Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  He thought it wise not to respond. Ren waited for his reply, staring at him with her almost black eyes, which seemed to know his thoughts and plumb his depths. After a long moment, she looked away, frowning. “Please go into the preparation room while I change. Close the door.”

  Tarrik did as instructed, disappointed she wasn’t going to take advantage of him. There was always a chance, in the heat of passion, that her bindings would slip.

  They descended the stairs to an eating room. Wood blazed merrily in a stone fireplace. Several tables with chairs were dotted around the room. A woman wearing a gray apron, again with the embroidery Tarrik now realized was supposed to be a demon and dog, came to serve them.

  Ren ordered roast chicken and seasonal vegetables, freshly baked bread, and two berry compotes.

  Tarrik put away one and a half whole chickens. The birds had more meat on them than those he was used to in his realm. Then again, everything there was harder and tougher, including himself.

  The rest of the food tasted alkaline and too sweet and would likely wreak havoc on his insides. But to make him seem more civilized to Ren, he forced himself to eat some of the bread and vegetables, imagining them to be freshly killed human meat. Lesser demons ate only raw flesh, which was why they could be starved and sent after humans.

  Ren seemed amused by his unease at the dining table. Her hair hung loose, softening her face and giving it a gentle appearance, almost vulnerable. But he saw that her eyes flicked constantly to the other diners.

  As soon as Tarrik stopped eating, she bade him rise, and they returned to the room. Ren jammed the chair underneath the latch again.

  “We’ll sleep now,” she said. “Gods know we need it. Maybe they won’t come for me tonight. The innkeeper knows me by a different name, and I’m not generally well-known in these parts.”

  Tarrik took off his shirt and began unbuttoning his trousers. This was another opportunity to make her uncomfortable, though there was probably no chance she’d reconsider his enslavement.

  “Your pleasure is also my duty,” he said. “I will do such things to you as you never—”

  “Cease your disgusting talk.”

  Tarrik felt her bindings constrict around him, forcing him to leave his trousers half undone.

  “I rarely dally with men—their touch is seldom as gentle and knowing. And never with demons. Dress yourself, and go to sleep. You will obey me.”

  As the bindings eased, Tarrik turned away and prepared for bed. He left his sword unsheathed on the floor beside him and made sure the blankets wouldn’t tangle him if he had to rise swiftly in case of trouble.

  He turned to face the wall and tried not to hear the sounds of Ren undressing. Her scent lingered in the air—an expensive fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla. Tarrik wondered if her dreams would again be invaded by Samal and if he could then learn something to use against Ren.

  Later, he rolled over to find a more comfortable position. Through half-lidded eyes he saw Ren sitting on her bed, robed, her back to the headrest, knees drawn up. Her eyes were unfocused, as if she were lost in thought, and her teeth worried at the knuckle of the middle finger of her right hand.

  Eventually, she lay down, and soon her breathing steadied. Tarrik decided she’d fallen into sleep. He was about to close his eyes when the hairs on his arms stood on end. The scent of sunbaked rock reached his nostrils.

  He rolled off his bed and grabbed his sword. Crouching low in a fighting stance, blade held before him, he searched the room, ears pricked for any sound.

  Nothing. Just the wind outside. Faintly creaking timbers.

  Tarrik remained still, barely breathing. His eyes flicked to Ren. She was asleep, her wards undisturbed.

  In a corner a hint of movement, as if the shadows roiled. Between one breath and the next, they somehow took on weight and became solid.

  Tarrik took a few steps forward, interposing himself between the shadows and Ren. He wished he could use his shadow-blade, but preferred to keep it from Ren’s knowledge for as long as possible.

  The shadows flowed like liquid to reveal a humanoid shape . . . a creature such as he’d never seen before. It looked somewhat like a dead-eye, with spindly limbs protruding from an emaciated body. But instead of the usual milk-pale skin, the being was mottled and dark gray, its fingers ending in sharp black talons. The creature blinked rapidly, shaking its head as if dazed.

  Then it opened its fanged, lipless mouth and keened—a piercing wail that vibrated Tarrik’s bones. The air behind him hummed as Ren’s wards erupted. A sphere of energy surrounded her before she leaped off the bed and pressed against the wall.

