Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  “That’s a fine, long spear you have,” the driver said.

  Tarrik blinked. “Yes.” He watched the streets passing by and wondered why the woman shot him an annoyed look.

  To the east, a massive stone tower reared above all the other buildings of the city. It was almost as wide as Sheelahn’s structure and at least three times as high.

  “What’s that place?” Tarrik asked the driver, pointing.

  “You’re not from around here, are you? The Demon Tower was raised by the Cabalists hundreds of years ago, and they’ve protected Ruruc ever since.” She raised her curled fingers to her lips and mumbled something.

  “Why is it named the Demon Tower?” Tarrik said.

  “You must have grown up under a rock. The Cabalists protect this land from the demons sent against them by the people in the eastern continent, who’ve succumbed to debauchery and lust for unholy power. They summon demons to do their bidding, and the Cabalists are in a constant war against them.”

  Tarrik grunted and held back from asking more questions. What the woman had told him was the opposite of reality, but people only knew what they’d been taught or had figured out themselves. The Cabal had obviously been deceiving the population here for centuries. No good would come of him questioning their methods. He sat back and let the driver do her job.

  The people they passed looked tired and listless, and many wore patched and stained clothes. He observed dark-gray-skinned San-Kharr, reddish-tinged Traguh-raj, greenish Illapa, and a multitude of other races and mixes. Tarrik even saw an almost-obsidian-skinned man who towered above everyone else and whose clothes bulged like a bag of melons—probably of Orgol blood from the far south. Everyone had narrowed eyes against the bright sun and heat, which made them look suspicious.

  Tarrik and the driver passed another cab that was drawn by an even mangier horse whose head drooped so low it could lick the ground. He caught a glimpse of muscled skin, and for an instant thought it was one of Marren’s fan-waving guards. But when he stood to peer over the crowd, the man had disappeared. Perhaps Marren was checking to make sure he delivered the artifact. Tarrik sat back down and vowed to remain alert.

  His driver pulled up beside a half-open gate barely attached to its rusted hinges. “This is it. Ugly place, isn’t it?”

  Lera’s residence was a squat building behind a dilapidated wooden fence. Weeds choked the grounds, and wild vines seemed to be all that was holding the fence together. Tarrik had expected something grander, or at least in better condition.

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked.

  “Four silvers.”

  Tarrik wasn’t sure what the usual rate was, but four silvers seemed a lot for such a short ride. He fished out four coins and handed them to the driver. It was only money.

  She looked at them, then back at Tarrik. “You’re not bargaining?”

  “No.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “These are talents, from the south. They weigh more than the nobles we use here. Must be nice not to have to worry about coin.”

  “If I need more, I’ll take it.”

  “Not here you won’t—not with the Cabal running the city. Thieves are punished by flogging and amputation. Worse criminals are drowned without trial.”

  “Where I’m from, thieves are staked out for a day under the hot sun, then left for the animals of the night to devour. There’s nothing left in the morning.”

  “Sounds gruesome,” she said.

  “Only if you watch.”

  “You don’t say.” She looked at the coins in her palm, then handed two back to him. “I’ll be on my way—unless you need a ride back?”

  Tarrik shook his head. He knew the way now, and it was faster to walk.

  The cab drove off, and he strode along a weed-covered path to Lera’s lair. Flakes of blue paint from the decaying front door littered the wooden veranda, which had flecks of crimson too. He narrowed his eyes and examined the red spots closely, then scraped one off with his thumbnail. Blood. Someone, or something, had been messily killed in front of this door fairly recently.

  He looked upon an iron door knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Tarrik knocked three times. Twice for enmity, thrice for friendship was the custom in his realm. Not that anyone here would care.

  After a short while he heard footsteps approaching—hard heels on tile. The door opened to reveal a short woman with cascading golden hair. She wore a thin white dress upon which had been sewn dozens of rubies in silver settings. Each seemed to sparkle with an inner glow and threw out crimson streaks of light.

  “What do you want?” the woman snapped. She and her dress were tidy and clean, in stark contrast to the outside of the building.

