Chapter Four: Davriel

Davriel Cane—the Man of the Manor—was growing very tired of people trying to murder him.

What was the point of moving to a far-off backwater if people were just going to bother you anyway? Davriel had made reaching him extremely difficult, but these self-righteous, questing types seemed to consider it an extra challenge.

You will not have these worries once you use me, the Entity said from the back of Davriel’s mind. It had a silky, inviting voice. Once we are confident in our power, no simple adventurer will ever think to challenge us.

Davriel ignored the voice. Chatting with the Entity was rarely productive. So long as it healed him from his wounds, Davriel didn’t care what promises it whispered.

He settled back in his seat as Crunchgnar arrived. The tall, horned creature would—to any normal person—have simply been “a demon.” That, of course, was far too pedestrian a term. Diabolist connoisseurs knew that demons came in hundreds of strains—and one never properly used the term “breed” or “bloodline” for demons, as they were normally created fully formed from magic, rather than being born.

Crunchgnar, for example, was a Hartmurt Demon: a strain of tall, muscular demon with no hair, inhuman features, and horns that swept back along the head almost like a mane. A rare wingless strain, Hartmurts were hardy, quick to heal, and tended to be skilled combatants. Indeed, Crunchgnar wore warrior’s leathers and bore a pair of wicked swords strapped to his waist.

The demon was dumb as a stump. Fortunately, he was as sturdy as one too. At some instructions from Miss Highwater, Crunchgnar squeezed into the washroom and picked up the little assassin girl, then carried her out into the bedroom. He took the viol off her back, then placed her in a chair opposite Davriel. The demon frowned as the girl’s stiff, frozen shape didn’t conform to the seat.

Miss Highwater was correct. This girl was different from the other would-be heroes who came to kill Davriel. She was so young. Fourteen, fifteen at most. Had the church run out of able-bodied adults to send to their deaths?

Instead of the usual gear of spiky weapons and too many buckles, the child wore peasant clothing—tattered, bloodied, ashen. She looked half-starved, with deep dark circles under her eyes.

Miss Highwater stepped up beside him, cocking an eyebrow as Crunchgnar tried to force the girl to sit down—which Davriel’s binding spell still prevented. The demon then grumbled to himself, doing his best to tie her into the seat.

Davriel clapped, summoning a small, red-skinned devil from the serving room. It trotted in, carrying a tray that was too big for it, set precariously with a bottle of fine Glurzer, a local vintage. The sweetly aromatic wine tickled Davriel’s nose as he poured himself a cup.

The creature jabbered at him in the clipped local devil tongue.

“No,” Davriel said in reply, sipping the wine. “Not yet.

The creature snarled in annoyance, then held up a much smaller cup, which Davriel filled with wine. The devil wobbled off, carrying the tray while trying to drink its wine. It had better not drop that Glurzer. Devils made terrible servants, but one worked with what one had. At least they were cheap and easy to fool.

You will have so much more, the Entity whispered in the back of his mind. Once you seize it.

Crunchgnar finally stepped back, folding oversized arms. “There. Done.” He’d tied the girl by her waist, feet, and neck to the chair—though she was still stiff as a board, and so rested against the seat at an angle.

“Good enough,” Davriel said. “Though you should probably stay here when I release the binding, just in case.”

“You fear such a tiny thing?” Crunchgnar snarled.

“Tiny things can still be very dangerous, Crunchgnar,” Davriel said. “A knife, for example.”

“Or your brain, Crunchgnar,” Miss Highwater noted.

Crunchgnar folded his arms, glaring at her. “You think to insult me. But I know that deep inside, you truly fear me.”

“Oh, trust me, Crunchgnar,” she said. “You’ll find there’s nothing I fear more than stupidity.”

He stalked forward, feet thumping on the floor. He drew up close to Miss Highwater, looming over her. “I will destroy you once I have claimed his soul. You grow weak and lazy, like him. Ledgers and figures? Bah! When was the last time you claimed the soul of a man?”

“I tried to claim yours the other night,” she snapped, “but I found only the soul of a mouse, which I should have anticipated, considering—”

“Enough,” Davriel said. “Both of you.”

They shared glares, but stilled. Davriel laced his fingers before himself, studying the peasant girl. She had stopped singing, but that tune... It had an odd strength to it, a power he hadn’t expected. Was that the Bog’s touch on her? She was undoubtedly from the Approaches, likely Verlasen.

He canceled the binding. The young woman immediately relaxed in her seat, gasping. Then she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, as if cold—binding wards often had that effect. Her long brown hair covered much of her face as she glared at him. Crunchgnar’s ropes, now slack, didn’t do much. They tied her feet to the chair, but didn’t prevent her from moving her arms or head.

“Be on with it, monster,” the girl hissed at him. “Do not play with me. Kill me.”

“Do you have a preference?” Davriel said. “Axe to the neck? Cooked in the ovens? Devils have been suggested, but I’m worried you’re too lean to provide proper nutrition.”

“You mock me.”

