Evil Unmasked | Chapter III: The Raid

[Xarkly 12581]

EVIL UNMASKED

Chapter III: The Raid

 

This is part three of a five-part short story I started last year, and hopefully intend to finish by March. Before reading this part, you should read the earlier parts first.

 

Chapter I: Far Ridge

Chapter II: A Vision

 

For ambience, you should play both these tracks at the first time, and loop the first one:

Spoiler

 

 

 

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The cold morning wind carried the scent of fresh smoke through the trees.

 

What a mess this has turned into, Iblees thought irritably. Twigs and frosted grass crunched underfoot as he jogged behind the six Far Ridgers who had come to Krug's hut earlier that morning - in which Iblees had invited himself to stay as a guest - with news that a nearby farm had been raided in the night. Despite his ridiculous philosophy of no Far Ridger needing to rely on others for help, Krug had not hesitated to take the lead; he ran at the front of the line now, his shaggy hair bouncing with each lumbering step, and his jaw clenched with a determination had had not exhibited yesterday.

 

Much like he had invited himself to spend the night in Krug's hut, Iblees had invited himself on this rescue mission too. He felt like he had little choice: for one, he could no longer let Krug keep avoiding him. Iblees had come to Far Ridge - Aegis' most wayward, northern settlement - to convince Krug that it was far past time that he followed in his brothers' footsteps and become a King, and the leader he kept pretending Far Ridge did not need. Aside from that, however, Iblees wished to see this raid - or its aftermath - for himself.

 

The morning had brightened now, and golden sunlight fractured through the canopy of leaves overhead, but that did little to improve Iblees' mood. Raiders in Far Ridge. This is rotten timing, he thought grimly. Krug's land was all harsh widlerness, and the people here constantly warred against the elements for survival, but they were never bothered by other mortals. That was both due to how far away and remote Far Ridge was from the southern settlements ruled by Krug's brothers, and because most mortals considered Far Ridgers too much trouble to trifle with. In that sense, at least, Far Ridge was a peaceful place.

 

All of Aegis should be peaceful, Iblees bitterly reminded himself. That was his mission, after all. When he had first descended to this mortal plane, when he had abandoned the other slothful Aenguls and Daemons, he had done so with the goal of building a paradise out of the lawless, purposeless existence of mortality. Iblees had first taught them to farm, so mortals were not at the mercy of wandering the wilderness in search of food; he had taught them to build walls and shelters, so that they were not at the mercy of the weather and elements; and, most importantly, he had taught htem to love and respect, so that they were not at the mercy of each other.

 

Some mortals, however, are slow learners, he told himself as the smell of smoke grew stronger. He was a Daemon, and he had himself thought himself immune to fickle mortal emotions, but at that moment, his blood boiled.

 

The stench of smoke continued to grow stronger, and the excited caws of ravens echoed from nearby, before the pine trees suddenly gave way to a long tract of grassland that rolled out into distant hills. Just a short distance from where the trees stopped lay the farm, and Iblees skid to a halt at the sight of it. Columns of wispy smoke curled up from the burnt thatch roof of a long hut, and ravens perched on the motionless corpses of goats in the pastures bloodied their beaks on the bodies.

 

They slaughtered the animals. The irrational anger swelled up in Iblees again; usually, raiders seldom bothered stealing livestock, since they were too cumbersome to flee with, or butchered and ate them on the scene. That the raiders had left dead animals behind without eating them meant they had been killed for sport.

 

"FAN OUT AND SEARCH!" Krug roared, his voice splitting the silence like thunder. The ravens took flight in alarm as he stomped towards the hut with his axes in hand, which Iblees eyed with concern. Tools purely for killing. At Krug's command, the other Far Ridgers gripped their hunting spears and wood-axes - which, unlike Krug's axes, were tools for hunting and woodcutting - and cautiously spread out across the smoke-hazed field.

