The Dark Hero Adventures

Demonic Knight, part 12

Elysia looked up at the ornate golden hammer that gleamed in the early morning light streaming through the open door of the temple. The runes etched into the Hammer's head reminded him of the ones adorning the blade of her own sword, but that didn't surprise him too much. Her sword had been the most prized possession of an Order of paladins and it seemed only fitting that the sword be engraved with holy signs.

There were few people present; only some old women who were sitting cross-legged on the floor and praying. The babies with their mothers were outside, getting the cool while they could, and Elysia guessed the air might be unbreathable in there with the doors closed.

The temple was a simple sanctuary with a simple altar, except for the presence of the Hammer, which was used to bless marriages and contracts. The Father, The Mother and The Son were not very popular deities there, since most of the woodcutters looked to Belial, Lord of the Forests and God of the Earth, for protection, but it was assumed that the cult of the three gods of the triumvirate would count on a certain favor. Few were willing to offend the gods willingly, and the temple provided a link to the distant cathedral. It was the symbol that there was a world with laws and people who enforced them, and the official cult of the State was a bond that bound together the disparate remote peoples of both Kingdom and Empire.

The cult of the triumvirate was the official religion of the Theocracy, the Kingdom of Lothal, and the Empire of Kaleth. A religion that arose five hundred years ago, after the great war against the dark gods. It is said that The Father and The Mother came into the world in human bodies, both came from another world; with his help, humanity expanded beyond the borders of the Republic, under the ideal that humanity had been the chosen race of the gods.

The Father and the Mother had a single offspring, which was known as The Son. With the wisdom of the Father, the compassion of the Mother, and the courage of the Son; humanity expanded at a great speed, they founded the Kingdom and the Empire, and finally the three settled in the Theocracy where they established a theocratic government that lasts until today; led by the holy king, direct descendant of the Son, and by the great Hierophant, the most important religious figure in the cult of the Triumvirate.

The Republic is the only human nation where the cult of the Triumvirate is weak, as they consider it heresy and a betrayal of the teachings and sacrifices made by the six great gods. Although they are not openly hostile towards the cult of the Triumvirate, the tension between the two religions, the cult of the six great gods and the cult of the Triumvir, has long been in a kind of cold war. Well, although both religions have the ideal of human supremacy, certain details make the difference; mainly the gods they pray to.

On the walls of the temple there were neither the friezes nor the tapestries so popular in rich areas, and the altar itself was carved from a block of wood, not stone. He was tempted to touch the Hammer to find out if it was gold plated or simply painted. However, the carving on the altar was not of ordinary quality, and Elysia admired the spirals of the ridge and a depiction of the Son's head that would not have been out of place among the icons in the Theocracy's cathedral. She wondered who had made the carving, and if it would burn when the beastmen attacked.

Elysia bowed her head, even though they were not her gods, she began to pray. She prayed to any god who would listen to her that the population be delivered from all evil and that her life and the lives of her friends be spared. She touched the Hammer and then touched her forehead for good luck. She then got up and went outside, where she stretched and felt her joints snap. She had spent the previous night in Fritz Messner and his family's cabin, where the floor had been only slightly better than a pile of leaves. She had to admit that there were times when she missed her cushy bed in her previous owner's ascendancy; sometimes, the fact that she was the personal slave of the daughter of a senator of the empire had not been all bad. So, for example, she might find herself sleeping it off in her quarters, rather than waiting for an attack by evil forces in a village no one had ever heard of.

"Elysia..." she was the girl, pale and serious. "Mr. Messner told me that he would meet you here."

“And he was right, Kat. What can I do for you?"

“I had a nightmare last night, Elysia. I dreamed that something came out of the forest and took me away. I dreamed that she was lost in the dark and that there were things chasing me. Elysia could relate to that, as she had had similar dreams on many occasions.

“Don't think about it, little one. Dreams aren't real and they can't hurt you."

“I don't think that's true, Elysia. I had the same dream the night before the beasts attacked my house.”

Suddenly, Elysia felt an icy chill seep into her bones, and she imagined that the forces of evil were closing in to bring them inevitable death.

♦ ♦ ♦

Jasmine sat upright in the saddle on the back of her huge warhorse, black as midnight. Overhead, storm clouds gathered, huge, dark clouds that seemed to reflect the state of violent anger that boiled within her. That trail was clear. It had been built over the years to allow messengers to travel quickly.

She thought it ironic that such a path would hasten the inevitable destruction of the Realm by the dark gods. Invaders from the wastelands could use these pathways to speed north, and she likened this to the process by which diseases use blood circulation to spread through the body.

Yes, she thought. "The Kingdom is dying, and corruption is the disease that will kill it." Secret groups of worshipers spread corruption throughout the cities; bands of beastmen and greenskins brought terror to the woods; paladins and knights of the Evil Powers streamed across the border from the far north and the wastelands beyond. She knew that these were not isolated events, but rather symptoms of the same plague, of which the Kingdom would be victims first and then all the human kingdoms. No… she must not think of it as an illness; it was a crusade destined to scourge the earth.

