Cold winds of winter morning swept swiftly through the Dark Isles, stirring dust from their eternal rest, banishing centuries of silence from their rule, and awakening the many corrupted souls of those whom tragedy befell. Afternoon sunlight beamed through stained windows of red and blue, glazing those fortunate with glimmers of gold.

​

Into the mess hall stepped a being shrouded in the blackest of blacks. It strode warily through the grand hallway — every step, muffled; every stride, sure.

​

It glanced around hastily, taking into account every bit of detail from the tiniest of rubble to the grandest of columns.

​

Crooked claws — ones able to tear through flesh like butter — popped from the creature's fingertips. Slowly, carefully, and rather intently, it made its way through what remained of the mess hall, eyeing everything with disinterest.

​

From behind the creature came a loud thud, followed by a deafening bang, followed by what sounded like the clattering of a million metal trinkets.

​

The creature turned.

​

There, lying sprawled near humongous gates that sealed the Dark Isles shut for many centuries, was a boy of considerably young age. His attire was anything but clean: specks of dirt smeared themselves messily unto both his boots; blotches of tainted blood coated his tattered jeans; tears and scratches rid his coat of its once lavish appeal.

​

"You oaf! Can you be any louder?" The creature snapped at him. "You might as well come marching in with a parade behind your back!"

​

The boy heaved himself up and dusted his coat clean, only to stumble over yet another pile of discarded relics a short while afterwards. The creature gritted its teeth.

​

The boy did too. "Ugh, sorry. Slippery floors."

​

"Slippery floors? Oh, I'll show you slippery floo—"

​

"Thieves," whispered a voice from beyond the darkness.

​

The two ceased all bickering and stood frozen like marble statues.

​

Shadows of all shape, size, and manner began to stir from their slumber; they prowled about the darkness, watching the boy's every move with utmost intent. A single bead of sweat slid down his cheek. "I might be a bit crazy, but I'm sure I heard something. Zha'Khiri?"

​

The demon too looked to the darkness, expecting the most unpleasant of monstrosities to lunge from one corner of the hall and make way for him. He shifted closer to the boy, keeping his claws popped and at the ready. His footsteps grew yet quieter, and his senses, yet keener.

​

"Zha'Khiri?" the boy said again, only this time, with a lace of anxiety plaguing his every word.

​

"Quit your yapping; I hear it alright."

​

"And we're going to do what about it? Nothing?"

​

"Hush."

​

"I don't know about you, but I'm ready to bail."

​

"Hush!"

​

"Personally, I don't feel like dying toda—"

​

"I said, hush!"

​

The demon glanced warily around, oftentimes flicking his head in anticipation of an ensuing ambush. Something about the Dark Isles — it just didn't feel quite right. "Something's awfully wrong."

​

The boy stepped away from yet another pile of relics, now watching his every step with utmost care. "What's awfully wrong?"

​

"It's too quiet. Far too quiet."

​

"So what? A lot of places are quiet: graveyards, libraries, my ma's baseme—"

​

"Thieves.”

​

Both the demon and the boy turned to face the voice; both were taken aback by what stood before them.

***

I'm a demon of simple tastes: I enjoy the curdling of human blood; the usual excitement of mortal wars; and long, quiet naps. Father Destiny, cruel that he is, has decided to take matters a step further and wreak havoc upon my world once more.

That’s right folks.

Round two it is!

What a swell day for battle!

Yet another demon has come to spar.

And oh, why am I so spectacularly unsurprised.

​

At this point, if an entire division of Imperium soldiers came marching in, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised, (partly because we’re some 300 miles from their nearest border, and partly because very few people, if any at all, still know of this prison’s existence, which makes this afternoon’s mess that much more irritating).

​

It stood before an altar of some sorts, claws unsheathed and at the ready. It must be quite a powerful demon; after all, it managed to sense me through the dark, and through my concealments. That wouldn’t be quite so easy for a runt.

Clank! Slam! Smash!

I turned. I looked.

It too turned. It too look.

50 paces or so behind, came barreling in a human child, tussling with his oversized coat as if it was a starving boa looking to make quick work of him. If I had to guess, the kid probably tripped on his own coattails or something and set about a series of very unfortunate events, (one of which was embarrassment, turns out).

​

As both demon and human child exchanged a few words, I sized up my potential, (considering my extensive track record, 'soon-to-be' seems to be the better fitting word), foe.

​

There was something about the demon. Something that sat it apart from the rest of us and defined its very existence: its soul wasn't bound to that of a master's word. It was free to do whatever it damn well pleases, and in some sense, I envied it. How he wound up claiming the liberty of his own free will, I can only imagine.

