Chapter LCVI: Demon of War

The political scene in the Republic of Bastok was not a pretty place. San d'Orians had it easy, for the most part. With all titles and powers assigned hereditarily, only the infrequent heirless noble caused any confusion. All they had to worry about was the occasional coup or civil war. Windurst was even better off, being a theocracy. Once every generation or two they held a fancy ceremony, named a new Star Sibyl, and that was the end of it. There were internal power struggles, to be sure, but those were the games played between politicians. In Bastok the people had the power to elect their own officials, and that meant that any dirty trick in the book to sway public opinion was fair and valid.

To become a leader of men in Bastok meant you were cunning, shrewd, and always on the lookout for the knife about to be stabbed in your back. Winning an election was the easy part compared to surviving politically afterwards. Every action came under scrutiny from opponents, and they in turn passed on their dissent to the voters, often with a good dose of hyperbole. Then there were unions to deal with, activist groups, special interests, lobbyists from powerful mining syndicates - all in all, it was amazing anyone managed to bear the pressure.

That was why Emblim had a great deal of quiet respect for Hrichter Karst. Bastok's President had weathered many a storm both personal and political, and in their current situation he showed not a hint of the intense strain that had to be weighing on him. Dark, smoldering eyes leveled at Emblim were as sharp and penetrating as ever, like a raptor watching its prey from the air. He was still wearing his ridiculous hat, so that took a little bit of the edge off.

"Captain Emblim," the President's tone rode the border between authoritative and snooty, "I understand this is an area you have experience in."

The Hume's eyes drifted around the room. In the Presidential pavillion, a tent three times the size of the next largest down, an emergency evening summit had been called. Karst sat at the head of a crescent-shaped table, the other leaders of Bastok situated around him. All eyes were focused on Emblim and his companions. Erilan, Atreides, Feldin, and Etrien all had gathered, summoned by the council to give testimony in regards to the latest development in the sands of Altepa.

"As you know," Emblim began, "before finding you in Korroloka, we encountered a demon lord, the Marquis Decarabia, in Konschtat Village."

They all shifted uncomfortably at mention of the Kindred lord's name. The horror of the Marquis was still fresh to them, despite the weeks since their battle. Still Emblim could hear the strings of his bloodied harp as he tormented the villagers with his sickening performances. As revolting as his presence was, he was even more formidable an opponent. Had he not underestimated them, they likely would have all been made into parts of his demonic orchestra.

Karst was whispering something to Invincible Shield, the armored Galka nodding silently. Leaning back into his seat, he pyramided his fingers and let his gaze weigh down upon each of them in turn.

"And you killed this demon lord, correct?" He slid one hand back and rested his chin on the thumb, forefinger stretching out over his cheek.

"I sent the devil back to hell, yes," Feldin snapped, looking a shade beyond irritated at being questioned. "Is there a point to any of this?"

A wave of murmers passed through the assembled Bastokans, and Emblim shot him a warning glare. Erilan, on the other hand, barked out a laugh.

"You're not helping," he muttered to the other Paladin, who only rolled his eyes in response.

"The point, Sorcerer Feldin," Karst replied, "is that we have verified the presence of another demon lord within the desert. We are choosing to take you at your word as to how dangerous they are. We want to know if you can kill this one, too."

Emblim was momentarily stunned. He was suddenly very aware of all the eyes on him.

"Wait," Erilan spoke up, stepping in front of his friend. "Why are we concentrating on the demon lord? We don't know anything about what it's doing here yet."

"Furthermore, I fail to see how this problem affects us from San d'Oria." Feldin's brow knit dangerously. "Our only task from this point on is returning to King Destin and informing him that Rabao is safe and determining how to move the royal family here safely."

"And the other survivors from the Kingdom, of course," Atreides said in a not-so-subtle tone to the sorcerer.

He was unruffled. "Of course."

One of Karst's eyebrows slowly rose as each Elvaan spoke in turn. Leaning forward slowly, he let his surprisingly powerful presence call for silence amongst the muttering members of Bastok's council. Once quiet had been restored he spoke again, addressing Feldin directly.

"Sorcerer Feldin, we have decided there are two likely scenarios which have drawn this new demon lord to such close proximity with us." He shifted his gaze to the scarred visage of Commander Volker, leader of Bastok's military, at his side. "Commander, will you inform our San d'Orian friends what it is we have determined?"

