Contract 2 – Sultan of Lut Gholein

Collateral
Indirect, subsidiary, or accessory to the main thing
"I can't do it, dammit! How many times must I tell you? I don't even think it's possible for demons to learn magik. Why must we persist?" Mortis banged his fist on the makeshift desk in frustration.

Zac smirked, despite the possible danger of the enraged demon sitting before him; "Nonsense. You can summon and control fire from within you, can you not? That's a form of magik right there."

"Yes, but we are born with that, something we can do at an age so young we barely recognise it as a skill."

"Give yourself time. Even an old dog can learn new tricks if he knows the rewards are well worth it."

Mortis sighed and nodded, his anger subsiding. His 'teacher' always had a way of killing even the worst tantrums. He gazed around the little room they used for his lessons; at the wall painted with black tar, covered in white chalk scribbles, at the assorted rarities decorating the walls on their shelves. And at the smiling face of the man trying so hard to educate a demon in this strange and alien world.

The 'teacher' was an elderly man named Zac Robinson. He'd lived most his life in the forests of Khanduras, a Hermit, but not unknown. Apart from being a highly respected member of a notorious thief guild, he was also a collector of rare antiquities. From the exoticness of the room in which Mortis sat, it was obvious the two careers complimented each other.

Mortis's two year travels had eventually taken him over the seas, to the lands of Rogues and the Deserts. He'd stumbled across Zac, hunting in the woods, and was surprised to meet the first man who hadn't fled in fright. After the initial surprise of meeting each other, and tentative yet awkward introductions, Zac offered Mortis a bed and food in exchange for any stories he might know.

Zac was a wise, witty and extremely curious gentleman. And, as it turned out, extremely partial to stories, especially ones involving the brutal and blood filled wars of Hell. Mortis had come to believe that his knowledge of the fiery demon dimension was the true reason Zac had taken him in. It seemed all humans feared his world, yet were intrigued by it none the less.

Mortis had more then enough tales to keep the old man enthralled for weeks, and by the time his tongue was dry and mind raked to its core, they had become proper and steadfast friends.

With the tales dwindling, it hadn't been long before Zac's next subject of interest entered their conversations; the demon form itself. Although Mortis was highly uncomfortable with the idea of being studied, the old man claimed if he was allowed to do so, they both might gain valuable knowledge on the limitations and abilities of Mortis's body under the laws of this world.

He finally agreed, and Zac subjected him to many vigorous tests. The old man examined every inch of the demon's body, from the space between his toes to the span of his wings. Zac had a curious room in his hut that he dabbed 'the lab', and inside was full of glass tubes and delicate instruments. Mortis was forbidden to enter, simply because of his bulky size. Zac didn't want to risk him knocking over the equipment.

"A bull in a china shop, you mightn't be. But you're pretty damn close," his teacher had laughed.

It was in this room that Zac did his most intricate work, analysing the demons blood through a cylinder full of glass pieces. He spent hours looking through the eye piece, drawing what he saw onto a paper pad he kept by his side always. The process lasted at least another week, but by the end of it, the amount of information they had acquired was staggering.

As Zac expected, the rate in which the demon body processed energy was far higher then usual. Yet his body still had the remarkable ability of storing the most vital of nutrients, allowing him to survive almost twice the time of a human without food or water.

The accelerated rate of regeneration was something Zac couldn't explain. Any wounds Mortis received would inexplicably heal within hours or even minutes of receiving them, depending on the nature and deepness of the cut. These were unchangeable demonic traits, and did not seem to be affected by the laws of Sanctuary.

Hearing, eye sight, and sense of smell were all heightened, as was expected. Susceptibility to disease or organ failure was very low, his blood seemed able to identify and produce its own serums for fighting off poisons.

Mortis studied every inch of the old man's report, not really understanding most of these statements, but one factor produced the biggest shock for him.

Life expectancy.

In Hell, a demon's life was eternal. Locked up and away from harm, never forced into battle or drained by one of the Lords, a demon could sit on the edge of the abyss until time turned his body to stone. And even that happening wasn't a certainty.

