(17)

Aside from size, Dakunaito's estate wasn't a grand affair. He held an inherent distaste for useless luxuries, preferring spartan, practical aesthetics. The grounds had training fields instead of blackthorn hedge mazes and athletic tracks instead of walking paths. Despite the outward elegance of the black manse he called home, its halls were hollow and unadorned.

The facilities on his estate grounds could serve to train a small army, were they put to such a use. However, as he stared out the gothic window of his study, he knew without a doubt he was the only soul on the entire property.

It hadn't always been that way, but as he turned back to the room's interior, he shoved that train of thought from his mind.

The study was nearly such in name only. It had a simple ashstone desk and matching chair, as well as some shelves for keeping various books of record, but that was where the semblance ended.

Weapons and shields of historical significance hung from the walls where other greater demons would have portraits or trophies. His very first set of armor stood preserved on a stand against the wall to the left of the door, above which was mounted his very first sword. Both were many sizes too small for him now.

In the corner next to that was a hutch built from blackened ironwood, and he went over to it. Upon one of the shelves rested a box of black wood with bronze latches. Rather than the box, itself, it was its contents that his mind hadn't been able to shake.

With one thumb, he popped the latches and, with the other hand, he lifted the lid. The hinges didn't so much as squeak in protest of the motion. With the hand that had lifted the latches, he reached in and removed the only object remaining inside.

The demon turned the golden neck band over in his massive hands, marveling at how small and easily snappable a neck would have to be for it to fit around it.

The third piece of the evangelium and hordestadt set crafted by the naga blacksmith Narhia had never been given to the changeling that had replaced Nariko Kelly.

He hadn't wanted her to get so comfortable in the role. So long as he hunted Thunder Witch, the changeling's place in this world was temporary. The sword and pistol had been enough to ensure her safety, and that was where his responsibility ended.

But fate had a way of mocking him. Instead of cowering behind the Witches, the changeling had taken up the moniker of Sword Witch, and had been growing rapidly ever since. Rather than being a hindrance, the lack of strength and protection, be it from a transformation or such an item as the collar, had only pushed her to grow in different, bizarre directions.

Humans were horrible spellcasters. This was well known to every demon, to whom magic came as naturally as breathing. With no training, no resources and no cultural respect for spellcraft, even Witches, with their natural talent and massive mana pools, were no different.

Each and every one of them relied on their transformation to do their casting for them. This meant that every spell they had was a unique reflection of themselves, but also couldn't be accessed in their normal state.

If a demon were so decrepit as to possess such a vulnerability, they would live their lives striving to ensure that secret never made it to another soul's ears out of shame and fear of ridicule.

Yet, it would seem, none of the above applied to Sword Witch. Incapable of transforming and possessing no knowledge of magic, she was nevertheless rapidly learning spells from those around her merely from witnessing them. Unquestionably, she was some sort of prodigy, but all Witches were. That, alone, was a meaningless statement.

But this wasn't something Thunder Witch could do. Moreover, the changeling hadn't just copied any generic spell, but unique magic from the other Witches. She had also shown inhuman control over her own mana when channeling it into a mundane object.

Yes, he'd watched her fight with that stupid needle of a training weapon. He was the one that had fed the darkness in their fellow student and placed the curse upon her. He was the one who raised the seal to keep the two Witches from dawdling further.

He couldn't say he had expected much from the tiny little student, but he'd sensed her deep lust for power and found himself curious what she would do with it. Her lack of will to see it through, however, had left him revolted. In the end, all of the power in the world couldn't overcome her own great weakness.

He hadn't expected her to win, but if she'd at least made the effort to the very end, she might have had promise with training.

And yet the changeling had only used the opportunity to grow further. She accurately assessed her opponent and used the girl to test herself. She was discovering skills that might have been basic for a demon her age, but only because of a lifetime of training and experience. She was piecing together much of the same through nothing but magical instinct and natural talent.

... Two things no human, nor even any Witch, possessed. Certainly, Witches possessed arcane talent of a sort, but not such precise control over their mana. They were slaves to their transformations.

A part of him questioned if the changeling were actually human. The more he witnessed of her, the more he was certain that, if nothing else, she was not Thunder Witch. Some sort of eldritch clone, perhaps, built by whoever had stolen his quarry away from him.

Whatever she was, however, she possessed keen instincts, a sense of priority in battle he found commendable, and an innate magical talent that would turn even a demon of the imperial house green with envy.

He knew his prey well, and he was certain Thunder Witch only possessed one of those things. Certainly, her ... Analysis seemed to be along the same lines as the changeling's instincts, but it was stunted by selfish immaturity and a poisonous sense of self-importance and infallibility.

