A Knight Of The Word

It took the staff from beneath its arms and flung it into the space behind, where it skidded across the stone floor and clattered into the wall. Then it reached out and took Ross by his shirt front and dragged him forward. Ross fought to escape, but the demon was too strong for him and backhanded him across the face. The blow snapped Ross’s head back, and a bright flash of pain left him blinded and stunned. The demon lifted Ross and held him suspended above the floor. Ross blinked to clear his vision, then watched as the demon lifted its free hand. The hand began to transform, changing from something human to something decidedly not. Claws and bristling hair appeared. The demon glanced at its handiwork speculatively, then raked the claws across Ross’s midsection. They tore through coat and shirt, shredding the flesh beneath, bringing bright welts of blood.

The demon threw John Ross down, sending him sprawling back onto the floor. “You really are pathetic, John,” it advised conversationally, walking to where he lay gasping for breath and bleeding. “Look at you. You can’t even defend yourself. I was prepared to offer you a place in service to the Void, but what would be the point? Without your staff, you’re nothing. Even with the staff, I doubt you could do much. You’ve lost your magic, haven’t you? It’s all dried up and blown away. There’s nothing left.”

The demon reached down, picked Ross up and slashed him a second time, this time down one shoulder. It struck Ross across the face again, dropping him as it might a thing so foul it could not bear to hold him longer. Ross collapsed in a heap fighting to stay conscious.

“You’re not worth any more of my time, John,” the demon sneered softly, standing over him once more. “I could kill you, but you’re worth more to me alive. I’ve still use for you in destroying Simon Lawrence and his fine works. I’ve still plans for you.”

It bent down, leaning close, and whispered, “But if I see you again this night, I will kill you where I find you. Don’t test me on this, John. Get out of here and don’t come back.”

Then it rose, pushed Ross down with its foot, held him pinned helplessly against the floor as it studied him, then turned and walked away.



For a long time Ross lay where the demon had left him, a black wave of nausea and pain threatening to overwhelm him with every breath he took. He lay on his back, staring up at a ceiling enveloped in layers of deep shadows. He might have given in to the despair and shame that swept through him if he were any other man, if he had not once been a knight of the Word. But the seeds of his identity ran deeper than he would have thought possible, and amid the darker feelings wound an iron cord of determination that would have required him to die First.

After a while, he was strong enough to roll onto his side and sit up. Dizziness threatened to flatten him anew, but he lowered his head between his legs, braced himself with his hands, and waited for the feeling to pass. When it did, he lurched to his knees, dropped back to his hands, and began to crawl. Streaks of blood from his wounds marked his slow passage, and shards of fire traced the deep furrows the demon had left on his body. The hallway and exhibit areas were silent and empty of life, and he worked his solitary way across the polished stone with only the sound of his breathing for company.

He had been a fool, he told himself over and over again. He had misjudged badly, been overconfident of what he could accomplish when he would have been better served by being more cautious. He should have listened to Stef. He should have trusted his instincts. He should have remembered the lessons of his time in service to the Word.

Twice he slipped in pools of his own excretions and went down. His arms and hands were wet from blood and sweat, and every movement he made trying to cross the museum floor racked his body with pain.

Damn you, Simon, he swore silently, resolutely, a litany meant to empower. Damn you to hell.

When he reached the staff, he rose again to his knees and wiped his bloodstained palms on his pants. Then he took the staff finely in his hands and levered himself back to his feet.

He stood there for a moment, swaying unsteadily. When the dizziness passed, he moved to an empty bench in the center of the hall, seated himself, slipped off the greatcoat, then the tattered shirt, and used the shirt to bind his ribs and chest in a mostly successful effort to slow the flow of his blood. He sat staring into space after that, trying to gather his strength. He didn’t think anything was broken, but he had lost a lot of blood. He could rat continue without help, and the only help he could count on now would have to come from within.