The darkness of the void held a sense of familiarity for Anneliese, a place within herself. It was no longer the realm of trepidation; she walked unassuming to her rightful place upon the leather chair in front of the standing mirror. With cold tension running through her, she waited for the warped visualization to bring about her antagonist, to replace her reflection upon the mirror.
Her demon – the young devilish man with long white hair and a wicked smile – was there in the mirror before her. His crown was dangling lazily from one hand, while the other twiddled a palm-sized dagger, with complete unconscious control, between his fingers. ‘Come to thank me, my subject?’ said the ghost-king.
‘Before, I felt scared. Now, it’s just numb. You’re a distant memory, and I have no time for the past.’
‘Excellent, that’s what I hoped to hear. You see, the more you are in control, the more you control, and the stronger I become. This is not a solo journey. We are interdependent upon each other. In fact, your growth has brought me youth and vigor. Perhaps I should afford you some level of gratitude, but I can do one better,’ said the king as he moved aside to reveal the mess of tightly bound ropes that restrained the muted hauls of one demon slayer.
The once fearsome Bjarke was now trapped within the darkness and at the mercy of the ghost-king’s three-inch blade scratching up and down his neck. When Bjarke looked through the mirror, he came face to face with Anneliese. Her presence calmed his panic, and he subsided into acceptance of the inevitability.
‘Do you have questions for the formidable demon slayer? He might not be one for words, but there’s no harm in asking?’ the king asked Anneliese.
Her lips remained silent. Not out of fear, but bewilderment, as she looked upon one tormentor, under the knife of another. She experienced a lack of feeling, as though no outcome would bring her closure. Just another attempt by the ghost-king to manipulate her. A sickening taste had her choking down saliva, longing for the day she could free herself from his machinations.
‘Lascivious, is that you?’ said an unknown voice, spoken calm and curious upon muffled voices, emanating from all corners of the abyss. A scattered movement shuffled in the deep distance of this dark realm, and subtle bursts of shifting winds wiped up from the ground and in Anneliese’s direction. ‘It’s been sooo long.’
The king became wide-eyed and weak-wristed upon the sound of his name and the impending danger.
While under his distracted attention, the sleigh-handed Bjarke made the finishing touches before unravelling the untethered rope. The demon slayer, in a renewed lease of life, brushed off the ghost-king and made a last-gasp effort towards the standing mirror.
For what Annelise thought was a mere projection, Bjarke transferred into physical force. And as he did this, the glass of the mirror dislodged his sturdy frame and fell to a shattering thump upon ground, and with it, the connection between Anneliese and the ghost-king. Separated from her tormentors, she was now alone with the approaching creatures of the abyss.
Her fear response blurred the abyss into fuzzy chaos as her instincts shifted the environment from the leather chair to the cold granite floors of the old pagan stronghold. Where she stood at the cross section of well-illuminated tunnels.
The sound of the unknown creature rumbled from the other side of the walls, as it hugged and prodded for an opening. ‘Lascivious. Don’t be like this.’
‘This is my domain. I own my own,’ she reminded herself, through constant repetition.
Trapped within her home prison, Anneliese’s hyperventilating lungs filled with the stronghold’s dry, dusty air. It was a stark contrast to the hard moist breath breathing down her back. With clenched fists and hard grit determination, she turned to confront this new offending beast now before her.
The black wolf was holding guard to her left flank, which lead towards another less-illuminated corridor, where a black shape-shifting creature approached. Its form flooded the confined structure as it bellowed and crushed its way in their direction.
The wolf, now a shivering ball of tension, snapped its head towards her with wide-eyed rage and panting desperation. ‘We are not ready,’ said the wolf with a ravenous snare before it leapt in Anneliese’s direction, pinning her slender frame to the rocky granite interior.
‘Wake up. WAKE UP.’
The dark damp confines of the stronghold made way to the distortions of adjusting eyes against natural light. Reality began to re-emerge as a wet, moss-ridden cave pool, where she steadied herself against long protruding stalagmites.
She then saw the deep-green eminence of Bjarke’s hefty demon-slaying battle-axe, lodged firmly in a nearby boulder, as though they were a unified structure. Its brightness acted as cardinal directions for Anneliese while she navigated the slick, mossy cave pool. Until the firm bat faecal-ridden floors enabled enough stability for her to address the retched sludge-soaked cloths dangling like dead weighted upon her shoulders. It was a drenching no amount of squeeze or compression could expel. In her frustration, only the warm embrace of natural light offered her respite, but the further she went towards the cave opening, the brighter the glow of Bjarke’s battle-axe.
The axe’s proximity lured her in a slight detour of waist-high bouldering to the base of the axe’s lodgment. Its size was enormous for something wielded so freely in one hand. It was large enough to match her form head to toe. Its eminence conjured warm sizzling sensation upon her outstretched arms as it gently pulled her closer with its gravity. As though the axe wanted her to release it from his rocky entrapment.
‘BACK,’ said the black wolf, its paw strike coming within a hair’s distance of lacerating her arm.
