Chapter 8
DaJoul – The One Eyed Demon
by Daniel Olarnick
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The Omniscient Voice: It is oppressively hot. The unnamed scribe, the troll Utre and the mongrel sojourn through the Desert of Flames, riding within the body of the Gorb (named Zorb). The sun is high in the sky; the wind dragon, Santan, blows his flame, heating the desert, scorching the sands, yet the Gorb moves westward, onward, ever onward, towards a Town called Vashmak, the first stop on the journey of the quest.
And so, our tale continues
***
It is a long and difficult journey from the oasis. The underground cavern's waterways had ended; the Gorb slowed his steady pace to accommodate the trio he carried within his body, the wind, the heat, the deadly rays of the sun all combined to leave the travelers near exhaustion.
The Town of Vashmak now loomed in front of them. The Gob stopped at the edge of the road leading to Vashmak, sang his good-bye song to the Scribe and the mongrel, then expelled a canteen of water it had secreted within its gel-like body.
“Here, Troll-being,” the Gorb sang its song to Utre, as it reared up and expanded his form in front of them, opened its chest and withdrew a Trollian war club, inscribed upon the club, in ancient Trollian, an inscription, attesting to the legend of TiRe The Deliverer, the Warrior-Troll who led the Trollian race from their Darkness.
“I've waited for centuries to find a creature such as you, Troll-being, to give this weapon of destruction to one of your kind.” From its body the war club was expelled.
“Here, for your protection, beast, and the scribe,” sang the Gorb, its song directed to Utre mind.
The mongrel howled.
“And the mongrel,” the Gorb added.
The sand seemed to absorb the Gorb, as he disappeared beneath its surface, leaving no trace of its passing.
The scribe wanted to scream aloud, “Don't leave us,” but held his voice silent, his mind reached out to the vanishing Gorb, Don't leave us … my friend, Zorb
“The slime-being flees, like coward that it is. It knew I would kill it!” said Utre, as he tested the heft of the war club, swinging it above his head, shifting it from hand to hand. “It is a good weapon to die with, in my hands.” Utre felt the heft of the war club seem to grow within his hands. “Little puny human scribe, name this weapon for me.”
“It already has a name, Utre; it is called ‘TiRe's Hammer. See the inscription in its stone.”
Utre looked closely at the head of war club. He could barely make out its inscription but knew what the legend called for. He would make it Utre's Hammer, and he shall be feared. He took a knife, ran its blade across the palm of its taloned hand, letting his dark maroon blood drench the gem stone within the club, watching it drink in his blood, and then before his eyes he saw the inscription change to “UtRe's Hammer.”
“It is a powerful gemstone within your Hammer, Utre. You should test it –“
“I will test it with blood. Write that within my stone.”
“It will be written.”
“And that I chased the slime-being into the desert. Don't forget.”
But the scribe did not respond.
They followed the road to the Town of Vashmak.
The mongrel howled aloud
#
A twelve-foot high wall surrounding Vashmak made it more of an alcazar than a town, yet a town it was, composed of some twenty-odd hacienda-type structures.
On the outskirts of the town was the graveyard. It was clearly marked with a sign, “Graveyard..” Within the graveyard, each of the markers bore the inscription, “Slain by DaJoul Master of Vashmak.”
“Utre, I have a Proteus Stone to place within you. It will disguise you, so that the inhabitants of the town will not flee from you, will not fear you.”
“Fear is a weapon. To fear me is to respect me.”
“We must find the path to the Mountains of Fire. Vashmak is the starting point.”
“The Mountains of Fire, do they not burn bright enough to see?”
“Perhaps the mountains are burning so bright we cannot see them, for they are visible only by the Eye-That-Sees-Through. That is the legend written on the crystal scroll – or so I am told.”
“The puny-human must find the Mountains of Fire, or fail in his quest.”
“The Proteus Stone will disguise you to make you look like Gazine. It is rather fitting, is it not,” said the scribe, ignoring Utre's implied threat.
“Yes, Gazine is a powerful scribe. I accept his face.”
“And I have your promise not to kill anyone.”
