Crossover Fan Fiction / InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ The Journey to the City of Endless Night ❯ Chapter Seventy ( Chapter 70 )

Author's Note: I'd like to thank all of my readers for reading and reviewing. All the comments I've received have made it a little sweeter to tell this story, and let me know I'm not the only one having fun. I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story! I answer every review, so be sure to always check my journal for my response. You can find it at farawayeyes4.livejournal.com.

 

Chapter 70

 

They prepared for the day in hushed whispers as dawn set in. Miroku reluctantly slipped out of his Buddhist robe, and folded it neatly. After he tucked it into a corner of the tent, he settled down cross legged, and began to meditate. He focused on his breathing, trying to clear his mind and alleviate the anxiety growing inside. The sound of his blood roared dully in his ears as it rushed through his veins. Miroku placed his gauntleted hand to his lips, repeating a mantra to loosen the tightness in his chest. The monk knew they would be entering a dangerous city, and that his performance as a Grolim High Priest had to be throughly convincing. There would be no margin for error.

 

Once he had his tumultuous emotions under control, Miroku stood. He sighed, and eased the black Grolim robe on. Miroku was thankful that he had kept his inner robes on. There was a distinct odor, and even without the keen senses of the inu brothers, the monk detected the offending stench of burning flesh and death clinging to the fabric. Miroku desired as little direct contact with the foul cloth as possible. He took a deep breath, and schooled his expression into the best Sesshomaru imitation he could muster.

 

Miroku emerged from the tent to find the others talking quietly over a cold breakfast. Sango's eyes were wide, and she covered her surprise with a nervous cough. The monk sat down next to her, and accepted a small hunk of bread. He tore it in half, eating in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Miroku saw Sango shift, her posture wary. By the way her hands squeezed her own bread, he could tell that his new demeanor troubled the demon slayer. To reassure her, and himself, the monk gave her a soft smile before restoring his tight control on his expression.

 

It had been hard the night before, not to take advantage of sharing a tent with Sango alone, but he had needed a night to prepare for his grim role in their dangerous mission. Miroku had slept fitfully, unable to find a comfortable position on the rugged ground. Several times he had woken with a start, the frayed edges of nightmares tugging on the border of his consciousness. He had watched Sango sleep for awhile, and had indulged in threading her silky hair through his fingers when he felt overwhelmed. When he had chosen the Demon Lord to model his Grolim Priest upon, Miroku hadn't realized just how difficult it was to adopt his mannerisms. Sesshomaru's very nature was so different from the monk's, and he hoped he'd pull of a believable mimicry of the stoic lord.

 

Idly, Miroku wondered how Sesshomaru did it all the time. It took such concentration to keep the emotions from his face, more than he had ever realized. He continued to eat in silence, listening to the conversation. Several times, the monk had to fight back a smile or a laugh when the spy said something amusing. It seemed that Silk was covering up his nervousness with leisurely banter. It would certainly provide great practice in maintaining his air of indifference.

 

“Do you think they'll have a friendly welcoming committee when we arrive?” Silk asked innocuously. “I hope they have a nice banquet set up. You know, with good stews, some roast lamb maybe, and some good custard. I mean, shouldn't they at least feed their holy men after they make the long trip?”

 

“Yer expectin' a lot, me spy friend. Hospitality t'is not be in their vocabulary,” Feldegast replied. “There be no ale houses in all of Mal Yaska, either. Urvon dislikes the simple pleasures of this life, an' he won't let anyone else 'ave 'em.”

 

Miroku snorted as he tried not to laugh. He cleared his throat and forced his face back into an emotionless facade. Inside, however, the monk howled in delight. Maybe Sesshomaru's snorts were not out of disdain, but rather because he was trying not to laugh. It occurred to Miroku that the Demon Lord might be laughing at them all the while maintaining a dignified pose. The monk respected Sesshomaru's superior acting skills, knowing how difficult it was to sustain that level of control. With his new insight, Miroku mused that Sesshomaru had a larger sense of humor than anyone gave him credit for.

 

Miroku glanced at Sango from the corner of his eye. He noted that her body was still tense. The demon slayer looked away, chewing her bottom lip in thought. He wanted to reach out and reassure her that everything would be alright, but knew he had to keep the integrity of his emotionless mask. He sighed softly, and stood. Miroku ducked back inside the tent, and gripped his staff. The weight of it felt good in his hand, giving him a sense of normalcy. He turned to leave, when Sango's shy form filled the entrance.

 

“M---monk?” There was a hesitant quaver in her voice, and she kept her head bowed. Her hands were clasped in front of her chest, the knuckles turning white with the pressure.

 

Keeping his voice an even monotone to remain in character, Miroku replied, “Yes?”

 

“I---I,” Sango wrung her hands. She looked up, her eyes wary, and a little wild. “Can---can you help me with my robe?”

 

“Certainly,” Miroku replied, finding it difficult not to add an endearment. He turned, moving to reach for the robe loaned to Sango. The monk stopped when he felt her callused hand grasp his. His eyes went wide, and a soft gasp escaped his lips. He glanced over his shoulder at her, and felt the command on his countenance slip. He whispered, “Sango.”

 

Tears glistened in her eyes, and without warning, she clutched him around the waist. She buried her face into his chest. Miroku let go of his staff, and stiffly put his arms around her, holding her close. He wasn't entirely sure what had brought on the demon slayer's outburst. The monk knew that it had bothered her last night when he had first affected Sesshomaru's personality, but he hadn't realized that it had upset her this much. Miroku also wasn't entirely sure why it did.

 

“Sango?” He eased her away, and searched her face. “What's wrong?”

 

Sango wiped a tear from her eyes, and shook her head. She sighed, and whispered, “It's silly and stupid.”

 

“Now, now.” He tilted her chin up with his gloved hand. “Tell me, my dear Sango.”

 

The demon slayer averted her eyes, and bit her lip. She said, “It's nothing.”

 

Miroku brushed hair from her forehead, and tucked the loose strands behind her ear. He said, a warm timbre filling his voice, “It must be something or you wouldn't be this upset.” He gently stroked his fingertips over her smooth skin. “Is it my imitation of a certain Demon Lord that bothers you?”

 

Sango nodded, fresh tears flooding her eyes. They spilled down her cheeks, and she said, her voice shaky, “It's like you're someone else.” She looked away. “I told you it was stupid.”

 

Miroku pulled her close, running his hand through her hair. “It's not stupid. I must admit, I'm having a hard time, myself, behaving this way.” He gently pressed his lips to her forehead. “But Sango, I'm still me. It's all an act.”

 

“I know.” She wrapped her arms around him. “I still don't like it.”

