Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  The man was both a tool and a weapon, a poisonous thing in his own right, Tyrr thought, yet yielding when the need arose. Not that pliable men or women were in short supply—quite the contrary—but it was Kaafk's peculiar effectiveness that made him such an asset.

  Abruptly Kaafk seemed to snap out of his trance. He took a deep breath and hoisted himself out of the chair. "Well," he said, letting his lungs deflate with a low sigh, "I'll just be on my way. Finest wine I've had in ages," he added. "Am I bringing that into Kamrit?"

  "I have another source, but you may have the business if you wish."

  "Certainly. What do I have to do?"

  "Nothing. I will arrange for the current merchant to be charged and executed."

  "I see," Kaafk said, eyes going wide, then normal again. He looked away, staring at the walls for a moment, at nothing. "What would the present merchant be charged with?" he asked.

  "What does it matter?"

  Kaafk stared at another piece of the wall, then looked up and shrugged. "Very well." He turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back. "My lord," he said, "do you mind if I take that gold trinket with me?" He came back and picked the medallion up, looking it over. "It'll bring a fair price in certain markets!"

  Tyrr, whole and perfect sovereign of the dark eternal realm, made the construct's lips smile, made the voice say, "Come to me again in a week's time, and of course," he added, nodding at the medallion in Kaafk's hand, "what's mine is yours." And what's yours is mine.

  * * *

  Tyrr waited until evening, then made his way to the king's chambers and hovered there beside Kelren's bed, watching the ailing ruler sleep. His plan was still a good one, and Tyrr was reluctant to consider the possibility that something was going wrong so early on. The sickness should have taken Andarys by now, or at the very least, lack of food and water, which Tyrr had managed to keep to nearly nothing, should have done the trick—yet somehow the man held on.

  Still, there was time, Tyrr reminded himself again. And with time could come new thoughts, new events, new spells, untold surprises and fortunes. With time he would prevail! Tybree had been wrong!

  Tyrr had been right!

  How many were there like Tybree? Doomsayers, cowards, fools who hid in the endless darkness even now, insisting that this world was not a thing that demons could ever again possess, not since they had been driven from it. The pain of that time was still burned into their consciousness, as were the many failures since then. But they were old, much too old to think clearly of such things. Memory had made of the past and those who inhabited it something larger than the truth. And Tybree was older than most. But Tyrr was young!

  The old could not change, could not easily learn from the past and adapt to the present, or toward the future. In this world, the ancient wizards who had beaten his kind were long gone to dust by now, and their descendants gone again, and their descendants. The knowledge did not exist anymore, Tyrr was certain of it, just as the ability to return to the world of man barely existed anymore in the realm of the demons—or those who would dare to try.

  But none like Tyrr had been born in many ages. Since the time of his early youth, Tyrr had known this, had seen those around him give up altogether, or try only to give in to their natural desires—nearly absolute power making fools of them absolutely—time and again. Tyrr, meanwhile, had perceived the value of restraint, the concept of acquired assets such as allies, like Kaafk, distasteful though the idea continued to be.

  Among those few demons who had grown powerful enough to attempt entry into the human world since the banishment, none had been wise enough to see the value of such a plan. And none had learned to hide themselves so well. Deceit was such a wonderful and simple thing with humans, usually a trifle compared with the constant efforts required to retain the human construct Tyrr had built around himself. Yet this, especially, had been worth the effort. Something Tyrr had planned for, having seen the value of such extremes.

  Since arriving in this world, nothing had arisen, not one detail, which he had not been prepared for in some way—except King Andarys' most unreasonable refusal to die.

  Tyrr tried once again to add to the death spells, speaking yet another phrasing, this one slightly different than the rest. The old king moaned in his sleep and rolled slightly to one side, then the other. His face grew tight from the pain within his body, but in a moment the torment faded from his features, and peace returned to his slumber. So Tyrr tried a quick, angry spell, one that would have caused any ordinary mortal to burst instantly into raging flames. There was no effect, other than a slight warming of the king's skin as Tyrr reached out to touch it.

