Xarkly 12614 Share Posted July 6, 2021 A Lord of the Craft Short Story EVIL UNMASKED | CHAPTER V THE DAEMON & THE REX CHAPTER 5 OF 5 CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV MUSIC Spoiler Iblees regenerated his mortal form some ten miles away. The leaves and grass around him withered as he drew on their lifeforce, and as soon as his body was whole he sagged to his knees. “What have I done?” he asked himself hoarsely. Withered leaves peeled off branches overhead, and began to flutter down on Iblees. Centuries of planning had gone to ruin all because Iblees had taken his Daemonic form in front of Krug. Centuries of building, of strategizing, of secrecy … “And what do I have to show for it?” He had not even hesitated when Krug was surrounded by the marauders without weapons nor chance of survival. Not had not hesitated to save him for even a second. “Why didn’t I just let him die?” he asked the morning sky. Iblees has come to Far Ridge to fulfill one of the last steps in his centuries of planning, and he had accepted the possibility that he might have to remove Krug to make that happen if he continued to resist Iblees. He was prepared for that - or at least, he had thought he was. As mirthless laughter wracked him, Iblees knew why he had saved Krug. Despite the cold, distrusting eyes, despite the bitterness and loneliness that had warped Krug, Iblees could not forget the curious boy he had raised and told stories to. He could not forget the boy he had once thought of as his own. It was an absurd notion. He was a Daemon, descended from the Skies, and Daemons did not have children. Creations and pets, perhaps, but never children. He had committed to living his life as a mortal so he could understand them, but until now he had never truly realized how deeply he was changed by that experience. “I’ve lived here too long,” he crooned softly through snatches of bitter laughter. He raised a hand, and cupped one of the falling leaves. “Nothing is incorruptible. Not even Daemons.” He let the leaf slip through his fingers, and for a moment, he only glared at the sky. “Did you make anything that was not flawed?” The Creator, of course, did not answer. It never did. Slowly, he stood, brushing the loose leaves off him and staring in the direction of where he had left Krug. No doubt Krug would already be trying to warn the Far Ridgers of what he had seen, and if he did, Iblees’ influence over the world would go up in smoke. He could not allow that to happen. That left him with two choices. He could either convince Krug that, despite what he had seen, Iblees was not a threat - on the contrary, he was trying to save the world. If Krug did not believe him, though … if he clung to stubborn distrust and hate, Iblees would have no choice but to resort to his second option. Saving Krug back there was a moment of weakness, he resolved silently. He began to walk towards Far Ridge. It will not happen again. Krug trudged through the forest alone. He was not sure how long as he sat on his knees around the burnt bodies, trying to comprehend what had happened. He had felt numb as he wrenched his axes from the marauders’ corpses, and he had begun to walk with the axes gripped loosely so that their bloodied blades nearly scraped the ground. What did I witness? He had asked himself many times over. Even after he left the bandits’ blackened corpses behind him, the image of the terror that Iblees transformed into remained burned in his mind. He could not unsee those fiery eyes, and the fear still writhed inside him like insects under his skin. It took all his willpower to prevent that fear from turning to panic. Was that really you, Iblees? Though Krug’s contempt for Iblees had grown over the decades, it was impossible to forget the kindly wisemen he had once been that had raised Krug and his brothers when there was no one else, when they were starving and Malin was sickly, and taught them the ways of the world. His secrets and his knowledge had moulded the world from a place of death and chaos into one resembling order and peace, and made Krug’s brothers kings in the process. But why, then? What are you, Wizard? When he came to a small clearing in which sat a blossoming cherry tree - one of the few beauties of northern Aegis - Krug slumped down at the tree’s trunk. A small stream snaked around the tree, gushing gently as newly-shed blossoms dappled both the water and earth. What are you, Wizard? A monster? The morning wind was still biting, but sweat and blood from fighting the marauders still warmed Krug more than his bearskin cloak. Horen, Malin, Urguan … you made them kings in the south, and they listen to your counsel without question. Why? And why did you want me to do the same in Far Ridge? Not for the first time, he wondered what kind of