Demons and the Deep
A Fantasy Short Story
by Andrew Knighton
Copyright © Andrew Knighton 2015
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Contents
Demons and the Deep
About the Author
Dedication and Thanks
DEMONS AND THE DEEP
With a crash of splintering wood the pirate trireme slammed into the side of the merchant ship, her iron ram shattering planks and crushing oarsmen. On the pirate ship the greying mage Aristeas reached into a clay jar and grabbed a fistful of spices. Casting crimson dust across the deck he flung his arms wide and began to chant, his long beard twitching to the rhythm of the spell, robes flowing around him. Fiery chili and cayenne swirled across the planks, rising into a spiralling column. Arms and a head emerged, rippling red clouds of destruction, the embodiment of a demon of raw aggressive heat.
Saul knelt at Aristeas’s feet, gangling limbs tucked tight to his body, holding jars and amulets for his master. He watched with care, memorising the sharp gestures Aristeas used to control the demon, the guttural chants with which he called it forth. And he watched with fear. His thin tunic would be no protection if the fighting reached them, and nothing could protect him from Aristeas’s fury if the magics failed.
The demon roared and leapt from the prow, smoke rising as it landed amid the terrified merchant crew. Pirates swarmed behind it, a rough mob in faded tunics and scraps of armour, short-swords raised, yelling with fierce excitement. At their head, the scarred ex-gladiator Lucian grinned as he bellowed orders and swung a huge iron club down on the enemy. The pirates fell upon the merchantman’s crew, pushing them back towards the rail. Some immediately surrendered, throwing down their arms in hope of mercy. The rest gave up when they saw the demon seize their captain and swallow him whole.
Cheers rose all around, the sound of victory making Saul smile. The target had been what it seemed, a soft trading craft. But they were ready for worse. Pompey patrolled these waters, and it would be just like the wily Roman general to disguise his marines as merchants.
The pirates, a motley band of Thracians and freed slaves, set to pillaging their prey. Boxes, bales and amphorae were hauled over the beam and into the hold. Slaves were herded across a boarding plank, some to be sold for profit, others to bolster the pirate crew.
Saul watched with a heavy heart as the slaves’ fates were determined. That had been him once, a scrawny whelp of ten who thought he was being given his freedom. Six years later he was still just as scrawny, and no more free. The scars of Aristeas’s lash across his back told a tale of pain and crushing disappointment. He was learning, but only to serve his master’s demands. Jealousy filled him at the sight of the blood-spattered pirates, laughing and swigging wine on the deck of their prize. For the first time since he’d been plucked from a Carthaginian galley, Saul wondered if he would ever really be free.
Lucian was overseeing the slaves, striking the lucky ones from their chains as they came aboard. His bronzed muscles and shaven head gleamed in the sunlight as he took a hammer to their bonds, his strength easily beating that of the brine-rusted manacles. He laughed as he slapped one of the slaves on the back.
'You're a free man now,' he said. 'Away from countries and kings, out on the ocean.'
The slave, a burly Celt with skin reddened by the sun, grinned and stared around in disbelief, waiting for the shackles to be slammed back on.
'Don't believe me?' Lucian said. 'Ask Saul. That's how he got free. Ain't it, Saul?'
'Yes sir.' Saul tried to force some enthusiasm into his voice. He didn’t want to disappoint Lucian, the one man who showed him any respect. 'Aristeas got an apprentice, and I lost my chains.'
Lucian sent the slave to join the rest before turning to put an arm around Saul.
‘Listen lad,’ he said softly, ‘I know there’s real freedom and there’s your freedom. But no-one got free by scowling and pouting. We need a mage. Learn that, earn your freedom.’
‘Why should I have to earn it?’ Saul asked, pointing at the freed slaves. ‘They didn’t.’
Lucian pointed down into the galley, where other slaves sat chained at their oars. ‘They never will,’ he said. ‘Least you’ve got something.’
Ruffling Saul’s scruffy mop of brown hair, Lucian turned and headed off down the deck, leaving the apprentice to attend on his master.
