Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 3: Chapter 17: An Academic Guide to the Profane

We gathered in the bowels of that hidden tower in the lower city, myself, my ward, and the scheming wizard. Lias found all the material relevant to our research he had, and we began trying to determine which of the Dread and Awful Presences infested Garihelm.

It is not always exciting or active a thing, hunting fiends. That had been true even when I’d been with the Table. There had been long, tiring hours of research, meditation, and consultation with the other knights, scholars, sages, and the Sidhe.

I didn’t have all the resources of an ancient realm at my disposal anymore, but Lias had never been an ally to dismiss. His “small collection”turned out to be a veritable treasure trove of occult tomes, preserved tablets, and sealed scrolls, many of which I imagine the Priory would be none too happy about him keeping.

“So where exactly do we begin?” Emma tossed the question out in idle inquiry, lifting one of the ancient black books Lias had spread across his tables in some abstract order.

Lias snatched the book from her hand, placing it back in its prior place with meticulous precision. Emma scowled at him, but the magus ignored her and paced over to another table, this one laid with even more material.

I remained standing, arms folded, inspecting the dizzying labyrinth of lore we had to sort through. I had a bad feeling this would be a long night.

“The first thing you must understand about demons,” Lias said, with all the self-assured gravity of the lecturing tutor, “is that they have no beginning and no end. They are hunger incarnate, spirits born of primeval forces most of us…” he let the implication that he didn’t include himself among most of us hang… “cannot truly comprehend.”

Emma looked at me and lifted a dark eyebrow. “Is he always like this?”

“Most of the time,” I muttered, my eyes on the black-garbed wizard.

Lias didn’t deign to respond to our commentary, instead walking a slow set of concentric circles around the tables as he spoke. “Our understanding of many dimensions beyond our own, along with the beings who inhabit them, remains academic at best.” His voice echoed eerily in the study, emerging hollow from the unnatural shade beneath his cowl as though it originated from the depths of a cave. “We are aware of such places as the Wending Roads, but they are little more than a borderland, so close to our own plane one is often hardly aware when they have strayed. Not so for places like the Abyss.”

At that last word, Emma’s show of insulant boredom faded. She sat up straighter, paying more attention to Lias’s lecture.

“We know little of it, in truth.” Lias finally stopped at the largest of the tables, a desk of nearly black oak piled with books. He regarded us like a dark royal tutor, clasping gloved hands together. “Only that it lies beneath Orkael, the Iron Hell, which was fashioned to contain it. What records there are from those of mine own order who have made auguries into its nature have returned only mixed success. It is believed by some that it is depthless, without end. Others say there is a bottom, only that the whole is constantly growing, seeping further into the fabric of other realities with every passing moment. Swallowing. Eating. Just as its creations are driven to do.”

Lias pressed the first two fingers of each of his hands together, locking his thumbs, then swept his hands apart in a flickering motion. I felt a shiver of unseen power in the room. One of the largest tomes on his desk suddenly lifted, opening and turning its face to us, so we could see what lay on two of the pages.

The old, weathered parchment crawled with a jagged, trembling scrawl of black ink I could barely make out. What my eyes went to, however, was the image drawn onto the left page. It depicted a hunched creature, its thin arms juxtaposed by a bulbous back, a cancer of horny growths erupting from its warty flesh. It had two small, pale white eyes like twin werelights set within a dog’s face, a mass of filthy hair hanging nearly down to the ground, and genitals resembling a series of knotted roots entwined together. A second pair of arms emerged from the mane of hair, these perfect and feminine, uplifted as though in supplication.

Emma’s eyes narrowed as she studied the page. “That is a demon?”

“This is Abgrûdai,” Lias said in a weighty voice. “There are many kindreds of fiend, not all of them native to the Abyss, but these are generally what we mean when we refer to demons. We know little of the origins of these, only that they came to dominate their plane long ago, and have never been supplanted. Whether they are masters of the Howling Dark, slaves to it, an invasive species, or perhaps something else entire, we can hardly begin to guess.”

He paced around the table so we saw his side profile next to the floating book. He pointed at the creature drawn there. I noticed the sketch looked odd — not like the highly detailed, exacting image of an anatomist, but more the hasty, angry scrawl of a manic artist, done all in too-dark shades, its form seeming to come apart around the edges.

I pitied whatever poor soul had the misfortune of capturing that likeness.

“This is a chorn,” Lias said. “Another thing you must understand about the Abyssals is that it is very, very difficult to categorize them. Each demon is singular, with its own brand of madness and diabolical aspect. Even the most well recorded ones can be utterly unpredictable. However, perhaps simply because we humans have an innate desire for order, we have made such attempts. Take this for example.”