world Iblees was trying to build. It was true the Wizard had brought them many miracles, from farming to laws, but Krug felt like he was the only one who saw the dark side of what Iblees brought. Iblees had taught them to make weapons to defend themselves, but mortals took those weapons to kill and rob; when the inception of new farming and mining techniques brought more resources, others thought it easier to steal rather than create their own; Iblees guidance had also brought greed, malice, and hate. A monster … a monster has been guiding us all this time. With that thought, his fear began to fade, and cold anger settled in its place. “Whatever you are, you will give me answers,” he swore quietly. Before he could do anything, before he could condemn what he had seen, he had to know - he needed answers, and he needed them from Iblees. Sat beneath the blossoming cherry tree, he laid his axes on his lap and began to wipe the blood off them with the edge of his cloak. You will come, Wizard. I know it. If anything I know about you is true, you will come. He was not sure how long he sat there, cleaning his axes in the pale morning light, before he heard the thump of half a dozen footsteps pushing through the trees. They were not the gentle footfalls of Iblees. “Krug!” came Grahla’s voice, but he barely noticed. He only cocked his head to see Grahla and the other Far Ridgers from the farm pushing through the trees towards him, spears clutched and bows nocked. On any other day, he might have cringed when some of them sighed in relief. “We found the bodies to the east,” Grahla explained as she jogged ahead to him. Behind her, the other Far Ridgers eyed the clearing uncertainly as if expecting enemies. “Had you killed them? They were diced into bloody chunks, or burnt to a crisp. No less than they deserved, but … where is the Wizard -” she cut off when Krug looked up at her, and she recoiled as if she saw something in his eyes. “... What has happened, Krug? What are you doing?” Krug did not know what it was she saw, and nor did he care. He floated in an icy calm, and he slowly resumed his polishing. “I am waiting.” No weakness. Not this time. As Iblees walked through the woods, he knew that he needed to convince Krug to remain as his ally, or he would need to kill him. If it came to that, another moment of weakness would ruin everything. I have too far, and built too much. No weakness. He was dimly aware of mortal lifeforms in the distance, though he could not tell if it was Krug or not, but it could be no one else, and so he drifted towards them. It felt like only mere moments before he heard a distant yell -- Grahla’s voice, he thought, and calling for Krug. He may have already told them. That would complicate matters, but Iblees would see his mission through regardless. If Grahla and the others must die too, then so be it. He had already killed a young boy earlier that morning to protect his identity, and so he would stop at nothing now. So long as he kept what Krug had seen contained to a small group, the rest of Far Ridge could be spared. The calculating thoughts rang out in his head like a cold void, absent any mortal emotions to hinder his judgment. Then, far sooner that he had hoped, he stepped out into a small clearing and found himself facing the Far Ridgers. Some twenty paces away, Krug sat atop a mossy rock beneath a blossoming cherry tree ringed by a stream. His axes were laid across his lap, his bearskin cloak stained with blood, and his eyes had a shot, haggard look that made even Iblees falter. The Far Ridgers from the farm stood around him with weapons cautiously gripped, their hard faces a painting of tension. As soon as they heard Iblees’ boots crunch on the foliage, their eyes snapped to him. No stark terror, he noted. Krug has not told them yet, then. “Wizard! We were -” one of the Far Ridgers began, but he cut off with a gesture from Krug as he stood. He had wiped the surface blood from his axes, but they still had a red stain that gave them an eerie crimson sheen in the morning light. Iblees calmly stared into Krug’s eyes. They had a haunted cast, now, and looked both shot and relaxed at the same time. The other Far Ridgers exchanged uneasy looks, and shifted under the oppressive tension. They could tell that something had happened, that something was wrong, but they did not know what. The wind gusted, a soft, chilling breeze, and sent loose cherry blossoms spiraling through the air around them. So. You did come. That much told Krug that despite the monster he had seen Iblees become, it was still the Iblees he knew. Iblees was, at his core, diplomatic, reasoning, and logical; he would not let what Krug had seen go unanswered. He would come to explain himself before Krug could react. Before he could think of what