Chapter Twenty-One
Blade and Lantern
Art was groggy and disoriented, but he felt instantly something was wrong. Though his lids felt like steel wool, he forced them open to blink several times. He was hot and uncomfortable, a thin sheen of sweat glistened over his face and down his neck. Where was he? Trying to move he found himself pinned. Nothing was responding. Glancing around, Art was met with darkness, his heart started to thump rapidly.
He opened his mouth but found he had no voice. Crying out was only swallowed by his own throat. He felt like he could not breathe. Art wriggled his shoulders, trying to free his arms, when something caught his eye and lifted his gaze to a growing light like the glow in a faraway tunnel. It neared him slowly, floating and shifting, a flame suspended by nothing, giving off a sticky amount of light until it came to settle above him on a solitary candle stick.
Confused, trying to slow his panicked breathing, Art craned his neck until he understood the strange scene he was a part of. Art was not strapped down to a bed, but found he was somehow suspended on the ceiling of a room. Nothing seemed to be holding him in place but he still could not move. The sudden realization of the disorienting position caused his stomach to drop followed by a wave of dizziness.
The floor had first looked like dirty carpet but now seemed to be gray, ash covered floor. The walls were only partially there, large pieces of paneling missing. The room was half built and half exposed to an eerie sort of misty night, where a red moon hung streaming filtered light in through gray clouds. What had happened? The last thing Art recalled was Orchid’s face, Lucid nearby, both watching as he slipped into an unconsciousness that she had induced in him.
Unable to free himself, he tried calling out with his mind to whoever he thought he could contact, but instantly regretted it when a familiar laughter smoldered up from the filthy floor below him. The ground twisted and swelled, forming a face, as if the thing was pressing itself against a sheet of fabric until the floor gave way and the demon’s skulled grin greeted him. Panicked and terrified, Art tried to will his body free, but it would not respond as the demon rose out of the floor, the ground falling away around him like sand slipping off a beach shell.
The thing uncrossed its long black arms, flexing its clawed hands. Its veins rippled with crimson fire as if it was ablaze on the inside. It slowly tilted its head back, the long horns protruding from its onyx skull heavy and loosely curved. Art tried not to look, but its black, empty eye sockets drew his gaze to it, lit by just a prick of light and burning intelligence. Even without real skin on its face, it still seemed to smile up at Art.
“That dryad thought she could keep us apart with her pollen and her sweet healing hands, but our connection runs far deeper than that, doesn’t it, ‘Art’.” He spat the name like an insult.
“Leave me be, demon,” Art’s voice finally came out as he tried to sound even through his fear and inability to move.
“Now, how can I do that?” The thing’s insipid tone mocked Art’s play at strength.
To his horror, the ceiling started to move. It was bringing Art down towards the demon until the pair were face to face, only inches apart. Art could feel its hot breath on his eyes.
“We are one, Art Storygrove. You have learned your whole life is because of me. You exist because of me. You are no man, no Weiriman. You are nothing but a fleshy prison to house my great self.”
“That’s not true,” Art stammered, terror threading through him like thread and needle sewing away his confidence.
The demon laughed a noise so deep Art felt it rumble in his own ribs.
“Even your face is proof of all I speak!”
Reaching up with his long clawed fingers, the demon gripped its own face, digging its nails into shiny black bone until it broke off in a crackling sound. Art tried to turn away but was drawn back to what appeared when the demon pulled its torn face away. Inside the head was another face, grinning back up at him with blacked out eyes, shinny and wide. It was his face, demonic but horrifically familiar.
“You’re nothing but another tool, boy! A tool with my face! You are my mirror! My prison! You are but a shell I will break out of to burn my malice across the world. You cannot hold me! The Haunting Weir is open! It’s only a matter of time now. You, yourself released me! I’ll consume you and everyone around you! You’ve failed this life, failed at all you desired, all you wanted, even at being a tool of my imprisonment! You are nothing but food.”
Art was shaking his head violently, tying to shut his eyes. The demon’s laughter gave way to an even more terrifying experience as dozens of hands came out of the ceiling Art was pinned to and started tearing at his face and body. He was screaming; sound issuing out of him as he tried desperately to get free, desperate to make them stop. He was in pain suddenly, something had struck him.
“Stop it! Don’t!” He heard a female voice plead.
“If I don’t wake him now, he could die in there!”