  He rushed forward and lunged with his blade, snake quick, but the thing was no longer in front of him. His sword passed through thin air.

  The creature was beside him, its claws ripping at his flesh, scoring long gashes across his arms. Tarrik dropped his blade and grabbed its wrists, twisting, but barely managed to turn them away. The creature fought with immense strength, far greater than a human’s.

  Tarrik tangled his leg with its leg, twisted, and deliberately fell. They landed with a heavy thump, Tarrik atop the monster. A purple tongue like a serpent’s flicked through the gash of its fanged mouth.

  Ren shouted cants. Scintillating lines of power streaked past Tarrik but somehow bent around the creature. They scored across the floor instead, carving charred lines and slicing timbers. Ren’s words became curses.

  The creature’s talons gashed Tarrik as they wrestled, each attempting to gain an advantage in the thrashing of limbs and slick skin.

  Savage snarls escaped the beast as they fought. Its elbows hammered into Tarrik’s head. Its fists pounded his torso, yet all the while Tarrik warded off the sharp talons. His blood greased his arms, lending him some advantage. The creature might match his strength and speed, but Tarrik had a master’s knowledge of fighting barehanded. He evaded each move and managed to land a few blows that caused it to stagger and grunt in pain.

  The creature retaliated with a blow that rocked Tarrik’s head. His vision blurred, his breath rasping in his throat. They crashed into a table, which toppled over, and Tarrik glimpsed Ren standing to one side, a candelabrum clutched in both hands.

  As they writhed and hammered at each other with knees and fists, Tarrik managed to wriggle away from the creature’s sweaty grasp. He wrenched its arm behind its back, wrist clasped in an irresistible vice. The creature struggled, tried to rake Tarrik’s legs with its talons. He kicked its knee, and there was a muffled crack. He yanked its arm. Another crack followed.

  The creature convulsed and thrashed as Tarrik dropped the now useless arm and clasped the other. Ruthlessly, he broke it too. Animal gasps and roars of pain came from beneath him. The creature screamed in agony, its arms flopping grotesquely.

  Tarrik seized its throat with both hands and squeezed. Eventually the struggle lessened, then ceased. For good measure, Tarrik slammed its head into the floor. When there was no reaction, he tossed the corpse aside and stood. The slashed flesh of his arms burned with agony, and his purple blood made a pattering sound as it dripped to the floor. His head ached. He reached up and realized his scalp had split, and more blood was trickling down his neck and back. His entire body dripped with sweat.

  Ren regarded him without expression.

  “What was it?” Tarrik said.

  The room was moving. He staggered to his bed and sat. Shouts came from outside the room, and fists hammered on their door.

  “A type of dead-eye, rarely seen. It moved through my wards without disturbing them.” She glanced at the ruckus coming from the door but didn’t move.

  “Why didn’t you use your sword?” He blinked sweat from his eyes and tried to focus, but his mind kept wandering. He should pick up his own sword. He should bind his wounds.

  “Because it’s not designed for physical foes.”

  Tarrik tried to move, but his arms were weak. The room tilted at an angle, became darker.

 
“What . . . ,” he managed to croak before the shadows swallowed him.

  Tarrik woke to burning arms and a foul taste in his mouth. He glanced down and saw the gashes were now only thin scars, his blood washed away. He’d been healed somehow, though the wounds still ached. He touched his head; his hair was damp, but there were no signs of injury. Still, his eyes ached, and his mind was cloudy with exhaustion.

  Ren sat cross-legged on her bed, her dark eyes watching him. Stars glittered outside the window, and he guessed he’d only been unconscious a short while. All signs of the fight had been cleaned up: no broken furniture, and the floor was spotless.

  “Did you do this?” he asked her. “How?”

  “No more questions. You were injured, and I still need you.”

  No human sorcery could heal like this—Tarrik knew that from Contian. The only way to heal was through the gift of a god’s power. And he highly doubted that Ren, one of the Nine and a demon worshiper, was favored by any such deity.

