Across the divided ends of the kingdom, atop the spiraling staircase of the Pragian watchtower stood Draconian. The empty fields of dry, dead soil told him a familiar story of absent leadership. It was a burden of shame and complicity he had to endure until next year’s harvest, while knowing firsthand the slow-burning unrest that rumbling stomachs could reap upon a starving populous. ‘This is our punishment, and deservedly so. I should have sent you to fight Vasier’s war in my stead,’ he said, patiently awaiting his former apprentice.

‘You’ve blessed us with too many years of plentiful harvests. It is our own complacency to ensuring adequate water that has left us hungry. One I fear will decimate Pragian come the day you no longer walk these lands,’ said Draconian’s former apprentice, Maneesh, who, despite achieving the status of wizard, continued to bow in the presence of seniority. It was a trait he displayed to all wizards of renowned skill, as though yet to find himself worthy in their presence.

‘What of the omens?’ Draconian asked.

‘Dire, I’m afraid.’

‘We will get through this. Castell is aware of our predicament and will convince this new queen to bring aid.’

‘Given the queen’s preoccupation with the Viking raiders?’ Maneesh enquired.

‘We have no reason to doubt Castell’s influence. I brought him victory … soon he will bring us aid.’

Draconian’s words projected a certainty not reciprocated by the less convinced Maneesh, who, amid free-flowing conversation, choked on his words as he mentally reconstructed what he had never had the courage to ask before. ‘What if there were reasons for us to side with the Vikings?’

‘I shall not tolerate any talk of treason or treachery.’

‘A gathering was called in your absence. We … have Bjarke in our midst.’

‘The demon slayer’s here? In Pragian? What foolish thinking brought him here?’

‘The omens are dire, Grand Master Wizard, and he does not bring good news. I implore you, please hear him out.’

‘I’d rather deliver his head to the queen for provisions. Does that disposition still tempt you to bring him before me?’

‘They are so dire that he might volunteer it himself if it would make a difference,’ said Maneesh. The weight of his words sent chills through even the cold-blooded.

Draconian then turned in stunned dissolution to see the sincerity in Maneesh’s eyes and nodded for them to make their way to the gathering.

They headed down into the inner sanctums of the Pragian catacombs, among the tombs and monuments of gods, mythical warriors, and the beast they slayed. Their path was lit by the blue fiery crevasses that at any minute released small bursts of flames – hints to some volcanic force pressing upon the catacomb walls. Their destination was a levitating platform above a bottomless pit, which was bridged by floating stone fragments that merged into solid pavement upon the weight of a wizard’s foot while blue fissures ran down the sides, through to eternity.

The gathering of wizards was already seated, and they greeted Draconian’s arrival with mixed reactions. The factions between them were already forming as they grouped into divisions with their abiding apprentices. Except for the two contrarians: Verivix and Ravenna. Each kept to their own – Verivix more the ostracized, while Ravenna sat wall-flowered in the far corner, self-absorbed in a meditation.

At the center podium was the battle-scared demon slayer, Bjarke, encircled by the blue harmless flames. He stood stout against his imposing battle-axe. His near-white pupil eyes ominously followed Draconian’s arrival.

‘Don’t bother getting your feet dirty, Bjarke. The peripheries have been silent since the destruction of the Solis,’ said Draconian, hastily wiping the bench with his gown before seating himself with a strict upright posture.

‘That not mean they no listen,’ said Bjarke, his bare toes shifting through the sparkling ashes.

‘Well, feel free to join their endless silence before I wash you from this platform.’

‘Hearrrrrr him out,’ said Verivix, unable to speak fluidly behind his black-as-night hood, concealing all but a crooked nose and a slither of blood-shot eyes. His sense of social detachment had grown stronger in Coble’s absence, as evident by his vacant stare into the abyss.

‘You without foreteller?’ asked Bjarke with his broken dialect and apathetic directness, uninterested in the typical condescending banter.

‘You don’t need a foreteller to discern fiction in your premonitions.’

‘It not my future I protecting. The church have aberration.’

‘One that you, more than any other hath contributed to.’

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

‘I am what I am, but the church … they eat own in search of supremacy. Cross lines they never meant to cross.’

‘Enough with the nebulous,’ said Draconian.

Maneesh assisted his master to his feet, and with full intent, they both vacated the procession.

It was enough to push the red-faced Bjarke to let fall the heavy-headed blade of his battle-axe. His hands ran down its haft as he wrenched it back with a strong-handed twirl before striking the ground. The collision caused an explosion of cold burning ambers. Green sparks emanated from the harmless blue flame.

Whereupon the flames projected the sounds of low-pitch screams. The screams whipped around the fire in the form of an angered silhouette of no known creature. A demon in its primitive state. It was existing within the magical realm of which the others could not enter, but whose presence brought goosebumps to young and old alike.

‘A demon of dark magic,’ said one of the otherwise aloof wizards.

‘Aye. Dark demon. Devouring demon. A demon of cross and church,’ said Bjarke.

‘We eradicated such demons centuries ago,’ said Maneesh.

‘Beasts of this nature live dormant lifetimes before they unleash destruction.’

Draconian shook his head to clear the hypnotic fear that had temporarily overcome his better senses. ‘They’re matters of the church. If this demon’s real, good luck to them, but it doesn’t involve us.’