Aristeas's face was grim, his fierce eyes narrowing as he drew the demon back in, yanking on ghostly chains forged of rock-salt and thyme. The creature still hungered for action, struggling against its bonds, jagged teeth snapping futilely at the glowing chains. Aristeas dragged it back towards him, reigning in the giant with his wiry, ageing frame. As the demon came into reach he stabbed two wrinkled fingers into its back, calling out harsh syllables, and the swirling body collapsed back into dust.
‘Don’t miss any,’ Aristeas snapped as Saul swept up the heady spices. ‘I don’t want him getting away through your laziness.’
Saul watched his master retreat to his cabin, hunched over with fatigue. The sight stirred no sympathy in him. If Saul did his chores well, rubbed his fingers raw polishing, sorting and cleaning, he might just avoid Aristeas's temper tonight. If not, that pain was sure to be passed along.
Struggling to ignore the spices tickling his nose, Saul concentrated on the lesson. Whispering words of power, he focused on the leaves in his hand. Bay, sage, thyme - plants of earth, less potent so far out at sea, but still a channel for the elements. He closed his calloused fist, sending out a waft of sweet smells. Chanting louder, he circled the pile of sand on the deck. Something approached, summoned and bound by the incantation. Dry flakes fell from between his fingers and two tiny arms of sand reached up to catch them. He lifted his hand higher and watched with satisfaction as the grains continued to rise, forming a body, a head, two legs. At last the imp stood before him, a miniature man of sand and scent.
‘Better,’ said Aristeas, peering over Saul’s shoulder. ‘A mage plays to his strengths. The slave-born lad calls forth the wretched imp, his spirit kin. But it is one thing to draw out the demon, another to bend it to your will. Can you feel its hand, boy?'
Saul nodded, hair falling distractingly across his face. 'Yes master.'
'Show me.'
Slowly, carefully, Saul rotated his little finger. The creature’s arm imitated the gesture, waving its hand.
'Again,' Aristeas said, and Saul had obeyed. 'Now the other one.'
Time dragged by as they kept repeating the exercise, waving first one arm, then the other.
'Master,' Saul pleaded, 'I can do this already. When can I learn something new?'
'Only when you can wave both arms at once,' Aristeas said with a smirk.
Saul focused, curled his fingers, and the imp's arms swayed in unison. He beamed at his own success.
Aristeas scowled.
'Very well, now make it walk,’ he said.
Saul twitched a pair of fingers and the imp stepped jerkily across the deck, leaving small piles of sand in its path. Again, this became an exercise in repetition, trip after trip down one narrow plank, stopping and starting at Aristeas's whim. The movements grew smoother as Saul balanced the flow of power through him. It was a tide surging through his flesh, warm and tingling like Athenian wine. To sense it at all was heady, to control it glorious.
'I'm going to speak with Lucian.' Aristeas’s robes swirled as he turned. 'Keep practising, or it’s the whip.'
Saul grinned and flexed his hand. The tiny figure stretched in response. He swung each leg tentatively back and forth, trying different movements, different speeds. Then he started the tr
ips across the deck again, using different postures and rhythms - first a slow, hunched shamble, then a backwards jog. Soon the imp was running in circles, skipping, jumping and turning tiny cartwheels.
‘Stop showing off, boy,’ Aristeas snarled behind him. He grabbed Saul's hair, yanking his head back and making him yelp with shock. ‘This is not a toy to be played with, it is an exercise in focus. I want to see you control the imp, not send it running loose. Show me how long you can hold it still.’
He tugged on Saul’s hair again for effect, then stepped back.
‘Yes master.’ Saul shook with pain and frustration. His pleasure in the practice vanished as he halted the imp. Now that he was trying to keep it still, he could feel the creature straining against him. Like him, it wanted to run free, not stand to attention for Aristeas’s pleasure. Time stretched out, Saul freezing the imp with his will, the two of them united in misery.
‘Nice work, Saul.’ Lucian smiled at the imp as he passed by, a bundle of rope in his hands.
Saul looked up with a half-hearted grin, and in that moment his concentration slipped. Something tugged at his hand, and when he looked around the imp was dashing away. Panicking, he reached out with his mind, but the link was gone. The creature reached the edge of the deck, scrambled up the beam, and exploded into a cloud of sand.
Aristeas loomed over his apprentice, one finger