"Of course," the brown-bearded Hume cleared his throat, and Emblim caught the grave look in his eye. "The first, most likely case, is that the Kindred have formed an alliance with the Anticans. They have made no move in the desert for the last three weeks save to continue marshaling their forces and making what appears to be preparations to march. The arrival of this demon lord forces us to speculate that they have been waiting for their commander to arrive, and he is it."

"Yes," Karst interjected, "and I doubt the Kindred will want to leave their rear exposed should they march through to Quon. That means Rabao, a San d'Orian principality, will be in grave risk of direct attack by the Antican army."

"Our second theory," Volker continued, looking at Emblim, "is that he is here to exact revenge for the death of the last demon lord, the Marquis Decarabia."

"Tell me, Sorcerer," Karst suddenly barked, clapping his fists down upon the table, "what is the penalty in San d'Oria for murdering a member of the aristocracy?"

Feldin's gaze could have burned a hole through the tent, and he ground his teeth as he responded. "If found guilty of such an onerous crime," he growled, "the family of the noble in question may choose to have another member personally execute the offender."

"I see." The President tapped his fingers against the surface of the crescent-shaped table. "Perhaps now," his tone was quieter, though no less dangerous, "you understand exactly why this situation should be your concern?"

The Elvaan did not reply, though Emblim noticed a spike in the temperature around his person. He uncomfortably moved aside, even as Atreides began speaking.

"Pardon, good sirs, gentlemen of Bastok." He took a step forward, smiling as he rolled the beads around his palm back and forth. "I wonder how we are to go about finding this demon lord and executing him - surely with the Antican army so close by, opportunities to find and strike at the fiend will be slim."

"If the first scenario is true then we are willing to give you time to strategize," Karst replied, once more bringing his fingers into a pyrmaid. "And should the second case be right, this demon lord will likely come to you."

"Mm," Atreides bowed his head slightly. "Your wisdom is appalling."

"Is that the right term?" Emblim heard Etrien whisper.

"Yes," Erilan confirmed, "Yes it is." The other Paladin then cleared his throat, standing tall before the council. "Gentlemen, I have no problem eliminating this Kindred scum, but I don't see why this was necessary. This kind of a gathering reeks of accusation - if you simply wanted us to help you kill a demon lord, you have our support."

"We do not seek your support, San d'Orian," Karst said bitingly. "The only one in this room I am capable of passing down an order to, technically, is Captain Emblim. Emblim, whose ill-advised attempt to pass through the Korroloka Tunnel cut us off from our capitol city entirely. Emblim, whose actions made it impossible to attempt rescue of any of the Bastokan citizens held in slavery by the demons occupying that city."

"Now hold on -" Erilan's tone was scandalized.

"So yes, "Captain" Erilan, I am ordering Emblim to eradicate this demon lord, and do so knowing I will not be risking the lives of any more of Bastok's citizens in the attempt. I simply wanted to make everyone aware of the situation. You San d'Orians may do as you wish. Captain," his stare was a battering ram into Emblim's chest, "you will move at earliest opportunity to kill the demon."

They stood in stunned silence at Karst's outburst. The other council members looked stern, and Emblim knew that this was no surprise to them. This was a decision they had discussed, a consensus they had reached. The worst part of it was that the things they were blaming on him he actually was responsible for. He felt a child being brought to task by his parents.

"President Karst," he replied, slowly bringing his fist up in salute, "as you command."

"Emblim!" Erilan shouted at him.

"Hold still, knight!" Feldin's voice was like a whip. "He has been given an order from his President. This is no less for him than if King Destin himself had spoken to us."

"Then I will stand with him!" Erilan declared. "I will not let my friend confront a demon lord by himself!"

"Your responsibility," Feldin began.

"The royal family will keep, Feldin!" he raged. "What greater threat to them is there than the demon lords in any case?"

"Do what you want," Karst said dismissively. "Our decision has been made. Captain Emblim, be prepared to move out as soon as we locate the demon again."

"Yes, Mr. President," he acknowledged, prompting an angry gaze from Erilan.

"The rest of you are dismissed." Karst waved a gloved hand, indicating the massive tent flaps behind them.

"Come on," Atreides urged them silently. "There is no good in arguing amongst ourselves in front of the council."

"Fine," Erilan agreed, "but the audacity of that man, blaming you for - "

"Excuse me."