“I’m merely frustrated,” he said, pushing up out of his chair to begin pacing. “What is wrong with you villagers? Isn’t your life terrible enough already, with those spirits and beasts and whatnot out in the forests? Do you have to come up here and incite my wrath as well?”

The girl huddled down in her chair.

“All I want,” Davriel said, “is to be left alone. All you need to do is your job! See that I’m provided with tea.”

“And shirts,” Miss Highwater said, going down her ledger, “and food. And occasional taxes. And furniture. And rugs.”

“And, well, yes,” Davriel said. “Some few offerings, befitting my station. But it’s not that bad. A relationship equally beneficial to everyone involved. I get a quiet, secluded place to go about my life. You get a lord who doesn’t drink your blood or feast on the flesh of virgins at every full moon. I would think that on Innistrad, having a lord who mostly ignores you would be quite the novelty!”

“So what did Verlasen Village do to offend you?” the girl whispered. “Were your socks made too tight? Did one of the apples have a worm? What insignificant offense caused you to finally notice us?”

“Bah,” Davriel said, still pacing. “I don’t care about you. Yet you keep sending these hunters to come attack me! How many in the last two weeks, Miss Highwater? Four?”

“Four groups,” she said, flipping a page in the ledger. “With an average of three cathars or hunters in each one.”

“Popping out of my cellar,” Davriel said, waving in annoyance, “or breaking down my front door. Those twins with the tridents smashed my dining room window—the one made of antique stained glass. Someone keeps telling them of me, and so they keep coming to slay me. It’s growing severely inconvenient. What can I do to get you villagers to shut up?”

“That should not be a problem,” the girl whispered, “now that you have murdered us all.”

“Yes, well, that’s not...” He trailed off, stopping in place. “Wait. ‘Murdered us all’?”

“Why feign ignorance?” the girl said. “We all know what you’ve done. You were spotted when you took my parents from their wagon ten days ago. Then your geists took those merchants, and others who strayed too close to the edge of the village. My sister two days ago. And then, today...”

She closed her eyes.

“They’re all gone,” she whispered. “All but me. Dead and cold, with marble eyes. I held my sister after they found her, and she was...limp. Like a sack of grain from the cellar. She was apprenticing to be a priest, but she died like the rest. The Bog will have the bodies of my people, but it will not feast, for their souls are gone. Taken, like the heat stolen straight from the fire, leaving only ash.”

Davriel looked toward Miss Highwater, who cocked her head.

“All of them,” Miss Highwater said. “As in, everyone in Verlasen Village?”

The girl nodded.

“Verlasen?” Davriel asked. “Is that the one where...”

“You get your dustwillow tea?” Miss Highwater asked. “Yes.”

Blast. The tea, a mild sedative, was his favorite. He needed it to sleep on days when memories grew too weighty for him.

“It’s also where the shirt tailors live,” Miss Highwater said. “Lived. I guess we anticipated that problem, then.”

“Every villager?” Davriel said, spinning on the girl. “Every one of them?”

She nodded.

“Hellfire!” he said. “Do you know how long it takes to replace those things? Sixteen years at least before they’re productive!”

“You do have two more villages,” Miss Highwater noted. “So I suppose it could be worse.”

“Verlasen was my favorite.”

“You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if your life depended on it. But this is going to have a serious impact on your income, and the next season’s profit and loss ledgers.” She made a note. “Also, we’re out of tea.”

“Disaster,” Davriel said, slumping back into his chair. “Girl. It has been ten days since the first of these deaths?”

She nodded slowly. “My parents. You knew them; they made your shirts. But...you already know of their deaths. You killed them.”

“Of course I didn’t,” he said. “Murdering villagers? Myself? That sounds like an awful lot of work. I have people—well, beings that are vaguely shaped like people—to do that sort of thing for me.”

Davriel rubbed his forehead. No wonder the hunters had been bothering him so much lately. Nothing hooked would-be heroes more than news of a mysterious lord abusing his peasants.

Hellfire! He was supposed to have been able to fade away into obscurity [here]. He’d moved [here] years ago, then finally settled on the Approaches as the most remote location on an already remote plane. [Here], consorting with demons was seen as only a minor oddity.

So he’d thought. What...what if news of this spread to the wrong ears? The ones listening for stories about a man with his description, a man who could steal spells from the minds of others?

Time grows short, the Entity said in the back of his mind. They will find you. And they will destroy you. We must gather our power and prepare.

I will be fine, Davriel countered, thinking directly to the Entity. I don’t need you.

A lie, it replied. I can read your thoughts. You know that someday, you will need me again.

For a moment, Davriel smelled smoke. Heard screams. For a moment, he stood before cowering masses, and was worshipped.

These memories were somehow more real than they should be. The Entity could play with his senses, but he asserted his will and forced away its touch, banishing the sensations.

“Miss Highwater,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Do we still have the soul of that knight who attacked me a few days ago? The one from whom I stole that binding I used on the girl?”

“You promised to give the knight’s soul to the devils,” she said, flipping a few pages in her ledger. “If they were good.”

“Have they been good?”

“They’re devils. Of course they haven’t been good.”

“Right then. Fetch the soul for me. Oh, and a head, if we’ve got one lying around.”