by Paul S. Kemp
Orsin had regained his feet, and clouds of shadow clung to his fists and the ends of his staff as he battled with a spined devil. His weapon hummed, trailing a line of shadows.
Vasen turned, kicked Sayeed flat, put his foot on the man’s abdomen, and tried once more to pull his blade free. Still it would not come loose. He cursed and left it.
Slipping out of the straps of his shield, he rushed toward Gerak, shouting the name of Amaunator as he ran, putting the power of his faith into his shield. The devil whirled as Vasen neared, and Gerak took the opportunity to stab it in the hindquarters. The creature snarled and loosed a handful of flaming spines that pierced Gerak’s face and chest, sent him stumbling back against the wall, shouting with pain and frantically trying to pluck the flaming projectiles from his flesh.
Vasen held the shield with both hand, the metal and wood warm in his grasp. The devil leaped at him, jaws wide, and Vasen slammed the edge of the shield down on its neck before it reached him. The blow drove the devil flat into the earth, cracking bones, and the power infusing the shield poured out into the creature. It screamed, spasmed, and died. Vasen grabbed the now-dim shield and hurled it to Gerak.
“Take it!” he said. “You know how to use it?”
“I was a soldier,” Gerak said, catching the shield. He was bleeding from his face. “What’re you doing?”
“Going after the other one.”
Gerak looked past Vasen, over his shoulder. “We haven’t even gotten the first one.”
Vasen turned to see Sayeed—inexplicably, impossibly—back on his feet. Vasen’s blade stuck out his chest and back like a pennon. Sayeed stared at them, grinned, and slowly extracted Vasen’s weapon in a gout of blood. The moment the weapon cleared his skin, the bleeding stopped.
“Gods,” Gerak said.
“I have to go help the Oracle,” Vasen called to his friends.
“Go,” Gerak said.
“Go,” Orsin said, pummeling a nearly dead spined devil with fists that dripped with dark energy. “We’ll follow.”
That was all Vasen needed. He sprinted for the double doors. As he did, he heard a hiss and thunk as Gerak put an arrow into Sayeed. The big man roared and fell to his knees.
Vasen leaped onto the portico and barreled into the side door. It burst open and he cut left, sliding to a stop and cursing.
A wall of fire blocked the hallway from floor to ceiling, the flames licking hungrily at everything within reach. Vasen felt the hair of his beard and eyebrows melt. He scrambled backward, blinking in the heat. The thin man must have conjured the wall of flames to prevent pursuit. Vasen did not hesitate. He covered his face with his hands and charged through the flames. Skin blistered and hair burned, but his armor protected him against the worst of it. Ignoring the pain of his charred skin, he stripped off his burning cloak and beat out the flames on his trousers and tunic.
The skin of his face felt raw, blistered. He would have channeled the light of his faith into healing energy, but he was without a focus—no holy symbol at this throat, no shield emblazoned with Amaunator’s rose, no sword with his god’s symbol cast into the hilt.
He drew a dagger and ran through the abbey’s halls, speeding past the meditation cells, the storerooms, the library and study rooms, the stairway that led to the lower level.
He knew the thin man was heading toward the Saint’s Shrine in the eastern tower. Vasen could cut through the central worship hall and cut him off before he got to the eastern stairs.
He shouldered his way through the double doors that led into the main worship hall, running too fast to hear the noise until he’d entered.
Chapter Eleven
Drawn by the sound of the combat, devils swarmed into the courtyard, a roiling wave of spines, teeth, claws, and savagery.
“Shield me,” Gerak said to Orsin, who’d moved to Gerak’s side. The deva used Vasen’s shield to protect them both as best he could.
Gerak fired rapidly, answering volleys of flaming spines with shot after shot from his bow. He shot Sayeed a few more times, too, keeping the big man on his knees, although he stubbornly refused to die.
Soon Vasen’s shield was quivering with dozens of flaming spikes, while six spined devils and the seemingly unkillable giant had arrows sticking from their hides. The wounded fiends pelted wide around the courtyard, perhaps intending to come at them from both sides at once. Meanwhile, the huge man pulled Gerak’s arrows from his chest, rose, and strode toward them.