“Promises are worthless, puny-human. I do not make promise.”
#
They entered the town, three abreast, the scribe, the mongrel, and the troll (disguised as an ancient scribe) walked down the main street, heading towards the building marked Saloon. A man-child, seeing the trio, ran towards the scribal temple.
“They come, holy one, as you said they would,” cried the boy, as he entered the temple.
There sat Cavalla, the demon-scribe, assigned to the town of Vashmak. He was reading from a crystal scroll, which was illuminated by its own inner light, surrounded by glass vases, crystallized skulls, the foetus of a dragon-hatchling encased within a bottle. His eyes were transfixed upon the scroll, which flashed an encrypted message; the gemstone lodged in his forehead, an emerald, flashed, as it attempted to decipher the communication flashing from the scroll. The message was shattered and encoded, but its ending was clear: “They shall not leave Vashmak alive.”
#
“Taverner, is there water and food for weary desert travelers?” asked the scribe, using the formality of Vashmak's venerable demonic language.
“For silver coin there is always food and water,” said the barkeeper.
“We are poor, but not without funds,” said the scribe, presenting three silver dragooned coins and placing them on the oak bar.
“We require room and baths. Can you see to our needs?”
The saloon owner scooped up the three silver coins, depositing them in his money pouch.
“For this meager amount, you'll find your rooms in the stable. My daughters will heat the water for your baths. Rachael, Rita, take these two to the stables.”
#
They walked to the back of the saloon, following the bartender's daughters. The oldest daughter, a dark-haired beauty, named Rachael, wore a pre-marriage mask, tied to the back of her head, with a white ribbon, signifying her purity. She giggled nervously to the scribe.
“It has been rumored that three beings, one a man-thing, will cross the Desert of Flames when the summer months cease to exist. Have you traveled so?”
“Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies,” said the scribe, answering her with a stock scribal commandment.
She hummed a tune for travelers, as she stroked his arm, and led him to his bath. “You must be tired from your perilous journey. Allow me to relax you. Your bath awaits you. It is true, is it not that scribe's carry their wealth in gemstones, secreted within their bodies, somehow?”
“Rumors, all rumors,” the scribe said.
The scribe stepped behind the blanket that hid the tub of steaming waters, tossed off his clothing and stepped into the bath, allowing his body to embrace the heat of the waters, easing the pain in his muscles. He closed his eyes and contemplated how to find the Eye of the Quest. The black shard that hung around his neck sang a song of sacrifice.
Utre followed the other sister, the red-haired Rita, who wore the mask of a soubrette, her hands clasping his, as she led him to his steaming bath.
“My, what a calloused hand you have for an ancient one.”
“I am stronger than I look, much, much stronger … as you will soon see.”
#
Cavalla bowed deeply, as he entered the castle-lodging of DaJoul the Demon.
“They are here, as I have foretold you, oh mighty one. Shall I summon your deputies for you? We can fall upon them and kill them as they bathe.”
“I am DaJoul, Keeper of the Eye of the Quest, Master of Vashmak: Do you think I need my deputies to dispatch a human, an old man, and a mongrel dog? You, who claim to be of the scribal priesthood, are a spineless coward, like all of your kind,” said DaJoul, as he fed himself a live bird, swallowing it whole.
“I am told the scribe is devious, cunning. The ancient one who accompanies him, we know nothing of. As to the mongrel, he is poisoned, awaiting death. Kill him first. Have your deputies fall upon the other two, striking them down as they bathe.”
“So your Scribal Priesthood has sent you incomplete information, again?”
“The message is cryptic … it will take many days to decipher it, too many. But I know they must be disposed of.”
“Let them clean and feed their bodies. It is better that way. They will be ready to roast,” he giggled, sardonically, as his tongue licked his chin.
“The Scribal Priesthood wants them put to death. The young one, the scribe, has been declared a heretic”
“May the Scribal Priesthood put them to death then. I will kill them with my own hands, in my own way. I am DaJoul, Keeper of the Eye of the Quest, Master of Vashmak. Inscribe my stone in that manner or suffer my enmity.”
