolfed down most of them before the old man took a half-dozen bites.

  When the pile was gone, she leaned back against the dirt with a sigh. The old man picked at a few crumbs, then wiped his hands against his pants, leaving several dark stains in their wake.

  “I suppose we ought to get on. Me wife will be wondering where I got to ‘bout now.” He let out a low chuckle. “She’ll like you, ain’t many people that enjoy her cooking the way you did.”

  Temperance reclaimed her jacket and weapons from the tree. She would have to look them over later to make sure the rain hadn’t ruined anything. Sventa watched her gather the equipment with a bemused expression.

  “Seemed as good a place as any to make camp in the dark. Just the small matter of the hole being there.” Temperance tried to keep her voice casual, but felt self-conscious about the whole deception. That was the problem with lies, one always led to another.

  If the old man noticed her awkwardness, he didn’t make note.

  Rather than return to the lowlands, Sventa made his way further along the crest of the hill. They wound down through culverts and around rock outcroppings, slowly working their way towards the mountains. Temperance had wandered in circles long enough while following Belial that she couldn’t tell if this was part of the Madera range, or something else. Geography had never been one of her best skills.

  Autumn was in full swing, most leaves on the trees changed to some vibrant hue of red or orange or yellow. More littered the ground in crisp piles of brown that scattered and crunched with every step. If she needed a sign that she had been trailing the daemon for far too long, Temperance had but to look to either side of her. The warm summer days that dominated her time with Peter Scrimshaw seemed a distant memory now as a chill wind blew in from the hills, cutting her to the bone. Winter would be upon them in a few weeks, maybe less.

  She wondered where the marshal was now. They had parted ways in Benson City, far to the east, but with all of Temperance’s wandering in circles the last few weeks he likely had passed her on his way back to Arkton. Despite the troubles the man had brought upon her with that blasted sorcerer of a prisoner of his, she hoped he was well.

  Sventa talked near nonstop as they went, about his traps, mostly: what he had caught, or what bait and scents worked best for which animals. Temperance only kept half an ear on the conversation, until the old man pushed a branch out of his face only for it to swing back and clip his ear. He let out a yelp and clutched the side of his head, nearly dropping his traps.

  “Blasted erghasts, nothing but trouble this time of year,” he muttered.

  Temperance snapped back to attention, blinking in surprise. “What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing, ignore me old ramblings. Just something me mother used to say.” Sventa waved a hand in the air and continued on.

  “By any chance was she from Finderhav?”

  The old man grunted and kept on walking. Temperance frowned, but was undeterred. “My gran used to tell me stories about erghasts when I was younger. According to her, they haunted the trees in Finderhav, playing tricks on—”

  Sventa’s words, harsh even through his thick accent, cut her to silence. “There ain’t no more Finderhav. Haven’t been for two hundred year, the Empire saw to that. Ain’t no erghasts either, just stories to frighten children, like bonehounds, or kreshk.”

  “Or daemons?” Temperance added. “There was time most folks thought they were myth.”

  Sventa didn’t rise to her comment, but instead turned and tramped off through a snarled thicket. By the time Temperance fought through the grasping branches, he was a good ways ahead, forcing her to scramble to catch up. She decided to change the subject.

  “Tell me about Shady Hollow.” Likely it was the same as the dozens of other small towns she had seen away from the coast, but it never hurt to learn what she could.

  “Right, I do need to tell you ‘bout that before we get there.” Sventa scratched at his chin. “Not much to the place. There were six of us that settled there at the beginning, that’s not changed much.”

  Ho
lding out his hand, he counted off. “There’s the Cullings, the Handers, the Felts, the Masons, the Samsons . . . .” He waggled his fingers and frowned at them a moment. Then a schoolboy grin lit up his face. “Right. There’s me and the missus too.”

  Temperance listened to all this in silence, somewhat chagrined. I meant more, ‘is there a saloon’? I suppose I shouldn’t ask if I don’t want to know the answer.

  She realized that Sventa was still talking. “Course, there’s the Reverend Reynolds, and those folks that work the mines. Never have figured out how to say any of their names right. Then there’s Cyrus Hander, he’s our school teacher, when the harvest allows for it.” He stopped and blinked for a second. “Did I mention the Handers already?”

