She also felt a sense of malice emanating from the core of the slowly twisting pillar of darkness. Muted tones of dull green, grey and sullen blue slithered across its convoluted surface, and with the malevolence came a low, moaning wind. Sparks whipped from the smouldering incense, the candle-flames fluttered and fingers of moving air lashed her face with strands of her own hair.
Sedna fought through the distraction, if that was its intent, and found her page at last, an exorcism held to be effective against all demons. The words were archaic, difficult to pronounce and complex in their nuances of meaning, so she muttered them under her breath before daring to speak the incantation aloud. Ythek Shri congealed from an amorphous cloud to something more clearly defined and in doing so gave her a brief, appalling hint of what its true shape might be.
Otherwise her spell of banishment did nothing.
Again panic bubbled up inside her, gripping her entrails in an icy clutch that made breathing difficult and full of effort. With a shocking oath she flung the useless spellbook at the circle and its occupant. As Sedna should have guessed, her curse did nothing. Only the book had any effect, and it wasn’t the result she intended. When hurled with the strength of terror, fifteen pounds of leather and parchment were more than enough to topple one of the tall bronze censers and send perfumed charcoal spraying across the floor.
It made a huge smoking breach in the patterns of the circle’s double rim.
The wind gusted to a screeching gale and stopped. Not faded, not fell away, just stopped. Only a single candle remained alight, its unsteady flame doing eldritch things to the many shadows which now crowded the cellar. Sedna wasted no time staring, but ripped the tops from jars and drew protective signs around herself in coloured dust then linked them into a broad, unbroken ring of power. Again there came that lurching sensation of an ocean wave surging under the floor and its boards rose and fell like the deck of a ship, sending a rack of bottles crashing to ruin.
Sedna stared fearfully towards the dark column. The cloudy mass no longer swirled, but hung immobile as a rag suspended from the ceiling. Yet there was movement near its base.
The solitary candle showed no detail and only the vaguest of impressions, its feeble light falling into the darkness that absorbed it as a sponge drinks water, but there was enough for her to realise what was happening. When she did, the horror of it brought vomit to the back of her throat. Whatever was confined by the holding-pattern was spreading the scattered ashes, using them to erase the lines of force which penned it in.
Enlarging the gap which she had made.
Something grotesque tore free of the darkness, paused, then with a mucous sucking sound forced itself a little farther out. Nothing was visible except the candle-flame’s reflection from shiny moving surfaces. Its distorted yellow gleam shifted in another long, slow heave as the shape slid inexorably from its confinement.
Sedna wiped her mouth and cursed herself for not running when she first had the chance. It was too late now. Talons extended across the floor, clicked, flexed and gouged deep in search of anchorage, sinking through floor-timbers into the solid stone beneath. Within her circle the sorcerer cringed. Home seemed very far away.
The ponderous mass that was Ythek an-shri came loose in three rippling contractions, swayed on slender limbs and rose upright in utter silence. There was a slight, harsh scraping as a length of spike-tipped tail coiled around the demon herald’s claws. Then there was silence once more. The silence of the grave.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Sedna studied the entity for a long time. It seemed exhausted by the effort of dragging itself into the world of men, after the exertions of mother, midwife and child all at once. Perhaps it was asleep, or the air of this world was proving poisonous. A muscle in her thigh jerked and quivered in protest at her lack of movement and she winced, massaged the cramped limb and measured her distance to the door. That heavy lock would be strong enough to hold it shut while she fled, not just from the cellar but from the fortress, from Seghar, from the Jevaiden itself. She would waste no time warning the Geruath household, for if the demon was held secure there would be no need, and if it broke out – the thought was callous but correct – they would learn about its presence soon enough, without any need for her to tell them.
If only she had known how long the thing would take to enter the world…
If only her blind rage and terror hadn’t breached the circle in the first place…
If only…
With infinite care not to disturb her own circle’s fragile outline, she stepped across it with both eyes fixed on the irregular blot of blackness. Nothing happened. There was no snarl, no sudden murderous burst of life. Ythek Shri remained as still as any lizard on a stone.
