Demonkin

by T. Eric Bakutis

  The corpse left behind turned gray, then black, then burst apart, crumbling into so much bone and ash. It was the most terrifying death Trell had ever witnessed. He had witnessed so many deaths today.

  “Trell.” Abaddon broke the silence. “I do not devour souls.”

  Trell ignored its useless words. It was not just the horror of seeing a village of men, women, and children hacked apart. It was knowing that this had happened in dozens of other places to thousands of other people.

  This slaughter had happened in Carn. His wife had been slaughtered just like this and Trell wondered if she cowered, or wept, or fought. He imagined she had fought.

  “It's a trick,” Abaddon said.

  “A trick?” That got Trell's attention.

  “We designed it to terrify you.” Abaddon's yellow eyes stared at Trell from the void inside its helmet. “The Five made your world and set its rules. We cannot truly devour any soul here. Such power cannot be destroyed.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you appear broken, and I need you not to be.” The demon chuckled. “The people I 'ate' are simply dead. The trail is a glamour. Their true souls are beyond now, standing before Order and Ruin. Your people’s superstitions are comical.”

  “You torture people in the Underside,” Trell said.

  “We torture souls,” Abaddon said, “and that is different from destroying them. Paymon, my master, is only satisfied with total subjugation. Any subject who demonstrates free will is brought before the paingivers.”

  Trell picked up the hand of a dead woman. Abaddon's lightning sword had seared it clean off. It seemed like the hand of an oversized doll, so clean was the separation.

  “Torture damages the mind,” Abaddon continued, “and that can be destroyed. To Paymon each soul is a coin, a measure of his worth against the dozens who compete for influence. There is no need for coins to think.”

  “Why did you make me watch you kill everyone?” Trell put down the woman's hand.

  “I wanted my duel. I now know I will never have it. If I have broken your mind in my many attempts, I do regret that.”

  “You don't regret.” Trell trembled with useless rage. “You don't understand the word.”

  “A fair point. But I would offer you the opportunity to understand us.”

  “Why?”

  “I seek dialogue. The Mavoureen are not a people given to long conversations. Paymon and Hecata, his demon queen, created us for tasks. Most of those tasks involve killing, torturing, or cleaning.”

  “Cleaning?”

  “It gets messy. All that blood.”

  Trell rested his head in his hands. It felt like his skull would split right open. He needed Abaddon to stop talking.

  “I was created for leading others in battle,” Abaddon said. “I alone was made to understand strategy, to think and reason beyond simple goals. That required intelligence and cunning far beyond the average Mavoureen.”

  “And what,” Trell said, “is the average Mavoureen?”

  “A soldier that never questions, never really thinks for itself. I’m different. Hecata formed what drives me from souls ripped from dozens of generals and warriors we took from worlds like yours. We took each world in glorious battle, and we now protect their people from the Alcedi.”

  “So that's what you do? Conquer worlds? Enslave souls?” Trell grew curious despite his disgust. Abaddon might reveal things even Kara did not know. He wished he could put his arms around her right now.

  “We gather souls for Paymon,” Abaddon said. “Souls are difficult to create, impossible to destroy, and coveted by many deities, including your own precious Five. Your world is one of hundreds accessible through the Underside. A rather small prize.”

  “You want me to believe you made our souls?”

  “We did not. The Five made you and this world, as they made dozens of others. The Five are equal to Paymon in all respects, though my master would not admit that. Hecata might, but she has a perspective our demon king has lost. Paymon has grown obsessed.”

  “With what?”

  “His souls, his coins, and his reputation.” Abaddon turned its empty skull helm to the sky. “When you are immortal, Trell ... when you are a god ... it becomes difficult to measure yourself against deities within your sphere of influence. Souls controlled are one measurement. It is Paymon's favorite measurement.”

  Trell wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that revelation. “This slaughter, all these invasions ... it's nothing more than a dick-measuring contest?”