to do or say - he had no plan, really - Iblees shifted a hand. Suddenly, the loose blossoms in the wind froze in place. Grahla’s hair went completely still, as if suspended in wax, and her frowning face was fixed in place. Neither she nor the other Far Ridgers twitched a muscle. The trees that had stirred in the wind just a second ago now moved no more than if carved from stone. “What have you done?” Krug demanded, and his voice echoed as if in a cavern. “They are not harmed.” Iblees spoke in his usual mild voice, but there was something … different about it. Something colder. “I thought it best we talk in private.” Krug inhaled sharply, and the air felt thin and stale. Once more, he looked at the frozen leaves, the unmoving Far Ridgers, the motionless trees. Time has stopped, he realized with a start. “How can you do this? What are you?!” “Before I answer, Krug, know why I answer them.” His voice echoed in the still air for a moment, and then his eyes tightened. “I am not your enemy. I never have been.” Krug clenched his axes. “What are you?” “I am a Daemon,” he answered placidly. “ … Are there others like you?” “There are. There are many Daemons, and also many Aenguls.” His lips twitched into a distasteful frown. “But they are far away in the Skies. I am the only one in this world.” A thousand questions churned in Krug’s head. Daemons … the Skies … this world? If he had not seen what Iblees had become earlier, he would have thought the Wizard had gone mad. He was already beginning to feel lightheaded as he breathed in that thin air, and tried to rein in his thoughts. His priority was to determine whether this thing was a threat. “Why are you here?” “I am here to help, Krug. This is the simple truth.” “Help? Why?” Iblees was silent for a moment as he reached out and idly plucked at one of the blossoms suspended in the air. As it moved under his fingers, flames suddenly erupted on its edges, but the tongues of fire moved no more than the trees around it. “When this world was created, there was no purpose nor order to it. No mortals knew how to survive, how to love, or how to live at all. Your kind wandered across the world as nomads, foraging for scraps of food, dying in droves to starvation, disease, monsters, the elements …” The Wizard took a step forward, and where his body brushed aside frozen blossoms, they erupted in unmoving flames. “My brethren in the Skies were content to watch you all struggle and die. More than that, some relished on the souls that poured from this plane. I, however, was not content. This world needed a guide, someone to teach it, someone to save it, and so …” he trailed off, and smiled weakly. “And so here I am.” Save the world? Krug’s mouth worked wordlessly, and his head began to ache as he tried to comprehend what the Wizard - no, the Daemon - was saying. Thousands of questions roiled in his head, but he could not pick one to ask, and Iblees calmly spoke on after a moment. “My mission, Krug, was to save you all. Instead of this hellscape of pointless suffering and death, I sought to build a paradise where mortals would be masters of their own fate, and where violence and death would be eradicated. There is a great deal to be done, but I have come a long way.” He pauses, eyes studying Krug. “We have come a long way.” “My …” Krug’s mouth was dry. “My brothers and I …” “You and your brothers were tools for that end. Like I said, mortalkind must be the masters of their own fate .. or at least think they are. They could not be beholden to me, so I raised you and your brothers to be kings. I taught you the wonders of this world to be dispensed to your people, and through you, Malin, Krug, and Urguan, I would quietly guide us to paradise.” “Tools?” Krug balked. “You would use us like puppets on a string?” He suddenly felt childish at the notion of feeling betrayed that the affection Iblees had once shown them was for an ulterior cause. “No, Krug, I would teach you as I always have. You would learn until a time where we reached paradise, and I was no longer needed in this world. Perhaps if you were not so intent on seeing the dark in others, you would understand that!” The dark in others… Krug’s eyes trailed down to his reddened axes. That much was true, and these past years, he had come to see it in himself more than anything. Not just me, though. A thought had struck him, and he turned a level stare back on Iblees. “That boy on the farm …. Did you kill him?” Spoiler Iblees had not expected the question, and he hesitated. If he suspects I’m lying .... no, it’s too late. That second of hesitation had already given Krug his answer. There was no point to deception anymore. “I did. Through my own mistakes, I was left with no choice.” “Your own mistakes,” Krug echoed coldly. “And for that, you killed