Perhaps the changeling, if she were, indeed, crafted as a decoy, had been created imperfectly. Not every single aspect of Thunder Witch's nature, but only broad swaths of her strengths and weaknesses. Perhaps her creator lacked a fundamental knowledge of how Witches worked. Perhaps it had all come together to create this anomalous specimen, who broke all of the rules to be exceptional in far too many ways.

Did any of that matter? Logically, it didn't. Not to him, anyway. She belonged under a knife in the imperial laboratories, not wresting his attention away from his normal brooding.

That was the answer he kept giving, yet the matter kept returning to his mind as if the topic were unsatisfied with his response.

Neck guard still in hand, he left the study virtually on autopilot as he made his way toward his training room.

The hallways may have been empty, but they were well lit in opposition to his largest complaint about the city. Even during the day, interior halls like this one never extinguished their emberstone lanterns. There were no shadows for an enemy to be lurking in, no large objects to conceal them, and the sudden appearance of either would be strikingly apparent.

Dakunaito's home was his castle, and a castle was meant to be a fortress. Within these walls, any foe would be hard pressed to threaten him. It was not that he feared a threat, but that, in the realm of demons, threats were everpresent. Lesser demons especially could afford no security such as what gave him peace of mind.

That finally sent his mind away from the changeling, and as he entered the large room, lined with even more weapons and with a matted floor dotted with training equipment, his thoughts instead went to one demon in particular. The demon who made the choker he still held.

The momentary thought that Narhia could be assaulted for no other reason than the whim of a more powerful being sent adrenaline surging inexplicably through Dakunaito's veins. His free hand clenched into a crushing fist as darkness seethed around it and his eyes burned. Sudden anger he didn't understand flared within him as his body longed to lash out at an enemy that did not exist.

With effort, he suppressed the emotional outburst and reasserted cold rationality over his body.

Any common demon needed only look at her to know they would be better off to find an easier target elsewhere. Even if it weren't for the muscles honed like a blade from her own forge, her long tail would be capable of binding and crushing an opponent foolish enough to get within half a dozen meters of her. Just her gaze would cause a weak-willed attacker to freeze in their steps.

And most importantly of all, she wasn't his responsibility.

The evangelium and hordestadt caught the light in his hand. Neither is the changeling, it seemed to say.

He nearly pitched it across the room in frustration. Instead, he set it down and moved over to pull a blade from the wall. It wasn't anything special, formed of moderate-quality materials and bearing no enchantment. It was a simple training blade. Perhaps he could clear his mind with some thorough exercise.

But then again, he could go check on her. After all, what if he needed more work done, and something really had happened to her?

His thumb, almost without him noticing, moved up above the guard to press against the flat of the blade just above it. What if the sword broke in his frustrations? It was a fragile thing, after all, compared to him. It wouldn't take that much pressure ...

Dakunaito bashed the pommel against the side of his helmet, causing a great clang that reverberated around the room. By the emperor's horns, what was he thinking?! Was he seriously considering breaking one of his own weapons to make up an excuse to go see a woman?! Had he gone mad?! Had the blacksmith hexed him in some way?

His mind flashed unbidden to her piercing gaze and what constituted his heart sped up half a beat.

No, no, he would have noticed such a thing. It certainly would have been apparent before now.

Perhaps it had simply been too long since he'd purged his baser needs into a common wench. Perhaps that was what he should be doing to clear his mind. Find some soft-fleshed trollop with nothing but air and giggles in her head and mounds the size of that head on her chest. Leave the training until he wasn't entertaining such ludicrous notions.

He had half inserted the blade back into its still mounted scabbard when his hand stopped all but on its own. He realized he felt completely unresponsive to the fantasy he'd conjured up. Such a soft, vapid thing may have been fine for a burst of relief and to then abandon, but it didn't seem a solution, and his eyes were once again locked on the flat just above the guard ...

It really wasn't anything special, just a simple training blade ...

* * *

The cavern's oppressive heat was almost cool next to the internal heat of his own humiliation that he made absolutely certain never made it to his face ... even if he had a face for it to show on. He had already done the despicable deed, already come here with the second scabbard in hand, already passed the weapon to the smith.

It was too late to take any of it back, so he would stand there and force the world to stare him back. He would dare it to mock him against the threat of his real sword. He would do as he wished, for he was Dakunaito!

... Nevermind cool, the room felt briefly chilly when, fifteen seconds after examining the broken weapon, she held the hilt in her hand and silently put her thumb experimentally through the exact same motion he had used.

