Demonkin

by T. Eric Bakutis

  Jyllith stood, shaking with exhaustion. Her knees were skinned and her body felt bruised in a dozen places. She sliced her fingers and took the dream world, but what could she scribe? Mavoureen did not die.

  “I like this game!” Malkavet shooed her with a backward palm and hanging fingers. “Run, my luscious. We will hunt you. My davengers need the practice.”

  Jyllith glanced behind her, breathing hard. She took in the davengers surrounding her, stared at the demon that had her trapped. There was no escape, not yet. She needed her strength back first.

  “I’m done running.” Jyllith dropped her hands and heaved an exhausted sigh. “I'll go with you.”

  Malkavet's mouth stretched wide. “Really?”

  “Really.” Jyllith hugged herself. “Just tell me one thing.” She was going to Pale Lake and this monster was too, so she could always escape later. “Who is this master, and what does he want with me?”

  Malkavet laughed its beautiful laugh. “I serve Paymon the Patriarch, king of all Mavoureen. He wants you, my dear, so he can skin you alive.”

  Jyllith remembered Aryn's charred, broken skin. “You could have at least lied about it.” She could not help but shudder.

  “Anticipation is torture.” Malkavet's grin threatened to split its head open. “Paymon will hurt you in ways you cannot comprehend for a time longer than you can imagine. You will scream and cry and plead until your mind breaks beneath the weight of this endless pain. This is how he will reward you for thwarting us at Terras.”

  “So this is about revenge?”

  “Everything, my dear,” and with this, Malkavet stepped closer, “is about revenge.” It offered one long spindly arm.

  “I’m not touching you.” Jyllith spit. “Not unless I’m tearing you apart.”

  “So petty.” Malkavet chuckled. “You will become mine, luscious thing. After Paymon drives you insane, I offer you a place in my stable.”

  “How magnanimous.” Jyllith would cooperate, for the time being. She would cooperate until she put this demon in the ground.

  She needed time to recover her strength and her blood. Focus her mind and plot her escape. She could escape Malkavet — she knew she could — if she found the right opportunity, chose the right time and place.

  Or she could die in the attempt.

  Chapter 8

  TRELL STOOD IN THE MARTIALING YARD of Tarna's royal palace and felt more at home than he had in many days. The impressions of hundreds of boots marked a large dirt courtyard surrounded by four ancient walls of stone blocks. Armored soldiers carrying long bows walked those walls, staring down into the yard or out over the sprawl of Tarna.

  Trell stood inside a square dueling ring, its borders marked by wooden slats stuck sideways in the dirt. He held a broadsword. Across from him, a stern-looking Mynt legionnaire waited with her longsword raised: First Sword Dynara Keris. One of Prince Beren's best soldiers.

  Dynara, an intimidating woman with short brown hair, stood a head taller than Trell and wore full mail. Trell wore only a brown cloth tunic, wool pants, and a fitted iron breastplate. He did not like fighting in full armor. It limited his movement and never seemed to fit.

  Dynara offered a subtle nod, inviting him to strike first. Trell attacked. Dynara turned each strike and thrust as he slipped back. He had expected that, and it gave him a feel for how she moved.

  Trell knew where her next strike would come before she thrust, parrying even as the impact of metal on metal rattled his icy bones. The pommel of his broadsword bucked and his palms swelled as he met strike after strike, stepping twice to the side and then twice more. He never left the ring, just circled and parried and observed.

  Dynara led with her right foot when she sidestepped and her guard lowered just a hair before she thrust. Trell absorbed these details as a man absorbed wind on his skin, sun on his face, sand between his toes.

  He knew all he needed to win this duel, but knowing was different from doing. His tight, stubborn muscles fought his every move. Dynara's next strike would come high so Trell ducked low and telegraphed a thrust, sliding his foot forward. As she flipped her sword to counter he instead kicked her armored knee.

  The kick staggered her as Trell pushed up, striking her vambrace just behind her hand. He hit it hard enough to rattle his teeth. Dynara's sword leapt from her fingers and the edge of Trell's blade stopped at her neck. His bones froze and his joints ached, but he had won.

  Dynara stepped back and cracked a grin. “Nice one.” She shook her armored hand, her wrist no doubt stinging.