​

But much like those who come knocking upon the doors of the Dark Isles, the demon too lusted for the riches buried underneath.

​

Out of the shadows and into the light stepped forth an iron revenant; he carried with him the stench of death, destruction, and dismay, (impressive stuff, eh?) "Thieves.”

​

Both demon and child turned to face me; both nearly jumped in my presence, (trust me).

​

The human was the first to speak. "Err. . . Who are you?"

​

I drove my claymore through the once spotless stone tiles and left it upright. Now comes the part where I introduce myself to these pathetic lowlifes, (if my already-intimidating appearance didn't yet scare the socks off the child, perhaps my many grand names would. Apart from that, it's just formalities, really. Believe it or not, Hell has culture and traditions. We’re not savages, you know)?

​

And so, I began. "Who am I? Who am I?! Puny child, I am Al-Nashur the Great! The famed Iron Warden of East Escardia! I have built the great Imperium palace brick by brick, mason by mason; I have torn down the Navylan States man by man, ruler by ruler; and I have guarded Solomon’s greatest treasures below these very grounds for cent—"

​

"That's fantastic," the demon cleared his throat. "Truly an impressive resume. Yes, yes, all those spectacular feats and whatnot. Ahem. I think I can speak for both of us when I say, we really, truly could not care less."

​

The nerves of this lowly being! To think that it could speak so arrogantly in my presence?

​

I stood in utter disbelief, letting the words sink in. "We couldn't care less." How dare he? I have killed many for lesser insults! Surely, even he can tell when in the presence of something far greater than himself, no? (I know some demons are rather pathetic, but even they must be able to tell when a literal god stands before them. Right?).

​

The boy stepped back, staring at the demon with a why-did-you-just-say-that-now-we're-screwed expression splayed across his face. He pointed at his companion. "Yeah. . . What he said."

​

The demon stepped forth and extended a hand. "Zha'Khiri, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

​

As tradition dictates, I took up the offer. Reluctantly, might I add. "Al-Nashur, I wish the same could be said."

​

"I take it that you are none other than the caretaker of these fair grounds, yes?"

​

"One of the many, correct."

​

"And I take it that your soul is bound to protect the riches buried underneath, yes?"

​

"Quite unfortunately."

​

Zha'Khiri sheathed his claws, (if this was a gesture of good intentions, I may have more or less chosen to ignore it. My apologies, force of habit). "It seems I am at an impasse."

​

I sat myself down upon a rotting pew and rested both legs atop the misshapen remains of a fallen marble statue. A yawn managed to claw its way out. "Pray tell."

​

"I am in need of an artifact ⁠— one that I believe was once in the possession of your now dearly departed mas—"

​

"Oh, no. No, no, no. Absolutely do not call him that. He was never my quote unquote master. He was simply another summoner who happened to stumble across my name and sigil in some ancient scrawl. I call that a taste of bad luck."

​

"Semantics."

​

"Facts."

​

"Right, well. He did summon you."

​

"I suppose he did, but then aga—"

​

"And he did charge your soul with an oath."

​

"I don't see where you're going with this."

​

"Call it what you may, I know better; one way or another, you're still a slave to his will, Nashur. Even after death too, I see. My condolences."

​

The marble statue was split in half by a swing of my claymore; the ground shook ever so violently, (either that, or my head was still spinning from an earlier battle with one certain Hell's Baron who shall not be named). "If I were you, I'd shut it."

​

Zha'Khiri remained oddly calm, (kudos to him, not many would have). "Well then, luckily for both of us, I'm me, and you're you."

​

"Right, that does it."

​

"Now, hang on, I did not mean to offend your hon—"

​

"Up then, demon."

​

"There's no reason to be rash here, Nashur. Can we not discuss this like civilized samaritans?"

​

"I said. . . Up. Raise your blade."

​

"I will most certainly not."

​

"Very well, then — I shall."

***

I made the first move, raising the claymore from the ground up and managing a clean strike through much of Zha'Khiri's chest. The steel cut right through his flesh like melted butter, spilling and, before he could even react, cut once more through his gut.

Zoom!

There he went, sailing through the air.

​

Zha'Khiri crashed through rows of rotten pews before slamming into the bricks of a crumbling stone pillar. Stone after stone came crashing down, burying him under all that rubble, and for a second or two, he just laid there, motionless.

Something moved from way under.

​

"Cheap shot, Nashur. Have you no honor?"

