Demonkin

by T. Eric Bakutis

  She had to deliver Melyssa’s severed head.

  ARYN LOCKE HALTED on the meandering muddy road and cursed under his breath. A horde of people surrounded him, but he could make out nothing but their shapes in dream world orange. With his skin charred black and his eyes gone, dream world sight was all he had.

  “There he is!” one man shouted. “The thief! The monster! Don't let it escape!”

  Why couldn't anything ever be easy? Aryn was going home — he needed to go home — and this stupid mob stood in his way. What if he just sprinted past them? Would anyone actually try to stop him?

  He stood on a muddy, wheel-cut road drawn in the jagged black lines of the dream world. It ran between a mess of orange oak shapes, interspersed with what Aryn assumed was grass and wildflowers. The mob hemmed him in, the dead black sticks in their hands ranging from torches to pitchforks.

  Aryn pulled his cowl closer around his blackened, ruined face and stood straight. He had no hair, no fine clothes, and barely enough copper left to buy bread, but none of that mattered now. He was of noble blood and no mere peasant could question his honor.

  “I'm no thief.” He spoke with every ounce of eloquence he could muster, drawing on years of training in public speechmaking. “I'm just a traveler on his way to seek work in Locke.” He tried to remember life before fire burned away his skin. “Do the honorable stonemasons of Dane greet all travelers like this?”

  Aryn had hoped to bypass their little village, starting his journey as soon as the sun set. Dane was a quarry town in the shadow of the Ranarok mountains a few day's walk from Highridge Pass. It was only on the most complete maps and its stonemasons were not well known. Sometimes flattery worked.

  “Liar!” an orange dream form shouted, this one holding a pitchfork. “He stole apples from my orchard not an hour after sunset, free as you please!”

  “Bread from my porch!” another man yelled.

  “Milk from my stoop!” a third added.

  Aryn huffed loudly for their benefit. “If you had bothered to look on your stoops you'd find the payment I left. Is copper not enough? Do you require blood?”

  “It's demon coin, no doubt!” the pitchfork-wielding man yelled, gesturing to his fellows. “Payment to entice us into abiding the presence of this ... monster!”

  The others nodded, murmuring among themselves. Aryn took another look at the mob, but saw no easy way out. He might glyph up some flames, but would that frighten the mob away or convince them to attack?

  “When I yelled from my house, he turned on me,” pitchfork man continued. “I saw black holes where his eyes should be, pools black as the Underside.” The man pointed at Aryn. “He'll leave us coins, all right, for everything he steals. He'll pay us for our children next!”

  The mob's shouting grew into an uproar even as Aryn shouted back, lost in the clamor. “I was only hungry!”

  “We can't let it live!” another man shouted, brave as could be with all these others around him. “You heard what Zeb said about the eyes!”

  “It's a demon!” the third man yelled. “Same as the monster that tore up Lared's Row last week. Murdered the women and devoured the kids!”

  Several men advanced, pitchforks raised as the shouts grew in volume and frequency.

  “Not here!”

  “Not among the good people of Dane!”

  “Kill it! Kill the demon!”

  Aryn reached for the quarterstaff strapped across his back, over his gray travel cloak, and took a firm grip. He had saved Sera, saved Kara, saved the bloody world, and now a mob of inbred commoners were going to beat him to death with their black sticks. How had it come to this?

  Jyllith. She was the reason this was happening to him. Two weeks ago, her gnarls captured him, captured Sera. Two weeks ago Jyllith and Cantrall gave Aryn to the demon Balazel, tossed him into the Underside to be torn apart. Two weeks ago, the Five brought Aryn back.

  This was not two weeks ago. This was now and he didn't really feel like dying again. Aryn unslung his quarterstaff and spun it twice. He ended his impressive maneuver in a low guard, hands together just below his waist and staff tilted toward the sky.

  “Seeing as you have convicted me already, I won't belabor the point.” He could swing his dead stick about too. “Do you know what a good solid swing can do to a man's skull? It pops open like a ripe melon.”