 

Iblees did not follow. Instead, as the frigid wind swept across the field and filled his nostrils with the sharp scent of smoke and blood, he closed his eyes. As a Daemon, he had powers beyond mortal reckoning, though he had not used them in a very long time. As part of his mission to guide mortals to paradise, he knew he had to do what no other Aengul nor Daemon could: he had to understand mortals, and how their strange minds worked, so he had lived just like one, seldom using his powers.

 

At that moment, though, he tapped into those long-dormant powers, and as he exhaled slowly, he was suddenly aware of everything around him: he could sense the lifeforce of Krug and the other Far Ridgers, pulsating like warm energy; he could sense the ravens nearby, perched on trees and the burnt roof, cawing impatiently as they waited for the Far Ridgers to clear off so they could resume feasting; and he could sense hundreds upon hundreds of creatures in the woods behind him, from insects to hibernating bears. He felt a flood of relief, however, when he sensed life inside the farm hut. Survivors. After seeing the animals so wastefully slaughtered, he had feared the worst for the farmers themselves.

 

He began to walk towards the hut before he abruptly stumbled down on his knees in the frozen earth, and pressed a hand to his forehead as his vision swam; he could feel the frosted grass being crushed under his own weight, and thousnads of leaves tremble in the wind as if he himself was every one of those leaves. It was an inexplicable sensation, so much so that he had forgotten what it was like to use his Daemonic powers. He had inhabited this mortal vessel as a disguise for far too long that even a small exertion of power render this body disoriented and nauseous. He laughed bitterly under his breath. I suppose this means I have succeeded in learning to be one of them. His joy, mirthless as it was, was quickly forgotten as he staggered back to his feet, his vision stabilizing as that sensation of awareness faded. When he started to walk again, it was with slow, clumsy steps.

 

Fanning the smoke out of his face as he drew close to the hut, Iblees brushed past two Far Ridgers examining the nearest goat carcass. They both frowned, and gave Iblees concerned looks. He thought one of them might have said something, but disoriented as he was, he did not hear. Instead, he stepped over the farmhouse door - which had been crudely hacked apart with an axe - and found himself inside the hut's smokey interior. The hut itself had not been burnt - just the roof - but the smoke from the burnt thatch hung heavy. Krug's cloaked form dominated the room, and another Far Ridger stood beside him, but Iblees' attention immediately shot to the row of people against the back wall of the hut. The farmers.

 

There were seven of the farmers in total, and Iblees' could tell immediately that four of them - two women, a man and an adolescent boy - were dead, glazed eyes staring up at the burnt thatch. The other three were alive; a grown woman and a young girl, their auburn hair a tangled mess and their faces stark white, stood in front of a man with a blood-soaked bandage wound over his chest, clutching skinning knives defensively. All seven of the farmers - the dead and the living - wore their sleeping clothes, with the women in coarse shifts and the men shirtless, and in breeches, their linens shredded and bloodied by the weapons that had killed them. The only weapons they seemed to have were short knifes, more cutlery than weapons. They barely had a chance to defend themselves.

 

"The raiders," Krug grunted as he scanned the bodies. "They are gone?"

 

The surviving woman's wide eyes - red and watering from the smoke - frantically scanned Krug and the others, but as she recognized them, she slowly lowered her knife, and clutched her daughter close, who still brandished her knife in shaking hands. "Yes," the woman answered hoarsely. "M-my brother Pad and h-his son, Aggan ... th-they drove them into the woods, but they haven't returned yet."

 

When the man sagged behind the woman and her daughter managed a wheezing breath, Iblees brushed past Krug. He moved to kneel down beside the injured man, before the young girl flashed forward, lunging at him with her knife. Iblees stumbled back in surprise, right before the mother grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back and holding her to her chest.

 

"I'm going to help him," Iblees said softly to the girl, who must have been the man's daughter. That much was obvious from her defensive reaction, and the way so looked at Iblees with the irrational hatred he himself had felt when they first arrived at the farm. That was what startled Iblees about her face; she did not cry, nor even look half as afraid as her mother. No, her expression was one of hatred. Hatred not for him, but hatred for the world. Iblees reached up slowly, placing a hand on the dagger and gently lowering it. "Is that okay?"

