He sat back and observed the other patrons at the inn. One man boasted his physical prowess to those surrounding them. Constantly challenging others to wrestle his arm to the table and gloating as he slammed the unfortunate opponent’s wrist to the wooden table. Laughter surrounded the group and it caused the Mage’s scowl to deepen.
Korel hated places like these. Barmaids constantly hovering over you in an attempt to either steal your purse or at least lighten it with buying more drink. Unwashed beggars who sat by the fire amusing themselves by tossing their fleas into the flame to die a squeaking death followed by a muted popping sound as the flea’s corpse shriveled in the intense heat of the coals. The smell of bodies bereft of any bathing for months at a time mingled with the strong reek of alcohol on their breath; all of it caused the mage to be on edge. He wanted this business over and done with. He wanted to be on his way again. It was taking too much time.
Then suddenly the only door to the inn opened, and in walked his victim. He was a plain looking man with threadbare clothing and bare feet. About to see his forty-year mark on this world, the man looked twice that age due to hard labor and many setbacks in life. Korel’s scowl disappeared and he waited patiently for the man to notice him.
The other patrons turned to look at the man, and seeing only another poor farmer or unfortunate beggar, they looked away and conversation returned to the normal buzzing sound that greeted the poor man as he entered. The crowd’s reaction pleased the mage to no end. He was perfect; a man who looked like anybody else, and one who would hardly be missed. His absence wouldn’t even be noted.
The nervous victim looked around the bar allowing his eyes to become adjusted to the darkness of the structure and then spotted Korel. He seemed to hesitate for only a moment, and then stepped forward and took a seat opposite of the mage, but never making eye contact. The mage smiled inwardly, but hid his pleasure from the man. Korel had rehearsed exactly how he wanted this situation to play out, and he knew if he smiled or laughed at the man, his pride would resurface and he would become harder to deal with. No, the mage kept his face neutral and focused upon the magical augmentations that he had cast earlier to make his presence and appearance other than his own.
The victim opposite the mage squirmed in his seat and placed his hands upon the table pulling on his own fingers in what appeared to be a nervous habit. Korel looked at those hands, the hands of a life-long farmer. They were scarred, cracked and permanently dirty under the nails from toiling day after day in the earth. Korel knew that he was a good man, someone who could be trusted, and someone who would protect his family with the last ounce of his being. Someone who would die for his family if it would save them. The perfect patsy.
The victim broke the uncomfortable silence and regarded the man sitting in front of him. To the farmer, the man sitting opposite him was the stuff of nightmares. He was a demon wearing human skin, a vile creature of the dark that had adopted human form to seek him out. But the offer had been too great to refuse.
“I’m here beast,” mumbled the farmer fearfully, “let us be done with this foul business of yours.”
“Did you do as I instructed?” Questioned the mage.
“I have. She will not come looking for me, and my son will be taking over the farming duties. At first she thought I was making jest, but when I showed her the bag of gold you gave to me, she understood it was real.”
“Good. I don’t have any time to wait, and tonight shall be the ritual. Are you ready then?”
The farmer looked around the inn one last time. He knew what the demon wanted from him. For years the stories of men who had made pacts with demons had been told around campfires and warm mugs of ale. He had laughed at the stories and retold them to others thinking them merely the fancy of men. Never in his wildest nightmares had he thought them true.
The farmer thought back to when the beast had approached him on his fields just last night. The beast had materialized right in front of him in the visage of a young scholarly man. But the farmer had watched in horror as the beast’s human form melted away into the form of a half goat, half man who stood upright. The demon’s leathery wings stretched out from behind him and just as he thought he might faint into unconsciousness, the thing had spoken to him. The demon’s voice was a low growl that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. The voice demanded attention, and the farmer’s scream died in his throat.
The bargain had been struck then and there: money enough to pay off his debts and the farm, and more than enough to feed and clothe his family for the rest of their lives. The price of this wealth and security of his family would cost the farmer his life. He knew that his time spent tending to the farm had aged his body prematurely, and he wasn’t sure how much time was left on this world for him. The demon offered security for his family at the cost of his life, but if he refused, he very well could end up collapsing on his plow one day leaving his family with a farm owned by merchant bankers and gambling debts. It was a decision that was hard to make, but the farmer had agreed to the pact and shaken the clawed, gnarled hand of the creature.
The demon then changed his form once again to that of a man, and told the farmer to meet him in the inn on the eve of the following day. The demon handed him a purse filled in gold and told him to settle his accounts. The rest of the wealth would be given directly to his widow on the morning of the third day.
That night he made love to his wife with passion grown from the knowledge of his own demise, and kissed his son and told him of his love and admiration of him. The memory of the conversation had with his wife brought tears to his eyes, for he had lied to her about the demon. The lie was part of the pact. The farmer told his wife the carefully crafted story given to him by the demon, and showed her the gold. He remembered her eyes lighting up and smiling at the fabricated story. He knew then that he was committed to the demon’s pact. The victim had turned away from the room and cried.
The demon’s human voice snapped the farmer’s attention back to the figure sitting across from him. The voice was human, but there was an undertone reminiscent of the growling creature of nightmares from the evening past. “I asked if you were ready.”