  What was she? And what had happened to the creature he’d killed?

  Ren noticed him looking around. “I arranged for the dead-eye to be removed and burned, though I expect they’ll sell its corpse for a few coins instead. There are necromancers and other dabblers who’d pay good money to dissect it.”

  “Who sent it? I sensed dark-tide sorcery.”

  “And that makes you think it was a demon? What I do know is that a great deal of energy was used to take control of the creature and send it here. Wasted energy. It will not happen again—that I can guarantee. And that’s all you need to know. Go back to sleep.”

  Tarrik doubted she could guarantee anything.

  Chapter Four

  As was his custom, Tarrik woke well before dawn, even though he was tired and sore. He’d been in this world for days now, and his internal sense of time had adjusted. Dawn and dusk were prime hunting times in the abyssal realms, and only a fool would remain asleep then. Fools and prey. His thoughts turned to the attack in the night and who might have sent the creature. Was it the same person who’d sent the mercenaries and the sorcerer and marfesh after Ren? Or a more powerful enemy?

  His arms still amazed him, and he examined the scars, which looked like they were months old. He dressed himself swiftly as Ren stirred. She rubbed heavy-lidded eyes, and again the bloodied knuckle of her right hand caught his attention. It looked worse than before. No wonder she was worrying her finger raw, after being set upon twice by entities while she was asleep.

  He secluded himself in the preparation room while she garbed herself. When she gave him permission to return, he was surprised to see her wearing severe clothes that looked almost uniform-like. He also realized why Ren had suggested dark material to the tailor: so it would match her formal garb.

  She wore black leather boots with silver side buttons underneath a slim charcoal skirt and short coat, with a silver-buckled and silver-studded belt. The only color was the deep crimson of her silk shirt. Her hair was simply braided, but already a few strands escaped.

  Her sword was strapped to her back, and she’d pinned to her breast two brooches fashioned from orichalcum: one, a nine-pointed star; the other, a square face divided into four smaller squares, each containing a rune. Only a sorcerer would wear such rare artifacts in the street. The metal alone was worth a fortune, and even a veteran warrior would have to worry about arrows and bolts. And you couldn’t dodge those if they came from behind. Neither could a sorcerer raise a shield against what was unseen . . . he would keep that in mind.

  The nine-pointed star had to signify the Nine, the sorcerers who served the demon lord Samal Rak-shazza. They would surely know each other, so the brooch must be to identify them to outsiders. The four squares and runes . . . had they something to do with the Tainted Cabal?

  “Gather our gear,” Ren said. “Let us be gone.”

  When Morten saw Ren enter the reception hall, his mouth opened, and a croak came out. Pris, who had been about to disappear behind the curtain with dirty glasses, gasped and dropped one. It shattered on the floor, and all four denizens of the inn froze.

  Tarrik noted a grim smile on Ren’s lips as the two others recognized her as a Tainted Cabalist.

  “Uh . . . Lady Bentina, we, uh, I, had no idea.” Morten bobbed his head like a bird pecking for seed while Pris backed through the curtain. “There were better rooms available. If you’d said—” He clapped a hand to his mouth, realizing he’d admitted to renting her a substandard room at top price.

  “If I’d wanted you to know, I would have told you,” Ren said. “I prefer privacy. We will not require a morning meal, and we’re leaving now. No change from the gold talent is necessary because of the disturbance last night.”

  “Yes. Of course. I mean . . . thank you.”

  Ren left the man standing there, mouth open like a fish. Outside, the two stable hands rushed to prepare the duo’s horses. Tarrik heard them whispering urgently to each other and to the older hands inside the stable. A short while later the animals were saddled and led out.

  After mounting, Ren fished out a copper talent and flicked it to the boy and girl. They let the coin clink to the pavers without any attempt to catch it.

  “We’re sorry,” the girl mumbled. “We can’t take coins from Cabalists. We didn’t know yesterday. We’ll give it back.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped Ren. “Work done well must be rewarded. Pick it up, and spend it wisely. Or unwisely.”

  She tugged her reins hard, turning her horse to the right and heading toward the citadel. By her scowl and the sour, tart scent of her sweat, Tarrik guessed she was angry and upset, but he couldn’t work out why.