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Narhia said nothing about it, however, and simply set the two parts of the broken weapon on a table beside its sheath, then turned back to him with her piercing eyes that seemed to see right through him. Again, he reminded himself it was only a trait of serpentkin. She wasn't actually seeing straight into his soul.

"This is not like you," she stated simply.

He turned his whirling insides into anger as his eyes flashed threateningly. "You know so much of me, smith?"

It was as if she hadn't even noticed. "I know you take excellent care of your weapons."

"I was under a great deal of stress," he said in reply, "and broke it before I took control of my own strength."

She returned her gaze to the weapon and, he thought, to the break caused by his thumb. "No, I speak of its maintenance. It is not kept to the same quality as your primary blade."

Without so much as a sound or motion, he cursed himself for speaking too readily, but he kept his voice steady and commanding. "I own many hundreds of weapons, of arms and armor. If I took the time to polish, sharpen and oil each one every day, nothing else would exist."

"A collector's dilemma," she noted as if it was a shortcoming she saw often. "Yet you are a greater demon. Can you not trust your servants or retainers to perform such tasks?"

"I keep no such staff."

Her piercing gaze came back to him. "Are you poor? Did your previous commission deplete you?"

At that, his temper riled up good and genuine to her prods. "I choose to keep no staff, smith. I care not for the noise of such company."

"Then you have too many weapons."

He growled in frustration. Why had he wanted to see this damnable woman, again? "Will you fix the sword, smith, or not?"

She turned back toward it again, this time examining it more thoroughly with several tools. After a couple minutes, she turned back to him again. "I will, but under a condition."

Again, Dakunaito's eyes flashed threateningly. "You believe you can dictate terms to a greater demon?"

"If you will not hire staff to do it for you, you will consent to my services once a week, where I will go to your estate and perform essential maintenance on what I can for the day. You will then be left to your silence."

He growled. What game was she playing at? Was this some scheme to extort him? To get access to his property?

Narhia answered his growl as if it were a vocalized objection. "I will not work on weapons that will simply turn around and suffer other damage from neglect. There is too much for me to do to waste such time."

His protests died. She did know what to say. "How much?"

* * *

Dakunaito stepped back onto the city's dim streets and paused as he let his eyes adjust. His insides were conflicted over what had transpired. On the one hand, he had accomplished his goal and more. On the other, he had stooped low to do so, and he was fairly certain she knew.

In either case, at least his collection would be better maintained, he reasoned as he started down the slate-paved street. He'd have to watch her work to make sure she was performing her tasks acceptably.

"Master Dakunaito! Master Dakunaito!"

Well, this was becoming a particularly regular occurrence. He turned to face the bright-eyed imp that was hurrying toward him. He was fairly certain this was a different one from before, as it had a torn length of cloth tied like a ribbon around one horn and wore a raggedy skirt.

"Speak," he commanded.

"Master Dakunaito," the childlike demon informed him as it skidded to a stop in front of him, "the Palace has requested your presence!"

His eyes narrowed. "You do not look like an imperial messenger."

"Oh, I'm not, that guy's an idiot!" the imp told him with a grin. "He went completely the wrong direction looking for you, so I thought I'd take the initiative and let you know so you wouldn't be late!"

... It stood there looking at him with the wide, stupid grin on its face like it was waiting for praise.

"I'll be going, then," was all he said and walked right past it.

* * *

The imperial messenger only caught up with him when he was reaching the gates of the palace courtyard. "M'lord!" the winded demon gasped, holding up a hand beseeching him to wait. "M'lord, a message for you from the palace!"

His eyes burned as he narrowed them into piercing red dots at the panting figure. "You lost to an imp, messenger. I have already received your message. The palace will be informed of your performance."

"Ah! Please, m'lord! I tried!" he urged as he went to follow the greater demon. "I went straight to your estate, only to find you were not there!"

"You are bad at your job in general, then," Dakunaito noted. "I will include that in my report."

The messenger was about to plead again, but Dakunaito suddenly stopped ahead of him. The lower servant paused to trace his line of sight to see the crowned prince leaning against the doorway ahead, grinning pointedly at the warrior.

Bravery left the messenger and he bowed. "I ... I will trust your wisdom, m'lord, and seek to do better. In fact, I should return to my post right away, in case there is more for me to do."

The swordsman only gave a terse, small nod, and the messenger practically fled the scene.

"Help just isn't what it used to be," Eirwen joked once Dakunaito continued his approach.