  “You did.” Temperance said, starting to wonder if following this old man through the woods had been the wrong idea. Still, he seemed harmless enough, and he had helped her out back at the pit.

  “I guess that ‘bout covers it, then. Oh, then there’s the Hander boy, David. Now he’s—”

  Temperance cut in before the man could list the name of every horse in town as well. “How far are we from Shady Hollow, would you say?”

  “Oh, not much, I don’t think. Should be able to see it . . . there it be!”

  They reached the top of a small rise. Through the falling leaves, Temperance caught sight of a few scattered houses below them, nestled amid so many trees they almost disappeared from view.

  The sight gave Temperance pause. She had a sudden suspicion she knew what the town below was, and why it had no roads nearby. Perhaps I should have looked for Astor where I left him.

  “You sure the other people below aren’t going to mind you bringing me here?” she asked.

  “Eh? What’s that?” Sventa glanced back as he started down the slope. “And why not? Sure, we don’t see many visitors, but it’s a town like any other, ain’t it? Town needs people like a dog needs ticks, I always say.”

  “That doesn’t make any—” Temperance started, but the old man had already disappeared through a brush patch. She hesitated a moment, contemplating just finding her own way off the mountain. If the town below was what she thought it was, they would be none too pleased to see an outsider, no matter what Sventa had to say about her.

  Then she caught sight of a trio of horses in a clearing. If Astor had gone looking for people, this was likely the first place he would have tried. Besides, as armed as she was the folk living below would have to be crazy to take her head on. She could be in and out before anyone even thought to give her trouble.

  Sventa was waiting for her at the bottom of the hill. Together they set off along a dirt track that soon wound its way through a corn field. Beyond that was a barn nestled next to a small orchard, none of the trees more than a head taller than Temperance.

  As they walked further into the heart of Shady Hollow, Temperance became more and more certain of where she was. The half-hidden homes, the remote location, the newly planted orchards, it all pointed a finger at the same thing.

  They rounded a small two-story cabin, and the path ended in what likely passed for the town clearing. Rows of wood tables and benches covered near half the space, and there were two dozen or more people standing around them, talking in loud, angry voices. At the sight of Temperance, they went silent and turned to stare. She caught sight of several of the men reaching down to pick up a rifle or shotgun, most of them several models out of date.

  Yep, she thought, unable to stop herself from dry swallowing. It’s a squatter town, alright.

  Chapter Three

  Squatter towns—also known as springboards or fly-by-nights—came in all shapes and sizes. Some were built to look like ordinary waystops, at least from a distance. Others might be built into the side of a cliff or laced through a network of caves. They might hide in plain sight, just off of more traveled routes or some remote mountain valley. The only thing they shared in common was the fact that they weren’t supposed to exist at all. They held no land rights, no titles, no deeds. Those that lived in them had no claim to the soil they tilled, the wells they dug, or the lumber they harvested. To put it simple, they were nothing more than thieves.

  While these towns did not always go hand in hand with crime and lawlessness, Temperance had found her share of trouble with such places in the past. Now she preferred to avoid them when she could, especially the ones that went out of their way to keep from being found. Stumbling into a squatter town unannounced was a good way to get strung up if you weren’t careful.

  One of the townsfolk, a barrel-chested man carrying a shotgun that looked older than he did, stepped forward. “Where the blazes did you come from, girl?”

  Temperance held up her empty hands, hoping to stave off violence. She didn’t like her odds against this many, what with all the shotguns. Buckshot had a habit of going places her coat couldn’t cover.

  “Peace, friends. Just passing through looking for a missing horse.” Several of the people narrowed their eyes at the last part, and too late Temperance realized her mistake. Never a smart idea to imply somebody might be a horsethief. That was a good way to get shot, even in a town where everyone wasn’t already on edge. She turned to Sventa for help. “Tell them how you found me, Mister—”

  Her words fell on empty air. The old man was halfway back down the trail already. Temperance glimpsed his back, traps still swinging from side to side, before he disappeared around a corner.

  Aw, hellfire, this day just keeps on coming, don’t it?