  “I am here at the behest of the Lady Branwen, to see Lera the Betrayer of Shadows.”

  The woman waved a hand. “Bah. That’s an old name. It’s Lera of the Fireflies now. That’s why I had this dress made.”

  So this was Lera. Tarrik inhaled and caught a faint stench of goat. Despite her innocuous yet strange appearance, he’d do well to get his task over with quickly.

  He withdrew the velvet-wrapped statuette from his pocket and held it out.

  Lera stared at the object and blinked. “What’s this?”

  “I think it’s a statuette.”

  “From Lady Branwen?”

  “Yes.” When Lera didn’t take it, Tarrik felt the need to offer more information. “Marren seemed pleased with his.”

  She sniffed, then stepped aside and waved at Tarrik to enter the house.

  He hesitated, wanting to be on his way, but offending one of the Nine probably wasn’t wise. He crossed the threshold and stopped one pace inside. He held out the statuette again, and again Lera ignored it.

  “Come with me,” she said and closed the door.

  She walked across the entrance hall and ascended a wooden staircase. There wasn’t anything he could do except follow.

  He noticed dirt and dry leaves across the floor. The woodwork was dusty, and the painted walls had patches of mildew. On the next floor, she led him into what he thought was a cozy meeting room until he realized the chairs were grimy and the refreshments were covered with green and yellow mold.

  “I’ll take the statuette now,” said Lera. “You can wait here until I return.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Tarrik leaned his spear against the wall and decided not to sit. He caught movement at the corner of his eye and saw a cockroach crawling over a plate of dust-covered fruits. Judging from the wrinkled and shrunken appearance, the food must have been sitting there for weeks, if not longer.

  After some time, Tarrik sensed a tug at his awareness. It was gone in an instant but left him feeling uneasy. He didn’t think Lera had been examining him—his first fear after what had happened with Indriol. The sensation had Ren’s flavor, but he couldn’t say how he knew that. He checked her bindings around him; they were unchanged.

  He waited, but there was no further disturbance.

  The room’s single window was dirty, and he used a cloth napkin from the table to wipe a pane clean enough to see out of. Tarrik looked over the street and noticed the cab and driver who’d brought him were still nearby. She was asleep again, hat over her face. He might have done the same if there was a clean space to lie down.

  Tarrik paced the room as the wait grew longer. Perhaps Lera was testing the artifact, or maybe she’d simply forgotten about him. He wouldn’t be surprised. Ren had told him not to tarry, but he needed a drink and red meat. The cab driver would know of somewhere he could find food.

  He was about to gather his spear and leave when he heard Lera approaching. She entered the room and gave him a brief smile, then tossed him a coin-filled purse. Tarrik caught it reflexively.

  “Go on—open it,” she said.

  Tarrik did so and found the bag brimming with a mixture of silver and gold coins.

  “Lady Branwen doesn’t require your employment any longer. She asked me to
give you this as compensation.”

  Tarrik raised his eyebrows. “Did she?”

  Lera was acting like he was a mercenary bodyguard, not a summoned demon. His mind worked furiously as he realized she had no idea what he was. And she was trying to get rid of him, much as Moushumi had.

  Lera opened the door and gestured to Tarrik to leave. “Lady Branwen has pressing business to attend to. She thanks you for your service and hopes the coin is adequate compensation for cutting your employment short.”

  Tarrik clasped his spear and gave Lera a shallow bow. “It is indeed. Such generosity. Truly Lady Branwen is a pearl among sorcerers.” Lera’s false smile turned to a frown, and Tarrik thought he might be overdoing it. “Ah, well, I’ll be going, then.”

  He sidled through the door and hurried down the stairs, with Lera trailing behind. He resisted the urge to run, but his shoulders itched as he half expected her to stab him or use sorcery. He reminded himself that an attack was unlikely with Lera trying to get rid of him with such a large payment. Besides, as one of the Nine, if she wanted him dead, he would be a cooling corpse already.

