Lizard at Arms, And More- "The High Road"

877, A.F. A man in splendid silver armor stood over an unmarked grave, staring down at the soil and grass that had grown a strange shade of blue over it, and the wild, crimson roses that grew just over this patch of ground. He stared down with a heavy heart, and heaved a sigh. “Has it really been thirty years, my friend?” The man’s voice formed a strange, garbled harmony of two voices, one husky and pleasant, one deep and filled with a darkness of the soul.

The man bent down on one knee, the metal plates and joints of his armor creaking and clanking as he did so.

The roses smelled wondrous to his strange nostrils, which he presently hid beneath the faceplate of his helmet. The man’s horse, a black roan of amazing size and strength, whinnied nearby, and he looked over at it for a moment, trying to decipher what could possibly give it such discomfort.

“Probably this place,” he mused aloud. “Or perhaps this unscheduled visit.”

The man removed one of his mailed gloves, and beneath, his flesh appeared stretched and blotted with patches of black skin here and there amid his predominantly pale hand. A second look would reveal that the black spots were actually moving, writhing shadows, wisps of darkness flowing out from beneath his armor and clothing.

The creature, for he wasn’t truly a man, reached down and touched the grave, wondering how so much time could have passed without his returning here to visit the man he’d once called friend.

He withdrew his hand, and put the gauntlet back on, rising to his feet. “It has been ten years since I last visited your final resting place, Byron.” The creature’s voice now was that only of a Human, one who still mourned the loss of Byron Aixler, best known near the end of his un-life as Byron of Sidius. “And for that I am sorry. But I have been very busy.”

He looked south and east, toward Mount Toane. “I have been hunting down those demons who escaped during the final battle, and it has been a long, dark road I have traveled. But I feel I owe it to you, since I could do little else during that war to help.”

The creature looked down once more at the roses and strangely colored grass. “I pray you are resting well with your God, Oun. I myself must go now.” The creature moved toward Thunderstorm, his steed these last six years. “I have unfinished business to tend to.”

The half-demon Grigory Molis mounted his horse, and rode off, away from the grave of the land’s most celebrated hero in recent memory.

* * * *

A week’s hard riding, with little rest and almost no food, brought Molis to the Elven Kingdom’s eastern border. There, a patrol of the kingdom’s troopers formed a barricade across the road.

The half-demon reined in his horse, and dismounted slowly, keeping his hands open and loose at his sides as one of the Elven Knights approached, sword in hand.

“Hail, traveler, and well met.” The trooper stopped perhaps five yards in front of Thunderstorm. “Please name yourself, and tell us your business within our kingdom’s borders.”

Molis raised his right hand toward the sky and brought it swiftly to his chest, pounding his armor just over his heart. “I am Grigory Molis, goodly Knight of the Elves,” he said, his voice booming and clear of the demonic taint. “I am here in search of a demon, that I may destroy it and send it back to the Pit.”

The Elf gave him a brief up-and-down look, most likely trying to size him up.

Damnable Elves, Molis thought. Always so suspicious.

“You speak truth, for I can tell it in your words,” the Knight said. “Such is one of the powers of a Knight. I will not ask you to remove your helm or your armor, but I must ask you this; what is thy Race, man?”

Ah hell, Molis thought. This is going to cause some difficulty.

-No it won’t,- the voice of the demon within his soul said inside of his mind.

Are you so sure? the voice of Edgar Cesar replied internally.

-Yes, I am sure. Besides, if they give you trouble, you could easily slaughter the lot of them, all ten made into corpses at our feet!-

The minds and souls merged once more, and Molis replied to the Elven Knight’s question.

“I am a half-demon.” Molis dropped the fake tone of reverence and friendliness altogether.

The Elven man took a few steps back, and raised his sword a little, more out of reflex than out of menace.

“I know, this seems strange, but you heard the truth of my claim when I said I have come to slay a demon,” Molis said abruptly.

The Knight returned to his group, and they huddled together, speaking in whispered tones in the language of their people. I really need to learn a few languages, Molis thought bitterly.

As the Elven border guards had their little pow-wow, Molis lifted the faceplate of his helmet and let the cool breeze coming from the south pass over his shadow-drenched face. He squeezed his eyes shut, and welcomed the chill that ran down his spine. When he opened his eyes again, he could see far off into the distance, almost down to the beach. He gasped at the sight of it, for the sand he saw there was pitch black. He was not seeing what was really before him, but once again saw where the demon hid from him.

The beach, he knew, was actually along the western edge of the land, through Elven lands. He needed more than ever to get past these guards and through the kingdom.

His vision blurred for a moment, and he smelled the flowery perfume one of the guards wore as their group approached him as a whole.

He turned toward them, not bothering to pull down the faceplate of his helmet. Four of them were approaching, and they stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of his blackened face and yellow, gimlet eyes. He heard their breath catch in the their throats, and felt a sick surge of glee at their discomfort and fear. The Elven Kingdom, particularly the capital of Whitewood, had been ravaged by demons with eyes such as his thirty years before, and the natural distrust and fear they held for him could be easily explained.

“Grigory Molis,” said the Elven Knight, who had lieutenant’s bars on his armor. “We shall let you pass into the Elven Kingdom, if you can give us some show of good faith.”

Molis barked harsh twin laughter, and planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looked at the ground. He then turned his blazing eyes on the Knight.

“I am a half-demon, my friend. Asking me for a show of good faith is much like asking a fish, very politely, if he’d like to come out of the river and enjoy the fresh air! Do you understand what I mean?”

The Elven Knight gave him a curious look, and conferred with the men closest to him.

He turned back, and shook his head. “Oh man, you guys are dense.” Molis pulled down the faceplate and smacking the forehead-plating of the helmet. He folded his arms over his chest, and pulled on his goatee, concealed under the shadows of his head.

The Elves made no move, either away from him, or toward him. He could, however, smell the cold sweat forming on their brows, and he heard the stretching tension of a bow string somewhere off to his right, to the north.

Snipers, in case things don’t go so well here, he thought.

He looked briefly past the four men clustered a few yards away from him, and saw that the other six men had all taken up posts to the north and south of him, placing themselves at diagonals to avoid a crossfire should they loose their arrows on him and Thunderstorm.

The horse neighed at him briefly, and he sensed its boredom and malcontent.

“I know, boy,” he whispered, leaning toward the roan’s head and floppy ears. “We’ll be moving again soon, not to worry.”

As he finished speaking to his mount, one of the other Elves with the lieutenant broke from the group and charged at Molis, a spiked mace in hand. He issued no war cry, no warning, but his movements were hasty, rushed. Molis slapped Thunderstorm on the side, sending him into motion, and dropped into a crouch, ducking the sidearm blow aimed at his shoulderblade.

Molis heard the Knight crying to his man to cease his attack, to drop his weapon and remove himself from harm’s way.

The trooper had just missed his swing, and Molis brought his hands up as he rose, grasping the man’s wrist in one mailed hand and bringing his other armored forearm into the man’s shoulder joint, hard.

He didn’t break the Elf’s arm, but the trooper cried out, and his hand went limp, dropping the mace to the ground.

Molis whipped the man around into a figure four armlock, dragging him along through the dirt back toward the other three Elves nearby. He dropped the Elf roughly to the lieutenant’s feet, his saffron eyes blaring in his shadowy face. With a grunt, he turned and headed back to Thunderstorm, who had resumed his post in the road.

“Good boy,” he said to the horse, who nickered and nipped at him.

“Hey, take it easy, I’m praising you, not being sarcastic.” He brushed his mailed hand along the horse’s side.

“We shall let you pass,” the lieutenant said suddenly, despite the protestations of his kinsmen in their tongue.

He held a silencing hand up to the them, and approached Molis and his steed slowly, bending down and tossing the other trooper’s mace back to him lightly. “That was rather remarkable, and I apologize for the brashness of my corporal.”

“A corporal, eh?” Molis asked, intrigued.