  The men with the pitchforks stepped back. A traveler who knew how to use a quarterstaff was far harder to lynch than one who did not. Aryn had just made this already unpleasant encounter quite a bit more complicated.

  Aryn moved from a low guard to a middle guard, staff straight, then to a high guard, arms raised and staff tilted to the ground. It shocked him how good his weapon felt in his hands. Fighting with a staff was the one thing at Solyr he had been very good at.

  The time since he parted from the others at Highridge Pass was a blur, days shuffling from place to place in his gray cloak and hood. He traveled only at night, avoiding passing travelers, taking what food and drink he required and leaving payment. He had to get home. He had to see if his family would take him back.

  Aryn heard the tale of Lared's Row from an old peddler too blind to see his charred skin. Some thing tore the town apart and fifty were dead, children among them. Given the hysteria sweeping through Mynt, it was only a matter of time before Aryn's blackened skin got him mobbed.

  “I'm no demon,” he told them. “I'm no thief. But if you won't let me go my own way tonight, more than a few of you won't be going home.” Aryn slipped into a low guard, the safest stance, and glanced at each of them in turn. “So. Who'll be the first to have his skull caved in?”

  “The first?” A new voice rose over the murmuring mob, female and far more amused than she had any right to be. “That'd be me, I suppose.”

  Aryn turned his staff toward the newcomer. Her slim dream form was small compared to the men who stepped aside to allow her through, but the way she walked and held himself reminded him of Kara Honuron. She carried a quarterstaff easily in both hands.

  “Lady Tania, you shouldn't be here tonight,” pitchfork man complained. “You know what we do with thieves in Dane, and this one's far more than that.”

  “A demon, yes. You mentioned that.” Tania's tone revealed nothing of what she thought about that claim. “Well, what does the demon have to say for itself?”

  Aryn spun his staff and settled it vertically by his side. “I'm just a traveler passing by your town.”

  “Liar!” a woman shouted, and soon the mob took it up. “Thief! Demon!”

  Tania raised a slim hand and silenced them. That impressed Aryn. They respected her.

  “Say he is a demon,” Tania said into the silence. “Zeb, you brought us the story of Lared's Row.”

  The pitchfork-wielding mob leader — now Zeb — offered a nod. “I did.”

  “So what makes you think,” Tania swept her staff to indicate the crowd, “what makes any of you think you can stop something that tore through trained militia and all of the brave people in Lared's Row?”

  Some of the men shuffled their feet and a few women shifted closer to their men. Aryn smiled to himself. Tania was fast convincing them to leave him alone. His only question now was why. Why would she help him?

  “Lady Tania, we can't just turn around,” another man said, a bigger man than Zeb. “It'll come for our children next.” Unlike Zeb, this man seemed genuinely concerned for his people's welfare. “Beggin' your pardon, but even if it's like to kill me, I can't let it slip away.”

  “I suppose you're right,” Tania agreed. “Demon or no, anyone skulking about must be dealt with.”

  Aryn ground his teeth. “I've already told you I'm no demon. Must you hold me on this road while you debate how best to murder me?”

  The big man who spoke last stepped forward, but Tania put a hand on his arm.

  “Peace, Bart. I'll handle this.” Tania glanced at Aryn and settled into a low guard, staff raised with her right foot forward. �
��I know how to handle demons, if this traveler is indeed among their number. Either way, I will ensure he leaves here and never troubles you again.”

  She nodded to Aryn. “How about it, stranger? We'll have a friendly duel. Should you win, you walk out of here, never to return. Should I win, you'll pay twice for the things you've taken while skulking about ... and then you'll walk out of here, never to return.”

  Either way, it sounded like he walked out of here. “You've set fair terms.” Aryn liked her way of thinking. He matched her stance, testing the slip of his boots against muddy ground. “I accept.”

  “Now hold on a moment—” Zeb started, but the woman behind him cuffed his head.

  “Enough!” that woman shouted. “You got us together and told us there was a demon we needed to find and stop. Well, we found it, and now Lady Tania's going to stop it. Don't you dare question her.”

