The Demon Hunt

The Demon Hunt
A short story by Mitchell Bonds


A single man fled the burning building. As he leapt out of the flaming library, a support beam gave way, bringing the entire place down behind him, sparks and embers bouncing off his leathery, bat-like wings as he raised them to protect his head.
The man dragged himself up from the ground, swearing profusely. Damn that old woman. He hadn’t meant to kill her, but it was her own fault for tampering with his dreams like that. Lyanth, for that was the man’s name, looked over his shoulder at the dancing flames as he walked into the dim forest. Dawn approached, and someone would soon notice the results of the night’s mishap. He had to find the first step of his journey, the first clue, or everything would be lost before he could begin.
Lyanth took a thin leather strap from his pocket and tied his glossy black hair into a warrior’s ponytail, leaving the distinctive lock of white hair hanging loose. Who would know of a demon’s whereabouts? Who could he ask without raising suspicion? Of course, his very appearance raised suspicions in this land, from the bat-like wings which sprouted from his shoulders to the small horns on his head and the pointed satyr’s tail at his waist.
He shrugged. Follow the fear. If you seek a demon, seek what causes fear in the locals. Perchance there was a sorcerer or evil wizard about whom he could ask. Lyanth continued his trudge into the forest, the old woman’s last words ringing in his ears: Your salvation is in blood… Your Blood… Its blood… Their blood…

“He’s claimed his first victim,” said the Captain of the Town Guard. The burly soldier slammed a piece of parchment down on the table, scattering the stacks of coppers and silvers, and interrupting the card game in progress.
“Watch it!” a boy in green said, rapidly collecting his scattered coins, and surreptitiously including some of his companions’ as well.
Another man at the table, clad in a soft velvet cloak and a jaunty red cap, put down his cards and looked up at the soldier. “Who’s claimed wot now?” he asked.
The barkeep came out from behind the pub’s bar, drying off a beer mug with a green towel. His pub had always been a friendly place, but recent events had made it a gathering-place for those who sought the life of their late lord’s ward. Air once full of idle boasting of fishing exploits now hung heavy with murmurs of murder and whispers of worries. And the Captain of the Town Guard was just making things worse.
The barkeep scowled, and looked at the scrap of parchment. It was a notice, offering a reward of one thousand gold pieces for the head of Lyanth Mosaelys. The rough likeness of the young man depicted him as more demonic than he actually looked, exaggerating the size of his wings, horns, and claws. “What’s this garbage?” he demanded, setting the mug down. “Have you lost your mind? Going after Fyrt’hiann’s grandson when the old man isn’t even cold in his grave yet?”
“He’s a threat, and he always has been,” the Captain said, giving the barkeep a cold glance. “And now he’s done something his grandfather can’t protect him from. He murdered the Savior’s Oracle.”
A collective gasp rose from the patrons of the pub. Everyone knew that the Savior’s Oracle was a harmless old woman, her mortal eyes blind, but with the gift of seeing things beyond the mortal realm. The villagers visited her from time to time, seeking advice on important issues.
The boy leapt up and drew his dagger. “That bastard! The old woman set me and Kayla up, and now he’s killed her? I’ll gut him!”
“Peace, Toby. That demonspawn could tear you limb from limb. You wouldn’t stand a chance with that little pig-sticker o’ yourn,” the red-hatted man said, pushing his companion back into his chair.
“He’s right, you know,” another man said, rising from his seat in the shadows at the back of the room. He was a tall fellow, near six and a half feet (I can convert this into meters if needed). The blue and white winged sword emblem on his cloak marked him as a Knight Paladine, Order of the Sacred Blade.
The boy in green immediately returned his pilfered coins. “Er, good evening, sir. We didn’t see you there. I was just…”
“Talking about gutting a foe that outclasses you the way a wolf outclasses a new-hatched chicken.” The knight stepped into the firelight, his uncombed, auburn hair reflecting the light like a flaming halo. The red light glinted off the chain shirt and greaves he wore as well. “Thankfully your friends have better sense than you. No human has the strength to best a half-fiend unassisted,” he said in a bass rumble. “Now, tell me more of this demon.”
The Captain of the Guard nodded. “Its name is…”
“His name,” the Paladin corrected.
“Eh, his name, then. His name is Lyanth, the bastard son of our late lord’s daughter. He’s always been a shady type, but a while back, he sprouted wings and horns and claws!” the Barkeep said, making exaggerated gestures as he described Lyanth’s features. “This weird mark appeared on his chest, and people began hearing strange things about what happened wherever he went.”
The Paladin leaned closer, peering into the barkeep’s face as if attempting to discern lies. “Go on,” he said. “What kind of things?”
“Well, when one of my men went to arrest him for stealing a pack of smoked meat from the butcher’s shop,” the Captain said, “the demon simply stared at him, and what do you know, my man’s sword and armor began rusting so incredibly fast you could just see them falling to pieces.”
The Paladin straightened up as if struck by lightning. “Rust? What did the mark on his chest look like?” he demanded.
The barkeep backed away. “It looked like an eye, sir, just a gaudy-looking eye with a sword in it.”
“Was the sword on fire?” the Paladin asked, grabbing the Captain’s shirt-front.
“Yes, yes!” the Captain said, sweating a little under the knight’s intense gaze. “It was afire, and a freakish thing it was, I tell you.”
The knight dropped the Captain, whose cheap chainmail clinked as he sagged back against the bar. “The Lord of Rust has returned then,” the Paladin said to himself. “When was he last seen?”
The barkeep shelved his mug. “Two days ago, headed west. He obviously stopped by the Oracle, long enough to murder her, at any rate. Doesn’t want anyone tracking him with divine magic, I wouldn’t wonder.”
“Kelran, we move out now,” the Paladin said.
From the same corner that had produced the knight, stood an Elf clad in studded leather, an ornate longbow slung over his shoulders. His eyes contained a bridled fury, like a wolf on a chain it knows it cannot break, but simply waits for someone to get within reach. “Then he has returned,” the Elf said, his silvery voice quiet in the suddenly-silent pub.
“Yes, and we go to slay him. Come,” said the Paladin, walking for the door. “Here.” He tossed a heavy gold coin onto the bar. “This should cover the meal. Give the rest to that butcher whose meat was stolen. And give me that scroll.”
The Captain obliged, and the Paladin scanned the picture intently. Then without a word, he and the Elf turned and left the pub, the chill Fall breeze blasting in the door as they did.
The barkeep shivered. “A silver gets you a gold that Lyanth doesn’t see another fortnight.”

