Vagabond Paladin
By the five bones. By the Saint’s cowl. By the —
I felt the demon rip the voice from Sir Branson and take it himself.
Ignore it, snackling. It’s not your concern. Keep going.
But it was a demon. Most certainly. I had no doubt. And neither did my companions, based on their reactions. I should cast it out. I should not flee.
I adore your arrogance that you think you could cast out a demon someone else trapped thousands of years ago. Ages have passed. The world has turned. This place was buried and revealed and in all that time this trap has held … and you will open it? You adorable child. You sweet summer lamb. You will disassemble the cage? You will remove the bait?
Bait?
What would you name it? This is not a prison made to hold demons. There’s a special name for that place, if you’ll recall. The denizen you just saw is the minnow slid onto the hook. It waits for a much bigger fish.
But what would a living demon be bait for?
More demons? Perhaps these monks were set on the destruction of evil forces?
Whoever was counseling me now seemed very uncertain about his suggestion.
And I was just as wary. I bit my lip until I almost tasted blood. Fear coursed ragged and sharp through my veins. It was my payment for entering this place, I knew it. For I had not been this terrified when my own, dear Sir Branson tried to kill me, nor when I was forced to slay him, nor when his face was torn off by his dog.
Fear is a useful weapon when one must be careful not to slip into a roaring river, but it is a terrible thing when there is no clear danger and one must watch every shadow for what might be the threat.
I peered upward again. I didn’t like the look of these massive statues. I didn’t like that they looked like us. How could they have been made in our image when they were created thousands of years ago?
There are great forces at work here. Don’t you feel them? Or are you too thick? Too human?
Quiet, fiend.
Quiet yourself, sweetmeat. You need me down here. Need me more than you ever needed the old paladin. He’s nothing now but an echo of a conscience that isn’t serving you. Lean now on me. You’ll need it if you’re going to lead this pasty cohort to victory.
I swallowed and followed Adalbrand down the stairs. He was acting strangely, seeming to want to be near me and distant from me both at once, and he still limped from where Brindle had bitten a chunk out of his leg.
Worth it.
I was worried he might be an unstable ally.
I stole a glance at him. His shoulders were slumped and face was pale from healing the others. Interesting that none of them stayed behind to make sure he was capable of continuing. Was it possible that Poisoned Saints were as overlooked as Vagabond Paladins?
It’s not quite the same. The things that blind the average person to our worth are not quite the same as what makes them squirrelly around the Poisoned Saints. With us, they are blind — they see only surface things and since our surface is grimy, they do not see the gold beneath it, just as they cannot see the rot beneath a lacquered surface. In the case of the poor Poisoned Saints, no one likes the reminder that they bear for us what we cannot bear ourselves. It makes the soul squirm a little. Guilt is handled easiest when banished deep underground.
Amen to that, the demon agreed. I never have dealings with guilt. He cheats you every time.
The demon spoke as if guilt were a person.
Of course he is. He wears a strange hat and has too many eyes for his face.
I shivered. This place was not the right setting for stories that made the spine crawl.
Perhaps Adalbrand’s strangeness, then, was only his reaction to this beautiful but haunting place. Or perhaps he was likewise possessed by a slightly indulgent demon who would rip his throat out if it could.
I swallowed the hysterical laugh that tried to crawl up my throat and rested a hand on Brindle’s head.
He smelled incredibly doggy for an animal that was really only one-third dog. I leaned into the scent, trying to remember what was real and physical in a world stained through with spirits. I did not want this monastery to get under my skin any more than it was and already it was creeping under it like an army of ants on a quest to raid my heart. What kind of monks would have been in a place like this?
Can’t you feel the power here? Even a thousand years later it pulses through me like life blood.
