Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  “A carriage, Tarrik.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. She wanted him to go into the street with this disgusting wetness falling from the sky? Rain. Probably one of the most horrible aspects of this cesspit of a world.

  “Flag down a carriage for us,” she repeated. “The cabs aren’t covered; they’re useless in this weather.”

  Tarrik suppressed a growl and looked around. He wondered if she assigned him menial tasks to annoy him. Well, she wouldn’t get a rise out of him this time. There was a carriage on the other side of the square, its driver pacing alongside it, a pipe in his mouth and smoke billowing around his head. Tarrik stomped across the slippery pavers, hunching his shoulders against the water. The gloom-filled night sky pissed water onto his head, which then ran down his face and into his mouth and eyes and trickled down the back of his shirt.

  The driver turned an eye on him from under his broad-brimmed hat.

  “My master requires your services,” Tarrik said bluntly, and waved in the direction of the Sun.

  The driver squinted and looked up at him. “All right. Where to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a fair distance. It’ll cost extra,” the driver said with a smile.

  Tarrik frowned. “She’ll pay whatever the cost is.”

  The driver sighed. “It was a joke. What you lack in brains you obviously make up for in brawn. I’m guessing you’re her guard and not her bookkeeper.” The man tapped his pipe against his boot, sending ash and embers and unburned tobacco onto the ground.

  “I have no choice. I do whatever she asks.”

  The driver’s gaze raked him from head to toe. “I’ll just bet you do. Hop in, then. No point getting wetter than you need to.”

  The carriage seats were upholstered with leather and the walls paneled with a dark, varnished wood. Tarrik had just seated himself, keeping the sharp blade of his spear from touching anything, when a small board opened at the front and the driver peeked through the opening.

  “That’s her over by the Sun?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  The hole closed with a clack, and they began moving. Tarrik shivered. The cold and wet had chilled him to the bone. “When will my torment end?” he muttered bitterly to himself.

  They stopped near the Sun, and Tarrik saw Ren wave to the driver. He caught her words through the thin walls. “Towers district, please. The closest bridge to Herron Street.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ren sat across from Tarrik, her sword across her thighs. She had a few wet specks on her shoulders and droplets in her hair. As they clattered along the streets, she didn’t speak, which suited Tarrik. He was content to watch the darkened buildings while he contemplated how to betray her. Or perhaps he’d do better to bide his time. He still had to crack open and absorb Ananias’s essence, which would give him more power to fight Ren’s bindings. He ground his teeth and suppressed a growl. Patience wasn’t his strong suit, but without it he might ruin his chances.

  They crossed three stone bridges, then the timbre of the wheels changed, and Tarrik knew they were clattering across a wooden bridge. The carriage halted a short while later, and the panel opened.

  “Herron Street,” the driver said.

  “Thank you.” Ren handed him a silver coin. “There’s another for you if you wait. We shouldn’t be long. There’s a tavern over there, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t drink. Perhaps a hot tea instead to keep the chill out? I’ll add another copper for your expense.”

  “I’m happy to wait, ma’am.”

  “Excellent.” More coins changed hands; then Ren jerked her head at the carriage door. “With me, Tarrik.”

  As soon as they’d disembarked, the driver hitched his two horses outside a brightly lit eatery, then disappeared inside.

  The street was crowded, with most passersby escaping the rain by keeping to covered walkways along the building fronts. A few glanced at Tarrik’s spear and Ren’s sword and quickened their step.

  “You seem a bit preoccupied,” Ren said. “Is there something on your mind?”

  Careful . . . don’t give her any cause to watch you closer than she already is.

  “It’s the rain—dreadful stuff. I’m not used to it.” He tried a smile and immediately regretted it. Ren was no fool. He returned to his usual impassive expression. “And there’s no durbal-iluk here.”

  “What does that mean? I don’t speak demon.”

  It’s Nazgrese, you ignoramus. “It is difficult to translate, but a close approximation would be a place where you feel at home and draw strength from, where you are your most authentic self.”