​

"All is fair in love and war — ever heard of that phrase before?"

​

"You make a fair point."

​

"Right. Let's get serious."

​

"Took the words right out of my mouth."

​

Claws sprung from Zha'Khiri's fingertips — savage, crooked ones hellbent on tearing me to shreds. With a flick of the wrist, and a swing of the arm, he hurled several waves of shadows my way.

​

They zipped through the air, darting for me from any and every direction imaginable: left, right; up, down; front, back.

​

In the split second I was spared, I somersaulted through the initial barrage and, with a push of the arms, sprung myself past the next, (a very cleanly executed move, I should say. It isn't the easiest of tricks to pull off, especially while wearing an entire suit of metal).

​

The shadows came crashing in columns, pummeling the ground just inches from where I stood. With the blade still tightly in my grasps, I ducked under yet another beam of Zha'Khiri's shadows and cut right through the next with one swing from my claymore. They shattered into a thousand shards, and, before I could even blink, dashed for me, tearing skin from flesh; flesh from bones; and bones from my body.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Went the reds.

​

I staggered back a step or two, letting the pain sink in. Oh, damn, did it hurt.

It hurt a lot.

Blood spilled from the many cracks in my then unscratched armor, (we don’t speak about the hole in my chest. Astoscillis did not happen), painting every untainted stone tile a new color. "Cheap. . . Shot. Fucker."

"All is fair in love and war, Nashur."

​

Zha'Khiri walked right up to me, grinning every step of the way like some maniac given prey. He stared through the slit in my helmet, put one hand on my shoulder, smirked, then, without so much as a shred of hesitation, drove his claws deep into my chest, tearing my spine way, way out, (it wasn’t the fast kind of driving, mind you. He took his sweet time and worked slowly, making sure I felt every strand of flesh give way and tear — individually).

I fell limb, quick, of course. Not much I can do without a spine.

And then, from thereon, it was cake for him.

Not so much for good ol’ Al-Nashur.

He tossed the rest of me aside like some flimsy ragdoll and played with the bones in hand, occasionally stopping only to lick his crooked claws clean. "Mmm. . . Spineless. I thought as much.”

​

I worked what little squirms I was still capable of and hauled myself closer to the altar, inch by inch, (we also do not speak of this. Ever). "Stealing words. . . Are we?"

​

"Since you're just laying there, quite unable to move, I'll take the time to make some things crystal clear."

​

"By all means."

​

"I do not want to end your miserable existence, Nashur. Not just yet."

​

"That's funny."

​

"I wasn't joking."

​

Despite the pain, I managed to squeeze out a faint snicker that sounded much like that of a dying seal's, (I know — not my proudest moment). "You should be a comedian."

​

Zha'Khiri slammed a foot against my gut and sent me flying towards a nearby column.

I went right through in one glorious show of falling bricks and dusty debris.

​

He cleared his throat; the boy stifled a snicker. "And you should know when to quit talking."

​

"You kick like a girl," I said, coughing up mouthfuls of blood. "Seriously."

​

"That's not very nice of you."

​

"It's fact."

​

"No, it's sexist."

​

"And also the truth."

​

Another kick sent me flying to the back of the altar; all sorts of ancient treasures jumped from their rest and cluttered onto the cold, stone floors. Zha'Khiri was growing ever more frustrated, and I could sense it. Now, if I could just move my hand a slight inch, I could call on some serious cavalry, (normally, I do the fighting solo, but desperate times call for desperate measures — shut up).

​

"Ready to talk sensibly?" he said, the grin now an irritated grimace.

​

"I'm considering."

​

"Codex Gigas — the devil's bible. It's somewhere in your master's vault, isn't it? Tell me where."

​

"Amazing offer — truly a deal maker, aren't you? What's in it for me?"

​

"I don't send your soul straight back to Hell."

​

"To be honest, that wouldn't be so bad."

​

"Would it?"

​

"Yeah, no kidding. Things are getting stale up here; kinda boring, to be honest. Lots of dust, lots of nothingness — whoop-de-doo. Speaking of boring, we ought to spice things up, no?"

​

"I'm not sure I unders—"

​

For the first time in the last minute or so, Zha'Khir began to notice the deep yet subtle humming resonating from a nearby pentagram, (thank Father Destiny for his terrible hearing).

​

The sigil glowed a sinister tint of red; a blast of energy surged through the hall.

​

Zha'Khiri stepped back.

​

The boy fell to a knee.

​

I let out a faint laugh.

​

"Oh, you're in trouble now, buster."