“Gods,” Gerak said. “Bastard won’t stay down.”
“We need to go!” Orsin said.
Sayeed shouted and charged.
Gerak double-nocked his bow draw and took aim at Sayeed. “Let’s see how you like two.”
He let fly and both arrows hit Sayeed squarely in the side. The impact knocked him down and he spun to the ground, shouting with rage. He sat up immediately, growling as he pulled the arrows clear of flesh and bone.
Two devils charged at Orsin and Gerak from either side. Orsin’s staff hummed as he spun it overhead. Orsin ducked under a devil’s leap and it slammed headlong into the stone wall. Bones crunched and the creature squealed. Orsin stomped on its head as he swung his staff at a second one leaping for Gerak. He hit it squarely in the side, and the impact sent it sprawling into the earth. Gerak put two arrows in its side and it rose on wobbly legs, snarled once, then collapsed.
Another hail of flaming spines hissed into the area, peppering their flesh. At least three caught Orsin and two hit Gerak in his chest. Gerak pulled them out before they burned his cloak, searing his fingers in the process.
“Aye,” Gerak said. “We need to go.”
“That way,” Orsin said, nodding at the arch behind them, the one through which they’d entered the courtyard. Orsin reached into his belt pouch for something as they ran. A volley of flaming spikes whistled after them. At least one of them hit Gerak’s side and stuck there, but Orsin pulled it out as they sprinted.
“Keep going,” Orsin said. “Keep going.”
The deva held a glass flask filled with a dark fluid. Flaming spikes flew all around them. The growls and tread of the devils sounded loud in their ears. Sayeed shouted challenges as he, too, gave chase.
Orsin threw the flask on the ground in front of them and smashed it with his staff as they ran by. A cloud of darkness exploded outward from it, so deep and inky that Gerak could not see his hand before his nose. A hand closed on his arm and pulled him along.
“It will only slow them!” the deva said. “Keep moving!”
Twenty paces later he and Orsin burst through the edge of the magical darkness.
“There,” Orsin said, nodding at the abbey. They exited the courtyard and were coming around to the other side of the structure.
“Where? What?” Gerak said. He saw no door, and there were no windows at ground level large enough to accommodate anyone larger than a halfling.
“Get on my back,” Orsin ordered, and took station before him.
“What?”
“Do it!”
Behind them, Sayeed burst from the darkness and ran toward them, his long, lumbering strides fearfully fast. The devils would be coming, too.
Gerak climbed onto Orsin’s back, feeling slightly ridiculous. The deva adjusted his weight slightly and started to run. Gerak gawped at the man’s strength. As they approached the side of the abbey, Gerak realized what Orsin intended.
“You can’t mean to—”
A hail of flaming spines landed all around them.
The shadows around Orsin deepened and he picked up his pace. As they neared the portico, the deva’s muscles tensed, the shadows around him flared, and he leaped into the air. He landed atop the portico with Gerak barely hanging on. Never breaking stride, the deva took two more running steps and leaped for a second-story window. He didn’t make it, but he didn’t have to. They crashed into the side of the abbey, both of them grunting at the impact, but Orsin gripped the sill and held on.
“Climb ove
r me!” he shouted. “Quickly!”
More spines filled the air, thumped into the walls, a few struck Gerak and he cried out. Orsin did, too.
“Move!” Orsin said.
Using the deva like a ladder, Gerak scrambled over him and into the window. Orsin pulled himself in and fell to the floor under the window. Each pulled the flaming spikes out of the other. Orsin pulled another vial from his belt pouches.
“Healing,” he said, and poured some of the cool, soothing liquid right onto Gerak’s clothes and skin. Gerak felt immediately refreshed. He took the vial and poured the remainder onto the wounds on Orsin’s legs.
Looking around, they saw they were in a library or study of some kind. The darkness made it hard for Gerak to see, but he made out desks and shelves full of scrolls and books. Several spikes whistled through the window and stuck in the shelves. Immediately the dry books and scrolls started to burn. Outside, they could hear the devils snarling as they scrabbled at the stone walls of the abbey. Orsin jumped to his feet and slammed the butt of his staff on the ground. A cloud of shadow formed around the top of it. He moved the staff before the open window, trailing a curtain of shadows that blocked the aperture.