"You should hire the imps," the swordsman quipped back sourly. "Not only are they faster than wherever you're getting your messengers now, but they know the right direction to run off in."

"I'll bring it up with Mother," the prince said. "You know how busy Father is, after all."

But then he put himself in front of the door just before the swordsman reached it. "But I wasn't just talking about messengers, you know. Rumor has it you've been moping about your empty little shack even more than usual. And despite an uptick in your trips to Earth, the one protodemon you bound barely put up a fight."

He smirked in a way he probably thought intimidating, but the swordsman just thought made him look like a posturing child. "Should we get an imp to replace you, too, Dakunaito?"

The demon growled deeply, the sound reverberating inside his armor. Though he made no motion to draw his sword, his gauntlet gripped the sheath. "Watch your tone, boy. You are not the demon your father is, and you do not sit upon his throne just yet."

As if it had never been there, the expression blew away from the young man's face like a gust of fresh snow. He raised his hands in an innocent laugh, not that the swordsman was fooled. "Oh, I'm just teasing, Dakunaito! You know the Palace appreciates your long and storied service."

Dakunaito simply gave another, shorter growl and shouldered past the youth and through the massive double doors.

The grand main hall of the palace opened up before him, wide enough for tens of dretches to stand shoulder to shoulder and long enough for ten times that. At the far end and to the right, he knew, was the hall that led to the wing reserved for the emperor's harem.

The emperor was as generous with his women as he was to them. They lived in luxury, with their only duties to the empire to come when called, to serve who called, and to keep themselves pleasing in the meantime. He had been allowed to sample one of them once. She had been like fine tofu. Velvety, silken ... and entirely devoid of taste.

Annoyingly, Eirwen followed on his heel. "You know, Dakunaito, I've been wondering, where in the world did the lovely, newly-minted Sword Witch get her golden weapons? They bear a striking semblance to demon weapons, don't you think?"

"I think a great deal about a great many things, Prince," he growled back without breaking stride. "Your cleverness is not one of them, and neither is my patience."

"Well, perhaps I might impress you yet," the young man pursued. "You see, if they were demon weapons, their design could only be that of evangelium and hordestadt. Of course, I immediately queried the imperial craftsmen, and do you know what I found out?"

"Presumably, not how to keep to yourself."

"No one had made such a design. Of course, the palace is where all the most skilled craftsmen are, so the weapons had to come from here, no?"

"And this is why I think little of your cleverness, boy," the knight corrected him irritably. "You jump to far too many conclusions."

"How right you are, Dakunaito." The prince was disproportionately cheerful over the comment, a fact that put the dark knight on edge, though he kept it from showing. "I confess, it befuddled me for three whole days before I realized my mistake!"

"Only three?"

"Either I was wrong about them being demonic weapons, or they weren't made in the palace. But no commoner could afford evangelium and hordestadt." He stepped up his pace to pull just a little ahead of the swordsman, that deceptively innocent smile on his face. "So I started looking into what nobles did the most business in the city. Witnesses have seen you there surprisingly often as of late, you know. Frequenting a weapons merchant, no less."

"They have no evangelium and hordestadt."

"Oh? Were you in the market?"

"I've been considering an upgrade, but I don't put enough stock in the palace craftsmen."

"Yet you keep going back to this store that does not have it?"

Finally, Dakunaito had enough. He turned and with one hand, yanked the boy off his feet by the neck. Eirwen had time only to give a surprised yelp, and any servants in sight took one look and disappeared through any nearest door or passageway like scattering cats.

With his other hand, Dakunaito drew his sword out, a heavy thing for its size that seemed to be pressed from midnight-black steel. He held it up between the two of them, turning the boy's head to force him to look at it.

"If you want to examine my weapon more closely, Your Highness, you need only ask. While there are many tiers of alloys above it, you'll find it cuts exceedingly well all the same. I needn't jump straight to evangelium and hordestadt. Claretstone Iron, perhaps. Though I understand it needs to be bloodied to bind to its wielder."

Eirwen held his hands submissively to either side of him as he hung from his own neck in the man's massive grip. "Very sharp, Lord Dakunaito."

The swordsman shoved the ice mage to the ground and sheathed his weapon, though he turned his burning, narrowed eyes back to the boy. "Be more careful of your tongue, boy. Go bandying about implications, and you'd best be prepared to state it plainly or to get that tongue cut out of your mouth."

And Dakunaito turned from the boy. His footsteps on the stairs up to the imperial audience chamber shook the stonework with every step, but he didn't permit himself to give the prince even a second glance.