Art was confused and pulled out of panic for a moment, but the hands were tearing his flesh again. Thinking there could be a way out, he struggled to figure out where the other voices were coming from, when he was suddenly struck by the invisible force again. It was not the hands, it was not the demon. He was bewildered.
“Wake up, you idiot!”
Art knew the voice, the Weaver!
“Come on, you stupid Weiriman! Wake up now or I’ll kill you myself!”
Once more he was struck. It was becoming clear. He had to be in his own mind, unconscious. This was all taking place inside him, and he had to wake up before the demon consumed him. The thing started to growl and reached towards Art, claws grasping, when like an eye blinking, Art was suddenly awake. The Weaver’s hand was coming down towards his face again but Art caught it before the man could strike him once more.
“Art!” Orchid cried, relieved. “You’re awake! Ever, he’s awake!”
“I can see that.” The elf was smiling.
“There you are!” The Weaver grinned, his silver mustache curling at the corner of his mouth. “Thought the demon had gotten you for a moment.”
Art released the man’s hand, his frown accenting the smarting of his face where the Weaver had struck him several times.
“What happened? Where am I?” Art brought a hand to his hair and dragged the glove through it, wincing at the thunder of his headache.
“You are in my home, boy. A true surprise. I was not sure I would ever really see you again. Not alive anyway.” Art dropped a dubious glance on the Weaver but he only chuckled, watching Lucid aid the Weiriman in getting up off the bed he had been laid out on. “Lucid, and your new companions with the help of a whole group of Scarborough Knights smuggled you cross country from the elven city to drop you all here at my door step.”
“The Birchwood Garrison had to move on, but they were most gracious to us,” Ever explained.
“Yes,” The Weaver nodded. “Hoodwinked more than one patrol of Weirimen, I might say, but don’t be surprised if they will be on your scent before long. Weirimen may not be as relentless as a Blackenmancer hunter but they are formidable and have a great deal of skills at their disposal to find you.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” Art made no attempt to hide his poor mood. He ached all over again, the taste of rust and blood thick over his teeth.
“They will end you, Storygrove, should they catch you. But I will devour you long before their leather clad forms darken the doorway.”
The demon’s voice was sharply pronounced and Art struggled to keep its oppressive presence from overwhelming him.
“You’re losing the battle with the Pith demon, aren’t you?” The Weaver was suddenly stone faced and serious.
“I don’t have much time,” Art confirmed. “I hope you have something to help me…”
The Weaver crossed his arms over his smallish frame and tilted his head to one side.
“Now that you
know what you are, I suppose I do have an idea, but you won’t like it.”
Art turned dark rimmed eyes on the Weaver and said quietly, “There has been little I’ve liked in many days now. Tell me what you know.”
The Weaver explained he always thought it was highly possible Art was a soul grown out of the Haunting Weirs of Karvin Storygenner and Neth Grovebell, given birth by the energies of the Weirimen that had used the soul lantern, Meliveraze, over many long generations. He surmised that Art’s guardian, Evendale Trenaveeve, had been the latest wielder of the lantern. Her talents had been legendary, unusually gifted. He thought it was likely a touch with this last rare person that gave Art’s growing soul a body to be born into.
“So she was not truly your mother, Storygrove, but she was very near to that,” the Weaver explained, making Art feel strange.
He had always revered Evendale, but knew she was not his mother. To find now that she was as close to one as someone like him could have, made him sad he had spent any time wishing he knew a family that had not existed. She had, in fact been his family, blood related or not. She had known he was some strange creation from the lantern and yet it had not caused her to turn him over to the Weirimen as a possible oddity or danger. The Weaver feared they would react this way to Lucid, so it would have been natural for Evendale to fear Art as well. Instead, she had taken him as her own and raised him. She had given him a good life, teaching him the noble pursuits of a Weiriman, and above all, keeping his secret. Evendale had wanted a life of purpose for him, playing to his natural gifts and strengths as any good mother would.
“Did she know about the demon inside my Weirs?”
“I’m not sure,” the Weaver admitted. “I want to say no she didn’t. I don’t know if she knew what the lantern truly was, or of its function in the sealing of the Pith demon and its dark past.”
“They had it locked in the Wine Vault when Cindervail retrieved it.”
“Likely, they put it back there when she died. You were not a Weiriman yet and such a powerful soul lantern could not have been left in a civilian’s hands.” Art nodded, following the sense of it. “Likely, your professor could sense at the edges of her mind that you would have need of it. Weirimen are all at least a little bit precognitive. It’s why your intuitions are usually so accurate.”
