Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  “I surrender,” the guard said, licking his lips and lowering his blade.

  Tarrik launched his spear. It flew straight and true and punctured the guard’s chest. He cried out and fell backward, scrabbling hands grabbing the spear. He tugged it free, screaming and crying at the same time, and scrunched into a ball on the straw, as if trying to contain his life before it ebbed away.

  Tarrik locked the door, then dragged the crates and barrels over and stacked them against it. The barrier wouldn’t stop a sorcerer for long but would hinder guards. He fetched his spear and strode to the cells, his blood coursing through his veins, pounding in his head.

  The first cell held a spindly woman clad in filthy rags. She sat unmoving on a pile of straw in a corner, her eyes fixed on Tarrik. He moved to the next, which was empty.

  Across the corridor, an old man rushed to his cell door, his hands latching on to the window bars. He had a soiled beard and hair and cackled maniacally. “Wine!” he shouted with rotten breath through brown teeth. “Bring me wine!”

  Tarrik left him to his screaming. The next cell was empty; then there was only one left at the end. Another iron-bound and locked door. With a key in the lock.

  The door opened to a sizeable room. A man stood before Tarrik surrounded by a spherical shield of shimmering blue. The sorcerer grinned and raised a hand to point at Tarrik. He snarled a cant.

  Tarrik dissolved into the shadows and re-formed behind the sorcerer.

  Sheets of sorcerous flame erupted into the space where Tarrik had been standing, through the door, and into the cellblock. Straw ignited, and the crates and barrels charred. Smoke filled the air.

  Screams came from the cells, abruptly ceasing after a moment. The sorcerer turned his head away from the intense heat, no doubt assuming Tarrik had been caught in the blast and killed.

  Tarrik ran a few steps and slammed his shoulder into the sorcerer’s shield. The man flew toward the door and his own flames. His shield winked out as he lost concentration and tumbled into the conflagration. He rolled across the floor, his clothes bursting into flame, his hands sizzling on the blistering stone. He screeched in agony, and Tarrik stopped his cries with a well-timed thrust of his spear.

  “Tarrik,” croaked Ren from behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tarrik whirled to see Ren sitting on the ground behind floor-to-ceiling bars. She was naked, and her hair was damp and plastered to her skin. For the first time Tarrik saw the results of Samal’s torment on her flesh. Newly incised lines crusted with dried blood covered old mutilations.

  She struggled to rise, failed. Whatever they had done to her in such a short time had seriously weakened her. She had the same scared look he’d seen when she’d summoned him, though this time it was more intense. A trembling hand came up to cover her face, and he saw that her knuckle was raw and covered with fresh blood from where she’d worried at it.

  He averted his eyes from her nakedness and stalked closer. He drew a breath laden with smoke, which caused him to cough and lower his head. The straw had been reduced to ash, and the wood ignited by sorcery was now only smoldering.

  Something tugged at him. Free her, it urged.

  “Do not touch the bars,” said Ren. “They are warded, and you will die. You should not have come for me. I have gambled and lost.”

  “I am your slave. I could do nothing else.”

  A weak laugh escaped Ren’s lips and transformed into a cough. “Untrue. I don’t know why you’ve come, but it was a mistake. I am close to death. They have poisoned me, along with everything else. Leave now, while you can. Maybe you have a chance to escape.”

  Her words confused Tarrik. Her bindings had urged him to her, hadn’t they?

  Ren lowered her head, and her frame shook with sobs. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and slowly raised her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her mouth twisted into a smile. She wasn’t crying; she was laughing.

  She gave him a look filled with pity and lifted a hand to touch a bloody patch above her breast, over her heart. They had cut her catalyst from her.

  All of a sudden her words made sense. He was free of her accursed bindings! He was free!

  Then what had urged him to come for her?

  Tarrik’s heart lurched as he realized—his own feelings had brought him here. No . . . it wasn’t possible. His eyes widened in shock, and he clasped his hands over his head. He could feel his arms shaking. She was a human, an enslaver of demons. But he had come to free her even after her bindings upon him had dissolved. His deep rage, his twisted emotions . . . the confusion . . . the truth was, he cared.