They stopped, turning to find Etrien had not moved from where they stood. He was facing down the council, standing eye-to-eye with the President. A tremble went through the young Warrior's body, but only briefly.

"Mr. President?" He went on.

"Your presence here is no longer required, boy," Karst told him, already in discussion with Volker. "Take your leave."

"Mr. President, I would like to be given the task of killing the demon lord as well."

Karst cocked an eyebrow, turning slightly more towards the boy. Emblim stepped forward, clapping a hand on Etrien's shoulder.

"Etrien, stop. Let us handle this."

"President Karst, sir, I was the one who led them to Marquis Decarabia, and I took part in that battle." His voice grew steadier as he spoke. "If the demon is here for revenge, it is as much my fault as anybody's. Also, I am the one who showed Captain Emblim how to get into the city. If there is any blame to be had in what happened after that, I share in it as well."

Karst was staring contemplatively at the young man. "Etrien, stay out of this," Emblim said firmly. "This is a matter for adults."

"Wait," Karst held up a hand. He leaned forward again, rubbing his chin as he settled his elbows on the table. Emblim froze, dreading what was coming next.

The President of Bastok narrowed his eyes, fingers slowly tapping against his desk. "You have a point . . . " he muttered. "But, boy - Etrien, is it? You are neither a Bastokan soldier nor a Musketeer. I cannot order you to do anything directly."

Etrien swallowed audibly. "I understand, sir, but it is my wish to volunteer for the same duty as Captain Emblim."

"Hrm," Kart seemed to mull it over, eyes flicking back and forth between the youth before him and Emblim. "Very well, to that end, based upon established merit in combat, I grant you the rank of Iron Musketeer, 9th class. On a provisional basis, of course, up for review pending the end of this conflict."

"Yes, sir!" Etrien saluted. "I accept!"

"Good, now get out and get ready to be shipped out. Wherever Emblim goes, from now on you're going to follow."

"But sir!" Emblim protested, but Karst was already shooing him out.

"My decision on this stands! Now follow orders, soldier!"

He felt like his teeth might crack. Wordlessly, he spun on his heel and made a beeline for the exit. Not one of the others said a word as he brushed past. His face felt so hot that he was sure he saw steam begin rising when he stepped out into the chill desert air. When he heard the tent flap rustle behind him, the Paladin whipped around, his fury undisguised.

"What are you thinking?" Etrien shrank at the Captain's voice. "Do you know what you're getting yourself into? You were there for Decarabia, Etrien! How can you do this?"

"I - I - " he stammered.

"Dammit, we're trying to keep you safe you little fool! The battlefield is no place for children!"

"I'm not a child!" He shouted, surprising everyone, himself included. "I can take care of myself!"

"How can you - "

"Emblim." He was surprised when a familiar hand clapped his shoulder. Erilan moved beside him, Elvaan eyes looking at Etrien as if seeing him for the first time. "The lad knows what's at stake better than any of us. He's man enough to make his own decisions."

His words felt lodged in his throat. Coherent thought was being lost in a swirl of conflicting emotions as he searched for some way to respond to the other Paladin. It was Etrien who broke the silence, however, drawing their attention back towards him.

"I was there when Decarabia came, Captain," his voice was just above a whisper. "I couldn't do anything to stop him." His head shot up, and his eyes glistened as he shouted. "I'll do whatever I must to keep that from happening again!"

Erilan sighed heavily as Emblim looked at the young man in front of him. Nothing seemed to be the right thing to say.

"I'm going back to my tent," he finally hung his head, giving in. "Good night."

He heard Etrien try to speak up, but Erilan stopped him. Through the cold grasp of Altepa at night, Emblim trudged his way back to the tent he called home, and collapsed into bed.


He did not know how long he was asleep before the glow woke him.

At first he imagined he must be dreaming. Blinking, he lifted himself from his sheets and stared, not comprehending what he was seeing.

There was a light reaching up from the ground. It was dark and purple, practically black, and there was smoke billowing forth from its core. Emblim stared at it, not knowing what to make of this thing. Something about it felt . . . wrong. More than simply the fact that there was a shaft of light swirling forth from nothing in the middle of his tent. It radiated a sensation that made his skin crawl. Within the rapidly moving light, just behind the smoke, he could almost make out distinct faces, contorted in agony.

He began backing away, and as soon as he moved a shaft of light burst from its center and struck him in the chest.

