Ink Raindrops

The auspicious arrival of my constant and condemning companion heralded a month that I recall with ease. To say that it was a month of cheer and laughter would be a gross exaggeration; however, there were small moments that passed between the desire to thrust Oros’ teaching into a locale that he would find unpleasant, and the renewed desire to end my own life against the stupidity I had wrought by accepting it. La Salle had not been forceful enough in her warnings against allowing my ego to surpass my achievements, in particular when it came to the two faced nature of the imp! Oh, I knew in my heart that she had, in fact, warned me, and multiple times at that – but I would be damned if she had ever impressed upon me the exuberance of the lies that the beast told in order to gain even a small measure of freedom!

It started with simple things; an aching head, from all the unexpected summons, or sore feet from human methods of travel. Having a heart toward what was to be my trusted companion, I believed these things without question. What a fool I was to sympathize with his ails! At the end of the month it was clear as dawn where the path that my mistake led me down would end. He would not strengthen my body’s lifeblood against the ill will of others, claiming inefficiency for assisting in combat; he would not assist in battle with his inborn fiery talent, insisting that his power be reserved for extreme emergency. For every refusal and every hesitation, I found myself facing the world and its challenges alone, the powers that I possessed through Oros my one protection. Oros, of course, did little to assist beyond smiling and shaking his head; he had already earned the right to command his minion, and bore no desire to be involved with mine. The man had no heart at all for his overwhelmed apprentice, and his lessons continued at their usual pace.

In lieu of sending me to yet another of his talented masters of the darkness to enhance my education, Oros had chosen instead to train me himself in the more sobering aspects of the warlock gift. The call of corruption was perhaps the largest risk against a warlock’s life, and Oros taught me this with the utmost caution and patience. Never had I seen a more serious and impassable look on his face than when he spoke of this risk and all that it could mean to a weak willed man or woman. It came in the night at first, he said, in the guise of dreams or nightmares. The whispers of failure, of isolation, of despair and denial that so many others took for granted as the harbingers of some repressed love or hatred were in fact the seeds of damnation where a warlock was concerned.

If these echoes of self doubt were not enough to twist a warlock into desperation, the attacks made against their spirit increased by turns. Promises of power, safety, or whatever the warlock most needed or desired came next. At last, visions of long dead family members in the calm of a winter’s day, waking up next to the imaginary sight of loved ones’ corpses just in time to see them resolve into living reality, and even the appearance of savage yet unreal wounds and scars upon a warlock’s body were common methods of mental torture designed to wrest the will from a servant of the shadows.

According to Oros, this call of corruption was the method by which the Nether attempted to pay for the toll taken by the loss of its denizens to warlock support. It was the price that all warlocks paid for the gift of the power they had chosen to wield. In exchange for that gift, it was the responsibility of each and every warlock to master the trials sent to them in an attempt to maintain control over themselves and their magicks. At any time, a Warlock could choose to submit, either by true desire or by desire borne of demonic manipulation, to corruption. Once submission was granted, the Nether gained full control of a warlock’s mind, body and soul, free to manipulate them at will.

The results were, more often than not, catastrophic; they always resulted in the death of what remained of the warlock after the fact, but not before many others had suffered or died at the hands of the demonic puppet. There was no recourse from submission; it was the final act a warlock could choose to perform, and the most reprehensible act that a warlock was capable of. It was, if not the only reason, then the main reason why the Slaughtered Lamb was the sole safe haven for those commanding the shadows within the walls of Stormwind.

As it stood, only those warlocks with sufficient gift in the dark arts would ever feel the pull of the Nether upon their souls. Oros had explained that the beginnings of this often stirred in a warlock just after the arrival of its first true dark companion; the imp. He had inquired with the utmost seriousness into my personal dreams and thoughts to be certain that I was not experiencing anything dangerous. I had noticed an increase in the number of dreams that sent me bolt upright in the middle of the night, shaking and sweating with my fists balled into the blankets for purchase, but I had assumed them to be the product of the risks I was taking and the changes in my life, not demonic intervention.