  The room spun around him, and he sank to the stone floor, horrified. Not again. His attachment to Jaquel had brought only suffering.

  “What have you done to me?” he said.

  “Nothing. You came here of your own volition. But you should go now.”

  “Is that a command?” he said automatically.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. Tarrik, I am bone weary. I am alone, and I’m afraid. I have no more honor to lose. You should flee. At least one of us will survive.”

  Tarrik’s thoughts swirled in a maelstrom. He couldn’t focus. What was he supposed to do?

  “I could help you escape,” he said. “But why should I?”

  “Do you think I would take this path for no reason? I will never win this fight without shedding blood—and there’s little chance to survive what I’m doing. But I cannot do it without someone to help. Without you.”

  Ren glared at him, angry at her fate, and yet there was a determination about her. A fierceness of spirit. Her similarity to Jaquel sent him reeling, and the room spun. He steadied himself, hands on the solid stone floor, and took a deep breath.

  Ren bit her bottom lip, her hands gripped tightly in her lap. “I’m sorry I had to involve you in this. Flee now, Tarrik. Run. And when I . . . when I die . . . you’ll be truly free. If you’re not strong enough to return yourself, seek out the masters from the Red Gate Covenant. Tell them you served me. They’ll find a way to send you back to your realm. But I implore you . . . there is the slimmest chance I might live. My life is in your hands.”

  He was a shadow-blade. Of course he was strong enough. Tarrik said nothing, but his anger boiled anew. Ren had chosen to enslave him. If he was truly free, he should carve her heart from her chest. But would he?

  She came for me.

  He clenched his hands into fists, suppressed his rage. For long moments he stared at Ren, his master, beaten and alone in her cell. With a start he saw there was no fresh incision where he’d implanted the artifact for her.

  “Could you not have used the artifact to destroy your captors?” he asked. And herself with them. Suicide by sorcery—a fitting end.

  “I’m saving it for when things get truly desperate.” She laughed softly.

  Tarrik wondered if this was how her madness manifested: an inability to see how dire her situation was.

  “That was a poor joke,” Ren continued. “The truth is, I was too afraid to use it. I find that despite my resolve, despite the efforts I’ve made to harden myself, I cling desperately to life. Is that strange? I don’t think so.” She shifted her weight and winced. “I wish . . .”

  “For what?” snarled Tarrik. “What is it that you wish for?”

  “Another way. Something . . .” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Enough. There’s no point crying about it.”

  She drew her shoulders back and sat up straight, staring deep into his eyes. Once again Tarrik was struck by how she reminded him of Jaquel. They shared the same strength and intensity, a spirit of unbridled purpose wedded to intellect.

  “You didn’t happen to see any water out there, did you?” asked Ren.

  “The guards had a waterskin.”

  “Fetch it.”

  Tarrik did so and tossed the skin between the bars to her. She raised it in trembling hands and gulped greedily.

  “The Cabal sorcerers will be he
re soon,” he said. “And they’ve removed your catalyst.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you still have power but no way to harness it?”

  “Yes. They’ll leave me here until my repositories drain away to nothing first, just to be sure. It’s over.”

  Tarrik reached through the bars, careful not to touch them, and placed his hand on the cold stone floor. “Not yet.”

  He withdrew his hand, leaving behind the catalyst he had taken from the sorcerer he’d killed shortly after being summoned by Ren. To his surprise, she didn’t immediately seize the crystal. Instead she stared at it, long and hard.

  “Take it,” he said.

  She reached out, but at the last moment snatched her hand back.

  “Take it,” he repeated. “Why do you hesitate?”

  “Because I’m afraid.”

  “You’ve lasted this long. You’ve killed two of the Nine that I know of. Free yourself, and fight them!”

  “Why did you come?” she said.

  Because you came for me.

  “I don’t know.”

  Ren appraised him, her eyes narrowing. Then she nodded. “That’ll have to do.”