  “Good duel.” Trell lowered his sword. He would not duel again today. Icy pain racked his body and winning this duel had taken all he had.

  “Well done, swordking,” a booming voice called across the yard. “You too, Dyn.”

  Dynara fell to one knee as every other legionnaire, soldier, and squire in the yard did the same. It seemed Prince Beren had finally granted Trell's request for an audience. It had only taken a week.

  Trell turned to the prince, took a knee, and lowered his head. He pressed the tip of his broadsword to the ground and raised his hands. Five willing, he would at last discover what happened the day he lost his memories.

  “Rise,” Prince Beren said. “You don't get to shirk training just because I stop by.”

  Trell heard armored plates clank as legionnaires and soldiers stood, some cheering their prince. Trell did not stand. He listened as Beren's footfalls approached.

  “Trell?” Beren said. “Did you not hear me?”

  “Forgive me, Leader of Armies.” Without looking up, Trell balanced his blade in both hands and offered it palms up. “I cannot rise yet.”

  Prince Beren loomed over Trell, an imposing shadow. The yard went still as a wake.

  “This is my blade,” Trell recited, gaze fixed on the ground. “This is my arm, my heart, my breath. My sword is my life and that life is now yours. I will never again attack the Mynt for war crimes they did not commit.”

  Trell had trained countless years to remain absolutely still, years he could not remember. Beren wrapped a hand around the pommel of Trell's broadsword. Took it.

  “I accept your oath in the name of my father, King Haven, and my province.” Beren placed the sword back in Trell's hands. “I return your life in peace.”

  Trell relaxed. Kara had suggested he open their conversation with the ancient rite of peace between enemies. To put them both at ease.

  “Now rise,” Prince Beren said. “We need to talk.”

  Trell set aside the broadsword and stood unarmed. He was not allowed to carry a weapon anywhere but the practice yard. He met Prince Beren's eyes.

  Mynt's Leader of Armies stood a head taller than Trell and was as wide at the shoulders as Elder Halde. Beren had salted black hair cut close to his tan skin and a deep scar on each side of his face. The right scar was white and faded, but the left remained pink and fresh.

  Beren wore a royal blue shirt under a breastplate of polished iron. His crisp black pants were tucked into riding boots. The sword at his hip had a blade as white as pearl though it was tempered, mage-glyphed iron. Legend called it Bladebane and its wielder never tired.

  “Do you remember this?” Beren pressed a fingertip to the fresh pink scar on his own face.

  “I do not.” What was the significance?

  “Kara said you'd lost your memory, but I didn't really believe it. You're certain you don't remember?”

  “I'm sorry, but yes.”

  “You gave this scar to me.” Beren raised one thick eyebrow. “On a bridge over the Layn river.”

  Trell felt a rush of excitement. “When I first woke in Solyr's healing room, I remembered you vividly. We fought at Layn Keep?”

  “We dueled, yes.” Many legionnaires leaned closer as Beren continued the tale. “You were among five swordkings who attacked the keep, leading more than a thousand footmen and three-hundred horse.”

  “We believed you burned our homes.” Trell's heart ached once more. “
My parents and wife died in Carn.”

  “I'm sorry, but those attacks were not our work.”

  “I know that,” Trell said. “Now.”

  “Four swordkings fell in the assault, but none to my blade. You were the first to reach me. You called out over my lines, demanding vengeance for your wife and home.”

  “And you offered it? If I may beg pardon—”

  “It wasn't bravado. I dueled you because we needed you.” Beren glanced at his legionnaires, then smiled at Trell. “I just didn't expect you to fight so damn well.”

  Trell struggled to remember that day, but faint impressions of clanging swords slipped through his mind like sand through a sieve. “I wish I remembered.”

  “You and the prince crossed swords for half an hour,” Dynara said. “It was a battle to rival those of legend. Your army was routed, every last Tellvan dead or fled, yet you fought on alone, surrounded.”

  Beren nodded to Dynara, then at his gathered legionnaires. “How many of you witnessed this?”

  More than half raised their hands. Trell searched every face and every set of eyes, but recognized none of them. “How did our duel end?”