  “Yes!” Abaddon thumped its armored thigh. “That is it exactly! Once, millennia ago, our war against the Alcedi was a just one. Their method of subjugation is far worse than Paymon's.”

  “How so?”

  “They wipe your minds and turn you into pretty dolls. You want us instead of them.”

  “You torture us,” Trell reminded him.

  “Torture is reserved for those who displease Paymon and souls new to the Underside.” Abaddon shook its skull helm. “Really, Trell, can you imagine the number of Mavoureen it would take to torture every person in your world? We'd never have time to do anything else. Unlike the Alcedi, we let you keep your minds.”

  “You keep saying Alcedi.” Trell huffed. “They really exist?”

  “Of course they exist. I thought it would take years to get that through your thick head.”

  Trell almost smiled, almost, before he remembered all the people Abaddon had slaughtered today. He hated this demon for making him hate it just a little less. A merciless demonic weapon should not laugh. It should not make jokes or voice opinions.

  “In the realm of influence that touches your world,” Abaddon said, “the tiny portion of the Underside that overlaps with your insignificant speck, the Alcedi and the Mavoureen compete with the Five for dominance.”

  “The Five are no different?” Trell could almost believe that, given his experience as Life's Champion.

  “I honestly don't know. I've never spoken with any of them, only their champions. They do protect you when they can. If you want to think they do it because they care for their creations and not because you are a measure of their power, I recommend you do so.”

  Trell wondered if this is what it felt like to go mad.

  “Anyhow,” Abaddon rumbled, “I'm done killing humans. Since I will not have my duel, I have no choice but to complete my task.”

  “Your task?”

  “I must take you to the Underside. Paymon has requested an audience.”

  Trell stood with great effort. “I'm to be tortured, then?”

  “I'm afraid so.” Abaddon stood as well. “I don't give the orders.” It slammed down its faceplate, fixing him with its grinning metal skull. “Our next stop is Pale Lake, in the province you call Rain.”

  Trell groaned. “That's leagues from here.”

  “It is a long walk. If you're very lucky, your sickness will kill you before we reach it.” Abaddon's big shoulders shrugged. “We will walk slow.”

  That simple mercy baffled Trell. Abaddon was offering him a way out. Was this demon truly a mixture of generals from a dozen worlds, mashed together to lead an army of Mavoureen? It did not seem to regard murder as a crime. It saw killing humans as sending them to a better world.

  How simple would warfare be if slaughtering those who stood against you simply sent them to a “better world”? Trell could never accept that. Death — at least all death not instantly inflicted by lightning — was painful and drawn out and terrifying.

  Yet Abaddon was a demonic construct, not a man. It had no conscience and lived by different rules. How could Trell hate a construct? He did not hate a sword, even when others used that sword to slaughter innocents. A sword was a tool. So, apparently, was a demon general.

  “What's at Pale Lake?” Trell asked.

  “The portal that brought me here.”

  “You opened another portal?”

  “A cult did. Cantrall's chosen.” />
  Trell shoulders sagged. “Our victory at Terras was not a victory at all.”

  “Oh, it was. That portal is nothing compared to Terras. Paymon can never invade your world again.”

  “What?” Trell didn't dare believe that.

  “Your great mage, Torn, locked your world away from us in a way Paymon does not fully understand. We can never bring our army here. We can never protect you.”

  “Then how are you here?”

  “I am an exception.” Abaddon paused, perhaps contemplating how to explain. “Individual demons can be pushed through this new portal with enough effort, but sending one of us requires immeasurable power. It is ... how to explain it? Like squeezing a mace through a pinhole.”

  “Then why send you at all?”

  “I'm here,” Abaddon said, “because I failed Paymon.”

  Trell focused his eyes and mind on Abaddon. The fate of his world hinged on this conversation. “Explain.”

  “Kara ... your woman ... really pissed Paymon off.”

  Trell almost smiled. “Did she.”

  “She destroyed his Great Home, a structure he had been building and tweaking for millennia. When it burst, it released four thousand subjugated souls, destroyed eight legions of finished revenants, and ruined countless creations I have no hope of understanding.”

