Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  She licked her fingers and wiped them on a wax paper bag. There was a smudge of powdered sugar around the corner of her mouth, but Tarrik decided not to tell her about it. After all, he wasn’t here to take care of her personal grooming.

  “Your collar is crooked.” Ren reached up, and before Tarrik could react, her fingers touched his neck.

  He grabbed her wrist hard, making her gasp. He had a vision of his hands around her neck, her eyes bulging, face turning blue.

  “Let go,” she said. “It hurts.”

  Tarrik’s skin tightened, burning under Ren’s sorcerous bindings. Automatically they forced him to release his grip. The burning sensation faded.

  “I don’t like to be touched,” he said. “It is ill-mannered in my realms to touch without an invitation, and transgression usually ends in violence. Only a lover’s caress is acceptable.”

  Ren raised her chin and sneered at him. “You impudent slave! You are mine to do with as I will. And your demonic lusts will not be tolerated.”

  She rubbed her wrist until the whitened skin returned to a normal color.

  “You have been warned,” he said.

  “You cannot harm me—” Ren broke off.

  “And yet I just did. Your bindings are not as potent if I react without thinking.”

  He shouldn’t have said as much, but her unfinished remark suggested she had reasoned it out already.

  They untied their horses’ reins and mounted. Ren adjusted the hilt of her sword to make sure she could easily reach it. Tarrik scanned the street and eyed loitering townsfolk who wilted under his glare. The strictures placed upon him and his desire to stay alive in this horrible world meant performing this bodyguard role to the best of his abilities. He would put on a good show while he bided his time.

  “That sword belt and sheath are shabby,” said Ren. “They stand out against your new finery.”

  “Perhaps they are well-worn and serviceable. Perhaps my employer is too miserly to provide better-quality weapons.”

  “Some people may think that. Those who matter know me better and will draw their own conclusions. Tomorrow we will make a trip to a weaponsmith and see you properly equipped. We’ve arrived a bit late to make an appearance at the citadel today.”

  He followed Ren as she led them along cobbled streets, taking turns seemingly at random, but the citadel loomed closer as they rode, its turrets protruding over the tops of the city’s buildings. As they neared the structure, the streets and buildings, not to mention the people, improved. Uneven cobbles changed to flat pavers; flaked paint and varnish gave way to fresh whitewash and colorful tones; clothes of rough linen and wool turned to spun cotton, silk, and brushed suede.

  The humans smelled too alive; their odor of sweat and musk inflamed him. What was the point of them? They had just the one life. They couldn’t be reborn as something else, wouldn’t advance to a higher form. They lived, bred, died, and repeated the cycle until . . . what? The coppersmith over there, why did she bother? How did she make her existence bearable for the few years she had in this world? Why didn’t she succumb to despair? Why didn’t she curl up and weep at the unfairness that was her lot?

  Perhaps it was a human trait: the strength to continue when all seemed hopeless.

  Lesser demons hadn’t the ability to think in such complex terms. They fought to survive and breed just as humans did; higher thought processes were beyond them. Were humans really just smarter lesser demons?

  This world had always confused him. It didn’t seem like anything was real. And that, he realized, was dangerous. If you thought something was an illusion, or didn’t matter, you lost focus and let your guard down.

  Such had happened to him with Jaquel, his human wife, who had never flinched in the face of danger, whose razor wit had always gotten the better of him. She was dead now. His heart clenched with grief whenever he thought of her. The only thing in this forsaken world that had seemed so very real.

  They stopped in front of a three-story building. Trees lined the street, the scent of their blossoms almost overwhelming to Tarrik.

  “Crab apple blooms,” Ren said, dismounting. “Can you smell them?”

  Tarrik nodded, wary of opening his mouth in case he gagged on the stench.

  When he offered no further response, Ren shook her head and led her mount down an alley into a courtyard behind the building. Two shadows emerged from a doorway. Tarrik reached for his sword, stopping when he saw it was only a couple of stable hands, a boy and a girl. Both wore light-gray trousers and shirts, with an emblem embroidered in russet thread on the breast. The symbol looked like a dog next to a horned beast.

