Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  “I think it’s more than that. Now get some rest. We both need to be strong for tomorrow.”

  With those words, she turned her back, shook out her blankets, and settled down to rest.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Tarrik woke again, there was a damp cloth on his forehead. Elisa, the crone, knelt next to him, one wizened hand clutching his, crooning soothing words. Tarrik disentangled his hand. Even that minimal movement caused shooting pains in his head, and he clenched his teeth. His muscles ached as if they’d been pounded with a hammer.

  Elisa cackled. “Awake finally, are you? I was going to rouse you soon. She ordered me to do it before she returned.”

  “You talk too much,” said Tarrik. Whatever had brought about the change in the woman was unwelcome.

  “You’re the first person to say that.” Abruptly, she seized his shoulder and leaned in close to whisper into his ear. “Don’t consort with these people. Their sorcery cuts like a freshly sharpened razor. You will regret it.”

  “I already do,” he said.

  “The goddess is watching. She reminded me that the price of victory is often death.”

  Tarrik grunted. “Which goddess is this?” He’d never seen any evidence that these gods and goddesses the humans worshiped existed.

  Elisa didn’t reply, just removed the damp cloth. Instantly, Tarrik’s forehead burned like he had a fever. A symptom of absorbing another’s essence; he would need a few days for his body and mind to adapt.

  A number of horns sounded in the distance. He sat up and looked around for Ren.

  “Where is she?”

  “Gone,” said Elisa.

  “I can see that. Where did she go?”

  “To consort with the other evil sorcerers. It doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re unusually talkative. How long was I asleep?”

  “It’s morning now. Today is the day. The goddess has told me.”

  “I’m sure she has.” It didn’t take a great intellect to know the Nine’s attempt to free Samal was planned for today.

  He rose to his feet, ignoring Elisa, and picked through the food on the table. There were strips of smoked horsemeat, and he chewed one with relish.

  Tarrik’s thoughts turned to survival. He was unbound, which was good. So he had his free will, along with his innate talents and his catalyst. Unfortunately, the Nine were making their attempt in daylight, so he was somewhat limited.

  Elisa tugged at his arm. “She told me to tell you to join her.”

  “Your goddess?”

  “No, your master.”

  Oh, she means Ren. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

  “Make your peace with your god or goddess, whoever they are,” she told him. “You’ll likely die today.”

  “I hope not. I might, but I’ll do my best not to.”

  “Death approaches. The abyss is on the other side of that void.”

  “What do you know of the prison?”

  “More than most. Less than some.”

  Tarrik gave her a hard look. “You’re no ordinary crone.”

  “Very perceptive. And you’re no ordinary demon.”

  He only just stopped himself from bringing forth his shadow-blade and decapitating her. His position here was precarious enough without anyone knowing he wasn’t human. But something stayed his cant and his hand. Maybe it was the gleam of amusement in the crone’s eyes.

  “Who do you work for?” he asked.

  “No one you know. I just watch over the pyramid for the gods and goddesses.”

  “I’m sure you do. Do your gods and goddesses want Samal to remain imprisoned?”

  But Elisa had turned her back and was busy folding the blankets Ren had slept on. And before he could ask any more questions, Ren herself entered the tent.

  She wore her standard slim charcoal skirt and short coat, a crimson silk shirt, silver-buckled and studded belt, and black leather boots with silver side buttons. However, her hair was loose and untidy, as if unbrushed. And she’d pinned her two orichalcum brooches to her breast: the nine-pointed star of the Nine and the divided square of the Tainted Cabal.

  “I see you’re up,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was caught in a rockfall. But I’ll survive.”

  Ren glanced at Elisa, who was now shaking Tarrik’s blankets and folding them. “Have you gained in strength?”

  Once again he was surprised by how much she knew of the absorption process. “I believe so.”

  “Good.” She moved a stool closer to her bed and rummaged around in her gear to find a brush, comb, and black leather strips. “Today will be difficult, for everyone. I find myself on edge, and my hands are trembling. I’d like you to braid my hair—you do an excellent job on your own.”

  Tarrik’s heart jumped, and he froze. What is she . . . ? Does she know? He tried to croak a reply, but no words came.

