Demon Core

Chapter 22: The Dancing Rattlesnakes and the Dead Bird (1/2)

Chapter 22: The Dancing Rattlesnakes and the Dead Bird (1/2)

The Pursuer

Of all things of men, and beast, and foul,

Stray few things that could still cause a scowl,

To form on the faces of those souls - now marred,

Who see not life's graces, past their skin, now hard,

The men of old ways, of strength and cruel paths,

Formed in the strongest of days in which nurturing had lacked,

Yet these ruthless monsters that they have become,

Fear not but one thing,

- The Pursuer, among,

For these men fear not death, as the two are familiar in pace,

But what all these men fear is the thrill of the chase,

When they are not the ones with prey in their eyes,

But instead are themselves on the run from demise,

Hard men are strong, they fight to the last breath,

Yet they are winded too quickly,

By the thing on their left,

Their strength is their weakness, their stubbornness their fault,

As men who had never run, can never outrun the haunt.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human, , Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

Fasten it down! yells a squirrely voice, running past him.

Metal screeches. Stones and dirt flying through the air as hundreds of wheels violently rattle, a single file procession of carriages hurtling down the winding mountain road in a tight, gapless formation of dozens of long, strapped-together carts, pulled by a full flock of two dozens anqas running in a stampede. The sky is filled with unusually vivid light and heat, a great, cloaking barrier of magically altered air staying above the chain of carriages, keeping the cargo and the passengers safe and dry from the rain above that never ends, illuminating the landscape all around them with a dusty, orange glow.

Unfortunately, the eggheads over-tuned it a little, and now its like theyre trapped in an oven that follows them around. The heat has been diverted somewhat after a few quick alterations on the fly, but this just resulted in the majority of the heat now being pushed to the sides of the carriages rather than directly onto them from above. So its essentially still just as hot here for him and everyone else, but with the added bonus that the air and the ground around them literally burn, turning into a dry, crumbling dust as all of the moisture is sucked away. Its like theyre moving through the desert.

Thats okay, though. The desert is where hes from.

Hold it! Hold it steady! yells the voice again from next to him, having run back again. The mechanics of this operation are a bit wacky, but thats not his problem. Hes just being paid to keep the cargo safe.

Sweat drips down Barlows face, the droplets navigating their way through the thick, black stubble adorning it. The man, leisurely sitting atop the carriages on a stack of strapped on supply crates, his feet kicked up, his wide-brimmed hat blowing in the hot winds as they ride towards the north, lets out a slow puff of air that escapes past the downward angled brim of his cattleman. A trail of woody smoke shoots past him, carried into the distance by the rushing, hot winds thick vapors from the burning cylinder in his mouth, full of dried herbs from where he was born and raised.

A bell rings loudly from the front carriage, the man sitting on the coach sounding an alarm. CURVE! cries a voice along the Procession, before then being repeated by another man in a window, who yells the word to the next man, and so its carried from front to back just in time as the carriages, moving at a terrifying speed, come to a violent bend on the mountain pass, dry sands and crumbled greenery shooting up into the air in a dust cloud as the entire procession takes a tight mountain turn with such speed that half of the chain loses its contact to the ground with all four wheels of each carriages, the middle segments riding on two wheels for a second.

Someone yells in terror next to him.

Barlow reaches out, slowly grabbing hold of some fabric for a moment, never bothering to get up or move as his body sways.

A second later, the construct lets out a loud crashing sound as it returns to the road, having never stopped for a second, several carriages whipping dangerously close towards free fall over the unguarded edge of the mountain way.

He lets go of what he had grabbed a hold of as someone flops down at his feet, having almost flown off to their death. As the work here is very dynamic, nobody is secured. Dozens of people are just running freely around the top of these carriages or moving through them. Theyre a special design, cut open in the front and back of each unit to allow a long tunnel to exist between them.

Hundreds of mounted soldiers ride behind and ahead of this wild construction. All of this is to protect some obscure, special cargo that is needed to reinforce the capital city against the Demon-King. The soldiers are just an added bonus.