 

With her mother stroking her hair, constantly muttering "It's okay, it's okay," the girl nodded slowly, and she let the knife clatter to the floor. "He didn't do anything wrong," she breathed, her voice barely audible even to Iblees' enhanced hearing. Iblees had not asked for it, but the girl's expression, and the hate in her eyes, was a stark reminder of why he had to turn this world into paradise. As he looked back to the wounded man, his face slick with sweat and his breathing like a shallow whistle, Iblees realized he still had a long way to go.

 

"Krug," Iblees said as he carefully peeled back the bloodied linen bandage around the man's breast. "Take the wife and daughter outside, and get them some clothes to warm up. They will freeze in this cold." He grimaced at the sight of the thin, but deep gash running across the man's diaphragm. It oozed blood, but that was not the problem; the man's lungs had been punctured. "Take the bodies outside, too, and see them buried. Then leave me alone to heal this man." The man didn't appear to be conscious, but alive - for now. With a wound like this, he will die. Iblees was quite certain of that.

 

Behind him, Iblees could practically sense Krug's discontent at taking command from him, though he acknowledged it with a curt grunt. "Do as he says," he told the other Far Ridger. Within a few moments, the mother and daughter had been shepherded outside, and the bodies were carried out.

 

Krug, however, had not moved.

 

"You are not going to help them, Chief?" Iblees asked mildly. He removed his canteen from his belt, lifted the man's bandages, and sprinkled water on the wound.

 

"Do not call me that."

 

"Oh, you must forgive me. Everyone else seems to call you that," he said innocently. "I asked to be left alone."

 

"I heard you."

 

Iblees stifled a sigh. Though he was a renowned healer - as a Daemon, he understood the mortal body better than mortals themselves - he could not sew a lung back together. Not through natural means. No, he would have to use his powers again, and he did not wish for anyone - especially Krug, of all people - to see him perform a miracle. After all, he had raised Krug and his brothers with the warning that any magical being was never to be trusted, for he feared that one day the other Aenguls and Daemons might take a selfish interest in the mortal plane after Iblees had tamed it. It would not do at all for Krug to learn that Iblees was more than the wise mortal he claimed to be.

 

No matter. I will just have to perform. He carried a number of herbs and poultices with him on his travels, for he always passed towns and villages in need of care, and so he would simply have to pretend he was using those supplies to heal the man while he would really use his powers. "Well, if you wish to stay, tell me; do you know what could have prevented this tragedy?" he asked as pulled out his pouch of Tippen's Root.

 

Krug scoffed. "You think to have this conversation again? Now?"

 

"Leadership could have prevented this," Iblees went on calmly.

 

"Silence yourself, Wizard," Krug hissed. "I have no patience for this. Not now."

 

"Not now? Has the raid soured your mood? Take a good look then, Krug. It is a consequence of your neglect." Iblees kept his voice nonchalant, as if discussing the weather. "If you had listened to me, if you had stepped up as the leader you were meant to be and helped your people prepare for these problems-"

 

"I said silence."

 

Iblees raised his voice, patiently speaking over Krug's objections. "If you had organized defenses, if you had a militia to respond and walls to defend, none of this might have happened. Do you know what your brothers do to prevent these raids in the south?"

 

"I will not be like my brothers. I-"

 

"In Horen's land," Iblees hushed him, "bands of horsemen patrol the outer territories every night and respond quickly to any threat. Malin's folk have beacon towers all across their land, and when one is lit to signal a threat the entire population knows within the hour. Then Urguan, of course, has his people build on hilltops and protect their farms with walls of stone. But then here, you just leave your people to fend for themselves."

