The not-immortal Blacksmith

“CHESTER. IT IS TIME TO GO.” Something cawed next to him.

Chester looked at the large bird, its glossy black feathers, its expressive beak, its softly glowing blue eyes, and he punched it.

Chester shook his head, “No.”

“IT IS TIME.” The bird responded

“There is time to go when I’m DEAD, you stupid bird.” Chester shouted.

The bird cocked its head, “YOU ARE DEAD.”

“Tough shit.” Chester shifted his focus. He saw the look on Brianna’s face, as the demon lumbered towards the slowly recovering Max, saw Magni scream.

Chester tensed. He stared. He poured all of his remaining thoughts and emotions into one last word… “COMPRESS!”

-

Maxwell opened his eyes where he lay on the floor, just outside the doorway to the throne room. “Wha…?” Under him lay Brianna, chest slowly, hesitantly moving. The air was clear, and sunlight shone upon his feet. He finally raised his head and looked behind him. Where once had been a beautifully ornate throne room, there was a perfect sphere of nothing. Sunshine poured through a perfect three-foot circle where part of the ceiling had been. There was no one there. He sat up and cast a healing spell on his wife, and then broke down in tears.

“That idiot! How did he do it? He was dead!” Max sobbed to himself. “Brandy is gone. He’s gone. Nomvula and Magni are gone!” He shook. “Why are Bri and I the only ones left?”

*-*-*

Maxamilian “Mil” god of war, Sarah goddess of small shadows, Bjorn the Dwarven god of Crafting, Narissa the goddess of Tranquility, and several other gods looked at the scrying crystal. The action had been intense. Then at the end, the ghostly form of Chester “The English” casting the final spell, they were agog.

“I can’t believe he actually did that!” Narissa all but shouted. “For a mortal, even a hero to master such a spell and cast it from beyond the grave!”

“A hero till the end.” Mil quietly replied. “More should follow his example.”

Sarah glanced around the gathered gods, “Someone needs to write this epic tragedy. And do it justice.”

Bjorn nodded his head in response, then stood. “I have a marker to call in. I will see all of you later.” He departed the crowd of onlookers.

*-*-*

Bri sat next to her husband, wrapping her arms around him, and he about her. The trial was over, and she shared his loss. They sat like that until the sun began to fade from the sky.

“We need to eat something, dear husband.” Bri stood and began to rummage through the chest. Max, for his part, just stared blankly at her, trying to figure out how she had managed to get into the stupid thing in the first place. Then something punched him in the left butt cheek.

*-*-*

“How in the void did that thing live?!?” Narissa screamed in horror.

*-*-*

Max jumped (more accurately, he was “helped”) about six feet into the air, and landed in a pile. He scampered to his feet, and stared. “Brandywine?”

“In the flesh.” Brandy smiled a toothy grin. “Did ya miss me?”

Max fell to his knees, and clutched the little pixie to his chest, openly weeping. “Don’t do that again, you stupid little fairy!”

“Hey! Lay off the tears! You’re going to get salt all over my… Did you just call me a fairy?!” she giggled.

Max let her go, and wiped the tears and snot from his face. “Did…did you see what happened?”

“…yes…”

“What? What did you see?” Max gently pressed.

“I could only see a bit from the hole in the stone wall…There was his ghostly voice screaming “Compress” then the…the world moved so slow…the thing started to shrink, and you threw your crippled ass into Bri, knocking you and her out the doorway. “Brandy took a deep breath. “Then there was complete darkness, darker than the bottom of a cave dark, and a tiny pinprick of black so deep that it seemed to just suck all of the light from the room. Then the air was gone, and the pinprick grew. And grew. And grew to the size of the room. Then it was just gone. And everything was just gone. You can see for yourself. It’s all gone!” A single tear fell from her face, landing with a soft plop on the floor.

Max shook his head, mouth agape. “A perfect casting… The English…pulled off…a perfect casting…”

-

The trio eat a quick meal of meat, bread, and cheese, then started their trek for the castle’s exit. They met no one, and nothing on their way out.

*-*-*

Date unknown

The former demon lord’s castle

Probably the same year.

This trip has been hell. It’s over. The demon lord is dead. Magni, Nomvula, and Chester are gone. We didn’t even find Chesters body when we left, just a dark bloody pool of mud where he bled out. If I ever find what ate that man, I will slowly kill it several times over.

Strangely enough, all of Chesters possessions were gone too. That would point to demons. I will look into it.

We spent last night in our old camp where we had loosely tied the Hera up. While they had freed themselves, they were still in the area. I am still surprised by that.

Today we rested and tried to recuperate. Stories have been told, songs have been sung, and more than a few tears have been shed. Even without the bodies, we made a funeral pyre for even the gods to see. Screw them all.