  Trell felt a chill that had nothing to do with the ice inside him.

  “To put it in simple terms,” Abaddon said, “Kara broke all his toys.”

  Trell’s heart thumped as each breath grew ragged in his lungs. The thought of a being as powerful as Paymon losing that much terrified him. Paymon must want to do something truly horrifying to Kara.

  “Am I to be used against her?”

  “You understand perfectly. I failed Paymon ... as did Davazet, Balazel, and Malkavet ... when we failed to invade your world. He banished us.”

  “For how long?”

  “We may return only if we bring him the souls of Kara's allies. By torturing them, by ensuring Kara knows, Paymon will take his revenge.”

  Trell thought of Sera and Byn, traveling to Terras, and Aryn, wherever he might be now. He even thought of Jyllith. All of them were in horrific danger, and none had the faintest idea. “Let me warn them.”

  “Can't.” Abaddon raised an armored palm. “Forbidden. Paymon gives me orders and I follow them, after a fashion. Your soldiers are on their own.”

  Trell sucked in a chunk of ash and coughed. He hoped he was not coughing up someone's remains. “Why not take me to Pale Lake at once?”

  “I don't particularly want to go back. I was made for warfare, but I will never lead an army again. One failure is all we are allowed.”

  “That's why you wanted your rematch,” Trell whispered. “You wanted to prove to Paymon that you could still lead.”

  “Yes.” Abaddon clattered forward. “So you see, all my hopes are shattered as well. That’s revenge, isn’t it? For your murdered family? So I will take you to Pale Lake. Keep you separated from the others.”

  “Would you turn against Paymon if you had the opportunity?” It was a dangerous question to ask, but Trell was dead either way.

  “That would be interesting.” Abaddon's helmet tilted toward the sky. “Mavoureen legion facing Mavoureen legion. I've never planned for such a battle. It would be quite different from anything I've led before.”

  The demon almost sounded excited by the idea. Trell waited, daring to hope. Had he made an ally?

  “Sadly,” Abaddon said, “it can never be. I have only one directive that I must never violate. I may never attack another Mavoureen, no matter how annoying they might be.”

  Naturally. Paymon would never be so foolish as to make a weapon that could be used against him. Trell sagged and looked once more around the burning village. Pieces of its slaughtered people lay everywhere.

  “Do you orders prevent you from giving these people a proper burial?”

  Abaddon considered. “No.”

  “Will you?”

  “If it makes you cooperate. My orders were to do whatever is necessary to bring you to the Pale Lake portal, alive.”

  “This is necessary. It will make me cooperate.” Trell wondered if he could even lift a shovel.

  “Then sit down and supervise.” Abaddon laughed once more inside its metal helmet. “Sitting and supervising is what Paymon does best.”

  Trell hurt too much to argue. He thumped down amidst the corpses. He marveled as Abaddon set to digging graves with its armored hands. He watched it for a very long time as it never slowed, never tired.

  The sun set by the time all the graves were dug. Abaddon filled open graves with body parts, mixing and matching with surprising speed. At some point Trell slept, and he woke to a chilly morning. The fires were out and only smoke remained. Beyond the ruined palisades were almost five-hundred shallow piles of dirt, arranged in neat lines.

  Upright stone chips sprouted from each grave, each slightly different from the others. They were simple markers, placed without names, but each had a chilling artistry to it. Abaddon had made each marker, leaving each slaughtered villager a unique memorial stone.

  The Mavoureen general waited in silence, looking over a field of fresh graves. Trell's bones felt frozen but he managed to stand up. Each movement brought icy pain.

  The Mavoureen general glanced at him. “Are you satisfied?” There was no malice or worry in Abaddon’s question. It simply wanted to know.

  “Yes.” Trell's words surprised him. “Thank you.” That surprised him even more.

  “Excellent.” Abaddon brushed its armored palms together, shedding fresh dirt. “Shall we set out?”