He mounted Thunderstorm, and cantered up next to the group, watching the archers lower their arrows and put their weapons away. He pointed his mailed fist down at the corporal who had attacked him without provocation. “I suggest that whatever duty the lieutenant assigns you for punishment, you do it well and you do it without complaint, little man! The military is no place for rash action and misjudgment, corporal. When your contract comes up for renewal, remember this day, and think carefully about your career and its possible outcomes. Good day, gentlemen.” He smiled to himself as he rode Thunderstorm at an easy clip into the great forest that was the Elven Kingdom.

* * * *

Later, during the evening, Molis took himself and Thunderstorm off of the main road into the woods themselves, and found himself a comfortable little area to make his camp.

He traveled alone most of the time, but just lately, it had become a very oppressive loneliness. He wondered, very briefly, if he was doomed to be alone for the rest of his twisted, dual existence. He also wondered if, in the beginning of his freedom, Byron of Sidius had felt the same way.

“You’re the only true friend I have, partner,” he said to Thunderstorm, who rested across the small fire he used to cook from him, legs locked upright.

Molis let out a long sigh, and skewered the rabbit he’d hit with a thrown rock an hour before on a whittled stick. The meat cooked quickly, and he devoured it in a few bites. He needed some real food, and soon, because subsisting on meat alone grated on his nerves, and his stomach.

He took a brief inventory of his saddlebags, and laid down, pulling a blanket over himself and drifting off to sleep.

The half-demon came to at the sound of approaching footsteps perhaps an hour before dawn. His eyes fluttered open slowly, and he groaned as he sat up, looking around with sleep-fuzzy eyes. He listened closely for the sound of the footfalls, and got to his feet in time to see someone duck behind a nearby tree.

A brigand, he wondered?

“Whoever you are, you’d do well to show yourself, right now!” A head covered with long, golden hair poked out from behind a tree, and Molis found himself looking at a young Elven girl, not even old enough to be into puberty.

He took a step back, his face twitching, his mind racing. In all of the years he’d been on the road, he’d never spotted a child on their own, certainly not out in the wilderness like this. How close am I to a village? Must be pretty close for such a young girl to be here. Oh, man, what do I do?

“Are you lost mister?” The girl came fully out from behind the tree. She was dressed in a simple yellow dress that flowed down to her shins and clutched a rumpled-looking teddy bear. Her voice was high-pitched and a little whiny, but otherwise, unsettlingly child-like. Edgar Cesar hadn’t had children in life, and the demon within him didn’t have any experience with kids, so he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed.

“Um…” He crouched so that they might be at eye level.

Molis summoned up his powers, and changed his countenance to resemble that of a Human. He removed his helmet slowly, hoping against hope that he had succeeded. He assumed he had, since the little Elf girl wasn’t running away in total fear.

“I’m not lost, little one. What is your name?”

The girl trilled youthful laughter, and the sound of her laugh lifted his heart; at least, that part of it that belonged to Edgar Cesar.

“I’m Samantha Longleaf.” She put her hands behind her back and twisting back and forth on her feet. “What’s your name, mister?”

“I am Grigory Molis,” he said gently, giving her a soft grin. “You can call me Mr. Molis if you’d like. Where are your parents, little one?”

As soon as he asked, Molis noticed the layers of dirt and grime on the girl’s dress, face, and bare arms. She looked a tad emaciated as well, he noted. She also wasn’t smiling any more.

“My parents aren’t around, Mr. Molis,” she said, her tone saddened and honest in that way only children can manage. “We were walking in the woods when a bad man came along, and they told me to run as far as I could,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

-Way to go, numbshit,- the demon within said to him. -Now she’s going to cry, and you want to help her, don’t you?-

Well yes, of course I do, Edgar Cesar replied. She’s lost, alone, probably starving, and there’s little shelter around here from the look of things. We’re a good four days from Whitewood if we walk, and I’m not going to leave her here, alone and unprotected.

-What about the demon, Edgar? What of our mission?-

The mission be damned, it can wait, Edgar thought back.

Once more the two minds merged into one, with Edgar Cesar’s consciousness taking the forward position. “So you’re all alone out here, Samantha.” He stood and took a tentative step forward.

The girl didn’t even flinch, or make any move to get away; she looked too frail to run any further.

“When did you eat last?”

“I think it was two days ago,” she replied.

Molis traipsed back to his bag, and took out a hunk of bread, and the little bit of cheese that was still edible, returning toward the girl and offering them silently.

Quick as a bullet she darted toward him, snatching up the food and tearing into it like a little savage.

Molis knelt and ruffled her hair lightly with one of his mailed gloves, and she flinched.

“Your gloves are heavy, Mr. Molis,” she complained, using her left hand to straighten her hair now that the cheese was gone.

He chuckled a little and stood up.

“Yes, they are. Listen, I’d like to take you to the nearest town or village. Do you have any family other than your mother and father?”

The girl wolfed down the last of the bread he’d given her, which he realized with some dismay was the last he had on him, and cocked her head to one side, appearing to think about his question.

“My uncle Silva and aunt Margaret live in the big city, Whitewood,” she said, her face lighting up as she mentioned the name of the capital. “I haven’t seen them in years! Can you take me there?”

Molis nodded, smiled at her again, and put his helmet back on, pulling the face guard down once more. He packed the rest of his belongings in Thunderstorm’s saddlebags, and led him over to the girl, Samantha, by the reins.

“She’s pretty, mister,” the girl said, at which the roan harrumphed.

“Actually, Thunderstorm here is a boy.” Molis watched with dismay as the girl crouched down and looked back at the horse’s underside.

“Oh, right. I didn’t see that before.” She giggled before standing again. "Can I ride him, Mr. Molis?”

Molis looked at the horse, who turned his long, equine face toward him and seemed to cock an eyebrow questioningly.

“Sure thing, Samantha,” he said, glad to relieve himself of the magic that had been hiding his demonic visage. He led the Elven girl to the horse’s side, and turned to Samantha, who had her arms out toward him, ready to be lifted up.

She still clutched the teddy bear in her right hand, and he wondered how old precisely she was.

He scooped her up, cringing a little at how light she was, and set her in the saddle. “Hold onto that horn at the front of the saddle, and I’ll lead him with the reins.” He stepped in front of Thunderstorm and led the horse back to the road.

“So how old are you, Mr. Molis,” she asked, and immediately the demon inside interrupted him.

-Oh, wonderful. She’s at that curious age. You sure know how to pick them, Edgar.-

Oh shut it, you, he replied internally. “I am fifty-seven years old,” he said aloud, which was technically accurate.

“You don’t look it,” she said sweetly. “Aren’t Humans supposed to get all wrinkly and stuff when they get that old?”

Molis hunched up his shoulders at this, irritated on the surface with the girl’s statement, because, well, it was true.

“I take very good care of myself,” Molis said. Okay, maybe she’ll stop asking questions now. None such luck, as it turned out.

“Are you married, Mr. Molis?”

The half-demon cleared his throat, and shook his head no.

“Do you have a girlfriend,” she asked, drawing out the ‘ir’ sound like a little schoolgirl teasing some boy in class.

Molis growled low in his throat, and once again shook his head in the negative.

“Do you have a boyfriend,” she asked, giggling uncontrollably.

Molis sighed, pressed his hand where his temples would be under the helmet, and shook his head again, restraining the sudden urge to stuff a cloth gag in the girl’s mouth.

“Where are you from,” she asked now, as they came to a fork in the road. Molis took note of the heavy wheel tracks and hoof prints on the right road, and led Thunderstorm that way.

“I am from a place far, far to the east, Samantha,” he said, using his pleasant, husky Human voice again. “A place you may have heard of, even.”

“Is it Ja-Wen,” she asked quickly, and when Molis looked back, she was rocking back and forth excitedly in the saddle, one hand on the horn and one on her teddy bear.

“No, it’s—” he said, unable to finish due to another interruption from the little girl.

“Is it Palen,” she asked, rocking faster now. What was she so excited about? Are all little girls like this?

