The average daemon would steal, cheat and kill to advance his station, each and every means coming to him as second nature as much as considered fair game by their peers. Those who fell to them weren’t pitied, nor they invoked any kind of outrage. They were the ones at fault. They simply weren’t cunning, strong, merciless, or favored enough to survive in the unforgiving world of daemons. Meanwhile, those who thrived on the skins of others, growing fat and powerful from trampled lives, were considered paragons. Hated just as much as looked up to, they incarnated everything a daemon wanted to be. Feared, adored, with power and control at their fingertips.
Not so the Zubari.
The slaver daemons were fat, slow, and had no mind for fighting. What they had was cold intelligence and a discerning eye, and a propensity for sadistic control that put other daemons to shame.
In their sub-society, it wasn’t the most powerful, cunning or merciless who stood at the top, but the most economically savvy, the most efficient slavemaster and, most importantly, the richest. Masters of daemonic binding contracts, they trafficked with a multitude of strange tokens, hoarding them just as much as they did with slaves, property and anything else they could put their grubby little hands on. They didn’t have ritual combats or proper wargames to decide lords, but incomprehensible ceremonies where endless contracts were recited and ingots and slaves were measured with all kinds of unknown tools. Their lords didn’t fight with armies, assassination and politics, but through trade agreements, blockades and forced inflation.
In the maze of rules, restrictions and limitations that kept daemon society from crumbling apart, a daemon cunning enough to find and exploit a loophole was celebrated. The same among the Zubari was lauded as heroes’ work, since the dizzying array of regulations, monitoring and controls were tight enough to barely leave space for breathing.
The other daemons didn’t understand them. Riches were a means to an end, to more control and power, but for the Zubari it seemed they were an end to themselves. They called them cowardly and unsightly, and didn’t trust them, barely considering them proper daemons at all. After all, what daemon would follow a fat slob slumped on a throne?
It didn’t help that the Zubari did everything in their power to remark the difference with “lesser” daemons. Instead of reeking of blood and sweat, their quarters reeked with cloying perfumes and were kept fastidiously clean by chained slaves. Instead of marks and scars, weapons and arms of power, they weighted themselves with jewels and armor as heavily ornamental as it was useless in battle. Worse, Zubari lords didn’t walk the same ground as other daemons, held aloft by ornate palanquins, and even their lowest subordinates had at least a slave to perch upon.
Woe to the daemon that got caught in a Zubari binding contract, signed and enforced by the Tyrant’s will. A daemonlord would use the prospective slave as cannon fodder in a blood-drenched battle. A Zubari slavemaster would gleefully squeeze him to the last drop of blood, and then have the remaining husk to lift cargo.
As things were, the rest of the daemon race would have long massed to exterminate this blemish. But as with many other things, the Father’s commands checked their aggression. The Tyrant smiled upon the Zubari and the daemons would have to tolerate, willing or not.
And as in all things ordered by the Father, the daemons acquiesced, in rancour and lack of understanding. If anything, they were thankful the Darkness had seen proper for the Zubari to have such pitiful rates of reproduction compared to the ravenous ones of the rest of the race. Otherwise, with how little they killed each other, they would have overrun Uthar by now.
Zongatis thought that and more as she stood before Zubar’s palanquin. The daemon lord didn’t even glance her way, he hurriedly fretted on two of the dwellers. Holding fruits up for the little being to nibble on, he cooed with a surprisingly melodic voice, hurrying to wipe any juice spilling down their cheeks and chins with a spotless handkerchief. Little legs kicking happily from one of the throne’s gold armrests, the dwellers beamed, overjoyed by the attention.
Zongatis repressed the rising annoyance with practiced familiarity. The Gennoth knew the importance of the Zubari, unlike the rabble, and saw the wisdom of the Father in tolerating them. Zubari slaves tilled the meat-fields that fed daemon armies, and Zubari hands formed an important part of the economy that kept the realm’s gears turning. They were an unwholesome but necessary part of Uthar.
“Zubar,” she repeated.
The daemon turned, looking as annoyed as he was disturbed from important state affairs by a menial, and Zongatis found herself facing a legend.
Zubar was the first of the Zubari, one of the first five daemons to be spawned by the Father himself upon Uthar at the beginning of time. That he was also the only living survivor of that august company said a lot about Zubari society. Up to this day, it was a sore spot for the Gennoth to be reminded of the pitiful way their founder had incurred the Father’s wrath.
Zubar’s rheumy eyes narrowed before widening in gruff recognition. The kindly grandfather disappeared, replaced by a ruthless baron with a gaze of ice.
“Jiran,” he grumbled, slumping on his throne.