  But just then a thought came to mind! Of course! he thought. What an idea! His plan was, thankfully, adaptable. Minor changes could be made. He would need more humans, he decided, to aid him. . . .

  Deceit could also be all the more wonderful when it began to breed of its own volition!

  Tyrr basked in his sudden revelation, his adroitness at turning failure around, or at least limiting its effects. Who among the rogues of darkness could compare with me? Who among them might dream of such solutions?

  None, Tyrr concluded. He was utterly unequalled, immune to the foolishness and weakness that plagued those who had gone before him, and those who remained behind.

  Tybree was wrong. All of them were wrong!

  Turning away, forcing any trace of trepidation from his mind, Tyrr made the body leave the room, but only for now.

  Chapter V

  "Demon's work!" the old man Urid cried out, clutching the front of his coat tightly closed, though the evening was not cold. This had been his house, after all, home to the son who stood beside him. And inside, still hopefully alive and in one piece, was his daughter as well.

  The spell was a good one, Frost thought, but it was not without its shortcomings. He watched intently as Urid's son Aul crept forward. Immediately the front wall of the house began to ooze a darkly glowing liquid fire from every pore and crack of its mortar. Not the whole of the wall, rather a section of it that spread up from the ground on either side of the front door like a broken horseshoe and threatened to mend above it. Smoke rose from the site in thin gray and black clouds, and the smell of sulfur spoiled the air. Soon glowing pools of lumpy fire began to form along the sides of the path before the entrance.

  "Enough, Aul!" the old man shouted to his son. "Stop where you are!"

  Young Aul turned and glanced over his shoulder, his gaze passing over his father, finding Frost. He waited. Frost nodded. "I have seen enough," he said. "Now back away."

  While the young man returned to his father's side, Frost raised one hand and motioned to the three Subartan warriors standing just behind him. They came forward in a single fluid movement, taking up their positions, forming the defensive triangle about their master so that he might work freely. Urid and Aul stepped cautiously back and away from the towering, blade-wielding figures.

  Frost closed his eyes and began focusing his efforts, drawing from the energies within himself, burning up no small amount of his considerable body's surpluses even with this small endeavor. No matter, he thought. The long weeks of late summer in Camrak had been quiet and bountiful ones, and he had quickly gained back the weight lost at Highthorn Pass. Indeed, tall and big-boned as he was, he could scarcely recall having ever been quite so fat! He had been forced to pilfer an entirely new wardrobe for himself, in fact, though of course the tailor had had it coming. Prices so high! And workmanship so low! And no sense of humor whatever.

  He reached out, clearing his mind, opening himself to the nuances of the little glen, the forces within the house itself, and the ground below. The young daughter was there inside, still alive, possibly unharmed. And he was there, the vagabond journeyman sorcerer that had seized what must have seemed a reasonable opportunity at the time. Though certainly, that time had passed.

  Frost left the fool alone and spoke instead to the earth, concentrating on the source, and at once the
fires began to change, cooling and shrinking back into the walls, turning to sludge not unlike glowing molasses as the flames congealed. Already the hissing had quieted, and the hanging veils of blackened smoke and steam had begun to disperse.

  He turned his attentions back to the fool, to a mind he found to be suddenly, acutely troubled. A mind no longer seeking to force its disagreeable desires on others, nor interested, for that matter, in anything but making new and distant plans, then hastily attending to them. Plum was the man's name, it seemed, or something very close to that. He was no one familiar.

  Frost introduced himself by pushing a narrow wave of his powerful will directly at the fellow, forming it into an icy chill he knew would strike straight through the other man—fair warning of the frigid torrent that was about to rush in.

  Enough, Frost thought, relaxing again without waiting to verify the effect, for he was certain there was no need.

  "The life fires that fill the earth run close to the surface here," he said, his voice somewhat faint as he opened his eyes again. "Your intruder's spell has drawn them out. I have sent them back, though I cannot be sure they will never return of their own accord." Frost took one slow, deep breath, then another, a deliberate action. He looked at the old man. "I recommend that you move."