  Ren stared at him for a moment. “Many people don’t have a place like that. Including me.” And she strode off toward a side street.

  Surly bitch. If she wanted to take the lead, he’d let her and also let her bear the brunt of any attack.

  There were men guarding the third house down the side street: ugly, mean-looking brutes with neatly trimmed beards, thick leather jerkins, and weapons just about everywhere Tarrik could see. Swords, knives, axes, crossbows, blades in their boots, garrotes disguised as chains around their necks. There was a hardness to their bodies and limbs and in their eyes that came only from a familiarity with violence.

  When they noticed Tarrik and Ren, their hands moved to their weapons. But when Ren got nearer, they nodded, and the two positioned in front of the door stood aside. It seemed she and her servant were expected, which could only mean Veika was involved. He was no ordinary spy if he could call on professionals such as these men at short notice.

  Tarrik noted that the doorjamb was splintered; someone before them had bashed open the lock to gain entry. Inside, the room was plain, holding only a faded lounge and an armchair, a low table between them.

  A man and a woman stood there, and it was the woman who held Tarrik’s attention. She examined Ren and nodded. Her eyes lingered on Tarrik as if assessing his threat level, and he met her gaze evenly. She was a few years older than the men outside but not yet middle-aged. Her black trousers and midnight-blue shirt were of decent quality and close-fitting enough to reveal an athletic figure. Her brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail.

  “Veika’s through there,” she said, pointing toward a curtained doorway.

  The next room was a cluttered study with book-laden tables and chairs and a well-used desk covered with leather-bound tomes, scribbles and diagrams on sheets of paper, and five glazed mugs. A pale, overweight man lay on his back in a corner, staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes. His throat had been cut, though the wound was curiously bloodless. A stain spread across his trousers from his groin.

  Veika glanced up from the sheets of paper he was examining filled with tiny script. “That’s Rikart, in case you hadn’t guessed. The body was still warm when we found it, but no sign of what killed him. All of his notes are still here, so we must have surprised the killer. There’s a back exit.”

  Ren’s look grew troubled. “So whatever killed him made its escape that way? And presumably entered from there too?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You didn’t send someone to the rear as soon as you arrived?”

  Veika grimaced. “The front team went in too early—it was a cock-up. I had four men making their way to the back of the building, but they weren’t in position yet. It won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not.”

  Tarrik moved to the window, which was closed and locked. He knew of three different minor demons that could have made such a wound but didn’t find their scents in the air. There was something else underneath the stench of piss, a smell like damp earth with undertones of wet fur. He recognized the mustiness from one of his missions with Contian in the bleak Jargalan Mountains—a larmarsh, a cruel lifeblood-drinker hardly ever seen, even in the wilderness. Contian had said the creatures only revealed themselves to feed. Tarrik recalled clearly the larmarsh they’d killed: a humanoid woman with twisted horns and
claws, a wide mouth filled with pointed teeth, and blue-gray skin that blended into stone. If such a creature was in a populated city, it had to be under a sorcerer’s control. Likely Lischen’s.

  “Your thoughts on the wound?” Ren asked Veika.

  “I’ve never seen its like, though there have been rumors recently of people being murdered and their corpses drained of blood. A couple of thieves disappeared while crossing the rooftops. It got the other thieves scared, and they’re lying low. The Watch are nowhere near as busy as usual.”

  Ren moved around the room, her fingers brushing across books and papers. Her eyes constantly flicked to the corpse. “Anything useful in his papers?”

  Veika grinned. “It seems Rikart liked to keep meticulous notes when testing sorcerer candidates. He gave one set to the Evokers, falsely showing that children with high ability had failed. And he gave a different set with the true results to whoever was bribing him. From the discrepancies between the two, we can work out which youths disappeared.”

  “So Tarrik was correct?”

  “It seems so,” Veika conceded reluctantly.

  Ren gave Tarrik an approving nod. He allowed himself a brief smile in response.

  “What do you think of the wound?” Ren asked him.