  Ren frowned at him. “What is it? Are you still not recovered from last night?”

  “I would prefer . . . not to braid your hair.”

  She sighed. “It is a simple enough request.”

  “No, it isn’t. Between my kind, it is an act of intimacy to braid another’s hair.”

  The sensation of her body lying next to his yesterday flashed into his mind—her hands by his face, her eyes penetrating his own. Blood and fire, he wanted to braid her hair! But he couldn’t risk surrendering.

  “Then it’s lucky we’re not the same race,” Ren said, and looked pointedly at Elisa. She obviously didn’t realize the crone had already deduced Tarrik’s true nature. “Come now. It won’t take long.”

  She sat on the stool and held out the brush, comb, and cords. Tarrik approached on wooden legs. It doesn’t mean anything, he told himself.

  Blocking all other thoughts from his mind, he brushed and braided Ren’s long raven locks as quickly as he could. As he handed her back the brush and comb, he could still feel the silken ghosts of her hair on his palms and fingers.

  “Have you finished?” she said.

  Only then did he realize that he’d used the ish-akhra pattern, specifically for a warrior who went to certain death or sacrifice.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Ren stood and patted her head and fingered her braid. “Very neat. It’s a shame I don’t have a mirror.”

  Tarrik backed away on legs trembling with dread. Once again, his time on this world had sent him tumbling into confusion. The heat from the brazier felt stifling, though it was on the other side of the tent. A jumble of emotions whirled inside him: embarrassment and pleasure and desire. He stumbled and gasped, and somehow his hands found the table. He grabbed a bottle of spirits and popped the cork. Liquid scalded his throat.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to see Ren strapping her sword to her back, then buckling the baldric across her waist and chest. The steel hilt resembled feathered wings, and the silver snake entwined around the orichalcum pommel stuck out from behind her shoulder. He remembered how easily she had wielded the sword, though it looked too long and heavy for her.

  She gave a grunt of satisfaction as she settled its weight on her back, then turned to him. “I need you to wait for me with the others of the Nine.”

  “At the pyramid?”

  “Yes. Where we stopped yesterday. We are to all gather before the final cants.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “Preparing. Make sure you are ready when the time comes. For now, go to the others, but stay apart from them. I don’t believe any would do you harm, but best not to antagonize anyone until I arrive.”

  “As you wish.”

  Few guards were stationed outside the pavilions now. The sun had fully risen and rested like a crimson bulb on the horizon. A chill wind swept down from the north and set Tarrik’s teeth chattering. The soldiers’ campfires were set with extra fuel and blazing merrily; they knew that soon they would be gone from this harrowing place.

  More horn
s sounded, a signal to muster. The grand ordeal would be starting soon. Tarrik set out toward the pyramid, angling around tents and past doused cook fires.

  Soldiers congregated in full armor, their weapons and gear polished to a high sheen. They marched toward the pyramid to join others that Tarrik could see had formed an arc around the entrance—the gate to another dimension, as Ren had put it.

  The braying of horns and the beat of drums filled the air. Behind the cordon of soldiers, the rest of the Tainted Cabal’s small army was gathered: a few squads of archers and all the servants and retainers a force needed to keep operating. Seemingly everyone wanted to witness the proceedings. The Cabalists probably thought an alliance with Samal and the Nine was a step closer to achieving their own desires and that the Nine could be ignored except when the Tainted Cabal needed to call on powerful sorcery. Fools.

  When Samal was freed, he would bind the strongest of the Cabalist sorcerers and kill the remainder. The Nine would become the Twenty, or the Thirty, or more. And then there would be no stopping the Adversary.

  No one stopped or questioned Tarrik as he made his way between squads of soldiers. He supposed that by now everyone knew he was Ren’s bodyguard. The six remaining sorcerers of the Nine were congregated in a tight circle, deep in discussion. He stopped a good twenty paces from them, and no one seemed to notice his arrival. He glanced behind him but didn’t see Ren.