He tapped the page. “A chorn is a lesser spirit among the Abgrûdai, a sort of scavenger. They have a preference for combing charnel pits and battlefields, feasting on the filth of the recently dead. Many of them have the power to steal your memories through conversation. We are not certain if this is a widespread species among demonkind, some sort of clan or family, or even a collective of siblings… all we know is that it is one of the few types with a relatively predictable habit.”

He turned the page with the flick of a finger, not even needing to touch the enchanted tome. This time, the page showed an emaciated humanoid with pale gray skin, twisted ribs, a gaping hole in the belly, and an androgynous form. The face had few features other than a small, sphincter-like mouth and empty, bleeding pits for eyes.

“Succubus,” Lias drawled. “This one is known as Liieshi the Empty, and is an example of what I’ve been referring to about singularity. Each demon, even if we put a label on some groups, has unique preferences and behavior, not to mention varying forms and levels of power. This one, for instance, is called a succubus because she has a most uncouth habit of seducing men, only to plant her own larvae in them to grow her brood. It is a loose categorization."

“Charming,” Emma said, frowning at the page.

“Many are also shapeshifters,” Lias continued smoothly. “Weaker demons will occasionally make themselves appear quite grand in order to frighten prey and predator, while the mightiest can take diminutive forms if they wish for you to let down your guard.”

“Or fair ones,” I said quietly. Lias glanced at me, and his hooded head tilted in acknowledgement.

The wizard scrolled through the foreboding book’s pages for a time, giving us examples of different demons, along with their habits and abilities.

“So how do we determine what kind of monster is responsible for all these recent murders?” Emma asked after a time. She looked slightly green. I didn’t blame her — Lias had a habit of going into very grisly detail about some of the more gruesome beings in his evil little book.

“That is the tricky part,” Lias said, finally turning to us. “We have a few clues to go on — its choice of victim, for example, and some of the features found at each scene. The presence of red beetles is of particular note. However, what we do not know is what it wants. Mass slaughter? To find a vessel worthy of possession? Is it being directed by some other will, a mortal warlock perhaps?”

The wizard shrugged and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Perhaps we can find something in my collection.”

Then, with an imperious gesture, he ended his lecture and we got to work. For nearly five hours, the only sounds in the study were those of rustling cloth, scuffing boots, crinkling pages, and the occasional frustrated thump of a useless tome slamming closed.

I didn’t know if we’d find anything of use in Lias’s material, but it was a place to start. Demon hunting is a nasty business, the most dangerous even an Alder Knight — especially the dregs of one — can undertake. Knowledge is power, but the boiling chaos from which demons are born turns all things against itself, including knowledge.

Even in knowing them, they can ruin you. I’d learned that well enough. I had the scars to prove it.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Emma said. She had her boots up on one of the tables, reclining, an aged journal with half-rotted pages held open with her thumb pressed into the fold.

Lias’s shadowed face glowered at my squire’s dirty boots, rested inches from a number of invaluable records, but Emma’s eyes were on the journal in her hands.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“What is it?” Lias asked, with forced patience. He still didn’t seem to understand why I’d invited the girl into this study session, and I felt his tolerance fraying by the hour.

They were two of a kind, really.

“According to everything here,” Emma waved a hand at the collection, “demons — these Abgrûdai — are incredibly divisive even among their own. Look here — the clericon who penned this journal describes them as a ravening horde of self-loathing, self-devouring lunatics, barely capable of withholding their own compulsions long enough to entertain self-interest. The denizens of the Howling Dark are as like to devour one another, or themselves, as unite for any common cause, and should be treated more as mad dogs, or a plague with teeth, than as thinking creatures.”

Emma somehow managed to dramatize her own already thick aristocratic speech into something mocking, reading the text in the voice of a self-important scholar. It was very close to how Lias sometimes talked. The corners of my lips twitched, though I didn’t look up from the collection of accounts left by exorcist-priests I read.

Lias inspected at the cover of the journal. “Jorg of Arborhithe. Yes, he always was a bit of a hack. Even still, he isn’t far off the mark in this regard. What is it you don’t understand?”

“According to accounts of the war against the Recusants,” Emma said, “a magus working with the traitor lords released a whole army of demons onto the Archon’s city. It was the greatest city in all Urn, and it fell in a day to these creatures… yet many of these accounts claim that no two fiends can get within shouting distance of one another without clawing each other to pieces. They seem more like wild beasts than some terrible army of sin.”