  Ren began removing her gear from her horse and told Tarrik to do the same. He slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and loaded up with Ren’s when she handed them to him. Her sword she kept to herself.

  The girl kept glancing at Ren.

  “What is it?” Ren said.

  “Pardon, my lady, but there’s . . . you have something on your lip.”

  Ren frowned and wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. It came away smeared with powdered sugar. “Thank you,” she said, handing the girl a copper coin. “Make sure our horses are given the highest-quality feed. I’ll settle the cost with the innkeeper.”

  The stable hands nodded and led the horses through a large doorway. Tarrik was glad to be rid of the foul-smelling beasts, though both his and Ren’s gear weighed heavily on his shoulders. Perhaps horses were good for something.

  Ren stood in front of him, hands on her hips. Her eyes flashed with anger, and he could smell its bitterness on her.

  “You must have seen the sugar on my face, yet all this time you said nothing.”

  “Should I have? I wasn’t aware that was one of my tasks.”

  “Don’t make this harder than it should be.”

  “Should my slavery be easy for you? Should I try my best to make sure you’re presentable? Bathe and dress you? Braid your hair?”

  “A good idea. You seem to have done an excellent job on your own.”

  “I—” Tarrik stopped. Braiding another’s hair was only for children, and lovers.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  A cat? What cat? “I am yours to command.”

  “Then I command we go inside, find ourselves a room, and have a hearty meal.”

  The entrance hall of the inn was large and well-kept. Tarrik noticed no cobwebs in corners or on the wooden beams crossing the ceiling. His new boots scuffed over polished timber floors that had been recently mopped of dirt and dust. On a side table sat a green glazed vase holding stalks of the white crab apple flowers.

  In a corner, two men sitting in padded chairs were engaged in a hushed conversation. A long counter took up the far wall, behind which stood a toadlike fellow with protruding eyes. He also wore a gray embroidered shirt, which Tarrik realized must be a uniform. To his left were a silver bell and an open ledger, an inkwell and a copper pen.

  “Welcome to Ivrian, and the Demon and Hound,” the man bellowed in a jovial manner. The two men in the corner looked up, disturbed from their discussion, then returned to it. “My Lady Bentina,” continued the toad man, “it has been some time since we last had the pleasure.”

  Ren inclined her head as she approached the counter. “Morten, is it not?”

  “Indeed it is, my lady.” The man smiled, obviously pleased he’d been remembered.

  “I’ll take one of the special suites for the night, if there’s one available.”

  Morten nodded and picked up the pen. He licked the nib and dunked it into the inkwell. “You’re in luck. And for your man?” He began writing in the journal.

  “Bring a cot to my rooms for him. I’ll not waste coin on him.”

  Morten paused an instant before resuming his scribing. “Hardly a waste, my lady! When servants are rested, they provide better service.”

  Ren placed a gold coin on the counter and slid it toward the man. “I need him to wait on me. Take whatev
er expenses we incur out of this gold talent. I require a hearty meal for myself as well as my man, but only after I bathe. Have hot water brought to my room.”

  “Our cooks and the dining room eagerly await you,” said Morten. “My girl Pris will show you to your rooms, see you settled, and arrange for the water. Please let her know of anything else you require. Pris!”

  A bronze-haired, doe-eyed girl appeared from a curtained doorway behind the counter. She already carried bed linens and a bowl filled with nuts and dried fruit. The girl gave Ren a shallow bow, hesitated, then bowed to Tarrik as well. She ducked her head when he grinned at her gesture.

  “See Lady Bentina to the Pheasant Suite, Pris. Then fetch her hot water for a bath.”

  The suite was on the second floor and comprised two large rooms: a bedchamber and what Pris called the “preparation room,” which held a copper tub to wash in and a table upon which stood an assortment of jars containing unguents and oils.

  Pris left to fetch water while Tarrik placed the gear he carried against one wall. Ren moved to the oversize four-poster bed and tucked her sword beneath the silk covers. She rounded her shoulders and stretched her neck. She didn’t speak, and Tarrik was content to let the silence grow.