him? A boy?” Iblees’ void of calmness trembled for a moment, but he tamed it to stillness. “I did not relish in it, but nor do I regret it. Nor am I the only one with blood on my hands, Chief of Far Ridge. If you had acted like the king I raised you to be, you would lead your people so that you could defend against raids such as that which happened last night. Walls, beacons, patrols - anything rather than leaving your people to fend for themselves because of your outdated ideals of how mortals should live!” Krug’s nostrils flared as Iblees struck a nerve. “You equate that to the open murder of a child?” “They are both products of our mistakes. Much like their death came from your error to lead, I erred in letting the boy see my other form. Had he lived to tell what he saw, my plan for paradise would have been jeopardized.” “As it is now.” It was not a question, but Iblees nodded. “As it is now.” “So.” Krug’s voice had gone as soft as silk, but his expression was anything but. “Have you come to deliver unto me the same fate as that boy? For paradise?” “... Perhaps. The boy was expendable, and too young to reason with. But you are different.” “Pah. You will try to bargain with my life?” Ibees’ gaze shifted to the faces of Grahla and the other Far Ridgers frozen beneath the cherry tree. “Not just yours.” Krug’s grim determination slipped for a minute. “What is it you want, then, Daemon?” “I have already told you: a paradise on this plane. I can do it without you, Krug, but I do not wish to. And so, you must keep what you have seen and heard here a secret to your grave, and you must accept the mantle of king and lead the people of Far Ridge. You will listen to my counsel, and then together we will achieve paradise.” Iblees’ met Krug’s eyes, and extended a hand between the floating blossoms. “Will you do that, Krug? Will you join me in building paradise?” Krug’s axe blurred, and the flat side swatted Iblees’ extended hand away with a jolt of pain. “You killed an innocent boy,” Krug said quietly, “and I cannot fathom how many others had to die for your paradise. You may have taught us order, how to farm, how to live, but your paradise has also brought greed, malice, and evil.” “These were traits mortalkind always possessed, Krug,” Iblees retorted harshly, and ignored the throb of pain in his hand. “Perhaps, but you gave these traits fertile ground and now mortals fight each other as much as they do the world around them.” He closed his eyes, and took a breath as if to brace himself. “Not in Far Ridge, Daemon. Not here. I will not call myself King only for those beneath me to scheme for my power and plot against each other. They will not bow to me as if I am greater than them, and expect me to tell them what to do. The murder of a boy is damning enough without all of that, and were you anyone else I would carve you up … but I suspect if I did kill you, the southern kingdoms of my brothers would collapse into chaos, and I cannot deny you have done this world some good.” He raised his axe, pointing through the woods. “So leave, Iblees, Daemon, Wizard - whatever you are. Leave Far Ridge, and do not return. That is what I want!” Anger bubbled through Iblees’ void of calm. After all I have done for you … after all I have done for everyone … “Kill me?!” he barked. “You overstep yourself, Chief of Far Ridge.” “That is a title I will never take in truth. We are done here.” “Not quite, Krug.” The void inside Iblees went still again, like a lake frozen over. He raised a hand, and he thought back to the spot he had slaughtered the bandits. There came a shrill whistle of metal in the air, and Iblees raised a hand as the sword of one of the bandits snapped into his palm. His mission was to build paradise for all mortals, and it would not do for Far Ridge to be removed from his influence under the rebellious Krug. The chipped metal of the sword shone as he spun the blade in his hand. “Not quite yet.” Krug only allowed himself a moment to stare in disbelief before he raised his axes. He had seen what Iblees had done to the marauders as a Daemon - he had burnt them, incinerated them, and gored them into minced pieces. Krug did not expect to live against that. He felt as he did when he had hunted the bandits earlier that morning - something which felt like a lifetime - and he did not fear death. The world, he knew, had nothing, or no one, left for him anymore. In a way, he felt all the more confident of that knowing it was Iblees who would kill him. “Go on, then,” he hissed. “Turn into your true form.” Iblees’ expression did not change as he brandished the sword. “I cannot hold time still forever, and I do not wish to kill Grahla and the others if it can be avoided. Besides,” his body shifted into a fighting stance, “I do not need another form to kill