“Those devils can fly,” the deva said. “That won’t hold them long. We need to move.”
“We need to find Vasen,” Gerak said. “Where do you think he is?”
One of the devils snarled right outside of the window, on the other side of Orsin’s shadow curtain.
“The eastern tower,” Orsin said. “Where I saw the light. Come on.”
A devil perched on one of pews that lined the main worship hall, its claws splintering the wood. The devil held a brazier to its nose, sniffing at it. Vasen had no idea how it could have gotten inside the abbey.
Pews lay overturned. Tapestries had been torn down and shredded. Vasen smelled feces. The devil’s castings lay about the room in stinking piles, including on the altar. Anger warmed Vasen’s skin while the devil’s head swiveled toward him, eyes narrowing, the slits of its nose dilating.
“You’ll answer for this,” Vasen said, his hand white around the dagger’s hilt.” The devil snarled and launched itself at him with preternatural speed, the force of its leap toppling the pew it perched on and carrying it across the length of the worship hall in a blink.
The creature’s scaled, muscular body hit Vasen with enough force to drive him backward into the wall. His breath exploded out of him in a whoosh. A painting near him fell from the wall with a clatter. Claws, scales, and teeth seemed everywhere at once.
He squirmed, tried to bring his dagger to bear, but the creature used its weight and strength to pin him against the wall. Claws scrabbled over his armor, shrieking as they gouged metal. The foul breath of the creature, like decayed meat, made him gag. He pulled his head back as the creature’s jaws snapped for his nose. Spit sprayed into his face. The devil’s claws got under his armor and tore gouges in his side. Warm blood poured from the wound. The pain gave him strength. He freed the hand with the dagger and drove it into the devil’s belly once, twice, but the creature’s hide, infused with the dark magic of the Hells, turned its edge. He cursed, dropped the weapon, and tried to lever himself away from the wall.
The devil’s mouth opened wide and bit at his face, missing his nose by a finger’s width. The devil shook free one of its arms and slashed Vasen’s cheek, just missing his eye. The blow staggered him and the devil bit for his throat. Instinct caused Vasen to slam his forearm, protected by a vambrace, into the creature’s mouth.
The blow shattered teeth and the devil shrieked with pain, lurching backward.
He needed to arm himself. He feinted a lunge at the devil. When the devil retreated a step, he sprinted for the far door, bounding over pews. The devil growled behind him, its claws scrabbling on the stone floor as it pursued.
He wasn’t going to make it to the door. He whirled just in time to intercept the devil’s leap at his back. The weight of the creature drove him backward and down. He crashed into a pew as he fell, breaking the wood and cracking his ribs. But he used the creature’s momentum against it, brought his legs in and up and pushed the creature off and over him. It fell with a crash among the pews two rows distant.
Vasen clambered to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Blood flowed, sticky and warm, from the wound in his side. Without a holy symbol, he had no focus for his power and could not heal himself. He needed to get to his quarters, but now the devil stood between him and the far door.
He shouted and charged. Man and devil collided in a heap of scaled hide, armor, and flesh. For a moment each stood the other up, a counterpoise to the other, both striving to gain the advantage. The devil’s broken teeth locked onto Vasen’s shoulder, crushed his armor, and pain ran the length of his arm. He drew in close, hooked the devil’s hind leg with his foot, and tripped it to the ground. They fell together, a tangle of fists and claws. Blood from Vasen’s torn face dripped into his eyes, fell in droplets onto the writhing devil. The pain in his side felt like a hot brand had been driven through his ribs. He slammed a fist into the devil’s face, bursting its eye in a spray of ichor. The creature roared, squirmed frenetically, its claws digging at his armor. He felt them tear through the links of his mail, start to maul flesh. He pounded his fists into the creature’s head, over and over again. He felt his stomach get torn open, felt the blood pour sickeningly from the gash. All the while, he rained blows down on the creature. Vasen was weakening, failing, but he kept punching, metal smashing into flesh and bone, until he could barely lift his arms.