-Actually, in my limited experience, yes.-

Ah, hells, Edgar thought. “No, it isn’t Palen. I come from—” he said, yet again interrupted, much to his rising fury.

“Is it Arcade? Because my mommy and daddy told me once that Arcade is a bad, bad place. My uncle Silva went there once, and he told me it was all full of Wererats and Gnomes who were thieves, and they tried to rob him, and he told them he wouldn’t give them his money, and—” she prattled at high speed. Molis, who had just about had enough of her nonsense, twitched the horse’s reins, bringing Thunderstorm to an abrupt halt.

“Will you please SHUT UP and let me tell you,” he roared, his saffron eyes blazing inside of his helmet. He spun on his heels and glared up at the girl, and saw to his horror that she was doing something he’d never seen before, but instinctively knew was bad news. Her lower lip trembled up and down, and her breath seemed to be hitching in her chest.

“Oh, oh Gods in the heavens above, Samantha, I, I didn’t mean to yell at you,” he stammered, and the dam holding back her fragile emotional control broke wide open, and she started to babble and bawl, tears streaming in twin rivulets down her dusky, dirty cheeks.

What do I do, Edgar asked the other who resided in his soul, as their combined whole brought his hands to his head, looking around as if from help from some third party.

-You expect me to know? I’m a fucking demon, not a wet nurse! I have zero idea of how to handle children! You got us into this mess, Edgar, so get us out! And for pity’s sake, get the girl to stop making that noise! She’s going to make my (our) ears bleed!-

Molis, hands up toward Samantha, pleaded with her silently to stop crying, to at least cry more quietly, when Edgar spotted something through his shared eyes, off on the side of the road. Molis walked slowly over to a cluster of wild growing flowers, and plucked a beautiful yellow flower from the bunch.

Samantha continued to babble unintelligibly, but somewhere in there, Molis thought he heard something about a bad man making her parents scream, and for the time being, he chose only to log this bit of emotional flotsam away in his memory for later. He walked slowly up to her, and snapped his gloved fingers right in front of her nose.

She stopped crying and babbling just long enough to hand her up the flower. Her eyes opened wide as she took it with her left hand, marveling at its simple beauty. “For, for me,” she asked between sobbing gasps.

“Yes, for you.” Molis pulled off his helmet again. His Human facade held best when the demon let go of some of its hold, as it did now, and he saw his own handsome face reflected in her wide, wondering eyes. “I am sorry, Samantha. I didn’t mean to lose my temper with you.”

Helpless to do anything else, he caught her in his arms as she flung herself from the horse toward him, holding her against his heavily armored upper body and patting her back as she cried against his neck.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Molis, but I’m so scared, and I’ve been lost for days, and nobody looked friendly enough to help me, and there were these evil Orc people, and I almost got caught by them yesterday, and I think maybe the bad man is still out there, and,” she stammered, trying to tell him everything in one huge rush.

“It’s all right, it’s all right.” Edgar left the demon and Molis aside for the moment being as he stroked her hair gently. “I’ll get you to your aunt and uncle’s home. There should be a hostel somewhere down this road, and we can rest there for the day. What do you say, does that sound good?”

Without waiting for an answer, he set her back on Thunderstorm, who was giving him an odd look for an animal.

Is he grinning at me?

The Elven girl wiped away the last of her tears, and looked back and forth between her teddy bear, the flower, and Molis, who was putting his helmet back on again now that the demon within was resurfacing, merging to make him the half-breed once more.

“Yes, that sounds good. I could use a bath,” she said, laughing at herself. “I don’t mean to be a burden.” She blushed as he smiled at her before he pulled down the faceplate.

“You’re not a burden, Samantha, I assure you. You know, I could put your teddy bear in one of my saddlebags.” He took the stuffed animal when she handed it to him.

For a moment, Molis hesitated, looking at the stuffed toy. There appeared to be some sort of trace memory held within the toy, some amount of empathic runoff. I’ll inspect this more closely at another time, he thought.

Samantha tucked the flower behind her left ear, and he took a moment to think, If she survives long enough to mature, she’s going to be beautiful.

Once again he took Thunderstorm’s reins, and led the way at a nice brisk pace, enjoying the scenery of the forestlands around him.

Samantha let her questions go for the time being, but Molis decided to open up conversation after an hour’s pleasant silence. “I hail from Mount Toane, Samantha. Do you know of it?”

“Only a little. Isn’t that an evil place?”

“It has been, in the past.” Molis sniffed the air periodically for any trace scent of the demon he presently pursued. “But not everything from that area is wicked or evil. I’m not directly from Mount Toane. I’m from an area, south, of the mountain.” He smiled at his little jest.

“How far south,” Samantha asked, completely innocent of the half-demon’s origin.

Molis almost overflowed with mirth at her question, but waved a hand to stay off the questioning glance she gave him as he chuckled.

“Very far south,” he said. “Now, I’ll answer any questions you have at all, Samantha, but you must ask them one at a time. Okay?”

She smiled widely at him, closing her eyes to emphasize how honest her smile was. They walked on in comfortable silence for a while, and then Samantha’s youthful curiosity got the better of her once more as they started crossing a short clearing.

“Mr. Molis, why do you wear all that funny looking armor? And that sword on your back? Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“Not really, Samantha,” Molis said, cursing her last questions. As soon as she asked it, he felt the inevitable chaffing of his inner thighs inside the suit of armor’s leggings. Without such probing, he might have been able to ignore his discomfort for a while. “Now and again I have to go a day or so without the armor, but as for the sword, I always wear it on my back. It is where most Knights learn to draw their blade from,” he said.

“So you’re a Knight? A for real Knight.” Her voice sounded awed and a little whispery.

Molis cocked a shadowy eyebrow and looked up at the girl for a brief moment, noting the way she had her hands clasped together just under her chin.

“Yes, though not the sort you’ve probably read about in fairy tales and such.” Molis turned his attention back to the grassy field.

As they passed out of the clearing and into the forest again, Molis’s spine tingled, warning him of some coming danger. The Great Forest houses the Elven Kingdom, but it contains many other things as well, Molis, he reminded himself. That’s why they have walls around their towns and cities, remember?

Molis stopped with Thunderstorm’s rear end still in the clearing. “Samantha, stay on Thunderstorm,” he said quietly, slowly.

He turned around and pointed his left hand back to the clearing as he drew his bastard sword with his right.

The girl’s hands flew to the saddle horn, and her face fell into a look of mixed curiosity and innate fear.

“If there’s trouble,” Molis said, “he’ll run you off to someplace safe.”

“Does he know to do that?” Truly afraid and hushed, she seemed even smaller than when he had first met her.

So vulnerable, Molis thought, his blood boiling in his veins. And someone destroyed her parents. Something that would show no mercy even to this small child! Not that I should be too surprised. These realms are full of those with dark hearts. He turned his attention back to the forest path ahead, which seemed to have grown preternaturally dark.

“Yes, Samantha. Thunderstorm is a very intelligent animal, not some beast of burden,” he said, pointing behind himself to the clearing again. The horse nipped his mailed glove once quickly, to tell him it understood its charge. “Wait with him until I come for you, and do not go off on your own. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Molis, sir,” she said demurely.

Molis nodded, and assumed a crouching stance as he headed back into the forest. Something is out there. He darted his saffron eyes left and right through the trees, seeking out the source of his discomfort. Something not of the Races. Some beast or creature of malcontent, I can feel it, almost a kindred spirit. But what is it, and more importantly, where?

The crack of branches splitting underfoot took his attention northeast, forward and to his right.

No paths led off that way, so he felt sure his assumption had been correct, and his soon-to-be-assailant was not a man or woman of the known and civilized Races. A primal grumbling, a growling of sorts, sounded off in that direction, and Molis ducked behind a tall, strong oak tree, pressing his back to the ancient bark and rolling sideways to peer around from cover.

As he poked his head from behind the tree, he spotted the massive body of some strange monstrosity a moment before a blob of green fluid smashed into his cover and started eating away at the tree.