  The man's son drew his sword and turned his full attention to the front door of their home. "First we will rid the earth of the bastard conjurer who has dared to claim my sister and my father's home!"

  "For luck against fools, be sure to enter with your right foot first," Frost called after him. Then he paused a moment, considering. "Or is it the left? In any case, he has no doubt fled, boy. Out the back, into the woods. No stomach for a fight, that one. Nor talent. Nor brains, either!" Frost began chuckling quietly.

  Young Jaffic was suddenly there. "Shall I pursue him my liege?"

  "Wait," Frost said, and as he did, the door of the house came slowly open. A girl of no more than fifteen stepped gingerly out onto the walk, carefully eyeing the dying glow of fresh molten rock to either side. The old man and his son rushed forward and swept her into their arms.

  "Is she unharmed?" Frost asked, moving to join them. The girl nodded. The old man began to weep.

  Frost turned. "Now," he ordered, and then Jaffic was gone, a memory of movement at the corner of the little house. "You said you would pay any price to be rid of this nuisance and have your daughter back," Frost reminded Urid. "What do you offer?"

  Urid's face lost its luster of a sudden. He lowered his eyes and began looking about his feet, as if searching the ground for a particular pebble. "I have my home," he said. "And my lands, though I have only a few acres. They are all I have, but yours if you wish."

  "Doubtful," Frost replied. "I have no wish to live in this province, and if I chose to do so, I have no doubt that in a few weeks some helpful, insistent stranger would find me and require that I come to assist the poor, starving, homeless family of Urid seen daily by the road."

  Urid looked stricken. Frost smiled at Urid's two teenage children. The old man's face suddenly turned rigid, and he clutched his daughter to him, then his son. "You would save one only to take two away!"

  "Oh, no, no," Frost declared, shaking his head. "I do not want your progeny, either. I am certain children are bad luck! No, they are yours to feed and clothe, not mine." He looked out toward the man's planted fields, at the hens in the side yard, the small herd of goats and a pair of milking cows just visible behind the fence rails. "But I would take certain provisions," Frost said. "Cheeses and bacon, bean-loaf, and bread sticks, water and wine. Perhaps a goose. Whatever you can provide. And a few gold coins, if you have them."

  "Yes, of course!" Urid said, obviously relieved. "There is little money to give you, but you may have it, and please take all that you need of the rest, anything I have!"

  Frost fastened a baleful eye on the old man. "Let me ask you, friend. First you offer me all your possessions, then all your money, now all your livestock and stores. But what, truly, would you do if my needs were to come to all that you have?"

  Urid hesitated, eyes darting, his face tightening to reveal a man grown taut as a sail in a tempest. "I—I suppose that, if you thought you must take it all, you would take it all, and I would find some way to live after that."

  Frost shook his head again, then fixed Urid with a long and sour frown. "Not necessary. But it is remarkable that you cannot see how foolish that answer is. Tell me another thing: How did you come to have that awful little fellow in your home?"

  Urid shrugged. "He came off the road seeking hospitality. A pilgrim, I thought. So I—"

  "So you give this stranger your home. It is a lucky thing that I was able to get it back before you offered it to me. Really, Urid, you must learn to be more sensible in such matters! Never, never give away everything, my friend. Never risk all that you have on a single chance! Even if all the omens and signs are with you. Such kindness is naught but weakness, and such a man is a fool, like the fool I chased away."

  Frost looked away, his eyes finding Rosivok. "Only what we will need," he said. Rosivok turned to Sharryl and muttered a few words; she seemed quick to understand.

  With that, both Subartans went and collected their mule, a hearty young animal Frost had only just purchased, and which so far had gone unnamed. They led it from the road, then followed behind as Urid and his two children walked toward the side of the house and the fence beyond.

