He thought of the pain and misery he’d experienced when the demon lords had banished him to Shimrax, the Guttering Wastes. Remembered the agony of the sorcerous brand seared into his skin, marking him an exile. He had been abused and mistreated, but it wasn’t in his nature to wish subjugation, slavery, and a true death on the higher-order demons who had punished him. If he did help Ren, he wouldn’t only be helping to save humankind; for if Samal was to turn his gaze toward the abyssal realms, then Tarrik might just be saving demonkind too. Something larger than himself and his honor was at stake now.
He looked at Ren. Like Tarrik, she had been a slave. She’d been a slave for decades. Until one day she’d learned to harness the sun’s power, and it had cleansed her. She was free of Samal’s taint.
A bond had grown between them—that much was true. But he was also unbound now. Free. He could leave this horrid world and its wretched humans forever.
He laughed softly. He couldn’t walk away. The Nine had to be stopped. Samal must remain imprisoned. And if Ren required his help to achieve those things, so be it.
And perhaps there was the slimmest chance of redemption for Tarrik. It was only with valorous, altruistic deeds that a demon could be cleansed of the taint of exile. But here, on this wretched human world, who would know or care?
Days of flying followed, north and east into the Wastes. Just as on their previous flights, they traveled by night and rested by day. As the miles passed, Tarrik fell into a stupor. How Ren could handle their boring trip while she controlled her potent sorcery was beyond him. She was stronger than he had given her credit for. He’d never seen Contian endure such a display of power combined with single-minded focus.
The Wastes consisted of dry earth and rocks, some sand, and more rocks. As they left Ruruc far behind, the air became thinner and colder, and far to the north he could just make out a white band on the horizon. Snow. Tarrik shuddered with dread. Water so cold it had frozen solid. Worse than the hated rain of this world. If he found himself in a frigid, northern, snow-blasted land, he just might lose all courage and try to kill Ren and hope she put him out of his misery.
Tarrik was left to mostly sit behind her and think. Now that he was looking for it, Tarrik could tell when Ren replenished herself using the sun’s power. No wonder he hadn’t sensed her using the dawn- or dusk-tides when creating and flying her platforms. The very idea of what Ren had accomplished was something he had trouble grasping. And the fact of it stunned him. Tarrik’s knowledge of the dawn- and dusk-tides was minimal, and he couldn’t imagine just what was possible using the sun’s power.
He was quieter than normal, which led to Ren stating he had reverted to an even more lizardlike manner. His mind was so absorbed with the ramifications of what he’d witnessed that he forgot to work on absorbing more of Ananias’s essence. And when he tried, his thoughts were hard to corral. Concentrating was almost impossible.
On the fourth day of their journey, as dawn broke slowly, Tarrik saw in the distance an earthen pyramid rising from the rocky landscape. Samal’s tomb. He quashed the nauseous feeling that accompanied the descent of the disc and wrapped his arms around himself against the chill.
As they moved closer, he saw that the pyramid stood on a square base with stunted grayish-green bushes upon its slopes and a thicket of what looked like white branches spread around its perimeter. Haphazard mounds of rocks were piled around the pyramid, smaller ones often surrounding a larger heap, and a few of the largest stacks standing alone. On the south side, rocks had been stacked to form two walls that led like a promenade to a squat, square tower that must be the tomb’s entrance. On the northern side of the pyramid were fallen walls and roofless buildings. Someone had tried to build a permanent settlement there at some stage, and it had failed.
On the western side, which stood in shade, there were many more signs of activity: rows of tents, their pegs pounded into the hard earth; half a dozen pavilions flying pennants; baggage and provision wagons standing in long trains. The giant lizards that pulled the wagons were foraging on hardy plants farther to the south of the pyramid. Smoke from scores of cooking fires hazed the air, and standards of a dozen colors and symbols fluttered limply in the faint breeze. Forces loyal to the Nine had been here for quite some time, surmised Tarrik.
His gaze returned to the earthen pyramid. Within lay Samal Rak-shazza, the Adversary—one of the most powerful demon lords, a manipulator and deceiver. His had been the mind behind Nysrog’s attempted devastation of this world, the real danger the humans remained unaware of. When Samal was freed from his prison, the denizens of Wiraya would know suffering such as they had never before experienced.