He ducked back and listened as the pop and sizzle of the tree he was backed against ground in his ears, eating away at the tree’s insides.

Some sort of projectile acid, he thought.

Molis leaped out from behind the tree, tucking his arms and his weapon in to avoid stabbing himself and rolling to miss another blob of the acidic fluid that hit scant inches away. Springing to his feet, he turned and squared himself with the creature.

The monstrosity had the body of a fully-grown lion, with an eagle’s head jutting from its long, powerful neck. Great black wings, leathery, bat-like, extended up from its back, and it loosed a garbled, strangled cry as it started hawking something up from its throat.

Another of those blobs of acid coming, Molis thought. He lashed his left hand forward, bringing up a shield of shadows, and held it before him, charging forward with his sword held in his right hand, at the ready.

A blob of the thick, viscous fluid splashed against his demonic shield and started to disappear into the blackness. Molis leaped, bringing the bastard sword down on the creature’s neck, decapitating it cleanly and with little effort.

The sinew and muscle in its neck turned out to be the only thing holding its head in place; no spinal column had been connected to the base of its brain, apparently.

What sort of creature was this, he thought as he whipped his sword to his side, shedding the blood and gore from its surface.

“No matter,” he muttered aloud. Molis didn’t sheath his blade just yet—there might be more such creatures nearby. The half-demon brought forth his demonic nature, letting the creature from the Pit within him come forward and take fuller control of his body.

The demon sent tendrils of shadowy magic through the woods, seeking out all life forms for identification. He surveyed the area in perhaps a mile radius from himself, using his own body as a central point for a circle of observation. He spotted Elves, a handful of Cuyotai hunting several deer, and other natural animals. This creature had apparently been on its own.

Molis sheathed his blade and withdrew the demon inside, bringing himself back into balance. The tendrils of darkness receded back into his helmet and armor, and he checked himself to assure that he didn’t frighten Samantha when he returned to her.

Back to the main path he stalked, checking left and right to make certain none of the Elves he had seen with his magical tendrils spotted him. When he exited the woods back into the clearing, he saw that Samantha had fallen asleep astride Thunderstorm, who glared balefully at him.

Molis chuckled, and headed over to the roan.

“Sorry, boy. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.” He patted the horse’s flank, and looked at the girl’s limp form. He opened one of the larger saddlebags and pulled out a wool blanket, wrapping it around the girl’s fragile body, tying her to the horse and placing a small pillow under her stomach, so that the saddle horn wouldn’t dig into her abdomen too badly.

Just before he took the horse’s reins in hand, the girl’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked blearily at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Molis,” she mumbled, smiling at him before falling swiftly back to sleep.

The half-demon’s heart skipped a beat, and he took the reins, leading the way safely into the forest once again.

-The girl is too much of a distraction, Edgar. We need to get her to a village and dump her off,- the demon within called to him.

We can’t do that. She has no family, except in the capital, Edgar Cesar countered. These mental conversations often left him feeling drained and fatigued, but today, they just seemed to be fueling the mixed creature that was Grigory Molis. We can’t just leave her with strangers!

-You’re being too sentimental, Edgar,- the demon rasped in his mind. –There are bound to be Elves willing to take her in! There’s a village not two hours west of here!-

And the capital is only ten hours farther north on this road. Edgar turned their collective head to look at a sign beside the road. It pointed in several directions, guiding passersby to several towns or villages. The bottom wooden sign bore the word ‘Whitewood’.

If my calculations are correct, that is. Who knows, she may even rest the whole while. I don’t think she’s slept or eaten well in a long while.

-Cry me a fucking river, Edgar. Unless this gets us closer to the demon, it is a pointless, needless distraction.-

So you don’t feel good about this at all? Not the slightest little bit good that we’re helping someone who is much less fortunate, and far weaker than ourselves?

Dead silence met this line of questioning, and Molis’s yellow, gimlet eyes flared with satisfaction. Admit it, this is a good thing!

-Yes, all right, this does feel good-, the demon admitted reluctantly. –It always makes us both feel good to help others. But I feel much better when we are tearing apart some black-hearted demon, Edgar. It makes me feel more alive!- The demon and Edgar’s minds merged once more, and Grigory Molis continued on down the road until it forked in three different directions. Molis consulted the road signs, and took the right-hand fork, leading Thunderstorm, who seemed to have tensed up.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Molis asked, and then received his answer in the form of three tall, gangly Wererats leaping out from behind bushes along the road and forming a makeshift roadblock.

“Ah, I see. What say you, fellows,” he called to the Wererats, who had all crossed their arms over their chests, standing shoulder to shoulder.

They were garbed in simple black leathers, metal studs standing out in a block pattern over their chests. Molis wondered why they weren’t intimidated by his silver armor, and then remembered that Wererats were allergic to copper, not silver like most other lycanthropes.

“Dis here is a toll road, buddy,” the tallest of the three, the one standing in the middle, said, a hint of mocking in his tone. “You’s gotta pay da toll ta get trew.” The Wererat’s thick accent rendered his common speech somewhat atrocious.

The large lycanthrope’s little friends snickered and chuckled, and he gave them each a sharp slap on the snout to bring them back in line.

“And if I should refuse to pay?” Molis released Thunderstorm’s reins and took a few steps away from the horse and his sleeping ward. “What then shall you do?” He drew his sword swiftly.

The large Wererat pulled out a pair of throwing knives, holding them deftly between the fingers of his left hand.

“Then me and da boys ‘ere would have ta rough ya up a bit, ta teach you’s some respect.” The Wererat flexed his arms as he crossed his hand to his right shoulder, preparing a throw.

Molis gauged his chances of coming away unscathed from a confrontation as pretty fair, but what of his horse and Samantha? Wererats didn’t know what honor was, in his experience, and might threaten to hurt her. It pained him to do it, but he sheathed his sword, and sighed. “Changed yer mind, have ya,” the Wererat cooed.

“Do not misunderstand me.” Molis fished in one of his pouches for five gold coins. He assumed it would be more than enough for these highwaymen. He clutched the money tightly in his hand, and slowly approached with his arms held out at his sides, fists clenched. “Were I alone, without the child to consider, I would lay all three of you out in shallow graves.” He approached more closely, tendrils of demonic magic swirling out from the back of his helmet like long, pitch black hair blowing in the wind.

The saffron lights in his head blazed flaxen bright, and the Wererat in the center of the trio of bandits dropped his knives, his arms suddenly rubbery and weighted like lead. “However, in exchange for peaceful passage and the safety of the girl, I shall pay you your toll fee,” he said, standing now only a foot away from the leader of this pack of rodents.

Molis reached out with his left hand, grasped the man’s wrist, and pulled it forward, turning his hand palm up. With his right hand, he dumped the gold pieces into the upturned hand.

The Wererat stared with wonder at the money there. “Jeez, mister, dis is two and a half times more den we’s usually ask fer.” His eyes blinked rapidly at the half-demon, and Molis saw mortal fear reflected in his eyes. “As fer a girl, we isn’t savages, man,” the Wererat said. “We don’t hurt kids.”

“Right, right,” the other two Wererats said in muddled unison. Molis still had use of his Knight powers, and now might be a good time to make use of them. If he asked anyone a direct question, he could tell if their answer was truth or a deception.

“Have you ever harmed a child,” he asked the big Wererat leader. The man backed up a step, and Molis felt pretty certain he didn’t even need to hear his answer; the man would lie and tell him they hadn’t.

“No, not ever,” the Wererat leader said.

A lie, and a bold-faced one, Molis thought.

“Well, we never did any real harm, dat is,” the Wererat blurted. His two associates started to creep off into the surrounding forest, abandoning their leader to his fate.

Molis stomped forward, and grabbed the Wererat before him by his studded leather jacket, pulling forward and down to his own eye level.

“Look, mistah, we’re Wererats, we’ve got a natural instinct to make profit!”

