Swords & Heroes Story #24

Demon Eye by Greg Fewer

Jun 03, 2025

Greg’s story came to me out of the blue. This, of course, is to be expected. Editors have submission windows and should not be surprised to receive new tales and meet new writers. What’s suprising is that Greg and I have not crossed paths before now. He started writing and submitting stories about the same time I did. And in fact, today’s selection, “Demon Eye,” is his first publication, from way back in 2007 in a great little zine called Aoife’s Kiss which I think ended its run a few years back. That’s what I like about the S&S community - there are connections even though we may not know everyone by name. Well, I’m glad to finally put a name to a new writer friend and am pleased to share his tension-packed adventure with a brand new audience. + Ed.

Demon Eye by Greg Fewer

The night was bitterly cold. Deep drifts of snow covered the courtyard and glowed eerily in the bright moonlight. Setach blew into his cupped hands to warm them as he peered warily through the sandstone archway. From here he could see one of the Temple’s mural towers, the presence of the guards within betrayed by a golden glow emanating from the top windows.

“Enjoy the warmth,” thought Setach, “unlike your brother here.”

He looked down at the body of the sentry who had been guarding this hitherto secret entrance into the Temple’s inner courtyard. A dark stain soaked into the snow about the dead man’s neck. Setach reached down and picked up the sentry’s silver amulet, the reflected moonlight making it stand out from the surrounding blood, and gasped at its coldness. He studied its surface and picked out the image of a bald, fat, and grinning face with its one deep and empty eye socket. The thief hung the amulet’s chain around his neck, hissing as the cold metal disc slid down the skin of his chest.

Setach noticed that dark clouds were beginning to gather overhead. He waited till the storm clouds passed in front of the moon before sprinting to the small door in the side of the Temple, the wind muffling the sound of his feet crunching through the snow. He furtively looked about him and then set to work picking the lock on the door. It clicked loudly, and he listened for anyone who might investigate the sound.

When he felt certain that no one had heard him, he cleared away some of the snow that had built up against the door’s base and cautiously pushed the door open, revealing a narrow dimly lit corridor that ran the length of the Temple. Various painted statues of berobed priests and other holy figures stood interspersed with squat dull urns and thick limestone pillars along the near side of the corridor.

According to his main source – a vengeful acolyte who had been expelled from his service in the Temple precincts – Setach was to follow the corridor to his left for three-quarters of its length and then turn right down a side passage to come to the entrance of the altar room. Closing the door behind him, he crept down the corridor. The statues cast eerie shadows in the guttering light of the torches, which were set in sconces at intervals along the passage’s inner wall.

Setach suddenly froze in his tracks. He thought he had heard a noise. The torch immediately to his right died with a plupping sound. His heart thumping loudly in his ears, the thief slowly turned around to look behind him. Nothing there. Turning to look ahead, he thought he saw one of the statues move. Staring long and hard at the statue, he soon satisfied himself that he was just suffering from nerves – the statue he thought had moved was motionless.

Before setting off down the corridor again, he glanced at a large nearby urn and wondered what it contained. It probably held nothing more than the Temple’s share of the peasants’ grain harvests or a supply of incense, but then again, there could be coins or even gems inside. Curious, he tested the lid of this nearby urn and found it to be stiff. Giving it a good tug, the lid came free with a hiss. Setach grimaced and wrinkled his nose at the stench emanating from the crouched human corpse within – presumably, a holy man commemorated by one of the adjacent statues. Carefully, almost reverently, the thief returned the lid and then continued on his mission.

He soon reached another archway piercing the right-hand side of the corridor. The arch was defined by carvings of grotesquely deformed men and women twisting their way around the fat legs of the demon Goleme. The archway opened to a connecting passage that culminated in a T-junction. Midways along its right-hand side were two large ornate doors that formed the entrance to the altar room.

Licking his lips in anticipation, Setach eyed the doors eagerly, knowing that beyond them lay the idol to Goleme, reputedly cast from five tons of solid gold, a large ruby taking the place of the demon’s single eye. It was strange that the idol was given an eye, for Goleme was said to have been blinded in a confrontation with the High Priest Natenyo some three hundred years before. Natenyo’s mastery of powerful sorcery had never been equaled, but then to acquire it, one needed to make the ultimate sacrifice – the delivery of one’s soul to the goddess Besheth.

Since his miraculous defeat at the hands of this divinely enhanced mortal, the demon tended to respond favorably to the prayers of the priests and to certain other (extremely wealthy) devotees. It was said that Goleme was magically trapped in a separate dimension and forced to concede favors to the ‘faithful’ in return for human sacrifices, the life-force of each sacrificial victim forming the energy that sustained this fallen demon.