When he promised in all honesty and all seriousness to slay me where I stood if I ever considered the act of submission, I knew better than to laugh. The power within me was no laughing matter, according to Oros, and neither was the power that he possessed. A greater tragedy would befall the world if he was to give in, and that seemed worth far more mirth. The very idea of Oros submitting to anything or anyone for any reason at all was laughable indeed! He had not asked the promise of death from me; I assumed that somewhere, a stronger warlock than me held that dubious honor very close to his heart.

In honor of my understanding the depths of what could happen to me if I were not always vigilant against the call of corruption, Oros set me to the task of accompanying and understanding my fellow citizens. As I had spent so little time in the company of those of a lower stature than myself, he felt it was necessary for me to have an unflinching look at the world I had accepted as my own. The sad truth, as it related to warlocks, was that many of the poorer citizens turned to the darkness and its power as a last desperate attempt at survival. These warlocks, Oros explained, were the magical equivalent of a double edged sword. They would give their last breath to practice the craft that they had learned, hoping to gain one more copper or one more meal in place of payment for work, but they were also the most susceptible to corruption at the hands of their own fears.

They listened when their hearts and minds cried out that no matter how hard they worked or how hard they tried, they would never be able to survive or provide for their loved ones. They accepted the offer of something greater beyond themselves, something that promised to give answers to the questions that neither man nor deity could hope to solve, without asking themselves first how such a promise could ever be made. If a simple man did not bend to either of these, a simple fit of dark fancy was often enough to convince him of madness, and madness was enough to turn the tide for most souls.

It was a horrible lesson to learn, and my mind rebelled at the thought of anyone being desperate enough to give up their last shred of self control. I had, it was true, been on the brink of giving up my own last shred of life, but life and power were two separate things as far as I was concerned. With the power that I had attained came responsibility for my own life and that of others. If I had ever considered death, I could not now; not without risking countless lives along with my own. Nonetheless, at Oros’ insistence, I agreed to learn what he had to teach me.

The city of Stormwind sponsored many simple jobs for the needy and hungry; jobs that no one other than novice adventurers looking to strengthen their position within the city or starving men in desperate need of a meal would ever take responsibility for. These jobs often employed the use of force in some capacity to rid Stormwind and the surrounding Elwynn Forest of unsavory types; the Defias and their greed, rogue wildlife seeking a higher station than nature provided, or creatures bent on the pursuit of humanity for less noble aims; the kobolds and murlocs. Dirtying my hands with the remnants of manlike creatures with dog or fish accompaniments seemed distasteful, and I had already dealt with the Defias; I chose to pursue the simpler art of hunting, with a more magical option at hand than bow and arrow.

Lest my name and bearing be recognized by members of the Stormwind nobility, the first order of business was to disguise my appearance and come up with a suitable explanation for my position as one of the invisible. Oros provided for this as I had not expected him to; a simple tattered yet tasteful brown robe made from rough material and a pair of worn leather boots were produced from somewhere that he refused to acknowledge. Their fit was almost perfect, and I found myself wondering where he had gained the knowledge of my overall shape and size; warlocks really did know everything, it would seem! I had little trouble adjusting to the itchy material and uncomfortable shoes, but the worst of the change came when Oros insisted that the long hair I had worn since birth was too tidy, not to mention too long, to have served one of the lesser citizens of Stormwind. His options were simple yet unbearable; wring dirt into it, or cut it. I objected as best I could, promising to wear a hood or a head cover of some sort, but he just shook his head; the poor did not have enough fabric to spare for such pleasantries as head coverings. The knife or the earth would have to suffice, and given the options at hand, there was only one choice I could manage to make.

“How, exactly, do you know all of this?” I spat through gritted teeth, unable to watch as Oros crouched next to the fireplace in the Slaughtered Lamb, sharpening his belt knife against a whetstone. “I thought you were as blue blooded as I was.”

He smiled, his teeth flashing white against the firelight. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. The point is that I’ve been on my own for quite some time, kitten, and I’ve seen more than my share of poverty. Some things you just don’t forget after you’ve seen them for yourself. I won’t pretend I’ve ever suffered as they have, mind you, but I know hungry eyes when I see them. You’re not a hungry kitten yet; you’re the fat cat with feathers in its mouth.” Standing up, he brushed the dust from the base of his cloak as if to prove his previous point about suffering. “Besides, how am I supposed to pass you off as my slave if you look prettier than I do?”