‘After what they’vvvve done to us. The church, our brethren,’ said Verivix. His voice was a snake-like snarl as he tilted his head to reveal his burnt-flesh facial. From chin to ear to cranium, a dagger-scared face left one side incapable of speech. His eyes drew a line across the ground to their feet, holding back the worst of his deformities. ‘With all due respect and respect no otherssss have given. This sickness withinnnn will only grow at our expense. We arrrre scapegoats for their ill fortunes. It will corrupt, fester until there is only us. Its mortal enemy.’

‘Does anyone else feel this way?’ asked Draconian.

‘Aya, neigh, neigh, aye,’ went the gathering.

An even six to six, with Verivix withholding his otherwise known verdict, and Ravenna still quietly disengage.

Each other wizard spoke for their apprentices, whose silence reflected their unconditional adherence to their masters’ better judgments.

‘Decision split. What you, Draconian?’ said Bjarke.

‘There is no decision bar my decision, but I will offer you this. There are two exits. Pragian and banishment. Now take your pariah and pray I never see you again.’

‘You make enemy of own people,’ said Bjarke.

‘I am the law and will apply it thoroughly. Criminal or otherwise.’

‘So it is,’ said Bjarke, loud and domineering. ‘Stay and become victim or resist and die martyr. That be ultimatum.’

The podium descended into endless quarrels of second-guessing and indecision. Each wizard was making tilted glances at the other, looking for courage through consensus.

Their impotence was broken by the outspoken dissension of Verivix. ‘In the wordsss of Coble. May we never live to see a Grand Master Wizard by title only.’ His words cemented the schism, which left only the few, mostly wiser in years, to cross the path back to Pragian.

‘What of you, Ravenna?’ said Draconian, annoyed by her absence in both discussions and attention.

‘I refuse to play games I can’t win?’ she said, light and airy to the whims of others.

‘Your abstaining?’

‘The afterlife does not discriminate. There are no sides worth taking, no game of divide and conquer. Only lost souls letting go of their pointless existence.’

‘Your nihilism is noted, but death is a destination, not the journey. The real world is a continuum, and it dies that moment the last of us lets go.’

‘Well, may you end your journey on a bed of roses,’ said Ravenna as she walked away, disguising her emotional baggage behind her usual graceful demeanor, not to look back, nor dwell under Draconian’s stiff-lipped scowl of disappointment.

Among the receding catacombs to the dark woodland escape, crouched the black-hooded maleficent twiddling fire balls between his leathery fingers. Kulum killed time through repetition of dexterity drills, of which failure brought the slightly searing of unconditioned flesh. Usually followed by a miniature tantrum, his rage brought him closer to that cloudy eye’s capitulations of his inner demon. It was an urge quelled by the full-handed grasp of metal-grated torch, to overcome inner pain through outer pain of direct flame against fire-resistant hand.

Yet his eyes slowly rolled back, and the burning white came to consume his sight.

His receding hand was now carrying the flame with unconscious control, ready to repeat his manipulations until the flight of his phoenix brought a stalemate between the good and the bad. It was a tiny figure that flew independently through the stale, misty air in search of a true sky of starlight. However, it was restrained by the magical leash upon its neck, by Kulum’s demon, controlling the young man’s desire. His manipulation of the flame corrupted his fear of letting go, until the sound of approaching footsteps and the flashing green light emanated from inside the catacombs. Whereby Kulum clapped his hands to extinguish the phoenix. His eyes immediately shuttered back the white cloudy eyes, with firm rubbing hands to rid any evidence of impropriety.

As the dissenting eight rounded the corner came, they fell into hesitation, having noticed the steadfast Bjarke held still in his readied state. Bjarke’s glowing battle-axe was alive with a sound of boiling tension as it evaporated the damp, foggy air. The demon slayer’s grip condensed the balky haft into a slender lightweight frame, which he twirled around like a feather to the breeze. ‘Reveal yourself?’ Bjarke called.

‘He’s under my stewardship,’ said Verivix. ‘Kulum. Acquaint yourselffff.’

‘Yes, master,’ said Kulum with a tired drawl as he folded back his thick, overhanging hood to expose the bruised discolored features across his otherwise young adolescent face. ‘I am Kulum, manipulator of the flame, at your service.’

‘You know I, boy?’ said Bjarke, poised to strike at any sudden movement.

‘He is in controlllll of his faculties, I assure you?’ said Verivix, able to wrestle his way between the demon slayer and his apprentice.

‘Those scares across you face tell wrongwise,’ said Bjarke to Verivix.

‘And the bruises across hisssss are proof of the depths in hisssss restraint. Shall I test him further?’

‘My demon may be part of me, but it is not me. I am Kulum. It is me who manipulates the flame, not it,’ said Kulum before any request of demonstration questioned Verivix’s integrity.

‘Then, boy, stay by master or become notch on Bjarke’s belt,’ Bjarke said as he crossed the boy’s path close enough for the green-glowing battle-axe to cause subsurface that cracked Kulum’s exposed skin, burning it from within and causing great pain. That was until the cover of Kulum’s cloak brought him some respite. He now looked a frightened child, hiding from danger, out of his depth and with no parental figure to protect him.