Lyanth shivered as he trudged through the damp forest. Finally he came upon what he sought: a small, thatch-roofed hut deep in the forest. He banged loudly on the door. Several people stirred inside, and a young red-headed child opened the shutters of a window. He shrieked and slammed them closed again.
“Who are ye, and what do ye want?” hailed a voice from inside.
“My name is Mosaelys,” Lyanth replied. “I seek the lay of the land.”
“You lie!” the voice shouted. “Mosaelys ‘as been dead almost a week. That demonspawn grandson of ‘is done him in.”
Lyanth’s face twisted in horrible fury. With a clawed hand, he ripped the hut’s door from its hinges, throwing it backwards into the clearing. “No, you lie! I killed no-one. I loved my grandfather more than my own life!” He scowled at the nightshirted, grizzled farmer inside.
The farmer reached backwards for something under his bed.
“Don’t,” Lyanth warned, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll do your family no harm unless you draw that blade. If you want to protect your family, do it by answering my questions.” The winged man stepped inside, glancing around. The shack was in a terrible state. There was no food to be seen, the few pieces of furniture were well-kept but worn to nearly nothing. The young boy’s clothing was hardly more than clean rags stitched together, and the farmer’s wife had lines of fear etched into face. These people, they were deathly afraid of something. Lyanth smiled. Perfect. He would start with them.
The farmer slumped into a rickety chair. “Fine, demon, ask what you want. Do your worst, you can’t scare us.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because Verkar the Necromancer and his creatures sweep through ‘ere every week or so, collecting whatever he wants,” the farmer replied, spitting on the mud floor of the hut, almost hitting Lyanth’s pointed tail. “You may ‘ave horns and big scary wings, but you ‘aven’t got ‘ordes of the dead what obey your every whim.”
Necromancers… From what his grandfather had told him of the foul sorcerers, they often had pacts with demons to help animate their undead servants. What a helpful coincidence that one should be so close. Perhaps this Verkar would be able to help him. Lyanth smiled again, a disturbing sight. “Tell me,” he said, staring at the farmer, “where does this Verkar reside?”
The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “Just what I’d expect from a creature like you. You and that monster will get on fine. Just ‘ead north a ways, then cross the river. You’ll find ‘im, sure enough. I hope you kill each other! Now get out of my ‘ouse!”
Lyanth nodded. “As you wish. But…” with lightning speed, his pointed tail flicked right up between the farmer’s eyes. “…tell anyone I was here, and I cannot vouch for the safety of your family.” With that, the half-fiend strode out the doorway, stopping briefly to lean the door back up against the hut, then turned north, towards the river.