 

“Neither do I, but we must find out what Naraku's plans are. I won't act like this forever.” He breathed into her ear, enjoying the soft gasp she made. “And I promise, under no circumstances, will I start referring to myself as this Miroku.”

 

Sango playfully punched his shoulder. “I'd really have to smack some sense into you if your ego ever got that big, monk.”

 

“Even more than when I do this?” Miroku grasped her lush rear in both hands, squeezing the firm globes of flesh through her skin tight slayer outfit.

 

A dangerous glint filled the demon slayer's eyes. She moaned softly, and pressed herself flush against him. The monk cursed the coarse Grolim robes, wishing he could feel her powerful body better. Sango leaned up and seized his lips in a bruising kiss. He felt her tongue push against his mouth, demanding entrance, and when he relented, it easily dominated his own. Her teeth gently nibbled on his lips, and he could no longer contain the low groan building in his chest. The slayer's fingers wove into his hair, loosening the tie, and let his dark mane free. She ravaged his mouth, her tongue thrusting in quick motions. Miroku felt dazed, and a stupefied grin crossed his lips when she pulled back.

 

Sango purred into one of his ears, “I have discovered a much better way to subdue your wandering, lecherous hands, Miroku.”

 

Miroku blushed at the tone of her voice. This strong woman would never cease to make him feel weak in the knees. He regretted the fact that they had to leave. He would much rather stay here, and return her favor by kissing her senseless. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of control over his body. Miroku reluctantly pulled back, and retied his hair into a short pony tail. He winked at Sango when she stuck her bottom lip out in a pout.

 

“Didn't you need some assistance with your robes, my delectable slayer?” Miroku asked playfully.

 

The demon slayer's cheeks flushed a pleasing pink. She laughed softly, and shook her head. “I'll manage, monk.”

 

Miroku returned her earlier pout, and slumped his shoulders. “Honestly, my intentions were entirely chaste.”

 

“I'm not buying it.” She swayed her hips. “Then why are your hands cupping my posterior, monk?”

 

Miroku pulled his hands away, glaring at them in disapproval. “They have a mind of their own, I swear!”

 

Feldegast peeked his head inside. “I don't mean t' intrude on yer privacy, but we must git goin' if we hope t' learn anythin' about that Naraku knave.”

 

The monk and slayer pulled away from one another, exchanging embarrassed glances. Miroku felt his cheeks heat up. He swallowed, and replied, “We'll be right out. I was just assisting Sango with her robes.”

 

“I bet you were,” Silk said, peeking inside. He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and snickered.

 

Miroku sighed. “I am just so misunderstood.”

 

They readied in silence, the playful mood being replaced by a somber one. Miroku closed his eyes, and took deep breaths to recapture his stoic demeanor. The juggler handed him a steel mask, and the monk reluctantly accepted it. The face was the same as the one he had seen in Rakand. It had the same cruelty and marred beauty as Miroku remembered. He put it on slowly. It felt cold against his face. Feldegast latched the clasp with a resounding click. It seemed like a miniature prison. He could no longer feel the wind. He had lost all his peripherals, and felt slightly disorientated. Due to the mask's confines, he found that the very act of breathing had to be altered. The acrobat pulled the cowled robe up and over it, blocking even more of Miroku's peripherals.

 

The monk watched as the others were garbed in a similar fashion. He frowned in disapproval behind his mask when the steel helmet was affixed upon Sango's head. The ugly mask did not suit her in the least, nor did the green trimmed black robe. Once everyone was properly attired, the small group set out into the valley. On various posts, through the light fog, Miroku spotted wanted posters splashed across them. They depicted a hideous dwarf. The monk gave them no more thought, focusing on keeping a rigid control over his emotions. The mask of Torak made him feel nauseous. It smelt even worse than the robe shrouding his body, and the longer he wore it, the worse it became. He squared his shoulders. The sooner they completed this mission, the sooner they could return to the rest of the group.

 

Ahead of them, the ecclesiastical capital of the Grolim faith loomed on the horizon, its foreboding presence beckoning. Surrounding the grim city were high, thick walls. It was rather large, somewhere between the massive size of Mal Zeth and the modest size of Mal Rakuth. Battlements were placed in intervals on the dark walls, stationed with archers. The city was certainly heavily fortified. Blocky towers rose within, giving it a stern appearance. A dark, black column of smoke billowed up into the sky from somewhere inside. It blanketed the city under a dark cloud. There was a distinct odor of death and decay, both fresh and old, and Miroku nearly gagged on its potency. A hollow bang of a gong sounded, and the monk shuddered. Mal Yaska exulted in ruthlessness, and he dreaded entering its menacing walls.

 

Feldegast's muffled voice said, “There she be, Mal Yaska, Urvon's capital.” He moved to stand before them. “Before we go in t' the city, there be some rules I need t' set down. The thin's yer goin' t' see be mighty terrible. The thin's yer goin' t' see might make ye angry. Under no circumstances must ye react, cuz if ye do, the Grolims will swarm us an' we'll have a mighty fight on our 'ands. Keep yer temper in check, and keep yer focus on actin' like 'veryone else. The less attention we brin' to ourselves, the more we can find out about the plans of that Naraku scoundrel. I know it'll be difficult, considerin' we might 'ave to attend one of their gruesome religious ceremonies, but it's better than findin' ourselves under the Grolim knife. Is that clear?”

 

Everyone gave a curt nod to the juggler. Feldegast sighed, and said, “Best we head on in and git this over with, then.”

 

They approached Mal Yaska's immense black gates. Standing in front were two guards. They both wore chain mail to their knees, and round helmets, their visors closed. At their waists hung large broad swords. The guards eyed the party with wary suspicion. One of them approached, holding out his gauntleted hand. “What business do you have in the holy city?”

 

Miroku stepped forward, his staff jingling quietly. He said, giving his voice a hollow tone, “I am the High Priest of Jarot in Celanta. I am here to converse with his Holiness, and give him a gift. That is all you need to know.”

 

The guards smartly saluted. At that signal, the massive gates creaked open, and they entered the city. The streets were virtually empty, with only a few Grolims scurrying to the Temple at the center of Mal Yaska. There were no shops or vendors hocking their wares. The buildings were pushed together, and seemed to be nothing more than vast dormitories for the priests. There were no windows on the buildings, and it gave the effect that they were walking through long hallways rather than streets. There were dying torches, reflecting like dim beacons in the soft mist and smoke infiltrating the city. The closer they got to the Temple, the larger the buildings became, but they all seemed to have the same utilitarian appearance. A large palace was connected to the Temple, and they made their way towards it.

