-The Devil is in the details, they say.-
Settled on a thick and polished wooden table was a vile artifact. Men and women stared at it with eyes full of instinctive revulsion. One council member offered a pitying glance at the knight forced to hold and offer the abomination to them, as now not a single elected overseer was willing to reach out and touch it.
“Is that what I think it is?” Inalyn Orsticas, one of the seven elected council members of the Waren Republic, covered her mouth and nose with a thin hand.
“Is it real?” Asked Foracious Clausta, another council member, drumming his jeweled fingers on the tabletop.
There were seven council members elected to oversee the Waren Republic, and any major action required the approval of at least five of them. Cyril held her kneeling posture respectfully and answered.
“I assure you this is not a jest. I humbly urge you all to take this declaration of war seriously.”
“No, no,” a thin man, Hyustor Noprin, shook his head, looking queasy. “Is this letter written in blood?”
The mithril knight swallowed to firm her stomach and nodded. “The ink is blood, and the parchment is human skin. I… witnessed some of the process of its creation.”
A rather elderly man with a trim white beard raised his hand to settle the others. “I know this is quite shocking, but let us try to focus on the matter at hand.”
The old man, a man who had been consistently elected to a council seat every five-year term for six terms now, was Greyson Alabarna. His composure had a positive effect on the other shaken council members.
Greyson looked down at Cyril and asked her directly. “The sender claims to be a Devil and a Prince of Hell. Can you verify this, Dame Austin?”
Cyril Austin nodded, but then hesitated.
“There is evidence for him being a Devil, but the rest is impossible to prove.”
“Tell us about the evidence you mentioned, please.”
Five tense sets of eyes bore down on the knight, who was already tired from riding almost nonstop to deliver this letter. Only Greyson and council member Horacio Mauvek, a stern-looking former soldier with striking black hair, were taking this news calmly.
Cyril shut her eyes tightly as she recalled her memories of the Devil Astaroth.
“He looks like a human boy around twelve years old, but his hair is long and grey. If you look closely, his eyes are red, and he has fangs and claws. I’ve seen him create fire with magic: one spell was enough to blow an Ogre to pieces. And of course, he is… extremely cruel. I would say he enjoys seeing others suffer.” She lowered her head. “I believe he is a Devil.”
The last council member raised her hand, a young woman with fluffy brown hair tied behind her back. “Can you describe the magic he used in more detail?” She was Varincia Glout, the youngest member on the council at thirty one years old, and a talented sorceress.
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“It was a ball of dark red fire,” Cyril struggled to remember what she could from that sudden event. “It exploded on contact with the Ogre’s chest. Later, when he fought me and my men, he created lances and chains out of fire, ignited people just by looking at them, and he raised a wall of flames so more of us couldn’t escape.”
Horacio glanced at Varincia with his arms folded. “Does that sound like magic your sorcerers can match?”
The youngest council member held her chin in thought. “There’s no reason we couldn’t defeat a single caster at that level, but we don’t teach spells like some of the ones you described. We should probably assume that devils use different magic than sorcerers do. Like priests, but using unholy power.”
Foracious shrugged his shoulders with his forearms still on the table, “So Devils are the opposite of Angels? That’s no surprise.”
“But the fact that they’re real…” Inalyn chewed her lip. “And here…”
“Shouldn’t we let the church handle this Devil?” Hyustor suggested.
Greyson closed his eyes and hummed. “He has declared war on us with an army of monsters. Leaving the Devil himself to the church may be wise, but they will likely need the help of our soldiers just to get to him.”
The old man looked down at Cyril. “Who else knows about this threat?”
“The fortress city Ispandel was on my way, so I stopped briefly to warn them and change horses. That’s all.”
Hyustor tapped his pointer finger rapidly on the tabletop. “Ah, we have to get word to the cities as soon as possible. It would be terrible if they were caught unprepared.”
#
“By the Angels, is the city on fire?”
On a dirt road lined by trees on either side, a man was riding his horse. In the direction of his destination, the fortress city of Limure, streams of dark smoke could be seen rising into the sky.
He didn’t know that the letter in his bag was news of a declaration of war, only that he was told to ride fast from Ispandel.
The messenger debated for a moment whether to flee potential danger or to push his horse even harder, but the choice was ultimately made for him. Ever since the moment he accepted this job, his only option was to complete his delivery, or he would never work as a messenger again.
The man tapped his heels, urging his steed to pick up the pace. The noble stallion accelerated from a gallop to a sprint, passing at least a dozen more trees.
And then a shadow sprung from the woods, caught the messenger by the neck, and forcibly dismounted him.
His last moments were spent being helplessly dragged into the woods while blood filled his throat, watching a group of large and ferocious dogs surround his horse.
#
“There, you have my signature,” Lord Aldermane set down his quill. A great golden light shined from the Infernal contract, mixed with streaks of red, and he suddenly felt quite ill. Bending forward, as if to retch, he expelled some misty white substance from his mouth, which floated to the Devil’s fingertips. It spun there and coalesced into a shiny black coin, with his own face engraved on the surface.
“Th… that… what…?” The Count felt weak and dizzy, but he could also tell that his strength was gradually returning to him.
“It’s your soul,” Astaroth said, smiling as he admired the coin. “Bound in black steel. I own you now, mortal; your life is quite literally in my hands.”
Count Aldermane took a deep breath. Bishop L’oral had told him as much, but he had still chosen to avoid death.
“So what is it you want, Devil?”
“Command your troops to surrender,” Astaroth showed a sharp-toothed grin. “After that, as stated in our contract, you’ll help me manage this city. Oh, and don’t go communicating with the enemy, alright? You’re on my side of this war now.”
“War?” the City Lord scoffed. “Invasion more like.”
“No, it is a proper war, waged in my name. Human, I’ve yet to introduce myself. I am Astaroth, a Prince of the Nine Hells.” He pointed out a window to where his palanquin sat. “Now, let’s go and put an end to this unnecessary waste of resources.”