In Sanctuary, Zac could give no definite age limit, but he could confirm that eventually Mortis would die like any other Mortal. From the time he'd spent looking at the demons blood, Zac had deduced that although Mortis's cells aged far slower then any other living being he'd ever studied, they did eventually decay and die. And so, Mortis's fate was assured.

Mortis was faced with his own mortality for the first time, and it was not a welcome feeling.

As more weeks came and passed, Zac began to share the wealth of knowledge he'd acquired over the course of his well travelled life. He revealed he was skilled at many basic magiks that helped in his thieving career. When Mortis took a keen interest in these abilities, the old man devised some classes for his pupil, and so it came to be that the demon called the human, 'teacher.'

"Look, it's a simple summoning spell. When you master it you will be able to call in, or vanish, any object of yours at will."

"I don't understand how that works," Mortis snorted. "Where do the objects go when I 'vanish' them?"

"Your mind. Your memory."

"My... memory?"

"Correct. Or at least, as close to correct as we can get. In truth, no one knows exactly where they go. But they exist for as long as you remember they're there. But if you forget..." he made a 'poof!' sound and motion with ihs hands, "Gone. Forever. Many objects have simply fallen off the face of Sanctuary that way."

Mortis mulled over this for a long time.

"That would indeed make thievery easy" he said thoughtfully.

Zac suddenly became very serious, and his expression darkened.
"No, Mort, it does not." He pulled a chair in close and sat down, leaning in as if he feared the walls had ears. "What I'm about to tell you, you must never tell anyone else. Mort, do you promise?"

"I promise, Teacher. May I be cast back into the depths of Hell if I break it."

"Good. Now are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"Can you hear me Mort? Mortis, are you listening? Mortis? MORTIS!"

Mortis sat up with a start, almost colliding heads with the figure leaning over his bed. Braca jumped back and gulped.

"S-sorry. I couldn't tell if you were sleeping or not. Do you know you sleep with your eyes open?"

Mortis rubbed his neck and grumbled something under his breath.

"Yes. It helps to stop enemies sneaking up on me. I was just... dreaming this time."

"Ah... well, I hope you're rested enough to receive your new contract. It's quite an important one." Braca rubbed his hands together and his eyes shone dimly. Mortis grunted and got up off the bed.

"It's the middle of the night. Give me a few minutes to wake up before you start telling me about the throats I must slit."

Braca nodded in agreement as he watched the demon walk over to a dresser. Mortis had called in some spare garments upon arrival at the inn; the ones he'd been wearing during the mission had been ravaged by the Rogues' arrows.

He never wore much in the way of clothing. Undergarments for modesty, animal skin coverings similar to that of the Barbarians in the north. He couldn't wear shirts or anything that required being slipped over his head, as there were very few tailors that designed them with wings in mind. There was, however, a breastplate that could be unfastened and clasped around his chest. He hadn't worn that out on last night's job.

He opened a drawer of the dresser and began to flick through the various pieces he did have. And suddenly realised Braca was still watching him.

"Do you mind?" he said over his shoulder.

"Mind what?"

Mortis turned around quickly, strode over and grabbed the little man by the scruff of his well-pressed suit.
"Even demons like to have privacy," he growled, and tossed Braca out the door before he had time to protest.

The small man with slicked back hair paced the hallway impatiently, wringing his hands, twitching like a mad thing. Finally the door creaked open, and Mortis filled its frame. He was preened and looked far more awake.

"Excellent! It's about time. My employers are very eager to thank you for your work last night; you were exceptional."

"It wasn't much."

"Oh, but it was. Brent was a powerful man; you did well to succeed as... intact... as you are now."

"Yes. He was a -" suddenly the full details of the night before flooded back to him, and Mortis slammed the little man up against the wall. "What did you make me DO?"

"W-w-what?" Braca stammered.

"Brent wasn't corrupted. He was as loyal to the Rogues as he would be to family. You made me kill an innocent man." Fire was beginning to build in his eyes, and the sudden reek of ammonia hit his nostrils as Braca's bladder released.

"He wasn't! He wasn't, I swear! Please, let me explain!" The nervous twitch had progressed into a full on contortion of the face, and he was sweating profusely.