My eyes narrowed. “Do you know how sick your sense of humor is?”

“I’ve been told a time or two, yes.” The smile never wavered; he was enjoying this! “It’s your career, of course. I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way of your other aspirations, should you decide to occupy yourself in some other fashion. I have places to be too.”

What I wanted to say would have brought a furious blush to any sailor or fishwife’s cheeks, but I forced my anger back. I could always cover my hair with a mourning veil once I returned home, and my family would never be the wiser. Perhaps I would make a point of taking that mourning out into public again, once I was no longer fit to be seen there! “You never had to do anything like this for your training, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I learned faster.” He laughed, swinging his knife into my peripheral vision enough to reflect the firelight behind the chair I sat in. “Don’t move, kitten, or I’ll make it shorter than we talked about. You wouldn’t like that.”

Rendered into speechlessness by fear and anger, I had no recourse but to close my eyes and grip the sides of the chair. I could feel the smile still on his face as he drew close against my back; the point of his knife rested in a taunt against the back of my neck, its cold tip sending shivers down my spine. He left it there for a second or two, relishing the joy of watching me squirm; it was a very deep regret of mine that I had allowed him to live as long as I had! The knife left my neck and moved somewhere that I couldn’t sense or see through my closed eyes, and I felt my hands starting to shake. If he would just stop taunting me and finish the job before I had time to rethink my decision…

“Are you waiting for me to kill you, my dear? It doesn’t take an hour to cut hair unless you’re noble, I promise you that.”

I opened my eyes with trepidation; the anger I’d harbored had held my attention long enough to keep my mind off the act itself, it seemed. Taking a deep breath, I turned my head to the side; the experiment brought a short lock of my auburn hair sweeping into my eyes. The sensation was not unlike that of a spider falling onto my head from above; I yelped and shot out of my chair in a panic, my hands rushing up to swat at the beast that was my new hair. Oros was laughing behind me still, unable to control his mirth, and I whirled around to stare him down in a cold fury. “You think this is funny, do you?”

He wiped at his eyes, still laughing almost hard enough to prevent speech. “I think it’s funny that you haven’t even seen it yet and you’re already plotting my death, or trying to think of a spell to grow it out, yes ma’am.” Catching his breath, he produced a well crafted hand mirror from a fold of his cloak. “At least look before you lose all faith in me. I rather approve, if you must know, even if I do say so myself.”

“Well aren’t you just the finest warlock hairdresser around, then?” I snatched the offered mirror. “It was so nice of you to use me as your test subject!”

As my eyes swept the area, I caught a glimpse of the fallen strands of my long hair, piled on the floor like so much garbage. My grip on the handle of the mirror slipped in the sweat from my palms; I just knew he had cut more than he promised even though I hadn’t moved! The mental anguish of raising the mirror to my mutilated head and hair seemed above and beyond any that the Nether could have conjured; in that moment it just might have been worth considering submission to the demonic forces just to find the strength to punish Oros once and for all…

I found myself staring into an unfamiliar face; rather, a face that was without question my own, but yet somehow alien and frightening. The wisps of hair that had sent me fleeing my chair were back in place along the sides of my face, and they stopped their descent toward the downward slope of my chin. He had promised shoulder length; this skimmed the limits of that promise at a dangerous proximity. My hair had always been straight since the day I was born, and that had not changed, but somehow in the shape of the new cut, it seemed a little less simple and plain. The ends hinted at unevenness, which I had no doubt was Oros’ handiwork at attempting to disguise my previous so-called perfection; I could not argue that it worked, and worked well.

The worst part of the transformation, however, was not the cut itself, nor the straightness of my hair; it was the fact that my eyes stood out clearer than they ever had before, and despite the wisps of hair that seemed to always fly into my face no matter which way I turned, it was impossible to hide them. I had never realized how much I relied on my hair as yet another shield from the world around me, and with it gone, I felt a peculiar sense of shame, almost nakedness. How would others view me, if I didn’t know how to view myself yet?

“My boots aren’t smoking yet. Is that a good sign?”