  “You won. I missed but one strike and your swing slashed my cheek and sent me reeling. You would have ended me if one of my archers hadn't shot you.” Beren grimaced. “Dueling to the death is not a luxury afforded a prince.”

  A phantom pain stabbed Trell's side. “So it was an arrow.” Melyssa's work at erasing his memories had been frighteningly complete.

  “Actually, it took two more,” another legionnaire added. “The second staggered you and the third knocked you off the bridge. You grabbed a loose stone and hung on.”

  “And I needed you,” Beren said, “as a messenger to the Tellvan. An envoy to stop our war before it began. I reached down for you, swore that the Mynt had burned no villages and killed no families. I promised to prove it.”

  “Yet I couldn't raise my other arm.” Phantom pains again split Trell's side. “I lost my grip.”

  “You fell,” Beren agreed. “The Layn swept you away. With you went my best hope of stopping this war.”

  And though he could not tell Prince Beren, Trell knew that was when he had drowned. When Life resurrected him as her champion, Cantrall had already been moving on Kara. Melyssa had no time to heal his wounds.

  Beren extended his arm, palm open. “I still need a messenger, Trell. You can still take my hand.”

  Trell gripped Beren's outstretched wrist as the big man gripped his. No hesitation. Their clasped hands sealed their bargain.

  “I'll speak to the Seven Sheiks,” Trell said. “I do not know if they'll listen, but no soldier becomes a swordking without their blessing. I'll tell them the truth behind this war.”

  “That's all I can ask.” Beren broke their grip. “Neither Mynt or Tellvan will fall like Metla Tassau.”

  Beren's soldiers erupted in a chorus of hurrahs, but the tolling of bells beyond the practice yard murdered that pleasant din. Dynara went stiff, blood draining from her ruddy face. Prince Beren looked to the south wall.

  “What is that?” Trell asked. The tolling was ominous.

  “A call to arms,” Beren said. “Those bells have not rung in my lifetime.” He grimaced. “Tarna's south gate is under attack.”

  Beren's men formed a column behind the prince and Beren motioned Trell to join him, marching forward. So he was going to march with them, now? Progress.

  “They can't be Tellvan,” Trell said. “You hold the Ranarok passes, don't you? You'd have seen us coming.”

  Dynara thumped Trell on the back and handed him the broadsword, still in its sheath. A benefit of their bargain. Trell strapped it across his back and faced the prince as Dynara marched to the head of the column.

  Soldiers took up shields and spears and marched as Mynt legionnaires always did — as a unit. They marched out of the yard down a long, winding road that overlooked Tarna's sprawl. The outer walls, gray lines in the distance, were just visible past hundreds of gold-flecked roofs. Thousands lived here and now they were in danger.

  “Hey!” Dynara shouted from the head of the column, grinning back at Trell. “If our gatecrashers are Tellvan, there's an upside. Maybe we'll run into someone you know!”

  KARA WAITED IN THE ARCHWAY to Anylus's study and stared at the back of the royal adept's red robes. Anylus examined the parchment with her latest glyph, tracing the lines and nodding to himself. It was the first glyph she had designed since starting her studies with him.

  Old books, rolled parchment, and artifacts covered the wooden tables shoved against the study's walls. A Skywatcher's signal stone. A Firebrand's sacred embers. A Soulmage's urn, a tool for summoning the ancient dead.

  Kara's new glyph would heat an enemy's blade and force him to drop it, or so she hoped. She had worked on it for three days, struggling to find the right mix of Heat, formless glyphs, and Braun, the soul glyph of the Sculptor.

  The first two training swords grew pleasantly warm, while the third melted. Neither result satisfied her assignment, so Kara had kept at it until she helped Sera break into the royal library. Now Kara was being judged on her work ... and perhaps far more.

  Kara had returned Anylus's magesand vial shortly before sunrise, and it sat now on a high shelf among other jars and urns. She had replaced the missing magesand with dirt made to look like magesand, but Anylus would notice the sand was fake. A fledgling would notice the sand was fake.

  “Your glyph is adequate,” Anylus said. “You could cut two formless glyphs from the third spiral. The link between the first and third is sloppy, and it will not heat if the blade is made from iron in the northern mountains.”