Ren’s platform descended from its lofty heights, and more details came into view. Men and women moved about the encampment, their breath steaming in the frigid morning air. What few horses and oxen there were stamped and complained in the frosty gloom. Campfires dotted around the area sent thin plumes of smoke into the breezeless sky.
Close to the passageway leading to the entrance to the tomb stood a massive wain, its frame painted garish reds and oranges. The great bed of the vehicle held a score of cattle and horses: some lying down, obviously distraught; others hanging their heads over the low sides of the wain, hooves clashing against the timbers in an effort to escape. Tarrik couldn’t determine a use for the animals other than food.
The white branches stacked around the base of the pyramid turned out to be bones, bleached by the sun. Most were too big to be human, and Tarrik had the uneasy feeling that they were demon bones. Perhaps this was the place where Samal had made his last stand. Tarrik wouldn’t put it past him to have sacrificed all the demons under him to delay the inevitable.
Ren landed the disc on a bare patch of earth midway between two pavilions. The queues of humans waiting to collect their morning rations gawked at the arrival.
Ren spoke a cant, and her unearthly power tendrils dissipated. “Well,” she said, “this is it.” Her eyes were bloodshot, and stray hairs stuck out from her usually tight braid.
Tarrik gathered their bags and his spear, stepped down, and hurried across the steaming, sizzling earth around the disc. Ren followed, crossing the heated ground slowly, her eyes hooded and wary, glancing all around.
Puck Moonan emerged from one of the pavilions, trailed by his young apprentice. The sorcerer hadn’t changed since Tarrik had seen him last; he was still wearing the same stained and torn garments, and even from a distance his goatlike reek was evident.
Puck stopped, leaning on his orichalcum staff topped with the old man’s head, and glared at Ren. His apprentice stood behind him and to one side, her greenish skin looking washed out in the gray light of dawn. She kept glancing at Ren, then away, no doubt remembering how her superior could have blasted her out of existence but had stayed her hand. Tarrik wouldn’t have offered such a mercy, given she’d attacked them without provocation.
“Ignore them,” Ren told him and walked away from the sorcerers toward the second pavilion.
Tarrik glanced at the piles of bones that surrounded the massive tomb. There were no grasses, lichens, or desert-hardy plants growing around them. The first signs of life were the patches of yellow grass a hundred yards away, which could have sprouted months or years ago.
“I’m afraid they’re mostly demon bones,” Ren said. “Though there are plenty of human bones there as well. For centuries, thieves have been drawn to this place by rumors of riches within the tomb. They never make it past the perimeter.”
“Sorcery?”
She nodded. “To keep out those that don’t die getting here. Most die out in the Wastes, at the mercy of creatures as old as time and as vicious as any created.”
Four fully armored guards stood at the entrance to the second pavilion, a sword in each hand, their tips resting on the ground. They turned their helmeted heads to regard Ren and Tarrik, and he was shocked to see their eyes were blank orichalcum orbs. The orange metal was also chased into their armor and swor
ds.
“Tarrik!” snapped Ren, and he hurried after her.
The pavilion was dark inside, and Tarrik squinted until his eyes adjusted. High poles supported the roof, which was made of tanned leather with sections of crimson and scarlet tassels. The floor was covered with lush carpets upon which sat chairs and lounges and tables of all sizes. The central pole, as thick as a tree, was carved to resemble twining vines with budding flowers. Light filtered down through open flaps in the roof, illuminating the center of the pavilion and leaving the sides in shadow.
A black-skinned woman leaned against a sturdy table laden with food. She possibly had Orgol blood in her veins, Tarrik thought, considering her skin color, height, and musculature. Her spiked hair was a slightly browner shade of black and cut short. The scent of goat emanating from her wasn’t as powerful as Puck’s but had a sharp, sour tinge.
She turned to appraise Ren with a wry smile, then used the hand that wasn’t holding a goblet to tap her opposite shoulder perfunctorily. “Samal will rise,” she said.