 

Another set of guards, this time accompanied by a couple hulking, black Hounds, stood outside. The green eyes of the Hounds swept over the group, studying them. It was hard for Miroku to maintain his composure, but he gripped his staff tightly, returning their cold glare from behind his mask.

 

The guards said, “State your business.”

 

“I am the High Priest of Jarot in Celanta. I am here to receive orders from his Holiness, and present him with a gift.” The monk gestured towards Sango's wrapped hiraikotsu. “My business is for his Holiness's ears alone.”

 

The Hound stalked up to him, sniffing. His eerie eyes narrowed, and it nodded. In a guttural voice, as it bit out the words, it said, “Let him visit his Holiness after the rites in the Temple have finished.”

 

The Guardsmen smartly saluted, and bowed. One said, “I shall escort you to the Temple. Once religious observances are over, I'll take you to his Holiness.” He turned his back, and began marching towards the Temple.

 

They followed the Guardsman to the large, black door of the Temple. Oddly, there wasn't a polished silver mask above it, and Miroku felt slightly grateful. The Guardsman opened it, and they entered the dark interior. Inside, the Temple was circular, the walls a glossy black stone. The large room was packed with several Grolims, kneeling before an altar. There was a soft drone as they chanted various prayers. Miroku sucked in air, as the stench of blood and burning flesh overwhelmed him. This awful place smelled like a funeral pyre.

 

The group stopped their progression fifty feet away from the raised altar, and followed the example of the other Grolims. From his kneeling position, Miroku glanced up, and immediately wished he hadn't. Above the altar was an immense, polished steel mask similar to the one in Rakand. It shone like a mirror, its beauty marred by its malevolent expression. Miroku swallowed, his eyes fixated on the mask. A twisted, inhuman smirk graced its lips, and it seemed darker than the one he had seen in Rakand. From his left, he heard Sango's audible gasp, and knew she was staring at it, too.

 

The monk lowered his eyes to the large, black altar. It was stained with blood, the pores of its stone saturated. It was obvious that it had soaked up years, perhaps centuries, of its victims life force. Flanking each side of it were two braziers, emitting dark smoke. Nearby was a huge, bronze gong. Directly in front of that was a fire pit, with dark orange flames licking out of it. Pungent black smoke rolled up from it, and Miroku had a hard time not coughing. The monk dreaded the atrocity he knew was sure to come.

 

A door opened at the side of the altar, and seven more Grolim priests filled in. They were dragging a naked man towards the altar, his struggles frantic. He howled in terror, his eyes wide. The Grolims manhandled him, pushing him on his back onto the bloody stone. He threw his head back, and gave a wail of utter despair. To Miroku's horror, he realized that they had severed his tongue, fresh blood gushing from his mouth. He wanted to stop this gruesome ritual, and destroy this abomination of a Temple. Fury welled up deep inside him, and he clenched his hand around his staff. It would be so easy to suck this horrendous place into his Wind Tunnel, but he also knew, rationally, it would not stop this bloody cycle. He was powerless, and could only watch in abject revulsion as they butchered a fellow man.

 

Miroku felt movement next to him, and saw Sango prepare to stand. He had to stop her, without drawing attention to them. He tugged hard on her robe, and the slayer glared down at him, her eyes enraged. Trying to make it imperceptible to the other priests of Torak surrounding him, he shook his head. Sango stiffened, but obeyed and resumed her kneeling position. Miroku knew it was hard not to stop this disgusting ceremony. He kept his head bowed, and watched Sango to make sure she wouldn't give their disguise away. He was certain they wouldn't mind slaughtering a few more in their religious rite.

 

One Grolim withdrew a wicked looking long, sharp knife from a box. He held it up, and the blade reflected the fire in deep, burnished red. The priest turned, facing the huge mask. He held up the knife, and chanted, “O, Dragon God of Angarak, we await thy return in anxiety. Hear our cries of anguish, and guide us back to thee. Return, in thy holy glory, and destroy the Godslayer for his horrendous crime. We present to thee our offering of most holy sacrifice. May it appease thy spirit, and show our unending devotion to thee, our almighty lord, Torak.”

 

The Grolims bowed low, their hands pressed palms down onto the floor, and murmured prayers in reply. Miroku followed suit, and slowly slid his hand across the cold stone towards Sango's. He made sure their robes hid them from view, and gave her hand a firm squeeze, and Sango returned it. Her grip was strong, evidence to how difficult it was for the slayer to contain her own outrage at the terrible act occurring on the altar. They let go, and Miroku gave her another small nod before focusing on keeping his own temper in check. It was too dangerous to be found out, no matter how much he wanted to help the poor man about to be slain.

 

The priest chanted, “O, Dragon God of Angarak, how sweet it is to be the holy sacrifice unto thee. Those who undergo this most holy of sacrifices shall inherit thy highest favor, and shall find comfort when they are reunited with thee. Those who undergo the ultimate sacrifice are the happiest of thy followers. They are the envy of all. It is our hope that this will bring us closer to thee, and that all of us will one day find ourselves in thy most hallowed presence. We are thy humble servants, desiring only to please thee. Witness our devotion, and know that we will follow thee forever and ever.”

 

The Grolims again bowed low before the altar. Their prayers were more enthusiastic than before, as the priest began to stir a religious fervor among the gathering. Miroku emulated their behavior, making sure to mumble so the others wouldn't realize he prayed for the victim's soul, rather than for Torak's favor. He seethed inside, furious that the priest would say that the man about to be butchered was happy. The man whimpered from his prostrate position on the black altar, weakly trying to fight the Grolims holding him captive. Miroku glanced up, seeing despair in his dark eyes. There was no happiness; there was no comfort in his fate. Miroku turned his head, forcing back a bout of nausea at what he was seeing.

 

Again, the priest began a low chant, his booming voice filling the Temple's round room, “O, Dragon God of Angarak, even in the darkest of hours, we have not abandoned thee. We remain steadfast in our faith, even when others threaten it. We refuse to turn away from thy divine countenance, O Lord, even when it may seemeth that hope is dim. In the hours and days after thy tragic demise, there were some who turned their backs upon thee, but we will not, not now or ever. We await thy glorified return to us, and the restoration of our holy Church at thy holy hands. We shall celebrate thy triumph when you conqueror your enemies, for we, thy Angaraks, shall triumph alongside thee. Hear our prayers, divine Torak, and know we remain faithful to thee. Witness our most holy of rites, and see the proof of our devotion.”