  She turned back. “I can see my horse isn’t here. I’ll just be leaving. Real sorry about interrupting whatever you got going on.”

  The enormous man took a step forward, then paused. He glanced down at her, his eyes seeming to take in every inch. Temperance’s fingers twitched to go for her guns, but she managed to stop herself from doing anything stupid.

  Barrel-chest set his gun down against a bench, and without realizing she had been holding it, Temperance let out her breath. “Those bullets you got there, you a Pistol Warlock?”

  “I am, though I prefer the term Pistol Witch.”

  The man blinked. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like the Three are watching us after all. Ain’t that right, Reverend?” Barrel-chest turned towards a lanky fellow standing off to one side, his shirt showing far fewer stains on it than any of the other townsfolk. The reverend nodded solemnly.

  Barrel-chest turned back to Temperance and held out a hand. “I’m John Cullings, unofficial mayor for our little town of Shady Hollow. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss . . . .”

  Temperance hesitated. After what happened with the sheriff in Rosea, she was even more reluctant to use her family’s name than she had been before. Then again, that name could be helpful in keeping this crowd from turning into a mob against her. She settled on a compromise.

  “Alba, if you please.” She shook his hand and allowed the man to lead her to a bench.

  “Bright day, Miss Alba, bright day. My, you look ‘bout as thin as a spring calf! Let my wife fetch you something to eat.” John turned and called out “Marie! We got any more of ‘em beans?”

  “I’m right here, John, no need to bellow so.” A rosy-cheeked woman wearing an apron moved off to a pot and returned bearing a simple wooden bowl and spoon. She set them down in front of Temperance with a smile. “Eat up, dear, you look near skin and bones.”

  Temperance wasn’t sure how she felt about turning her back on half the gathered crowd, but she supposed if they wanted her gone they would have done it already. Besides, the pancakes from earlier had hardly made a dent in her hunger. She set to the beans with enthusiasm, shoveling them in with one hand while resting the other near her revolver. No sense being foolish over the entire situation.

  After a moment, she realized everyone else in the clearing was watching her. It crossed her mind that if the town wanted to get rid of a Pistol Warlock, poison was a lot safer way to do it than a shootout. If that had been their plan though, it must be real slow acting.
The only thing Temperance felt was less hungry.

  She bore their looks in silence as long as she could. Clearing her throat, she asked, “That Mister Jacoben, he always so unusual?”

  “Jacoben? You mean old Sven?” John blinked in surprise.

  “Unless there’s another one around. He found me in the forest and led me here. Thought you good folks might help me find my horse.” Not the exact truth, but appealing to someone’s pride never hurt. She didn’t know why the town had turned so friendly, but better to keep them that way.

  “Ah. I wouldn’t put much stock in nothing old Sven says. His mind ain’t been entirely there since his wife died. We all try to watch out for him, but he’s got a bad habit of wandering off. Nothing short of a miracle that he keeps coming back unhurt.”

  I suppose that explains a few things, Temperance mused.

  Once she scraped her bowl clean, Temperance pushed it aside, waving away Marie’s offer of a refill. She eyed the townsfolk. Most of them were still looking at her with some mix of awe and apprehension. “Thank you all for the meal, but I should be getting back to the trail.”

  “Hold up now, Miss.” John stood up along with her. “I was hoping you might listen to a proposal I got for you.”

  Temperance couldn’t exactly say his statement caught her by surprise. Few people offered a meal to a stranger without some conditions. “What kind of proposal we talking about here?”

  Before John could open his mouth, a man in a torn shirt slapped his hands down on the table. His face was awash in pockmarks and red spots, his hair hanging long and greasy down his back.

  “Cullings, you really thinking to involve an outsider in town business? We don’t know a thing ‘bout this girl. For all we know this is just some trick to rob us blind!”

  Another woman, lips pinched so she looked only halfway through eating something sour, nodded her agreement. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange, her showing up all sudden like? Nobody but poor mad Sven to vouch for her. Right suspicious, what it is.”

  John glowered between the two of them, his face going all red. He started to speak, but this time Temperance beat him to it. “I’m not sure what you’re all talking about, but I promise, I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got enough of that waiting for me back on the trail. Thanks again for the meal.” She turned to walk away.