The human didn’t have an answer to what the demon said. He didn’t have an idea of what was the point of the creature. Nor he did want to admit that ignorance of the social behavior described by it. Instead, he asked what its plans were, and a decision on the impasse the entity had mentioned.
“A bargain, if you accept,” it answered.
What the demon offered was simple enough. Its absolute loyalty and obedience conditioned upon an oath by Pavel to find a way to send the creature back to its world. The pact was phrased by the being in the simplest way possible. An action which suggested to the man that the demon had indeed reached the end of its tether.
The man thought about it carefully. A fanged and clawed assistant, with magic to supplement what Pavel had. Extra hands and eyes to watch his back, and a deadly surprise for unwitting enemies. Unfortunately, the creature also didn’t have any knowledge about this world and was as ignorant about it. Then the question arose whether accepting the oath wouldn’t violate his own sworn duty as a mortal bound to Fate.
A quick consideration removed the obstacle of possible adverse implications, given the Lady’s instructions. One, the creature wasn’t of this reality, and two, what was required was a restoration of the balance, not the elimination of one side in the scales of Fate.
Pavel looked at the waiting demon and grinned.
“Well, I guess today’s your lucky day.”
***
The pair stood on the edge of a deep cliff on which a rudimentary footbridge started toward a tall, white stone tower. It had been a long, tiring trek across the barren wasteland. Only the magic of the demon made it bearable for Pavel, and the aura it could sense coming from their destination also ensured that the pair wouldn’t get lost in the vast emptiness.
Examining the rocky finger pointing at the sky, he noticed that the structure itself had a door, but all of its windows could be found at its higher levels. Pavel gauged the peculiar edifice to be at least ten stories tall. The arrangement of the openings and the height of the building gave clear indications of the mindset of the hermit they were searching for.
Murder on the legs, thought Pavel, thinking about how difficult it must be to go up and down its stairs daily.
The tower was a hundred feet away, but it was built on a rock platform that rose from a deep gorge. The rickety narrow footbridge was the only way across. The flimsy construction didn’t look particularly inviting.
The man looked at his companion, the demon in the guise of a bard. The choice was a contentious one. The being wanted to look like a warrior, a desire which went against the intention of Pavel for the demon not to seen as an immediate threat. He had to carefully explain why he wanted the bard disguise. Once the dark entity understood the rationale behind the deception, he eagerly adopted it, even manifesting a lute to complete the required outfit.
On the worldly name of the demon, they settled for Sheqer, a word meaning deception in the language of a tribe back in the demon’s home reality. It was a people which made it its crusade to eliminate demons and was relatively successful at the endeavor. Sheqer thought using a term from their language to hide in this world was poetic justice. The explanation surprised Pavel. He didn’t expect such ironic cleverness from his bound companion.
“Just because an entity is a demon doesn’t mean it’s a thuggish brute. Well, many are brainless oafs. But mind you, many of the poets and artists in my world had demonic assistance. Getting one’s muse clearly needed a demonic kick for most,” said Sheqer with slight resentment.
But as of now, the duo discussed the question of whether to cross the ramshackle wooden construction. It looked fragile, already missing a few planks here and there, and appeared liable to fall into pieces the moment one had stepped a few paces into it. It didn’t help that the footbridge swayed with every errant breeze which swept across the gorge.
“What do you suggest we do?” Pavel asked his companion.
“The bridge is strong enough. It’s buttressed by magic. The appearance is but to keep ordinary strangers away, and I sense eyes observing us,” replied the bard with a grin.
“I feel the presence of magic around us, but I can’t see what you described. Its deeper workings escape me,” mused the man.
“You need knowledge and training. Even a human infant must learn how to crawl before it could walk. But back to the subject of that tower, if we do try to cross, the mage who laid down the enchantment might withdraw it, plunging you to your doom. I am not interested in seeing you die,” remarked the demon caustically.