“How do you know all this about me?” Art said suddenly realizing the Weaver had more information on him than he should have. Art had explained very little of himself on his last visit. Truly, he had not expected the man to even remember him at all.
“I had a visit from said professor days after your departure.”
“Cindervail came here?” Art was astounded.
“She was concerned for you,” the Weaver said as he made his way to the door, motioning the others should follow. “From what I learned, you were not liked much by your peers, but she always knew you were special, that your potential was boundless. She foresaw you becoming one of the greats, like your Evendale. And above all else, she found you to be a good man dealt an unfair fate. I suppose not all Weirimen are bad. She was nice enough.”
Art had to smile at that as he and the others followed the Weaver through his tree themed house and to a room Art recalled.
“This is the Veil room,” Art started before giving Ever and Orchid a quick explanation that it existed between the worlds.
“Yes,” the Weaver mused. “Here you will cut the demon from your Haunting Weir and then exorcise it, though your method of exorcism will be complicated.”
“I don’t understand.” Art placed a hand on the hilt of Weir Hewn, marveling at the ache of just lifting his arm to do so.
The Weaver clapped his hands together, an excited smile spreading over his face. “Boy, you are unique, much like your brother Lucid, born of an object created to battle evil. Your soul’s growth is in response to this threat. Therefore, it is logical that you are uniquely able to deal with this demon. You have been its prison for all this time, but I believe you are more than just a prison. Soul, life, consciousness, all this does not need to exist just to be a prison. The lantern and the two Weirs, given by your fallen comrades of so many years ago, should have been enough.”
“The question is, what purpose was Storygrove created for?” Ever interjected.
“Yes, elf!” The Weaver grinned. “And I believe this is a complicated question with an equally complicated answer. Something about this demon could not be simply contained in a prison. What that is, I don’t know, but Art had to be created to balance its evil.”
“But what’s that reason?” Art asked, frustrated.
“I don’t know,” the Weaver exclaimed, looking more amused than worried. “What I do know is you will require Weir Hewn and Meliveraze to do whatever it is you need to do, along with the strength of your own mind and soul. Facing this thing, facing who and what you are, you will find the knowledge of how to defeat it, or you will fail in the very purpose for what you were born for.”
Art stared, mouth open, eyes huge for a long moment before exclaiming, “What?! Th-that’s it? I returned to you for you to tell me I have to figure it out?!”
“No!” the Weaver snapped, an expression clearing depicting how stupid he thought the young races could be, blurred across his face as he said, “You finding out what you are has told me you are meant to figure it out. Before, I was concerned you might have just been one of Bancroft’s experiments gone wrong and there was no real hope for you, since the demon was a Pith demon. Yet, I hoped that the other possibility of your being a walking Haunting Weir was true. But you had to find out. You had to take this quest and learn the demon’s name and your origins. Now knowing what you are, who you are, and how you came to be, you have all the pieces to put together with all your gifts and figure out how to defeat this thing.”
“I…I don’t understand,” Art’s voice sounded more defeated than angry, though he really wished he was feeling the latter.
“You will,” the Weaver insisted and motioned for Art to sit across from him on the cushion. “You have learned much more than you realize. The journey has given you all you require to win. Dig for it, boy, use your gifts.”
Lucid had already sat down and was looking over at Art, who was hesitating, his expression horrified.
“I believe he is right, Art.” Orchid was by the man’s side and almost startled him out of his racing thoughts. She was still floating but her form was solid, radiant, and alive.
“You, you’re floating…!” Art said quietly, knowing very little about dryads but did know they were not capable of flight.
“A side effect of her experience,” Ever said, coming up from behind her and slipping his hand into hers. Art could hear the whispering of joy and the effect the simple touch gave the pair as now they were no longer held apart by her ghostly condition.
“Though you separated us a little part of me is still part of Ever,” Orchid explained. “The Weaver told us this has made my soul just a little lighter and therefor I retained some of my ghostly attributes.” She rose up and over Art’s head, giving him a great smile before returning to hover just over the floor. “We are changed from what befell us, but the outcome was not bad. We are better for it and that is thanks to you and your abilities. I believe you can do the same with your condition. You can defeat this evil. You were born for it.”
“Believe in yourself, Weiriman,” Ever added. “There was much doubt you would achieve even this length and survive harrowing tasks at such impossible odds. All this you have achieved.”