It brought Anneliese to a stumbled retreat as she fell uncontrollably backward, off the boulder’s edge before her instinctive self-preservation teleported her back into the mossy cave pools, leaving her retched and miserable once again.
‘And here I thought you were my savior,’ said Anneliese to the wolf as she retraced her path back to dry land.
‘For someone well read, you are quite inept in the subject of folk law. Or the work of your predecessor,’ said the wolf, its hair frizzling up towards the battle-axe with equal attraction to what Anneliese experienced.
‘How so?’
‘One does not simply kill a demon. The mortal vessel it occupies is simply that. So how then does a demon slayer slay demons?’
‘You kill the beast; you kill the demon.’
‘If you die today in this cave, what happens to your spirit?’
The line of questions exhausted her patience, and she attempted once more to rid herself of the foul cave pool residue. ‘You’d need a druid wizard to kill the demon, except you can’t kill spirits. Merely transfer them to another host. You said “predecessor”. An enchanter.’
‘Not bad. You presume to know much, but you are breadth where I am depth. That axe is a prison for the spirits of slayed demons, of which you and I should be included.’
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‘I am no demon,’ said Anneliese defiantly as she carried her wet damp self to a patch of natural light breaching its way through a collapsed section of the cave roof line.
‘Once again, you are breadth where I am depth,’ said the black wolf. The creature then rested its head upon downed paws.
‘I need a druid to remove my demon and transfer it to another host.’
‘Do you know any druids?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘So, Bjarke will forever hunt my demon, which means he’ll forever be hunting me?’ said Anneliese, reframing from an emotional outburst reminiscent of her younger self – agitated but composed.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the black wolf, less remorseful than stating the obvious.
‘Is that why you’ve been protecting me?’
The question caused a pause within the wolf, whose energy level dipped with the sense of honest admission. Unable to maintain eye contact, it replied, ‘Quite the opposite.’
‘You’re hunting me?’ said Anneliese. The realization brought about a sudden rush of adrenaline, and her fingers clawed her forearms, until composed thought brought Annelise to release her hands into natural freefall, where they conjured distorted orbs suspended off her hip. An innate equilibrium was held between the orb’s expansion and her magical force that was contained within it. The sensation felt second nature as she traced her hands over the spherical structure.
‘Bjarke is hunting Lascivious, your demon. I merely serve Bjarke. And now here we are. My master is now hostage to your demon, Lascivious, and I am left to persuade the one he hunts to let him go.’
‘If you touch me, I’ll let my demon slit your master’s throat.’
‘You don’t want that either,’ said the black wolf with a cautionary tone as it met her threat with slow, stretched motion – more cat than wolf, perusing the high ground with absolute confidence in its position. Almost tempting Anneliese to act first.
‘You seem quite confident that I’ll release Bjarke, despite my own best interests.’
‘Breadth and depth. I take it Coble never told you about his first apprentice?’
‘Coble never had an apprentice.’
‘Yes, and no. Coble was a young, ambitious wizard. Arrogant and rebellious. He sought the impossible. The mythical. Stories of these mountains and the fearsome troll called Arcibur. A beast beyond redemption that killed for pleasure and fed off the souls of lost children. Each time, quenching its thirst for blood before disappearing until the next generation’s killing spree. The kind of terror that makes legends of adventures. For years, Coble scoured these hills until the tip of a lost trader’s boy led him face to face with the ancient he so desired.’
‘Ancients?’
‘Demons of no known origin. As old as time. Or, in Bjarke’s case, a demon with an insidious need to exist and deform. Yet despite all conventional wisdom, the demon Coble found was not the troll he sought to slay, but the boy he was destined to save. Muted and deformed. Condemned to live a life of solitude, unfit for society. But that’s where the rebel meets the convention that doesn’t fit the rebel’s world view. That half-second of compassion was all it took to set Coble on a path to forge the greatest demon slayers to have ever existed. Though I do not give the timeline justice, it was Coble’s battle-axe that made the legend. Bjarke was merely the convert, but a devoted one at that.’
‘There are a couple of flaws in your story. If Bjarke is possessed by a demon, then shouldn’t the axe have consumed him?’
‘That axe is more than a weapon. It is his voice, his purpose. A covenant to humanity that binds his ancient to the righteous cause of ridding this world of its demons.’
‘What righteous cause would bring Bjarke’s Viking war-band to slaughter my village?’
‘One must run with wolves if they seek the hunt, but that does not mean Bjarke murders innocence.’
‘He was there,’ said Anneliese with direct intent. Her hand traced the distorted orbs of yet to be defined destruction.
‘As were you and your demon Lascivious,’ said the black wolf.
‘So, I must trust someone whose life’s purpose is to kill me.’
‘And by that logic, me as well. Yet here I am, defending Bjarke and all he stands for. To hunt the demons, he, you and I both endure. But even if that doesn’t sway your conscience, do you believe yourself strong enough to confront that creature from the darkness? The ancient that almost killed you?’
