The Demon Lord

by Peter Morwood

  “One got away,” the hunter said. Aldric’s slaked anger swelled up inside him again, rising to the surface like bubbles in a pot of boiling water. His face felt so hot and red that he was sure Evthan could see it even in the pallid moonlight.

  “What did you say…?”

  “One of them escaped.” Either Evthan didn’t know what effect his words were having, or he didn’t care. “I assume the other three are dead?”

  “You assume?” A more choleric man would have spluttered then, or shouted, or even let his fist speak for him. Instead the rasp in Aldric’s low voice finally warned the Jouvaine hunter that all wasn’t well. “And you did nothing.” The accusation was unmistakable. “You saw them, you counted them, yet you did nothing. Blazing Light of Heaven, why not?”

  “Because I thought I heard something.” Even as he spoke he realised how feeble the excuse sounded, but he elaborated hastily before Aldric could say anything else. “You must have heard it too. A wolf howled.”

  “A wolf howled.” Aldric’s tone was an unpleasant thing to hear. “Yes. I know a wolf howled. And I know how long those men were there before I heard it. A final time – you gave me neither help nor warning. Why?”

  “Aldric, I tell you—” A glare and an angry gesture from one blood-crusted hand cut the excuse off short. Aldric winced, for the movement hurt and did nothing to improve his temper.

  “You tell me nothing! Throughout this hunt you’ve told me nothing. Since we met, Lord Geruath’s head forester—” The way Aldric used the title sounded like an insult, “—you’ve told me nothing!” That wasn’t quite true, but Evthan wasn’t foolish enough to take issue with it. “We’re going back to Valden. Walk in front of me. And do nothing sudden.”

  The expression on Evthan’s face almost convinced him that the man had just been thoughtless, but Aldric had seen play-acting too often before to trust it. He had been a play-actor for his own advantage more than once. As the Jouvaine walked away he fell into step behind, close enough but not too close, and drew his telek.

  Though he heard the ratchet of its mechanism click several times, Evthan didn’t dare glance back. If he had, he would have seen the weapon’s cylinder rotate by several stops until the next bolt it shot was a silver one.

  There was an overwhelming sense of being used as a dupe, a catspaw, an unwitting pawn in someone else’s game. Crisen Geruath’s, maybe. Or General Goth’s, or Prokrator Bruda’s. Even King Rynert’s. There were too many players, and not enough pieces to go round. There was nothing more he could say to Evthan, and no questions left to ask even if he expected answers that were more than just half-truths. He knew already who the soldiers served, the one called Keeyul had told him as much, and even knew what brought them to the old tomb after dark, though that was padded out by guesswork and his own memories. Memories? If only he could forget…

  Issaqua comes to find me

  To take my life and soul

  For I am lost

  And none can help me now.

  Issaqua sings the song of desolation

  And fills the world with Darkness.

  Bringing fear and madness.

  Despair and death to all.

  As shreds of cloud slid in to mask the moon, the fine hairs on his skin prickled at his clothing as if he was cold. Except that he wasn’t cold. Or if he was, the weather had nothing to do with it.

  *

  The gates of the village were shut and barred, and Evthan had to shout several times at the top of his voice before someone inside opened them. It was, he explained, because the villagers were all asleep by now. Aldric stared at him but said nothing, long past the need to make small talk. He guessed the hunter was right, but both guess and explanation were wrong.

  There was light within the palisade, not darkness. An extravagance of lamps and torches and candles hung outside each house, and most of all around the home of headman Darath. Aldric half-heard Evthan mutter something about ‘a council meeting at this hour?’ but paid no attention as he stepped inside the headman’s house. Half a dozen sitting nearest the door looked up as he came in, but the rest were more concerned with their own affairs. There were no questions about his success in hunting, no interest at all in why he was smeared and spotted with dry blood and, most curiously, his presence at the meeting wasn’t questioned by anyone.