It seemed not all of the Nine were fervent in their worship of Samal. Interesting.
Ren returned the woman’s smile. “Praise Samal, Lord of Life.”
“Now that that’s over,” said the woman, “I’m sure you’re dying for something to eat and drink. Who’s the new bodyguard?” She looked Tarrik up and down with a mischievous smile.
“Just someone I picked up in Ivrian. He’s performed adequately so far.” Ren glanced at Tarrik. “Tarrik, this is Jawo-linger. She is one of the Nine. And . . . a friend.”
Jawo-linger continued to eye Tarrik and gestured to the table of food. “I’m sure you’re famished as well. Go ahead and eat. Serenity and I have a lot to catch up on. Marren hasn’t arrived yet, in case you weren’t aware. I’m looking forward to chatting with him as well, as long as his half-naked servants aren’t anywhere in sight.”
She poured red wine into another goblet and held it out to Ren, who took it with murmured thanks.
Tarrik dumped their saddlebags and his spear next to a long couch and moved to the table. There were a few plates of cured animal flesh and a couple of bottles of spirits along with the wine, so he was satisfied he wouldn’t remain hungry for long. As he piled a plate with meat, Ren and Jawo-linger spoke in low tones.
“The Tainted Cabalists have been preparing the way, and the others of the Nine are trickling in,” said Jawo-linger. “They don’t have the same method of transport you have—I still can’t figure out how you do it—but they’ll all be here on time.”
“That’s good,” Ren replied. “With two of us dead, it will be touch and go, even with the artifacts I’ve procured to assist us. We’ll be walking a fine line, using all of our power. There’s no room for error.”
Jawo-linger seemed to bounce on her toes, a smile on her face. “Did you manage to procure one for me?”
“Yes. I’ll hand it over to you soon, once I’ve tested it further.”
Jawo’s eyes had a faraway look as she said, “After all this time. We’re so close.” Her expression swiftly changed to one of consternation. “But someone seeks to hinder us. Do you have any information about what happened to Lischen and Indriol?”
Ren shook her head. “You’re more sensitive to our shared bond than I am. What did you sense?”
Tarrik shoved a thick slice of meat into his mouth, pretending not to be interested. The flesh was salty and chewy and flavored with unfamiliar herbs.
If the other sorcerers discovered that Ren was responsible for killing two of their Nine, her fate would be sealed.
“Each underwent a sorcerous battle before their bond was shattered,” Jawo-linger said. “That’s all I could sense. I fear the worst—that they were targeted by the same murderer and there’s a plot afoot to weaken us. My coin is on the Cabal’s enemies on the eastern continent—perhaps the Order of the Blazing Sun. They’re on the decline, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were determined to strike a blow before their power wanes.” She sighed and shook her head. “But it could be any number of organizations, really. Until we know more about how Lischen and Indriol died, I can only speculate.”
She laughed briefly. “I initially thought it could be one of us, but everyone’s location is accounted for. No one was near Lischen and Indriol when they were slain. Although, as usual, I cannot account for you.”
Ren shrugged. “My bond to Samal and the Nine has always been inconsistent—you know this. Besides, Lischen and Indriol were much more powerful than I. Especially Indriol. If I’d moved against him, I’d be the one missing from this gathering.”
Jawo-linger nodded. “I know. But the others would like to blame you if they could. I fear their dislike blinds them.”
“Who have you sent to investigate the deaths? We can’t spare many sorcerers, surely, not this close to realizing our goal?”
“My apprentice, Rokkvi, along with Moushumi’s man. And that brings me to another subject. When are you taking on an apprentice? We need to increase our numbers and pass on our knowledge. If what I fear about Lischen and Indriol is true, all the more reason to strengthen ourselves and destroy our enemies. And there are many of those who’d happily see us all dead.”
“I have someone in mind,” said Ren. “But she’s young.”
“Really? Who?”
“No one you know. Have Rokkvi and Ursael reported anything of note?”
“Only that Ekthras found a valuable artifact among Indriol’s possessions. A silver bull that Indriol must have been keeping secret from us. Ekthras claims it is powerful and will assist with our final cants.”