  Ren’s bindings were urging him to return to her. The sense of danger was palpable and increased as Tarrik exited the front door and walked to the street. What was the tug he’d felt earlier? Had Ren tried to summon him and been silenced?

  Lera had to know he could easily return to Ren and discover she hadn’t let him go. So what was her plan? If she’s as insane as the rest of the Nine, maybe she doesn’t have one.

  For an instant Tarrik debated whether to take the cab but dismissed the notion. He needed to return to Ren as quickly as possible. He waited until he’d turned a corner and was out of sight of Lera’s house, then broke into a run.

  Tarrik drew curious looks as he barreled down the streets. One man bellowed at him, something about a race, and when Tarrik dodged around a slow-moving wagon loaded with barrels, he almost speared a woman standing to the side. She screeched as his spear blade passed within inches of her face and shouted curses at his receding back.

  Sweat dripped from him as he took a shortcut down the stairs and found himself on the main avenue leading to Ruruc’s northern gate. The tug of Ren’s bindings had grown stronger, and he had to resist them to move in directions not arrow straight toward her. Then suddenly, their driving urge disappeared. He stumbled in confusion, but found his balance and managed not to fall.

  By the time he reached the gate, his chest burned, and his mouth and throat were dry. His head pounded with the surging beat of his pulse and rattling breath. He slowed his pace and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

  It seemed to take twice as long to cover the worn road to the walled compound, even though he jogged. Inside, the packed-earth courtyard was deserted.

  Tarrik made his way to Marren’s building. When he barged into the room where he’d left Ren, a wall of muscled guards met him, their long daggers pointed at him.

  Marren was still sitting on his divan. Of Ren and her sword, no sign.

  “I didn’t think to see you again,” said Marren.

  Tarrik glanced at the divan where Ren had sat and noted both their saddlebags were missing. But the room still looked as it had earlier, with not a cushion or plate out of place. If Ren had been assaulted, either she’d been overpowered instantly or given in without a fight.

  Tarrik ground his teeth, then crossed his arms, his palms against his chest, and bowed. “Samal will rise.”

  Marren frowned and did the same. “Praise Samal, Lord of Life.”

  “Where is Lady Branwen?”

  “I’m surprised you’re still on your feet.”

  “I’m used to running. Where is Lady Branwen?”

  Marren chuckled and picked up his goblet of wine. He sipped it and smacked his lips. “I meant from the drugged wine. Branwen felt the effects soon after you left. I bear her no ill will myself, but this was a long time coming. She should have anticipated it.”

  Perhaps she did, which is why she’s killing you one by one.

  It explained the tug on his bindings that he’d felt, an instant when Ren knew she was betrayed and attempted to summon Tarrik before the drugs had taken hold of her. But she wasn’t dead, or her binding on him would have dissipated.

  Tarrik doubled up suddenly as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. He reeled, groaning, feeling cold despite the heat. It’s the bindings, he told himself. There was no imperative pulling him in a certain direction, but he still felt the compulsion to protect Ren.

  She came for me.

  Tarrik shook his head to dismiss the traitorous thought.

  “Where is she?” he asked Marren.

  “I had no part in this, apart from the wine,” said the sorcerer. “I hold no particular malice toward Lady Branwen, unlike my colleagues. Lera, Puck, and Moushumi decided Serenity was unworthy of the honor Samal bestowed upon her. And with our lord’s return imminent, she must be disposed of.” He sighed. “I have no time for such distractions. Lord Samal’s release is at hand, and the others insist on playing stupid games to position themselves. It’s best if you take the coin that Lera gave you and disappear. Live a good life somewhere—just not here. If you make a fuss and look for Branwen, you’ll be killed.”

  Fear rose within Tarrik. Fear for himself, when Ren told the Nine of his existence. And fear for her—what she would suffer at the hands of her colleagues.

  Why should he fear for her? He tried to smother the feeling and forced himself to stand straight, staring at Marren, his chest hard and aching.

  Ren’s fate with the Nine was already sealed. They would soon discover that she’d killed two of their number, and she would be punished. Would they kill her quickly or torment her? Torment was good; he wanted Ren to suffer.