  Aryn smirked inside his lowered hood. Folk might be more simple on the fringes of Mynt, but couples were the same everywhere. Tania offered a small, graceful bow, and Aryn reflexively returned it. It almost felt like a triptych duel at Solyr, what felt like years ago in a life long burned away.

  “How does our duel end?” Aryn asked.

  “If you knock me on my ass, I'll cede victory.” Tania edged closer. “If I put you on yours...”

  Aryn almost laughed. “Simple and direct. One caution, my lady. I don't often lose.”

  “Something we have in common.” Tania's right foot crept forward. Then she moved and thrust.

  Chapter 4

  ARYN SLIPPED AWAY from Tania's first attack with a movement as reflexive as breathing, but she flowed into another and spun her staff around high, nearly taking his head off. He blocked the blow but staggered back.

  Tania kept at him, each step like a dancer's, every motion flowing into the next. He could find no opening. His staff bucked in his hands as he blocked her thrusts, over and over, and what few thrusts he launched met nothing but air. He was already breathing hard. Not good.

  Tania did not seem at all winded and Aryn had to do something about that. He feinted, drawing her right, and then spun his staff over and across his forearm. It whipped toward her unprotected left side.

  She slapped his thrust away with the flat of her palm and spun her staff one-handed, balanced inside her arm. Her staff's tip brushed the tip of Aryn's nose and sent him stumbling. He barely kept his feet.

  No follow up came. Tania stepped back, snorted softly, and returned to a low guard. She let him recover. That showed how little she thought of him.

  The crowd cheered and yelled, thrilled by this display of martial prowess. Aryn edged forward, feinted twice, and thrust again and again. Tania laughed and stepped this way then that, toying with him.

  Aryn's breath burned in his lungs as he fought on, futilely. It reminded him of how it felt to crawl from the mouth of a demon. His lungs had burned like this as he emerged, weak and charred by flame, from a demonic underworld of spikes and torture. The Underside.

  Tania chuckled and knocked away his latest strike. Aryn snarled, charged her, and one boot slid on treacherous mud. Her staff slammed the other, taking his feet out from under him, and the dream world spun around him just before he slammed down hard. Defeated.

  “He's no demon,” Tania said, breathing loudly as she withdrew her staff, “but he did take your goods and skulk around your homes like some monster out of a bard's tale.” Her dream form head tilted. “He's not evil. He just didn't think through all the consequences.”

  Aryn scowled at her from inside his lowered hood, but did not dare rise. He wanted to stand, puff out his chest and declare her mistaken, but he could not think of a single way she was wrong.

  “So then...” Bart glanced at Zeb and the others with him. “Lady Tania?”

  “What do we do now?” Zeb's wife asked.

  “Nothing.” Tania lowered her staff and slung it across her back. “This man is leaving. I'll collect your payments and ensure he never troubles you again. Provided you're agreeable?”

  The mob murmured among themselves but none of them, even Zeb, expressed any disagreement.

  “Thank you,” Zeb's wife said for all of them. “Thank you for coming back to us. You're a good woman.” The somewhat befuddled mob dispersed.

  “I do try.” Tania casually waved off the villagers. “Five guard your souls.”

  “Five guard your soul,” a few murmured back, before hurrying off to safe, warm homes.

  “So.” Tania leaned forward and held out her hand. “Can I offer you something to eat?”

  Aryn stared up at her. Her dream form appeared relaxed despite the cold night and the emptying road. Then again, he had not lost a quarterstaff contest in fifteen years. With Tania's skill, she had little reason to worry.

  “You're offering me supper?” The cold mud all around him smelled like horse manure.

  “It's a bit late for supper. Consider it an early breakfast, one you won't have to skulk away with.”

  Aryn pushed up, clenched his jaw, and brushed dirt off the front of his robe. “You don't want a meal with me.”

  “Because of your burned and blistered skin? Or because of your missing eyes?”

  Aryn stiffened. “I'd thought the robe—”

  “It hides you well from other people.” Tania retrieved his quarterstaff from a stand of tall grass. “My neighbors didn't see it, thank the Five, or there'd have been no stopping their accusations of demon and worse.”