“What have you done,” Molis growled, peeking back over his shoulder to ensure that Samantha was still asleep. He wanted to do something to the Wererat, but he didn’t want her to see what, because she would immediately try to run away from him. He saw to his satisfaction that she was still fast asleep in the saddle. He turned his face back toward the Wererat, and used his left hand to lift up his helmet’s faceplate.

The Wererat’s eyes spread wide with silent horror as he looked into the darkened aspect of Grigory Molis. The half-demon smiled, revealing row upon row of razor-like teeth, and he flexed his demonic magic, letting the blackened aura of his body shimmer and flow from his body. Several tentacles of black magic took on the shape of black serpents, their tongues hissing out of their heads, eyes wide and filled with venomous intent.

“Tell me what you have done, and repent for your sins, foul creature,” Molis growled in the pure voice of the demon who shared space with his soul.

“I, I, I smacked a couple a kids around a few times,” the Wererat admitted, trying to grip Molis’s arms and pry himself free of their iron grip.

In a full-blown panic, most Wererats went into their lycanthrope rage. Panic seemed to be the only emotion that brought the rage on in their particular Race. However, despite the Wererat’s best efforts to engage this state of being, the hands that twisted into his leather jacket didn’t seem to allow it. Some sort of magic blocked the rage from the Wererat’s body, and he struggled harder to free himself.

“I’ve sold ‘em to slavers, okay! It’s a side business.” The Wererat brought his knee up into the metal plate that guarded Molis’s crotch, and cursed under its breath as Molis squeezed the jacket around his throat. “Oh Gods above, are you gonna kill me? I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again, I swear it!”

“That’s right, you won’t.” Molis pulled the Wererat close enough to kiss the tip of his rodent snout. “I’ll be keeping tabs on you, little man. If you ever harm a child again, I shall return, and slay you slowly and painfully. Now get from me.” He tossed the Wererat into a nearby tree, bringing his demonic power back in check.

Molis returned to Thunderstorm, who seemed to be grinning at him. He took up the reins, and watched the Wererat run off into the forest, screaming bloody murder as he disappeared. “Well, that’s another good deed for the day,” Molis said to himself, and sauntered down the road toward Whitewood.

* * * *

About three hours later, Samantha awoke screaming from a bad dream.

Molis let go of Thunderstorm and dashed to her side, taking her down off of the saddle and holding her close again, stroking her hair and trying to assure her that everything was all right, there was no bad man around. He even told her that if the bad man came, he would send him away forever and ever, and when Samantha asked if he meant that, he smiled and said yes, he would send the bad man away. She hugged him fiercely around the neck, and clung there for a while, neither of them moving or saying a word. Finally, Molis asked if she wanted to walk for a while, and she agreed to do so.

Half an hour after that incident, Molis spotted a hotel up the road. It seemed to him to be perfectly placed, perhaps four hours away from Whitewood. Travelers on the long and winding roads of the forest would surely stop in to rest, but he didn’t want a rest; he wanted to know if the hotel also served as a diner, which as he could see from here, it did. An outdoor patio area had been fenced off next to the hotel itself, and as they got closer, he saw waiters in white shirts and black pants moving between several patrons.

Molis concentrated, and brought his magic to bear once more, concealing himself in the guise of the Human, Edgar Cesar. He removed his helmet, set it on its hook on Thunderstorm’s side, and pulled off his gauntlets, tucking them into his belt. He looked down at Samantha, who took his free right hand in hers, and asked, “Shall we stop and get something to eat?”

“That would be good, Mr. Molis sir,” she exclaimed, letting go of his hand and sprinting ahead.

“Stay where I can see you, Samantha,” he yelled after her, but she had already disappeared inside.

Molis tied Thunderclap to a hitching post once he got in front of the four-story hotel, brushing his side and telling him to stay put. Molis walked to the open door, and felt the cool air blowing past his forehead from the lobby. Samantha was standing in front of the check-in counter, trying to jump up and down and fetch the desk clerk’s attention.

Molis stepped inside, and looked immediately to the right at some humming piece of metal. A machine, he thought. What sort of Elves would have mecha in their hotel? I thought these people hated technology?

The machine pumped cold air through the lobby, and though it felt good to his hands and forehead, he cringed from the piece of ancient equipment. He looked back toward the check-in desk, and saw a Gnome standing on some sort of stepstool.

Ah, that would explain it, he thought. Pesky Gnomes and their tinkering.

“Oi, what can I do for you and your little girl, sir?” The Gnome smiled down at Samantha, who stopped jumping up and down and waving her little hand in front of the Gnome’s face.

“Um…” Molis considered telling the Gnome that the girl wasn’t his daughter, but thought better of it. That would only raise questions, none of which he felt he wanted to answer. “We just need to grab some lunch, master Gnome. Do we need to pay for a room to get a meal?”

The Gnome laughed delightedly at Molis’s ignorance and shook his head.

“No, just head through that door to your right into the dining hall. Someone will take care of you, sir. You and your daughter enjoy your meal.”

“He’s not my daddy,” Samantha said brightly, and Molis quickly put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed a little. She looked up at him and he put his finger to his lips meaningfully. Molis then looked at the Gnome and smiled. He mouthed the word ‘stepdaughter’ to the Gnome, who raised his eyebrows in the ‘oh, I see’ gesture. He gave the little girl a smile, and the two travelers headed through the glass fronted double doors into the dining hall.

Molis told the young Half-Elf woman serving as hostess to seat them for two, and she led them outside to the patio dining area, handing them each a menu. Molis stared dumbly at the menu, which was written entirely in Elvish. “Um, can I have a common language menu?”

The girl eyeballed him suspiciously, looking at the girl. “She’s my stepdaughter, but her and her mother still haven’t taught me to read your language,” he blurted by way of explanation.

The waitress gave him the same gesture as the Gnome innkeeper, and left to fetch him a menu.

“That was close,” he murmured.

“Why did you lie to that lady,” Samantha asked him abruptly. Molis gave her a stern, warning look.

“Because people wouldn’t like it if they knew why you were traveling with me. They’d start asking some questions that I don’t think you want to hear the answers to. Now let it alone, Samantha,” he said, being stern but kind. “Do you want anything to drink, sweetheart?”

“I wanna have some cider,” she said with a sweet, innocent smile.

When the waitress returned with his menu, Molis asked for a glass of apple cider for the girl, and an ale for himself.

“Mommy says ale is bad for you,” Samantha offered, waggling her finger at Molis and imitating an older woman’s voice in the manner little girls do.

Molis and the waitress shared an amused laugh at this, and the Half-Elf woman said she’d get their drinks and give them time to decide what to eat.

“Samantha, I think it’s my turn to ask you a couple of questions,” the half-demon said.

The girl perked right up and sat primly in her chair, waiting for his questions and bopping her head from side to side.

“How old are you, dear?”

“I’m twenty-four years old,” the little Elven girl said. Ye gods, she’s still a young child, Molis thought. Elves don’t even reach puberty until around sixty! On the Human scale, she’s maybe six or seven! Molis cleared his throat, his mind, and continued.

“All right, you’re still very young. Samantha, dear, I have to ask you a few questions that are going to make you a little sad, okay?”

She gave him a puzzled look, and he proceeded. “I have to ask you about the bad man.”

He noted the sudden shift in her eyes, the way she clutched the front of her dress in one hand. Her bottom lip started to quiver ever so slightly, but to her credit, she didn’t start bawling again or anything so theatrical. “Are you okay with that?”

“Uh-huh, I guess so,” she said, grinning much less happily as the waitress brought them their drinks. “I’ll have the munch-munch platter, miss,” she said to the waitress, who jotted down her order.

“A portion of meatloaf and broccoli for me, miss,” Molis said, savoring the idea of a well-prepared but simple meal. He had a moment to once more wonder how long it had been since he’d enjoyed a good, solid meal. Weeks, it must be.

“Samantha, can you tell me what the bad man looked like,” he whispered, leaning slightly over the table so as not to air out their conversation.

Samantha averted her eyes from his for half a minute, and then stared him right in the face.