But thats none of his business. Hes just here for the job.

T- thank you, says a very relieved voice. Theres a slight rattling of metal.

Barlow looks up a few inches, lifting the brim of his hat to look at the pale, sweaty face of what may be the most androgynous, soft person hes ever seen. He thinks that they look like a lake fish and an elf had a kid. The stranger looks up at him, their short, sharply cut hair matted to their soaked forehead, dry dust blowing past them as they move, billowing the white and blue striped collar of their weathered button up shirt past their suspenders. Around their wrists are a set of dark, ironclad bracelets, the metal stamped with the insignia of the militarys logistics branch as a title of ownership of the person, not the metal. Theyre an indentured servant, forced into employment by the state with the alternative being consequences, the nature of which are of course undesirable. Military prisoners, political dissidents, criminals, and sometimes even just people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time get moved into this kind of work during times of need, as they are called by the laws allowing this sort of thing.

Although, there have never been any times that havent been deemed as of need by the powers that be. Funny how that works.

The bracelets are currently not fastened to anything, so the person can do their work. But outside of these times, they have the purpose of being bound to chains for transport or storage. Theyre apparently with logistics, the wackjobs responsible for this entire death-trap.

Barlow blows out a mouthful of smoke at them before lowering his hat and biting down on the cigarette as he talks. Die out of my sight if youre gonna, says the man, the taste of ash filling his mouth.

Im sorry, Mr. Barlow, sir, they say in an accent from the deep country, getting back up to their feet.

Everyone on this operation knows who he is, which he isnt actually keen about. Hes a freelancer, a specialist, if you will, and usually the nature of his security work is simple. He gets paid. He goes in and out. The work gets done. Nobody talks to him, and he doesnt talk to anybody else either. But his reputation got ahead of him, and now hes working for some bigwigs in the noble families. He usually doesnt care for whom he works, as long as they pay. However, because of this and the formality of the operation, hes been presented to everyone as a key figure here. I SAID STRAP THAT DOWN! yells the person, rising to their feet and running off down the carriage chain.

Barlow leans back, folding his hands on his stomach, the leather on his waist creaking amidst the wood and metal carnage of the Procession. He looks over his shoulder, staring at the logistician from behind for a moment. Quietly grunting, the crusty, dusted man shakes his head, grabbing a flask from his hip and taking a swish of it, the burning liquor mixing with the smoke in his throat as he lowers his head again, as they ride, the bell signaling another violent curve to come as they veer towards the west.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf, , Indentured Servant {Logistician} Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

Its a few hours later.

Swigs hair blows wildly in the winds as they climb down the ladder, the soles of their boots slapping the metal rungs as they spare one last glance out of the hatch, towards where the distant sunset ought to be, the sight of freedom. The inside of the Procession is just as loud as the outside, really. The only difference is that you dont have the wind in your ears down here. However, in exchange, you have the road noise just down below your feet.

They walk through the Procession, the inside of which is a tightly packed wooden hallway with many moving segments. The walls are tightly packed with shelves, full of crates of weapons, resources, and all manner of alchemical substances. There are small cupboards on either side, which are meant to be rooms of sorts, technically to store even more boxes. But theyve made themselves at home here. Its a long job, and the Procession has been moving for at least a week now from the distant south at least.

Swiggy-bird! calls a voice from the side, whistling sharply. Swig turns her head, lifting a hand just in time to catch an apple thrown her way from one of the old timers. Heard you tried to leave the nest today, laughs the old man, who is in charge of making food for them. Hes in officially for a total of eight years.

This is his fourteenth year now.

The bracelets on his wrists, sitting beneath some fabric padding a lot of them wear to stop them from rubbing against their skin, jangle.

