The Return of Ippizicus Child-Eater
With each new morning came a new hell.
Amelyssan would end his trance, hours before dawn, the very moment he felt the pressing bear down upon him. The demon only partially trapped within Margate’s Staff was growing stronger. Ippizicus’ mental sallies were entirely unlike those earlier caresses of Baphtemet; these were raw in their brutality, filled with an unmitigated urge to inflict pain for pain’s sake. The battle of wills – Amelyssan pitted against the growing presence of the Child-Eater – lasted only moments during the first few days, but soon grew to span the entirety of the twilight hours before dawn.
And each day, when it was over - when Amelyssan once again proved resilient - the elf would lay backward gasping for air. His body would be drenched with sweat despite the autumnal cold, his joints wracked with aching pains. The mental anguish, however, was worse. Much worse. Amelyssan had difficulty remembering who he was, after the pressing ceased, if only for a handful of heartbeats. His companions would inevitably offer him wine and water, breads and cheeses. They would pound his back and slap his cheeks, telling him to endure, to remain strong.
Yet by the sixth day out of Ciddry, Amelyssan could no longer keep food down. By the seventh, he was unable to enter the trances his people substituted for sleep. And, by the eighth day, the horadrel could barely sit atop his gelding; he was forced to ride upon the wagon with Vath. Thus did Amelyssan’s days pass – each dawning in a cognitive war and dying in a sea of apprehension - as the party journeyed toward the Bluehorn at Poridel’s behest.
The battle of wills between elf and demon was no less terrible than the combat upon Olgotha Mound. Certainly, there were neither shouts of rage nor cries of pain. Lifeless bodies and spent arrows did not mark where blood had been shed. The war was fought within the elf’s very essence – indeed, the war was fought for his very essence. Yet, as he had at Olgotha, Amelyssan felt confident in his abilities to persevere until victory – a final victory – was achieved.
Hence, during the pre-dawn hours of the ninth day, it was with no small sense of wonder that Amelyssan realized he had lost.
***
Or – to be truthful, and truth was all that mattered now – he had nearly lost.
Kellus looked an unasked question at him. “Two days,” answered Amelyssan. “Perhaps…less.”
“Yet he has not yet claimed you?”
Amelyssan shook his head. “No. But the Child-Eater has won. I have no defenses remaining – my mind is riddled with children’s laughter and Abyssal phrases. I taste sulfur and blood on my tongue. I see…I see death, Kellus. The world is gray around me.”
Kellus did not hesitate. “Then I shall take the charge. Hand me the staff.”
“And hand you my life as well?” Amelyssan weakly dragged a hand across the sheen on his brow. “I have carried it for too long. The demon knows me, knows it has defeated me. It lets me live because I carry the staff – because I carry him – to his summoning. That is the only reason.”
Kellus blinked. “Ippizicus knows what we intend to do?”
“Knows?” Amelyssan laughed, though the sound issued as a hoarse cough. “He wills it. He would have us do nothing else.”
“This is a fool’s errand.”
“Then we are fools. Did you not say as much to John earlier?”
Kellus turned without comment and made his way toward the campfire. The former priest looked at Raylin. “How far do we have?”
“To the Bluehorn?” The Larrenman looked up from where he was readying Amelyssan’s bedroll against the day’s travel. “A day, most like, should we leave now and push into early evening.”
“You know the location of the ruins of which Poridel spoke.” It was not a question, but the look in Amelyssan’s eyes had made Kellus nervous. At Raylin’s nod, the Rhelmsman gestured toward the wagon. “Can we move quickly enough to put us there before nightfall?
“No – not with the wagon.”
“We need the wagon.”
And, Raylin, softly, “I know.”
Kellus frowned. “How long, then? How deep into the darkness must we travel?”
Raylin smiled without humor. “A question for another time, perhaps.” At Kellus’ unaccommodating silence, the clansman shrugged. “Two hours, mayhaps three. We could be there by the mid of night, at the latest.”