  He took the bottle of spirits from his gear, considered for a moment, then returned it. The drink had diminished rapidly, significantly easing his demon lusts and urges. Best to drink sparingly now until he could find more.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Enter,” said Ren.

  Pris came in, trailed by three boys and four girls carrying buckets of steaming water. They were followed by two young men lugging a wooden cot, a thin mattress, and two blankets. The water carriers dumped their burdens into the tub while the cot was placed against the only spare wall. One of the young men lit an alchemical fire stick and set it to the pile of wood in the fireplace.

  All the servants hurried out, leaving only Pris, who lingered close by Tarrik. She smiled at him, and he saw she’d undone the top two buttons of her shirt so it now gaped open. Blood rushed to his groin. If nothing else, humans were good for sating carnal desires, and Ren hadn’t forbidden his coupling.

  He saw a faint look of disgust on the sorcerer’s face. “That will be all, Pris.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Pris turned to Tarrik and opened her mouth to speak.

  “My man has no requirements,” said Ren curtly. “We will be down for our meal once I’ve bathed.”

  Pris’s cheeks grew red, and she hurried out of the room, head down, no doubt thinking Tarrik and Ren were lovers.

  She was probably used to trying her charms on lonely nobles staying at the inn, Tarrik thought. Likely she was hoping to get pregnant; giving birth to the child of a noble—even a bastard child—would raise her standing considerably. To his mind it was an abhorrent practice and set Pris little above a broodmare. Still, if Ren let him outside, he would pay her a visit.

  “The Demon and Hound . . . which am I?” asked Tarrik rhetorically.

  “The hound,” answered Ren with a tight-lipped smile. She took a chair and jammed it under the door latch.

  “Are we in danger?” Tarrik asked.

  “Always. Best you remember that. But be extra vigilant. Something is awry. There is a presence close by, somewhere within the city.”

  “Samal again? You said you could ward against—”

  “I have. It’s not Samal.” She looked like she would say something else but shook her head. “I will bathe now. You keep guard.”

  “You bathed earlier, in the stream.”

  “Cold mountain water only scrubs away the worst of the dirt. Now I want to relax in a hot-water bath.”

  Tarrik suppressed a shudder. He seldom washed. Water was scarce on Shimrax—indeed, in most of the demon realms. Before his first summons to this world, the most water he’d seen at one time was a trickle of a stream you could step over. To keep his body clean, he was used to scouring his skin with fine sand, then rubbing down with oil, which was scraped off to remove any remaining dirt.

  “Forget about Pris,” Ren added. “She is not for you. We must do nothing to reveal your true nature.”

  “I had not thought to touch her,” Tarrik lied.

  Ren snorted. “Demons hunger, do they not? Without restraint and without scruple.”

  “The lowest among my kind do—that much is true. I have evolved above such base cravings.” The less she knew the better.

  “You were one of those lowest once.”

  Tarrik inclined his head to acknowledge the point. “As you were once a babe—squalling, grasping, hungry for whatever was placed into your mouth. You pissed and shat yourself without care. We, all of us, had such beginnings. Then we outgrew them.”

  “But not totally. Demons are volatile.”

  “We feel more deeply than humans do. Some would say that makes us more alive. After all, can one really experience life without strong emotion?”

  “Civilized people hold their emotions in check. To let yourself be ruled by animal passions is to surrender to chaos.”

  “Is it? Must you suppress your anger toward someone who has wronged you? Must you hide your desire from someone you love? A civilization without passion is a dead civilization. It might as well be populated by rocks. The demon realms are not savage—well, not all of them. We are lettered. We enjoy luxuries. We do not condone those who whip others for no reason, who murder, who steal. Those realms are not a lawless place. Transgressors are punished.”

  The main law, of course, was that the strong ruled the weak and did what they wanted.

  “As you were punished. Exiled, I believe?”

  “Yes.” He was chiggruul, an exile.

  “For what?”

  For being foolish. Weak. For falling in love with a human.