Oros’ usual snide tone was still plenty mocking, but the slightest hint of curiosity, perhaps even hope, crept around the edges despite his best efforts. I couldn’t help but smile, and watch as my cheekbones pushed the hair away from my face in a way that they never had before. The truth, as much as I detested the admission, was that I didn’t hate it as much as I feared I would. It was not what I had grown up with to say the least, and not at all what was permissible for a lady of my station; I would have a fantastic chore ahead of me as I disguised it around my family! It was not what I would ever have considered for myself, if given a choice of what should be done with my hair. Nonetheless, I felt that somewhere, in the nervous knot that was my heart, that I could come to terms with it; perhaps even like it, as it grew out. I wouldn’t need to keep it short once my training was complete, of course, and that thought was perhaps more comforting than any other I’d had. My mind was, for the first time, desperate to hold onto some part of my past; a way to go back, if and when I chose to.

“I think I’ll pass for a fresh faced commoner now, that’s for sure.” I handed the mirror back to Oros. “You didn’t kill me, but I still say it’s too short.”

He grinned, putting the mirror away and handing me the remainder of my tattered costume to change into. “You say a lot of things that are wrong, kitten.” The line of his shoulders relaxed just a bit, and I realized that perhaps he had been concerned about how I would react after all. He was so unusual in that; it often seemed as though his words and his actions were not equal in their meaning around me. What he said to my face was patronizing, insulting and cruel more often than not, but when it came down to what he was thinking, it seemed as though he had a heart toward what he was asking of me, albeit a small one. Again I found myself reminded of that night in the Lamb; it had been that way then, too. The words he shouted at me had been penetrating, brutal in their honesty, and they had ripped my self pity and confidence in my anger to shreds, and yet they had saved me, in a sense. I had a feeling that he would never have said them if he didn’t believe that they would reach me in the way they most needed to.

“Well, I’m off to lose about a hundred gold’s worth of makeup, mourning robes and corseting. Wish me luck?” I picked up the pile of clothing he offered and headed for the back room of the Lamb. “This had better be worth the trouble. If I don’t learn something tonight about the state of humanity and how this affects warlocks, I’m going to have more to say to you later.”

“You won’t need luck. You have my illustrious skill and talent behind you. Just don’t call for your imp if you need help dressing. One look at you and the entire Nether will know the size of your…”

A discarded ball made up of my traveling cloak hit him in the face, silencing him as I left. It felt better than anything else had that day.

***

“So this little lady’s your slave, is that correct?”

The uniformed guard standing watch and taking requests at the City Hall peered at my unkempt visage from over the rims of his glasses, leaning forward so far that he came close to losing his nose down the neck of my robe. I could only assume his sight had kept him from experiencing the more battle oriented aspects of serving his city. “I hope you’ve taught her something about how to defend herself. She’s a slight little thing; I’m worried those wild creatures will tear her to bits.”

Oros tugged his wide brimmed hat down over his eyes, shading his face from view. He was, after all, a wanted man, and being in the presence of city officials who might recognize him posed close to as much threat to him as it did to me. “Indeed. She’s a rare hand with magic, you see, and I want her to test what she has learned. If she proves to be unreliable, she’ll do less harm to my grounds if she makes her mistakes elsewhere, you understand.” He laughed, and somehow managed to make the sound a nasal one instead of his usual gruff chuckle. Where had he learned such tricks to disguise himself and others? I would have to ask him later. “If she runs away, she won’t live long without further teaching. You needn’t worry about returning her to me under guard.”

“Are you sure on that, sir?” The guard smiled at me, a lewd look in his eyes that was to be the first indicator of how the well to do and rich looked upon those with less honor and privilege. “She’s a pretty thing. I’d hate for aught to go awry while she’s away.”

Yeah, you’d hate it if someone else got to me first instead of you…

A murderous look crept into Oros’ eyes. “If anything happens to her, you can be sure that I will handle the problem myself, under my own authority. I won’t have the time to wait for you.” The guard took a step backward in alarm before Oros remembered his place. “Beg pardon. She’s the only one of my servants to show any prowess at all, and I’m a bit protective, you see. I do, however, trust her to defend herself as I have taught her.” He smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. “I would hope that if anyone does try to take liberties, that they are firm of station with their personal deities first.”