  As Evthan came in behind him Aldric moved to one side, leaned against the wall and listened to a debate which from volume and passionate gestures had been going on for some time. Though they all spoke in Jouvaine, there were enough dialect words flung to and fro across the table to need all his concentration as he tried to make sense of the discussion.

  And what they were discussing, if anyone could dignify the uproar with such a word, was whether to abandon Valden to the Deepwood and the Beast. Reasons for and against were aired loudly and at length, but it all boiled down to the same thing: the Beast, and the Beast alone, was the source of all their troubles. Aldric turned his head, caught Evthan’s eye and raised one doubting eyebrow. Oh indeed? How little they know.

  One grizzled old man got to his feet, and the respect he commanded was enough to silence the shouting and argument at once.

  “Talk all you will about how your families have lived here for years past. We talk about why we can no longer live here now. This three months past we have put no silver in the coffers, though we have taken out as much as we do every Spring. The money-chests are empty, soon we will begin to starve, and Lord Geruath will still want his taxes paid. All because six men must do the work of one, for fear of the Beast.”

  The undertone of condemnation in his voice provoked a ripple of discontent, a change in the buzz of sound that was too vague to identify its source. Aldric came close to a snappish correction that men seemed in no danger from the Beast, Evthan had all but told him so, but it wasn’t his place to say so when there were other things the assembled villagers needed to hear. His clenched right fist boomed against the wall, and now not half-a-dozen but every head in the place turned as if on a single neck to stare at him. Already, like a defensive mechanism, he was smiling the thin, sardonic smile that was becoming far too much at home on his face.

  “You’ll do what you think is best, I’m sure,” he said. “But you shouldn’t waste too much time deciding what that is.”

  “How came you bloodied, sir?” The formal phrasing came from Darath the headman himself, sitting in a high-backed chair more ornately carved than any other in the room. It was more elaborate than Aldric expected to see a peasant sitting on, and the carvings weren’t folk-art, trees and flowers and animals, but armed warriors and stylised crest-beasts. Darath himself was grey-haired, his face half-hidden by the sweep of a steel-hued moustache, and there was enough dignity about him that, peasant or not, Aldric straightened from his slouch to make a bow before he spoke again.

  “I killed three men in the forest tonight. Soldiers in the service of your Overlord.” He heard the collective gasp of horror but didn’t break contact with the headman’s eyes. “This,” he raised his left hand with its clotted web of red-black trickles, “is my blood, while this—” the right hand came up, its black leather glove roughened by coagulated spatter, “—is from a Drusalan called Keeyul.”

  “You killed him?” Darath’s voice was neutral and Aldric could read nothing from it.

  “In a fair fight.” Fair, if the distraction caused by a howling wolf was left out of it.

  “Then, honoured sir,” the warmth in Darath’s voice was unmistakable, “you have rid the Jevaiden of an evil greater than the Beast. At least it has reason for its beastly nature. Keeyul had not.”

  “Listen to me, headman!” Aldric cut through a rising undercurrent of jubilation. After what they had discussed, and all but decided, any small triumph was cause for celebration. If they wanted to celebrate, they needed to know the whole story.

  “Darath!” There was sudden silence. It was unlikely anyone had spoken a headman’s name like that under his own roof since V
alden village was hacked from the trees. “Let me finish. I killed three, but there were four. One escaped. Right now he’s telling Lord Geruath everything that happened. He’ll say I spoke Evthan’s name aloud. How long after that before more soldiers come to this village? They’ll look for him, for me – and for anyone who gave me food, or shelter, or even a friendly word.”

  “How…” Darath’s voice cracked, forcing him to try again. “How, if you could kill three, did you let one get away?” There was a pathetic desperation in the way he framed the question, and for just a moment Aldric wished he could give a better answer.

  “Ask Evthan about it.” He ducked his head in another slight bow. “I’m going to my bed.”