“Can you still guide us at night?”
“Aye,” Raylin nodded without hesitation. Then he looked toward Amelyssan’s emaciated form. “But can you follow?”
Kellus, too, glanced toward the elf. “He does not have a choice. Nor do we. We will again place Amelyssan on the wagon with Vath - he can rest as he may.”
“Then you mean to do it tonight?” John had approached with characteristic stealth.
Kellus looked at the bard. “We mean to do it tonight.” A long moment passed wherein Kellus returned the bard’s stare with one of his own, equally uncompromising.
Baden waded into the silence wielding breakfast - a block of hardtack and strips of jerky. The dwarf measured the mood of his companions with a look. “What is it?”
Kellus tore his eyes from John and fastened his gaze upon Baden. “Pack your kit. We leave, now. Raylin believes we shall reach the ruins a few hours past nightfall.”
If Kellus’ words elicited any sentiments within Baden, they were hidden beneath his beard. The dwarf pitched his voice low. “Night is not a time for calling forth demons.”
“Is day any better?” Raylin expertly tied the bedroll and threw it over his shoulder. “I am with Kellus on this matter. I would soon put the Bluehorn – and this child-eating demon – to our backs.”
Raylin continued, his own voice even. “I must feed the mules and our horses. See that the fire is stamped out. I will ride ahead – no more than an hour in front of you. As always, should you find four stones in a diamond shape, get off the Battlemarch and await my return.”
Baden hoisted the loaf of bread. “I will feed the prisoners, then.”
John spat. “Why bother?”
The group watched the bard stalk off in silence before they, too, began to break camp.
***
Amelyssan cursed the gods of men and elves. The grace of his elven tongue served only to accentuate the vileness of his oath. He was hoping his Sleep spell would have affected all the prisoners. But it was not to be. He hated using his magic thusly; he wanted to reserve his dwindling power for the reckoning with Ippizicus.
One prisoner – the Basilican John seemed to think innocent, as it turned out – wrapped his hands around the bars of the cage and pressed his face against the grating. The youth’s eyes darted from John to Amelyssan and back again. He was very much awake – and very much afraid. “No! Please! Master elf, I beg of you-”
It would not do.
Amelyssan, with a quick gesture, invoked another Sleep. The man’s face instantly went slack, and he collapsed onto the inert forms of his fellows.
Amelyssan caught John’s glance, saw the accusation therein. So be it. You, gentle Pellman, are not the one holding this staff. The elf had no doubts that John, should his own mind have been raped daily by Ippizicus’ clutchings, would realize the inevitability of what they now did. There was no time for misgivings.
“We must hurry – the sleep is deep but fleeting.” Amelyssan looked toward Vath and Raylin. “Be quiet, be quick.”
The world was dark around them; only a handful of stars peered downward upon the proceedings. Though Amelyssan had not relished the thought of summoning Ippizicus during the night, he was oddly thankful for that fact now. I cannot see my friends’ countenances, nor they mine.
Baden unlocked the wagon’s rear door with hands made clumsy from the cold. And, perhaps, from other things. Vath and Raylin stepped around the dwarf and began to remove the slumbering prisoners from the cage. “Easy,” Amelyssan warned. The bodies were soon stacked like cordwood onto the flagstones of the ruined church.
When it was done, Vath climbed atop the wagon and drove it away from the ruins. Amelyssan watched him disappear behind a half-collapsed wall. The party had tied their horses there, out of sight from the ruined nave. The half-troll returned, pulling the red cords around his wrists tighter, rolling his shoulders in preparation.
The party then gathered, quietly, around the handful of sleeping men. The prisoners were sprawled upon the stones where the altar must have once stood. Amelyssan was unsure what faith – holy or otherwise – had once been practiced here. Nor did he know why Ippizicus was first summoned at this location. If Kellus knew, the former priest did not share such information, and no one had asked.