you, Krug.” Krug’s heart thumped slowly. He felt more at peace than he had in years. “Just tell me this. If any of what you said is true … why? If none of your other kind would help us, why would you?” A flash of contemplation marred Iblees’ otherwise still face. “It is as I said; someone had to. I am not sure why I felt the need more than any of my kin, but … but I do not regret it. Least of all …” the light shimmered on the chipped edge of the sword as he raised it, “... the time we spent before we parted ways will always be dear to me.” The curtain of cherry blossoms stirred, and the wind pricked Krug’s skin as time resumed once more. The Far Ridgers gasped as Krug threw himself at Iblees, his axes descending in deadly sweeps. With a shrill note of metal, they clashed. The first axe bounced off Iblees’ blade, and the second his hilt. He was not a warrior - they would have no place in paradise - and this mortal body was not a fighting one. He was a Daemon, though, and he understood physics, gravity, and anatomy. With barely a thought, he could calculate where Krug’s axe would fall by the arc of his arm, and knew where to swing to parry. At least only Krug needs to die. He could see the other Far Ridgers back by the cherry tree, watching in shocked disbelief as Iblees and Krug danced back and forth beneath the falling blossoms. Krug’s face was twisted in determined anger as Iblees’ sword, chipped and blunted, moved exactly where it needed to, and each blow of Krugs’ axes clattered aside. I will convince them he has gone mad, Iblees told himself as he stepped back, boots splashing in the stream. He looks it, and they know his disdain for me. They will believe it. He ducked, and strands of his hair were shaved off by a hissing swing of an axe. All I need to do is finish Krug, here and now. He pressed off the bank, and surged forward into the offensive. He parried Krug’s guarding axe in an arc of iron, and twisted the sword deftly, slashing for Krug’s bare heart … and left a long, bloodied line across Krug’s upper chest as the Chief jumped back to the trunk of the tree at just the last moment. Iblees frowned, his eyes shifting from the wound to the thin glazing of blood on his sword. Too shallow. He is quick. He flicked the blood off his sword. No matter. He submerged himself in a void of calmness, and advanced again. “Stop! What is this madness?!” It was only as he felt the fiery sting of Iblees’ cut on his chest did Krug notice the protests of the Far Ridgers watching in shock. They did not interfere, though; they would not know how to interfere in a sudden duel between the fabled Wizard and the one they called Chief. Krug glanced down at the blood oozing down his chest. If I had been a split second later, I would be dead. The slash had cut through the knot of his cloak, and he ripped the sagging bearskin off right as Iblees launched himself at him. The Wizard was not strong nor fast, but his blows were so precise. Krug was forced on the defensive, constantly stepping back and batting away the sword’s vicious snap so that his fingers were not sliced off or it did not snake its way through his guard. I could cry out, he thought as the sword scraped off an axehead. I could warn Grahla and the others. I could tell them what Iblees is. Even as he thought the words, though, he felt no desire to speak them. Maybe Iblees is right, he realized as a swing from the Daemon sliced an inch off the haft of an axe. Maybe he can lead us to a paradise better than I ever could. Krug did not know, and he doubted he ever would. He did know if he was right to fight Iblees, and he did not know if it was right to let himself be killed. Let this decide it, then. Ignoring shouts of the Far Ridgers and the pain in his chest, he and Iblees exchanged deadly iron blurs. He managed to work the sword into the hook of an axe, and twisted, ensnaring it to leave Iblees’ exposed. Knowing he could not bring down the second axe in time, he slammed a kick into the Daemon’s chest and sent him hurtling back. Instead of charging, he pictured the tree by the riverbank in Far Ridge, and he hurled an axe. The metallic clang rang in Iblees’ ears as he sliced the axe out of the air. This sword won’t last much longer. He grimaced as he straightened, eyeing the cracks and chips streaking the blade’s length. Krug leapt over the stream with his remaining axe clasped in both hands, and swung with the fury of a bear. Iblees brought his sword in an upwards arc, slamming Krug’s axe into a clinch. I have you now. With a sharp clang, he drilled the axe aside as Krug’s strength gave out and Iblees drew the sword back in preparation of a clean, killing thrust. Spoiler This is it, then. Krug watched his own blood gleam on the sword as Iblees shifted, preparing to skewer him. It was