“I think predatory fish is a more accurate comparison,” Lias replied in a bland voice. “But I digress. You are not wrong, but consider this — the Abyss is a place of self-devouring chaos, and that defines much of the nature of its denizens. If all is turned against itself, if all plots come to ruin and all ambitions are corrupted, then it is rare for intellect to be rewarded in such a place.”

Emma leaned back in her seat, pressing the spine of the journal against her chin in thought. “So basically, you’re saying that most demons -- the very beings who allegedly sacked Heaven and supplanted God a millennia ago, if you believe the holy records -- are stupid?”

"Careful," I murmured from nearby. I'd gotten used to Emma's borderline iconoclasm, but put a warning note in my voice all the same. "We're in a Cathedral City, Em. Try to keep a rein on the skepticism."

“The vast majority are either without what we’d consider higher intellect, or with a minimum of it,” Lias agreed, after Emma had cast a chagrined look my way. “Even some of the oldest and most powerful are little more than hungering mouths with only enough self awareness to preserve themselves. The Abyss is a predatory place, a jungle where might makes right. Demons can and do cooperate, but usually only ever with a greater will driving their destructive tendencies.”

“So the demons in Elfhome were being led by something?” Emma said, leaning forward in her seat and dropping her boots to the floor. “Or someone?”

“Yes,” Lias confirmed, his cowled visage nodding. “But that is not the whole of it. When it comes to facing demons, it is not the individual creature that is the entire problem, no matter how vicious or potent one might be. Their very presence in the fabric of our reality is disruptive.”

Lias turned his cowled gaze to me. “I imagine your master knows what I refer to.”

Emma followed his look to me. I sighed and closed the account I’d been reading, straightening to break my silence and join the conversation.

“You’re talking about the Woed,” I said.

Emma tilted her head to one side, confused. She hadn’t heard the term. Lias only inclined his hooded head.

“When you fight demons,” I said to Emma in explanation, “you’re very rarely ever dealing with more than one. They’re territorial, and don’t trust one another. Mostly what you end up fighting are their victims.”

Emma’s lips tightened into a troubled frown. “Their victims? Like that poor woman whose home we visited today?”

“That could have been her fate,” I agreed. “The Abyss is constantly changing, and its denizens have the power to reshape the world around them, to make our world more like their own… including life. They can work your flesh like clay, warp your bones, whisper madness into your thoughts. Once done, you don’t look too much different to a demon as far as sane eyes are concerned. It’s one of their favorite tricks — making us fight the innocents we meant to save.”

“And there is no cure for it,” Lias said, no more flippant superiority in his voice. “Other than a swift death to end their suffering. But yes, as Alken says, they use these creatures, these Woed, as fodder. Sometimes as decoys or playthings.”

“There were only eight true demons in Elfhome that day,” I said. “Eight Abgrûdai. The rest of the monsters in the streets were their Woed.”

Emma fell silent a moment, then in a smaller voice said, “I feel like someone would have noticed that, if it were happening here.”

“Perhaps,” Lias said. “There are many places to hide, especially in the lower districts where this sanctum you stand in now is. Demonscorched creatures could easily pass for changelings or one of the rabid things who dwell in the sewers and catacombs, at least for a time. I’ve been monitoring the situation, but have seen no signs of their presence as of yet.”

But it didn’t mean they weren’t around, or wouldn’t start to appear. “Demonic infestation gets worse over time,” I told Emma. “The longer we wait, the more dangerous this thing gets.” I nodded to the books. “So let’s get to work.”

After letting my apprentice get back to researching, I did a circuit of the room, mostly to try and order my thoughts and rest my eyes after so long staring at half-faded or poorly written scrawls of ink. The room was full of things I didn’t understand, most of them seeming typical for a magus. I noted much of it looked alchemical in nature.

Was Lias dabbling in continental sorcery? My eyes lingered on one object, a set of tubes and funnels seemingly crafted from a sort of metal I couldn’t quickly name. Drops of quicksilver fed into a small bowl, which itself drained into a larger construct resembling a mold in a forge.

I approached Lias, who had moved off to one side of the study. “I thought you were some sort of big shot with the Accord these days,” I said. “What’s with the private sanctum in the slums?”

Lias paused in his own reading and tilted his hooded gaze to me. “As I said, I’m a spymaster. I have many such places. My work has been focused on the lower city lately, so…” he waved a hand at the room. “In any case, the palace is too crowded, I can’t get a moment’s peace.”

“…Right. And the hood?” I gestured to his supernaturally shrouded visage.

“I’m experimenting with Sidhe illusion,” he said. “The hood is just so it’s less off-putting… ah, here, I’ll show you.”