  She grasped the catalyst and was consumed by a blinding iridescence.

  Tarrik shielded his eyes until the light dimmed and he could look at her. Ren stood and met his gaze, a slight smile on her lips. She touched three of the steel bars with a finger. Each one turned a reddish brown, then crumbled into a pile of rust. The fine powder billowed around her feet, and she stepped through it.

  Free.

  She held out a hand to Tarrik. He stared at her palm for a heartbeat before ignoring it, grabbing his spear, and rising to his feet.

  Shouts came from the other side of the locked and barricaded door at the end of the cellblock.

  “I’m aware of them,” said Ren in response to his unasked question. “Avert your eyes. I must get dressed.”

  Her clothes and their saddlebags were on a bench against the wall. The bags had been emptied, their contents examined. Her sword was there as well, still sheathed. His eyes alighted on a table covered with a linen cloth that held various sharp implements. A few were smeared with blood—Ren’s, he presumed.

  “Why did they leave your sword here?” asked Tarrik. Such carelessness seemed odd for the Cabalists.

  “They were trying to torture its secret from me and needed it close.”

  Tarrik grunted. “There might be more than a few sorcerers out there,”

  “It doesn’t matter. Unless I’m incapacitated, they’re no match for me.” Ren frowned at him and said again, “Turn your back, please.”

  Tarrik did so, smiling at her display of modesty when he’d already seen all there was to see. There was a rustle of cloth, and buckles clinked as Ren dressed herself.

  “You can turn around now,” she said.

  She was wearing her usual charcoal outfit, though it was wrinkled. Her face was wan and drawn, and one hand clutched the bench in support. The other held the waterskin.

  Tarrik saw that her sword was once again strapped to her back. He frowned. “Your sword . . . will you not need to use it?”

  Ren shook her head. “I am too weak.”

  She had lied to him. Again.

  “You said you had power.”

  “I do. Nothing these fools would recognize. But I need to get to the roof, and quickly. Gather our gear—we might need it. And there are a few things there I’d hate to lose.”

  Tarrik shoved everything back into the saddlebags, including Ren’s journal and personal effects. He shouldered both. “We’re flying out of here?”

  “Soon, yes. First I have to replenish myself.”

  She took a step toward the door, staggered, and fell to her hands and knees. Tarrik rushed to her, pulled her upright by her arm, and felt her quake beneath his touch. She clung to him, the catalyst still clutched in one hand, and he supported her entire weight. It seemed they might not escape after all.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to carry me,” she said, her voice wavering.

  Tarrik shifted his spear to his other shoulder and scooped her up. He could feel warm dampness leaking through her clothes—blood. She stank of it, and sweat and grime. Ren seemed so slight in his arms. So tragically beautiful, both helpless and strong, a jewel men would die to possess. But Tarrik knew she would never let herself become another’s possession.

  The noises from behind the locked door grew louder. A deep voice shouted a cant, and the door shuddered under the impact of something heavy.

  Despite her weakened condition, Ren snorted softly. “They haven’t sent their best sorcerers. Just whoever was close, I guess. They’ll be in here soon, though. It’s best if we get going.”

  “To the roof?”

  “Yes. If you please, Tarrik.”

  “The door is blocked and locked,” he pointed out.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Tarrik strode toward the door, still carrying Ren, and stopped when she squeezed his arm. “Close enough,” she said.

  She whispered cants, haltingly at first, then with more confidence. Tarrik sensed the same lack of dawn- and dusk-tide power to her sorcery as on previous occasions. And then her voice boomed with sorcerous amplification. A light appeared between them and the door, faint and rosy. A hum filled the air, vibrating deep in Tarrik’s bones.

  The sorcerous light waxed, blasting the room with illumination. Tarrik had to close his eyes and turn his head from the glare. After a brief moment it lessened, and he opened them again. The room was afire with tiny motes that sparkled and danced in heated currents. Dust, he realized.

  She had set the very air aflame.

  The crates and barrels he’d stacked against the door smoked and blackened. The heads of the doornails glowed orange, and the iron bands creaked with sudden expansion as Ren’s sorcery scorched metal. It became difficult to breathe in the hot air.