“He looked all, weird,” she said, clearly struggling to think of a way to describe the bad man. “It was like he was a shadow, but not one on the ground,” she said. “Like a walking shadow, you know? And his eyes, he had four eyes in his face, and they were all yellow, like yours get sometimes,” she said, giving Molis a start and making him choke a bit on his ale.

She’s seen my eyes? Oh boy, that’s no good. She’ll start asking troublesome questions, and then I may as well do like the other one suggested and drop her off at some random village!

“Samantha, this is very important, do you understand,” he whispered, looking around at the three other patrons on the patio. They all seemed to be minding their own business. One had her nose buried in a book, one was using a spyglass of some sort to look up into the trees and jot down notes in a steno pad, and one was simply relaxing, enjoying his wine and reclining with his chair against the patio railing. “Did the bad man have a particular smell to him?” The four eyes had been one clue for him, something he had seen first hand when he began this hunt for the demon in this area.

“Yeah, he smelled funny too.” She scrunched up her nose and looking at Molis suspiciously. “Did you come here to take the bad man away? I know sometimes nice people like you do that to bad men and women. Daddy calls them Crusaders. Are you a Crusader?”

The Crusaders were a loose Guild-like affiliation with several chapters throughout the lands of Tamalaria. Their sworn purpose was to deal with criminals and monsters for the well-being of the peoples of the lands. Unlike Bounty Hunters or mercenaries, this order operated freely, with no expectation of payment or compensation. A bunch of do-gooders, Molis thought a tad harshly.

“Not precisely, sweetheart, but I do similar work,” he said to put the child’s mind at ease. “Now, what exactly did he smell like?” He took a swig of his ale to prepare himself, though he felt positive he already knew what the bad man smelled like.

“Cinnamon,” Samantha said, confirming his suspicion.

The very demon he came to the Elven Kingdom to hunt down had slain this girl’s parents. Fate is a strange, large wheel, Molis thought. It mows down everything in its path, and spits it back out again later.

“He smelled awfully nice for such a bad man. I, I think I saw him hurt my daddy,” she mumbled, her words barely audible.

The two of them sat in silence until the food came, and both of them quickly devoured what was on offer.

Molis paid the bill with six tin coins, and then the two of them headed back to Thunderstorm, who was happily drinking from the water trough near the hitching post.

As he lifted Samantha up into the saddle, he felt obligated to ask, “How do you know the bad man hurt your father?”

“Because he used some kinda spell, and my daddy started screaming. That’s when I ran.”

Molis took up Thunderstorm’s reins again, and started down the road. If they didn’t come across any more interruptions, they could make Whitewood in a few more hours. Of course, in his experience, trouble seemed to follow him like a dog that refused to go away after its been given a handout.

* * * *

Three hours later, Grigory Molis once more came with Thunderstorm and Samantha to a fork in the road. This time the intersection came with a four-way split, with two roads, the one furthest left and furthest right, both labeled Whitewood. However, on the left-hand path, underneath the fine cursive print, stood the words ‘low road.’ On the right-hand path, the words said ‘high road.’

For a long pause he stood there, the reins of Thunderstorm in his hand, his senses tingling. His quarry could not be far down the path marked as the low road, because its scent tickled his nostrils. The sunlight streaming through the forest was still strong, and that meant his target would be weakened.

-We should go for it, now! It is weakened, we’ve just eaten to recover our power, and we have the drop on him! We must do it now, Edgar!-

The part of Grigory Molis that still belonged to Edgar Cesar recognized the strategic wisdom in what the demon said to him. However, it didn’t account for Samantha’s safety in the slightest.

We can’t, he thought back regretfully. Samantha could wind up in harm’s way.

-She could, I suppose. But what does that matter, Edgar? The demon tried to kill her once before already, and will surely go for it if we use her as bait.-

I will not. Edgar’s rage surfaced close to the outermost shell of his body.

-And why not? We have used people as pawns in our hunts before.-

They always knew the risks. They were adults! This girl is a child! I refuse to put her at risk to put down another demon. We’ll come back this way when we drop her off at her aunt and uncle’s.

While the demon within didn’t care much for the idea of letting the demon they hunted live for any longer than needed, it understood Edgar’s request. Grigory Molis was not a full-blooded demon; he was a half-breed, and had to remain somewhat mortal in mind and heart. It conceded to the mortal half’s wishes, and they started toward the high road.

The dirt path of the high road showed no clear evidence of being often traveled, unlike most of the roads they had come down since he had picked up Samantha on the road that morning. It seemed strange to him that he had only traveled with the girl for three quarters of a day, for he had become highly protective in a very short period of time. He supposed it was only natural, in a way. Knights protected people, it was their job. But more than that, he had traveled from coast to coast, region to region, kingdom to city-state for the last thirty years trying to exterminate the last demonic vestiges of Richard Vandross’s unholy army. And why have I been doing this? To protect the people of Tamalaria from the threat of them forming a force again, because if they do, they’ll stir up worse trouble than the land has seen in half a century.

And was that not what he felt most afraid of, in the end? The company that had defeated the armies of the warlock thirty years ago were scattered to the four points of the compass. Shoryu and Ellen Tearfang lived as a married couple in the city of Whitewood, where he was heading. The Cuyotai husband of the pair served as a Councilor, last he’d heard. Ellen busied herself with the rearing of their two children.

Morek Rockmight, the Dwarven Boxer who had accompanied the legendary hero Byron, had returned after the war to the city of Traithrock, capital of the Dwarven Territories. He too held a position of leadership, and was a very busy man in his elderly years. James Hayes had passed away four years ago, having served his living years after the war as a Cleric of peace. He had sired one son, Christopher, who served as a Knight in the Order of Oun. Selena Bradford had perished before the final confrontation, as had Alex, the Ki Fairy. And Bael, the proud leader of a tribe of Lizardmen who resided in the Elven Kingdom, had also been rumored to have died not too long ago. In short, the lands of Tamalaria had no heroes to stand against an army of demons, and Molis had taken it upon himself to reduce their ability to form such a force. As of the moment he finally spotted Whitewood in the distance, he had only fourteen demons left from Vandross’s armies to destroy.

The high road turned out to be littered with long, loping curves and twists, but on both sides of the path, various beautiful breeds of flowers grew in large beds and clumps formed by the naturally rich Elven lands. Samantha and Molis enjoyed a comfortable silence until finally, with Thunderstorm in hand, Molis came to a halt a dozen yards from the southern gates of the Elven Kingdom’s capital city.

Four guards in heavy plated armor came forward, all four of them handsome young Elven men. A fifth guard, a Cuyotai, kept his distance despite his iron plate armor. Molis’s silver armor clearly set him ill at ease.

One of the Elven guards smiled warmly at Molis after looking up at Samantha, who had inclined her head slightly toward him and lifted the hem of her dress half an inch in a mounted curtsey to him and his men. “Greetings, sir, and hail. Welcome to Whitewood, fair capital of our kingdom,” the guard captain said, spreading his arms wide to indicate the whole of the city behind him. “Might I ask what business brings you here?”

Molis decided that, so close to the home stretch, honesty was going to be the best policy. At least, a dash of the stuff would do.

“Might I in turn ask to speak with you aside, sir.” Molis bowed low with his hands held together in a triangle in front of him, in the traditional salute of good tidings that the Elven folk used with one another, particularly when formal matters were to be discussed.

The captain of the guards raised an eyebrow, but his grin didn’t fade in the slightest.

“And may the girl and horse approach your men closer?”

“Surely,” the captain responded rapidly, moving off to one side of the guards, twenty feet away and with his back to them.

Molis watched Thunderstorm stalk dutifully closer to the other guards, and now even the Cuyotai approached Samantha. The Werecoyote cast an Illusionist spell before her eyes, setting off an imaginary firework from his palm to explode into a starburst pattern overhead.

Samantha giggled excitedly, clapping her hands and asking the Cuyotai to do it again.

The captain leaned in close to Molis, and his smile faded away to nothing. “What is so important that you would use the formal greeting of my people, Human?” The captain sounded a little offended.