“…and then he just stomps off, pretty as you please, leaving me ‘ouse a grand mess,” the farmer complained.
“And how long ago was this?” the Paladin asked, resting a hand on the pommel of his greatsword.
“Yesterday morn,” replied the farmer, glancing back at his broken door. “Why, you looking for ‘im?”
The Paladin nodded. “Aye, that we are. Tell me, goodman, where did he go then?”
The farmer spat again. “’E ‘eaded north, to join up with Verkar the Necomancer. Those two’ll make the greatest of pals, I’m sure.”
“My thanks, goodman,” said the Paladin, flipping the farmer a gold piece. “That should pay for your door. And buy your son some proper shoes; winter will be upon us soon.”
The farmer bowed. “My thanks, sir knight. Might a poor farmer have the pleasure of your name?”
“Leopold St. Claire of the Sacred Sword,” he replied. “Now, I must be off. Farewell.” St. Claire mounted his white charger, and turned north, the Elf following in his wake, riding a sleek brown mare.

Lyanth dragged himself up the riverbank, exhausted. The bridge across the river was out, and the swim across the river had been more than he was used to. True, he was in good enough shape, and a strong swimmer to boot, but the past few days’ heavy rains had swollen the river to a torrent, and his accursed wings added much more drag than he was accustomed to. The damn things were a nuisance wherever he went, from complicating door entries to getting hung up in tree branches. And he couldn’t even fly with them. Or rather, he hadn’t figured out how just yet. It was like his strange powers; they were there, but he had no control over them.
His rest was short, for when he’d been there but a few minutes, several shambling figures lumbered into view. They were grotesque, moving corpses animated by sinister magic. The wind blew the smell of decaying flesh into Lyanth’s nose. He recoiled at the odor, then rose to see what was going on. His puzzlement turned to brief fear, then determination. If there were zombies here, then the necromancer must be close.
The zombies proved an obstacle, however. They ignored his hails, and merely groaned when he ordered them to take him to their master. Instead, one tried to bite him. Lyanth clubbed the zombie with a fist, separating its head from its body. Another came at him, and he dispatched it as well. But they kept coming, and soon engulfed the half-fiend. Finally, he stood atop a small heap of the re-slain undead, holding one off with each hand, fighting for his life.
“Hold!” someone shouted from the hills by the riverbank. The zombies wavered in their intent. “I said hold! Leave the fiend be!” The zombies ceased their attack, lumbering away from Lyanth. An old man in a grey cloak stepped forward and bowed.
“Who are you?” Lyanth demanded, panting. “Verkar, I assume?”
“Ah, milord knows my name,” the old man said, bowing again. “I am honored. My apologies for the behavior of my servants. They are but simple creatures, and I told them I wanted no guests. I trust their zeal for their task did not harm you?” Verkar’s grey robes smelled faintly of spices and strange chemicals. His face was wan and pointed, his eyes alight with twisted intelligence.
Lyanth scowled. “No, I am unharmed. I have business with you, however. What do you know of…”
“In time, milord, in time,” Verkar said, placing a hand on Lyanth’s shoulder. “You must be weary. Come, I will provide you with refreshment and a place to rest. Then we shall talk to your heart’s content.”
Lyanth, too tired to argue, merely nodded his acceptance, and followed the aged necromancer to his fortress in the hills.