  Puck waved toward the pyramid, and the gesture was repeated by Marren. Puck stamped his foot, then his staff, on the ground. A disagreement. Tarrik sneered. They’d had years to plan this; you’d think they’d have sorted everything out by now.

  Lera of the Fireflies, or the Betrayer of Shadows, stood to the left of Puck, garbed in the same thin white dress studded with rubies. The material was dirty and spotted with stains, as if the sorcerer hadn’t changed at all since Tarrik had last seen her. Jawo-linger stood between the red-haired woman, Moushumi, and a man Tarrik didn’t recognize. He must be the final sorcerer of the Nine: Ekthras. He was of mixed race with no defining features, though dressed in expensive tan pants and a matching coat with a cream shirt.

  A man and woman loitered close to the group. The woman was as wan as a corpse and clutched the talisman at her belt. The man was towering and muscular, flamboyantly dressed in crimson velvet pants and coat with silver buttons and a feathered hat. Probably Moushumi’s man, Ursael; and the woman might be Jawo-linger’s apprentice, Rokkvi, though Tarrik couldn’t be sure.

  The Nine separated into two groups: Jawo-linger and Marren in one; Puck, Moushumi, Lera, and Ekthras in the other. Tarrik knew Jawo and Marren held no enmity for Ren, so perhaps there were two factions, divided over their view of her. If he was right, that meant Puck, Moushumi, Lera, and Ekthras were enemies.

  Marren clutched the artifact Ren had given him: a silver statuette in the form of a man covered with Skanuric script. Lera carried an identical artifact, presumably the one Tarrik had delivered to her. He frowned when he saw Ekthras holding the crudely formed bull statuette that Ren had swapped in Indriol’s chambers. He wasn’t surprised the sorcerer had it, as Jawo had revealed as much. But he must have brought the statuette from Atya after Tarrik and Ren had left. Ekthras had apparently traveled as fast as Ren’s disc, which meant he was powerful. But he didn’t know the artifact in his hands was a fake. The thought caused the hairs on Tarrik’s neck to stand on end, and he rubbed them to ease his disquiet.

  This must be part of Ren’s plan. But these sorcerers were the greatest of their age. Surely they would be able to tell if an artifact wasn’t genuine? Tarrik had the feeling that Ren’s plan would only come to fruition once Samal was freed. And he had to be ready, whatever happened. His hands burned from squeezing his spear tight, and he made a conscious effort to relax them.

  The Nine mounted several saddled horses close by. Tarrik heard hoofbeats behind him and turned to see Ren riding a brown horse and leading a spare animal. Her face lacked color, and she sat upon her horse without her usual grace. She halted beside him and held out the reins of the spare mount.

  “I’m not hungry,” said Tarrik.

  Her lips twitched in amusement. “Ride beside me, for a while at least. Then I’ll have a task for you.”

  “I’d rather not.” If he had to fight, dismounting would cost him precious time.

  “Suit yourself. Just stay close.”

  Tarrik followed Ren as she guided her horse toward the pyramid. The horns and drums stopped, and silence fell like a shroud over the Tainted Cabal’s army, broken only by the clinking of armor and weapons and the neighing and snorting of horses.

  Tarrik kept his eyes on Ren’s gray-cloaked, straight back. She rode to her death, he was certain. He had a sudden vision of her screaming in the throes of virulent sorcery, blood streaming down her face and bare arms. She should have tried to run when she had the chance, though such an act wasn’t in her character.

  Tarrik had been in tight spots before and survived. He hoped this was one more time he’d make it to the other side. He gripped the shaft of his spear: blackwood, immune to sorcery. The weapon’s plainness and utility gave him strength. It had fought a thousand battles and was still whole. He tried to outline a basic spear form in his mind to settle his thoughts. But out here, in the shadow of Samal’s prison, in the presence of seven of the most powerful sorcerers in the world, all stark raving mad, he could barely recall anything.

  “We begin,” Ren said to him, her eyes inscrutable.

  Tarrik expected to see showy sorcery. Instead, he heard a faint sound that slowly grew in volume: a spoon-against-pot scraping that spread through his flesh and mind. It was, he realized, both physical and ethereal. The noise moved through the unseen aether where sorcery occurred until it seemed to latch on to his bones and gnaw at them like a ghoul. A putrid reek filled his nostrils, like the rot of scores of bodies. The insistent scraping grew louder. His bones rattled with the intensity, and his hands ached from squeezing his spear shaft.

