The Demon's Call

by Philip C Anderson

  Easily the shrewdest, if not cleverest, man Trent ever met had said, “There’s not a man alive who hasn’t glimpsed that for their first and not wondered in awe how our fathers and mothers built such a thing.” His eyes had twinkled their gray-green as he watched the prescribed wonder arrest the young man next to him.

  Russell Hollowman had been a banker’s child whose father had groomed him to take over the business once he came of age. He’d been good at it in his previous life—Two lives ago now, Trent thought—but the Goddess in Her mercy had saved him from the expectant life he’d had no say in. His father had forgotten him for a nephew and left only a token trust to his true-son when the old man had died back during the War, all of which Trent didn’t hear about until near the War’s end. As his party rode eastward and the monolith thrusted further into the sky, for the first time since he felt his Call, with his old life dwindling behind him, he’d allowed himself to feel something other than guilt: that his life meant what he wanted it to, not what others foisted upon him.

  And look where that got me.

  “It’s amazing,” the old dwarf had said. His accent came from the western part of Yarnle, a lazy and twisted thing in Plainari—gorgeous in the language of Light, though. “The builders worked with nothing other than pullies and winches and ropes and used only their faith in the Goddess Karli as mortar to build a monument that could touch Her very Light—a feat that even the ancient Majesty’s architects had told them was impossible. But their belief proved strong, and there stood and still stands the tallest and humblest thing ever made on Coroth.”

  According to the codices, when Trent looked it up later in the old libraries at Downdarren, the story happened as the quartermaster had told him: the ancient builders had used a special cut in the stones to get them to pull together without the need for mortar; legend for truth.

  Though he hadn’t known the proper words while they rode, Russ had said a small prayer to the Goddess for giving him a life he hadn’t known he’d wanted.

  Now, Trent prayed for guidance, if She had any for him, and glided the temple’s doors open at a finger’s push. Inside, he breathed the familiar scents of cold granite and the myriad essences of incense. The Light felt so close that a woozy giddiness spread through him, and a shiver ran down his spine as he marveled at the frescoes and monuments that hung over him.

  Among them, a fresco showed a depiction of the Grandstand of Master Perinold during the War of the Cradle, her sword held high toward the heavens; a statue of bronzed steel stood in likeness of Master Olipher, whose cape hung off his linked armor as he performed what became known as the Mark of the Vale, the turning point of the War of the Towers; and a yellowing tapestry depicted Master Raris swinging her hammer to smite a demon, one of the first depictions of them that matched modern descriptions. They’d added a new one since Trent left: a dramatic painting of what an artist had imagined as Jeom’s last stand against M’keth. In it, a lone Karlian stood bathed in Light as the armies of the nether loomed over him. To the right of that hung a portrait of Russell Hollowman that looked identical to the one at Arnin, save for the faces in the shadows around him.

  The architects who built the temple had made its footprint in a pattern like the one that stained every Karlian’s arm: a circle connected to a u-bend with a line struck through them. All architecture focused on the point where the three shapes met at the temple’s center, and in its absolute position, a wooden throne waited for the power of Karli’s Light on Coroth. Banners, most with sigils Trent had never taken the time to commit to memory—a lobster, an angel, a sickle, deer and wolves, and myriad others—hung across the sanctuary behind the throne, their marks the representations of Karhaal’s sisters and satellites throughout the world.

  “There’s nothing to do now but wait for Grand Master Hollowman to arrive,” a woman said, following an older gentleman through a door at the front of the sanctuary. She wore armor like a Karlian, except her leg plates didn’t extend past her mid-thigh, and the armor sleeve on her right arm didn’t even reach her elbow. Her left arm remained bare, not even a plate on her shoulder, over which hung a braid of black hair. The woman looked more Leynar than holy warrior for the cloak that draped over her shoulders.

  Trent passed the first row of pews while the two spoke.