And then the devil lay still below him, its head a shapeless mass of scales, teeth, black ichor, and exposed bone. He stared at the gore for a moment, blinking.
Shaking his head to clear it, he rose, his breeches and tunic soaked with a mix of his own blood and the devil’s foul ichor. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, looked around. Dizziness caused him to sway. Each beat of his heart spit blood from his body.
He had to find a holy symbol to focus the divine energy he needed to heal himself. He started toward the door that led to his quarters, but remembered the potions the priests stored near the altar.
He staggered across the hall, but his hopes fell when he saw the cabinet where the potions were stored had been torn open, the metal vials within scattered over the floor. Liquid healing elixirs stained the stone. He bent, groaning with pain, and examined each of the vials. No good. All of them were open and spilled. He touched some of the liquid on the floor, hoping its magic might have survived the devil’s desecration, but found it inert. A few wooden roses—holy symbols—lay scattered on the floor, too, but all of them were fouled by the devil, unusable. He put a hand on his knee and pushed himself back to his feet.
The door on the far side of the worship hall looked a league away. Holding his wounded side, he staggered for it.
He pushed through the door without listening for anything beyond. If he encountered another devil, he would die. That much was certain. Fortunately, the corridor beyond was empty. He slumped toward his quarters. Doors hung askew from the rooms he passed, the contents within as fouled as the worship hall. Ahead, the door to his quarters lay flat in the hallway, torn from its hinges. He hurried forward as best he could, dripping blood.
His room was unmolested. His bed remained as he had left it. And the chest at the end of his bed. . .
His breath caught when he saw the shield there, leaning against the chest. He moved slowly into the room, favoring his side, as if the shield were a mirage that would disappear if he moved too fast. He eyed the rose enameled on the shield’s face, scars from weapon strikes that were in no alphabet anyone could read but that scribed a history of the shield’s battles. He’d heard descriptions of the shield in stories.
The shield had belonged to Dawnlord Abelar. Tales of the Dawnlord had said the shield was lost. Yet here it was. The Oracle must have found it and kept it, a secret he shared with no one.
Growls sounded from somewhere down
the corridor outside his room. Something heavy crashed. Ceramics shattered and something metal rang off the floor.
With shaking hands, Vasen took the shield. The metal felt warm in his hands, pure, and he knew it was as much a holy implement of his faith as any symbol he might ever wear around his neck. He held it before him so he could see the rose. Thin tendrils of shadow from his hands ran along the shield’s edge. He frowned, tried to will them away, but they clutched at the shield as surely as his hands. He hoped the saint would not object.
Channeling the power of his faith through the shield, he spoke a prayer of healing and the rose lit like a lantern, bathing him in its glow. The darkness leaking from his flesh resisted banishment from the light and lingered on the edge of the shield. But still the glow did its work. The gashes in his flesh closed, his ribs knit back together, and the pain and fatigue he felt vanished.
As the glow faded from the rose, he bowed his head, overcome.
The scrabble of claw on stone sounded from the corridor outside his chambers, closer now. He strapped the shield onto his forearm, found the weight of it ideal. He opened the chest at the base of his bed. His father’s sword lay inside, wrapped in oilcloth. He reached for it, the shadows so thick and swirling about his hands that he could scarcely see his fingers. He took the wire-wrapped hilt in hand. The metal felt cool, the texture slick. Shadows slipped from the weapon to join those bleeding from his flesh. He lifted the weapon, slid off the oilcloth, and revealed a blade as black as a sliver of night, like deep water under a moonless sky.
The hilt seemed made for his hand, the weight made for his style. He took a few practice cuts, marveled at the way the weapon left a trail of dissipating shadows in its wake.
Chuffing sounded from outside the door, the sound of a fiendish hound on the scent. He heard claws clicking on the stone floor, the low, predatory growl of an animal on the hunt. He held a sliver of night in one hand and a circle of light in the other and he felt as if he could walk through the Hells themselves.