  All around him, soldiers staggered. Weapons dropped from their nerveless fingers, and they clutched their heads, covering their ears in a vain attempt to block out the discordance.

  Ren reached a hand down to Tarrik, and he was surprised to find it held a brass key.

  “It’s for the chest in my tent,” she said. “Open it, and bring me what’s inside. Quickly—we are in mortal danger. If anything happens to me, keep them safe.”

  What she’d sensed eluded Tarrik. He nodded and jogged away from Ren and the pyramid. He glanced back to see more soldiers falling, their armor clattering on the hard dirt. The only figures seemingly unaffected were the dreadlords, and the sorcerers. None of the latter had raised shields yet and thus must have been some way from completing the ritual.

  He broke into a sprint, easily balancing his long spear as he ran past moaning warriors. The arcane scraping noise wore at him too, intruding into his thoughts and weakening his limbs. A woman fell to the ground in front of him, retching bile. Tarrik leaped over her and kept running. He dodged around tents, their ropes laid out like traps for the unwary, and raced past more convulsing humans and their cries of disorientation. His foot struck a rock in the ground, and he stumbled but managed to right himself before he sprawled headlong. His urgency increased the more humans fell around him. This far from the pyramid, the effects of the sorcery were slightly weaker. One soldier retained enough wits to reach an imploring hand out to Tarrik. He ignored it.

  Ren’s tent loomed large in his vision, and he darted through the entrance flap. As earlier, the two dreadlord guards were nowhere to be seen.

  Elisa cackled when she saw him. She was sitting at the central table with a goblet in one hand and a half-eaten apricot in the other. It seemed the debilitating sorcery didn’t affect her, perhaps only disorienting those who were sane.

  “I knew you’d be back! What happened? Are they all dead yet?”

  Tarrik moved toward the blackwood chest. “They’re alive.”

  “Not for l
ong. The goddess is never wrong.”

  The lock on the chest was already open. Tarrik lifted the lid. Inside sat another sword, and a book. Ren’s journal. The sword had a hilt of feathered wings and a silver snake entwined around an orichalcum pommel. It reeked of power, of eldritch forces barely held in check, masked by the blackwood. Tarrik’s mind reeled, and he staggered back a step.

  It was Ren’s sword.

  Then the one she carried was a copy. Why? Why would she weaken herself at this crucial time?

  “Take them,” Elisa crooned.

  “No . . . I . . .”

  His mind swam with confusion. Ren had sent him away. Whatever she’d planned, it was happening now. And she didn’t want him around.

  Tarrik whirled around and ran toward the exit before stopping. Ren had told him to keep the contents of the blackwood chest safe.

  He hurried back to the chest and shoved the journal down the front of his shirt, then slung the sheathed sword across his back, fastening the buckles on the baldric to secure it in place. Then he dashed wildly from the tent and sprinted back to Ren.

  Sorcerous cants reached his ears. The air vibrated like a drumhead, and a sound like the pattering of rain echoed through the encampment. As Tarrik rushed toward Ren, his ex-master, ex-slaver, his thoughts tumbled like stones downhill. Ren had left her precious journal and her sword to him for safekeeping. He could draw only one conclusion: she planned to die in her stand against the other sorcerers and Samal himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Run, a voice said—Tarrik’s own inner betrayer. He should obey. He should turn his back on Ren, on Samal’s prison, on the Nine. Now that he was unbound, he could return himself to the abyssal realms.

  He reached for his dark-tide power, closed his eyes, and felt the niggling sensation of the beginning of return enter his mind.

  And then he recoiled from the sensation.

  Sharp pangs, cold as knives, sliced through him. He could not let Ren die. Not after coming to feel something for her. She had tried to use him to keep something of herself alive—her journal, her sword—to keep them out of the clutches of the Nine or the Cabalists. But he could not escape and leave her to suffer whatever plans the Nine had ensnared her in.