She turned her eyes to the small army following her. First came the squads of huge, powerful beastmen; each of which led by champions. Behind them came clattering the black bundle that was her secret weapon, the Thunderer, the demonic long cannon that had destroyed the gates of Castle Klein and would allow her to take other fortified cities. It was dragged by groups of captured slaves on their raids, led by the black-armored artificers who would make it work. Bringing up the rear were the scavengers, the ill-organized rabble that followed them as jackals would a pack of proud mad lions, driven from their towns and homes by the dislike of their own kind. They were driven by hatred and were ready to take revenge against all of humanity.

There were all the elements of his own life. That path, the route to death and destruction, was but an extension of the path she had followed for her all her life, and that thought of hers saddened her. That day more than ever, she felt divided, as if she had two souls that inhabited the same body. One was dark, determined, and fed on murder and carnage; she gloried in her own strength and detested others for her weaknesses. She despised her own weakness, and knew that it was the part Salthor cultivated most carefully, as a gardener nurtured the hellish flowers of her. It contained the seeds of demonhood and immortality; he was a purely hateful being, determined, determined and strong.

The other soul was weak, and she hated it. She was the part that was disgusted by the endless violence of her life and she wanted it to end. She was the one who suffered and she had the need to give in so that the pain would not fall on others. She had been submerged for a long time and had been twisted almost beyond recognition by the events of her life. Until Hugo's death, she hadn't even allowed herself to know he existed, for the thought was too horrible and her need for revenge too strong and urgent. She had made the pact with the demon seven years earlier, and she needed to keep it in order to carry out her revenge. But at that moment her purpose had been realized, and she had doubts once again.

Those doubts centered on the girl; she could remember the time when she carried it inside her, how she grew up and she kicked. She had been born during the long, terrible period of her wandering in the woods, when she had had to dig for roots and worms to feed on, drink from the streams and sleep in the hollows she found under the trees. She was her only company during the terrible days she went through after running away, scared and horrified. It was a presence that grew inside her as her hunger, want, and terror drove her slowly mad.

She doubted that she or her creature could have survived if she hadn't found the beastwomen in the forest; if they had not welcomed her, protected her and fed her. She remembered them as being strangely sweet and shy compared to the males. They had acted on the instructions of her demon patron, that had become clear later, but she was still grateful to them for what they had done. They had taken the girl from her the same day she was born and from then until that moment she had not seen her again. She had earned the right to know that the long years of trials and battles had been part of her patron's plan, a demonic strategy, designed to allow him to transcend her mere human condition and join the ranks of the Chosen. She knew hers was her last link to humanity and she despised her…and she marveled at her too.

She remembered how it all started. The beasts had dragged her to the great Black Altar in the forest and made her bow before the black stone etched with terrifying runes. She had been laid out on the rock, and Grind had slashed her throat and wrists with his razor-sharp obsidian knife while her acolytes sang praises to the God of Vengeance.

So she had expected to die, and she would have welcomed death as an end to her suffering. Instead, she had found the darkest of possible new lives. Her blood had flowed like a fountain to pool in the depression in the surface of the altar. Somehow, she had managed to get up; her anger and stubbornness had kept her on her feet, as had a strangely serene hatred that blossomed within her. It was then that she felt her presence, that she beheld her face.

In the pool of her own blood he saw the demon's face take shape, crimson lips emerging from the red liquid to ask questions, give answers, and make promises. She asked him if she wanted revenge on those who had pushed her into this situation. She assured him that the world was as corrupt and evil as she believed. She promised him eternal power and life. She then she made the prophecy. During this rigorous ordeal, she had managed to stay on her feet, albeit swaying and in pain. She seemed to remember that, after her, her own blood, blackened and smoking, had flowed from the altar and returned to her veins. Her wounds had closed with a sucking sound, as her poison and power burned within her.

For days he had lain in bed with feverish dreams as his body changed, touched by the demon essence carried within him along with his own tainted blood. The Darkness contorted her and made her strong; she grew her fangs, her eyes were transformed to be able to see in the dark, and her muscles became much stronger than those of any mortal man. She had come out of her trance with the knowledge that it had been no accident that had brought her to that hidden altar deep in the forest, but rather a dark destiny and the evil whim of a demon's will.

From somewhere, the beastmen produced rune-covered armor, and during the next full moon phase they repeated the ritual. Once again her wrists had been cut and once again her demonic presence appeared, and this time she affixed the armor to her body. Her blood had flowed and coagulated between the plates, forming a network of muscles, veins, and fleshy pads, turning the armor into a second metallic skin. The process had weakened her. She again had dreams, and in those dreams she saw what she should do.

Each skirmish had brought him new gifts of power. She won her steed, Sombra, by challenging her owner, a black knight, to single combat, in which she tore out her heart as an offering to Baal. She had removed the infernal sword from the mangled corpse of an anti paladin, leader of a company of nine, after a great battle. She had defeated mutated beasts and monsters, and she had increased her prowess and power until her patron told her that the time had come to return and exact revenge. And all this time, as she felt the thrill of triumph, the exultation of victory, and the sheer joy of battle sing in her tainted blood, she wondered sometimes what had become of the child she gave birth to, and if the beasts had killed her. they would have allowed to live.

He knew that it meant nothing to her then, that there was no connection, that she was just one more piece of flesh left loose to live and die amidst the wreckage of that terrible world. Perhaps the demon, for some perverse reason, was hoping to expose some ultimate flaw within her, but in that case he was doomed to disappointment. In the end she would prove to be tougher than stone, and the Dark Gods would take away anyone who thought to stand in her way.