Path of Dragons

Book 7: Chapter 6: Isolation

Book 7: Chapter 6: Isolation

Benedict sat at the somehow still-intact table, his legs crossed as he sipped his tea. The cup was chipped, and the tea itself was of poor quality, but it was a moment of normalcy amidst a whirlwind of a return to Earth. Seven imps – the lowest of the low – were there too, though they sat upon the table itself. Benedict had claimed the only chair for himself.

“Burn?” asked one, pointing to the kettle.

“Not now,” Benedict responded. “Behave.”

“Behaving is not fun,” the imp pouted.

Another asked, “What about a small fire? Just a little one, right in the market square? A tiny inferno?” It held a cup as well, and as it spoke, hot water splashed over the rim.

Benedict sighed. He’d already had a half-dozen similar conversations, and he hated having to repeat himself. “No infernos. Tiny or otherwise.”

That was the problem with imps. They weren’t quite as powerful as his bull demon or the two-headed arch-imp he’d summoned back in the Trial, but they packed plenty of punch. Some of that was courtesy of Infernal Empowerment, but the little demonlings also possessed a talent for destruction and chaos that Benedict had found unmatched in any of the other demonic creatures he’d summoned.

But they definitely lacked intellect or the ability to focus on anything for more than a few moments. They were fine so long as they had something to destroy, but with a few seconds of peace, they went a little mad. It was like someone had taken unruly child with attention-deficit disorder added a healthy dose of pyromania, and given them a debilitating methamphetamine addiction. Wrangling the little monsters was a full-time job, and one he’d come to loathe.

Benedict sipped his tea.

“But master! What if someone accidentally drops a candle on a bundle of oil-soaked rags? Someone could just give it a teensy push and...”

The creature mimicked a giant explosion, and the other imps went wild. Some cheered. Others leaped and twisted in the air. But they were all grinning at the prospect.

“There are so many issues with that little scenario,” Benedict said. “First of all, we’re the only ones who could drop a hypothetical candle on a hypothetical bundle of oil-soaked rags.” He glanced at the captives in the corner. Eyes wide and trembling in fear, they were a pitiful sight. “Second, no. Just no. Drink your ‘tea’.”

“No fun,” muttered one.

Another agreed, “Need to burn.”

“Like that big tower. Boom. Lit up like a...like a...”

“Like a big burny thing!” crowed another imp.

That got them excited again. One even dropped its teacup, which shattered when it hit the floor. The captives flinched away at the sudden sound. The movement caught the attention of one of the imps.

“People burn too,” it said, suddenly stopping. “Gooey and scream-y and –”

“No,” Benedict said.

“But master!”

“I said no!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the table. It collapsed beneath the blow, and the teacups and kettle crashed to the floor of the dusty inn. He still wasn’t accustomed to his increased physical might, which had come from his latest spell, Theft of Strength. It weakened his enemies, transferring their power to him. It only lasted a couple of hours, but he was still riding high from the recent battle.

If he could even call it that, given the townspeople’s weakness.

In the aftermath of the destroyed table, one of the imps nudged another, and in a stage whisper, said, “Master mad.”

“I’m not...I’m not lying. I would banish you. Send you off into the wilderness. Y-you could do the same,” the man said. He was exactly the sort of person Benedict had learned to hate. Tall, broad-shouldered, and square-jawed, he had probably bullied hundreds of people over the course of his life. Maybe he’d convinced himself that he had changed. Perhaps he’d expressed regret. But once a bully, always a bully, and he’d shown his true colors when he met Benedict.

They all had.

“Tell the truth. The moment I appeared, you attacked me. I had done nothing to you, and yet, you thought to murder me where I stood,” Bendict stated. “Am I to believe that you would suddenly show mercy? Of course not. You are a bully of the worst sort, and by all rights, I should put you down. It’s practically a public service.”