 

The priest then turned, facing the altar. The Grolim bowed low towards it, muttering a low prayer. He approached the whimpering sacrificial victim, his knife raised high. The Temple fell into an anticipated hush, as everyone watched the gruesome rite. Miroku clenched his teeth, fighting back rage and nausea. He couldn't believe this was happening. In horror, he watched the other Grolims forcibly hold the man down. The Grolim holding the knife placed the tip of it on the victim's chest, and cut a thin line of dark, rich crimson. The man howled in anguish as his chest was carved open. Next, the priest of Torak reached inside, and pulled the man's beating heart out. With a gurgle, and a flood of blood from his mouth, the man died.

 

The Grolim Priest held up the heart and knife, and in a booming voice announced, “Our holy celebration is nearly complete! Behold our sacrifice, Dragon God of Angarak! Know that we are ever faithful to thee and that we will continue our holy rites until the end of time!”

 

The priest deposited the man's heart into one of the braziers, and it emitted an oily smoke. It hissed as it burned, and Miroku had to turn his head when he saw it shrivel up. The other Grolims contemptuously pushed their victim's body off the altar and into the open fire pit, leaving fresh blood smears behind. His body landed in a grotesque angle, and began to burn, giving off a putrid odor.

 

Everyone bowed low, and Miroku followed suit as a gong sounded its grim death song. The monk muttered a prayer for the poor victim's soul, hoping he could find peace after such a grisly demise. The ritual he had just witnessed was not holy; it was inhuman and pure evil. How one could do this time and time again astounded Miroku. Life was not sacred to these Grolims, or to their God.

 

The Grolims around him began to stand, chanting in low tones. They folded their hands in prayer in front of their chests, and began processing out from the Temple in a swaying gait. Glancing around, he noticed that his own party was doing the same. He caught Sango's furious gaze from behind her mask. He wished he could take her hand, but knew it would blow their cover. They filed out of the Temple, back into the streets. Miroku was grateful to be back in the open air, and away from the revolting stench of death.

 

The Guardsman from before approached them, and said, “I shall take you to his Holiness now.”

 

The group formed into a single file line with Miroku taking the lead. As they approached the palace, the monk took the time to look at it. Its walls were made of the same dark stone as the rest of the city. It was obvious that it had been standing here for centuries. Eons of grime from the Temple's smoke coated it, and there was a dense moss growing on various stones. There were small windows chiseled into the tower faces. The turrets were a dark black, capping off the castle's brooding appearance. While the rest of the city had almost no decoration or extravagance, Miroku could tell that an exception had been made for the palace. They stopped in front of its huge, gilded doors, and the other Guardsman opened it.

 

They entered its stuffy walls. It had high, vaulted ceilings, and the floors were made of marble. Torches illuminated the path, ornately carved sconces holding them in place. Miroku arched an eyebrow behind his mask. Urvon might not have liked allowing others in his city to enjoy the pleasures of this life, but it seemed that stopped at his palace door. They traveled down a dark hallway, and stopped when they reached a short stair case draped in blood red carpet. It lead to a massive oak door. Two, huge Hounds guarded it. They eyed the party, their flaming green eyes sweeping over them.

 

“What business do you have with his Holiness?” one of the giant dogs demanded, the sound of its words mangled as it tried to speak with its enlarged fangs.

 

Miroku stepped forward, and said, “I am the High Priest of Jarot in Celanta. I am here to receive orders from his Holiness, and give him a gift.”

 

“His Holiness was not informed of your coming. He has no appointment with you. How do we know what you say is true?”

 

Miroku inwardly cursed. So far they had gotten lucky to have little opposition to their visit with Urvon. He glared at the dogs guarding the door, his fury from witnessing the sacrifice fueling his performance as a Grolim Priest. Miroku thought about how Sesshomaru would respond. He put more authority into his voice, and said, “Do you dare question my integrity? I am uncertain as to why my messenger did not arrive here to inform his Holiness of my visit, but I sent one a month before I left Jarot.”

 

“What other business do you have with his Holiness? Can it not wait until later?” The other Hound asked, its eyes narrowed in suspicion.

 

“It cannot.”

 

“What can be so urgent that you must see him right away?”

 

Miroku gripped his staff tightly in his hand. He stared the two dogs down, and drew himself up. “It is my duty to report to his Holiness upon my arrival. I have waited until the religious ceremony was over to do so. Do you dare impeded me in doing my duty?”

 

The Hounds barked and whined at one another for a few brief moments. One of them asked, “What is your gift for his Holiness?”

 

“It is an ornate carving,” Miroku lied smoothly. He returned the Chandim's glare, and said, his tone cold, “I would hope this would be a sufficient enough answer.”

 

The Hounds exchanged glances and soft growls. They nodded towards Miroku and his party. “We will let you pass. His Holiness should have returned from religious duty by now.”

 

The Temple Guardsman saluted the two Chandim, and walked up the steps. The door opened, and he struck his breast plate with his fist. He announced, “Your Holiness, may I present to you the High Priest of Jarot in Celanta!”

 

Slowly, they proceeded into the immense throne room to approach the ultimate seat of Grolim power in Mallorea. The red carpet tapered into a thin ribbon across the dark marble floor. Torches in golden candelabras lit the room, casting dim shadows into the corners. Ostentatious tapestries embroidered with dragons hung on the walls. On one side of the room was another vile black altar, two braziers on each side of it. A fresh pool of blood indicated that it had been used recently.

 

Miroku averted his eyes to face the throne. It was a large high back chair made of gold. Suspended behind it was another polished mask of Torak. Flanking it were two more bulky Hounds, their fiery eyes scrutinizing everything.

 

The monk inwardly shuddered, and finally looked at the man occupying the throne. He wore a black robe as all the other Grolims did, but his was silk instead of heavy wool. On his head rested a golden circlet. Miroku felt repulsed by the man's face. There were several pock marks and white patches of dead skin, giving him a splotchy look. His dark eyes were lit with madness, and a cruel smile twisted his lips. Miroku wished that the man had worn the same mask as all of the other Grolims.

 

“Approach the throne,” the man's shrill voice commanded.

 

Miroku and his small party approached the throne, and bowed low before it. The monk slowly stood, his group following. He said, “I am the High Priest of Jarot in Celanta. I have come to receive orders from you, your Holiness, and present you with a gift to demonstrate my homage to you.”

 

Urvon gleefully rubbed his hands together, his eyes bulging in anticipation. He said, his voice a high nasal, “Ye have pleased me by bringing me a gift.” His insane eyes swirled with greed. “First, let us have a discussion. Tell me a bit about your travels.”

 

“I have crossed Karanda to arrive here, your Holiness, and have seen many disturbing things,” Miroku said. “They talk of this Naraku. I am sure that you have heard of him, your Holiness, but the Karands are convinced he'll deliver them from your control.”

 

Urvon's eyes narrowed. He smirked, the expression distorting his ugly features. “Yes. Naraku's plan is working the way we had hoped, then. Good. If the Karands will accept him, then it'll be easier to crush them later on.”