  “I see.” Kara grimaced. “I'm sorry.”

  “Kara.” Anylus rose from his chair and walked to her on padded sandals. “The first glyph I made for Adept Norra had four unnecessary links. If the blade were wielded by a man with a trace of Tassaun blood, the steel would cut twice as sharp.”

  Anylus was a tall, thin man with a modest gray beard and thick eyebrows that sheltered dark eyes. His soft chin had a divot in the middle. He did not look like the most powerful mage in all of Mynt, but he was her teacher now.

  “Then,” Kara blinked at him, “my glyph is good?”

  “It is adequate.” Anylus smiled. “There is always room for improvement, even in glyphs I design today.”

  Kara forced herself to relax. She had to lie to Anylus, to keep Sera safe, but she didn't have to like it. Someday she would apologize.

  “You will improve.” Anylus squeezed her shoulder. “That's why you're here.”

  “I'm trying.” Kara made herself smile. “I've already learned so much, and it's only been a week.”

  “You're learning well. Don't get wrapped up in the details. Focus on the fundamentals.”

  Kara had betrayed this kind man's trust, lied to him several times already. She didn't deserve to be praised. She had left Sera to die.

  “Now, for your next assignment.” Anylus unrolled a scroll. “You'll create a glyph to remove all impurities from any stream flowing through the Ranarok. You have five days. I've arranged an escort to take you north—”

  Bells tolled, echoing through the chamber and the hall beyond. The sound chilled Kara's blood. Anylus glanced at the stained glass window, frowned, and set down his scroll.

  “What's happening?” Kara asked.

  “Our prince needs us.” Anylus strode into the stone hall beyond his study and Kara hurried after him.

  They walked into one of the three greater halls running the length of the royal palace. Bells tolled as they passed rich tapestries depicting the All Province War and a dozen before it. They passed courtesans in diaphanous silks, supplicants in brown robes, and a good two dozen clanking legionnaires.

  “Anylus, what— “

  He silenced her with a raised hand, looking beyond. Another trick Soulmage Adepts mastered was projecting their souls outside their bodies. Perhaps Anylus was projecting
his spirit to the reason for the tolling bells. His body kept walking on blind instinct and his last instructions.

  Was Tarna under attack? Who would attack them here, Tellvan? How had they penetrated the Ranarok blockades?

  They climbed a tower and entered a circular room with a stone floor. Lines of magesand formed a five-pointed star. A woman stood inside those lines, eyes glowing with blue energy. A Skywatcher, like Elder Ine in Solyr.

  Tarna had six Skywatchers, two in the towers of the royal palace and one at each cardinal point of its outer walls. The city sprawled two leagues from south to north, parkways and alleys running every direction. It would take hours to walk to the south wall, but by teleporting, they would cross the entire city in the blink of an eye.

  “Lirith,” Anylus said, now back in his body. “Please teleport us both to the south tower.”

  The woman named Lirith inclined her head. “Yes, Royal Adept.” Her soft voice had an odd echo, like it was two voices instead of one. “Two to the south wall.”

  A Skywatcher's vision stretched across the night sky, but teleporting themselves or others using astral glyphs required a great deal of blood. It was not easy work. What must it be like to see through that light?

  Anylus took Kara's elbow, pulled her into the center of the circle with him, and released her. Lirith looked up, eyes lighting her red bangs, and raised fingers oozing blood. Her hair fluttered as she painted glyphs and whirling blue light rose around Kara and Anylus.

  Lirith’s echoing voice spoke. “They travel.”

  Kara's vision swam as the stone floor stretched like a cheek with a tongue in it. One breath later she dropped to her knees, retching. Anylus and another woman helped her up.

  “Easy,” the woman said, a dark-skinned Skywatcher on the other side of the glyph. “You're fine and the nausea will pass. Stand and breathe.”

  Kara did that and nodded thanks. Together, she and Anylus stepped out of the tower onto one of Tarna's high walls. Chaos held court below.

  Shopkeepers, soldiers, and peasantry jostled each other, shouting and pushing. Carts and other animals threatened to crush the throng. Dogs barked, children shrieked, and street vendors desperately collapsed their stalls. Probably because of all the blood.