  *

  Although that bed was in Evthan’s own house, the hunter didn’t follow to let him in. The council would hardly let him leave without demanding explanation for that enigmatic parting shot. Yet when Aldric reached the house its door was secured only by the hasp, and Gueynor was inside on a low chair near the stove.

  “Good evening, hlensyarl,” she said, then returned her attention to the simmering pots. Aldric nodded back with equal curtness and took a seat.

  “Is it?” Seeing her rekindled the dull self-loathing that any kailin-eir might feel after using poisoned weapons. It was no more than vague disquiet, not directed at anything in particular, but Gueynor was here again and she had been the one to offer him the basket of venoms. She lifted a lid, stirred, tasted, stirred again and replaced the lid before looking at him.

  “No success?”

  “No.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.”

  Aldric stared at her, trying to sift the many meanings from that simple sentence. A red-glazed flask of wine and a matching cup were on a nearby table and he poured himself a brimming measure, draining more than half of it before saying anything more. There was also a hope it might numb the pain in his left arm, which from the sodden feel of his shirt-sleeve was still leaking blood.

  “Full moon and summer solstice. A fine time to hunt for… Beasts.” If Gueynor read more than the obvious from his words, her firelit face showed no sign of it. Instead she shrugged.

  “The full moon should give good light.”

  Aldric favoured her with a wolfish smile which put an unreasonable number of teeth on show. She didn’t match it, even mockingly, but looked away instead and prodded a poker at the coals in the stove as if they were an enemy and the flat-tipped bar of iron a sword. Aldric emptied another cup of wine in silence, then a third. He could feel the alcohol begin to take effect and was glad of it. There were many reasons why he wanted to be drunk tonight, or at least not cold sober. He poured again, and over the rim of that half-finished measure stared at Gueynor.

  “What brings you here so near midnight?” he asked. The girl’s blue eyes were full of innocence, almost too much so.

  “To feed you, why else?” The reply came a little too pat and Aldric smiled again, a nasty expression that was deliberately harsh and humourless.

  “I can think of several reasons.” The challenge hung unanswered on the air and he took another tack. “That stuff you keep stirring – what is it?”

  “Stew,” she said, and left it at that.

  “What is it?” he repeated. This time she recited the list of ingredients then glared at him.

  “What else did you expect?”

  “Will you tell me, if I ask? When do you add one of your aunt’s special potions? Before the salt, or after?” It was unjust to say such things, and he knew the injustice of it, but he felt sick in a way no medicines could cure, he was in pain and above all he was weary of being someone else’s plaything. Gueynor didn’t protest his unspoken accusation, nor was she even irritated by his petulant righteousness of condemning the poisons which she had merely offered but which he had used.

  “They were intended for the Beast,” she said. “I don’t want to know how else you used them.” Aldric set down his wine-cup and leaned towards her.

  “Do you believe any poison will affect what roams these woods at night?”

  “I can hope.”

  “I think hope’s worth next to nothing where the Beast is concerned.”

  “Then you’re convinced about what it is?”

  “Convinced enough. As much as any man can be without absolute proof.”

  A log in the stove crackled, cracked, gave birth to a cloud of whirling sparks and slumped into a mass of glowing embers. Aldric felt the sudden splash of heat against his face and pulled back, but Gueynor didn’t move even though she was much closer.

  “You’ll burn up if you stay there! Here…” He reached out one hand to help her up and away, but she gave the stains on it a shocked stare, reached for the other one instead and found it just as bloody.

  “You didn’t tell me you were hurt!” Gueynor made it sound as if he was to blame, and there was only one response.

  “You didn’t ask.” Had he been a little more sober he wouldn’t have said it; had he been more in control of himself, he wouldn’t have said most of the things spoken that night. As the proverb said, it’s easier to recall a flying arrow than a thoughtless word.

  “Let me see that.” Gueynor was on her feet at once, entirely businesslike, all their verbal hacking of the past few minutes set aside. “Take off your jerkin, and your shirt.” Aldric hesitated until the girl smiled at what seemed to be embarrassed modesty and reached out to tug gently at his clothes.

