Chapter Five
Weaving Pit
Pain had sparked Art’s departure from consciousness and then reignited it as he woke in the pitch dark of the pit. The last thing he recalled was falling through what he thought would be water, but turned out to be a thick strange mist. He dropped a troubling distance and landed hard on the floor of the trap. How long had he been unconscious? For a moment, he could hardly move. Worried he was broken somewhere, he carefully checked his stiff body, rolling over onto his stomach to start to rise slowly.
He was just on his knees, about to pull his body into a kneel, when he drew his breath in and held it. His senses were whispering to him, his eyes going completely gold on instinct. Head pounding, eyes slightly watering, Art strained his Demon Sight to see through the deep ink of the pit’s darkness.
His ability compensated a little for the lack of light. As his vision adjusted, he saw the outline of it. Emerging out of the bolted dark, sat a creature. Hunched and bent, the thing cocked its head at him, neck loose and strangely agile, like a bird. Larger than Art, it was tall, rail thin, a mane of ebony hair sprouting out of its head and floating around its shoulders in wispy thinness. Two crooked and mangled ears poked out of the black mop, twitching and moving. Yet, the majority of its appearance escaped Art’s attention, for it was its face that had the man rising very, very slowly to his feet, breath still held.
No skin, no lips, nothing that resembled flesh covered the alabaster skull of its face. Not rounded like a person, its skull had a long angular snout, all sharp bone and huge teeth of some canine or feline beast. Predatory and sinister, it stared at him with two bulging sacks that made up its eyes, more white than yellow, pupil-less. They scanned Art as his hand moved slowly, almost painfully to one of his long knives at his hip.
He was trying to get a grip on the hilt of his weapon, hoping against reason the thing might just go away, when it shuffled across the uneven ground. Moving on all fours with clawed hands and maybe feet too, the thing was fast as a cat. He tried to control his fear, eyes wide on the long sharp teeth, it scurried to one side, circling the man, its teeth gleaming in a hideous grin. There was intelligence in the sack eyes, not a mindless beast but something darker, something evil. It was so happy Art was here, as if it had just been waiting for someone to drop in. Art swallowed his trepidation and readied his grip on the blade.
It dove at him, faster than he expected, but his knife pulled free of its sheath and caught the thing in his mouth. The force of the creature’s jump toppled Art over, and the pair rolled on the ground, slashing and clawing at one another. Art grappled with it, the strength amazing. All his training had prepared him for such a fight, but he still was white knuckled and cursing aloud as the thing cut him, tried to bit him, and threw him across the pit like a rag doll.
Free of it for a moment, Art was able to get his other knife out. Armed with two blades he was better equipped and turned back to the advancing monster, he readied himself. Slashing and cutting, Art finally managed to get his boot in the thing’s neck and plunge the knife in. But this was no mere beast; this thing was a demon, in the flesh, something that could only be let into the world via a hell mouth or the eating of enough souls to give it physical form. Strong as it was, it was not the worst thing Art had seen. Gold eyes nearly glowing, in his Weirimen’s voice, an altered deepened rasp of his usually rich tone he bellowed, “Tell me your name, demon!”
The thing howled in pain but did not yield. Art had yet to put enough of his own soul’s weight on it to force the demon to give its name. Twisting the knife in the thing caused more pain but it would not kill it. A demon could not be killed by physical means alone. Art had to have the name.
“Your name!” he demanded again, his eyes still gold, the pressure of his soul flexing on the creature just as a muscle would, if Art’s hand had been on the thing’s neck. It was his will against the creature’s, his own inner strength verses its evil.
He could feel the thing now, his soul close to the essence of what it was. It was made of nothing but hunger, malice, hate, and driving need to harm. Its thoughts were all dark, murderous and brought the taste of iron flooding over Art’s tongue. He grit his teeth and plunged the second knife in, holding the creature down with the blades and the weight of his own body. He demanded the name again and pressed his psychic self to wring the information from the demon.
