Chapter 8

Demon Lovers

He had grown used to the smell, but knowing that he was surrounded by feces and rotting flesh was enough to make Vaeloris Fandremut wretch. The stereotypes—especially of dwelling in dank basements and among a heap of corpses—were common misconceptions. Vaeloris would never get used to the stench of death, even if it was several years old, or several centuries old.

Or perhaps it was only he who was bothered by the putrid scent. The others seemed unbothered by the stench, able to continue the incantations with little to no hint of discomfort written on their face. He tossed the idea about in his head for a moment more, then shrugged it off and raised his voice in unison with the others.

“We are almost done, kinsmen!” spoke someone from behind him. It was the familiar, goading voice of Jerald Greids, their noble leader.

Though he wasn’t quite noble at all. He made it unnecessarily clear that their mission would be complete, otherwise the journey of their souls to the Twisting Nether would be. That was their only option, and twice Jerald had had to make an example of those who had failed their tasks. Ferin Lyks and Torinse Beyley had misplaced a message from the higher-ups, and were unable to deliver it to Jerald. As a result they were executed, their skulls used to fuel the ritual Vaeloris was currently participating in.

But Jerald hadn’t told them the message had arrived by courier a day earlier. Needless to say, Jerald liked death, especially to hand it out. Judging by his long record and countless years of experience, he was very generous about it.

Minutes passed as the ritual continued. The spell-work was nearly finished. After hours of practice and repetition, Vaeloris knew they were close. A few more lines, and their part would be complete.

As one, the circle of hooded figures finished the ritual. In the center, a small firepot flared into life, the tiny flames suddenly bursting into a roaring inferno by unnatural means. Jerald stepped in, breaking the circle with a wave of his hand.

“Well done. The ritual is complete,” he said, pulling a large metal hammer from within his robes. “We only have so long to set the demon free.”

The room was silent as, in his other hand, Jerald pulled forth an archaic, heavily runed chisel. He placed it neatly onto the center of what appeared to be a medallion of sorts that sat atop one of the few skulls seated in the fire pit.

“Then, my pupils, let the sundering begin.”

He raised the hammer above his head.

---

Stefan was hugging a wall just outside of the ritualists’ room. In his right hand and supported by his left, a hand gun was cocked and aimed toward the man who had just raised the hammer. Whatever he was doing, it was probably nothing good. Stefan didn’t want to wait around to find out.

“Here’s hoping you hit your mark again,” whispered Stefan.

He fired.

---

Bang!

Clooooong!

The hammer rang for several seconds after the bullet struck it. The force of the pellet knocked it out of the man’s grasp, and soon after the entire room erupted in shouts of surprise and commotion. Stefan rushed out from cover, sprinting toward the gathered men.

“Saboteur!” shouted the one closest to him.

There were five in total. The first was taken down relatively easily as Stefan winded up and clothes-lined him with a mace. The second came at him with a dagger, slicing with unpracticed strikes. He easily dodged them, eventually clubbing him across his hooded head. He turned to meet his next attacker, who promptly cracked Stefan across the cheek. His senses reeling, Stefan swayed away from his foe, managing to place the fire pot between them.

“Foul traitor! You know not what you have done!” roared a voice from within the robes.

“Traitor? It is you who is the traitor!” yelled Stefan back. He spotted a fourth opponent coming from the side, and spun under the man’s wild blow to place a mace neatly into his stomach. Stefan hurried the man along, who trundled onward until he hit the wall and slumped over, unconscious.

“A good try, heretic! But it will take more than that!” said Stefan. He lashed out with his right foot, sending the fire pot flying into the man across from him. As the robed man stumbled about, trying to smother the flames that had sprouted about his clothes, Stefan searched for the fifth man.

But there was no one left. He cursed aloud, rushing off back the way he had come.

“Cheese and rice! The filthy bugger escaped!”

He emerged on the surface a moment later, trying to pick out the runner in the thick gloom.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, as a large sword swung out from the darkness and nearly took his head off. A skeleton shambled out of the darkness, bones clicking menacingly.

Stefan swung at the skull, and took it clean off. It spun away, still clicking. The body paused, dropping its arms to its side. Almost comically, it turned around and started searching for the head. Stefan chuckled idly before remembering what he had come for. He ran off, dodging other nearby newly-risen and returning to his horse. The faint sound of hoof and cobble colliding vanished into the distance as he mounted the steed.

“Alright, old sport,” whispered Stefan into the horse’s ear. “Let’s catch us a demon-lover.”

He squeezed the stirrups, and raced off into the night.