“Encratas was described as an idiosyncratic battle-mage. A hermit on top of that. I don’t know which is worse. He could be capable of doing exactly what you said,” replied Pavel. “Why don’t you try crossing it? You won’t die easily anyway.”
The bard looked at the grinning Pavel with a disbelieving look. He couldn’t tell if the man was serious or not. Then Sheqer realized the suggestion did make sense.
“Ah, it would take another painful transformation to reform this disguise after my form is shattered by the rocks waiting down in that canyon. But we won’t know unless we try,” commented the bard resignedly.
Sheqer moved to the footbridge, halted as he surveyed the surrounding area, and started to take a tentative step. Then a bolt of force flashed from the tower and hit him square in the torso. The sudden attack flung the bard a good distance backward. He stood up shakily and walked back to Pavel’s side. The man was quiet, eyes focused on the tower.
“I guess he doesn’t like visitors,” said Sheqer.
Pavel didn’t answer. The man raised both hands toward the tower. Suddenly, the stone tower was covered with frost. The bard could see sweat forming on the man’s forehead. The frost turned to an icy covering, and an abrupt coldness suffused the surrounding area despite the considerable warmth given off by the sun. A sizeable floating ball of intense fire formed between Pavel’s hands.
Confusion washed over the Azat. The phenomenon was totally unexpected. The bard quickly noticed Pavel’s bewildered look. Sheqer took in the situation, his eyes looking from the flaming sphere to Pavel’s astounded face and then back to the orb again.
Then a litany of curses loudly erupted from the stone tower. Considering the distance, Encratas must have abnormally large lungs. The expletives covered everything – from their provenance of birth down to the size of their dicks.
“You might want to dispose of that, Master,” said the bard quietly.
Pavel glanced at him; incomprehension apparent on his face. The bard sighed.
“Magic works differently for humans. Deities and spirits are made of magic, so welding such energy does not cause a shift in the natural balance. But for humans, it’s not so simple,” clarified Sheqer. Pavel’s blank look showed his continued confusion.
“Create a warm spot somewhere, and the energy or cold displaced by the casting would appear elsewhere, usually near the person responsible for the magical disturbance,” Sheqer continued to explain. “So, now, you have a dangerous fireball in your hands, created by all the heat removed from the tower. If I were you, I’d dispose of it quickly. Your level of proficiency does not allow the control of such things, and I sense its power is growing by the second.”
5
Mad as a Desert Bukavac
“Whoever heard of a bard taller than the warrior
being accompanied by him? Goes against all stories and epics.
Let’s go with the classics, Master.”
Pavel immediately threw the dangerous magical object down the gorge. In a few seconds, the blast of an explosion disturbed the relative quiet of the area. But it was an occurrence that resulted in more loud insults. The hermit clearly didn’t lack skills in imaginative cursing. At least, the master of the tower didn’t attempt any additional magical attacks for the time being.
Or he was too frozen to think about casting one, noted Pavel with relief.
Two figures could now be seen outside the tower’s door. Though bot
h were obviously shivering despite being wrapped in thick blankets, the taller of the two was shaking his fist at them, an action synchronized with the cadence of his expletives.
“I thought he was a battle mage,” commented Pavel. “Countering the cold spell should be easy, right?”
“One word. Battlemage. I suspected most, if not all, of his magical skills centered around the application of magic during fighting. What you did was focus on the environment around the tower, and even a protective barrier against offensive spells couldn’t do anything against changes in the weather,” explained his companion. “But a mage of enough knowledge would know what to do, though that fellow’s field of expertise is quite specialized and anathema to individuals who hate physical exertion.”
Then the bard stopped talking and stared at the cursing figure on the other side of the gorge.
“Now, what’s that fellow doing? He seems to be dancing,” he told Pavel. Then he looked at Encratas some more. “No, kicking the ground in utter frustration. A good exercise to keep warm too.”
“Mad as a desert bukavac,” whispered Pavel. Knowledge about the creature just came to mind.