Art blinked several times. Never since his guardian had someone showed such pronounced faith in him. He had always made his own confidence, leveled his own odds. When he had times of doubt, there was nothing but his own voice to carry him through. Now that voice was dark, silenced by fear and the screams of the demon within him. Yet, as he felt Lucid tug on his jacket and hold up the bottle rattling with the last Scarlet Extinction, he could feel the support a
nd belief of everyone in the room. These people had aided him, relied on him, and believed he could accomplish what the people he had spent the last six years with had been ready to condemn him for, without any thought or help to his affliction. His strength had inspired the strength in others. He would have to take their belief within him and go on faith to honor that trust. He could do this. He had to.
Hesitating slightly, Art took the bottle and sat on the cushion next to Lucid. He popped the lid and took the candy out.
“I can’t go with you, brother, but you don’t need me. You are strong.”
Art stared at the youth, who smiled back at him, wild black hair and pure blue eyes seeming so confident in his words. He wanted to take that confidence with him, he hoped it would suspend his fear.
“A little fear is good, boy; you face a great evil, but you are stronger. You are brimming with life. Although a soul can nourish a demon and give it unimaginable power, it can also resist that demon, even defeat it. Your soul can do this. Take the lantern and the blade, but remember, you are the real weapon.” The Weaver pointed at him, eyes stern.
Once more, Art nodded and pushed the candy into his mouth, almost resisting the sweet flavor on his tongue. It would give him clarity, help with the pain, allow for focus, but his battle would be won in the strength of his soul, candy or not.
Art dropped down into his mind even before he meant to. He suspected the demon might have helped with the fall. It wanted him there. Both of them were itching to destroy the other. It was not threatened by the faith Art’s comrades had in him. It did not believe in trust, inner strength, or the power of self worth. Those things were illusions to the soulless. Art had to remember that when he faced it.
He appeared outside of the temple in his psychic space. The world around him was in pieces, trees were uprooted, suspended in the air. Rocks, boulders even, floating up and into the darkness of his mind. The ground was broken in open shifts of earth and Art had to climb up and over many cracks and openings of the changing environment. He was not sure why it looked the way it did. He suspected the demon was destroying his mind’s eye, but he did not linger on the ideas and headed straight for the temple.
It was no longer dilapidated. Everything was as it had been in the vision of the demon’s sealing. He now understood why it looked like a chapel and why it always felt so creepy to him. His mind’s eye was just a stage of the demon’s last stand. It was no more a reflection of who he was any more than a random building would be.
“Oh that is not entirely true,” the demon sounded behind Art and he turned, drawing his blade. The thing laughed, no longer inside the Weirs. It stood, towering over Art, free of the barrier. The color drained from the Weiriman’s face. “This place is a reflection of you. All of this is the real you. These other thoughts, these ideas that you are a man unto yourself, that is the illusion. A soul born of a lantern, a blade, and two cut Weirs. The idea is absurd. You are nothing, you are not even a man.”
Art’s mind was flying. The demon was free. Its last act would be to consume Art’s soul and take over his body. With those two things the demon would be unthinkably powerful. The devastation it would cause…
“How dare you think of anything but what I say to you now,” the thing bellowed, the sound so loud Art’s ears rattled down to the bones of his neck. “Your concern cannot be for the lives I will drain once I’m free. All your attention, all your concern, all your focus must be on the very fact that I am going to devour your soul as one would drink a fine wine. I will savor its flavor, relish its agony. Your fear will blossom in my mouth like heat in winter.”
Art steeled himself as the thing made a lunge for him, claws out, long thin frame agile and swift. He knew a battle between them would likely come to combat, he just hoped he was strong enough. He had to be. Lantern in hand, Art could only use his single blade. His first swipe at the demon missed and it rose over his head knocking the lantern from his other hand. Alarmed, Art watched as it sailed through the air only to stop and hover above them.
He had little time to think for the demon was upon him attacking, swiping, bearing an open mouth, and long black tongue. Art was barely holding his own, dodging, moving, using his blade to parry the nails that could disembowel him with just one slash. Driven back, his footing stumbled and he slipped making just enough of an opening for the demon to gash his arm, cutting through his leather and into the flesh. Art cried out and pain rushed through him. He may have been only in his mind’s eye, but everything felt real. If he perished in his mind, his body would die. Pulling back, Art went for his other blade. Now armed with two long knives he tried to advance on the demon again, ignoring the pain of his deep wounds.
