Cade 34

Verin’s four stubby leather wings echoed dryly in the dark chamber as he circled round and round the tower’s perimeter. The dust, disturbed after decades of slumber, fell on invisible waves and landed atop the rotting bed canopy.

A lone figure lay unmoving beneath the heavy blankets. Dark black hair spilled a shadow on the yellowed pillow, violet eyes stared unseeing at the canopy above.

Verin stopped the endless circling and lowered his chubby leather form to the bed. Standing only as high as a woman’s knee and every bit as wide, flying was a challenge on this plane even with four wings. He breathed heavily, bent over the woman and looked directly into her face with four unblinking black eyes.

What to do? What to do?

Imps were selfish petty creatures by nature, created for the sole purpose of making mischief on Runelar before the banishment. Their history was long and often distinguished in helping mortals create chaos.

Imps were not as powerful as demel or dargon, the Woetress’ legions of warriors. But, since they were created to operate in the realm of humans and with humans to some extent, they knew human nature better than their subordinates. This talent was wasted in the banishment where no mortal dare tread. Serving no vital function in Agoniture, imps were often the sport of warriors who took a perverse pleasure in taunting and torturing.

Verin scowled. The favorite torment was creating a human summons by making what appeared to be a rip in the fabric of Agoniture. Many humans over the centuries used magic to call imps as familiars. And imps, always eager to be gone from their tormentors, fought viciously to be the first into the rip.

The cruelty of the warrior’s joke was in the snuffed hope and endless suffering. The imp who fought and bled hardest for the rip was not taken to Runelar. No not even the Woetress herself was capable of commanding time. The rip led to a lake of burning tar, where the imp fell and boiled for months in agony while fighting his way to freedom. Imps, like demels and dargon, could not die in Agoniture, but they could feel. It was time out of time, nothing new could be created and nothing old could die. Stasis.

Essence was only expended on Runelar, so any imp called as familiar could be killed. But even the torture and tar of the demel’s cruel jokes of freedom, could not quench the desire of an imp to be free of Agoniture, and into a world where their small power surpassed that of most inhabitants. Where in fact, they became powerful, even if tied to a mortal’s whim.

Only the death of a patron, or exile by the patron, could send an imp back to Agoniture. Therefore once summoned, an imp did his best to keep the mortal alive. Verin was called only three short years ago by his human. She was not an adept, but her viciousness pleased him.

Rotta was a demanding patron, often believing herself his equal. He watched with relish when the dead Max raped her. But after several minutes of brutal treatment he begged the dargon General Fyat possessing the dead man, not to kill her. The general was thrusting mindlessly into her limp form and Rotta was bleeding. The warrior just laughed and sent waves of pain through the imp’s eyes.

Since that night, the mortal did not speak. She ate, slept, and stared when the witch DeTac ordered it. Verin gleefully watched as Rotta’s belly swelled. No good would come from a dargon spawn. What chaos it would bring to the world!

The situation couldn’t be any better for Verin, at least until today. Without his demanding patron, he was able to do as he willed. He did not have to heed her call or consider banishment. He sneered when thinking about the river boat captain who brought them to Castle Machlag. He whispered murder in the man’s ears the entire voyage. Verin watched joyfully when the man returned home to his wife and children and slaughtered them all out of hand. Delicious.

He rubbed his three fingered hands together, jagged teeth smiling in the darkness. And the rowers were easy bait as well. It felt so good to pull a steal and stow. Steal from one man’s cache, stow the loot in another’s, then watch the inevitable fight to the death.

He looked back down at Rotta’s unmoving form and frowned. What to do? If it were up to Verin she would stay this way for many many years. He was having fun and deservedly so after hundreds of years in torment. But now, after hearing DeTac with the king, he knew his patron’s life was in danger. The witches would never allow her to live once she bore the brat. His time on this plane would be short indeed if he did not find a way to wake her. Rotta at her most demanding was infinitely better than returning to the torment of the Woetress’ warriors.

How could he wake Rotta with out bringing the wrath of DeTac’s familiar down on his head? The general would consume his essence and Verin would be no more.

What to do? What to do?

Verin took to the air again, mindless of the dust falling onto his patron. He must think of a way for Rotta to awaken soon and escape.