Sedna took another step towards the door. Then a third. They were long strides, as quiet as her bare feet could make them, and each one took her closer to escape but further from the circle.
A fourth step.
There were, she judged, four more to take before she reached the door. Halfway. She glanced to where the demon crouched like a gigantic upright insect. Though the thin limbs wrapped around its hunched body looked as strong as a battleram’s anchor cable, Sedna couldn’t see even a rhythmic movement of breathing to show it was alive.
Five steps from the circle, three from the door.
Another nervous glance, this time back over her shoulder. The demon squatted in the shadows of its own making, a grotesque gargoyle shape, placid and still. New perspiration soaked into the silken robe, thawing the crust of frost until the garment clung close as a chilly second skin.
Six steps and two.
There was an awful eagerness in the long, bubbling hiss when at last it came. Sedna’s heart seemed to stop, and she hesitated for the barest instant then flung herself towards the door and heaved at it with all her strength. The stab of betrayal when she found it locked was a physical hurt, swamping even terror for the brief moment it lasted. She should have – no, she had expected something like this, despite a small, foolish hope she might be wrong. And she was wrong indeed, wrong to ever believe that anything besides treachery and death was possible in Seghar…
There was no time for regret, for subtlety or finesse. With a mental wrench that caused her actual pain Sedna dredged the words and patterns of the High Accelerator from her subconscious and flung the fierce spell at the lock. The whole door jolted on its hinges as lock, hasp and part of the jamb were hammered loose in a twisted mass of metal and fell clattering into the corridor outside, yet the demon hadn’t moved. With trembling hands that were bruised and sore from channelling the spell, Sedna clutched the weakened door and dragged it wide—
Then spun half around and almost fell as something blurred past her head, jerked the door from her grasp and slammed it shut with awful finality. The reverberations of its closing faded down the corridor, mocking her imprisonment with their escape. An enormous talon at the end of an impossibly long, sinewy limb had lashed over Sedna’s shoulder with piledriver force to end her hopes of freedom and of life. A little to one side, and it would have smeared her frail human body across unyielding stone as she might squash a bug. But it had not, and the implications behind that merciless compassion were worse than any sudden death she could imagine.
Timber split and tore as great crooked claws pried one another loose, each of the three digits flexing like the legs of a spider. Once free they reached for Sedna’s face with all the delicacy of a lover’s caress. She whimpered and shrank away, her own hands raised in a useless gesture of supplication. Another spell would prolong the inevitable, no more. It wouldn’t avert it. Wouldn’t save her. Nothing would.
She was lost, and none could help her now…
The enamel-glossy black triangle that was the being’s eyeless, armoured head dipped closer, as if to study her. Four shearlike mandibles which ended that head slid open with a metallic sound like scissors, and an errant flicker of the candle revealed a vile array of spiked and bladed teeth. They cham
ped together, glistening, as Ythek Shri grinned down at her from its full fifteen feet of height.
Sedna screamed just once. She had no time for more before the demon plucked her from the floor, and while it toyed with her, the sounds she made were nothing as structured as a scream. Those dreadful noises continued for a long time, but never quite drowned out the patter of blood and the snap of bones, or the sodden rip as flesh gave way. At last the demon tired of its torn and broken doll, and secured the feebly squirming bundle of tatters while its razor-bladed mandibles gaped wide. Then they shut in three protracted crunches.
Frenzied shadows flickered across the walls and ceiling as Sedna’s legs danced ten feet from the ground. Then they kicked spasmodically, and apart from reflex shudders dangled still and dead at last. Only liquid droplets moved now, dribbling from the demon’s meat-clogged maw. One sparkled ruby-red as it descended.