  Frost stood alone, looking slowly about himself, glancing up to the clear sky and the gray, already nearly leafless branches of the trees, then away to the dusty little manor road. He listened to the quiet of early evening, breathed the rich scent of the autumn woods that came on the cooling breeze. There was an omen, something about wind at your back, or a changing wind, or wind before the rain, he wasn't sure—but there wasn't much wind, and he was fairly sure that all had to do with sailing anyway, which was something he would likely never do!

  He felt no alarm here, only a growing sense of peace and comfort. Surely a good sign in itself. Despite the best traveling and warding spells a wizard of his considerable means could conjure, omens, Frost held, were never to be ignored. They were, in fact—despite all good reason—the only things he dared not challenge.

  His belly rumbled, a most common occurrence, particularly after the exertion of expelling that vulgar little rogue from the house. It would no doubt be some time before Jaffic returned, late enough to warrant their stay for the night. Time enough to consider this place a while, and to learn whether there was anything to the daughter's reputation as a cook!

  * * *

  "We were most fortunate that you were passing near the village," Urid said. His daughter brought deep bowls of steaming meat and cabbage soup to the table, then headed back toward the hearth for more.

  "I know," Frost said,

  "Have you other business here, then?"

  "Oh, no, not here," Frost said, chuckling. He paused to sip the broth and vegetables. "Here is really not anywhere."

  "Then perhaps you could tell us of the reason for your travels," his son Aul said, putting a deep tone in his voice—as much as he could manage.

  "Very well," Frost said. "Word has reached me of late, an offer to go to Neleva, something to do with the sea, a beast in the shipping lanes, I'd imagine, though unfortunately the messenger carried very few details. It seems ships bound for Glister are finding trouble at sea, several lost and so forth, which is why I suspect a creature of some sort. Something needs to be done about it and a huge profit is promised."

  "You seem no sailor," Urid said, looking up.

  "No, that I am not."

  "You would go all that way on foot?" Urid's daughter asked, returning again with a basket of warm bread.

  "And so late in the year," Aul remarked. "You'll be hard into winter long before you arrive."

  "A good point," Frost told the boy. "Luckily, whatever task awaits me does not seem an urgent one. There is no shipping through the winter months,
and any other purposes will keep as well. I agree, I should wait until spring."

  "And what other purpose would you have?" asked Aul.

  Urid glared distastefully at the boy's lack of deference to their guest. Frost relieved the old man of any blame with a wave of his hand.

  "More good words from a bright, inquiring lad," Frost said. "In fact, the answer is partly a personal one. The city of Glister has become one of the largest seaports in the world in recent years. Traders come on ships from lands most have never heard of, bringing endless rare goods and cultural wonders, and strange knowledge. All these things I find quite valuable. It is an adventure I wish to have while I am still young enough to appreciate it. A place I wish to visit again. As well, I am sure there are many in Glister who would pay for the multitude of services I can provide."

  "He is growing bored," Sharryl said, speaking for the first time in the presence of Urid and his family, startling them as she did. "Mostly, he is just bored." They each looked at her, speechless themselves. Sharryl did not look at Frost directly, her face expressionless. She wore the face of a warrior well, giving nothing away, except, of course, when she wanted to.

  "And always he is in need of wealth and good fortune," Frost added, chuckling again.

  "And what else?" Urid asked, glancing at his daughter, a look of worry returning to his face.

  Frost grinned at the other man. "Your daughter is lovely, my friend, but she is safe. I have no need of that."

  "A lie?" Sharryl said, thin black eyebrows going up.

  Frost knew it was. Sharryl was no man's mate, though she had beckoned Rosivok more than once—and he had gone to her as any man with eyes and needs and common sense would have. But Frost had known her in that way as well, after the battle in Rinouer, and after his long, unfortunate duel to the death—its death—with the mage-serpent of the black waters in Holitoel.

  Both times he had used up enormous amounts of energy, until finally he had burned away nearly all of the extra bulk he tended to carry, until all that remained was the sturdy frame and great, hardened muscles that lay beneath, a man who could have easily bested an ox in a pulling contest, or lifted the ox off the ground, given the desire and the energy.