Mortis squinted at him with his sharp golden eyes, smelling the genuine fear coming from his sweat. And his pants.

"Fine. You have three minutes."

He dropped Braca, who fell against the wall shaking uncontrollably.
"Brent was a Paladin, in service to the Zakarum," he began to babble, the words come out at a hummingbird pace.

"He was very high ranking, and so spent a lot of time with the High Council. The very Council that now stands corrupted and bloodthirsty in the Tower of Kurast. The influence of Mephisto is like a disease; it can viscously attack the mind immediately, or it can take root in the body, staying dormant for as long as necessary."

"The Council and the Zakaramites were consumed fast, because they were so close to the source of influence. But Brent left at the first signs of other's madness, thinking he could escape it if he was in another country."

Mortis crossed his arms, his eyes still narrow slits. Braca gulped and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve to wipe the urine from his trousers as he continued.

"My employers kept a watchful eye on him for all the years he spent in service to the Sisters, and it was only recently that we began to see symptoms surface. It starts with dreams; wild, violent dreams that make the victims buck in their beds. In the morning they can remember nothing, and so they go about their daily lives with no knowledge of what's awakening in their bodies. Their mental state slowly degenerates, until one day they snap, and Mephisto has them. They become mindless killing machines, hellbent on slaying anything in their path back to the source, to protect it."

He sighed, and stared at the carpet."Brent was a good man. It was hard on my employers to authorise that contract. We simply could not allow an event like that to unfold."

Mortis stood quietly, his nails clicking tentatively against his hardened skin. He didn't look fully convinced.

"If that is the true story, why did you make a false one in the contract for me to go on? Why not just tell me the real reason outright?"

"Because you're you!" Braca replied, his voice rising. He'd stopped shaking now and had regained some of his usual confidence.

"My employers know what you're like; they know your unusual morals when it comes to women and children. By all rights you shouldn't care who you kill, being the demon you are." He paused, wondering if he'd overstepped the line a bit by the look on Mortis's face.

"They needed you to fight to the best of your ability, and to do that they used the best weapon of persuasion; the lives of all the women in that Citadel. They knew you'd fight with all your fury to protect them. And you did, Mortis; you saved them. Just not from the danger you originally thought."

Mortis leaned in close, his face inches from Braca's

"Then tell me why they all went crazy after I killed Brent."

The little man gasped and pushed himself away from the demon, back out in the hallway as if he wanted to run.

"You... you saw that?"

"I did. It wasn't pretty. And I have no idea what instigated it. Do you?" he glared accusingly.

Braca gulped again, and then suddenly became very professional.

"The details of events that take place after your contracts are fulfilled are not necessary for you to know. You are hired to do a task, for a set price, with the information you are given. If more is required, and I and my employers deem it beneficial, we will provide it. Other then that, we expect you to either accept or decline our offers, and probe no further."

Mortis immediately found himself wondering whether the man's fear had all been an act, and perhaps this was the real thing. The change was unnerving all the same. Braca brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder and looked down his nose at the demon before him.

"Have I made myself clear?"

Mortis was silent, slightly taken aback. Nobody, certainly no man, had ever spoken to him in such a way. The dangerous edge in his employers voice, told him that perhaps discretion was the best course of action.

"My apologies, Mr. Braca. I will ask no more questions."

"It's just Braca. I currently have no birthing name." He relaxed a little, sure now that he wasn't about to be disembowelled on the spot.

"If it makes you feel any better, Brent in himself had become a source for the madness. The women had contracted a slight dose, and that had been purged upon his death. The effects are temporary. They should have returned to a normal state of mind not long after you left."

Mortis nodded.

"That helps."

Braca reached into his suit and fumbled about, finally pulling out a neatly sealed envelope. "The details of your next assignment rest within this letter. If you accept it, we can offer you a sum equal to that of the last. Do you accept?"

Mortis thought for a few seconds, his mind reeling at how much money he was earning from the strange man before him. Then he nodded, and reached out a clawed hand.

"You'll like this one" Braca said slyly, "I believe you mentioned the Sultans of Lut Gholein last time we met?" He handed Mortis the letter. "Well, now you get to meet one for yourself."