Setach listened at the great double doors that opened onto the altar room but pulled back sharply when he heard voices approaching from the other side. He darted back to the first corridor and hid behind an urn with a view to the room’s entrance.

The doors opened and two young men stepped out. Setach could tell that they were not yet priests by the brown trimming of their white tunics and the lack of a robe bearing a stylised eye – the icon of Goleme’s followers. The welts and scabs disfiguring their bare legs indicated that Setach’s source hadn’t been wrong when he spoke of the occasionally brutal punishments inflicted by the priests on their acolytes.

The slightly older of the two men said to the other: “Remember that for his feeding tomorrow, it will be your responsibility to set out the sacrificial implements. Remember, too, that the way must be cleaned for High Priest Napoteh in the Chamber of the Eternally Blessed. In the meantime, I will be preparing the Chosen One for his eternal blessing.”

The younger man nodded in reply, his single tassel of dark hair dancing across his otherwise shaved scalp, and turned to head down the passage to the farther T-junction. The older man re-entered the altar room, leaving one of the doors ajar.

Once the younger acolyte could no longer be heard, Setach cautiously made his way towards the open door and peered into the altar room. Though richly furnished, the room was small and barely lit by two torches, the light they cast warmly reflected by the huge golden idol of Goleme at the far end. The sparkle of its ruby eye was particularly inviting.

Setach plunged into the gloom of the unlit portion of the room near the doors only to trip on an uneven flagstone; he bounced his head off the floor with a loud slap. Momentarily dazed, Setach was glad to see that the alarmed acolyte, who had been praying near the altar, did not sound a warning but took a long, curved knife from its resting place on the body-length stone altar, which stood before the idol.

Shaking his head to clear the dizziness, Setach drew Heart Reaper, his favorite throwing knife (he always retrieved a good weapon whenever he could), and threw it at the advancing would-be priest. Heart Reaper sank deeply into the man’s chest, its thrower’s grin of satisfaction turning to a wince as the man hit the floor with a loud metallic snap. With another knife, Setach finished off the acolyte by drawing it across his throat.

Surveying the room, the thief paid particular attention to the idol, which stood to a height of some fifteen feet. Taking a rope from his rucksack and forming a lasso, he swung it up towards the idol’s head, quietly cursing when he missed his target. Muttering to himself about his nerves, he tried again. This time, the noose dropped down over the golden neck of the idol, and Setach pulled hard on the rope to make it fast.

He hauled himself up the rope with the agility of a spider and was soon loosening the gem from its receptacle. Working his knife around the edge of the socket, he noticed that there were already a number of old scratches there, evidence of an earlier attempt to prise out the gem. Setach stopped at his work to consider why his predecessor had failed to take the gem. Possibly, Temple personnel had caught him in the act.

Remembering that he had left the door to the altar room open, Setach took a quick look around in case anyone might have arrived. Satisfied, at least, that there was nobody else in the room, he turned back to the gem. Perhaps the idol had been trapped and all he had to do was spring it to suffer whatever fate may have befallen his hapless predecessor. This probably meant the gem itself was trapped, as it was the only portable prize worth taking in the room.

Setach cursed himself for being so foolish. In his eagerness to get his greatest prize, he had thrown all caution to the wind. Shifting his body so that he sat astride the shoulders of the idol, he continued to loosen the gem from behind the idol’s head. Moments later, the gem came free in his hand. In the same instant, a distant, high-pitched scream erupted from elsewhere within the temple and a cloud of yellow gas gushed out from the socket. Setach buried his face in a fold of his cloak and waited a time for the cloud to disperse.

Placing the gem carefully in the leather pouch hanging from his belt, he slowly opened his eyes and began to climb down the idol, keeping part of the cloak over his mouth with one hand. On his way down, he placed a foot in the crook of the idol’s left elbow. As soon as he put his weight on that foot, the arm moved with a click and a loud grating sound could be heard behind a large tapestry to the left of the idol.

Drawing one of his throwing knives, Setach prepared himself for a fight, but nothing came from behind the tapestry except for distant sounds of moaning. He remembered that one of the double doors to the altar room was still open. He realised that he should now make good his escape before either somebody entered the altar room or else find the body of the fallen guard outside the Temple.

But the moans were intriguing.

Exchanging the throwing knife for his dagger, Setach pulled back the tapestry to reveal a doorway leading to an unlit room. A powerful stench of decay and mold wafted out of the darkness beyond. He reached for one of the room’s torches and brought it towards the concealed doorway. Stepping into the room beyond, he recoiled at the sight of several piles of rotting human corpses, all of them apparently eviscerated.

However, part of the room was clear of corpses between the doorway and another door in the left-hand wall. This door was heavily built of oak and was inlaid with silver runes glinting in the torchlight. It seemed to form the focus of the room, which was semi-circular in shape and had a series of convex silver mirrors adorning its walls, all facing the oaken door. A massive ornate key hung from a peg on the wall next to the door.