“Full of tricks, aren’t you?”

​

The cavalry's here.

***

Nothing happened at first, but just as he was about to drive a claw through my chest, (was it the third time today?) and tear parts of my soul from my body, the ground began to shake. Growing more violent by each passing second, Zha'Khiri leaped atop a still podium and casually glanced around, (most people would've run for the hills by now; I'm slightly impressed by his composure. Keyword: slightly).

​

Marble statues left and right came to life, bearing their many medieval weaponry between stone hands that moved a little too awkwardly for my liking, (who knows? Maybe they too had just been woken up from a century-long sleep. Couldn’t tell you).

​

They lumbered towards Zha'Khiri and the boy, trampling rows of pews beneath their very feet. Some dragged maces along and carried broadswords; others bore heavy axes and wielded stone lances.

​

The boy looked to his unlikely companion, sweating like a filthy pig, (exaggerated only ever so slightly); his hands fidgeted. "Erm. . . Should we be worried?"

​

I struggled to sit up straight. "Oh yes, my boy, you should be very worried. In fact, I wouldn't stick it to you if you ran for the hills right this instant. If you're as fast as you seem — which is a compliment, by the way — you could probably make it out alive with both arms and legs. No promises."

​

Zha'Khiri threw some sort of bejeweled goblet at me; it hit the helmet and bounced way off into the darkness, clattering noisily in the distance. "You, zip it."

​

"I'm good."

​

"I. Will. Cut. You."

​

"Now that’s not so nice, is it?"

​

"For a dead man walking, you seem to be in good humor."

​

"I get that a lot."

​

Zha'Khiri leaped from the podium and kicked himself off a wall, dodging several blades that came for him far too slowly, far too late. Still mid-air, he sent a column of shadows shooting through the first lumbering Stone-Man, immediately reducing it to but ash and rubble.

​

As soon as his heels touched the floor, he slammed both fists against a pew and sent it flying towards the second Stone-Man.

​

But unlike the first, this particular Stone-Man was quicker, (and a lot smarter too, apparently). Instead of just standing there helpless, it sliced through the pew with a swing of its axe and proceeded to charge towards Zha'Khiri at record speed.

​

The demon rolled sideways just before Stone-Man 2 came crashing onto the walls beside me, (for simplicity's sake, I have decided to name the Stone-Men in accordance to their appearance. And what better way to name something than with numbers? No, it's not laziness — it's efficiency).

​

Zha'Khiri waved an arm; a circle of spikes rose from the ground and stabbed right through Stone-Man 2, shattering it into tiny, little rocks.

​

"Very impressive," I said, now standing upright. "Very impressive, indeed. Maybe next time you can throw a goblet at them."

​

Zha'Khiri sent pieces of a column shooting at Stone-Man 3, (to my knowledge, this act only served to irritate the golem). "You, shut it!"

The Stone Men pressed onward.

And the demon was running out of breath.

Good.

Very good.

Right where I want him.

Tired and careless.

​

He turned to face the boy. Zha’Khiri clenched a fist. "Child, ready yourself."

​

"Erm. . . Alright, what do you want me to d—"

​

"Move!"

​

With just milliseconds to spare, Zha'Khiri threw the boy aside and raised both hands. What was once a massive, stone column of impressive architecture and masonry slammed into him and sent the demon warrior sprawling. The bricks exploded into but pieces of rubble and buried him down under, once more.

This time, there was no scuffling from underneath.

​

Claymore back in hand, I slowly ambled towards my Stone-Men companions and decided to assist them in the ongoing battle, (through cheering and moral support, of course — I am in no condition to stand, let alone fight. It’s the thought that counts). "Feels good having an entire column slammed into your face, doesn't it?"

​

Zha'Khiri hauled himself off the floor and leaned against a nearby wall. Purple blood oozed from the many cuts and bruises riddling his darkened flesh. "You say one more word, Nashur, and I'm going to really lose it."

​

"I'd like to see that."

He spat a tooth out.

​

"Well, then. Round 2?"

​

"I'm feeling it."

Disclaimer: I’m not feeling it.

​

Bothering no longer with playful theatrics, Zha'Khiri sank into a pool of wreathing shadows and disappeared into the floorboards underneath. The boy watched as the waves of black came to rise and fall by his feet, circling him like a school of starving sharks.

"Kid, if you'd be so kind as to step closer."