The solitary candle hissed, and choked on blood, and died…
*
Fog boiled across the surface of the mirror until Voord could see no more, as if he hadn’t seen enough already. The Vlechan’s face was like his hand, almost drained of colour. Almost, but not quite, though what remained was just the pallid green of a nausea suppressed by pride alone. To vomit would be to show weakness. In his time as an inquisitor Eldheisart Voord had authorised, witnessed and even personally inflicted torments just as ingenious, so why retch at this?
He had watched everything shown him by the mirror with a cold, almost clinically professional interest, aware with every mutilation that an unseen brooding presence was watching him, noting his reactions, assessing whether he deserved its aid. Voord felt shock, disgust and that ever-present crawling fear, but showed or felt not the slightest touch of pity.
And yet, though he had watched everything, he still saw less than Sedna. His eyes were not her eyes, and his knowledge of sorcery was sparse. Where he beheld only a monster formed from armoured darkness, she had realised what the Summoning really was; not the demon itself, but what it represented.
Ythek Shri was known by many names, many titles, born of the awe and terror commanded by its mere presence – Warden of Gateways, Devourer in the Dark – but the most appropriate to those who knew its meaning was simply ‘Herald’. It was a herald indeed, an emissary, an ambassador between the world of men and the planes of the Abyss, and its purpose and duty was to encourage human wizards in their summoning of the ancient Demon Lords. A lock worked often worked easily, a portal opened often opened easily, and forgetting to close and lock doors was always a human failing. No matter what it had been to Sedna ar Gethin, summoning Ythek Shri by accident or design was not an ending.
It was a beginning.
Voord Ebanesh remained ignorant of that, and of much more. The only mouth which could have warned him was shredded meat. His ignorance was overlaid with shock, with pain, with an undertow of fear he wouldn’t admit, and perhaps other, more malign influences. He gabbled his way through the final part of his conjuration, but when he made the Pronouncement of Dismissal, he fumbled it. The error might have been a word wrongly pronounced, or a gesture left incomplete because his ruined hand could no longer make the whole movement, but the result remained the same.
Ythek Shri was loose, and the portal through which it passed stayed open.
The surface of the mirror swirled in upon itself, heavy spirals of movement like stirred water. With ever-increasing speed it became a whirling slick-sided funnel, a grey gullet leading into darkness. Voord’s balance reeled, and vertigo tugged at him. If he had been standing he might have taken the few unsteady steps needed to tumble in, but he was still kneeling and slumped forward instead, taking his weight on both hands.
Agony seared him as his mangled palm slapped hard against the floor and blood flowed again. The spiralling grew even faster until it was a whirlpool of mist, a maelstrom that threatened to suck away his life and soul. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t be enticed, and with juddering abruptness the spinning vortex stopped. With a sound like the breaking of the world the Mirror of Seeing cracked from side to side, and its surface turned jet black.
Crouched on hands and knees, Voord raised his head and saw darkness seeping like smoke from the fissure in the mirror’s substance. It didn’t dissipate, as true smoke or true vapour would have done, but became denser, heavier, as if it was taking physical form. As Sedna had done before him, Voord wondered what that form would be. But he wondered only for an instant, then apprehensive curiosity gave way to abject terror.
He sprang to his feet at last and fled.
CHAPTER SIX
Aldric spent a sleepless night in Evthan’s house.
The rejoicing villagers knew, for he had made it plain enough in a few harsh phrases, that he had no desire to celebrate his evening’s work. An Alban kailin-eir could and was expected to grant the gift of death, if it was the only way within his power to end the pain of a body shattered beyond repair by accident or battle. That was what a tsepan was for, and to prove it wasn’t murder, that was why, though Aldric had removed his long ago, each tsepan had its owner’s crest set into the pommel. Sometimes the death brought by the black dirk was its owner’s, yet it was never a deed done lightly even to an enemy. No matter what pious or scholarly opinions were voiced, no matter what emotions were displayed or hidden, regardless of how just or justified the act might be, taking a life left scars on the life of the one who took it.