  On the corner where the blossom-lined street met a wider avenue, a scaffold had been constructed. Three bodies swung there, hanged by the neck: two women and a man, tongues lolling, bulging eyes partially devoured by birds. Next to them, two iron cages held a pile of rags and bones from which hung dried flesh. Tarrik couldn’t discern if the bodies had been male or female.

  “Wrongdoers,” said Ren flatly. “The Tainted Cabal is strong here, unlike on the eastern continent across the Simorga Sea. Their thoughts have turned from mere survival to shaping an empire. Progress requires sacrifice, order.”

  Tarrik knew all too well what she meant. To build an empire required more than sacrifice. There needed to be laws, and warriors to enforce those laws. People would suffer, though many wouldn’t know a better way. “Wrongdoers” were made an example of. What better way to deter criminals or potential rebels than showing them someone they knew dancing at the end of a hangman’s rope, face purpling, defecating as they died.

  On the other side of the scaffold stood a squad of soldiers wearing black enameled breastplates and vambraces, their wary eyes taking in everyone who passed. People averted their gazes and hurried their steps.

  The soldiers wore open-faced helms, but their lower faces were covered with masks of black leather, leaving only the eyes clear, and their armor showed the same four squares as Ren’s brooch, stenciled in gold paint. Stamped on both sides of their helms and shoulder pauldrons were a runic numeral and a bird. Since most of the soldiers bore the ancient Skanuric rune for “one,” Tarrik assumed the marks were signs of rank.

  They were armed with long spears, bucklers, and short swords. But from the way they handled the spears, he thought they probably knew how not to trip over them and not much more. His hands ached for the grip of a well-made spear rather than his pigsticker.

  More soldiers filed past two by two, twenty-four of them in total, heads held high, eyes arrogant, faces masked. One of them noticed Ren and barked a command. As one, they raised their fists to strike their chest plates over the heart.

  Ren inclined her head, then urged her horse forward, and soon she and Tarrik left the intersection behind. Curious glances followed them, and more than a few startled, fear-filled looks. Tarrik could smell the emotions of the people around them on the light breeze: fear and anger, distrust and envy. He surmised
that the Tainted Cabal wasn’t entirely welcome here in Ivrian.

  The citadel grew until it blotted out the sky before them: a massive edifice built from seamed basalt. The blacks and grays of the stone seemed to draw in the sunlight, to suck the very heat from the day. Even here in the well-to-do section of the city, beggars and street rats hid in the narrow side alleys, reaching out importuning hands, croaking and moaning, then shrinking back into the shadows at the first sign of a black-masked soldier.

  Two square towers stood on either side of a barbican, adorned with gold and crimson flags featuring four joined squares, much like Ren’s brooch and the soldiers’ armor. Above the barbican was a pennant showing a red eagle on white; the guards stationed beside the gate and on the tower battlements wore surcoats with the same symbol. Tarrik guessed it was the sign of the ruler of Ivrian, or the city itself.

  Ren rode through the gate without stopping. The guards shuffled their feet uneasily, and one broke ranks for half a step before thinking better of it. Tarrik would have had them all flogged bloody if they were under his command. Letting a stranger through without challenge. Disgraceful.

  Inside the gate was a vast area of basalt pavers. Soldiers drilled to the left, around fifty of them, their spear work sloppy. To the right, a procession of wagons and carts lined up at a wide doorway, and heavily muscled workers unloaded barrels and crates. Directly ahead was a pair of massive iron-banded timber doors, which stood open.

  Ren rode straight for them, and this time two of eight guards stepped forward to intercept her. “Halt!” They and their companions eyed Tarrik and Ren uneasily, their white-knuckled hands clenching their spears.

  Ren dismounted and beckoned to two stable hands—a brown-haired boy and a blonde girl, both with hay in their hair—waiting on the right. Tarrik saw behind them a corral that contained three saddled mounts and multiple doorways from which exuded the stench of horses and their excrement. Tarrik was only too glad to leave the foul-smelling beast and feel solid ground beneath him.