 

Miroku pursed his lips behind his mask. So, Naraku was allied with Urvon, or had at least convinced him that he was. Miroku knew enough to know that Naraku had most likely set a trap for Urvon, and was waiting to spring it. He said, “I apologize, your Holiness, for not knowing. I have been on the road, and Jarot is so far away from your holy city. I pledge to do anything to aid your cause.”

 

Before the madman could respond, a chilling, soft chuckle permeated the room. A dark shadow moved from behind the throne. Its aura was overwhelming, and the tendrils of its evil curled around Miroku. How he had missed such a malicious presence he did not know. The specter whispered, its voice an inhuman rasp, “This charade hath amused me, but it ends now. Show thyself, Disciple of Aldur.”

 

Miroku gasped, wondering who the evil being was talking about. He noticed that Urvon and the Hounds sat staring vacantly, oblivious to their surroundings. Everyone in his traveling group seemed frozen in place, and his eyes connected with Sango's. Fury boiled in the depths of her eyes, and Miroku was relieved that she was at least conscious. He wanted to ask this malicious being what he had done to his friends, but found that he could not speak. He fought the panic rising within, knowing it would not help. One of his party stepped forward, and removed their Grolim disguise. It was the juggler. Miroku couldn't believe that Feldegast had blown their cover, especially after all of his warnings. Surely, he was not a disciple of Aldur.

 

“Here I be,” Feldegast said, a dangerous lilt to his voice.

 

“I commend thee on thy restraint,” the shadow whispered. “I know of thy dislike for this creature. Thy reputation proceeds thee. I would have thought the opportunity to attack the last remaining Disciple of Torak would have been too tempting for thee. I congratulate thee on thy willpower.”

 

Feldegast did not flinch from the shadow. There was a menacing gleam in his eyes. “'Tis be part of me charm, don't y' know.”

 

“Show thy true self, Disciple of Aldur.”

 

A blue nimbus surrounded the acrobat, shimmering. An image of a deformed hunchback superimposed over Feldegast. And then, the entertainer was gone. In his place stood the hunchback, a defiant sneer on his hideous face. His arms hung down like huge tree branches, and his gnarled hands dragged on the floor. Twigs and grass clung to his matted white beard and hair. A layer of thick grime covered him. Tattered clothes clung to him, rotted in places.

 

The dwarf said, his voice gruff, and without any lilting baroque, “Well, here I am. What do you want, demon?”

 

The demon moved to stand directly in front of the throne. It threw its hood back to reveal misshapen features of its own. Thick horns protruded from its forehead. Unlike the pointed ears of demons Miroku knew, this one had horribly disfigured composites of human ones. Its cheeks were wrinkled, almost like deep scars gouged the skin. The demon's mouth was filled with impressive fangs. The most terrifying feature, however, was its burning green eyes. The evil that brooded there was so total, so consuming, and so malevolent that it chilled Miroku's blood.

 

The demon's raspy voice slithered as it said, “You must be Beldin. I commend thee on the skills of your illusions.”

 

“I don't take compliments from demons, but thanks anyways.” Beldin glared at the demon. “And you must be Nahaz.”

 

“That I am.” Nahaz smiled, and the expression made his face all the more terrifying. “I am Nahaz, Lord of Demons and Master of Darkness. I have been warned about thee, Disciple of Aldur. I will not permit you to kill this creature.”

 

“Just how do you plan to stop me, Demon Lord? You're not really here; you're just a shadow,” Beldin countered, a wicked sneer on his ugly face.

 

“I cannot kill thee in my present state, no. Thy will is too strong, but if I were to kill another of thy party perhaps----” Nahaz chuckled again, his blazing eyes focusing on Miroku. “Greetings High Priest of Jarot in Celanta---or should I say Buddhist monk Miroku? Naraku hath told me much about thee. Remove thy mask so that I may look upon thy countenance.”

 

Miroku clenched his teeth to keep from flinching. He took off the Grolim mask, knowing it was futile to keep it on. He glared at the grotesque Demon Lord, not willing to dignify his taunts with a response. Miroku gripped his staff tight to keep his fear in check. Nahaz's blazing eyes locked onto his, and the monk had to look away. This made the Demon Lord laugh mockingly, the hiss of it chafing Miroku.

 

“Thy feeble display of bravery hath amused me, monk.” The Demon Lord continued to laugh. He said, “I had hoped that you would be here with the Disciple of Aldur when he came to investigate Mal Yaska.”

 

Miroku's eyes went wide, and he gasped. He asked, finding the constraint on his vocal cords released, “Why?”

 

“Why you ask,” Nahaz mocked. “Why, to see the shock on thy face.”

 

The monstrous Demon Lord dropped his robe of shadow to reveal his hideous body. It was humanoid in nature. He had muscular arms with massive clawed hands. His skin was a dark green, matching his malevolent eyes. The Demon Lord turned his back, and Miroku's eyes went wide. There, etched into Nahaz's skin was the image of a spider.

 

Miroku said softly in disbelief, “You're an incarnation of Naraku.”

 

“Alright, Demon Lord, what game are you playing,” the hunchback that had been Feldegast demanded.

 

“Game? What game, Disciple of Aldur?” Nahaz asked sardonically.

 

“You're taunting him.”

 

“There is no taunt. He is correct. I am an incarnation of Naraku.”

 

Miroku's brows furrowed. Why would a Demon Lord willingly become an incarnation of the evil hanyou? Nahaz didn't deserve the title Demon Lord. The monk said, “I don't understand.”

 

“What is there to understand? The arrangement benefits me.” Nahaz smiled wickedly, and flashed his deadly fangs. “I will use Naraku in my pursuit of acquiring a gateway to dominating this world. I will be the most favored Demon Lord with the King of Hell.”

 

“You mean you want to bring a half-human, half-demon monstrosity into the world,” Beldin growled.

 

Nahaz's evil grin grew. “How astute of thee, Disciple of Aldur. However, it is only one step to attaining my goals.”

 

Miroku bit his lip in thought. He knew that Naraku would not take well to one of his incarnations having designs of their own. He was certain that if Naraku knew of Nahaz's plans, he'd put a stop to the Demon Lord. Miroku's curiosity bested him, and he asked, “What else do you have planned in obtaining your goals?”

 

The Demon Lord turned his blazing eyes on Miroku. He chuckled again. “Art thou certain that thou wishes to know, monk?”

 

Miroku squeezed his staff, and nodded. Even though the demon's plans were most certainly ghastly, the monk knew that it'd be better to know rather than being surprised later on. If Nahaz was willing to tell him, he'd let him. Miroku whispered, “Yes.”