  Tarrik hesitated. How much did Ren know of his time with Contian? Had the old man detailed all their dealings in his notes? Ren might be testing his honesty. He couldn’t afford to expose himself as a liar now, not when he’d broken the ice of her regard.

  “The wound and also the smell of the creature are known to me. It was a larmarsh.”

  Veika barked a disbelieving laugh. “A myth used to frighten children in the south. If you have nothing sensible to say—”

  Ren held up a hand to stop him. “Go on,” she said to Tarrik.

  “Your stunted man is right to be disbelieving.” She’d said not to use the word “runt,” but Tarrik was rewarded with an annoyed look from Veika. “I’ve only ever seen one larmarsh, many years ago. It took the warriors in our party one by one at night until only a sorcerer and myself were left. We managed to find the creature’s lair and corner it. The larmarsh had defenses against all but the most virulent sorcery and howled like the damned when we finally brought it down. If I hadn’t been there, the sorcerer would have died.”

  He met Ren’s eyes, making sure to drive his point home while not revealing to others his connection to Contian.

  She pursed her lips and tapped her cheek with a finger. “I’ve heard of something similar. But I thought the wound would be less . . . precise.”

  “Its claws are sharp,” Tarrik said. “If Rikart’s sorcery wasn’t very powerful, the larmarsh would have brushed off anything he threw at it. Thus, the sorcerer became terrified and pissed himself and froze with fear. The creature could have sliced his throat in the blink of an eye, then drunk its fill.”

  “Lischen brought the demon here,” said Veika.

  “That seems to be the obvious conclusion,” replied Ren. “I concur with your assessment, Tarrik. Veika, your work here is done. You won’t be joining us for the final stage. You’re too valuable to lose.”

  What Ren really meant was the runt would be a liability when the going became rough and weapons were drawn. However, he seemed to buy her lies, simpering like a fool as he showed her a page in the journal he was holding.

  “Rikart wrote that he was offered a thousand gold talents for every potential sorcerer he kept secret from the Evokers. Payment once his finds were verified, which I assume means after the children were taken. Five lots of gold coin were deposited in his name at the Monolith Holdings Bank.”

  “Five thousand in gold would keep him in luxury for the rest of his miserable life,” remarked Ren. “But it seems whoever paid him didn’t want to risk him talking. They’re winding up their operation; we’ll need to be swift.”

  She bent over Rikart’s corpse and spoke a cant, then grunted and straightened. “There’s no lingering sorcery here. I’m inclined to believe Tarrik’s scenario.”

  Veika held up the journal again. “There are several pages about Rikart’s misgivings and his anger at the way the Evokers treated him. He received payment once a week from a woman who always came hooded and cloaked. He never saw her face. They met at midnight in a park close to the Temple of Nanshey.”

  “Lischen,” breathed Ren. “I scried her in the temple.”

  Veika closed the journal and tossed it onto the desk. “It has to be.”

  “Collect all of his books and papers,” Ren ordered. “You and Jendra can go through them and see if anything else interesting turns up. The Evokers will also need to be informed that one of their own betrayed them. They will owe us then, and a favor from the Evokers is a valuable thing.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Ren looked at Tarrik. “We’re going to the Temple of Nanshey. Are you ready?”

  The larmarsh he could handle himself, if it was distracted. “I have a weapon, don’t I? But we’ll need a couple of Veika’s men to guard our backs.” And to act as bait. Veika opened his mouth to protest Tarrik’s suggestion, then closed it quickly as he presumably realized an objection would suggest he wanted Ren to fail.

  “Speak to Aimy in the next room,” he said. “She’ll choose a couple of her best people.”

  “Thank you, Veika,” said Ren, and gestured for Tarrik to follow.

  Aimy stood a little straighter when Ren appeared and touched her fingers to her forehead. Ren produced a bulging purse that jingled when she shook it.

  “I need two of your people to accompany us tonight,” she said. “It’ll be dangerous work—make no mistake. I need the best you’ve got.”