I think that if I ever make it to the celestial realm, I’m going to kill most of them for the suffering they have put us mortals through. I will even beat Bjorn and Sarah for not stopping all this crap. Aren’t they supposed to help shield us from this? “Find comfort in your prayers.” BS. We worship, they provide. They aren’t keeping their side of the deal. Well, maybe that healing god…Meh. Whatever.

-

Maxwell slept the sleep of the overly tired, which is to say that he tossed and turned throughout the night. Flashes of memory, long forgotten passed through his mind; friends made and lost; enemies killed; random smiles of strangers; customers of his many shops, both good and bad. Fitfully, deep sleep finally came and calmed his body, and then strange dreams came.

Max stared across an open field covered by lush grasses and wild flowers. In the near distance he could make out a pair of people walking; one tall and wide and of pale skin, the other thin and lithe with skin that could rival shadows. As he watched them, they turned to look over their shoulders, catching his eyes with theirs, and gave a simple wave, before continuing on their way.

-

Max woke with a start, tears running down his face. He wiped his eyes in the darkness of the night, and rolled to his other side to sleep once more.

-

London England

May 1879

…Young master Chester Grants had several things to regret. The first being a failure to pass the final exams at the University of London for a Bachelors of Medicine. The second being drinking in a cheap pub near the docks, off of Ganford Street. The third being the footpad behind him with a cosh, and another in front with a wicked looking blade…

Wait a minute, I’ve been here before… I…I’m back home. Chester “The English” Grants, Mage, smiled at the footpad in front of him. “Oh, just what I needed today!” He rammed the back of his staff into the gut of the attacker behind him, then brought the top of it down on the knife in front.

“Oi, wait a min, who’re you?” A very startled footpad asked, eyes going wide at the sight of the well-muscled and robed man in front of him. “What happened to meater who were just here?”

“Oh, little rat, it’s still me.” Chester brought the head of the staff down on top of the thief’s head. He smiled as he started walking towards his flat, a spring in his step, a whistle on his lips, and his staff over his shoulder. A staff, the head of which started to faintly glow blue in the smokey night air.

Meanwhile, Maxwell, a fly on the wall for the entire scene, gave a wry satisfied smile.

*-*-*

Prince Lancil sat at the council table of the small town of Ulthar, Demonia, arguing policy with the other council members. The meeting had dragged on into the night and the talk of tariffs, livestock, and planting regulations were making his headache worse. Next year. Next year he would run for mayor. The groundwork was already laid, and once he was in office, he would spring a trap and have these fools thrown from office and lead the town to greater heights! He smiled until one piece of discussion entered his ears.

“The last bit on the agenda is the number of stray cats that have been arriving in town for the last week or so.” The secretary said. “While they haven’t caused any damage, and truth be told, the rodent problems have all but disappeared, people are claiming they aren’t natural! All they seem to do is sit around and watch people, like they are waiting for something.”

Lancil took a quick look around the room, and sure enough, a small cat was sitting on the open window ledge near the door to the chamber. Odd. Why are there so many cats here? They don’t usually like demons…

The council decided to put off doing anything about cats until next month, taking the “wait and see” approach of most governments.

-

“I’m home!” Lancil said to his small home, a home that was more a one room cabin, than a house. It was predictably empty. He sighed, and took care of his evening routine before going to bed.

In the morning he stepped onto the small front porch, and stared at what surrounded him. There were cats. Lots of cats. In the trees? Cats. On and in the open sided wood shed? Cats. The lawn? Cats. Stepping to the edge of the porch, he glanced at the roof of his home. Cats.

As he stared at the Glaring, his inner self shuddered, thinking of all the kittens he had eaten over the years. He felt for his powers, unused for months at this point, and found them blocked. Like a pencil on the floor, just brushed by your fingertips, but now out of reach.

Then one of the cats; an old one with matted fur, only one eye and a badly scarred ear; coughed up a hairball of sorts and spoke. “Prince Lancil?”

“Um, yes?” Lancil found himself saying, even though his instincts screamed for him to flee.

“Someone has called in a…Marker.” The cat’s whiskers drooped for a moment.

“Wait! El Gato? Seriously?” Lancil looked at the old cat. “But we had a deal! You can’t do this!”

“Sadly, I must. The marker is older than your presence on this world.” El Gato let out a sigh. “I didn’t even give it out, I just inherited it from its previous owner.”

“Who called it in?” Lancil asked, starting to see what was in store for him.

“Bjorn, Dwarven god of crafting.” El Gato replied. “He sends his regards.”

Lancil, former demon lord, council member and mayoral hopeful of the town of Ulthar, knowing a fear no demon had ever known, felt his body go slack. He didn’t even flinch when El Gato gave the order.