“What’s that? I don’t think we have that in our world,” asked Sheqer in a low voice.
“A deadly, evil creature. Demonic, sometimes has six legs and lives in bodies of water. Jumps out and strangles unwary travelers for dinner,” explained the man, again in a whispered voice.
“Water? Out here? Oh, now I get it,” laughed the bard.
Finally, Encratas gave up. Or probably got tired, thought Pavel. The heavily wrapped man walked to the other end of the footbridge and hailed them.
“What the hell do you want? he hollered. At least, Encratas didn’t have the gall to accuse them of attacking him. The hermit was the one who struck first.
Pavel saw a wiry though muscular man. Bald with a white beard. Though the bald pate had a strange, abstract sigil tattooed on it. It was difficult to determine Encratas’s age. It appeared whatever kind of hermit life he adopted involved physical practice and conditioning. He did look well-fed for one leading such a lonely and isolated life.
In his mind, he had the picture of a thin, ascetic old man. The usual image the word hermit evoked. Add to the description the term mage and the man could be excused for the way he imagined how Encratas would look. It appeared he was wrong. The old man looked capable of beating him black and blue. Pavel shrugged. It was always like that – preconceptions muddled one’s rational thoughts. But he had never considered falling into the same mental trap. Yet unconsciously, he had become a victim of such a failing. Realizing what had happened, he berated himself mentally. It was dangerous practice. The man had a feeling he had made use of such a technique against opponents more than once in the past.
“I was sent here by a mutual acquaintance. A lady,” Pavel shouted back as Sheqer’s eyes widened at the lady remark.
“Damn. I didn’t know there were women in that cave,” remarked the demon-in-disguise. “Double damn that barrier!”
“Really? Liar! I know no lady! At least for the past ten or so years! And I didn’t leave any bastards behind!” came the hermit’s loud reply.
“Not that kind of lady,” replied Pavel. “Only the sort who’d make your life unimaginably more miserable if you don’t let us cross this bridge.”
Encratas stood speechless at Pavel’s reply, and it took him a few minutes before he gestured at them to come over. As Pavel moved to the bridge, the bard suddenly produced a quarterstaff from thin air. It was a five-foot hardwood weapon with metal ends. He noticed that Sheqer already held one, a shorter version.
“Where did you get these?” asked the puzzled Pavel.
“Courtesy of those mages. I noticed we didn’t have any ordinary weapons, so I grabbed them. They were the best of the motley collection of weaponry in that camp. I can’t sing our enemies to death, can’t I?” remarked the bard.
“Can’t you?” countered the man irritably.
“I could. But that would be getting out of character. It’s my first time to be walking around as a human, and I plan to make the most out of the experience,” grinned the demon.
“And you have the shorter one because…?”
“I am shorter than you. Isn’t it obvious? Whoever heard of a bard taller than the warrior being accompanied by him? Goes against all stories and epics. Let’s go with the classics, Master,” answered Sheqer.
Pavel merely shook his head, though he gave thanks. At least one of them was enjoying being a mortal, even as a disguise. Unlike Sheqer, he was a mortal down to his knucklebones. Or considered himself one. He did check the camp for human weapons, and nothing met what he required. His eyes could pick out numerous forging defects and grievous smithing errors. Considering his strength, what he saw were all liable to break in the middle of a fight. The demon must have secured the staves without Pavel noticing.
***
The footbridge, as the demon mentioned, was indeed the subject of a magical spell. A few steps into it and the swaying stopped. After that, stepping along its wooden planks was no different from walking on solid ground.
“You do know he could still cancel the spell and send you to rather painful doom?” said the bard mischievously.
“Yes, and don’t remind me. It’s hard enough to trust what he wanted us to do. But I wager he’s curious. Intensely so. We’re probably the first people to drop by in a long while,” replied Pavel.