Aldric had killed before, but this one left him feeling soiled in a way few others had done. It was as if he had executed an innocent. Would it be that way with Crisen? If the king’s command to kill him was unjust, but Aldric carried it out through obedience, would that obedience absolve his own guilt in the matter? He was ilauem-arluth, kailin, eijo, all the Alban words that could mean sudden death for enemies, but he was neither an assassin nor an executioner.
Worst of all was a feeling he had killed the wrong man. All the responsibility for the Beast rested on Crisen Geruath’s shoulders and Aldric’s mind, concentrated by his brooding, had sifted what he knew of the Overlords at Seghar again and again until he almost sickened of it. Round, and round, and round, like a cat chasing its tail. And a cat doing that is practicing for live prey.
What the Geruaths had done to Evthan hadn’t been punishment for striking Keeyul. That had been the reason given, not the reason why. Even the ferocious beating he had suffered was to conceal the traces of shape-shifting sorcery laid on him by the sorcerer with the Vreijek name, ar Keth-, no, ar Gethin.
Aldric wanted to have words with her.
He wanted words with Crisen too, and with the Overlord himself. Aldric Talvalin was a clan-lord and a king’s confidant, and that meant he had responsibilities no matter how much he tried to ignore or avoid them. He could pretend there was nothing immediate about his sworn Word and travel carelessly for just so long before those duties overtook him one way or another, as they had done now. Better by far to turn and meet them.
But he was alone here, the Geruaths ruled this province, and there was nothing to prevent them disposing of an intrusive nuisance then making an excuse to cover it, like the ‘bandits’ who had killed Youenn Sicard. Someone had attempted such a disposal once already, so it would be best if he sent a message back to Alba as insurance, a message whose existence would provoke thought and make hasty violence less appealing. Or a way to achieve vengeance from beyond the grave. Either way, it would need to be in the keeping of someone he could trust, and with Evthan dead there were few enough of those.
Gueynor had stayed beside him for most of the night, perched on her usual cushioned stool close alongside his chair, which had been Evthan’s chair. He had done no more than stare into the glowing heart of the stove, while she held his hand in a grip which seemed her only link to a world where things made sense. She had walked to the door beside him, straight-backed and dignified, but once that door locked behind her and no one else could see, she had broken down and cried bitterly for her dead.
Now
she huddled in uncomfortable sleep, her head resting half on her own crooked arm and half against his knee. He couldn’t move, and wouldn’t move until she did. If this was the only support and comfort he could give, he would give it all night if he had to. In the morning he would suggest she leave this house, even leave Valden, and never come back. Aldric knew only too well how memories refused to heal when surroundings and places and faces refreshed them every day. Oh yes, he knew.
But it puzzled him that no soldiers had come to the village yet. Twenty-four hours had passed, long enough for the sole survivor of the tomb-fight to reach Seghar and make his report, more than enough for a troop of cavalry from the garrison to descend on Valden. Unless… A slow smile of relief spread over Aldric’s face as what had been an idle notion, almost dismissed as too unlikely, became more probable each time he reviewed it. The last man had been very young, and very, very frightened. When he ran from what must have seemed his own inevitable death, it would have been easy to keep on running, away from the mound in the forest and out of the Jevaiden, back to whatever farmstead in the Empire he had come from.
It was the only possible reason for there being no reaction from Seghar. Neither of the Geruaths seemed like men who would indulge in any subtle, cruel game of cat-and-mouse. Their reprisals were immediate and severe, like the execution of that talkative Tergovan merchant Evthan had mentioned, wrenched limb from limb the day after saying something the lord’s son didn’t like. What would they do to a foreigner who killed the Overlord’s retainers?
Aldric had no idea and no wish to broaden his education.
Yes indeed, it would be best if he sent a letter to Dewan ar Korentin. Gueynor could take it to the coast, his Drusalan florins were acceptable that far, and see it safe aboard a ship. By the time she returned he would have—
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