He could do it; he could feel the thing starting to yield. It was not a greater demon, not a devil whose will would take several sessions, more abilities, and perhaps spell crafts of enchanted natures to drive its name from it. Had it possessed a person, slinking around inside them like a bad dream or memory, Art could have slipped into the mind of the afflicted and battled the demon there for hints of its name, hints at to who it was in the demonic realm. With that information he could have gone to the Guild’s library and searched for the demon from its clues. The Weirimen kept very detailed records of their demonic encounters and most evils could not be destroyed, they could only be deported back to the hells. Once strong enough, they would surface again back in the world and have to be expelled once more. Professor Minevur said all demons were repeat offenders against life. They would never stop trying to destroy and devour, it was the chaotic nature of evil.
“Your name!” Art screamed into the thing’s face as much as he did its mind.
The psychic connection hurt it far more than the blades in its neck and chest and Art could feel it starting to yield. It was difficult to keep his mind focused, strong and taunt, like a muscle but he would not give. Should the thing slip from him and get free, wounded it would be even more dangerous.
He was beginning to tire physically. The creature was not a greater demon but it was strong, and it fought him inside and out. He had to get its name or he might lose this battle just to the size of the monster. Again he pushed, focusing himself so he felt like a scalpel peeling back the inner defenses of the fiend until he felt it, inhaled it, the name of the creature.
“Vishfahl!” He burned its meaning and all the power behind a demon’s name into the thing.
He said it again and again commanding the thing back to hell. The wail that issued out of it was deafening and shook Art’s whole body to the core. Its eyes rolled back into its head, the angular mouth parting in such an awful gape that it almost looked unhinged. A light burst from within, a dark red fire so deep it was garnet in color. Art withdrew himself and his blades, as its body grew so cold it was burning. It screamed and screamed as the body seem to disintegrate in flakes of smokey ash.
Breathing hard, Art stood. Trembling, his whole body hurting, his mind slightly spinning as he stared at the spot where the demon had disappeared.
“Deported back to whatever hell it came from.” A voice melted out of the darkness.
Art spun around, knives up. A slight man, looking not much older than Art, but eyes far deeper, gazed at him with mild amusement.
“You!” Art snarled, recognizing both the voice and the long coat the man wore. “You let me fall down here!”
“I did,” the man confirmed, crossing his arms and making no apology for his behavior. “But you did all right. What are you complaining about? You wanted to be a Weiriman, right? You volunteer for this kind of work, I assume.”
Art pursed his lips shut, before sliding his knives back in their sheaths. He could not argue with the snide comment, but that did nothing to diminish his anger.
“Are you the Weaver?” Art cut a glance over the man’s face, not thinking he looked old enough to be the person Cindervail had spoke of. She had mentioned he had unusually long life due to his mixed fey blood. That could mean he was immortal to age like a pure blood elf or had a more unpredictable lifeline. Fairy kin had all different spans of life, depending on their heritage. Whatever their length, it was almost always longer than man’s.
“I have been called that.” The man lifted his chin, revealing a surprisingly youthful face. He had a small beard goate
e like Art’s, but his skin seemed to glow with life, eyes large, a bright teal color. His hair was silver gray and did give him a slightly more dignified look than his young appearance commanded. “The newly budding Guild of Weirimen gave me that name.”
“Do you have another name?” Art asked, just a little curious.
“Several,” The man smiled, a quirk at the corner of his thin mouth. “Now come along, little Weiriman. You’ve earned the right to talk with me for now.”
Art tried to stifle a sigh of exasperation and followed the man into the darkness of the pit. He hoped it would lead to a tunnel of some kind, something that would take them back to the surface, but to Art’s surprise they just walked into the pitch black. When it became too dark to see, Art opened his mouth to protest, worried he might trip over something. But when he blinked again, he was suddenly standing outside the cottage, its pointed roof towering over him
Confused, Art snapped his head back and forth until he spied the Weaver fiddling with a plant near the big front door, also pointed like the cottage.
“What…what just happened?” Art frowned. “Was I inside someone’s mind or something when I fought that demon?”