“I am. You promised that after the ritual that my wife and family would be well compensated?” Asked the frightened farmer.
“Yes, I did. Here is the bag your widow shall find at the foot of her bed on the morrow.” The mage pulled forth a hefty purse and sat it on the table in front of the victim. Carefully he scanned the crowd to make sure that he wasn’t the focus of any prying eyes, and then opened it for his one-man audience. Satisfied at it’s contents, the farmer nodded, and Korel closed the bag and returned it to his belt.
Korel stood up and left the inn with his victim in tow. He walked without talking to the man, and led him down a small alley that he had specially prepared the day previous. As they stepped away from the crowds and found themselves alone in an empty alley, Korel focused once again on the illusion he had finely tuned around him. To the frightened farmer, the form of the demon had once again appeared. Korel stepped through the illusionary wall he had created earlier this day, and brought in the astonished farmer with him.
In this small room created by illusions, Korel had the man stand in the circle of finely crafted runes and symbols while he gathered his possessions to him. Muttering the command words to bring forth his most trusted companion, Korel spoke, “Here kitty, kitty.” Naribal, Korel’s feline familiar, heard the summons and leapt from his extradimensional pocket and lazily lay in the mage’s arms. To Korel’s victim, Naribal appeared as a ferocious leopard with salivating fangs and glowing green eyes. The terror shown in the victim’s eyes amused the mage, but he kept his face neutral. The ruse was not yet finished.
From his familiar’s neck, Korel untied the collar and held forth his most valuable possession. Dispelling the masking magic enchantments that he had used to hide his phylactery from prying eyes and magic alike, Korel put what appeared to be a severed, yet well preserved, human finger into an ornate box carved of ivory and silver. Casting various protection spells upon the box, he carefully handed this to his victim who looked upon it with wonder and awe. Then reaching into his pack, the mage retrieved a tome filled with copies of his prized spells and enchantments. This spellbook, the only copy of his life’s work, had been carefully scribed by his own hand during his travels. He then handed this as well to the farmer who carefully held it along with the ornamental box.
Lastly, Korel pulled forth a sealed envelope and a small purse, which he put in the pocket of his Victim. “Your payment for this service to me has already been set in motion. What you carry in your pocket is a gift from me to the church of Wee-Jas. You are not to open it. The letter is addressed to the acolytes of that order. Do you understand?” The farmer appeared to understand, but the mage, knowing of his victim’s gambling problem, decided to add just a little bit of magic to make sure that his instructions would be followed without error. Casting a spell of command, Korel looked strait into the eyes of his victim and spoke his instructions, “Rasido, former farmer of this city, I charge you with this quest: when next you awaken, the items you carry are to be given directly to me if I am present. If you find yourself awakened by another, or no one at all, you are to take that letter directly to the temple of Wee-Jas where you shall freely give these items to a priest of that order inside the temple. Once the transaction has completed, you will be free of my service, and our pact complete.”
Korel stared at his victim and noted by the dilation of his eyes and the lack of blinking, that he had him fully under his enchantment. Korel then waved his illusionary demon-clawed hand in front of the farmer’s eyes, “Close your eyes now Rasido, when next they open, we shall meet again.”
Korel then steeled his mind for the task at hand. Raw energy began to build around the mage as he began to bind it to his will. Deep and ferocious syllables of the Draconic language came from the mage as he drew symbols of great power in the air before him. When the spell was complete, Korel lightly touched the forehead of his victim.
Green energy surrounded the farmer in that instant. His heart stopped beating and his eyes remained closed. His arms, frozen and wrapped tightly around Korel’s most prized and valuable possessions, were stiff in his state of suspended animation. Then slowly, the unmoving form of Korel’s victim began to sink into the ground. Faster and faster he went down, gaining momentum until the top of the farmer’s head could no longer be seen.
Korel sat down heavily against the cool bricks in the alley and allowed his illusionary spells to lapse. Within moments, the illusionary form of the demon and the leopard returned to the simple human mage, and his feline familiar Naribal. The illusionary runes and unholy fires surrounding this alleyway end reverted back to the cobblestone ground and the smells of the city once again accosted the mage. The only remaining effect was that of the false wall which secluded this section of the alley from prying eyes. Korel smiled and picked up Naribal into his arms and swung around in a mock dance with his familiar. His spirits lifted, he gathered his things and dispelled the false wall and continued back to his unsuspecting companions.
The victim would not be missed, his identity unknown to any who sought to harm the mage and therefore untraceable. His phylactery was finally safe and secure and he could rest easy at night once again. And should he be killed in some way, his victim held instructions and funds for the church of Wee-Jas to resurrect his body from his severed finger and he would start again with his spellbook copy and avenge his death.
Deep below the earth's crust, the still figure of the farmer waited. Unthinking, unbreathing, the farmer would never age, would never die, and he would know nothing of the time that flowed by him above. He would never see his wife grow old, or his son marry and grow old as well. The farmer had become the victim and traded his life and his identity for a purse of gold.
The perfect patsy.