Leopold St. Claire reined in his charger. The floodwaters had washed away the bridge, and the river flowed too swiftly to cross. “Well, Kelran?” he asked. “Did our quarry pass this way?”
The Elf dismounted and scanned the ground around the bridge, then walked a distance east. He returned in a few moments, shaking his head. “He passed this way indeed, but his trail ends in the river. He is either a dead fool, or successfully swam the river, and is much stronger than we thought.”
“I assume the latter,” St. Claire said darkly. “We must find a place to cross this torrent. I can see the necromancer’s fortress from here. Where is the nearest bridge?”
“The nearest one not likely to be swept away would be the Three Fords bridge a few leagues east of here,” Kelran replied.
St. Claire sighed. “It cannot be helped then. We must take the alternate route. I swear by the Silver Scabbard, this fiend will not escape justice!”
Kelran mounted his horse again. “Then let us waste no time.”

Lyanth woke to the flickering light of torches, and sat bolt upright. Verkar stood in the doorway of the guest room, holding a lit torch. The half-fiend glanced around uneasily. His clothes were missing, replaced by a soft black robe. “Where…”
“I had Mileta remove them while you slept. It does not do to sleep in damp clothing. Mileta, greet our guest.” From behind the necromancer stepped a pale girl of perhaps eighteen years. Something about her disturbed Lyanth, though he could not say exactly what. The girl stepped forward and gave a slow and awkward curtsey.
Verkar smiled. “She is one of my best works. Would you not say she looks almost alive?”
Lyanth started. “The girl… she is a zombie?”
“You could say that, if you were a boor that did not appreciate the work I put into this piece of art,” Verkar replied with a huff. He softly stroked the girl’s face. “It is so very difficult to keep them pretty for long. Even a year ago, I had not the power for work such as this. But recently, much of my order’s power has returned. You see,” the Necromancer said, pulling back his right sleeve, “I bear the same mark as you, Milord.”
On the necromancer’s forearm was a brand, a brand of the same mark which had appeared on Lyanth’s chest mere months ago, a stylized eye containing a burning sword. “Your servant is honored by your presence, milord. Please, come and partake of refreshment with me.”
Lyanth’s mind recoiled at the thought, but his body demanded food. He quickly changed into a vest and trousers of black calfskin, then followed Verkar and his flesh-puppet to the fortress’ dining hall. After consuming half a roast pig, four hearth-baked potatoes, and a large tankard of heart-warming ale, Lyanth sat back in his chair, sighing.
“I trust milord enjoyed the food?” Verkar asked with a smile.
The half-fiend nodded. “It suffices. Now, tell me, why do you keep calling me ‘milord’? I am not anyone’s lord, not now. And where did you come by that brand?”
The necromancer chuckled. “Are you testing me, milord? You certainly cannot have forgotten your own identity…”
Lyanth’s eyes narrowed. “I know who I am, necromancer. My name is Lyanth Mosaelys, and none can tell me differently. I came here to find out why this,” he took hold of his wings and horns, “is happening to me. What does this mark mean?” He pointed to the mark on his chest.
Verkar sighed. “Ah, a shame. I was hoping you were Khresil himself, reborn once more. The mark we bear is his. Khresil is a fiend of the highest order, a War-Lord among his kind. My order once made a pact with him, centuries ago, power in exchange for our might and our souls should he need them. But our power has waned over the years, until we were naught but common sorcerers and mages.
“Until a few months ago, that is. Now we have powers that rival those of our order’s founders. I have taken this as a sign that Khresil was reborn, and would soon unite us to conquer this miserable world.” The necromancer looked Lyanth up and down. “You share several of his characteristics, perhaps you are his offspring?”
Lyanth said nothing for a long moment. “It is possible,” he said slowly. “Go on.”
“He bears the same mark, though he has many more. Your wings are like his, though your horns are much smaller. He is a fearsome being, not one to be tampered with lightly. Khresil will be unstoppable once he has fully awakened.”
“Where would I likely find him?” Lyanth asked, his eyes burning fiercely.
Verkar clapped his hands in glee. “Aha! I knew that you could not resist such power. In the old days, he had much business with the Orcish shamans of the Western Plains region. He would probably return there to begin collecting souls for his true rebirth. Do you seek to join him?”
“No, I seek to kill him.” Lyanth stood, pushing his chair away from the table. “I have no willing association with necromancers nor demons. I am the grandson of Fyrt’hiann Mosaelys, Paladin of the Silver Crescent Moon, defender of Truth and Light. When I meet Khresil, whether he be my father or not, I will slay him.”
The necromancer sat in silence for a moment, then rose and walked over to a cabinet. “That is indeed a pity. I cannot convince you to change your mind?”
“No. The world cannot afford another creature such as I.”
“Then you must die here.” The necromancer pulled an ornate longsword out of the cabinet and swung at Lyanth.
The half-fiend leapt backwards, avoiding the sudden blow. The necromancer swung again. This time, Lyanth tripped over his chair and went sprawling on the stone floor.
With a hideous grimace, Verkar brought his longsword down in a final swing. Unable to dodge, Lyanth tried to catch the blade. It bit deep into the flesh of his hands, but he stopped its deadly arc. Blood trickled down his arms as the necromancer put more pressure on the blade, trying to force it down into Lyanth’s face.
Then the blade began to rust.
The necromancer stepped backwards, staring at his blade as it oxidized to nothing in his hands. “You… but you said you weren’t…”
Lyanth got up from the floor, his burning eyes narrowing to slits.

