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(Page 2 of 9) Giorxon and The Slaughterer by Indrapramit Das
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But it was assumed so, for they greatly resembled the demons of old, listed in ancient bestiaries by the Paladins. Demons that had walked the earthly plane as armies of Hell aeons before when they battled the forces of Heaven for domination of the mortal world, after the corruption of its Creator Ezulroth.
Thus it was on the second month of 1236 AC that, on the day of his birth, Giorxon Danermuk opened a portal larger than any he had managed in his life, a portal to let through something much larger than the familiars that had served him before. Something truly dangerous.
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Giorxon squinted through the watery haze of tears and feloniya juice at the shape that had emerged from the magnificent nexus. It had walked through the blazing centre of the portal. Unlike the others before, the familiars—they screamed and howled as they flew shivering through. This one walked, and stood proud, hulking. It was a true demon, finally, and his to control
He looked. The looming figure in the centre of the drawn circle of blood on the floor stared back in heavy silence. Damning the juice, Giorxon rubbed his eyes and observed.
The demon in the centre stood tall, smoke rushing off it. Six and a half feet in height, humanoid in shape. Plates of armour as black and lustrous as obsidian encrusted its body like scales, strapped with links of chain to a body chorded with gleaming muscle that shone in the dim light with rancid humours that sent the room reeking. In its massive fists, clawed with metal, it held a giant war axe, the heathen runes etched onto the edges of its blade glowing with heat. The steaming warrior turned its hot glare on its summoner, red eyes like pinpoints of fire within the visor of its helm, from which arced long horns of bleached and gleaming bone.
Its armour was part of its body, molded into flesh over the years. It growled, and under the helm twisted lips curled; gleaming fangs were bared and parted to release a fetid and warm breath. Its eyes burned.
Giorxon, his own burnished brass armour and ceremonial velvet cloak lined with fur seeming immensely inadequate, raised his hand in greeting. This was definitely no imp.
"I am Giorxon Danermuk, your master here on this plane."
Despite his fear, the mage spoke with the utmost confidence as he looked upon the infernal warrior. He was its summoner, and it would bow down to him, he thought.
It spoke.
"Giorxon." A voice that echoed of fire and nails, of suffering and pain. Giorxon, it had mimicked.
"You will serve me, demon, without questions."
Giorxon waited for a response. The demon breathed, filling the room with blurred heat. It raised its axe and pointed towards. Giorxon.
Giorxon's eyes widened, tears induced from juice and fear rolling tremulously down his cheeks and dripping off his roughly bearded chin. The spell had failed. He had not managed, after all. Not in completion—he had only brought a demon before him, without the slightest incentive to serve a mortal. The tears fell and streaked his brass armour.
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