“As you command,” said Cavalla, as he backed out of DaJoul's dining room, “It will be written, as you command.”
“My name will never be forgotten,” said DaJoul, “You are dismissed.”
“The Eye, My Master, I implore you, allow me to look in the Eye.”
“We need no look into the future to deal with a human, an old man and his damn animal. They are doomed, I tell you, doomed.”
“Just a glance, my Mater, just a quick glance, if you please,” implored Cavalla.
The demon-scribe looked within the eye, and smiled.
#
DaJoul rose, placed a broad-brimmed, high-crowned felt hat on his head, strapped on a matched pair of 18-inch double-edged dueling swords, paused in front of a full-length mirror to admire himself.
Surely, he thought, there were no better looking Masters in all the desert towns of Volante. The stones of the three intruders upon his town – yes, his town – he savored the words – would bring a high price from the Scribal Priesthood, a large price, indeed.
#
The daughters of the innkeeper adjusted their masks, pocketed their coins, gathered the scribal garments, washed and cleaned them. The mongrel had not left the scribe's side throughout his bath, as the dark-haired beauty climbed into the tub to wash the scribe down; the mongrel growled a deep warning growl. His stare made her nervous. She was about to throw a lard bar at the white-skinned beast, when the scribe grabbed her hand, held her close to him, placed his finger to his lips and whispered, “Listen,” he whispered.
Sounds of deep passion came from behind the adjoining curtain. “The ancient scribe is not so ancient,” said the daughter attending to the scribe. “And you?”
“I have taken an oath of celibacy.”
#
She struck him across the face. “I am a spoken for woman. You have your nerve,” she said. “I am to be the bride of DaJoul. He shall learn of your insult.” She climbed out of the steaming tub, leaving the scribe to cleanse himself.
The mongrel howled.
.
#
“Sit over there, you two,” said the innkeeper, directing them to the back of the saloon. The red-headed daughter, Rita, served them, carefully selecting the rarest and largest cut of meat for the ancient scribe. Her mask turned a darker shade of pink, as she blushed alongside his body, as she served him, whispering in his ear, “You were as an animal, fierce, ferocious unrestrained. You deserve the best I have to serve you with.”
“See, puny one, how attentive the female is to me. She knows a true warrior when she felt his menoch,” bragged Utre.
“Shush,” whispered the scribe, “You are supposed to be an ancient scribe, a holy man.”
“I am. Ask her. She screamed to me that I was as a god,” Utre roared with laughter, grasping a larger, swallowing it deeply. “Your beer is weak, woman. Bring me something that quenches my thirst.”
#
The double doors of the saloon were flung open, as a huge demon-male entered the saloon, followed by six other minor demons, a demon-scribe brought up the rear, uttering an invocation that could well have been a curse, “May the Demon Dragon-God send injury upon all those that defy the power of DaJoul, Master of Vashmak. Imprecate, imprecate. May blessed blasphemy befall the heads of the righteous.”
“By the dragon-gods themselves,” thought the scribe, “what have we here?”
The demon, who led the ensemble, towered over everyone in the bar, standing about six foot ten, weighing well-over 350 pounds, green-skinned, large red-haired handlebar moustache, and a clump of red hair sticking out of a grey Stetson; he wore black leather pants, a matching black leather vest, twin silver dueling knives stuck into black leather sheaths were strapped to his sides. His eyes were green and fixed, unblinking, unmoving.
He strode over to the seated scribes, “I am DaJoul, the bellwether in these here parts,” DaJoul spoke with a strange drawl, thought the scribe.
“What business have you in my town?” He seated himself down, turning the chair around so his arms hung free, able to reach his twin blades.
The scribe spoke, first lowering his eyes, as a sign of respect, his voice low and humble. “We are on a holy quest. Vashmak, I am told, will lead us to the Mountains of Fire.”
“Who tells you this, my friend?” asks DaJoul. “Perhaps, you have been led astray.”
“Perhaps,” said the scribe, but I seek a gemstone that sees beyond this realm into the next.”