  She came for me.

  No, she came to kill Indriol. Freeing Tarrik was a side benefit for her.

  She came for me.

  When he didn’t move or speak, Marren said, “Answer me, man! Cat got your tongue?”

  The phrase brought a smile to Tarrik’s lips as he remembered Ren saying such to him. “What cat?” he asked softly.

  Marren frowned. “It’s a figure of speech. It means you’re silent when you’re expected to speak.”

  So that was the meaning.

  Tarrik’s grip tightened on his spear. Four guards of unknown skill, all wielding daggers. And one of the Nine. To fight them was madness. Moving slowly, he shouldered his spear and backed up a step.

  “Samal will know of the Nine’s treachery,” he said. “There will be no hiding it from him.”

  “Which is why Branwen has been taken by the Cabal. The Nine’s hands are clean.”

  The Tainted Cabal. Demon slavers and the cause of countless demon deaths. They would wring Ren until her secrets spilled from her like her blood.

  “How long will they torture her?”

  “Days probably. Are you squeamish? Branwen will have much knowledge to share, and she’s no stranger to pain.”

  Ren would reveal that Tarrik was a demon. The Cabal would hunt him down and take over Ren’s bindings. Unless she died to protect him. Unlikely.

  She came for me.

  “Where have they taken her?”

  “Nowhere you can get to.” Marren stood, still holding his goblet. “Go. Forget Branwen. Whatever contract you had with her is void. Take the coin, and spend it on whatever you want. We aren’t without mercy. Well, I’m not. If you linger much longer, you’ll regret it.”

  Tarrik bowed once more. “You are wise. I have had many masters, and Lady Branwen was merely another. I’ll join a trading caravan heading to the coast.”

  “You do that.” Marren watched Tarrik as he backed away.

  Tarrik kept his eyes on the sorcerer too until he was out in the hallway. Then he turned and left the building.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sun beat down as hot as a forge. Tarrik left the compound but stopped fifty paces up the road. He leaned on his spear and considered
his options. The deep blue cloudless sky sent a shiver of unease through him. It was so . . . empty. High above, a tiny speck moved in circles. A bird of prey.

  Marren would likely send a guard to keep an eye on him and make sure he left Ruruc, probably the same man Tarrik had spotted following him before. If he even looked like he was going after Ren, they’d kill him.

  Her bindings commanded him to protect her, to do her no harm, but right now, in this situation, he could walk away. Or at least delay until she was killed. He had no idea where she was or how to get to her.

  She came for me.

  Blood and fire! She’d enslaved him! And then saved him from Indriol.

  Fool! She’s nothing like Contian or Jaquel.

  Tarrik stormed toward the city. He needed a drink to dampen his emotions; then he’d be able to see sense.

  He strode through the unguarded gate and past the lethargic market vendors.

  “You there!” Tarrik said to a tall woman wearing colored silks. Her face was mostly covered with a head scarf, leaving only her brown eyes visible. “Where’s the nearest place I can get a drink?”

  “The Severed Head is a few streets that way.” She pointed along a side street. “It’s a rough establishment, though—”

  “That’s fine.” Tarrik left her gaping.

  He found the tavern easily enough. The severed head on the sign was greenish black, lumpy, and misshapen, and its neck oozed drips of orange. Some type of wilderness creature, he thought, though he couldn’t figure out which one.

  Inside, worn floorboards were covered with a thin layer of sawdust—a sure sign they expected spilled ale or blood. Tarrik moved to the bar along one wall where a scrawny man with a straggly gray beard nursed a tankard.

  The tavern keeper wore a leather apron and swatted at flies with a woven cane implement. He glanced at Tarrik, slapped the swatter at something on the bar, then put on a false grin. “Welcome, wanderer! We have ale to quench the mightiest—”

  “Something stronger,” growled Tarrik. “From the Widow’s Distillery. Nothing sweet like rum.” He tossed a gold coin onto the bar. “I’ll need the bottle.”