 

“I will wait until the Child of Dark hath the stone of power, and then I shall take it from him. Once I possess what humans in this land call Cthrag Yaska, I will gain dominion over this world.”

 

“Child of Dark?” Miroku arched an eyebrow.

 

“He means Naraku,” Beldin interrupted. “One problem with your plan, Demon Lord. The Child of Dark doesn't have the Orb. Belgarion does.”

 

“The time thou masqueraded as a simpleton storyteller hath bereft thee of thy wits, Disciple of Aldur. The Child of Dark hath devised a plan to capture the stone of power, and shall unleash it in the near future.” Nahaz's eyes narrowed in triumph. “If thou had been paying attention, thou would knowst how Naraku intends on acquiring the Orb of thy master.”

 

“If Naraku wishes to face the Godslayer and his sword Irongrip, he'll end up like the last Child of Dark. Dead,” Beldin countered.

 

“Belgarion is no longer the Child of Light. It is not his blade that the Child of Dark should fear,” Nahaz retorted.

 

Miroku's brows furrowed. “Who, then, is the Child of Light?”

 

“That I do not know, monk. That being said, I do not care about the outcome of the next meeting of the Child of Light and Child of Dark. I will simply kill the victor and then I will rule this world.”

 

Miroku chewed his lip. “You're an incarnation of Naraku, or the Child of Dark, as you call him. He won't take well to your betrayal.”

 

“I am a Demon Lord, monk. I shall simply take his head and present it to the King of Hell.” Nahaz smiled.

 

“Then why did you become an incarnation at all?”

 

“As I have told thee, it benefits me. If the Child of Dark should succeed, it shall be all the easier for me to kill him. The Child of Light will be out of my way.”

 

Beldin snorted. “I can't say that I'm surprised that you've already made plans to betray your master. Demons are notorious for their duplicity. I don't suppose Naraku got your loyalty in writing.”

 

Miroku pursed his lips. “Knowing Naraku as I do, he won't have to. Naraku has other means to prevent his incarnations from betraying him.”

 

“Naraku hath no power over me. His ability to manipulate his other puppets does not apply to me, monk.” Nahaz laughed softly.

 

“I'm not sure I'd be so self-assured. The spider on your back says otherwise,” Miroku answered.

 

Beldin scratched his chest. “You're pretty certain that the Child of Dark will triumph when the EVENT hasn't even happened yet, Demon Lord.”

 

Nahaz's wicked grin grew, and his fangs reflected the torch light. “Thy reasoning is correct, Disciple of Aldur, but thy folly was to bring the monk before me. If I kill him now, the Child of Light will fail.”

 

“What makes you think I'll let you kill him.” Beldin's hideous face twisted into a glare.

 

“Thou canst protect him while thou fights with the Disciple of Torak at the same time.”

 

“Don't flatter yourself, Demon Lord.” Beldin snapped his fingers and a white hot hook appeared in his gnarled hand. “Are you sure you want to hand that piebald son of a mangy dog over on a silver platter? I thought you didn't want me to kill him.”

 

“Do not be foolish, Disciple of Aldur. That creature is nothing but my puppet. As long as he sits upon his throne and believes he shall be the First Disciple of the new Angarak God, I shall be able to unleash chaos onto this world.” Nahaz grinned evilly. “I can strip him of his fear of thee, and force him to battle thee. I still won't let thee kill him, but it shall amuse me to watch thee try. While thou art doing that, I will dispatch the monk and his companions.”

 

Miroku flinched and gasped as the sound of metal clanged onto the marble floor. Hiraikotsu whizzed past him, and through Nahaz to slam into the massive mask of Torak behind the throne. The Demon Lord laughed, and fixed his evil gaze on Sango. He said, “Thy will is stronger than I thought, demon slayer.”

 

Miroku turned, staring at Sango with wide eyes. She stood glaring at Nahaz with determination in her eyes. He whispered, “Sango---”

 

Before Sango could retort, Urvon stood up from his throne. A twisted smirk curled on his lips, and he pointed at Beldin. “You! How dare you come here! Kill him!”

 

The two giant Hounds at the sides of the throne lunged towards the dwarf. Beldin chuckled evilly, and didn't move out of the way. “How typical, Urvon. Go ahead, send your overgrown puppies on the attack instead of facing me.”

 

Just as the huge dogs neared the hunchback, he nonchalantly waved his hand. At that gesture, one Hound flew into the air, and slammed into a wall with a sickening crack. It yelped and slid down the marble to land in a twisted heap on the floor. The other Chandim froze mid-attack, its eyes narrowed in fury. It slowly circled the misshapen sorcerer, stalking him cautiously.

 

Urvon stepped away from the throne, holding a fireball in his hand. He carefully approached the other sorcerer, making certain to keep the Hound between him and Beldin. Nahaz may have been able to strip the Disciple of Torak's fear of Beldin, but that didn't stop him from being cautious. Urvon hurled his fireball at Beldin, who easily deflected it. He snarled, “Damn you!”

 

“That all you got, ol' piebald?” Beldin taunted. The hunchback inched closer to Urvon. The Hound's hackles rose, and it moved to block his path. It growled low in its throat and snapped its teeth. Beldin glared at it, seemingly bored. “Get out of my way, puppy.”

 

The Hound snarled, and said, “I won't let you hurt my master.”

 

Beldin barked a laugh out. “Won't let me, eh? At least you know who your master is. How sweet, huh Urvon, to have their loyalty.”

 

Nahaz's dark laughter drew Miroku's attention away from the building fight between the two old sorcerers and Hound. Once his eyes met the sinister Demon Lord's, the monk froze. The malicious smirk became larger, and Nahaz whispered, “How entertaining, is it not?”

 

Miroku tried to look away, only to find that he couldn't move. The longer the Demon Lord's gaze held the monk's, the brighter his green eyes became. They flared into incandescence, and their evil chilled Miroku. Nahaz's eyes burned brighter until their fire burst forth towards the monk. Miroku stood helpless, assuring that the Demon Lord would succeed in killing him.

 

A heavy weight crashed into him, shoving him to the floor. Miroku grunted from the impact, and felt the invisible barrier holding him break. The sound of rock buckling and snapping echoed through the large room. A rough whisper hissed in his ear, “Are you alright?”

 

Miroku nodded, and the weight lifted off of him. He sat up, and came face to face with Sango. The thank-you died on his lips when his eyes connected with hers. A mixture of emotions churned in the depths of her dark eyes. Flyaway locks of hair framed her beautiful face, and Miroku reached up to tuck one behind an ear.

 

Sango shoved his staff into his hands. “Cover me. I'm going to get hiraikotsu back.”

