In theory, I believe it would be possible to adapt the binding rituals our priests use to imprison daemons, and turn them to the task of holding one of the Angelus. I have proposed the experiment to General Aurelius, but not yet received his approval.

* The Marian Codex

☀

13th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

The steel plates of Trist’s armor hit stone blocks with an audible clang, and the daemon Bathin’s body knocked the air from his lungs when the monster fell on top of him. The sparking portal snapped shut behind them, cutting off the cold breeze from Rocher de la Garde. Trist sucked in a desperate breath, grasped the monster’s arms in his gauntlets, and tried to wrest it off of him, but he was in the worst possible position.

Faerie Boons had blessed Trist with reflexes, grace, and physical speed far beyond those of a mortal man - and, at this point, beyond the speed of any daemon he’d encountered, either. But where faerie magic focused on speed, he’d learned over the course of many battles that daemonic Boons granted absolutely astounding strength. While he was certainly faster than Bathin, it was equally true that the Serpent of Gates had a brutal, raw power that Trist could not match. On top of it all, while Trist was exhausted by days of fighting and little sleep, the monster pinning him to the ground seemed to have done little but use its gates to ferry troops around the battlefield, leaving it comparatively fresh.

Struggle as he might, Trist was unable to prevent Bathin from first pinning him to the ground, then throwing aside his longsword, and finally lifting him up. He found himself spun about and then forced to his knees, with the daemon holding his arms behind his back in a grip as inexorable as the coming of winter. Finally, panting from exertion, Trist realized that he needed to conserve his strength, and stopped trying to get free.

He found himself in a throne room - the elder cousin of the great halls he’d feasted in at Camaret-à-Arden, Falais, and Rocher de la Garde. The floor and walls were of limestone blocks, with a vaulted ceiling overhead and a three step dais atop which a great throne rested. It was carved of oak, the deep, rich color of fresh honey, and displayed two golden lions rampant, rearing above the head of the man seated there: the arms of the royal family of Narvonne.

Suspended from the oak beams above the throne room hung four cages of black iron, from chains of steel. In three of the four cages lay people, starved and clothed only in rags: two men and a woman. The fourth cage was empty, and yet behind each cage was a circle, drawn on the floor in rusty-red paint. Within each circle was an Angelus, wingless, spiked to the stone wall with nails of iron. Golden ichor, some long-dried and crusted, some fresh and weeping from their wounds, surrounded each spike where it pierced their body.

Three banners had been hung behind the throne, none of them displaying the arms of the true royal family. Instead, to either side, a golden sheaf of wheat on a green field hung - the arms of the Barony du Champs d'Or. In the center, the largest banner displayed a golden eagle on a field of red - the symbol of the old Etalan Empire.

Surrounding the dais stood three daemons. The first took, for the most part, the form of a man, dressed in fine clothes; but it was barefoot, and where the monster’s skin touched the limestone of the floor, it smoked. Black feathered wings extended from its back, two sets of horns curled back from its head, and it wore a sword at his hip.

The second was far more monstrous, with only the lower part of its body even resembling that of a man, though more heavily muscled by far, and clothed only in a dirty loincloth. Instead of feet, it had hooves, and they matched the enormous bull’s head atop its shoulders.

The last daemon, to the right of the throne, was female in shape, and both beautiful and terrifying in the manner of a wildcat. She held a bow in her hand, unstrung, and carried a quiver of arrows across her back. Her hair was black as the deepest sea, cut to her shoulders, with bangs across her forehead from which emerged two sets of delicate horns. She wore the well-fitted leathers of a hunter, boots and bracers to protect her forearms, and leathery wings like those of a bat were furled behind her. The deep red of the wings reminded Trist of dried blood.

But it was the man on the throne who drew all attention in the room to him. In a way, he reminded Trist of Lionel Aurelianus: his confidence seemed to radiate from him, marking the man as the utter and absolute authority among those present. Trist recognized him immediately, for the Exarch who sat in that usurped throne matched the description given by Sir Guiron to the last detail.

Baron Maël du Champs d'Or - or, as he had revealed to the Exarch Guiron, Decimus Avitus, son of the last Etalan Emperor - wore a cuirass in the old Etalan style. The steel had been formed into the shape of a muscled torso, then enameled in white, with trim of gold wire. He wore a cloak of purple attached to the armor, which had been the royal color of the Etalans, as well as a golden crown in the shape of a wreath. The laurel rested among shortly-cropped curls of black hair, and the daemonic Exarch’s face was well formed and handsome, if also imperious and cruel.

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“This,” Avitus said, leaning forward from his seat to examine Trist closely, “is not Lionel Aurelianus. I have seen Lionel Aurelianus before, when I lured him to the Champs d'Or. I do not tolerate failure, Serpent of Gates.”

From behind Trist’s back, the daemon Bathin’s voice rumbled, “I have failed in that I did not bring you the prince. This man interfered. But I believe, First Exarch, that you may find him an acceptable prize, in place of the would-be-king.”