“Ha, you jest,” said Cavalla. “No one knows of this but a member of the Scribal Priesthood. Certainly you dress as a scribe, but no human can be considered a full-fledged scribe. Perhaps, the ancient one, sitting next to you, tells you these tales.”
“No one knows what experiments the scribal priesthood engages in, or so I have been told to say,” said the scribe, directing his remarks to Cavalla, making the demon-priest recoil, at a long forgotten mind implanted warning “…say no more or suffer dire consequences...”
.
The exchange of words went unheard or unnoticed by DaJoul, but Utre shivered, for now he knew, the unnamed scribe possessed Voice. “How can human possess voice and I, Utre, Prince of Trolls, do not? It is not proper. He must possess a gemstone,”
Utre speculated – “How is it I speculate,” he thought to himself, not knowing that word or what his mind was doing. “What has happened to me?” The Proteus Stone shined slightly brighter.
“It is said you crossed the Desert of Flames –“
“Our quest lead us a cross part of the desert, but only to find the Mountain of Fire,” said the scribe.
“It does not -- only if it exists,” chimed in Cavalla.
“Of course, there are great riches to be found in the Mountain of Fire,” said DaJoul, “And if one were to point you in the right direction?”
“He would be entitled to his share of the riches,” said Utre, astonished at his refined tone of voice.
“So, the ancient one has a tongue, but allows a human dressed as a scribe to speak for him?” asked DaJoul.
“In matters of finance, I speak for the Scribal Priesthood.”
“It is said, in matters of finance, the Scribal Priesthood pays with promises. I require gold and sacrifice.”
The mongrel jumped into the scribe's lap, laid his head on the scribe's knees, fixed his eyes on DaJoul, and growled softly.
“That beast of yours would make a fine sacrifice to the Guardian of the Eye of the Quest,”
“My companion is ill, not fitting for a sacrifice, or a meal,” said the scribe.
#
The barkeep came over, bringing a foaming larger to the table, bent down and whispered into DaJoul's ear slot, “He bragged to my daughters. They say he crossed the desert, my Master.”
DaJoul looked at the scribe and the ancient one in new-found amazement. “I am told you claim to have crossed the desert,” a growl escaped from DaJoul, “A boastful statement, no doubt.”
“We crossed the desert,” said the scribe, feeling anger growing within him. This talk was leading nowhere, he thought.
DaJoul hand-signaled his deputies, as they spread out around the tavern, backing up DaJoul.
“I would be interested in knowing how you achieved this great trek. No one has crossed the desert in one hundred times three years!”
“If I told you, you would not believe me,” answered the scribe.
“A desert portal, perhaps?” asked DaJoul.
“Perhaps, we can discuss the Eye of the Quest.”
“Should an old man, a human and that beast cross the desert, so to can my enemies. Perhaps you are assassins sent by Accundus the Great, to test my loyalty.”
“We know of no Accundus, great or otherwise. We are on a quest, a holy quest, seeking a scribal relic, and nothing else.”
“Tell me, human, how you crossed the Desert of Flames,” screamed DaJoul, suddenly standing, reaching across the table and grabbing the scribe by his collar, lifting him off the ground, and dragging him across the table.
“A Gorb … we rode in the body of a Gorb!” stammered the scribe.
“A Gorb? What is Gorb,” demanded DaJoul, backhanding the scribe across the face; the deputies drawing their swords.
The mongrel, having been knocked down, scampered out of the way, as DaJoul tried to stomp him; then the demon threw the scribe against the wall, and shouted his victory cry.
But Utre, his patience worn thin, acted first. “Enough of that sound,” he bellowed and brought out from beneath his coat, the war club, smashing DaJoul across the knees, the demon howled in pain. Utre attacked the deputies, bashing in the head of the closest one, slamming the flat of his palm into the nose of the retreating deputy to his left, driving the nasal bone into his brain. Utre reached around, his foot lashing out into the groin of the third deputy, disemboweling him, as the three remaining deputies fled the bar.
“Kill him DaJoul,” shouted Rebecca, “He insulted me, your wife-to-be,” she shouted from across the bar, astonished that DaJoul was sprawled across the floor, groveling in pain.