  “I’d rather have a bath first,” he said, twitching back the half-inch necessary to avoid her fingers. Gueynor’s concern was proving awkward, because what he would rather do was remove the armoured sleeves under his jerkin. Evthan knew about them already, and that was one too many. The other thing he wanted from his saddlebags was something he most definitely wanted kept secret. “Hot water won’t matter. Cold will do.”

  “I’ll be washing your whole arm, not just around the wound. A bath would do no better.” Her reasoning was sound and forced Aldric to abandon excuses for practical demonstration. No blood had seeped through the leather jerkin, it had run down his arm along the inner surface, soaking into his shirt and the padded lining of his armour. When he pressed two fingers against the sleeve there was an ugly, soggy sound, and Gueynor made a wordless sound of distaste.

  “You see?” he said. “This will make a mess no matter what I do. And anyway, I have to strip to the skin and wash. I spilled more than my own blood tonight.” He let Gueynor draw her own conclusions, and she didn’t disappoint him but used the very word he wanted to hear.

  “Are you… Unclean?”

  He nodded and said nothing more, hinting at reluctance to talk about the matter. It was nonsense, such things played no part in Alban religious observance or the entire Clan Wars would have been an endless round of battling and bathing, but it was easy to connect their well-known fondness for hot water with the requirements of ritual. Gueynor moved aside, so concerned by her indiscretion that he regretted using the excuse at all in case something took offence.

  “Avert,” he muttered, and his right hand touched fingertips to forehead then mouth before turning palm-outward. It was a gesture he hadn’t made in a long time, and in other circumstances it would have embarrassed him.

  But not here, and not now.

  *

  Aldric checked on his two horses, then rummaged for several seconds in one saddlebag’s inner panniers before he found the object he had come for. It was Gemmel’s parting gift, at first sight just masculine jewellery, an armlet of silvered steel with a gemstone protected by a white deerskin pouch laced tight around it. He stared at it in silence, then drew a deep breath and secured its triple loops about his left wrist, settling the covered jewel into the hollow of his palm above the four pale crisscross lines of his Honour-scars. He flexed his fingers, closing them into a fist to confirm the jewel’s fit, then undid the laces and pulled the pouch away.

  Lambent azure brilliance pulsed from the crystal the pouch had contained, rising to a taper
ing blue flame three feet in height before it died down to a pulsing glow that lapped and coiled about his hand like burning brandy. Yet there was no heat emanating from it. None at all.

  This was one of the spellstones of Echainon, lost for centuries then found by Aldric, accidentally, on the battlefield of Baelen Fight. It was a potent talisman of great antiquity, imbued with such power that even Gemmel didn’t know its limitations, yet the enchanter had transferred it from its setting on Ykraith the Dragonwand to this bracelet as a luck-piece for his foster son. What unsettled him more was Gemmel’s belief he shared an affinity with the crystal, because the last man who dared make such a claim was Kalarr cu Ruruc.

  “It isn’t a weapon, Aldric. Not like the Dragonwand. And I can trust you to treat it honourably, as I could trust few others in this realm. Take it, with my blessing.”

  “Why give it to me?” Aldric had protested. “I don’t know how to use it! I’m not a wizard!”

  “You will know, when you have to,” Gemmel told him. “As it will know you.” Aldric hadn’t liked the thought of being recognised by a destructive piece of enchanted glass and said so frequently, to no avail. “Remember when you claimed Ykraith. You knew the right procedure then. That will happen again.”

  No matter how often the enchanter reassured him, Aldric remained wary of the stone. He had accepted it and carried it – and taken great care not to even unwrap it until now. His right hand reached for his tsepan and tugged the still-sheathed dirk out of his weapon-belt. Its pommel glittered in the crystal’s light like a chunk of ice, pure silver and anathema to evil magic. Aldric half-closed his eyes, held his breath and touched the pommel to the spellstone.