a good a life as any, I suppose. He was almost surprised by the lack of fear. It is time to go. There was nothing left. Since he had parted ways with his brothers and Iblees many decades ago, he had come to see the truth of the world, and it had twisted him. A part of him felt like he had not been happy since he had been together with his brothers and Iblees, as a boy. “Farewell, Iblees.” As Krug spoke, Iblees’ void of calm quivered. Despite the void, despite his detachment, his plans, his resolve, despite everything, he hesitated. In that moment of hesitation, Krug’s legs shifted, coiling around Iblees to send him crashing to the ground. Before Iblees even hit the ground, Krug’s axe smashed into his neck. Hot blood spurted from his chest as he struck the blossom-strewn ground, and breath instantly abandoned him. He was only vaguely aware of the shadowy shape of Krug standing overhead as red filled his vision. Instantly, his mortal body began to die. Why? He asked himself as he had earlier that day. Why? Again? Why did I hesitate? And just as it was earlier, the answer remained the same. The void of calm held, even as his mortal form laboured for breath that would not come and his ruined neck fountained blood. Maybe … maybe I should just die here. Maybe that is better. He could feel the axe still wedged in his neck, and it felt like ice in contrast with the gushing blood. I have done a good deal for this world already. I have guided it towards paradise. Perhaps … Perhaps that is enough. I can only hope it is. But what if it is not? What if Horen, Malin, and Urguan fall to ruin without my guidance? What if we never reach paradise? Everything, all these centuries of work, abandoning the Skies … … It would all have been for nothing. Is it enough? Krug stumbled back into the tree. His body ached, oozing blood from a dozen cuts, and his chest burned as if on fire from the deep gash Iblees’ blood had cut, but he looked unharmed compared to Iblees’ gored throat. The Wizard’s blood clogged the stream and soaked the ground, and with one last wheeze, he went still. He - … he’s dead? He was not sure if he could believe it. The Wizard, the one who had saved Krug and his brothers and raised them, the father-figure who once seemed like he had the answer to everything … No, not a Wizard. A Daemon. With that thought, he banished the sadness that suddenly welled up inside him. “Krug,” Grahla breathed beside him. The Far Ridgers were statuesque, their eyes on Iblees’ body. “What have you done?” What have I done? The Far Ridgers looked at him as if he were the monster. “Iblees -” that was all Krug got out of his mouth before Iblees’ corpse exploded. No. Iblees let his power course through him. The flesh of his mortal body - dead, now - burnt into ash as he enwreathed himself in white-black fire that swept away the ash of his body as he formed a new one. I built this world. I abandoned the Skies and devoted everything to build this world. I will not give up on it now. The black-white fired solidified into shimmering white flesh with flickering black edges, and Iblees straightened up. In his form, he could feel everything; the life of the trees and grass, each blossom peeling away from the cherry tree, and the heartbeats of the terrified Far Ridgers as they beheld him. I built this world, Krug. And I will not leave it. An infernal heat washed over Krug as he fell back. A ferocious gale had whipped up in the clearing, sweeping up blossoms, dirt, and blood in its wake like a hurricane, and in the centre of the torrent stood Iblees. Not the Wizard, but the Daemon. Now, he stood nearly twenty spans tall with a skin of the truest shade of white, so bright it hurt Krug’s eyes to look at, and that skin looked as if it were metal rather than flesh. A white cloth of the same metallic white wound from his loins to cowl a face that only had the outlines of eyes, a nose, and mouth, and as he straightened up, wings of black flame stretched out to either side from his back. Backed against the cherry tree, Krug could hardly breathe as the wind seared him. What he beheld now - a brilliant, deific terror - petrified him far more than even the prior form Iblees had taken, like a wrathful god, and this time Krug knew Iblees was not going to spare him. The Daemon raised a seamless hand. From pure white light, a polehammer solidified in his grasp, and Iblees swung down at Krug. With every muscle aching from the duel, Krug threw himself aside right before the polehammer split the tree with a shower of flaming splinters. When Krug looked up from where he landed on the ground, only a smoking crater remained of the tree. What have I unleashed? He was dimly aware of the Far Ridgers screaming out - one of them seemed to be on fire - but for a moment, Krug could not hear