 

"That is how-"

 

"That is how they become strong, yes, yes, I'm familiar with that prattle. Tell me something, then; those dead bodies carried out just now - is that your idea of strength, Krug? Did you see that girl's face? Is that strength? Seeing her father, her family, cut down in the night?" When Krug's only response was a sharp inhale, Iblees continued. "It is not just raids, of course. It is everything. Your brothers have food stores, unlike you. If famine strikes, they will not be wiped out. If you just listened to me -"

 

"If I listened to you?" Krug flared. The blackened floorboards creaked as he took a step forward. "Pray tell, then, Wizard. If your counsel is so wise, then why are there raids at all? If you and my brothers have cultivated such a paradise in the south, why do their people come up here raiding?"

 

Iblees paused, his fingers bloodied from pressing against the wound. "A fair point," he muttered softly. He had no answer; no matter how much he tried to teach mortals, no matter how far they had come towards building his paradise, there were still mortals who preferred to steal from others rather than provide for themselves. Then, there were other mortals who simply enjoyed cruelty and bloodshed. Iblees could not understand why the Creator had ever made people so evil.

 

Despite his inability to answer Krug - and himself, to an extent - the argument had served its purpose: he had riled Krug up enough so that he did not notice Iblees exerting his power, and  the man's wound began to miraculously close with the flesh and lung alike knit back together as if they had never been rent in the first place. Thoughout the healing, Iblees had kept his back to Krug while idly sprinkling herbs and poultices on the wounds, with Krug too agitated by Iblees' remarks to notice what was happening. Despite that, Iblees did mean every word he had said.

 

"Now then." Iblees said after he tightened the cloth back around the man's chest, his breathing returned to a slow rise-and-fall. "Get him somewhere warm, and get some water into him," he told Krug dismissively as he wiped the blood on his cloak, and strode to the door.

 

"And where are you going?" Krug asked, his eyes still brimming with disdain.

 

"The wife, she said that two others followed the bandits into the woods and hadn't returned yet. I'm going to see if they have grown strong, too," he chided, and left Krug standing alone in the smokey hut.

 

Outside, Iblees found much of the smoke had cleared to admit the golden, warmthless sun. The Far Ridgers were still spread out across the fields, looking about cautiously, and a small fire had been set in a distant pasture - well away from the burnt hut - where the wife and daughter huddled together under a cloak. Their eyes snapped up as Iblees stepped out, despite the distance, and bewildered smiles broke out on their teary faces when Iblees gave them a slow nod to confirm the man would recover. Then, he turned to the bodies of the farmers lined up on the ground just outside the hut. A Far Ridger - a woman with a proud, beak-like nose - stood overlooking them with a bleak look.

 

"Has anyone checked the woods?"

 

The woman's eyes were startled as she looked up, as if she had become lost in thought while staring at the bodies. Looking into the glazed eyes of the dead adolescent boy, Iblees decided he could not blame her. "The woods? No."

 

"Two other farmers followed the bandits there, supposedly," he said, before he sighed and started towards the pine trees. "Never mind. I shall check myself." That suited him fine. He had had enough of Far Ridgers and their stubbornness for one day.

 

A moment later, however, the grass crunched behind him as the woman jogged to catch up to him, a boar spear in her hand. "The raiders may still be there?"

 

"They may well be."

 

"Good," the woman said coolly. "I will kill them for what they have done here."

 

Something about the way the woman said that, something about the eagerness in her voice, made Iblees pause. With those piercing eyes and beak-like nose, she had the look of a proud hawk - Iblees recognized her. "Your name is Grahla, yes?" When the woman blinked in surprise and nodded, Iblees explained, "Yes, I remember you. Thirteen years ago when I came visiting, Krug held a boar hunt in my honour. You were the winner, if I recall rightly." He knew he did recall rightly; a Daemon's memory was without fault. Still, it was bittersweet to think back on a time where Krug had celebrated his visits to Far Ridge, though Iblees had never asked for that. Krug had always been slow to trust Iblees compared to his brothers, but at least back then he had still resembled the curious boy that Iblees had raised to be a king. He sighed, and resumed walking towards the trees again. The look in her eyes was too similar to Krug's.