“You are well trained.” The demon grinned, too easily deflecting Art’s blows, out maneuvering his footwork, and slashing again this time into Art’s thigh. The man hobbled back, blood and pain rippling out of him in burning. “It really is a shame just to end you. Given more time, you could have been one of the greatest Weirimen, that is, if you were actually a real person.” It laughed as Art advanced on it again.
The fight was furious. Art had never been so agile, so determined. He out performed every combat situation he could remember but it still was not enough. Before long, the demon cut him again and then again. Bleeding, breath labored and ragged, Art was not sure how he was to defeat a thing so clearly more skilled than he. Towering over Art, it was stronger and faster than any he had encountered. As if reading his moves, it anticipated his blades, maneuvered out of his strikes too skillfully. The thing was likely too deep in his mind for him to break it down in this way.
Wiping a line of blood from his split lip, Art turned his eyes squarely on the thing, going from amber-rimmed green to fully gold.
“Oh,” the demon mused, tilting its head to the side. “We have changed tactics, have we? Shall you try a battle of wills now?”
Art ignored the thing’s mocking, drawing up his soul’s strength as he had been taught and using his Weirimen’s voice. In the low, deepened rasp he spoke with all the force he could muster, “I know your name demon of the Ever-Hunger, Artcainecru! By my will alone you will never enter the world of the living.”
The world around them expanded as if the whole place had drawn breath. The sheer magnitude of Art’s will surprised even the Weiriman. Golden-eyed and standing strong through his injuries, he watched as the demon drank in the scent of his power. Before bearing teeth, the thing looked angry rather than amused for the first time since they had started their showdown. It gave Art hope, but also warned him of an important lesson. Demons were always most dangerous when truly threatened. Facing the possibility of being sent back to hell after all their agony and effort to claw their way from their dark world, was enough to frenzy the evil in to real madness and extreme violence.
Art readied himself when the demon’s massive presence filled the room as heavy and visual as a blackening storm.
“You are centuries too young to even think of challenging me, child. I am a demon of the Ever-Hunger, hell of wanting and need. I am the drinker of souls, master of wills. I consume evil and light in the same mouthful, a dark star of suffering. You cannot hope to subdue me with your manufactured might and false soul.”
It rose up before Art, gaining in size and weight as its very presence pressed down on the man so much that Art’s knees buckled and he was forced to the floor of the chapel. His wounds screamed, bleeding anew as he fought to press his own soul’s purity against the growing darkness. The thing swelled until it was twice the size, a pillar of billowing smoke and oil slick muscle as it extended its arms to toss its head back and laugh.
“You are in insect in my fire, a moth’s wings burning as I smolder and rage, my flame so hot you need not even plunge into the depths of its heat to burn.”
Art did feel like he was burning, his soul small against the great evil that had overwhelmed so many Weirimen before him. How could he even dream that his si
ngle soul could turn back such an evil? He did not even know what sacrifice and unforgivable acts had allowed this beast so nearly into their world to begin with. Sheer force alone would not defeat the monster.
Sacrifice. The thought slipped inside his mind as his body wailed at the pain the demon was inflicting on him. It raged once more, the evil threatening to tear his soul apart. The two Weirimen before him had sacrificed themselves to imprison the thing within their Weirs and those within Meliveraze. As the demon worked its way out of its prison, the lantern had collected energy of every Weiriman who used it. Each sacrifice they made to battle evil seeped into its healing light and Art was the result. A gift of life could stop evil, a sacrifice could hold the monster back.
The idea cooking in Art’s mind was insane. There was little precedence for it other than the loose idea of evil verses sacrifice. He was losing the battle of wills against it. Even knowing its name could not give him enough of an edge to deport it back to hell. He would have to trust his instincts.
Clawing his way to his feet, he moved through the blowing darkness, his bloodied hand going out and feeling in the dark for the lantern. To his surprise Meliveraze came to him, floating unaffected by the demon's storm tearing up the temple around them. He grasped the thing and headed towards the Haunting Weirs. With it lighting his way, he managed to stumble to the heavy panel, standing open where the demon had exited the prison.
Fear threatened to stop him, but he knew of no other way then to give up his life to end the monster. It was tearing his mind apart and soon it would consume him. He could feel the demon dreaming it now, ready to taste. It would destroy his mind’s eye and leave his soul bare for consumption giving all the power it needed to enter the physical world seeking more destruction, more blood, more souls. It would never stop, ever hungry. Art could not bear it. No Weiriman could allow this abomination.