Setach was never one to pass on an opportunity for further wealth and made his way toward the silver-inlaid door. As he did so, he felt the amulet against his chest grow colder. Ignoring the sensation and reaching for the key, he felt his arm begin to go numb – a common effect felt by the unprotected in the vicinity of powerful magic. He was wearing a magical ring, however, which was supposed to ward off such effects whenever he was stealing such sought-after magic treasures. This magic must truly be powerful to have such an effect even with the ring on.

Though difficult to grasp, he inserted the key into the door’s keyhole. As soon as he did so, the key began to turn in the lock of its own accord. Bright blue and green flashes, indicative of magic at work, surrounded the lock as the key turned and the door began to swing open. A howling wind and a wet salty spray blew through the open doorway. Above the roar of the wind, he could hear loud ear-piercing screams, their source only fleetingly glimpsed in the erratic light of his struggling torch.

Alarmed, he drew back when a tall and emaciated figure emerged from this weird tempest, green ichor oozing from its only eye socket. To his horror, Setach realized that this had to be Goleme himself. Setach backed towards the door leading to the altar room, growing dizzy with the sight before him. Only the feel of the now freezing amulet against his chest kept him from passing out.

He turned to enter the altar room and flee the Temple and its injured demon. Exiting the charnel room, he ran past the idol only to be confronted by ten or so priests and their acolytes. One of the priests shouted commands: “The Eternal Gate has been breached! Goleme must be contained and appeased.”

Taking hold of one of the young acolytes by his side, the priest picked up the curved knife previously held by Setach’s short-lived opponent and plunged it into the man’s abdomen. The others all knelt down and started to pray as their deity entered the altar room.

Setach took his chance and ran past the murderous priest who held out the convulsing body as an offering to Goleme. Nobody seemed to notice the thief as he went by. Before heading through the double doors, now wide open, Setach took one last look around and witnessed the demon grabbing both the sacrifice and the priest whose life forces quickly, and visibly, drained away. At the same time, Goleme visibly began to put on some of the weight suggested by his statue.

The corridor was clear, so Setach made his way back to the courtyard where he found a snowstorm raging outside. Pleased at the additional cover this gave him, he ran through the snow towards the secret entrance and thence to freedom. Only when he was well within the comparative safety of a dark alley in the slums did he look back towards the Temple. Through the swirling snow-filled wind, huge flames could be seen rising up from the distant edifice and explosions could be dimly heard. Goleme was exacting his revenge after three hundred years of humiliation.

Setach erupted into laughter, startling in the process an old, emaciated tramp propped up against the alley wall. For a mere cutpurse, Setach was the only person to have successfully stolen the Ruby of Goleme. He would have to sell the gem in a city far from where he was, but the past week’s meager wages would allow him to celebrate his last night in the city of Golloman. His only thoughts now were of gold, drink, and women as he headed for some ale at the Amber Cockatrice.

Yet...the amulet hanging from Setach’s neck, which had grown warm after he left the Temple precinct, started to chill his skin again. Taking it off, he turned to fling the amulet – a mere trinket next to the Ruby of Goleme – towards the tramp. This was a rare gesture for Setach, but he was now a rich man and could easily afford to give charity. As he turned, he began to feel some of the numbness he experienced back at the Temple return to his body, and he ended up dropping the amulet in the snow.

The numbness alarmed him. The snowstorm was cold, but he knew that this was not its cause – more magic was in the air. He could find no source for the suspected magic but something strange about the tramp caught his eye. Only a few moments before, the tramp had looked old and emaciated. Now, he seemed to have an enormously distended belly as he got up from the ground and started walking firmly and deliberately towards Setach.

As the frame of the tramp’s body grew, his tattered clothes tore and fell away. Fearing an attack, Setach attempted to grab one of his throwing knives but found his body numbed to paralysis. He quickly realised that the knife would have been a pointless weapon anyway as the enormous figure of Goleme now stood before him, a dark void taking the place of the demon’s only eye socket.

The demon began to inhale deeply, sparing Setach his fetid breath but robbing him of any lingering heat about his body except for a seemingly distant burning sensation about his hip. Burning its way out of Setach’s belt pouch, the idol’s ruby eye hovered towards the demon’s socket where it implanted itself with a squelch.

As his body grew cold, his soul slipping away before his very eyes towards Goleme’s mouth, Setach’s last thought was how much the demon’s multifaceted eye resembled that of an insect.

Demon Eye © 2007 by Greg Fewer. (2900 words) This story originally appeared in Aoife’s Kiss (December 2007). All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and clipart by Gilead, used by permission.

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