The guard swallowed, taking the hint that was intended. “Thank you, sir. And what did you say your names were again?”

“I am Baron Morris Owen, of Owen’s Landing, and this here is Maria. She does not recall the name of her father, so a surname I cannot offer you, I’m afraid. The fool abandoned her as a child, you see, and…”

“Thank you, sir.” The guard cleared his throat after scribbling down the details in question, and it was obvious he cared less than nothing about the sordid details of my fabricated past. Why he should care about the life of one more poverty case eluded me, but it still made my heart ache in realization. I knew that we had similar servants in my own household, but I had never given much thought to their histories myself. They did what was asked of them and spent the rest of their time in silence, and none of us thought to do any more for them. Well, that was untrue; she had always eaten half of whatever was served, claiming a full belly and leaving the rest for the poor, before her death. How perfect she had been, and how foolish I was by comparison…

“You’re all settled. I’ve never heard of Owen’s Landing though, where is that again? I will admit I’m from a small town. I got a job here just to free myself of the solitude. The pay’s better too, of course.” The guard grinned as if I weren’t even present to envy his boasted earnings.
“It’s a small place, not many have heard of it. We’re old money, son. We don’t need the notoriety the way you young folks do.” Oros tipped his hat again, leaving the fellow searching for something to say to regain his composure. “Have a nice day. Be good, Maria. I will see you at supper tonight, I trust.”

With that, he turned on a heel, leaving me to my duties and the guard to ponder how best to entrap me in a compromising position as I went about them. It only occurred to me later in the day how perfect Oros had been at managing the situation; how he had avoided further questioning by attempting to take the conversation somewhere other than the intended direction, and how he had sidestepped the question of where his fabricated home was in the grand scheme of things. It was a mental note about Oros that I would not forget anytime soon.

***

Fury had become the watchword by the end of the day. Not only had I gained a far more intimate understanding of what the less fortunate went through from day to day, lost in the dust and silence of a city raised above them in ego, I had been forced to do so without companionship. While I suffered the slings and arrows of both noble and common contempt, and battled the strength of beasts clinging to hope of remaining upon this mortal coil, Yazham had refused to lift so much as a finger in aid no matter how often it was asked of him. Granted, Oros had taught me enough of the basics for me to be able to defend myself in a sufficient manner when alone, but the sheer perversity of the creature and the lack of interest in assisting me at all left me seething with rage.

As far as I understood the situation, the imp was expected to take some of the workload off of me, and he had yet to do any such thing, just as he had for the entire month of my training prior. If I had not already been on the brink of explosion, it might not have stood out in my mind, but it did, more than it ever had before. It was, at least, no longer a mystery as to how the poorer and weaker members of warlock society could embrace demonic control in order to escape the lives they led. If a demon had told me it could offer me a warm scented bath and a shoulder massage, I might very well have considered it myself.

My teeth were ground together in what I suspected was a permanent growl, in particular to avoid any repeats of the attack laid upon me by that pathetic excuse for a guard. If I ever chose to repent the sins I had committed by befriending Oros, I would be certain without a doubt to report the man’s name and rank to my parents for notice to the King! His mouth had reeked of drink when he thrust it upon mine, and he hadn’t been able to take no for an answer. I could still feel the revolting heat of his tongue in my mouth; at least, until I’d bitten down on it with all the force I could muster. He’d leapt back, cursing me with crude words that I had never heard before, and I’d used the moment to level a spell where it would hurt most. The only thing I could find to grin about was the fact that the man would never try to report me as being a poor worker. He would reap enough joy explaining to his wife why a large portion of his own personal Nether would be covered in scars and blisters for the rest of his life…

I considered telling Oros about my plight, but decided to forgo that level of vengeance. I wanted the man punished, but the violent death I knew that Oros would serve him seemed unfitting. Being forced to live, unable to master or extrapolate on interest in women ever again, seemed far more appropriate to me! When it came to vengeance, there was only one soul in the world left wanting by the time I finished my duties, and that was Yazham himself. Despite my previous concerns about treating the creature as a trusted partner, I began to consider throwing patience and caution into the dark well in which it belonged. It seemed that kindness and trust might have to be dampened by a general fear of pain and death in the end, after all.