St. Claire cleft the skull of a final zombie, then turned and watched as Kelran put a glowing arrow through the eye-socket of another. “Well, that takes care of the outside,” the Paladin said. “Now to get that half-fiend out here to fight us.”
Kelran nodded. “I shall fall back. Signal if you need me.” The Elf backed his horse down the road they had come, staying away from the battle should any unpleasant surprises erupt from the fortress’ innards.
The Paladin approached the walls, and yelled out a challenge. “Verkar of the Eye! Come down here at once to answer charges of necromancy and harboring a fugitive! I, Leopold St. Claire of the Sacred Blade command you!”
Within moments, a limp body flew over the parapets, landing near St. Claire with a heavy thud. The Paladin looked down, startled. It was an old man in a bloodstained grey robe, a look of shock still on his face. The mark of the Eye Cult adorned his wrist. It was Verkar, dead.
Another figure dropped from the parapets, this one with wings, and landed softly in the turf. St.Claire readied his blade, but the man showed no signs of hostility.
“Well, Paladin? What do you want?” Lyanth asked, staring into St. Claire’s eyes with an ice-cold glare. “Here is your necromancer. Charge him with whatever you like.”
“See here,” St. Claire began, pointing at the half-fiend.
Lyanth slapped the Paladin’s gauntleted hand away. “No, I will not see anything. I did not kill the Oracle on purpose, the townspeople have had a grudge against me since I was a lad, and I may be the only person who can stop an ancient and powerful demon from being reborn.” The half-fiend turned away, and began walking. “You can try and stop me, but I am truly the lesser evil here. Just stay out of my way, Paladin. I have my own demons to fight.”
St. Claire watched Lyanth walk away, speechless. He glanced at the necromancer’s corpse, then at the departing half-fiend. Finally, he turned back to the bank where Kelran waited. “Come on, old friend. We have work to do.”
“We’re going to slay the half-fiend, then?” the Elf asked, unslinging his bow again.
“No,” St. Claire replied. “We’re going to help him.”













Characters and names used with permission from Renee-Claude Dostie