Fortunately, they made the seemingly hazardous crossing without further incident. By the time the pair reached the cleared area in front of the tower, the coldness had also dissipated, and the warm sun again made its presence known.
Encratas was standing before the door and his companion was nowhere to be seen. Pavel idly noted that the door itself was made of metal and given the background of the man in magic, probably made of iron. He assumed whoever was with the hermit went back inside when the temperature became bearable enough. The grouchy recluse waited for them with arms crossed, and the heavy blanket which had wrapped him earlier was now a jumbled pile at his feet.
Encratas was clearly not happy to see them. But for an old man, he seemed physically fit and muscular enough. One would have thought him a middle-aged warrior, with a short beard and surprisingly long, black hair tied at the back of his head.
But the few scars which marked the scowling face, and the leather cuirass and sheathed sword clipped to a thick belt marked him as an experienced and obviously prepared fighter. The lack of a warrior’s shield warned of magical protection, and his strangely focused eyes grabbed attention.
The hermit was about twenty feet from them and didn’t say a word as the pair walked toward him. But Pavel could sense an increase in the magical energy around them. Then the bard whispered a warning.
“My vision is clouded, and my senses dulled. Be careful, Master. Things are not what they seem,” warned Sheqer in a low voice.
Pavel gave a slight nod. He knew something was up, but unfortunately, he wasn’t magically skilled enough to determine what was wrong. With a muttered pahhas, an invisible barrier came into existence around him. But he was aware that the strength of what was created was only commensurate to what magical power he possessed. Still, a flimsy, simple magical barrier was better than nothing.
Suddenly, Sheqer was again violently flung away from Pavel, this time against the stone wall of the tower, bands of faintly visible force holding the bard in place. At the same time, the real Encratas appeared at Pavel’s back, and the man found the hermit’s knife pressed against his throat, while the assailant’s left arm held him immobile. The shield he had cast earlier proved to be no obstacle to Encratas who, to add insult to injury, acted as if it didn’t exist. The waiting simulacrum disappeared.
“Who actually sent you? The High Council? That bastard Kouvas finally got the balls to try to get me?” hissed the battlemage. The sharp point of the dagger had already drawn a pinprick of blood from Pavel’s vulnerable pharynx. He trie
d to answer, but the small blade made it impossible to talk. A slight movement of his throat and its sharp edge was liable to do substantial damage.
The tattooed symbol on Pavel’s inner wrist immediately felt warm. A mass of energy rose around the man, and Encratas was immediately thrown against a wall, ironically, to a location beside the dazed Sheqer. Freed from the threat of a sliced throat, he brought his stave into a defensive position.
Pavel didn’t want to kill the hermit. He honestly doubted if that would go well with the Lady. But the bard, now freed from his bounds when the hermit was staggered, didn’t have any reservations about hitting back. Encratas found his face welcoming the painful strike of Sheqer’s staff. The bard walked back to Pavel and stood by his side.
The hermit groggily stood up from where he slumped after being battered. Blood was running down his nose, and the telltale mark of a long line of swollen flesh ran across his face. The bard apparently didn’t hold back, at least within his mortal limits.
At least the demon didn’t try to kill him, reflected Pavel. He was understandably angry at the subterfuge but controlled himself. From the words of Encratas, it was evident that the man had enemies. The fellow he mentioned, Kouvas, seemed to be a powerful mage. The High Council reference could only mean either one of mages or a governing body of powerful individuals.
And Fate had her little joke at my expense by sending me to a hunted man, thought Pavel. Typical.
***
With that excruciatingly painful lesson and reminder, Encratas didn’t raise any additional questions. Pavel didn’t know if the power that repelled the hermit also revealed something, but there was a marked change in demeanor after that painful encounter with the wall. Encratas did apologize to the pair, albeit in a mumbling manner that Pavel attributed to the pummeling the recluse received.
“I haven’t sensed that kind of energy for a long time,” said the hermit. “I suppose apologies are in order.”
My Name is Ruin Page 5