 

Miroku nodded, and assumed a fighting stance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Silk running to avoid being hit by one of Nahaz's wicked fireballs. Velvet stood, watching the Demon Lord with wary eyes. She rolled out of the way when Nahaz sent a blast in her direction. Miroku realized they were providing distractions to the Demon Lord. He looked up to see Sango carefully edge around behind the occupied Nahaz, and creep towards the throne.

 

The Demon Lord started to turn, aware of Sango's movements. Miroku had to get Nahaz's attention away from her. He slammed the butt of his staff into the floor, and Nahaz turned his burning gaze back onto Miroku. This time, the monk kept his eyes averted. The Demon Lord laughed, and turned his full attention on Miroku. He sent another blast of energy, and Miroku jumped back to avoid it.

 

Nahaz said, “Thou canst evade me forever, monk.”

 

Miroku lifted his eyes to see if Sango had reclaimed her weapon. She yanked it from the wall, then jumped down to the floor to rush back around. A yelp of pain distracted Miroku, and he glanced over to see the other Hound lying in a corner. Beldin had closed in on Urvon, and had his white hot hook poised over the other sorcerer's belly. Urvon whimpered and thrashed, trying to get away from the hunchback. Fear made his splotchy face even more so, and his eyes were wide in terror. Whatever spell Nahaz had used to make Urvon unafraid had broken.

 

Beldin chuckled softly. “Well, piebald, it's been fun knowing you. I hope you'll like Hell.”

 

Nahaz bellowed in fury, and turned, charging towards the pair of sorcerers. He grabbed Urvon by his robes and yanked him away from Beldin. The Demon Lord glanced around the throne room, his evil eyes enraged. He howled in an inhuman language, the sound of it hideous, then charged through the back wall of the throne room. His exit carved a huge path through the rock face that formed Urvon's palace.

 

The roof of the throne room heaved and groaned before a huge crack appeared down the center. Huge chunks of rock started to fall from the ceiling, and crashed into the marble below. Miroku started to run towards Sango, but stopped as a huge hunk of the ceiling smashed into the floor in front of him. He began to dodge them, trying not to get crushed by the collapse of the throne room. He heard Sango cry out, but couldn't reach her as too many rocks walled him off from her.

 

Dust filled the room, blinding Miroku and he stumbled, trying to avoid any more of the falling chunks. His eyes watered, and he coughed, trying to breathe. The monk held a hand out in front, trying to prevent himself from running into anything. He tripped over one of the hunks of the collapsed ceiling, and careened forward. He let go of his staff, and put his hands in front of him to stop his fall. Instead, of hitting hard marble or sharp rock, Miroku fell on something soft.

 

A soft grunt sounded, and Silk's strangled voice said, “Get off of me!”

 

“Sorry.” Miroku pulled back. He coughed again, trying to clear his throat. The dust started to settle, revealing that they were in a portion of the throne room, cut off from Sango, Velvet, and Beldin. He stood, and dusted his robes off. Miroku offered his hand to Silk, and pulled him up. He looked around for an exit, spotting a small hole behind what was once the throne. The mask of Torak had been sheared in half, hanging loosely from the wall.

 

“Well, now what?”

 

“I think we should get out of here, before those other Hounds and Grolims come looking, that's what,” replied Silk. He pulled his Grolim robes off to reveal his brown tunic and tights underneath. He kicked it aside and moved towards the hole in the wall. “You better take that robe off, too. It could get caught on something otherwise.”

 

Miroku nodded, and slipped out of the Grolim robe. His inner robes weren't nearly as bulky. The monk picked up his staff, and stepped around a ragged hunk of the ceiling. Miroku sighed. He hoped that Sango was alright. He watched Silk squeeze through the hole, then followed suit.

 

It was dark on the other side, and they groped their way through the tight passage. The monk hoped it wouldn't last too long. Silk started babbling ahead of him. He couldn't understand the spy, since he was mumbling. There was an edge of panic building into his voice. He could tell that Silk was nervous about being in this small tunnel. He winced as a rock scraped against his shoulder, and made an effort to feel the path ahead with his hand. The rock face felt cool against his fingertips.

 

There was a large booming sound that reverberated through the passage, and the rock surrounding them creaked and groaned in protest. Miroku and Silk halted their progression as more aftershocks sounded. They couldn't see if the rock was splitting, preparing to cave in. Another loud rumble filled the corridor, shaking the ground underneath their feet.

 

Silk cried out, “Belar! It's going to cave in and kill us!”

 

Miroku felt panic flood his senses. The foreboding rock above them continued to groan. It surrounded them completely, and the monk felt utterly helpless. If it should cave in, they would be crushed immediately. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the thought. Miroku squeezed his cursed hand into a tight fist. He took a deep breath, and focused on his breathing to bring himself under control. Miroku let the breath he was holding go slowly, putting the oppressive rock out of his mind.

 

The spy started to run ahead of him, the slap of his shoes resounding in the dark. Miroku cursed under his breath. They couldn't get separated. He called out, “Silk! Wait!”

 

The panicked thief didn't slow, and the monk rushed to catch up to him. Miroku tripped several times, and stumbled to keep his footing. His hand brushed against the coarse fabric of Silk's tunic, and he latched on. Immediately, the spy tried to pull away, struggling.

 

“Let me go!” Silk twisted, trying to pull free. He whimpered. “We're going to die, aren't we?”

 

“Calm down, Silk. We can't afford to be separated. And we can't see. You could have run straight into something and not even known it.” Miroku tightened his grip on Silk's shirt. “Breathe.”

 

Silk's heavy pants reached his ears, followed by nervous laughter. “Breathe, he says.”

 

Once the spy had regained some of his composure, they meandered through the small passage, having to turn sideways several times to continue. The cave floor sloped a few times, and Miroku had to steady himself with his staff to prevent himself from falling. They stumbled along, tripping over various obstacles in the path. The sound of dripping water echoed softly. The longer they fumbled in the dark, the slicker the cave walls became. Miroku's hand slipped, and he tottered forward. He caught himself before he could fall into Silk, and sighed, concentrating on not tripping.

 

Silk's voice floated back, “Haven't you ever wondered why cave walls are so damp?” The spy laughed, a nervous titter to it. He said, his voice cracking, “It's not like it can rain inside one, after all.”

 

The monk replied softly, “I just wish we had some sense of direction in here.”

 

Silence settled over them, the sound of their shoes scraping the floor filling Miroku's ears. There was no sense of time in the tunnel. Miroku wasn't sure how long they had been feeling their way. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. Without any light, he just couldn't be sure. His eyes started to adjust, and he could vaguely make out the shape of the spy ahead of him.