  Aimy licked her lips, but her eyes didn’t drop to the purse and instead stayed fixed on Ren and Tarrik. “Just how dangerous? If you’re going up against sorcerers—”

  “That’s not what we require of you,” Ren said. “There’s something else that needs putting down.”

  “A larmarsh,” added Tarrik.

  Aimy snorted with derision. “A tale to frighten children.”

  Tarrik thumped the butt of his spear onto the floorboards. The sharp crack of wood on wood echoed around the room. Aimy’s hand went to the hilt of her rapier, and her knuckles whitened around the hilt.

  “Then prepare to relive your childhood,” Tarrik said. “Maybe you’ll piss yourself with terror like the dead man did. We need warriors, not pants pissers. Ask your best to join us and they’ll be paid well.” If they come out of this alive.

  It was always best if your bait was unaware of its role.

  “All right,” said Aimy, nodding slowly. “We’ll take Gaukur. He’s my best axeman.”

  Tarrik recalled a man outside with axes slightly larger than hatchets tucked into his belt. “Axes will do, as will your rapier. Heavier weapons are too slow. The larmarsh will be quicker than a cat.”

  Aimy raised her eyebrows. “Fought them before, have you?”

  “Just the one.”

  Ren cleared her throat, and they both turned to regard her.

  “The larmarsh is your responsibility,” she told Aimy. “Keep it from me while I go after bigger fish. Kill it, and you’re done for the night. Understood?”

  “Crystal clear,” said Aimy. She took a quick look inside the purse to confirm the coins were gold. “If there’s anything else you need after this, make sure you look me up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Now shall we go?”

  “All business. I like that.”

  Outside, Aimy beckoned to the short axeman, Gaukur, and they had a whispered conversation. He nodded, and Aimy clapped him on the back. She handed the bulging purse to another of her men; then she and Gaukur joined Tarrik and Ren. The axeman was stocky, bald, and clean-shaven with a cleft chin.

  “Our destination is the Temple of Nanshey,” said Ren.

  “That’s in Skull-Bottom, the next district to the north. We walking?” said Aimy.

  “Time is of the essence, and
we have a carriage waiting. Tarrik, if you’d be so kind as to fetch our driver.”

  Another menial task. Tarrik strode off toward the eatery. He heard soft footsteps behind him and found Aimy following.

  She smiled. “I’ve never seen a southerner like you before, and I’ve spent some time way down south beyond the Jargalan Desert. They’re all big down there—don’t get me wrong—but their skin’s a different shade. Blacker.”

  That was just what he needed: someone familiar with the southern lands who wouldn’t be fooled by his cover story. He’d better distract her before she thought to ask more questions.

  “You handed the gold purse to one of your men. Are you afraid we’ll kill you once this is over?”

  Aimy shook her head and laughed. “No. My share will go to my daughter if I don’t make it back.”

  “Not your husband?”

  “He died.”

  “Of what?”

  “Infidelity.”

  “I’ve heard that can be painful.”

  To his surprise, Aimy offered no response. He glanced down and saw her jaw was clenched, her mouth drawn into a thin line. Perhaps she’d killed the man recently, and the wounds were still raw.

  Her eyes flicked to his and then away. “What’s the situation with you and the sorcerer? Are you lovers?”

  As soon as the question was out, Ren’s bindings tightened around him, causing him to stumble. “Bloody cobbles,” he muttered to cover himself. She wouldn’t allow him to reveal the details of their relationship, but he could certainly deny that he warmed her bed.

  “There is nothing physical between us,” he said.

  “Then perhaps after tonight you and I can get to know one another better.”

  Tarrik halted. His heart beat faster, and heat rose to his face and groin. A slight twitch of Aimy’s lips showed her amusement.

  “It is unlikely my employer will allow me time to myself,” he said. “I wish it could be otherwise.”

  They were a dozen steps from the eatery now, and through the window he saw the driver notice them, drain his mug, and rise. He emerged holding a burning fire stick to his pipe and puffing heartily. “I’ll fetch my carriage. Your boss not here?”