“No.” the Weaver looked over his shoulder giving the young man a look like he had said something stupid. “You were in my front pit. Did you hit your head or something?”
“But how did we get up here?” Art pushed his brows together. He had heard of magical places, enchanted with the ability to bend time and space but he had never experienced one so seamless.
“Nothing is solid in my own little pocket of the world.” The Weaver shrugged. “You really don’t know anything about me, do you, boy?”
“I’m only a novice,” Art admitted. “There was just a little talk of you at the Seminary, nothing specific.”
“You short lived races,” the Weaver laughed, putting his watering can down. “How quickly you forget things. I helped found the whole Guild of Weirimen. You would think they would know something about the founders.”
“Well, we at least do know something of you,” Art tried to offer, worried he had actually offended. The Weaver did not seem to care, opening the door and beckoning Art inside.
Following the man, Art stepped through the triangular frame and into the warm fuzzy light emanating from the house. The cottage did not look large, but inside it took Art’s breath away. Seeming built entirely of trees, trunks and their branches, the place was a masterful use of the natural form. Everything from the walls, to the floors was tree. The spiral staircase they passed had a massive tree growing up its center, the branches built in with the stairs themselves. Counter tops, chairs, tables, and any other surface were a giant slab of beautiful wood.
“Your home is remarkable,” Art marveled as he came to sit next to the huge hearth the Weaver lead him to.
The man removed his outer coat, revealing he was dressed in elaborate leathers of many colors, bits of it braided, woven and shaped. His silvery hair was cropped short but for the few long braids that hung down near his ears and over his shoulders.
“Pull your hood down, boy,” the Weaver commanded. “You are making the fairy folk nervous.”
“Fairy folk?” Art questioned his eyes drawn to the sudden flitting of light, dancing in the corners of the room’s vaulted ceiling.
Art’s mouth parted in awe as from the pillars of trees that framed the small room, delicate creatures peeked out at him. Some were glowing in many different hues of light, tiny lithe bodies backed by fluttering wings. Others were darker, dressed in furs, their wings like leaves of different seasons. All were beautiful and primal, made of elements and light, ranging widely in appearance and form, all with eyes wide and curious about the new visitor.
“Fairies!” Art gasped, “Actual fairies!”
“Well, of course.” The Weaver perked an eyebrow. “What did you think I meant?”
“They are real?” Art continued, unable to hide his smile of wonder. “I’ve never seen one, let alone so many!”
“Of course they are real. Did you think I meant I had little painted statues of them and a hooded man would scare my amazing collection of figurines?”
Art ignored the man’s sarcasm. He had known there were fairies in the world. Every now and again someone would sight one in the city. More often, the stories came from those who visited the elven settlements or the deep woods untouched by evil. He had never given their idea much thought. Consumed each day with study of the darkness and how to protect from it, Art forgot that with the darkness there was also light. Creatures of good still existed in the world, things untarnished and natural. As one stared down at him from inside a lantern, her large black eyes and blue hued skin shimmering in the light, Art felt a small moment of relief from his recent anxiety.
“These fairies would never do anyone harm.” The Weaver’s voice brought Art back from his thoughts. “But not all fey are good and kind. You remember that. Though it is true most are good, even kind and do not wish anyone any harm, they are in the same bloodline as demons. You trace the magic along the line. At one end you have natural fey, like these.” He lifted a finger to the growing audience of tiny colorful observers. “But at the other end of magic’s spectrum are the worst evil that you can imagine. They are all connected. Good and evil, light and dark, death and life. That’s what a Weirimen does. They use their life force to battle the force of destruction and death a demon is the embodiment of.”
“So there are fey out there that are closer to demons than they are to fairies?”
The Weaver confirmed. “I’m sure you’ve learned about some of them.”
Art nodded. “I do remember a few, but mostly Weirimen deal with possession demons.”
“Out here in the world, boy, you deal with whatever comes for your blood and by the smell of your open Weir, I would say you will be dealing with all manner of darkness before the Guild comes for you.”