Arriving at the Slaughtered Lamb from the main gate to Stormwind City was a chore in itself through the exhaustion I faced. The Lamb had become the safe haven that Oros and I used to hold our daily lessons apart from the eyes of the city guards. Warlocks and their magicks were not altogether unwelcome within the Stormwind walls, but neither were they trusted by anyone with even the smallest margin of sanity. It was always possible for individual prejudice to ban a Warlock from common establishments, even if it were not possible by law; the first guard to support freedom over so-called justice would be the first guard without a king’s pay in hand as soon as word traveled to an important pair of ears. Oros still faced the trial of being a wanted man, and his movements within the city had to be limited and difficult, but this failed to stop him from somehow arriving every day on schedule.

He was waiting for me in our usual private room in the back of the Lamb with a grimace on his angular face; the expression brought all the ferocity I had seen within him at our first meeting to the forefront. At first I hesitated, thinking his displeasure was for me; the last thing I needed was a lecture. He couldn’t have suffered anything close to what I had witnessed throughout the course of my day! However, the lack of an immediate display of temper upon my arrival gave me my answer at a quicker pace than words could have. He had not laid a rough hand on me since our encounter two months ago, but I could read in every line of his body that the impulse to physical violence still resided within his soul. It was, perhaps, the sole restraint he showed with me above all others he dealt with.

I summoned Yazham with a handful of signals that, by now, felt like I had been making them all my life. The demon appeared on cue; he lacked the knowledge of human body language to respond in a wise manner to the situation before him, or perhaps chose to ignore it. His voice spoke out against the deafening silence. “Hey, it’s the Black Master. Killed any demons today?”

Oros leveled a gaze at him that spoke all the words I had wanted to say for the entirety of the month I had spent in his company. He opened his mouth to give voice to a handful of them, but stopped when my own fury intervened. If anyone was going to discipline my minion, it would be me, and he had more than a lecture coming for the hell he had abandoned me to! My staff fell unnoticed to the floor with a raucous clatter as I threw off my cloak in the general direction of a chair and rounded on the minion at my feet. The back of my mind flickered useless thoughts – how ridiculous I would look, screaming at a being no taller than my knees, and how the cloak had just missed the chair – but I ignored them, attempting to focus all of my anger into a manner that appeared threatening. I was not used to throwing the essence of my weight around the way that Oros was, and doing so left me feeling more foolish than imposing.

“I don’t know whether Master Oros has killed any demons today, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll start worrying about the demons I’m going to kill,” I growled, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring down at him. “I’ll start with you. Have you any idea how useless you are to me? I have done my best to treat you as an equal, to consider you in every undertaking that you have accompanied me on. What considerations have you given me? You do nothing but whine and make excuses about why you can’t help me in any way, shape or form aside from sleeping on the job!”

The demon paused, as if to consider my words, but I wasn’t even approaching the end of my rant. “You are a glowing yellow ghost at my feet, always ready to make some snide comment or rude observation, but you never once put your skill where your mouth is. I’m beginning to wonder if I should march you back to Mistress La Salle and tell her that she has offered me a pathetic, inferior and damaged creation with which to practice my craft. I cannot do this without you, demon, I have told you that a thousand times if I have even told you once. I will grow ancient, wither away and die an ugly old crone before you ever bother to raise my expectations of you, and I am beyond tired of waiting!”

Yazham’s eyes expanded to the width of saucers as I closed my argument. “You were brought here to assist me in my quest for power. Unwilling though you may be, your kind is prepared for this form of servitude. Every Warlock in the history of the profession has taken one of you under their wing. You have a duty to support us, just as we have a duty to respect that you should not be mishandled or expected to support battle tactics that your small bodies and simple minds are unprepared to cope with. You, however, have not even attempted to support me with the skills that you are rumored to have!” Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself for the last threat I would have to make. “Either we reach some sort of agreement, here and now, that will be final, or I will send you back to the Nether in a pretty little casket tied with a bow made out of your hide. Are we clear?”