  “Why not?” Trell pushed back his growing sympathy for this demon. It might seem that he had tamed it, ended its bloodlust, but Trell knew better than that. For all he knew its entire speech from the previous day was nothing but a ploy to gain his trust.

  He had to warn the others. He had to get away, but how to do that without unleashing Abaddon on another village? For now, Trell decided, he would walk with the demon and think. Thinking was all he could do with this sickness devouring his muscle and bone.

  “Shall I carry you?” Abaddon asked as they set off. “I will walk slow.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow.” Trell felt moving was the only thing slowing the ice inside him. “I want to feel the earth beneath my feet.”

  “Acceptable,” Abaddon said. “We head south.”

  Trell opened the map in his mind. That would take them through Highridge Pass and eventually to the Unsettled Lands. The direction Byn and Sera had headed. He hoped Abaddon would never find them.

  Trell started walking.

  Chapter 12

  A KICK WOKE ARYN FROM DREAMS of home. He almost looked up, but remembered not to at the last moment. He could not reveal his face until he knew who had kicked him. When he rose, he knew it was not Tania.

  “Hey,” a hard voice said. “Get lost, beggar.”

  Aryn struggled to take the dream world, to draw form from the darkness. He finally did and found a tall, narrow shape standing over him.

  “Pardon?” It was the only thing he could think to say.

  “I said,” and the man grabbed him by his cloak, “get lost, you lazy pile of dung.” The man shoved him.

  Aryn stumbled and kept his feet, catching the wall of the tavern with one hand. It was only when he spun on the man with teeth bared that he realized he had let his abuser see under his hood. Had he given himself away?

  Fortunately, the man did not scream in terror or shout the word “demon”. Perhaps he hadn't gotten a good look. Aryn brushed himself off and looked to the ground. “I'm no beggar.”

  “You are what I say you are, beggar.” The man spread his arms. “Do you fancy a beating, too?” He cracked his knuckles. “Give me an excuse.”

  The disrespect this cretin showed was preposterous, and who did he think he was, anyway? One dirty, ignorant peasant accosting his better in the middle of a muddy street. O
ne strike from Aryn's staff would put him down.

  Aryn could imagine it now, imagine this man broken and bleeding in the muddy street. Instead, he bowed his head and walked away without another word. Hard laughter followed and Aryn's shoulders tensed.

  “That's right, gutter trash! Run to your mother! Maybe that rutting bitch has more teeth than you do!”

  Aryn straightened and halted. His mother, Melona, had always favored him, one reason Tamen and Loras despised him. Aryn rarely let himself think about Melona. It hurt. Melona Locke had died when he was ten, afflicted by a horrible pox even noble medicine could not cure.

  Scarcely a year later, Aryn's father married a much younger bride. Lady Valara. She was very beautiful. She saw Aryn as a burr in her boot.

  “I guess his staff is just for show!” Aryn's tormenter chortled. “I've changed my mind, beggar! Lick my boots and you can have my scraps!”

  Aryn blocked out his rage as he had blocked out Tamen's cuffs to his head, the pinches that tore his flesh. If Aryn fought this idiot, people inside the tavern would come out to watch. What if one saw his charred skin?

  Aryn walked until the taunts ended, the hateful man losing interest. He settled against another building, more featureless sticks in the dream world, and dropped into darkness. Tania would find him when she was ready.

  A hand clasped his shoulder. He hopped up and threw it off. “Enough!”

  “Is it?” someone asked. Someone female.

  Aryn took the dream world to find Tania standing in front of him, her dream form recognizable by her shape, height, and posture. Her hands rested on her hips and her head tilted inside her cloak.

  “I'm back!” Tania said. “Time to go.” She clutched his hand and dragged him off. She was quite strong when she needed to be.

  “Where are we going?” Aryn demanded, as quietly as he could. They approached the tavern again.

  “You did well,” Tania said, and he suspected she was grinning by the light tone of her voice. “Valar is not going to be happy. He owes me twenty silver.”