 

The cave turned again, and the sounds of Silk's shoes and his sandals scraped the rough cave floor. The sound echoed loudly in the monk's ears. They flattened themselves against the rock face, slowly squeezing through another tight turn. He could hear Silk's heavy breathing, and bumped into him when he stopped.

 

“Why did you stop?” Miroku asked softly.

 

“I'm stuck.” Silk's voice cracked, reaching a high register. Miroku heard scraping sounds, and the distinct sound of cloth ripping. The spy cursed under his breath frantically, using the foul language almost as a mantra to calm himself. He said, the fear becoming thicker in his voice, “Push me through.”

 

Miroku braced his feet on the slick floor, and pushed on the spy's shoulder. He heard Silk's clothes rip more on the sharp rock. The little rat faced man finally extracted himself from the constricted corridor. He whispered, “Are you all the way through, Silk?”

 

“Yes. Hurry up,” Silk replied shrilly.

 

The monk sucked in air, and slid into the narrow passage. He wiggled, trying to slip through without getting stuck as the spy had. He felt his arm twist at an odd angle and winced in pain. Miroku swore under his breath, and tried to slid back to unpin his arm.

 

“What's the matter?” Silk asked, his words rushed together.

 

“My arm got stuck.” Miroku squirmed, and heard the cloth of his robe tear. Finally, he pulled his arm free, and slipped out onto the other side to join the spy. He rubbed his arm. Miroku reached through, and grabbed his staff. “Damn.”

 

“What?”

 

“I ripped my robe.”

 

“That's the least of our worries, don't you think? Come on, let's keep going.” Silk laughed softly, panic filling its sound.

 

They continued fumbling through the narrow passageway, meandering without direction. Miroku wondered if the others were having better luck, or if they too had found themselves in an endless cave. He hoped that they would be able to meet up with one another once they exited the cave, whenever that would happen. He was beginning to wonder if they'd ever escape this endless darkness. Miroku said a quick prayer to dispel the thoughts. He couldn't let panic set in, not with the way Silk was increasingly becoming claustrophobic.

 

“I hate caves, don't you?” The spy laughed softly. He said, his voice cracking, “They can go on for miles and miles and you never know where they'll end. We might even be going in circles and not even know it.”

 

Miroku groped ahead of him, trying to catch up to Silk. He replied, “I'm sure it'll end soon. Don't think about it.”

 

“Easy for you to say.”

 

The pair continued down the dark path, tripping every so often. The scraping sounds of Silk's shoes and Miroku's sandals echoed off the walls, and the sounds of their breathing filled the air. The spy began to breath heavily again, almost hyperventilating. The hint of a breeze brushed them, and Miroku squinted to spot some light up ahead. They were getting closer. It would be over soon.

 

Once they squeezed out of the small hole in the rock face, Miroku blinked and glanced around, trying to spot Sango and the others. He frowned when he realized they weren't there. Perhaps they were in a different tunnel and would join them soon. He glanced over when he saw Silk hunched over, trying to catch his breath. The spy was pale, and he shook slightly.

 

“Are you alright, Silk?”

 

The spy looked up, glaring at Miroku. “What do you think?”

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“Weren't you listening in there? I hate caves.” The little man shuddered again. His eyes closed, and he took another deep breath. “Absolutely, positively, hate caves. If I never have to go into another one, it'll be too soon.”

 

“I see.” Miroku moved to crawl up onto one of the large rocks nearby. He shielded his eyes, trying to adjust to the dim light, and scanned the area. He couldn't see if Sango and the others had emerged from another tunnel. He couldn't be sure they had even gone straight to reach their current location. He cursed under his breath, “Shit.”

 

In the distance, a loud bellow echoed, and Miroku gasped. On the horizon, rushing towards them was a massive demon. It was monstrous in size, nearly as tall as a barn. The demon had four large arms, all affixed with huge clawed hands. Its face was ugly, with four eyes, and huge fangs. It howled again, and started to charge towards them.

 

“I think we better get out of here,” Miroku said. “That thing is coming straight for us.”

 

“Where do you suggest we go? I'm not going back into that cave.”

 

“I don't think that would be a good idea, no.” Miroku looked around, trying to spot another place to hide. He said, “Let's run and find some place else to go---before that demon gets here preferably.”

 

The pair started to run, keeping themselves close to the mountainside to keep from view. They could hear the demon crashing through the trees behind them, howling in its dreadful language. Miroku knew they had to hide, and fast, otherwise he wouldn't have time to erect a barrier to protect them. He spotted a cave nearby, and veered towards it. He pulled Silk with him.

 

“Come on, we have to get in there.”

 

“Oh no. Not another cave. I'm not going in there.”

 

“If you stay out here, that demon will eat you.”

 

“I think I'd rather have the demon.” Silk's eyes darted wildly around, fear etched onto his rat-like face. “You can go into the cave. I'll stay right here, thank-you.”

 

“No. I can't do that. You have to come in with me.” Miroku sighed. “Listen, I can make a barrier over that cave to keep that demon out. If you don't come in with me, you won't be protected. We don't have much time, and until that demon moves on to something else, it's the best we can do.”

 

Silk bit his lip. He shook his head vigorously. “No. Anything but another cave.”

 

The demon neared, the sounds of rocks and trees crashing getting louder. There wasn't much time. Miroku grabbed Silk, and forcibly pulled him into the cave. He blocked the entrance to prevent the panicked spy from exiting.

 

Silk beat his fists onto Miroku's chest, his eyes wide in fear. He said, “Damn you, monk. I said I didn't want to get in the cave. Let me out.”

 

Miroku shook his head, and refused to move. The demon howled loudly, the sound reverberating inside the cave. They didn't have much time, and if he didn't erect a barrier soon, the demon would be inside with them. He said, “No, Silk. It's not safe out there.”

 

“It's not safe in here.” The spy's eyes darted around the interior of the cave, and he panted heavily. “What if this cave collapses on us? It'll kill us.”

 

“And that demon will devour us if we go back out. I have to put up a barrier. We can't waste anymore time arguing about being in here.” Miroku put his hand to his lips in prayer. He erected a hasty barrier, and set his staff into the entrance.

 

The demon beat its fists on the barrier, unable to get inside. Miroku sighed in relief, thankful that his spiritual power had the same effect on demons from Hell as it did on the ones he was most familiar with. He slumped down against the wall, and sighed.

 

Miroku glanced over to see Silk curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth. He reached out and placed his hand on the thief's shoulder, only to pull back when he flinched away. Miroku whispered, “I'm sorry, Silk. I had to do it.”

 

Author's Note: Visit my livejournal at farawayeyes4.livejournal.com for more information on my writing.