 

"I heard you argue with Krug," Grahla said as she trailed behind him. "What you said about us needing to be like the south ... it is wrong."

 

"And why is that?" Iblees asked dismissively. "Because strength and might makes you different from the Horen, Malin and Urguan's people? You saw those bodies yourself, Grahla. You saw how they were cut down in their beds before they could even defend themselves. What strength did they lack?" He shook his head. "Survival of the fittest few is the death of the weaker many. If you think that should be the way of the world, I suggest you tell that to the farmer's daughter. See if your answer remains the same."

 

When Grahla called, "It is not that," Iblees paused and cast a look at her over his shoulder.

 

"No?"

 

Grahla steeled her gaze, staring back at him defiantly. "Because the southerners have conquered nature, they make an enemy of themselves." 

 

Despite everything, Iblees barked a laugh. "Ha! You have a sharp mind, Grahla." Seldom did Far Ridgers actually understand Krug's philosophy of uniting people against nature, against the harsh world, so that they did not devolve into fighting each other. In the south, where life was much easier than in Far Ridge, mortals often schemed against each other in pursuit of more power, wealth and influence. It was another sickening reality of mortality, a dark trait that all mortals seemed to possess to some extent, and while it was true that Krug kept his people peaceful and united up here, it was also merely hiding from the problem. With his counsel, with strong leadership and direction, Iblees knew they could build a paradise where that dark side of mortality need never rear its head. He just needed Krug to trust him. "You needn't worry about Krug and I's disagreement," he said as he continued walking. One way or another, that 'disagreement' will be settled soon. He could not afford to delay anymore.

 

Grahla remained silently following him as he stepped into the forest. Once again, he closed his eyes, and tapped into his powers to sense everything around him once more. An overflow of life assailed his Daemonic senses, but he had little difficulty detecting mortal lifeforms just a little further into the trees. There were not many, which Iblees meant hoped meant it was just the other farmers and not the raiders. As he relinquished his enhanced senses, he did not make the mistake of moving this time, and instead let him readjust to the rudimentary senses of his mortal body.

 

"You call Krug by his name." He had to wait a few moments before he regained his balance, and he supposed Grahla made for interesting conversation.

 

"He does not like it when he is called Chief."

 

"He told you that?"

 

"No," Grahla said pensively, no doubt wondering why Iblees was just standing there. "But I can tell from his face when people say it."

 

"A sharp girl indeed." He was relieved when he kept his balance after taking a step forward, though his body still felt sluggish, and he started towards where he had sensed life. He carried only a small dagger with him, but he was not afraid of running into the raiders. Iblees was only afraid of three things: the possibility of other Aenguls or Daemons interfering with his work; the risk of war between the civilizations he had so carefully nurtured; and, lastly, what he would have to do if he could not convince Krug to listen to him.

 

As the pair of them waded through the foliage, with the sunlight breaching the canopy to cast bright gold fractures through the forest's deep shadows, it was not long before Iblees heard the sound of metal ringing against metal. He took off running and, mere moments later, pushed out into a small clearing of pine trees to find one of the farmers - shirtless, and wearing unlaced boots - brandishing a wood-axe, facing a shorter male whose lean form was offset by bundles of fur. One of Malin's people, Iblees realized instantly from narrow face under the man's wolfskin cowl. The raider gripped a wood shield and an axe of his own, but he had barely looked up towards Iblees in surprise when Grahla surged forward and skewered his torso with her spear.

 

Spitting up blood, the raider was pinned to the tree behind him by Grahla's impale. Her face twisted with rage, Grahla pulled out her blood-soaked spear and thrust it into the raider again several times before Iblees pulled her back. "It is done," he told her firmly. "Do not take pleasure from it." She swivelled her hateful gaze between Iblees and the raider, and he breathed a silent breath of relief when she nodded begrudingly and stepped back, though not without spitting on the raider first.

 

"Are you hurt?" Iblees asked the Far Ridger who had been fighting him. He did not seem to be injured, but the fellow was sweating all over, and heaving deep breaths from exhaustion.