‘If I let him go, we are done. No more hunting, no more stalking?’
‘You will be the last of many, but not to worry. Old age will take you before we cross paths again.’
‘It’s a dammed situation where I must trust my enemies more than my friends,’ said Anneliese as she directed her hand towards the battle-axe, wishing the demon slayer back into existence with a puff of dust-ridden smog.
Bjarke’s figure was shellshocked and disorientated from the ordeal. Every sense needed a minute to recalibrate before his peripheral vision spotted the still-hostile Anneliese.
There was a contempt-filled glare about her as she held the conjured destruction by her side.
The black wolf was nowhere to be seen, leaving Bjarke to tread carefully. He rose to his feet and dislodged his axle with a simple upward tug, his underhand grip releasing the blade from rock, before pacing softy to the cave entrance. He was head down and red-faced, bare the last moment when the sunshine brought fresh, flowing blood through his veins and the courage to overcome his shameful conceit and look back over his shoulder. ‘Bjarke wrong. Forgive me?’ he said before he strode off in a full sprint to the sound of barking hounds and trailing hooves.
The surrounds echoed into life to the sounds of screaming scouts, who gave chase through thick snowy brush. The scouts were then overtaken by the mass of white knights of the red cross; they were cutting clean past the cave entrance. From the top ledge, staggered archers took pot-shots of Bjarke through the gaps in the canopy. Their aim was akin to attempting blind luck against the growing headwind, deviating their arrows into wayward trajectories. For what the templars lacked in structure and coordination, they made up with sheer numbers and enthusiasm. They then triangulated their forces in on the isolated target, whose only passage of salvation was the frigid waters of the river rapids.
With endless stamina, Bjarke surged on, arrows lining his path, and every step burning like it was his last. When the bushland brush cleared to highland grass, his pursuers clustered into tightly packed volleys of arrows. This was where the mounted knights could hit full stride upon the levelling ground, seeking closing distance before the sight of the cliff’s descent made self-preservation a greater priority. It was a predicament that became all too real as the overhead arrows whizzed past the knights at ear height. Their trajectory was hindered by a strong headwind stripping snow from the cross-river branches, creating an expanding wall of white.
A fog broke their sight of Bjarke as the demon slayer took the advantage and changed tack with a hard left to where a raised bank dampened the wind’s gale, while the more diehard of knights carried on their wayward orientation.
Yet as the crashing winds passed, and the snowy haze subsided – the archers had reached the highland planes. Their aim was no longer obscured, and Bjarke and his illuminated axe were an easy target. As the archers unleased their last volley, they sent a wide spread of arrows, upon which they finally pierced their illusive prey. The arrow struck between deltoid and shoulder blade, debilitating but not lethal. It was a consolation prize for the templar knights, who made it within spearing distance, before witnessing the demon slayer slip into the mercy of the river rapids; he was as good as dead, for all who mattered.
Though their villain was beyond recovery, there was still the matter of Anneliese. One that had the hounds trailing back through the forest thick as they sniffed out the wayward scent, to the gaping cave entrance and a swampy Anneliese.
Not the saviour of the north, but a narrow-eyed pessimist, she was hidden behind the symbolism of the cross, weary of a world converging in on her lie and hellbent to burn her at the stake at the slightest error of judgement.
Her arrival back to Keesh came with the expected rejoice. As she rode into camp like royalty under armed guard, the crowd cheered. No one dared to question rather than bask in the knowledge of her safe return.
All the while, a reserved Amos sat solitary under a roofless watch tower, beside the draping of white and red cross. He awaited for his subordinate to break free from the celebration and join him near the abandoned carpenter’s stockpiles.
‘Was she injured?’ said Amos, cross-armed and hesitant.
‘Barely a scratch. More shocked than anything,’ said Boris.
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Nothing more than did we kill him and that she wished to return to Sir Bradfrey.’
‘Him?’
‘Oh yes. Bjarke. Caught him with an arrow to the back, then lost him to the river. Personally, I prefer him dead than captured.’
‘That’s a Sir Bradfrey problem. Ours is the night of her disappearance?’
‘Nothing, but.’
‘But?’ said Amos as he leant in with eager ears and a no-nonsense disposition.
‘We found two bodies. Deep in the cave where we found her. The same as … as,’ said Boris.
‘As what?’ said Amos.
‘Perhaps someone wishes to divert blame upon our camp. Stage an assassination and …’
‘I get the point. Did any of them have a red beard?’
‘Hard to say … they were deformed beyond recognition. Blacked face, disjointed ligaments. The life sucked out of them.’
‘Black eyes that excreted black ooze?’
‘Aye. You know this?’
‘The crusades. I lost several men to the same affliction. Now, Jarabis and Jeramiah have been missing since that night.’
‘Were they taken?’
‘A demon slayer disappears; someone kills everyone bar the miracle girl? Now this. It honestly could go either way. Still, we’ll need to rearrange our ranks. Send out the raiding parties to cover their absence. And pray no one else succumbs to this affliction. Else I might have to take care of things myself.’