Avitus’ eyes flicked to Trist, and upon meeting that gaze he could not help but shiver. There was something utterly inhuman about Avitus’ stare. Trist had heard stories of how those who met the eyes of a serpent might find themselves frozen in fear. “What is your name,” Avitus demanded.

“I am Trist du Camaret-à-Arden,” he responded. Bathin already knew who he was: there was no point in attempting to conceal anything. “Exarch of Acrasia, in service to Auberon, the King of Shadows. Son of Rience and Cecilia.”

For a long moment, Avitus’ face remained still as death, and then slowly his lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. The eyes, Trist thought, of a corpse. “Your failure is forgiven, Bathin - this time. Do not allow it to happen again. Sir Trist,” he continued. “Nephew. I see my sister in your face. Yes, I heard your name from my daughter, not a week past. To hear her tell it, I have you to blame for her failure at Falais.”

“Valeria,” Trist said, with a scowl. “That is your daughter, is she not? She fled the pass rather than die on my sword, if that is what you mean. And you are no uncle of mine.”

“Blood does not lie,” Avitus mused, tapping his fingers against the oaken armrest of the throne. “And you were at Rocher de la Garde, were you? I presume, in that case, that you are also the reason my forces have not yet reported success in taking the city.”

Trist grinned. “I killed Zepar with my own hand,” he stated. “Wounded your leviathan. And Vinea the Stormbringer is dead, as well. Yes, when your men betrayed a parley under the flag of truce, the walls still held. And if only one Exarch can hold against your forces, you have cause to fear now, for three more are with King Lionel, and they will all come for you.”

In one of the iron cages, a gaunt woman stirred and gripped the bars with dirty hands, eyes shining at Trist’s words. Avitus, on the other hand, snarled. “Three Exarchs. There were six here in Cheverny when I broke the gates. You can see what is left of them behind me, in these cages.” He waved an arm at the ragged figures, and at the Angelus hung brutally from the walls behind them.

“No, Nephew, I do not fear your child Exarchs,” Avitus continued. “Only half grown into their power. Lionel will have Sir Bors, I know, and Sir Guiron, who fled from me in this very hall, like a cur with his tail tucked between his legs. And then my daughter tells me the last will be this woman in the red veil, from the Caliphate of Maʿīn. But not one of them has caused me so much trouble as you, and I think I have got the better of this bargain. For I suspect that if Lionel Aurelianus knelt before me now, you and your friends would come for him, and not rest until you confronted me. As your friends will, no doubt, come for you.”

Trist swallowed, but said nothing.

“Let them,” Avitus said.

“And what would you have done with this man, Emperor?” The daemon in fine robes asked. Its black feathered wings rustled as it turned to address the throne.

“Strip him of his armor,” Avitus commanded. “And cage him with the others. Unless, Nephew, you wish to join us? No, I thought not.”

Trist threw himself forward at that, and gathered his legs beneath him to rise, but Bathin’s immense strength was yet more than he could overcome. The daemon in the form of a woman set her unstrung bow against the throne, left it to lean there, and approached, rolling her hips.

“You are a handsome one,” the daemon purred. “I am Loray,” she said, “the archer, Marquise of Hearts.” She leaned her face in close to Trist’s and inhaled, while her delicate fingers worked the buckles on his pauldrons. “You could be mine, if you wish,” she offered, letting the pieces of armor fall to the floor with a clang. Her scent was like no perfume he’d ever tasted, but he recognized it all the same, for it was the smell of sex, of a lover’s excitement.

“Say the word,” Loray offered, as she removed his gorget and set to work on his cuirass, all while Trist struggled without result. “The First Exarch will break your chains. He can free you from this faerie wench you serve, and I will take you as my own Exarch in her place. You will find my service quite pleasurable, if somewhat… exhausting.” Her words were at once lulling, like a mother coaxing her infant to sleep, and stirring, igniting a lust that left his heart pounding and his throat dry.

Deep within Trist, the hot cord of an Oath sparked and flared to life. His eyes snapped awake, and the feelings of lust subsided. “No,” he said. “I will not serve you.”

“A pity,” Loray sighed. “But you may well change your answer, in time.” She pulled the cuirass off him, and then the cuisses and sabatons and all the rest, and did not stop even then. It was only when he’d been stripped of linen shirt, breeches and boots, until he was left bare. Then, the two daemons forced him into the empty iron cage, and locked the door behind him.

“Good,” Avitus said. “Now his faerie. I can see her lurking about.”

Acrasia threw herself out from Trist’s sword, where it had been thrown aside onto the limestone blocks of the floor. Her whips of fire and lashed out desperately, but she was quickly overpowered by the four daemons in the room. Trist grabbed at the iron bars of his cage, thinking to bend them, but cried out in pain as his palms burnt and smoked at contact with the metal.

“Trist!” Acrasia screamed as she was dragged over to the wall. “Help me!”

She was still screaming when the first spike was driven through her wrist.