  “Unsurprising that my counsel tells me to tie my hands and wait for something to happen,” said the man. “I’m aware of your position on this.” His voice issued from him as though his mouth didn’t want to fully form his words. “As you’ve made me aware since the runes lit up, your Priests can do as they like if he shows up. Until then, it’s my opinion we assume business-as-usual and wait for an official session before deciding what our collective next step is. Look at us”—he turned on her—“has your rune grown cold? If such an invasion were happening, I can’t help but imagine we’d know about it.” His purple armor and balding pate gleamed in the firelight of great braziers that hung overhead, and his eyes shone almost white.

  “The demons have never made it into Karhaal, Chamberlain,” said the woman, her voice a cadence of admonishment. “Our runes haven’t gone cold because we’re not hunting them, and they’re not chasing us. But we need to get ahead of this immediately, lest we lose control of the situation.”

  “What situation? The king didn’t reveal who gave him his information by name, just someone of Authority. How do we know that somehow”—he raised his voice to override the woman when she tried to answer—“that somehow a Leynar or a Warlock didn’t break into the rune magic? That the scepter isn’t compromised?”

  “I highly doubt either.” The woman’s voice grated against her annoyance. “And the rune magic isn’t like a computer. If it were, my Priests would have figured that out long ago.”

  “You think your Priests are the best at what they do? Who says you even need the Light to get inside the runes? Leynars can get under demon magic with enough power.”

  “Stop getting off point, Karles.”

  “Look, I’m not going to cause a panic on a hunch, Madam Undertaker. I don’t care if that hunch is his Majesty’s. He won’t return our trials at contact, and I’ve heard rumors he’s not giving comment to anyone, far be it us. You’d think he’s trying to stir shit up just for its own sake.”

  “But if we stood beside his word and let people know they needed to be a little cognizant, if nothing else, for anything strange”—

  Manifeld huffed. “People will believe what they want to. All I can do is the best with what the Light gives me, and right now it makes no sense to assume anything until our agents have gathered more information. Karli may not have chosen me, but the Karlians still elected me from among them. I arose and accepted this heavy burden when no one else wanted to, and I carry that weight in every decision I make.”

  “I’m aware. Regardless of the details, when the king appointed me, he instructed me to follow your lead.”

  The Chamberlain gave her a disbelieving look.

  “He did,” she said, insistent. Trent almost believed her. “You may not trust this, but we do listen to you. I keep holding out hope that you’ll eventually listen to me sometimes. My counsel is at your service.”

  “Yes, when it’s not serving the king first.”

  “His Majesty told me to guide Leynars who felt the Call to the Light. That’s what I’ve done. Karlians, however, are falling behind us, in more ways than one, and it’s at your decision. I just wish I could understand your motivations, especially now.”

  “They’re just not wizards, ma’am, and there’s no crime in that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “It’s called training for the Peace,” said Manifeld. “Standard practice. We voted on it in both sessions we’ve had since the king appointed you, and the Council agreed it was unnecessary. I can’t make Karlians think something any more than we can convince people the king is right or wrong. They either believe him or they don’t, and no amount of pleading will change that until people di
e.”

  “What would it take to convince you, then? Just to make the Order’s line one of unity instead of derision.”

  “I don’t know,” the Chamberlain said as Trent reached the front of the sanctuary. “A sign from Karli Herself. But silent as She’s been, I wouldn’t lose sleep over not getting one.”

  Trent cleared his throat. “Hello, sir.”

  “Ah, yes.” Manifeld looked at Trent, then to the Undertaker through wide eyes. “Our guest from his Majesty. So nice of him to send a little bird our way. Come, come, let us hold palaver.” He sat in a seat next to—and more decadent than—the wooden throne that awaited the Grand Master.

  Trent set his hammer next to him near the foot of the stage, looked up at the Chamberlain, and waited. The Undertaker stood behind Manifeld to his left.

  “And what is it the scepter sees fit to throw our way?” the Chamberlain asked. “Sending a messenger of ours to do their bidding?”

  “I’m not here representing the scepter,” said Trent. “I am here of my own accord and volition.”