  Aryn's damaged skin flushed as she returned holding his staff. At least he could still blush, even with all his skin charred. “So why doesn't my appearance bother you? Why don't you think I'm a demon, Lady Tania?”

  “Because I see you in the dream world,” Tania told him, “as you must now see me.”

  Aryn felt stupid all over again. “You're a mage. Solyr?” He should have known.

  “Now journeymage,” Tania said. “What rank are you?”

  “Doesn't matter.” At least he had lost to someone a rank above him. “The man I once was made Firebrand, but that man died.”

  “Pity. He wasn't all that bad looking.”

  His head snapped up. “You're insane to say that.”

  “I'm not talking about the skin you wear today.” Tania offered his quarterstaff. “I'm talking about your soulform. That, as I can see it, hasn't changed.”

  Aryn took his staff, even though it was a clear reminder he had lost their duel. “You honestly expect me to believe you can see how I looked before I burned?”

  “I don't expect anything.” Tania leaned in and he smelled her, a mixture of grass and sweat. “But I could train you to see as I do, if you're willing.”

  “To do what? Become your apprentice?”

  “How about my friend?” Tania crossed her arms and stepped back. “Though as you said, you are traveling. I doubt you'd have any interest in staying in a dry house with food you don't have to sneak away with in the night.”

  Aryn couldn't trust this. It was too easy. “You don't know what I've done or where I've been. You don't know me. Why would you offer a complete stranger a warm meal or a bed under your roof?”

  “Because I know how it feels to lose your sight.” Tania tapped one finger to the side of her head. “I've been blind for a very long time now.”

  Aryn connected her blindness to her first name — Tania — and everything clicked. All the stories about Solyr's blind Earther prodigy returned, the only student to ever challenge Elder Halde to a triptych duel. She had graduated shortly after he became an initiate.

  “You're Tania Lace.” She had lost her duel with Elder Halde handily, of course, but just challenging an elder had made her legend at Solyr. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my home. Where else would I be?”

  Aryn had at least a dozen questions, but there was only one he couldn't hold back. “How did you go blind?”

  “Gradually,” Tania said. “The world started turning dark when I was six, just before a j
ourneymage judged my blood strong enough to train at Solyr. By my eighth birthday it was all dark, but the elders made accommodations. Elder Cantrall taught me how to grasp the dream world. Elder Halde taught me how to see in it.”

  “You know Halde's dead.” Cantrall, Halde’s Mavoureen worshipping twin brother, had killed Halde when he infiltrated Solyr. Cantrall roasted Halde in phantom fire and took his place.

  Tania stood silent for a moment. “That's a terrible shame.”

  “It was recent.” Aryn wondered just how much he should say about the events surrounding Kara's journey to Tarna. “I'm not sure if the news has left Solyr.”

  “How did Elder Halde die?”

  “A demon did it.” That, or a man close enough.

  “Those can be troublesome.” Tania sighed heavily. “Such a loss. Both brothers dead, good men gone.”

  Aryn scowled at Tania calling Cantrall a good man, remembering all whom the resurrected elder maimed and killed in his quest to open the gates at Terras. Cantrall made him into a harvenger, a demon that summoned the dead and hungered for living flesh. Only Kara's flames and the intervention of Heat saved Aryn's soul from suffering forever in the Underside.

  “I was there when Elder Cantrall burned,” Tania said softly. “It happened on Selection Day. None of us had ever seen so much phantom fire on a single man.”

  Aryn thought back to the day Tania spoke of, the confusion that followed Cantrall's murder. Alarms were raised across Solyr and journeymages and apprentices rushed the fledglings to the safety of the dorms. Aryn had been herded along with his fellows. He remembered Elder Halde striding past them at the head of the Solyr Guard, his mouth a firm line but his cheeks wet with tears.

  Mayor Dupret Locke, Aryn's father, taught him that a ruler must never be seen crying. At the time, seeing such weakness in Solyr's leader had disturbed Aryn, but now he understood Elder Halde just a bit better. He understood how it felt to lose all he cared about, how anger and grief merged into one emotion, an empty hole inside you.