anything, not even the roar of the wind. As cinders left burns on his cheeks, he only watched the blazing white form of Iblees. The polehammer vanished, and reappeared in the Daemon’s raised hands for another swing. The polehammer swung horizontally, and it would have struck Krug had he been standing. Instead, the shaft sliced through two Far Ridgers who had not dropped in time, and separated their torsos from their legs in a spray of blood. What …? How …? Iblees, not even … you could … The broken thoughts were the only sound Krug could comprehend. You could never go this far. You could not. Each descent of his hammer brought death. Iblees knew the Far Ridgers, all their names and faces. Tavo burnt to death when the flames of the destroyed cherry tree caught him; Tisa and Eoend were dismembered by a horizontal swing; and, swiftly after, he skewered Iric with a burning impale as he tried to retreat into the woods. Iblees had shared bread with them all before. He had laughed with them, told stories to their children, and spoke of the future to them. He held onto his void of calmness as he killed them, and spared not a thought for their deaths. You chose this, Krug. If you had just trusted me, we could have built paradise. The heat of his form set the treetops around him ablaze as he searched for survivors. The polehammer dematerialised and reappeared as he shifted his grip, and then buried the weapon of pure power into Amil as he poked his head out from behind a tree. The tree, and Amil, exploded in fire. If you choose to exempt yourself from paradise, then so be it. The polehammer vanished and appeared in his hands again. Only three should be left. If I kill them, then the rest of Far Ridge can be salvaged. A spear hurled at his chest, but it bounced off with a dull clung. He turned his head to Grahla, her hair strewn in the wind as she stood near the smoking ruin of the cherry tree. She picked up another charred spear from a corpse, and threw it at him to the same effect. “DAEMON!” came Krug’s cry through the wind. “IT IS ME YOU WANT! I AM HERE!” Iblees paused, his blazing eyes shifting to Krug on the other side of the clearing. Ah, there you are. Grahla first, then you. As the hammer began to form in his hands, Krug broke into a wild charge. Iblees watched in mild surprise; Krug did not have his axes, and in any case, only another Daemon could even hope to harm Iblees in this form. Krug tackled him himself into Iblees’ left leg, and he let out a harrowing scream as the heat of Iblees’ form burned him. Krug’s bare chest twisted and charred under the supernatural heat, but he did not let go. I raised you to be a King, Iblees thought absently. Inside his void, he locked out the mortal affections, the feelings that had made him spare Krug earlier, but he was faintly aware of them. And this is a pathetic end for a King. Iblees raised the leg Krug had tackled, and effortlessly kicked him off. Krug’s blackened body launched into the woods at speed, and disappeared between the trees. He quashed the remorse that swelled inside him. Krug’s eyes flickered open. Immediately, he knew he could not be dead, because death would surely not be so painful. The cuts from the earlier duel had been cauterised by the coal-black skin of his torso. It had crusted and hardened, and streaked with crevasses of dried blood and pus. His muscles felt like they had hardened, too; he could not move, and it was all he could to draw faint, weedy breaths. He was not sure where he was. There were only a few sparse pines around him, and overhead, the sky was a thick grey with a faint red hue. It was no longer morning. How much time has passed? Where am I? Pain lanced through his arms as he tried to clench a fist. Where is Iblees?! As his senses gradually returned, he realized he was on a litter being dragged through tall grass. When he arched his head and drew another thin breath, Grahla glanced back at him, the litters ropes tense over her shoulder as she pulled. Her face was as pale as milk, and it was strained with a fear Krug had never seen before. “... I thought you would die,” she said in a voice so scarce Krug barely recognized it. Krug felt like he might die. The burns on his chest would surely never heal, and he was not sure how they had not killed him already. Infection would come, though, and that surely would. “Where ….” his voice was a husky croak. He could not manage the rest of the words. “Is that … is that really him, Krug?” Krug followed her eyes north to where the vast pine forests of Far Ridge stood - or had stood. Now, fire cloaked the horizon, spitting plumes of smoke into the sky and hazing the land Krug had called home in a thick curtain of grey. That curtain did nothing, though, to obscure Iblees’ form; he had grown taller now, at least