The next thing he knew, sand was covering him. He choked as his throat filled with tiny grains, and his eyes stung as they were assailed. The wind was howling in his ears, and he couldn't free his legs from the ground. Buried past his knees in the sand, he was exposed to the storm raging around him.

"There!" He heard a voice shout. Confused, he turned to see Atreides beside him, pointing at something in the distance. Erilan was there too, he realized, and Feldin. The three San d'Orians were all trapped as he was, trying to keep the raging wind all around them from biting into their flesh.

He followed the Bishop's hand, even as the sense of a presence nearby bombarded him with its force.

Within the storm, standing still and watching them, was a demon.

No, he realized instantly. It was the demon lord.

The fiend stood taller than any of them, taller even than Towering Inferno. He was thick and bulky, massive limbs reaching out from a body like a tree trunk. His wings were also larger than those of other demons, their gnarled black mass draped at his back like a cloak. It stirred in the wind, adding to the effect. The demon itself, however, stood almost completely still, watching them. Its face was hidden behind a helmet, forged from some black steel into the shape of a death's head. Protruding from the sides, stretching down in thick stalks, were the demon's own horns. They ended in skewering points near his neck, protecting the vulnerable area.

Every inch of the demon's body was covered in armor which alternated between jet black and blood red. Spikes stretched out from the joints, and cruel, hooked blades were forged into the shoulders and gauntlets. It was covered in runes Emblim could not even begin to decipher, yet even looking at them turned his stomach. Writ on the monster's body was some dark incantation so profane that it befouled him just by being in its presence.

What most grabbed Emblim's attention was its weapon. Slung over one shoulder, the demon had an axe unlike anything he had ever seen. The blade alone was the size of a grown man, a length of ebon steel the Hume was sure he could lay down upon without falling off. Opposite the axehead on the other side of the weapon's thick shaft, three more blades, these shaped like scythes, stretched out like claws from a tiger. It had to be nearly as long as the demon himself, and at the bottom a crushing steel mace surmounted with spikes completed the atrocious instrument.

Without moving, the demon spoke, and the ground trembled.

"You are the ones who slew the Marquis Decarabia."

They all buckled beneath its voice. In it was the sound of a thousand bones splintering, a thousand fires raging, a thousand swords clashing. In just hearing his voice, Emblim felt like he was in the heart of the most disastrous battle he could imagine.

"We are!" Feldin's voice rose defiantly over the sands. "It was by our hands the monster fell, and we will kill you, too, demon!"

"Yes," it replied, "you will try."

Firmly, the demon planted its axe in the ground. The resulting shockwave nearly tore Emblim free from the sand, rattling his teeth in his skull. Around the weapon a wave of blond grains shot forth, pelting them mercilessly as the wind continued to howl.

With two clawed hands, the demon slid his helmet free, and the four of them felt the same tremor of fear simultaneously.

Burning in the Kindred's skull were two eyes which literally blazed. Tongues of flame licked the air from behind the demon's mouth and within its burning sockets. Beneath his flesh they could see veins of fire pulsing, and with each movement his eyes scattered sparks into the air.

"Decarabia was the least of us," he bellowed, flames dripping from his maw. "He knew nothing of war. He could not savor the sight of his enemy scattered before him. He never felt the jolt up his arm after severing a body's limbs. He knew not the sweet taste of blood running down his throat. Decarabia was a pompous fool."

"Why," Atreides shielded himself against the wind slicing into them, shouting above it, "why have you brought us here?"

With one mighty hand, the demon swept up the great axe he held. Its' blade cleaved through the sand, rending the earth it struck as he leveled it at them. "So that I could properly declare myself. Because I am not Decarabia. I do not slink through tiny villages. I leave them as rubble in my wake. My task has no audience, no bystanders. It involves everyone, touches everything, sweeps it all together within my grasp so that I might crush it!" He swung his weapon aside, sending another blast of wind howling through them. "I am Count Zaebos, mortal specks! I am war!"

Emblim was bleeding, the sand scratching skin from his body as it roared past. He was forcing his legs to remain upright, trying desperately to pull himself free, when just like that, the sand was gone.

Emblim sat alone in his tent. There was no strange light. The wind outside sounded calm and steady.

But there was still blood from his shredded skin dripping down in thick rivulets where the sand had torn at him.

As he pulled back fingers red and wet, a final declaration rung in his ears.

"I am here for you," it said in a voice like steel grinding.

"And I am inevitable."