***

The boy did as instructed. At once, the pool of shadows rose from the ground up and slipped into the sleeves of his raggedy coat. His veins turned to the blackest of blacks; his skin turned to a vile shade of violet; his eyes grew devoid of light. Within moments, Zha'Khiri and the boy had merged into the same body, (a major oversimplification, mind you).

​

Such sudden transformation didn't seem to even faze the Stone-Men. Still bearing their massive weapons, they charged recklessly forward, determined to squash the demon intruder underfoot. If I had to guess, I'd say such enthusiasm and persistence was part of their charge, (which, to my knowledge, did not include, "help Nashur with housekeeping duties." There were times where I could’ve used an extra pair of hands; guess where they were? That’s right. Way up here, posing as decorations).

​

Shadows wreathed and roiled in the palm of the boy's hands, seemingly possessing a mind of their own.

​

"Well, Nashur, it's been nice — this little encounter of ours," he said, his many voices intertwining as one. "But I'm afraid this is where our little duel must end."

​

I sized up my enemy yet again: an ancient demon of unknown origin and power who, with the help of a poor soul, had escaped imprisonment and wished death upon all, (I mean, why would one go after the Codex Gigas if not to wipe half of the world out)?

​

Then, on the opposite side, there was me: Al-Nashur, Iron Warden of East Escardia; Wielder of the devil blade Lucius, and commander of 20 legions of lesser demons.

​

Except tonight, I wasn't Al-Nashur the almighty, I was Al-Nashur, He-who-had-Back-Problems-and-Terrible-Migraines, (again, courtesy of a certain Hell's Baron who was outstandingly annoying and unbelievably persistent).

​

My gang of Stone-Men set their non-existent eyes on the boy. Lances and javelins were hurled, while axes and blades were swung aimlessly.

​

Quite to my disappointment, not a single one managed to even scratch the boy's darkened skin.

​

He slammed a fist against the stone floors, sending shock wave after shock wave of shadows rippling from the impact. The Stone-Men toppled over one another, struggling to regain their clumsy footing. All at once now, the boy, (or rather, Zha’Khiri, I should say) began channeling pools of writhing shadows to the palm of his hands.

Three.

Two.

One.

He let loose.

​

A deafening boom rang through the mess hall, stirring all sorts of slumbering pests from their deep-winter sleep.

​

What happened next was but a blur to me.

​

The wave of black and violet slammed into each and every one of my Stone-Men guardians, disintegrating them in an instance. What little shards and pieces remained sat about uselessly on the floor.

​

The demon boy breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, he intended to finish the battle right there and then, and by the looks of it, he had almost succeeded.

​

Almost, because I still stood fast, very much alive.

​

Almost succeeded, because with these mortal wounds of mine, I might as well have been a toddler wielding blades.

Not exactly effective.

​

The boy let an exasperated laugh escape his lips and cut through the silence, (to be honest with you, his change in attitude was a lot more staggering than his change in appearance. And that sca — err. . . Had me slightly concerned).

​

"Well, well, well. How about that, Nashur? Now it's just you and I!"

​

"Not that I'm complaining or anything."

​

"So, then. How would you like to die, my dear friend?"

​

"I'm not your friend, buddy."

​

"Very well, decapitation it is!"

***

Look, I'll spare you all the grimy details and just skip on ahead to a far less grotesque, (and shameful) scene. It's better for the both of us, trust me.

​

From thereon, it was just an absolute massacre. The damn boy sure took his sweet time with me, and by sundown, I was little more than a walking corpse, (more so than usual, mind you).

​

He threw me against pillars, slammed me against walls, and stabbed about a dozen more holes through my body. Suffice to say, it was not pleasant.

​

"Any last words, Nashur?"

​

"Erm. . . Yeah. Just a second, I have a note here somewhere."

​

"Always the jester."

​

"Maybe in another life, I was."

​

"Your company was. . . Undesirable, so to speak."

​

"Such big words for such small boy."

​

"And there goes your tongue again."

​

"Am I being irritating?"

​

"Dear me, yes!"

​

"Sucks to be you."

​

"I'd say you're in a fairly worse spot than I am."

​

"Maybe."

​

"Well, then. . .”

“Well, then. . .”

“Goodbye, and good luck to you. May our paths never cross again, Nashur — for your sake."

​

"Ooh. Foreshadowing. Me likey."

​

"What?"

​

"Oh, nothing. It just slipped out is all."

​

And with that, he sent my soul plummeting straight back to the depths of Hell.

​

I failed my summoner.

​

I failed myself.

​

But worst of all. . .

​

I failed my charge.

​

And now I've got him to deal with.

What a swell day, eh?