eighty feet, and he moved sluggishly through the forest in the distance. Sluggishly, and aimlessly. Periodically, he swung his polehammer of light, slicing off swathes of treetops in a shower of flame. “Yes,” Krug breathed. “That is him, Grahla. That is Iblees.” What is the point? Screams were quickly cut off as Iblees brought down his burning hammer on a group of Far Ridgers who had vainly raised wooden shields. What is the point of any of this? After Krug had charged him, Grahla and the other Far Ridger he had yet to kill had darted into the woods. He was not sure where Grahla had gone, but the other Far Ridger had gone straight to the nearest farm and raised the alarm before Iblees had a chance to destroy him. He destroyed the farm and everyone inside it, but the smoke had brought the attention of neighbouring farms, and now chaos had spread all over Far Ridge. To kill them now was pointless. The only way to keep his identity a secret from the rest of the world was to kill every single soul in Far Ridge. Is this the point of creation? He thought dully as his polehammer sledged into the ground, forming a flaming chasm. Bodies lay strewn around him - those that had not burnt to ash - and Far Ridgers dashed between the burning trees, fleeing. To struggle aimlessly and fail? That is what this mortal world was made for, was it not? He began to spin the hammer high at the treetops. Was I wrong to try to change that? Was there ever any hope? The polehammer sheared into branches that erupted into flame and rained down fire. Why does it have to end like this? As the burning trees fell around him, he let the polehammer disappear, and this time he did not summon it anew. He let his hands drop. He could kill everyone in Far Ridge to preserve his plan, but a part of him knew he could not. With a quake, he dropped to his knees, the ground blackening around him. This morning had changed everything. No longer could he pretend to be a wiseman and silently guide Horen, Urguan, Malin, and especially Krug. Maybe guidance was always futile. Maybe mortals can only be led, not guided. He stared at his blinding white hands. Maybe the only way is to act as their god. As the world burnt around him, Iblees let his form vanish. His bright flesh burnt up, turning to ash and was blown away in the searing wind as he regenerated his mortal body, slumped down in the charred dirt. Everything had changed, and Iblees knew he would have to act on it. He knew would have to act. For now, though, he just sat in the dirt. He sat in the dirt, and he wept. “We - we have to go back!” Krug strangled the words through his burnt throat as he watched Iblees’ titanic form sink to the ground. A brief glimmer of hope made him wonder if someone had managed to fell the Daemon, but that seemed unlikely. He had seen Grahla’s spear bounce off his metallic flesh. His demand seemed to instil some of Grahla’s old vigor. Though she snapped at him, her anger was comforting compared to her fear. “Go back!? We will die!” “There are others back there!” Krug growled back. “I am not - …” the words died in his mouth. He was going to say that he was not afraid to die. He had not been afraid when facing the bandits, when he duelled Iblees, nor at any other time in his life. But now … As he watched Far Ridge - the only place he had ever called home, even if it had been a lonely place - burn, as he heard screams distantly permeate through the air, and as pain stung him from every angle with each breath, he knew he was. He could not die yet. He could not die before this was avenged. “Yes … you are right … we cannot go back …” Grahla nodded slowly, mild surprise marring her blend of deep worry and fear. She began to pull the litter again, leaving Krug to watch the forests of Far Ridge burn. “I am glad you agree,” she said softly. “... but I do not know where we should go.” Krug knew. “We will go south … to my brothers.” He would tell them everything -- he would tell them the truth of Iblees, the truth of this world. “And then … together … we shall make him pay.” "... When Iblees tempted the Four Brothers, Krug did not trust the Daemon as easily as his Brothers did and was not swayed as they were. After Iblees could not offer wealth, food, or power to pacify Krug, Iblees transformed into a vision of terror. During the long battle against the fallen Daemon, Krug raced at him, and his skin was burned and molten by the flames of Iblees, and the world was forever changed." - The Wandering Wizard 14 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Zacho 1737 Share Posted July 7, 2021 holy ******* **** what a story, this is insane. Then the end part just wraps it all up jfc xarkly my applause. 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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