The Zubari that was called was a specimen that would have been particularly fat if not for the fact that he missed the greater part of his lower body, with the remaining welded to a platform beside the throne. One of the most unpleasant ways for a Zubari contract to end, and a typical Zubari reward for gross incompetence.
Jiran lifted the end of a massive scroll and, with a droning voice that could be barely called alive, started to drone all the losses in tokens and investments lost with the batch of slaves taken by the Kiaraki.
“Spare me,” Zongatis cut him off. Ignoring the menial, he planted her gaze on Zubar. Legend or not, she was a direct daughter, and would not be cowed. “The Father does not care for losses in money, Zubar.”
Usually, wielding the name of the Father was enough to cow any resistance. Not so with such an old, crafty daemon.
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“The Father, the Father,” he grumbled. A thin tendril of energy shot from a fat finger, hitting Jiran. The scribe’s hands clutched the scroll furiously as a silent scream was ripped from his lips. “The Father will be hearing about this, no doubt. Losing unique specimens? Allowing the rabble to raze such a bountiful land?” He shook his head, a grandfather disappointed and painfully if reluctantly aware of his duties.
Zongatis kept her body language carefully neutral. She had focused on finding the Mother, and her actions could easily be explained as such, but the Father wasn’t known to be merciful about anything less than perfection, and the loss of unknown assets could be twisted into more than it effectively was, especially if a well-renowned daemon like Zubar put his thumb on the scales.
If only she knew a little more about that cursed place… but there was no point in bemoaning.
“You’ll be rewarded…”
Greed gleamed in Zubar’s eyes. He turned briefly. “Forgive me, my pretties,” he intoned. “You’ll have to abide alone for a while, as I confer with this one.”
“Alright, Zubar!” The two said cheerfully.
Zubar smiled gently, and then turned back to her, all business once more. The transformation was as uncanny as it was quick. Zongatis felt a thrill of unease.
Zubar steepled twenty fingers together. “There’s a certain daemon lord that has been entrusted with a certain matter by the Father. The details are unimportant. All you need to know is that he cannot be trusted with this matter. A Zubari would be much more suitable, for the good of the realm,” he conceded. “The Father has long moved His august attention to other, more pressing matters, so it’s the Shadow’s business to adjudicate about it. Now, if it was me proposing a change of leadership, it would be called, let’s say, partial. But should a Gennoth do it, or, even better, a member of the Lineage…”
He left the rest unsaid, and Zongatis had to stop herself from shaking her head.
“We’re on a holy quest, Zubar,” she said. “We should be giving our all to this. Yet you are thinking about… this?”
Another transformation took hold of Zubar. As his face tigethened and twisted, all of a sudden it was neither a kindly grandfather nor a ruthless merchant prince before her. It was an avatar of unbridled rage.
“This? This…?!” He growled. “And you speak to me of holy? Don’t make me laugh. My wealth is what is holy to me. My soul. My flesh! And when that bitch’s hounds took that batch from me, it felt like she ripped out my guts!” Zubar’s features tightened in a hateful mask. “I’ll have her hide for that, I’ll hang her skin on my wall and have my slaves feed on her limbs. You’ll have her excoriated, won't you?”
Zongatis nodded slowly, and the glee beaming from Zubar couldn’t have been more absolute.
“I’ll be there, oh, I’ll be there. To watch, for sure, and pick up a few mementos.” He paused, and his rage seemed to abate. “Holy, you say? Right now, I am lying my offering to my god’s feet, replenishing my drained blood, putting back my ripped meat. You won’t take that from a poor old daemon, won’t you? No, you’re a good girl. Not like that other one.” He slumped back down on the throne, now mollified. “You follow our god, and I’ll follow mine. You’ll see that it’s the same one in the end. I’ll get back my guts and add some layers of fat, and you, well, you’ll get what you’re worth.” He laughed, a low, grating sound, turned to the two dwellers and started to caress them gently. “Talk with my lieutenant. He’ll sort you out.”
Zongatis waited a moment more, just to make sure the meeting was effectively over, then turned and walked away. It was a shame that she couldn’t bring this blasphemer to the Order’s scourges. Zubar was beyond the reach even of one of the Blood like her. But in one thing, he was right. She would have Kiarak excoriated by the end of that quest. Maybe it would make it all up.
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The Zubari set to work with zealous glee. Reports were heard, and then bundles of threads brought from Uthar were unloaded by slaves and weaved together at the specifications of the Zubari slavemasters. Nets and bolas were fashioned, hand-crafted for massive talons and wings and cursed by Gennoth to resist lightning.
The bait-group in the forest was left to itself, with the daemons scattering and picked one by one by the Mother.
The remaining were ordered to kill their hostages, one by one until their target presented itself. It took two killings for the Mother to appear.