* * *

The throne room of the imperial palace dominated the great majority of the second floor. Dakunaito knew that there were small rooms for various purposes around the outer edge of the floor, as well as stairs up to the actual living area for the imperial family, but one could easily forget such details when confronted with the sheer size of this single space. The Emperor could address a hundred demons in this room, all before him, and none feeling crowded.

This, of course, left much space for one demon to cross even once he was up the stairs. Even Dakunaito's footfalls didn't so much as blemish the obsidian black tiles that spread out over the floor in every direction while golden pillars held the high marble ceilings aloft. These were symbolic things, with the marble the sky of heaven and the tiles the soot and ash from which demons first crawled. Some believed the pillars were bridges between the two, others that they represented demonic power reaching upward. Personally, he was of the opinion that they were very expensive supports for a too-heavy ceiling.

Only two other people stood visible in the room, both flanking the most prominent feature of the entire room. There was no visible throne, but rather a great, ornate frame carved with figures depicting the great legends of demon history stood in resplendent evangelium and hordestadt, its sole purpose to bear the imperial sudare that concealed the throne from view. None were allowed to look directly upon the Demon Emperor as he held court, and only his immediate family were allowed to see him at any other time. None could doubt when the emperor was at court, however, as his mere presence filled the room with the sheer magnitude of his demonic aura.

To the left of the curtains, on what would be the Emperor's right hand, was Oribou, the wrinkled eunuch that wisely served as the emperor's closest and most trusted advisor. Old Oribou was a palace staple, and none could recall a time when he wasn't shuffling the halls on this errand or that. It was rumored that he was so old that he had actually been the emperor's teacher when the mightiest demon in all the realms was but a boy. He rarely gave orders, but when he did, they bore the weight of the emperor's will.

On the other side stood the Empress. A woman famed for her beauty as much as for her power, it was said that in her youth, she strode across the battlefield as the very bodies of her foes shredded themselves at her command. Early middle age had filled her form out pleasantly, and her blue flesh had lost the lean, sleek form of a young huntress in favor of the soft plushness of a mother without any of the sagging of age.

The Emperor was the only being to whom Dakunaito would bow, and once he crossed the throne room to the appropriate point, bow, he did, going down on one knee as his eyes went dark within his helmet - shut as if behind eyelids as he lowered his head to his liege. He said nothing, for it would have been disrespectful to act as if the one who sent for him did not know why he was there, or to imply the Emperor could not see that he had arrived.

It was the empress, however, who spoke first. This was not uncommon. The Emperor rarely spoke from behind the curtain, preferring to speak with his advisor and his wife extensively before such a meeting, or motioning for one of them if he changed his mind on a matter. Simply put, all other demons were too far beneath him. It was a great honor or a terrible nightmare to make such an impression on him that the Emperor would address an individual directly.

"Lord Dakunaito," she said, and her voice was a lovely thing, pleasant to the ears, if crisp and chilled, "long have you served your Emperor with distinction, and save for him, many consider you the mightiest demon of our age. Were there a full war with the mortal world, we have no doubt you would stand on its front line with honor and power, a force the humans would memorialize for a thousand years in their darkest tales."

The old eunuch verbally stepped in, and from his throat came a desert air that parched his words into a dusty rasp. "We do not wage open war with the mortal world, however. Ancient pacts bind us and threaten us with annihilation should we not abide by them. We are only permitted to weight the scales against the realm, and then we will receive our reward."

"The arrival of the Arbiter approaches quickly, Lord Dakunaito," the empress continued. "Our oracles say that the scales should already be tipping. Yet when they were measured, they remained in balance. If this is not corrected when the appointed time comes, our people will be damned to these hells for another eternity."

The tales of an Arbiter were old myth as far as Dakunaito was concerned. Stories of a bloody messiah come to release them and grant the demons the whole of the mortal world if they only prepared it for his arrival first.

He could see many more practical reasons for the demons' patient strategy against Earth. A more active, conventional invasion could awaken more Witches, for one of the bigger ones. Demons were not a numerous species, and even if only one in every hundred thousand humans could become a Witch, the demons' fighting forces would be drastically outnumbered and victory would forevermore become an impossibility. Targeted strikes against known threats was simply a wiser use of their limited resources.

But that was irrelevant. He lived to serve the Emperor, and the failure of the scales to align with prophecy disturbed the great being. It was, therefore, his responsibility to correct that.

His black hand tightened its grip on the sheath at his hip, which he had been holding out of the way to kneel without catching it, and he opened his coal-like eyes as he raised his head to the dividing screen.

"Tell me what you would have me do, my liege."