Swig turns as they walk, never stopping as they point at him. You know me, Four-Four. Im gonna fly away any day now, you know, replies the half-elf, completing their circle to return, facing back ahead as they walk through the corridor. The old man laughs, his voice vanishing into the churning of the wheels as Swig squeezes through the tight passages, biting into the apple. Its kind of old, so the skin is a little wrinkly and the inside is a little grainy, but food is always something to be happy about. They arent starved, as their owners realize they need enough nutrition to stay productive. However, theres a careful science to it. They get just enough to survive in their work, but never enough that theyd gain enough weight to survive without any food for a long time. It keeps them in line and from getting ideas. On the plus side, the meagerness of Swigs body combined with their lanky features lets them move through these places pretty easily.

Hey, Swig, clicks another member of the crew from the side. Were setting up for some dice. You in? she asks, shaking her hand.

Swig grabs hold of a bar between carriages, the doorway of which is blocked by a large crate that had no better place to be put, and pulls themselves up and over it into the next carriage. Sorry Buckle, says Swig, hanging halfway upside down and shaking their head, the strands of their now dried hair hanging low. I got a long one today. Need those hours.

Well be thinking of you! calls the voice after Swig, as the half-elf vanishes into the next carriage.

Its a weird situation, socially. Honestly, theres nobody here that doesnt get along with anybody else. Youd think that there is always going to be this group and that group in places like this, but somehow fortune has worked out in their favor. Theyre all laborers at the end of the day, people just trying to get by. But theyre not suffering to death every day, despite their being forced into this situation. This has all led the entire group of them to just sort of quietly co-exist. Everyone here is just doing their time and doesnt want any more than that. The years go by easier if there isnt any weird shit going on.

Swig moves through a few more, stopping at a half-drawn curtain as someone hisses on the other side.

You good? asks the half-elf, peeling back the curtain. Ah, hell. Cheeky, what in damnation happened to you? Swig steps inside, pulling the curtain fully closed, and looks down at the old woman, sitting with her back to the door, her shirt off an old, inflexible arm, holding her arm back behind herself to try and dab some fresh marks with a rag.

Swig takes it from her, kneeling down and dabbing the damp cloth against the red, straight bulges criss-crossing across the weak skin that doesnt have much fat left beneath it. Cheekys an old woman. These are lash marks. Shes been caned. Its one of the more common punishments for them if they make a mistake or disobey. Shes been here for twenty years now, even if she only had ten worth of time.

I messed up in the manifest, says the woman, hissing.

Hold still, says Swig. I got it. Here, have the rest. Swig reaches around, giving her the other half of her apple.

Bless you, child, says Cheeky, looking back ahead. My eyes arent what they used to be. I missed a line on the manifest, she sighs.

Swig tsks, moistening the cloth by spitting on it, and then dabbing it back against the wounds, trying to wipe the splinters out of her heavily scarred skin. Her back has so many lines and grooves that, from a distance, youd think she was a reptile. Over two decades, a lot of punishments have taken their toll. The old woman hisses but sits still. They sticked you for that? asks Swig. Thats harsh.New novel chapters are published on

The supervisor is on edge, says the woman, shaking her head and then biting into the apple.

Still

Hush, shes reprimanded. Keep your head down and be quiet, scolds Cheeky.

Swig purses her lips and nods, continuing their work.

They can complain about it as much as they want, but complaining is a punishable offense if heard, and right now, punishments are at an all time high, given the stakes.

Swig looks over the frail womans shoulders at the bracelets that dangle off of her wrists. On some days, the metal is so heavy that she cant even lift her old arms anymore. So she was relegated to paperwork.

You should go, says Cheeky.

I always have a minute for you, Cheeks, replies Swig, working on the next spot and pulling out a few pieces of wood from her back.

Its true. Swig does have a minute. Swig has two at least, in fact. In reality, they probably have more than that hundreds, thousands more.

There is a kink in the system.

Yes, Cheeky only has to do ten years' time for whatever happened in her past. However, there is a catch to the way this deal works.

Only work hours count.

He dives out of the way, rolling across the rattling carriages, aiming where he was just standing as something crashes down into the spot from above, roaring at him until the iron roars back and it falls over, dead.