It emerged from the ground in a blaze of furious light, tendrils of lightning lashing out to roast the daemon about to kill the third hostage. The rest had just the time to screech in surprise, before the monster was upon them with gleaming claws and deadly beak.
Zongatis waited just enough for the monster to dispatch the bait and focus on the hostages, then sprung her trap.
Three Ascended, one of which was desperate for redemption, would have been the match for an army of three thousand daemons. Complemented by Gennoth fed with the blood of darkness, chosen hulking Thilgra, Xaglar and elite warriors, they could have conquered a daemon court on their own.
For all that, the monster put up an impressive fight, shredding daemons by the dozens with its talons, punching through armored chests with its beak, and roasting and blasting them to bits with lightning.
It took the combined efforts of Kiarak and Ulvanach to entangle it with enough nets to force it to the ground and the joined magics of all the Gennoth and their demigoddess to bring it down. Even like that, it kept fighting and fighting, throwing off the ravening daemons piling on it, ripping them to pieces again and again. But it was only one and they were many. Moreover, the monster had this inexplicable obsession with the little ones, protecting them when it would have been wiser to retreat.
In the end, it took a thunderous bolt from Zongatis to bring it down. Smoking, burned, its wings shredded and torn, the monster crashed to the ground, one hundred daemons piling on top of it and another hundred holding the chains and rope shackling it.
It kept moving, fighting weakly, but its fight was over. It had lost.
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Zongatis breathed out slowly as she lowered her hand, the last shimmer fizzling away from her fingers.
“Is it done?” Kiarak asked, landing close. The demigoddess favored her left side, and many of her burns had been renewed. The rebelliousness had gone out of her, and now she almost dangled by Zongatis’ lips. Hoping to be spared, no doubt.
Zongatis ignored her, peering beyond the dust obscuring the air. The monster was almost completely buried by daemons and nets. It wriggled weakly, letting out low, keening sounds. But it couldn’t escape. It was, for all intents and purposes, subdued.
Zongatis felt a surge of triumph.
“It is,” she murmured, for her own sake rather than Kiarak’s. She had done. She truly had. Delicious thoughts of rewards and glory flittered before her. The Father would praise her, raise her even higher. This was her victory.
Her reveries were interrupted by, to her surprise, one of the dwellers. The little thing had wobbled her way, and now looked at her with a puzzled frown.
“Big brother…” he said. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if unsure how to articulate his thoughts. He put a finger in his mouth, looking thoughtful, then pointed it toward the bound beast. “Fly?”
The other hostages were clustering around a scorched wing, tentatively touching and pulling at the next holding it down.
“Fly?” The little thing repeated, then waved his arms, mimicking the act of flying.
Zongatis felt a surge of disdain. Weak, pathetic creatures, so stupid they didn’t even understand they were getting conquered and enslaved. Maybe the Zubari were right in recording them as non-living.
She snorted, and pushed the creature away with a little surge of power. It was infinitesimal, but, to her contempt, still enough to send it tumbling into the dirt.
The creature raised itself up, blinking, its cheek covered with dust. It looked at her, at her merciless expression, then to the bound monster. The rest of the hostages were being roughly yanked down, some who were trying to push fruits into the sealed beak of the monsters had them snatched away and trampled before their eyes.
Now that the Mother had been captured, there wasn’t any more reason to treat their new slaves as anything but. Those that had been welcomed on the Zubari palanquins were thrown down, shackled and pushed into bloodstained cages, a few collared and manacled to be offered to the Darkness as soon as they returned.
Everywhere, the same, puzzled expression as the one before her held. The expression of a being that saw something it couldn’t picture, even less understand, happening before its very eyes, again and again and again.
The little being reached for a fruit that had fallen from its pocket when it had taken its tumble. Zongatis idly snatched it out of its hand, then lowered herself so that they were at eye level and slowly crushed it before his searching eyes.
And then, she saw it. Blossoming like a fire-bud from the mud, a new thing these pathetic beings had never envisioned, let alone suffered.
Anguish. Mental pain. The suffering of having something precious to you snatched away.
“Welcome to our world,” Zongatis said, the sadistic pleasure that was the heritage of every daemon tickling at her soul.
A daemon would have started roaring. A Thilgra would have started crying. A meat-thing would have withered. All of them were appreciated by any proper daemon.
The dweller started keening. It was a strange sound, a low whistle escaping from between his teeth, his eyes wide as saucers, his head swaying softly back and forth.
One, two, three, all of them. It spread like a contagion until all the dwellers were keening their strange keening of anguish and not-understanding, a little sound barely able to bend the breeze, let alone break iron bars and daemon hearts.
But to something there, it was as ear-shattering as a clarion call.
And the land started trembling.