There was no stopping Utre now. His fighting blood boiled within his brain, he brandished the war club at the fleeing deputies, smashing the skull of the slowest of the three. The Proteus Stone lay on the floor, having been plucked from his chest, allowing him to reveal his true nature.
“Now,” shouted Cavalla, as DaJoul nip-upped up, belying his great girth, gripping the scribe around the neck, holding a shining blade underneath the scribe's throat.
“Just as I had foreseen in the Eye,” shouted Cavalla.
The war club flashed across the bar, striking DaJoul in the forehead, splitting it open, as the scribe crumpled into a heap on the tavern floor.
#
“How can this be,” stammered Cavalla, “I saw you slain!”
The scribe picked himself off the floor. “What if you missed, Utre?” he asked.
“If you fail in the quest, you die by my hand, better to die with honor.”
“The Eye cannot be wrong.” Cavalla stammered on, “cannot be wrong.”
“The Eye, where is it?” asked the unnamed scribe.
“Never, I'll never reveal it –"
“Break his arm, Utre. Convince him.”
Utre smiled, snapped the arm of the demon-scribe, as his howling filled the tavern.
“Where is it?” asked the scribe, his voice calm and reassuring. “Tell us. As a member of the Brotherhood, I give you my word – Utre, he resists –“
“No, no. Keep him away. It's there, right there,” said Cavalla, pointing to the fallen DaJoul, as he whipped off the demon's Stetson, revealing a gem stone planted directly onto the top of DaJoul's head.
“Here,” said Utre, as he reached into the shattered brain of the now-dead demon, his huge hand's sharpened talons plucking the gem-eye from the top of DaJoul's skull.
“The portal, Cavalla, take us to the portal.”
The demon-scribe looked around the bar. Face masks were being torn off, revealing the faces of the inhabitants of the town, demons, all demons, backing away from the scribe and Utre, and the mongrel. “Back off,” said the scribe, brandishing the eye before him. Utre lifted up Cavalla by his good arm, “Tell us what the puny human looks for.
Where is it?”
“I'll show you. Don't hurt me any further. As a scribe, I implore you.”
#
They walked down the street, the demons of the town, whipping their masks off, followed them, shouting, “Murderers. You killed our Master. Who will provide for us?”
The scribe flashed the Eye before them, causing the demons to run away, howling, crying, screaming in pain, demanding justice, but no one attacked them. Utre brandished the war club, begging them to attack, laughing aloud as they fled before the scribe who carried the Eye of the Quest.
They entered the castle of DaJoul, down they went into the torture chamber. There, against the far war, it stood, The Mirror of the Eye of the Quest. “Hold it to the mirror and it will reveal what you seek.”
Rays flashed across the room, vibrations and energy bolts hit the mirror in full, layer after layer of the polished reflective membranous layers peeled away and opened up the inner pathway of the reflecting polished crystal, as it revealed an esplanade to another dimension.
The scribe picked up the mongrel and strode onto the path. Utre broke the neck of Cavalla, using a twisting double-armed motion. “Enemies who are dead are dead,” he said, as the scribe strode forward, not looking back, knowing that Cavalla had fulfilled his own ill-seen prophecy: “The death of a scribe shall be called for.”
There, in the mists it stood, the Tor, a terraced maze leading up to the top of the collapsed Mountains of Fire. At the top of the Tor, an enigmatic tower that, according to the legend, lead down to the cavern that housed the Relic.
It was a long climb. They were physically exhausted when they reached the temple on top of the Tor. “Gods lived here, scribe, did they not?”
“The temple is but an entrance to – to an underworld.” The mists closed in around them and they disappeared from sight.
***
Back in the town of Vashmak, the Gorbs feasted on the bodies of all the demons that had inhabited Vashmak. The realization of who and what they were had caused them to commit murder and suicide. None lived..
“Told you,” sang Zorb, as various shades of light accompanied each note of song, “We follow this scribe and he will provide for us, making many dead wherever he goes … for death follows him …”
***
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