Ren sipped her wine. “We must wait to see if Rokkvi and Ursael find out anything else. For now, my focus is on the task ahead of us. The Cabalists claim to be helping us, but there is an internal faction that would be happy to see us fail and leave Samal interned forever.”
“I haven’t heard any whispers that they’ll do anything to disrupt proceedings,” said Jawo-linger. “They fear our power, the worms, but they also covet it. We should be on our guard.”
“When am I not?”
“Then I don’t need to tell you to be wary of Ekthras. He claims to be able to summon a score of demons at once, with proper preparation,” said Jawo-linger.
“That would require a great deal of power. But most would be uncontrollable—you know that. A higher-order demon could command them, if they were willing,” said Ren dryly.
“I gather that’s something he’s working on.”
Ren drained her goblet and returned it to the table, then placed a hand on Jawo-linger’s shoulder. “I need to rest before the final surge. Until then, I’ll help with the lesser wards and traps as best I can.”
“Don’t tire yourself out. With our numbers diminished, we’ll all need to contribute more to break Samal’s bonds.”
“Don’t worry. My artifacts will protect us and augment the final cants. We’re so close. It will all be over soon.”
“Yes. And it will be glorious! Thank you, Serenity, for everything. I’ve had a tent set up for you and assigned you a servant. She’s old and doesn’t talk much. I thought you’d like her.”
Ren thanked Jawo-linger as well, then turned to Tarrik and jerked her head toward the exit. He shoved a final handful of meat into his mouth and dropped his plate onto a side table, then gathered their gear. On the way out, he grabbed a bottle of spirits.
Outside, they had to stop to let a train of laden mules trudge past. Tarrik found his gaze again drawn to the pyramid as he swallowed the meat and took a swig. The liquid was bright orange and tasted strange but had the familiar burn and accompanying numbness.
Ren looked sidelong at him. “How are you enjoying the salted rat?”
Rat? He’d eaten worse, and would again. “Meat is meat.”
“I can’t argue with that.” She looked disappointed he hadn’t reacted differently.
Tarrik swallowed another mouthful of vermin, then noticed Ren was holding out her hand for the bottl
e.
She took a sip. “Urgh. Jawo has no taste. This is made from carrots.”
Tarrik shrugged. It didn’t matter what the spirits were made from, as long as drinking the liquor dulled his emotions. He shifted their saddlebags on his shoulder. The mule train was almost past.
“You’re quieter than usual,” said Ren.
“In a few days I might be dead. Or bound again. Or subsumed into Samal if he decides to take my essence to make himself stronger.”
Tarrik’s felt his knees weaken and sneered at his own softness. His hand tightened around his spear, and he clenched his teeth. What would he do when the demon lord fixed his cruel gaze upon him? Would he bend his knee, overshadowed by Samal’s power? Or would he try to flee, having no desire to be chained to another master? His thoughts briefly touched on the hard shell around Ananias’s essence for reassurance. If he could find a way to take it into himself, his powers would multiply. The absorption might be his only chance for survival.
“I won’t let that happen,” Ren said.
You will have no choice. “Samal will be weak after his long imprisonment. He’ll need nourishment. You were bound to him, Ren; if he gets so much as a toehold in this world, you will have to obey whatever he demands of you.”
She waved a hand in dismissal and skirted behind the last mule in the train. He was distracted by the sway of her hips as he followed.
Ren stopped in front of a single-poled pavilion smaller than Jawo-linger’s, its roof and walls made of thick canvas rather than leather. Two armored, orichalcum-eyed guards stood at the entrance, their hands on massive swords. Their helmeted heads turned to regard Ren and Tarrik, but after a heartbeat they returned to gazing straight ahead.
Ren pushed through the entrance flap, and Tarrik followed. Inside, the only illumination came from two lamps hanging from a rope suspended below the ceiling and a brazier filled with glowing coals that gave out meager heat. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture or comforts: a few scattered chairs and stools on thin rugs, and a mound of blankets and cushions in a corner that looked like an unmade bed. A lone table held a few bottles and one crystal goblet.
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 32