  “Then why did the front guardsman tell me a messenger from Keep needed to see me? Are you not him?”

  “I am. But Keep didn’t send me. I’m here to serve as warning if nothing else.”

  Manifeld shifted in his seat, pulled his body away from the backrest. “A warning? Do they mean to threaten us?”

  Trent stared at him a moment. “They don’t, sir. Even if they did, I’d like to think they wouldn’t send a Karlian to threaten their own kind.”

  “Yes,” the Chamberlain said. He sat back, scratching his chin. “The guards at the front informed me of who you are—who you say you are, at least. Curious how we have a record of you but not your whereabouts. I’ve never heard of Trent Geno before, and I wonder who really stands before me now.”

  Trent’s flicked his gaze between the Chamberlain and the Undertaker, making sure to keep his face plain. The Undertaker watched him with a subtle scowl.

  “But I’m sure all that will come out in due time.” Manifeld waved Trent toward him. “Come closer and let us hold the counsel the scepter sent you for.”

  Trent put his left foot on the first step to the stage in petition of the leadership. “I won’t say this again: I don’t represent the scepter.”

  “Then enlighten us.” Manifeld swept his hands to either side of his body. “Please.”

  “I’m here to make sure the circumstance doesn’t spiral into the wrong hands.”

  The Chamberlain rolled his eyes. “And why do you think you’re qualified for such a thing?”

  “Because I made the king aware of the demons’ return,” Trent said, as matter-of-fact as he could. He pulled the gauntlet off his left hand and turned his palm toward them. “I’ve seen a mastered demon with my own eyes, just two nights past.”

  Manifeld stared for less than a second, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. The scepter and you will have to do a little better than that.”

  “Better than what?” said Trent after a second’s quiet. “The Taint of Fel?”

  “Artifice,” the Chamberlain said, shrugging. “As though it’s hard to fake dying your hands a shade of black? Perhaps you know a Warlock. Plenty of explanations before we jump to the paramount of conclusions.”

  “I have pictures.” Trent reached for the terminal on his belt.

  “Pictures!” Manifeld looked at the Undertaker, who seemed unamused by his triviality. “Good thing we can’t doctor them to show exactly what we want. I’ve got one of me running through a field with wild albunes. Naked, mind you. I just love the—love the freedom.” His mushy voice filled the temple’s point when he laughed. “I hope you understand, Mr. Geno, there are much more pressing matters to which I must attend, and an imagined, one-off encounter with a lesser demon isn’t one of them.” He stood.

  “I’ve seen the master.”

  “Seen what?” the Undertaker said. Her thickly-lined eyes gained a dour tint.

  “The master. She pulled me into the nether and showed herself to me.”

  “And why would she show herself to you?” asked Manifeld. “An out-of-the-loop farmer living on the outskirts of society? I’ll be honest with you”—

  “Don’t change your character on my account, Karles,” Trent said.

  Manifeld cast a deadly expression through a sidelong stare. “Oh, I know your type. Disappear when there’s nothing to do, no angles for you to pick at, and then walk in like you own the place once you’ve got a burr under your ass, when there’s something a little more exciting happening. Because you’ve got your little story and your ring and your pictures and a way to tie everything up and make it seem so convenient. I’ve seen contrivances like yours before, and I’ve met them the same as I am you.”

  “Why would I meet with you in private if I were tryin to trick you? I would have wanted as many people here as I could manage.”

  “Why—why would you even ask that?” said Manifeld. He chuckled and held up one hand for a second in a gesture of bemusement. “You thought about it and calculated how you wanted to approach this. Didn’t work, mind you.” He tapped his temple. “Can’t fool someone who sees from all sides.”

  “All sides,” Trent said. He bit at his lower lip. “The enemy works in darkness, and you seem to cast long enough of a shadow for them.”

  “I work because no one else will,” the Chamberlain said, his voice poison. “What are you implying, sir? If I cast a shadow, it’s hells smaller than the cavern Hollowman left.”

  “Yeah, you work.”