The day glow of the aura above their heads is cut through with wildfire, as concentrated blasts of magic shoot through the air by the hundreds, as the mounted soldiers remaining behind the Procession aim up towards the cliffs as they ride, firing up at the dropping shadows that fall like rainwater.

Bodies of all kinds, dead and alive, thud down around them.

A hiss fills his ears, and he looks down at a survivor, running away from him, towards the front of the carriages, towards the coachman at the far end. He quickly aims at it, pulling the trigger.

Something hits him in the back and he fumbles, the shot missing and cracking into the cliffside as he falls over, rolling just in time to catch the clawed hand pressing down towards his face.

Barlow presses his legs against its heavy gut, the muscle bound animal snarling and swiping at him like a rabid bear, as he, with his back pressed against the roof of the carriages, kicks and rolls to the side.

The monster falls off of him, its claws scrambling for the edge of the carriage as it tumbles.

A second later, its grip releases as thunder cracks. Barlow, having grabbed the iron weapon, turns and aims down the carriages, narrowing an eye to make the shot, which is out of the weapons optimal range at best.

The man bites on his cigarette and pulls the trigger, a flicker of light cutting through the air and through the monsters waist, the projectile having dropped in height as he fired it against the wind.

Shit! mutters the mercenary, scrambling to his feet, trying to fire again, but the iron is empty. It needs a recharge after six shots. His palm spins over the cylinder in its core, a rotational device meant to funnel in a stronger flower of ambient magic through its rotation.

However, hes too slow.

The monster reaches the final carriage, roaring as it drips black blood everywhere at the coachman, who looks behind himself.

A streak of yellow cuts through the air, its head splitting in half, sending a spray of black blood and viscera through the air together with fragments of bones.

The half-elf from before is leaned out of a window, holding a long-arm, turning back his way from the distance.

He nods before turning back to look at the area behind them.

The dark cloud hasnt slowed down at all. Whatever the hell that interception team was supposed to do, it sure as hell didnt work.

The ground at his feet wobbles.

Barlow looks down below himself at the carriage hes standing on top of as its momentum changes somehow.

What the

He turns his head, realizing that its been separated from the rest of the Procession. The man runs as they fall apart, gritting his teeth as he jumps across the growing gap. Screams fill the air behind him as something catches in the wheels of the detached carriage, causing it to tumble and crash into the fully speeding riders behind it, sending half of them flying off of the mountainside, the other half breaking their bodies in a horrific impact.

Barlow catches the edge, kicking his legs down into the head of one of the lizards that had snuck inside, sending it careening down onto the road and breaking its bones as it tumbles.

The man swings his legs for momentum, before dropping into the torn open back segment of the Procession, looking down at the mangled, half-eaten body at his feet of some cook with shackles on his wrists, before turning to look back at the wreckage behind them, trails of smoke from his cigarette leaving in the wind, as ash crumbles from the edge of it.

They survived the ambush, so they have a pause for now, but it wont take long until theyre caught up with.

The cliff sides lessen as they leave the ambush territory; the carriages move through the mountain valleys that they now leave; the road takes a downhill turn.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf, , Indentured Servant {Logistician} Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

Strip, orders the officer.

It is an hour later.

Swig knows better than to argue at this point and removes their clothes. Turn around, he orders. Touch the wall.

The half-elf turns around, placing their palms against the wall.

He reaches past them, fastening the chains to the iron bracelets around their wrists.

Its only ten. As long as they dont scream, its only going to be ten. So itll be fine. Ten is easy. Theyve done ten before. Hell, Cheeky had ten today too. If she can handle it, then this is going to be fine. Swig likes to remind themselves of these sorts of things before such sessions begin.

If you scream, you get additional punishment for fostering demoralization amongst the ranks.

The thing is, good intentioned as it may have been in the prior situation, raising a weapon is never, ever, EVER allowed for an indentured servant to do. In a life or death situation, the official military stance is for them to choose death. So given that Swigs life wasnt directly in danger per se, well rules are rules.

Swig slowly exhales, loosening their back.