“I have come to this great forest to hunt down and destroy a demon,” Molis said rapidly, whispering his words so that they wouldn’t reach the girl. All she knew was that the demon was a ‘bad man’, and didn’t need to be terrified further by finding out just what had probably killed her parents. “I awoke this morning to find that girl spying upon my camp. She was alone, and lost, sir.” Molis shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t leave her to starve or fall prey to worse fates.”

The Elven captain of the guards looked back over his shoulder for a minute, and seemed to communicate silently with one of the other Elven guards, a sergeant from the stripes the man wore on his light green uniform tunic.

“I see.” The Elf said, turning his attention back toward Molis. “I also see, from your changing eyes, that you yourself are of a demonic nature.”

A chill went down Molis’s spine. Oh shit, I lost my focus! Great, now what? Will he trust me?

“Some of us know of your work, Grigory Molis,” the captain said, smiling at him and sending a different shock through Molis, one of gratitude. “I myself was with the contingent of men that went with mighty Byron through your tunnel into Mount Toane, sir.”

Molis bristled with pride at his past accomplishments, and the doors they sometimes seemed to open. He pulled his faceplate down anyway, in case the other men on watch didn’t share this captain’s high regard for him.

“She says she has an aunt and an uncle here in Whitewood. I would ask that you take her to them. I shall say a farewell to her, and then return to my quest. The demon is not far from here,” Molis confessed.

The Elven captain of the guard’s eyes lit up brightly, and his body seemed to tingle with anticipation.

“Shall I accompany you, sir?”

Molis stayed him with a mailed hand.

“No. When I say my farewells, take her inside the city and get her to her relatives. We were fortunate enough to have had that high road to travel on, or I may have had to risk her safety getting here.”

The Elven captain gave him a queer look then, confused and a bit wary. However, he said nothing, merely nodding and clapping Molis on the armored shoulder.

“Very good, sir. We shall take the best of care of her.”

Molis and the captain of the guards approached the others, and Molis reached up, setting Samantha down gently on the ground. Samantha had a smile on her face as he lifted her out of the saddle, but when the half-breed lifted his faceplate, her smile started to fade.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you,” she asked very quietly.

Molis hunkered down to her eye level, and nodded.

“These nice guards are going to take you to see your aunt and uncle. But they’ll need your help, Samantha,” he said, lifting her drooping head with one crooked finger under her chin. “They don’t know where to look for them. So you have to tell them where to go, okay?”

The little Elven girl nodded, and then threw herself around Molis, arms wrapped around his powerful neck and armor.

He returned her embrace lightly, not wanting to crush the poor little girl, who was now sobbing against him. “It’s all right, Samantha, it’s okay.”

He held the little girl out at arm’s length, and marveled at the tears that streaked down her face. He’d known her less than a day, and yet she didn’t want him to leave her. I’ve probably been the only person to show her kindness in the last few days, since she started running.

“When I’m done with my business in the area, I’ll come back and visit you, okay? Does that sound good?”

“Uh-huh,” she managed, trying to press forward on the hands he held her shoulders with. “But you shouldn’t go, Mr. Molis, sir, that bad man will hurt you!”

“No. He won’t.” The half-demon wondered if he’d spoken a lie. “I’ll make him go away, Samantha, I promise. Now, you have to go with these men.”

He let go of her shoulders and rose to his full stature.

Grigory Molis was not impressively tall, only topping out at around six-foot-two, but to the little Elven girl, he must have appeared to be a colossus.

The captain of the guards put one hand on her left shoulder, and led her inside the city gates. Samantha looked back over her shoulders until the wrought iron gates closed shut, and even then, Molis felt her eyes upon him through the heavy metal doors.

He sauntered to Thunderstorm, mounted, and turned the roan around with a tug on the reins.

-Well, that burden is behind us,- the demon spoke within the shared mind and soul of Molis. -Tell the truth, I feel much better now that she’s safe inside the city. What about you, Edgar Cesar?-

Indeed, I feel much better, Edgar replied, working his way back to the branched road he expected to come upon. Still, I feel like I’ve forgotten something. By the way, where the hell is the split in the road? We came here by the high road, so where’s the spot where we came off?

Molis looked around, having only come five minutes away from the capital’s gates.

-I’m, not sure-, the demon murmured.

“It should be right here,” Molis said aloud, looking left and right astride Thunderstorm. Molis clicked his tongue, and the horse trotted along once more, getting up a decent pace as the elms, oaks, and spruces passed by on both sides of the half-breed.

He continued on in this fashion for perhaps fifteen minutes when he felt the tingling sensation near the base of his spine that warned him of looming danger. “Whoa boy, whoa,” he said to Thunderstorm, who stopped immediately in the middle of the widening road to let Molis dismount cleanly.

He took several steps north, back the way he had come, scanning the surrounding bushes and bunches of trees and saplings around him. He smelled the demon, the hint of cinnamon, and he heard something rustling around to the west, his left.

Grigory Molis drew his sword, and a moment later, with his arm still slightly upward with his weapon, a three-tailed flail whip, tips aglow with arcane power, wrapped around his wrist and sent power and pain exploding down through his arm to his shoulder.

The half-demon voiced a cry of pain, his body jerking in the direction of the whip’s wielder, and he was pulled to the ground.

“I don’t know how you avoided me on this road before, huntsman, but rest assured you shall not avoid me now,” a curdled, gurgling voice said from behind a set of tall, berry-bearing bushes.

Molis looked up from the ground as the whip came off of his wrist, taking his sword with it, and saw the demon he’d been so close to catching twice. Now it stood less than twenty yards away, and it reminded him of just how ugly one half of his makeup could be. The creature before him stood at least eight feet in height, with a body that was angular, scaled, and as gray as cement. Thin, hooked white blades covered its arms, which segmented into three jointed lengths with two elbows apiece.

The demon’s head sat on a squat, powerful neck, and held a triangular, pointed chin. It curved out toward the top, resembling a sort of craggy crown. No discernable eyes peered from its flat face, which was a plain surface only broken by the small mouth that opened almost directly on its chin. In its right hand it held the handle of its flail whip. In its left hand it now held Molis’s sword.

He could take the demon on without the weapon just fine, but he preferred not to use his demonic powers so close to the city. If the guards should hear their confrontation and come to the scene, they wouldn’t be able to tell which was the threat.

Molis assumed a crouched fighter’s stance.

“Oh, what’s this?” the demon called haughtily. “Planning to have a little fist-ee-cuffs with me are you, Grigory Molis? You’re welcome to make the effort, little man, but I’ll shred you to pieces with my whip before you get close enough to land a single blow!”

“I don’t think so.” Molis grinned. Bending his legs, he leaped into the air, using all of the physical power his half-demonic blood could supply him with to jump at the demon.

He flew a good twenty feet up in an arc, staying out of the whip’s direct line of attack until the last bit of the jump carried him down almost on top of his prey.

He brought his arms up around his head as the flail whip lashed at his silver armor, tearing long rents in its exterior as the demon tugged it back over his head, preparing another attack.

Molis plunged up and forward, delivering an uppercut that would have taken any other humanoid’s head clean off of its shoulders.

The demon rocked back on its heels, grunting as it pin-wheeled its arms for balance.

Molis took advantage of its startled state and lunged forward again, volleying an overhand punch square to its chest.

A large chunk of its body flew off on impact, and Molis learned something new about this particular demon—its body was a thick exoskeleton surrounding a much softer sort of black jelly underneath.

As Molis’s saffron eyes blazed, locking on the writhing underbody, the demon brought the stolen sword down over the small opening protectively, and backpedaled away from the half-breed.

Molis growled low in his throat, summoning up his demonic energy and magic. He had thrown everything he had into the second punch, but it had barely made a small opening in the demon’s hide. He would have to use his powers to finish the demon off because his gauntlets would break if he tried to pummel it to death. He couldn’t be certain his sword, which the demon discarded to the forest floor with a twitch of its arm, would even scratch the rock-like exterior.