“You slaughtered the whole town!” screeched a woman from the rear of the gathered prisoners. “Of course we attacked! You murdered dozens of people and –”

Benedict raised his eyes, casting a spell. Her words died in her throat, and she collapsed only a second later. She wasn’t dead, just drained by Curse of Enfeeblement. Eventually, she would regain enough Strength to recover. In most cases, it wouldn’t have been capable of completely incapacitating an enemy, but the woman was so weak that the single spell was more than enough to knock her out of commission.

Benedict paid her no mind as she fell to the floor, so limp that she couldn’t even brace herself as her cheek hit the ground. Instead, he stated, “I came in peace. They attacked me first. Am I to allow that to go unpunished? You likely believe as much, don’t you? A man defending himself is somehow in the wrong. I should bend my back and take whatever punishment you deem appropriate? For the crime of stepping foot into your little world, I should just surrender to your chastisement? If I had even a little less power, they would have killed me within seconds of entering town. Would you then attack the men you entrusted with your precious safety? Would you congratulate them for a job well done? Would you pat them on the back for keeping out the undesirables? I think we both know the answer to that question.”

“I...I don’t...”

“You attacked them first!” shouted one.

“I was there. I know what happened,” Benedict stated. Indeed, he remembered it perfectly. He’d only walked into town, and they’d immediately tried to bar his way, demanding payment for mere entry. He’d objected – and quite vociferously – and things had escalated from there. The guards had gone from extortion to attack in the space of a few seconds, and Benedict had responded in kind.

It was no different from when schoolyard bullies had stolen his lunch money long, long ago, and he refused to stand for that sort of thing. He didn’t have to be a victim anymore.

“We have to protect ourselves!” the first man declared, finally finding his spine. He was bound by Demon Chains, but he could still move a little. He used that limited freedom to shake his fists at Benedict.

The Warlock recognized that gesture for what it was. The man might have been cowed, but he was no less a bully than all the rest. Given half a chance, he would attack Benedict. That was why he couldn’t be released. None of them could. They were too dangerous. Killing them was a public service.

“I wish you had made better choices,” he said, rising to his feet. He ran his hand through his silky hair. He still remembered when it had been perpetually greasy, but those days were long behind, just like his vulnerability to bullies was a thing of the past. He no longer needed to endure their hateful attacks.

With that in mind, Benedict turned and left the inn. The captives all screamed in terror, begging for release. They could sense what was coming. They knew what his departure meant.

Outside, the imps had already set fire to three buildings. The flames danced with unnatural vigor, burning far hotter than any conventional conflagration. Such was their talent, and Benedict sensed that they’d only realized a sliver of their potential. It was his responsibility to usher them forth and help them become the best versions of themselves. They were disposable minions, sure, but they were still his companions.

He called for the imps, and a second later, they came running. And skipping. And bouncing. They moved so chaotically that, at times, Benedict likened them to freestyle gymnasts. Whatever the case, they arrived soon after his call, and he asked a question to which he already knew the answer, “You want to burn something?”

“Yes!” they all shouted in their high-pitched voices. A few drew out the word longer than others, creating a weird cacophony of sound that sounded a bit like reverberation.

“Burn that building. I want it hot enough to melt their bones,” Benedict commanded.

The imps needed no more prodding, and they immediately conjured dense balls of flame that they threw at the building in question. The inn had been the largest structure in town, but like all the rest, it had been predominantly constructed of wood.

And it quickly became a raging inferno. At first, the captives screamed, but that only lasted a little while before it faded. Unconscious from smoke inhalation, he reasoned, given that he’d yet to gain any experience. Soon enough, though, paltry sums of energy added to his total, signifying the deaths of his enemies.

In another life, he might have felt guilty for the actions of his minions. However, in this instance, he knew he’d done the right thing. They were bullies. Future oppressors. They deserved their fate, just like all the others Benedict had slain.

Still, he did regret that he was, once again, entirely alone.