David Gaider - The Calling

This was no natural place, he thought. This was a memory, something so terrible that to Fiona it had become a dark cave filled with terror. He could feel it clawing at his senses, and could see the others feeling the same. Sweat poured down their foreheads, their eyes wide as they pushed ahead in the shadows. Fiona wasn’t trapped in a dream filled with her fondest hopes—she was trapped in her worst nightmare.

A faint light appeared ahead of them, the cave opening up into a small cavern. It was bare except for a candelabrum of wrought iron standing in the center, the candles flickering and sending shadows jumping about the rocky floor. A man stood next to it with his back turned, his grey hair pulled into a genteel ponytail. He was dressed in the embroidered velvet jacket and high leather boots typical of an Orlesian nobleman, and carried a long leather whip curled in one hand.

What he was using the whip on was obvious. Fiona lay prone on the stone floor, facing away from them with her arms raised above her head and chained to the wall. Her head hung down limply, and the back of her robe was ripped open from so many whiplashes across her back that her skin was red with blood. Duncan would have thought her dead were it not for the quavering of her shoulders and her racking sobs.

“Did you think”—the nobleman sneered at Fiona beneath him—“that I was going to let the Chantry take you away from me? Whisk you off to the Circle of Magi, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, master,” Fiona pleaded. Her head still hung down, almost touching the floor. Her voice was reduced to a broken whisper, and she continued to cry.

“You forget my connections! I can ensure they forget about some little elven harlot! The mage who found you was mistaken, as simple as that!”

“Yes, master …”

“It’s not as if I need you for any foul magical gift you possess, do I?”

“Yes, master …”

Although Duncan couldn’t see the man’s face, his rage was obvious. He unfurled the leather whip and cracked it loudly. “You’re not listening to me, foolish girl! I have had enough of your insolence! Enough!” He raised the whip up high, preparing to lash Fiona once again.

“Stop!” Genevieve ordered him. She moved into the small cavern, her greatsword raised cautiously before her. The others followed suit, keeping their distance from the nobleman and spreading out. There was no way of knowing what to expect from him.

He paused, not landing his blow, and instead turned to look at them. The nobleman was arrogantly handsome. His eyes were lined with black kohl, in Orlesian custom, but, far more noticeable, they glowed with a sinister purplish hue. He smiled, as if pleased. “Ah! And here they are at last. Found your way out of your dreams, did you? Well, throw away a gift if you will; I won’t give you another.”

“We do not need your gifts,” Genevieve said, her tone deadly. She lowered her sword at him. “You will release Fiona, and you will release us. Do it.”

He chuckled lightly. “Release my precious girl? I don’t think so! I bought her fair and square! I have spent years raising her; I’m not about to waste all of that!”

“We know what you are, demon. There is no need to pretend.”

He clucked his tongue reproachfully. “Do you think you are actually here? Do you think those are actual weapons that you have pointed at me? Who do you think is the master of this realm, and who the dreamer?” With a wave of his hand, Genevieve was thrown back with terrible force. She grunted as she slammed hard into the stone wall of the cavern, her sword clattering to the ground. He raised his hand, grinning, and she rose as if carried by the throat, kicking her legs and clutching at her neck as she choked.

Kell unleashed an arrow, and it lodged into the neck of the nobleman with little effect. Utha charged at him, Maric right behind her with his sword raised high, and the nobleman merely waved with his other hand and sent the two of them tumbling back along the floor. Kell shot two more arrows, both of them striking the demon harmlessly, before he took out his flail and charged as well.

“Really,” the nobleman sighed dryly, “this is silly.” Still holding Genevieve against the wall, he flicked his free hand at the hunter and sent him flying explosively back, falling hard to the ground near where Maric and Utha tried to regain their feet.

Duncan stayed back, his daggers at the ready. His first thought was to circle around and try to stab the demon unawares, but seeing how effective the others were being with their attacks made it seem unlikely that his would be any better. Instead, he edged over to where Fiona lay and gingerly touched her.

“Fiona?” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

She raised her head slowly, and he realized that was a very stupid question. Her back was bloody and flayed open, and as she looked at him with questioning, reddened eyes and a face stained with tears, he gathered she had no idea who he was and barely even registered that he was there.

“Here, let me try to get those manacles off you.” He took her hands, noticing that her wrists were rubbed raw and bloody by the thick iron manacles that held them. It seemed like it might be simple enough to pick. He reached into his belt and pulled out his hidden lockpick.

“Away from her!” the demon roared, spinning on Duncan and thrusting out his hand to dash him away from Fiona. Duncan slid along the ground and bashed his head hard on a stone outcropping by the wall, crying out as agony burned through him. He groggily tried to sit up, and could hear the sounds of shouting as Genevieve and the others charged the demon again. Perhaps he had successfully distracted the creature? That was a comforting thought.

He got to his feet just in time to see Genevieve thrust her greatsword completely through the nobleman’s midsection. It passed through cleanly, spilling no blood as it came out the other side, and he looked at her almost in disappointment. “Truly, is that the best you can do? Are such futile efforts supposed to impress me?” He reached out with a hand, his speed lightning quick and too fast for Genevieve to avoid, grabbing her throat and lifting her off the ground.

She gasped and batted ineffectually at his hand. “See? I can do this the old-fashioned way just as easily,” he chuckled. “As soon as you dispense with this useless struggle, you can all perish quietly. Saving you for later was obviously a mistake.”

Kell lay nearby, sprawled on the floor unconscious. Duncan couldn’t see where Utha was. Maric stood near the demon, his head bloody, clearly laboring to lift his runed sword for another strike.

“Maric, don’t!” Duncan shouted.

The demon spun his head around to spot Maric, and his hand snatched Maric up by the neck the same way he had Genevieve. Maric gasped loudly, holding on to his sword and hacking as the demon lifted him off the ground. His efforts did little more than slash the creature’s embroidered coat.

The nobleman glanced down at the slashes, his purple eyes flashing dangerously. “For that, you will need to suffer.” Still holding Genevieve aloft with his other hand, he began to crush Maric’s throat. The crunching sound was wet and unpleasant, and Maric let out a guttural cry of anguish that filled the cavern.

Suddenly another shout rang out, a feral scream of pain and rage. It was Fiona. She rose from the floor like a madwoman, shaking from the effort, her eyes wild, bright magical power coalescing around her fists. The demon paused and turned a curious eye toward her, but not before she unleashed an enormous bolt of lightning at him.

The flash of light blinded Duncan, and the thunder that followed almost threw him off his feet. He stumbled against the wall behind him, and when he opened his eyes he saw that Fiona had dropped down to her knees, her effort spent. The demon was on the ground, having dropped Genevieve and Maric both. His coat was completely burned away, leaving his bare chest smoking from the strike. He seemed dazed.