The Demon Hunter of Cariah

Fear and Revelation

“Hang him!” cried an ogre of a man from the press of bodies that backed Barion against the wall of the Inn. The chandelier cast a gloomy light around the room, near silhouetting the unruly mob of villagers as they brandished their weapons, makeshift or otherwise, in his face. The spit and the sweat flew in the candlelight and they cursed him and blamed him and bayed for his blood.

Tatjenen, the Risen Earth, was full of tiny villages such as this. They lay miles from anywhere, cut off from the cities and towns. Here, people lived by word of mouth. They never left, they were born here, they lived here and they died here. The new world knowledge of the inner cities never made it out here. Ignorance, fear and superstition held more sway than the proofs of science. Magic was associated with evil, witchcraft and devil worship.

In theory, Barion should have fit right in, after all this was truly his business.

“No, burn him! Demons cannot be hung!” another man cried from the shadows.

“Fire will do you no good, he was born into it! We need silver and garlic!”

With his back to the wall Barion raised his hands palm outwards. “Please,” he said trying to stay calm. “What’s the trouble?”

The mob pressed in, pinning him to the wall. He felt the cold iron edge of a dull knife pressed against his throat. The stench of stale beer washed over him, drowning out the overpowering scent of sweat and urine that had been so prominent before. “You are a demon or a warlock, maybe both,” the man with the knife accused. His hot breath, rank with the ale and tobacco wafted over Barion’s face and up his nose. He felt soiled and dirtied by it. “The last of your kind bought plague and ill fortune to us. He got away, you will not.”

“I am neither a demon nor am I a warlock,” said Barion. “In fact I’m quite the opposite, a man of the gods.”

The villagers glared suspiciously at the sound of his voice. His polite manner and obvious education caught them off guard and he guessed that they would be as untrusting of that as of his line of work.

“You’re neither a demon nor a warlock eh?” a bear of a man gestured behind him. Spit dribbled into his neatly trimmed black beard. “If this is so, how did you come by these demon blades?”

Barion glanced over at the table where just moments ago he’d been sitting. Ale soaked the wood where his drink had been upturned as the mob had struck. At the centre of the table his twin swords lay in their scabbards, a faint blue glow emanated softly from the blades within. “Those are not demon blades,” he said gently, wishing they were within reach right now. “Those swords were forged by a mortal blacksmith and enchanted by a mortal wizard.”

It was a mistake to talk of wizardry. The villagers leapt snarling at the chance to persecute him. Clearly they were mistrustful of magic in all its forms.

“Wizards are meddlers in the domains of demons!” the bearded man roared. “You admit to consorting with vile powers?”

The mob seemed to unconsciously lean in. They were eager to hear the confession of the stranger amidst their number.

“No. Those blades were forged in the name of Ashra, blessed by the priests of her order and enchanted to burn with pure holy fire for the purpose of slaying the creatures of the underworld free upon this land.” He pushed the crowd back and reached into the folds of his oilskin coat. There, close to his heart he kept a ring of light metal, silver. It was a simple hoop with a horizontal line passing through and a smaller ring suspended in the centre. “I am Barion, the Demon Hunter of Cariah,” he said, brandishing the symbol before him.

He paused for a moment, letting it sink in. It was underhanded to use this fear mongering, religion and reputation, but as the situation seemed dire enough his fame would surely award him a little more respect.