  “You want to chain me?” said Ren. “I will teach you about power.” She chanted a phrase: “Kelbrul-azur.”

  A heartbeat passed. Then a spherical ward encased Tarrik and Ren in a golden glare.

  Blinding lines of light incised the air, straight and precise, as blistering and destructive as white-hot steel. The barrels and crates exploded into splinters that swirled in a vortex and burned to ash. Iron cracked, and the door twisted and split.

  On the other side, two sorcerers shouted cants into the crackling thunder. Behind them, soldiers cried out in terror and raised their arms against the fiery onslaught.

  Stone crumbled and blew in jagged chunks across the sorcerers’ arcane shields and hammered into the soldiers’ bodies. Ren’s blinding lines followed, hissing through dust and debris, dissecting wards and flesh, destroying everything in their path. The sorcerers fell to the stone floor, sodden with their own blood.

  Ren continued her cants, and the brilliant lines sawed and severed. Dead and wounded soldiers lay in ragged heaps, screeching and wailing. Sorcery silenced their despair.

  “Milhil ewa-seng,” gasped Ren, letting forth a strange cackle.

  Tarrik tore his eyes from the destruction to look at her. Her teeth were bared and streaked with crimson. A cough racked her frame, and she turned and spat a stream of blood onto the ash-strewn floor. She wiped a trembling hand across her mouth. “We must hurry. Go now, and do not stop.”

  Tarrik carried Ren through the blasted and smoking remains of those who had come against her. Golden light followed the duo, illuminating their path. He couldn’t see where the glow came from.

  He ascended the steps, shoulders itching, expecting sorcery and steel at any moment. Shouts came from above them, and he hesitated.

  “Keep moving,” Ren urged. “Run, Tarrik!”

  And so he did. His legs took the steps three at a time, and they barreled into a hallway full of surprised soldiers and talisman-clutching sorcerers.

  Ren’s hand tightened on his arm, fingers and nails digging into his skin. She spoke a can
t, and more of her golden lines appeared. Straight and true, they sliced through steel and leather, muscle and bone. Crimson whipped across the walls. Human meat collapsed into writhing heaps, bawling and shrieking or forever silent. Fat rendered and burst into smoky flame.

  Tarrik spoke his own cant, drawing on his dark-tide power, and sent out shadow tendrils. The scrying found a way up: a long spiral staircase.

  He turned from the carnage and raced along another hallway. Something hammered into him, and he lurched into the wall. Unearthly lights battered the shield around them, thrashing and smoking, scraping sparks.

  “Keep going!” screamed Ren.

  Tarrik regained his footing and heard sorcerous cants from behind. Coruscating fire enveloped them, blinding him. He stumbled again, and Ren cried out at the jolt to her injured flesh.

  Scorching heat flayed across Tarrik’s back. Ren’s shield was weakening. He pushed forward, struggling to see, blinking furiously. Where were the stairs? Ahead . . . somewhere.

  He forced himself to move, though blinding lights cascaded around him, burning his eyes.

  Blood and fire, where are those stairs?

  There.

  He darted through a wide opening, and the assault on them lessened. Ren’s heaving breaths sounded loudly in his ears.

  He glanced up, saw the wide stone stairs winding around the inside of a massive cylinder, only a thin iron balustrade between them and the edge. He searched for the darkest patch in the gloom above.

  “What are you doing?” said Ren.

  “Trust me,” he replied, and poured himself into the darkness.

  Their essence dissolved and re-formed a hundred yards up the staircase. Ren coughed and spat again, splashing red across the stone.

  Tarrik blinked away sweat and grimaced at the tiredness in his muscles. The stairs were greased with dingy light. The two stood just to the side of a column, in its shadow.

  Ren’s hand pulled at his arm. “Keep moving, you lummox.”

  Tarrik leaped up the stairs. A fleeting glance behind showed soldiers pouring through a doorway, along with several unarmed men and women. Cabal sorcerers.