Chapter 57. A Demon's Bargain

rmand would not grant Ashekoroth the satisfaction of gloating over his defeat.  He had resisted as long as he could, but the demon, fully empowered, quickly overwhelmed him.  Once Brigit was out of the way, the demon effortlessly pinned him to the rocky floor of the cavern and made him breathe of the insipid perfume.  He escaped as he had before into his inner darkness where Ashekoroth could not follow.

He cursed himself for a sentimental fool.  While he had dwelt alone as the demon’s captive, he could afford to be selfish.  That stupid woman had to show up and spoil everything and he, even more stupidly, had to grow fond of her. 

Why should he care?  For all he knew, she might be no better than that horrible Layla woman.  Yet he was a mesmer, and like many of his kind, he had a talent for knowing the essence of others.  Brigit was no dissembler.  She did not hide her nature, she had no need to.  She was as big hearted as she was muscular and foolish.  Damn him for caring.  It was only going to make things worse for both of them.

“Human relations are a bother, anyhow.  You’re a wanderer.”

Armand further cursed himself.  He was not merely fond of her, he felt completely safe with her.  There was something almost innocent and childlike about her, brash and coarse though she was.  He had wandered the world alone for so long never imagining he would feel anything for another human being and here he was falling in love.  Gods be damned.  He was just desperate and frightened and tired beyond words.  Of course he was feeling vulnerable.

“Idiot.  You’re going to die and you’re sitting here fussing about your feelings for some strange woman who looks like a cross between a barbarian princess and an ox.   Grow the hell up and figure out a way to get out of this mess.”

Armand folded away the distractions of his fear and loneliness.  There would be time enough for that later.  There was always time.  Patient as a stalking cat, he lurked in the shadows of his psyche, emerging slowly back into the light of consciousness.  He felt the harsh probing shape of Ashekoroth’s malevolent mind, a cold void of blackness like the space between stars.  It was not directed at him just now.  Slowly he fell back into his body, felt the tension of his arms and legs drawn above and below him, his body twanging like a bow string as he lay upon his back outstretched and vulnerable.  His wrists and ankles sweated beneath thick bands of steel and he automatically fingered them in search of a lock.  There.  He would need a stiff piece of metal about half the length of his pinky.  It was a spring mechanism.  His shirt was gone, and with it the all purpose lock pick disguised as a cufflink.

Gingerly he opened his eyes, blinking up at high rafters strung with rusty chain.  Rain lashed the roof slates of the long shadowy outbuilding and filled the chamber with its low rustle.  He recognized the unquiet chill of sundered spirits and ghostly impressions of foul deeds.  It was the haunted building, the one that stank of death and corruption.

“Calm down.  Breathe.”

He was on a low table, slanted downward toward his feet so that his bare heels pressed against a board.  So that he could look upon Brigit.  Ashekoroth knew he had feelings for her, there could be no other explanation.  She was currently suspended in a crude harness of ropes so that her feet dragged upon the ground as she lay unconscious in their grasp like a discarded marionette.  A braided noose of red silk cord was wrapped around her throat and rose loosely up into the shadowy rafters where it was threaded through a pulley. 

A thrill of horror spread through Armand’s body.   He saw once more his mother strung up on the balls of her feet by the braided red silk cord of her own trapeze.  For hours she had endured the painful burn of her trembling legs, struggling between strangulation and exhaustion.  The Krytan Guild that had captured his family’s traveling troupe relished her slow dance of death, drawing it out over the course of their Wintersday feasting.

“Damn you to the deepest hell, Ashekoroth!”

The demon perused the raw grief and horror that flooded him at the sight of Brigit trussed up for slow execution.  For so long he had shoved those memories aside.  A mesmer could ill afford to lose control of their emotions, especially under pressure.

But he saw his mother once more balanced upon trembling feet, the tips of her toes barely able to preserve her from suffocation.  She had never uttered a word, barely uttered more that a quiet sob of misery as her strained muscles burned and trembled until she could endure no longer.  His captors forbade him to look away as she slowly spun and twisted at the end of the cord, silently twitching and kicking as her body fought while her spirit departed.

He had not wept then.  Armand had kidded himself into believing he had robbed the villains of the satisfaction of seeing his grief.  But in truth, he had broken beneath the strain of violence and loss.  Eventually he killed them all, but not before they had extinguished his hope and faith in humanity.

“You were a child,” Ashekoroth said coldly, “and it was human beings who did that to your mother.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Join me, Armand.  You will never be powerless again.”

He sobbed now for the loss of his gentle beautiful mother, and for Brigit.  For what was love if not the purest expression of faith in life? 

“You can save her, Armand.  Give yourself to me.”

“No!”

“Can you endure seeing another person you love die at the end of that rope?”

“Just kill me and have done with it!” he shouted, “I’ve had enough.”

“But I need your living flesh, Armand.  I need your compliance.  You and I combined become immortal.  Think of it, my friend.  We will rule over mankind and you can brutally punish any who would harm the innocent.”

“I would merely be your slave.  I’m not stupid!”

“But you believe deep down that humanity is corrupt,” Ashekoroth purred coldly, “You believe everyone is guilty of something and most of them don’t deserve to live.”

“Not always!” Armand cried, furious that the demon was now using his own neuroses against him.

“Isn’t that why you are always alone?  If you thought humanity was worthy of your company you wouldn’t have come to me.  Admit it, you secretly wish to wield such powers as mine.”

“No!”

“I am neither evil nor good,” Ashekoroth said, “I am of chaos, the very chaos you summon with your talents.  I serve your darkest purpose.  I am the purifier of your race, the sword of justice with two edges.  In your hands, I can be used for good.”

“Go away, demon!”

Through the blur of tears and sweat he saw Ashekoroth’s dire form looming over him, a wash of black and green where his pale face once lay.  He blinked frantically, gazing up into a face of jade, a perfect mask of translucent stone flecked with silvery scales.  The mask of Ashekoroth.  From the slitted malevolence of his eyes flowed the emptiness of the void gleaming with two lifeless points of magenta chaos.  His hunger violated Armand’s psyche with its eagerness to don flesh that would not corrode – a body that had not been made bereft of its broken spirit.

Destroy the mask!  He had to buy time, had to save Brigit.  Ashekoroth tossed back his masked visage and laughed cruelly.

“Threnody was never your ally.  My sister also seeks after the flesh, but she has intruded upon my domain and soon she will bow to me as well.  All of them will.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“I shall leave you to ponder your decision.  Choose well.  Brigit could last several hours given her strength and stamina.  Her life rests in your hands.”