My mind let go of a small portion of its anger, enough to return my awareness to my surroundings. It seemed that Oros had left the room, in a quieter fashion than I had expected from such a proud and angry man. Where had he gone? It was impossible that he had left me to the privacy of my own anger. Oros had borne witness to every outward display of emotion I had wielded since our first meeting, and the belief that this one would be any different was difficult to maintain. Whatever shadow ate at his concealed heart would have to wait, despite my curiosity and concern; anything that troubled Oros had to mean that the source was problematic indeed. What shadow could penetrate the man of fire and brimstone?

A sound, not unlike that of sandpaper sliding across a wooden plank, brought my attention back to Yazham. My fury heightened once again in an instant as I realized the nature of the sound – he was laughing! He was laughing harder than he had ever laughed before, even during times when my spells had malfunctioned or my aims had failed due to inexperience or overzealousness. My teeth ground together as I sought in a blind rage for the location of my fallen staff; I would need it to grind his wiry bones to dust! “That was a poor response, demon. You’ll see what I think of it.”

The creature was doubled over by the time I could see well enough to aim my first spell. A bolt of shadow landed in the general vicinity of his feet, however, which brought his mirth to an abrupt end. “Wait! Wait, Maleva! I didn’t mean to…”

Another streak of shadow sent him flying against the wall. “Please, mistress! Hear me out!”
That earned him a pause. He had never before given me any indication of a proper title, much less lowered himself in any fashion to me. “Out with it. You have one chance to explain to me why I should let you live. I expect you to make good use of it.”

He rubbed his head, which I could believe without difficulty was ringing from his introduction to the hard wall. “It’s not like you humans think, not at all. You’re just too nice, kid.” He pulled himself to his feet, brushing off unseen dust from his limbs. “You think you can win my servitude by asking? I heard your little sob story when we met. You know what that means to me? I’ve lived in the Nether since my conception. There ain’t anybody nice down there.”

His cold chuckle took still more of my fury and ground it to dust. “You can’t be nice and expect to live, not in this world or my own. Just because these people call themselves human don’t mean that they ain’t demons underneath.” His little head lowered a fraction as he spoke. “You’re right that we demons are used to servitude. That don’t mean we accept it without terms. If you ain’t strong enough to give orders, to command that power you Masters are so proud of, you ain’t nothing to a guy like me. You ask for something, you’ll never get it, kid. Take it. It’s the only way.”

“So you expect me to mistreat you?” My voice was smaller than I meant to make it. “That wasn’t part of the deal, as I understood it.”

“Commanding ain’t mistreating, kid. It means you expect results from the people you tell to do something. You tell me to do something, I’ve got my orders, and if I ain’t got the skill to do it then I deserve what comes, yeah? If you ask me to do it, I got every right to say no. You punish me for taking the option you gave me. That’s mistreating.”

With a sigh, I found the chair I should have marked with my cloak and sat down, resting my chin in my hands. How could I have been so naive? Oros’ demon had no qualms about doing as he ordered. In my innocence, I had assumed in the darkest part of my mind that he had mistreated the creature in so gross a manner that it could no longer stand against him. In reality, it was the same strength Oros had always possessed, at work once again to aid him in his quest. He would never have asked for anything if his life depended on it, from me or from anyone else.

“How am I ever going to get through this? I’m such a child; I don’t understand anything! Every time I think I know what to do, every time I think I’ve advanced, I find out I’m still just a stupid kid in the end. Maybe I was wrong to think I could find my way here…”

I didn’t realize I’d spoken those thoughts aloud until Yazham approached my chair. A moment passed before a glowing yellow mass jumped up on my lap and reached a gentle hand up to touch my cheek. “We’re all kids once in a lifetime, mistress. Now you won’t be as much of one.” Removing his hand, he jumped clear of my lap, offering me one of his trademark sarcastic grins. “I’ll do what you order me to do from now on. Just don’t ask. I take any opportunity to say no, just like most of you humans.”

I couldn’t help the smile that crept onto my face. Perhaps Yazham would be more of a friend to me than he would ever know.

“Yazham?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Go tell Jarel Moor to bring me a drink. That’s an order!”

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