Thirty, says the officer.

Swigs eyes open again, staring at the wall in sudden fear. Thirty?!

A deafening crack fills the room.

Spit flies out through Swigs quickly clenched teeth, the foaming of it preventing a sharp yelp from leaving their mouth. A sharp burning moves through their back, as the broken skin rips open where the cane strikes, peeling open as if a hot knife were running over their back. Their ears ring.

He hits again, and Swigs fingers curl against the wall that theyre chained to, their muscles spasming from the pain. Blood begins to form on the red skin.

I still need it for work, says a man from the side, who is watching. Swig doesnt turn their head, but recognizes the voice as belonging to the researcher in charge of the weapons.

Dont worry, says the officer. Itll work.

A new crack runs through the room, Swig doesnt bite their lip. Thats a lesson learned from the old-timers. If you bite your lip, youll bite through it. Instead, they fill their mouth with air, clenching their teeth. But Swig does cry quietly. As long as one doesnt scream, urinate, or fight back, its only the designated amount and not one more than that.

Twenty seven.

There is another crack, and the metal bracelets rattle against the wall theyre bound to.

Swig tries to think about flying away. But thoughts dont come so easily right now.

Twenty six.

Swig makes a mistake and screams after all. It really does hurt a lot.

Thirty.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human, , Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

Barlow sits inside atop a stack of crates, playing with the weapon in his hands, his feet kicked up as he smokes inside the carriage-chain.

A door opens nearby, and he looks as the half elf, holding some fabric in their arms, is thrown out of a room, landing down naked on the floor, blood running everywhere down from a grotesquely mangled back. The heavy shackles on their wrists clatter as they hit the floors.

He draws from his cigarette, blowing some smoke into the air, and watches as they just lay there.

The door behind them slams shut.

And thats it.

Nobody comes to move the creature away. Nobody comes to clean them up and bandage them. Nobody even comes to tell them theyre in the way, lying there bleeding and naked in the middle of the corridor.

It was a good shot, says Barlow, looking back out of the window. Guess youre a natural. He puts his weapon away, puffing on the cigarette for a few minutes.

By the time he looks back, theyre just sitting there on its knees, holding the stained clothes in its arms and staring at the wall with eyes that dont really blink much.

Theres a light splashing sound.

The metal flask in his hand catches the light as he shakes it, choosing to ignore the urine dribbling onto the floor below the half-elf. Sometimes there are just days like that. He gets it. You drink? he offers.

The half-elf turns their eyes toward him, staring for a time and then looking down at themselves.

A shaking hand reaches out for the metal flask.

Your friends are dead, probably, says Barlow. Lots of uneaten hands back there, he says, nodding behind himself to the back carriages of the Procession. The half-elfs fingers touch the metal only lightly, as if it were expected for him to yank it away any second now. He instead lets go, and the half-elf lets out a yelp, scrambling and falling forward to catch the dropping flask, having not expected him to do so. All the bits that were covered in metal. Guess they didnt like that.

The broken half-elf sits upright on their knees, leaning back and drinking from the flask without bothering to even sniff-check it.

A second later, they cough, spluttering as the violently strong alcohol claws at their throat, but then just leans back and downs the rest.

Barlow drops his boots down to the ground, rising to his feet and walking through the puddles of spilled liquor, urine, and blood indifferently to their presence combined or otherwise. Theyre common fluids in his field of work.

When youre done, put on some pants and meet me at the front, he says. I have a job for you.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Bones churn, cracking and breaking apart as hundreds of men scream who had come to intercept them in terror as theyre ripped off of their mounts, pulled into the vortex of clawing, creeping meat that lumbers, hounding after the convoy of carriages theyre still chasing down.

My lord, says Cartouche. Theyve left the mountain. Well catch up to them within the hour.

Good, says the Demon-King, nodding his head. Cartouche, he says, looking at the dancer. This dance is yours, he commands, looking back at the vision of the human convoy. Please me.

She bows out, vanishing.

Itll be a show youll never forget, promises the dancer.