Blade and lantern in hand, the man entered the dark void beyond the Weir. As soon a he crossed the threshold the storm ceased. All became silent, more quiet than Art thought possible. Even his breath seemed without sound. His wounds, though still present numbed quickly until they ached no longer and his head started to clear. For a moment Art feared he had died in that strange darkness. But, as the moments ticked by, the soul lantern started to blossom with light and the man knew he was still alive.
Artcainecru had not followed him into the prison and for a moment Art thought it odd that all this time he had not thought of the demon as really having a name. It had always just been “the demon”, a great formless evil to be conquered and destroyed. It was not like a person. Its desires and reasons, Art knew, he could never understand. They were never taught to see demons as anything but aimless primary evil. The reasons such things existed were without explanation.
But standing in the soulless, timeless prison, Art started to see the thing as at least a beast with a name. Artcainecru: ancient, evil, and with a thirst for destruction and consumption. It said it had eaten light and evil in the same breath. Art had never thought about demons eating one another before. If that was true, could light eat darkness? Could he consume evil as the evil consumed life and still remain untainted? It was possible. When a demon ate a soul it did not gain some measure of purity, it just turned that goodness to its own darkness.
Art’s eyes widened as thoughts whipped into a tornado of possibility just as his eyes fell on the other Haunting Weir, the one that blocked the demon from escaping back into any world: demonic, Veil, or physical. His idea was evolving and he knew he had to act quickly. Releasing the lantern so it floated free of him again, he dashed to the far Weir. It was of a different design than the one he passed to get in. He suspected they differed because these were actually the Weirs of Storygenner and Grovebell. They had not changed at all, even after being cut out of the Weirimen.
The one that stood before him was round, suspended in the dark void, but did have black iron hinges just as the entrance Weir. Weir Hewn in hand, working as quickly as he could, Art leveled the blade above the hinges and sliced down. It was like cutting through glass. It felt strange, almost as if it would not give, perhaps shatter, but the blade moved through the hinge and separated the Weir from its invisible anchor. It bobbed a moment as if it were suspended in jelly or liquid, then stopped and gently floated.
Finding it fascinating but also eerie, Art’s eyes were wide. He was not sure his insane plan would work. Time was spent, the hourglass of his life was nearly out. Rushing back to the entrance Weir he did the same thing with the hinges there. With both free floating, Art doubted for a moment what he was attempting.
Moving back to what felt like the middle point between the two hovering Weirs, Art drew the soul lantern to him. Its light was brilliant but did not make him squint. He paused, looking down at Weir Hewn, the years of his life rushing through his mind. Did he regret any of it? Parts, he admitted, but he found he did not find any real reason to be sad. Life given in defeat of darkness was what he had always sought. This act alone would make him a true Weiriman, regardless of title, license or graduation. Evendale would have been proud. He could be proud.
The final thought had just glossed over his mind when suddenly he felt the presence and turned to see Artcainecru standing behind him. The demon was near his height, its magnificent display of smoke and rage gone. It was just a tall, black figure, empty eyes, soulless and evil. They stared at each other a moment, Art unmoving; the demon seeming curious at the man’s sudden calm.
As the moment expanded out into more time that Art thought the thing would stand motionless, the demon’s clawed hand came up and plugged into the Weiriman’s chest. Art gasped in shock and pain, eyes wide as the gold color ebbed until they returned to their amber-rimmed green. He gave a great shuttering breath, one hand trembling as it reached up and gripped the demon’s wrist.
Artcainecru grinned, its black skeletal face never before looking more satisfied. But the joy turned to confusion when Art, sputtering blood from his mouth, lifted Weir Hewn in his other hand and proceed to plunge the blade into the demon’s hand, piercing it before embedding it into his own chest. Art’s whole body jerked against the savage self stabbing but had successfully pinned the demon’s hand to his body.
He lifted his head, his eyes glowing gold once more, and Art willed the entrance Weir towards him. After a moment of agony and trying, the thing started to move. Fueled by confidence, Art turned his head and did the same with the other Weir. The demon screamed, panicked and confused by what the man was doing. It was unable to remove its hand from Art, the enchanted blade keeping the pair pinned together. Art closed his eyes and waited for the Weirs to collide, the outcome all rested on his instincts. He let go and the two Weirs crushed him and the demon together, light exploding from the lantern at the impact.