  “I’ve done the best I could with what I have,” Manifeld said, his voice rising. “I’d like to see what anyone did in my position. Time and again I’ve done what I must, made hard decisions, and time and again the Order only issues criticism and derision, even at their highest ranks.”

  Trent’s brow flicked in mock-quizzicality. “And why do you think that is?”

  “Because the Order’s been in shambles ever since that coward Hollowman left, and nobody wants to pick up the pieces from his presumable death.”

  “Hollowman’s alive.”

  “Once again,” the Chamberlain said, looking toward the heavens. “Someone insists on his life, yet they have no proof.”

  “You want proof?” Trent turned his left arm over, but before he touched his rune, it turned cold and sickly blue.

  The Undertaker gasped and looked at hers, wide-eyed. “Gods in heaven. What’s happening?”

  Manifeld gaped at his, then at Trent. “What did you do?”

  “Fuck off,” Trent said. He turned when the temple doors burst open.

  A young woman ran into the vestibule. Her cloak billowed behind her in her haste. “Madam Undertaker!” she yelled. “A demon! In the courtyard!”

  “What are you on about?” Manifeld said. “Demons can’t walk here.”

  “See for ya fuckin self, then.” She ran back outside.

  “Chamberlain, what do we do?” asked the Undertaker.

  “I don’t know. Suppose we take a look.”

  “But what does this mean? Surely”—

  Trent reequipped his gauntlet while they bickered and lifted his hammer onto his shoulder. His armor sleeved down his left arm as he ran to the doors. Screams against bangs echoed from the other side.

  “Help them!” someone shouted. “For the gods’ sakes, help them!”

  Trent pushed the doors open in a quick heave.

  4

  The air outside burned with tarry blackness. Members of the Order cried out, trying to gain any form of control in the first moments of chaos. Some just tried to get away. To Trent’s left, at the foot of the temple’s stairs, a blast of dark energy tore into the granite around a young man, who raised his arms too late for defense and slumped to the ground in a mist of red.

  A foulness whispered, and its sweeping shadow manifested into form. “Hah!” the demon cried out. It blitzed toward another Karlian. Both assaulter and victim screamed as the monster tore the m
an’s body, the halves of which unmet at his left shoulder. He dropped his axe and fell away from itself, and his skull crashed to the brick in a thick knock.

  Already another dozen laid dead around the courtyard. Their blood painted the scene in abominable trespass of the holy site.

  “Tickles!” the demon yelled at another Karlian, who channeled Light against its hide. It phased behind her, pierced her chest with its claws, and lifted her off the ground in a quick heave. It cackled for her bloody sputters, then it threw her across the yard, where she landed with a sickening thud and moved no more.

  Manifeld and the Undertaker hurried out behind Trent. The former recoiled against the temple door. “Goddess, what have You brought to us?”

  “Get back inside,” Trent said.

  “We can help,” said the Undertaker, breathless.

  “Now!”

  The Undertaker tarried, but they followed his order.

  Grenn ran toward the courtyard from a side street and slammed his hammer toward the ground, pulsing the area with Light, disbursing the Fel from around him. Trent equipped his helmet and hurried toward his young friend.

  Across the yard from them, the demon laughed as it chased another victim.

  “No!” the man shrieked, his voice cracking in shrill panic, his magic bouncing off the demon’s hide. It towered over him, a gargantuan of muscle and sinew and terror and speed, and when it caught him, the grotesquerie pulled the Priest’s mandible from his face, his face from his head, and his head from his shoulders in three swipes of its arm. As though the man had just told a funny joke, the demon laughed—“Hah!”—and picked up the headless body to throw it at others.

  “What the fuck do we do against that thing?” Grenn said.

  “Kill it,” said Trent. “The only way we know how. Save others if you can. I’ll take him.”

  A woman near them had knelt next to a fallen Karlian. Her sword lay on the ground next to her. “Goddess, please help us!” she cried.

  “Come on,” Grenn said, pulling her from the corpse. “Come on, you’ve got to go.”