  He did not reply, and Ren glanced toward her steaming bath. “Tell me more about your realms.”

  “No.”

  “I could compel you.”

  “You can do whatever you wish to this slave, Master.”

  “I know this, and yet I will not.” Ren paused for a heartbeat. “Tell me of your exile then. Not the why of it, but the effects.”

  Tarrik reasoned she must know something of the abyssal realms. After all, she had Contian’s notes and probably access to knowledge of demons accumulated by sorcerers over the centuries. He couldn’t outright lie, and subtle misdirection was risky.

  “Shimrax is the least habitable of the realms. It is arid, desolate. But creatures survive there, adapted to the conditions, and demons are able to hunt for food, and for skin, bone, and sinew to make essential items. There is no order there, not like the other realms. A harsh place, and many exiles go mad from despair.”

  “And when they do?”

  “They are killed, or kill themselves.”

  “It seems I have saved you from an ignominious fate.”

  A mere delay only. Although there was redemption for exiles—very occasionally the demon lords might grant a reprieve. Tarrik didn’t know how he might earn such a thing for himself, but he had to hold tightly to the hope.

  “I am a slave. Do not try to justify what you’ve done.”

  Ren pursed her lips. “My bath grows cold. Keep watch.”

  She left him them, entering the preparation room and leaving the door a few hands ajar. Tarrik’s pulse pounded in his ears; his vision narrowed. His jaw clenched; he removed the bottle of spirits from his saddlebag and took a long draft. It took a while, and another mouthful of liquor, before his rage subsided.

  Faint singing reached him from the preparation room. He couldn’t make out the words, only that the tune was slow, deliberate—perhaps a lullaby—and Ren’s voice was pleasing.

  Tarrik sneered at his weakness. Nothing was pleasing in this world.

  He turned away from the open door and busied himself honing his sword in a patch of sunlight shining through the gap in the window curtains. Nicked and rusty, the blade wasn’t fit to kill chickens. He’
d take Ren up on her offer of new weapons tomorrow.

  He kept his eyes on the edge of the blade as Ren strolled back into the room, leaving wet footprints on the wooden floor. The nicks he couldn’t do anything about, but the sharpness was almost to his satisfaction. He placed the whetstone against the metal and completed a few more strokes.

  “Tarrik. Stand, please.”

  He looked up. Ren was clothed in a thin robe that clung in patches to her damp frame, leaving only her neck, hands, and feet exposed. She’d used some of the unguents and smelled of lilac and lavender. What he could see of her reddish-brown skin gleamed with fragrant oils, and her long raven hair had been brushed until it gleamed. His lust flared, his heart hammering in his chest.

  “Stand,” she said again.

  Tarrik blinked, wrenched back to reality. He took a few deep breaths, then did as ordered, unsure why she was making such a command. He licked his lips, needing a drink to take the edge off his emotions. Demon slaves had been used sexually before and no doubt would be again. Perhaps that was what she wanted. Unnerved, he tried to think of something to say to break the silence.

  “We would have made it to the citadel before dusk,” he said.

  “I wanted one more night without observant eyes.”

  He smelled the lie on her; saw her eyes drop, a hand wiped on her robe. Whatever she was up to, he wished she’d get it over with.

  Ren remained by the bedside. “In the citadel, you can’t so much as piss without someone knowing,” she continued. “You are to stay by my side always and in my room when I’m sleeping. Is that understood?”

  Tarrik nodded.

  “Many people will attempt to question you. Do not tell them anything about me, or about you. State only that you have been hired as my bodyguard and nothing more. You are to pretend you’re from the southern lands beyond the Jargalan Mountains, a wild area people here know little about. Do you understand?”

  He nodded a second time.

  “Do not disappoint me.”

  “I am bound to obey you. It is hard to disappoint someone in this situation.”

  “Nevertheless, it has been done.”

  She knew that her commands could be misinterpreted or circumvented if their wording or her bindings weren’t precise. So far, his probing of her bindings hadn’t revealed a flaw, and they hadn’t been together long enough for him to discover a loophole. But given time, he’d find one.