 

"No," he panted. "He - he was too slow to strike me. Thank you for the aid, Wizard."

 

Iblees' eyes drifted back to the wounded raider as blood pumped from his wounds. "Your kin on the farm," he said to the Far Ridger. "She said two of you followed the raiders here. Where is the other?"

 

"We did not mean to fight them, merely see where they were going to hide," the man said as he leaned on his knees to catch his breath. "My son Aggan, I told him to run when this craven lagged behind and spotted us."

 

"Aggan has not returned to the farm yet," Grahla muttered concernedly.

 

"He cannot have gone far - you two go and look for him," Iblees said, though he did not not take his eyes off the wheezing raider, who glared back up at him. "I have some questions for this one."

 

Murmuring their agreement, the two Far Ridgers made their way off through the trees. Iblees remained standing there silently for a few moments, and then briefly tapped into his powers again to confirm that Grahla and the man had moved far off. He could sense a third mortal somewhere out there in the woods, which must have been Aggan. Releasing the sensation again, Iblees crouched down beside the raider. "You are from Malin's land?"

 

The raider gave no answer, though it was clear he could understand Iblees despite his wounds.

 

"Why did you come here?" Iblees pressed. "A bad harvest? Did you think you would find easy pickings? Or do you simply enjoy killing?"

 

This time, the raider did answer: he spat a glob of blood on Iblees.

 

Iblees simply let the blood roll down his cheek. "If you tell me why you came here and where I can find your friends, I will make your death quick and painless." Iblees could use his powers to heal the raider, but he had no intention of doing so. Mortals like you have no place in my paradise.

 

"Wh ... what does it matter?" the raider managed through clenched teeth. "I will die ... all the same ..."

 

"And as you die, remain unrepentant?" Iblees stood, looking down on the raider. "You should know that there are fates worse than death."

 

Then, Iblees let his Daemonic power flood through him. His mortal flesh burned and blackened, unable to withstand such energy, and his veins glowed like fire. He grew taller, his limbs elongating as his flesh burned away, and wisps of deepl black smoke began to radiate from him. A Daemon had no true form - they were simply a powerful, sentient energy - but Iblees took this one now to intimidate the raider into submission. All around him, pine needles began to burn from the heat of his power. "Last chance," he intoned in an impossibly deep voice, his breath exhaling cinders. He had hoped to frighten the raider into answering, but the gambit was more effective than he intended; the fellow's eyes shot open, and he began to shriek and push himself back against the tree.

 

His mind had snapped at the sight of Iblees' Daemonic form.

 

Sighing out more cinders, Iblees raised a hand with long, black claws, and silenced the raider's maddened shrieks with a slash across the throat. A wasted effort, he thought bitterly. So far, everything had worked against him today. He willed his form to shrink, and began to rebuild his mortal body - he had physically burnt out his mortal vessel with his little display of power, and so now he drew on the lifeforce of the trees around him, causing the pine needles and plants to wither, as he regenerated his body. When it was done, he sagged forward against the tree. He had barely used his powers at all in his centuries of living as a mortal, and now in a single morning he had used it thrice. The nausea returned in force as he resumed his mortal sensations, and he began to retch on the ground.

 

I will build paradise, he told himself as he stared down at the raider's body, his body still smouldering from residual power. I must -

 

A twig snapped behind him.

 

Iblees' whirled around to find a white-faced young boy on the other side of the clearing. Aggan. The farmer's son. Iblees' heart sank; in his occupation with the raider, he had not noticed one of the lifeforms draw closer to him. The child's eyes were wide open, shimmering with terrible realisation.

 

"Child," Iblees asked slowly, though he knew steam still trailed off from his newly-formed skin. "How much did you see?"

 

When the child took off sprinting back towards the farm, Iblees pinched his nose, and sighed deeply. Everything was going wrong today.

 

He pulled out his dagger.

 

[Axelu 3691]

this is such wonderful work! i look forward to reading more :)