Molis clenched his fists at his side, assuming a spread-legged stance, crouching low and continued drawing up his power.

The demon tucked its right leg up behind the crook of its left knee, and also began to growl, drawing up its own magic.

I’ve never seen that posture before, Molis thought. Certainly not from any of the others I’ve tracked down. This is no Shadowbeast; this demon is something different.

Molis gauged his power as sufficient, and brought himself up into a straighter stance. He wove his left hand through the air, carving out arcane runes in the air. “Moluk an tabo tenia, ush uo locka! One Thousand Needles, Strike Mine Enemy,” he invoked.

Shimmering lights blinked above and behind his head, forming a thousand needle-thin projectiles. Molis thrust his left hand, pointer finger out, toward the demon, and the needles flew at the creature.

The demon, still in the midst of pulling on its demonic mana reserves, didn’t move an inch as the first couple of hundred needles bounced harmlessly off of its carapace. However, it screamed like a dying animal as twenty or so landed squarely in the open wound on its chest, burying themselves into the soft, black, gelatinous flesh underneath.

Thick red blood spurted out of the wound, and the demon flew back, flailing its arms as it landed with a heavy thud on the collected leaves, branches and moss on the forest floor.

“How did that feel, you cocksucker,” Molis shouted at the creature from the Pit, spitting in its direction.

Molis tore his helmet off, the inside of the faceplate now lined with phlegm, the shadowy tentacles of his head making it nearly impossible to see through his closed visor.

“Just, terrific,” the demon groaned as it rolled over onto its stomach and pushed itself up to its feet. “Molag shurak anamemnon! Fist of Ruin!” The creature clapped its hands together before its chest, and a small black fist of magic streamed from his joined fingertips, punching Molis hard in the shoulder as he rolled it in the way, avoiding taking a blow directly to his armored chest.

The shoulder plates the magical fist struck immediately spread with rust from the point of contact, and Molis ripped the plates free, tossing them aside.

“How about you, half-breed?” The demon poured as much malice into this last term as he could, and rose to his full height, assuming the stance of power collection once more.

“Enough of this.” Molis brought forth his black shadow shield and pumped his legs hard, hoping to span the thirty yard distance before his prey could unleash anything nastier than the Fist of Ruin. That spell is only practiced by Gaiamancers, Necromancers and Q Mages, Molis thought. Clearly this demon has some interesting powers at his disposal. I wonder if he has anything like mine?

It took only moments before the demon provided him with evidence that he indeed had similar abilities.

“Mula ensomanon! To me, spirits, to me!”

When Molis got to within ten yards of the demon, cocking his free right hand up to deliver another powerful punch, a Wraith, charging from seemingly nowhere, blasted into Molis’s right side, sending him flying into a huge pine tree.

The trunk cracked thunderously, and the back plate of his upper armor bent cruelly inward, pressing against his spine.

He opened his blazing gimlet eyes for a moment, and watched the Wraith depart, its business here done.

“Not even the most skilled Necromancer can summon a Wraith, I’m sure you’re aware. At least, not those that have none of the Sage Powers. You are outclassed, half-demon.” The creature threw back its crown-like head and cackling madly. “Run along home, and I might spare y-,” it began, breaking off as Molis stood from the ground where he had crumpled.

“We, who stand against the darkness, shall see banished by our holy light. No matter the cost.” Molis’s chin touched his chest, the tentacles on his head took snake-shapes again, hissing at the demon, thick vitriol dripping from their fangs. When Molis looked up, his eyes were no longer the yellow, saffron shade. They held instead cobalt light that shone brilliant and deep like the ocean of time itself. “These words have been spoken before by the greatest hero this land has known in this era, demon,” Molis said, stalking forward. “I have none of that man’s holy powers, or his righteousness,” he growled, advancing on the demon, who now quivered visibly, fearful as a demon could be. “But we did share one thing in common, one common goal.”

He batted aside a blast of black power the demon sent at him with ease. “To see creatures like you banished back to the darkness and flames of the Pit,” Molis growled, now only ten yards away.

The demon lashed out with its whip again, wrapping it around Molis’s left ankle and hauling back on the handle, trying to trip him. Molis held firm to his position, and kicked backward, pulling the demon to the ground at his feet.

The demon whipped itself up onto its knees, and put its hands before its face, pleading for a stay of execution. “Please, wait! I can help you! I know where the others of my kind are! I can guide you to them, Grigory Molis! If you grant me quarter, I shall take you to them, one by one, and you can destroy them! I have no great love of my kinsmen.”

For a moment, Molis considered sparing him long enough to question him on the other demons he had yet to find and destroy. However, he noted the way the demon’s aura seemed to be fluctuating, and looked over the creature’s shoulder to find he had tucked his right leg over the crook of his left knee. He’s summoning power for another spell, and he thinks babbling will stall me. I think not.

“You know, maybe you’re right.” Molis rubbed his black, shadow-drenched chin. “Maybe I should consider your proposal.” He smiled wickedly down at the demon, who grinned madly right back. “Maybe I should, but I won’t.”

Molis grasped the left side of the demon’s head. Sinking his left hand into the small opening in the exoskeleton, he tore his hand back, ripping a huge chunk of the stone-like flesh free, and then thrust both hands inside the wound.

Molis used the last of his summoned mana reserves to bring spiders streaming out of the darkness wrapped around his fists inside of the demon’s breast. The arachnids were of a horrible, carnivorous bent, and set straight away to devouring everything inside of the demon’s hide as it screamed and twitched, flopping to the ground and writhing about in sheer agony.

Molis picked up his sword and sheathed it, heading back for Thunderstorm as the demon perished slowly behind him.

The roan seemed more than happy to see him, and Molis retracted his demonic power and aura. He picked his helmet up on the way back to the horse, cleaned it, and planted it on his head. He opened one of the horse’s saddlebags, reaching in for some of the strips of jerky he always kept on hand, and his mailed glove came upon something soft and plush. He drew the object out, and stared dumbly at Samantha’s teddy bear.

A little smile crept over his face, and he patted the horse’s side lightly. “Better turn around, old friend. We forgot something when we dropped off Samantha.”

Molis mounted, and headed down the long, narrowing road toward Whitewood. Once more he held an internal interview regarding the missing split in the road, and when he came upon the gates, his heart lifted at the sight of the Elven captain he’d spoken with before.

Good, he’s still on watch.

He stopped Thunderstorm a few yards from the captain and handed the reins to one of the other watchmen, who took the roan aside to be fed and watered.

Molis walked directly to the captain with the teddy bear clutched tightly in his left hand. “Captain, the little girl forgot this in my saddlebag. Might I go inside the city and deliver it to her?”

The captain smiled broadly, warmly even, at the half-demon. He nodded, giving the signal to open the gates for the traveler. “You’re lucky,” the captain said. “We’ve had reports of a demon attacking travelers on that main road for the last week or so. Did you come upon him?”

“I did,” Molis said quietly to the captain. “And I sent him back to the Pit, Gods willing. Do Samantha’s aunt and uncle live close by the gates?”

“Only a few minutes away. I’ll have one of these men guide you there directly.” The captain waved another Elven guard over. Before they headed inside of the city, the half-demon decided that the captain would certainly be able to settle the debate inside his mind.

“Captain, how do I get back onto the high road to and from the city? I took it to get here with Samantha, but I wasn’t able to locate it again. There were some lovely flowerbeds along that path,” Molis asked. The captain of the guards gave him an openly befuddled look, and shrugged his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“Sir, there’s only the one main road to the south leading here.”

Molis’s eyes shot wide open, and he shook his head slightly. The Elven captain seemed to understand his confusion, and placed one hand on his bare shoulder. He whispered to Molis, “Sometimes, the Gods watch over the innocent in odd ways.”

Molis immediately remembered what the demon had said to him when they first engaged in combat; I don’t know how you avoided me, but you won’t avoid me again.

There had never been any low road or high road, he realized. Molis looked up through the canopy of trees at the skies above, and thanked the Gods for seeing Samantha safely to her new home.