The Devil's Advocate

Revered Lord Banyu stroked his flowing silver beard, unable to calm his restless heart. He waved his hand, and the bayberry candles in the room flickered to life. Banyu grunted hoarsely and rose from his crude bamboo throne.

"Menin," he called, "bring me my charts."

"At once, Master," replied a weak, reedy voice.

Banyu heard the servant scamper off to retrieve the charts. Flicking the sleeves of his white silk robes, he walked to a faded oil painting. The painting depicted a huge demon besieged by half a dozen shadows.

Although blood poured down from countless wounds on the demon's body, its expression was savage and without an iota of fear. Above its head, the ebon sky was rent in half by a huge, green comet. It blazed like a great torch, and, as Banyu's eyes lingered on it, his mind was assaulted by the screams of countless tortured souls. Banyu quickly looked away from the painting.

"Star Wormwood," he murmured, stroking his silver beard. "Has man overstayed his welcome on this land?"

....

"Make her feel pain, Dogmouth," Michael said, his eyes grey flint.

Dogmouth, a huge, hunchbacked bear of a man, grunted hoarsely. His matted black hair was woven into two thick braids, and they slapped against his black leather robes as he strode towards the prisoner.

Michael watched the witch carefully. She had been stripped naked by the prison guard and cut a sorry figure. As his eyes swept over her malnourished, pale, and scarred body, Michael was somewhat amazed she was still breathing.

'Her hair looks strangely healthy,' Michael mused. It was indeed strange; despite many weeks of starvation and abuse and the damp conditions in the cell, the witch's silver-gold hair was in perfect condition. Michael could not see a speck of dirt or blood in her hair, no matter how closely he looked. 'The Devil must have struck a lopsided bargain with her.'

This particular witch had been remarkably easy to subdue. She had inflicted no casualties on the shrine-guards. Other than her vibrant hair and some basic herblore, she had displayed no other abnormalities or powers.

'A scapegoat, perhaps.' Michael knew such injustices happened, though his less perceptive brothers did not seem to notice. Sometimes they were impossible to stop. The people demanded blood, and the Shrine merely satisfied their desires.

Clearing his head of such thoughts, Michael saw that all four of the witch's limbs had been shackled, and her body was suspended in midair by taut cast-iron chains. A crude silver pendant hung from her neck—the work of the Hallowed Shrine's latest research. With it, a witch's power would be cut in half, though it would be of little use on this one.

Dogmouth drove his meaty fist into the witch's stomach. The witch grunted faintly, but her expression did not change.

'It seems that my brothers were telling the truth,' Michael realized. His fellow priests had told him that they had attempted all sorts of torture on the witch to no avail. They hadn't managed to get a single word out of her.

"Again, Dogmouth," Michael ordered.

Dogmouth's oily black eyes gleamed in the flickering torchlight. He pounded the witch's body like a pig's bladder.

After a dozen punches, Michael raised his hand. Dark blood trickled from the corners of the witch's mouth. "Stop, Dogmouth." Then, turning to the witch, he said, "A tough one, eh? But do you really believe the Shrine sent me here for no reason? I have... my own methods for dealing with Devil-worshippers like you." Michael gestured at Dogmouth. "Take it off."

Dogmouth unbuckled his belt, letting his black robes fall to the floor. His member was erect; it was huge and ridged, like a rough stone. Finally, the witch's expression changed.

"No!" she screamed in a hoarse, cracked voice. "Spare me! I-I s-shall do whatever you wish of me, m-m'lord."

Michael's lips parted in a thin grin. 'As expected, this witch is deluded.' He had seen it before. Some witches believed they were carrying the Devil's child and were obsessed with their purity; they would rather die than be tainted. Few priests had a method to deal with those witches, as almost nobody was willing to enter a witch.

'Perhaps she really is pregnant.' Michael was somewhat amused. In his youth, he had attended a sermon given by an old bishop called Jimmy. Bishop Jimmy had spoken at length about witches' children; according to him, they often gave birth to twisted, misshapen creatures—unholy, yes, but by no means dangerous.

"Very well then," Michael said, nodding slowly. "Do you admit to being a witch and consorting with the Devil?"

"Y-yes, m'lord."

"Do you admit to concocting foul poultices and cursing your village's crops with blight?"

The woman looked troubled. "M-m'lord, I did no suc—"

"You are guilty," Michael pronounced, cutting off the witch, "of witchcraft, a most foul and heinous crime. According to the laws of the Shrine, you will be punished by hanging." He turned to leave. "Your confession has been most useful. Know this: we of the Shrine do not convict those without sufficient evidence."

Just as he was about to leave, Dogmouth made a strange, guttural sound. Michael chuckled. 'As always, the big fellow can't control his tendencies. Today has been a profitable day indeed; the bishop will be pleased with my work. There is no harm in letting the oaf enjoy himself.'

"Yes, Dogmouth," Michael said with a sigh, "do what you will with the woman."

"B-but my lord, you promised that—"

"I made no promises, witch. I do not bargain with the Devil's kin. Repent in hell."

Dogmouth lurched over to the witch, and with a single, hard thrust, entered her.

"YOU WRETCH!" the witch screamed, even as Dogmouth's muscle-bound arms wrapped around her waist like iron bands. Her voice sounded like nothing human; it echoed off the damp granite walls and seemed to grow in intensity with every echo. Dogmouth stumbled back as if struck and fell to the floor, his hands flailing.

Michael's heart was gripped with cold, slick terror. Turning back, he saw the manacles crumble into fine dust. The next moment, the torches flared with unbearable brightness, blinding him. When Michael regained his vision, the room was cast in an icy green glow. The green flames seemed to possess a life of their own, and they flickered erratically, ignoring the wind from the ventilation duct.

Only then did Michael become aware of Dogmouth's anguished, pain-filled howls. Looking down, he saw the source of Dogmouth's agony: his once-proud manhood had turned into faintly smoking charcoal. Against his will, Michael found his head turning towards the witch. Her body was decaying at an unbelievable rate; her smooth skin grew wrinkled and creased, then crumbled into fine dust. The last parts of her body crumbled, revealing a pitch-black, child-sized spectre. It floated in midair, curled up in foetal position.

Michael's heart stopped, then jumped into his mouth when he saw the spectre. 'RUN!' he screamed at his legs, but they wouldn't listen. The child-spectre trembled slightly, and Michael felt his very soul quiver. Suddenly, a deathly silence engulfed the room. Dogmouth's screams faded, replaced by mute terror. Even the flames stilled and dimmed down, as if they were welcoming their sovereign.

The spectre's eyes shot open. In the dim light, they glowed with otherworldly intensity. At that moment, Michael felt his heart gripped by despair. The last thing he saw was two fathomless, pale blue orbs.