He lifted the hood from his face. The clinging mask of shadow, however, remained. It looked like a bubble of impenetrable foggy darkness above his neck, as though he’d had his head lopped off and replaced it with a murky void.

“Creepy,” I agreed.

“Did you know elves use the same techniques for their metalsmithing as they do for glamour?” Lias said, donning the cowl again. “Weaving abstractions and phantasm into something tangible? We’ve been close to them throughout our history, yet there’s still so much about them we don’t understand. Of course, that isn’t all I’ve been working on. I have so many projects, Alken, so much to do these days.”

“You know once this business is done,” I said, “once I’ve hunted down this demon and any allies or masters it might have, I’ll have to leave again. The Choir could call me into service at any time, and…”

Lias’s shadowed gaze shifted to me as I paused.

I sighed. “This isn’t for me, Li. The schemes, the politics. I was only ever a blunt nail. I’ll help you chop the cultists and the warlocks, but I’m not sticking around.”

Lias studied me a while. “You still don’t intend to at least speak with Rose?”

I shook my head. “She has enough to worry about, and it’s best she doesn’t have any association with me. I’m an excommunicate and an assassin, Lias. Better she isn’t implicated.”

I could tell he had more to say. Before he could, however, Emma suddenly let out a triumphant noise.

“I found something!” She said, ushering me over.

I walked away from the wizard, though I felt his eyes on my back. Putting it out of my mind, I looked at what Emma studied over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“Here,” she said, jabbing a finger at the surface of an old, faded scroll she’d unrolled onto the table amid a scatter of books. “Look at this.”

At first, I didn’t see what had gotten her excited. Much of the text on the scroll had faded into unreadability, and there were no helpful images to make things more obvious.

“What have you there?” Lias asked, approaching. He studied the scroll a moment, then chuckled. “Ah, now that’s a useful thing. Forgot I had that.”

“What is it?” I asked, annoyed at both of them. Was this how Emma felt when I left her waiting on explanations?

“It’s written in Mediiric,” Emma said. “The Mediir were an Edaean empire of old, and their language was considered the Sorcerer’s Script for many centuries, before we started using Elfcant here in the subcontinent. House Carreon used it for many of their rites.”

I tensed, but Lias seemed more focused on the scroll than Emma’s slip. I didn’t want the wizard knowing my ward’s identity — it was dangerous knowledge, especially given to one of the Magi.

“It’s a Binding Rite,” Lias muttered, running a gloved finger over the faded scrawl. “Quite useless now, but there’s still a name attached. See these burns here? The fiend they used this on broke free, probably turned its would-be masters inside out in the bargain. Fools.”

“What demon was it?” I asked.

Emma began to recite from the page. “He of the Rotting Gift, He Who Crawls Upon the Sky, Father of The Writhing Ones, Corpseborn, Wingtaker. He Who Beheld The Burning. One of Eight, One of Ten, One of Six Hundred and Sixty Six. We call you from the Dark Which Howls, we call you, ye who art among the Dread and Awful Presences, Ye who art Lord of Blights.”

“Careful,” Lias murmured warningly. “This can still call him. My sanctum is well warded, but best to not take the risk. Skip to the last line.”

Emma’s tracing finger slid down the page, and she continued. “We name you, Blood Fly. We name you, Father of the Scarlet Shelled.” She threw us a significant look on that last part, and I gave her an approving nod.

“Good find,” I told her. She returned my praise with a rare smile of genuine pleasure, rather than of mockery or snide confidence.

“There’s more,” she said. “It’s true name, I think.” Glancing back to the page she recited the rest. “We name you, Yith Golonac.”

All the world seemed to go cold, as though winter were not many days gone now to spring.

They gave Yith flesh with maggots and meat.

“It’s him,” I said in a hoarse voice. “This is the demon we’re looking for.”

“You are certain?” Lias asked.

I nodded. “The demon summoned in Caelfall was called Yith. I can’t tell you how I’m certain he’s the Carmine Killer, but I believe he is.”

Karog had been called to Garihelm by an unknown benefactor. Catrin had heard whispers from the changeling community of a darkness in Garihelm’s streets. Lias had warned of the Inquisition’s growing influence.

Red beetles in the corpses. A spiritual malaise like insects crawling in the walls, boiling into reality. I’d felt that sensation once before, in the walls of Castle Cael.

The pieces started coming together. I felt certain of the uneasy belief coiling through my gut.

“The Council of Cael is in Garihelm,” I said aloud. “And I’m pretty sure their pet is here with them.”

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