Amelyssan looked toward the firmament. The moon was but a sliver. It was enough for him to see clearly, and Baden and Vath needed no illumination, but his other companions might be hindered. “Should we light torches?”
John and Kellus answered as one, “No.”
Now that they were here, now that the prisoners were before them, now that it was time…now, suddenly, Amelyssan felt doubt. Lord Corellion, I have prayed to you but three times in my one-hundred and fifty seasons - upon the death of my mother, upon the death of my father, and when I cast my first cantrip. I pray to you now.
Amelyssan licked his lips – he had no saliva. The elf strode forward and placed the staff upon the stones, near the bodies, and stood. Know that we do…what we now do…in the name of goodness. We do this because doing nothing is not an answer. For a moment the horadrel was motionless, head down, eyes closed. Vainly he hoped for some divine reassurance, some uplifting inspiration.
His answer consisted only of darkness, and the cold.
Amelyssan sighed. He backed away from the staff and rejoined the ring of his companions. All eyes turned toward Vath. Amelyssan withdrew his dagger, extended the blade to the half-troll. “Let it be done.”
***
Vath waved a green-skinned hand at the offered blade. The half-troll stepped forward, bent near the bodies, and gripped the first prisoner’s head – the Basilican - between meaty paws. His arms corded for but an instant before he jerked his hands quickly. An audible crack split the air as the man’s neck broke. Someone, Amelyssan heard, was weeping. Is it me? Five more cracks followed on the heels of the first.
Vath looked upward. His features were smooth. He was doing what must be done, in his mind. He was doing the work of his god. Amelyssan cursed the half-troll in his heart, and – just as quickly – inwardly thanked the monk of Ilmater for staying the course. Would I have done the same, Amelyssan idly wondered, were the roles reversed? He did not think so.
Should they live, this stain would be upon all their souls – Vath most of all. Yet the half-troll did not shirk from that fact. He did not seek the support of his companions, did not ask for their permission. Never would he seek their forgiveness. In a way, he has taken the burden of the staff upon himself as much as any of us.
Amelyssan was surprised to hear his own voice, weak and quavering. “Thank you, friend.” So much emotion and so simple words. May I one day bear your guilt, as you have mine.
John, it seemed, had steeled himself. His black looks and threatening glances, so common during their recent trek, were now gone. They were replaced by a glint of resolve and clenched teeth. The bard withdrew his rapier. “Finish it.”
Vath needed no further encouragement. He plunged a talon into the neck of one of the prisoners, withdrew it, and dripped blood onto the staff. Where the red liquid splattered, a hissing arose, and mist – mustard-colored as it had been upon Olgotha – rose into the air.
Vath scampered around on his haunches. Plunge, drip. Plunge, drip. With each application of blood, the mist grew thicker, higher, swirling now above the half-troll’s feet. Then his waist, his chest, and finally above his head. Vath punctured the throat of the last prisoner, let the blood leak onto the staff – now mostly hidden within the veil of yellow – then stepped backward. The deed was done; the six innocents had been sacrificed.
The maelstrom arrived. A sound arose, akin to wind roaring through a defile of the Balantir Cor. Amelyssan threw back the sleeves of his robes, subconsciously tightened the grip upon his dagger. He stepped backward in spite of himself, his flaxen hair whipping about him. The presence of Ippizicus – the pressing he had felt since leaving Ciddry – was suddenly gone.
“HE COMES!”
A form took shape within the fog, coalescing into a bestial silhouette that bespoke of blood-soaked orgies conducted beneath primeval canopies. Here formed savagery, untouched and unfettered by the words of philosophers. Here was the hoary origin of pain, the fount of rage, the chasm of hope never known. Here was the force which had raged across Valusia, a primordial bull, when the world had forgotten the day.
Here was the Child-Eater. Here was Ippizicus.
Ahhh! The 'highs' of writing stories in this forum...
...and the lows of writing stories in this forum.
