Demonkin

by Richard S. Tuttle

  “I would welcome it,” General Fabio replied quickly.

  Clint glanced at General Garibaldi and the overweight Vinaforan nodded in agreement.

  “There are absolutely no horses available,” Clint stated. “If you truly want an army, it would have to be infantry. Kyrga will also not waste real soldiers on any of us. I pulled mine from the prisons, and I suspect you will have to do the same.”

  “If you left any worthwhile candidates,” huffed General Garibaldi.

  “I did choose the best of the lot,” admitted Clint, “but again, we are not competitors. In fact, my army will not be returning to Despair, so no one is going to compare your army to mine. Ask Kyrga for a small number of infantry that you can parade around the city. He will probably agree just to make you happy.”

  “Why is the A Corps not returning to Despair?” asked General Fabio.

  “Because Kyrga doesn’t want them around,” Clint smiled thinly. “I suspect he wishes he had never authorized my army, but it is hard for him to back away now. He would have to imprison men who have already been pardoned. It would get rather messy.”

  “Will you put in a good word for us?” asked General Fabio.

  Clint looked each man in the eye and then nodded. “I will,” he smiled. “Remember to keep your requests modest. Start with a hundred men and see how that goes.”

  “Thank you, General Forshire,” General Fabio said as he rose to his feet.

  Garibaldi also rose, and Clint nodded to each of them. “Good day, General Fabio. General Garibaldi.”

  The two men left the room, and Clint dined leisurely in private. After dining, he continued to sit in the dining room as he tried to figure a way to use the private armies of Fabio and Garibaldi to his advantage. After a while, he smiled inwardly and rose to his feet. He left the dining room and roamed around the palace for a while before exiting the building. For several hours, he walked aimlessly around the grounds of the palace, or at least that is how it would have appeared to any objective observer. What Clint was really doing was noting the positions of the nighttime sentries and marking the time of their rotations.

  The hour was quite late by the time Clint retired to his room. He immediately stripped off all the golden emblems from his uniform and unlocked the window shutters. Next he grabbed a coil of rope and a small metal grappling hook. He placed these in a canvas pack and slung it over his back. Moving stealthily to the door, he eased it open and peered into the hallway. Seeing no one in the corridor, the Ranger slid into the hall and closed the door to his room. He locked the door and moved quietly to the staircase.

  Stepping lightly, Clint made his way to the top floor. The top floor hosted bedrooms for minor officers and visiting couriers. It was also the location of a hatchway leading to the crawlways of the attic. The hatch was located in a wall of the main corridor of the top floor. Clint looked both ways before dropping to his knees in front of the hatch. He stuck his finger in his pocket and woke up the fairy. Peanut stuck his head out of the pocket and glanced around before leaping onto Clint’s shoulder. Clint pointed to the four sliders that held the hatch in place.

  “I need you to put these back in place after I am gone,” Clint whispered. “Can you do it?”

  “It will be a snap,” grinned the little man. “How do I follow you?”

  “I will be on the roof in a bit,” answered Clint as he swiveled the four sliders and removed the hatch cover.

  The Ranger placed his pack inside the crawlway and then followed it. He knelt in the small crawlspace, lifted the hatch cover into place and held it while Peanut secured it. When Peanut was done, Clint slung the pack over his back and began crawling away from the hatch. He had never been in this attic before, but he had been in similar ones in Tagaret. There was barely enough room for a man to crawl in the tiny space between the roof and the rooms of the top floor. The crawlspace was not fully floored. The right-hand side of the crawlspace had wooden flooring to crawl upon. The left-hand side was a large gap between the floorboards and the edge of the roof that allowed Clint to stare straight down to ground level. The gap was broken every so often by a beam running perpendicular to the crawlway. Those beams supported the roof.

  Clint tested each beam, looking for one that was sturdy and not rotted. When he found one that was acceptable, he eased himself onto it. Perched under the overhang, Clint reached above and behind him to feel for the construction hook that should be in the edge of the roof. Hooks were usually installed to hold pulleys during the construction of tall buildings. Those pulleys were used to raise the pallets of slate that covered the roofs. He sighed nervously as he found it. Reaching into the pack on his back, Clint pulled out a short length of rope. He passed it through the construction hook and then around his chest. He tied a knot in the rope and then reached into his pack again. He fumbled around until he felt the small grappling hook and pulled it out of the pack. He retrieved an end to the longer piece of rope in the pack and tied it to the grappling hook. He looped most of the remains of the long coil of rope around his shoulder, leaving a healthy half-dozen paces of rope hanging free.

  With a final prayer to the gods, Clint grasped the grappling hook in his right hand and reached back with his left hand to grasp the edge of the roof. He pushed himself off the beam. Pain immediately swept through his left arm as his body swung from the edge of the roof. His eyes desperately scanned the tile roof looking for a purchase for the grappling hook. He immediately locked his eyes on a chimney not five paces away. He forced himself to wait before throwing the hook, for to throw it while still swinging was to invite failure. Eventually his body stopped swinging, and Clint tossed the small grappling hook at the chimney. It caught on the first throw and Clint sighed in relief. He grabbed the rope with his right hand and released his grip on the roof with his left hand. He drew a knife from his belt and cut the short rope where it passed through the construction hook. Thankful that he had not needed to depend upon the crude harness, Clint replaced the knife in its sheath and used both hands to climb onto the roof.

  “That was pretty risky,” chirped Peanut as the fairy fluttered down to Clint’s shoulder. “What are we doing up here?”

  “We are going to visit the office of Grand General Kyrga,” Clint answered as he removed the harness and restored it to his pack.

  “I take it that we have not been invited,” quipped the fairy.

  “You have a keen grasp of the situation, my friend,” chuckled the Ranger. “Come on. We have work to do.”

  Clint rose to his feet and retrieved the grappling hook from the chimney. The slate roof was steeply pitched, and the Ranger took care to test each tile before putting his weight on it. He worked his way along the roof to the front of the building and peered down at the grounds below. He could not see the two guards at the front door of the palace as they were directly beneath him, but the gate guards were clearly visible near the lanterns at the entrance to the estate. Clint backtracked to the nearest chimney and securely attached the grappling hook. He slowly lowered the rope over the side of the roof until it straightened. Getting down on his stomach, the Ranger grabbed the rope with both hands and slid over the side.

  Clint lowered himself slowly until he came to the window of Kyrga’s office. He reached out and slowly swung the shutters open. He maneuvered his body through the window and pulled the slack rope in behind him. After making sure that Peanut was in the room, he swung the shutters closed as far as he could with the rope coming through it. Clint turned and surveyed the dark room. Light shone under the door to the corridor, but the rest of the room was black.

  “I am going to need a fairy light,” Clint whispered. “Make sure that it is not bright enough to be noticed.”

  Peanut immediately cast a dull fairy light over the desk. “What are we looking for?” the fairy asked in a whisper.

  “Anything we are not supposed to see,” smiled Clint. “We will start on the desk drawers.”

  As Clint opened a drawer, Peanut would hover
over it, shedding faint light on the papers within. Many of the papers dealt with the hierarchy of the army, which Clint didn’t find all that interesting. The next drawer yielded the missing pages from the rebel file. Clint asked Peanut to memorize them so he could peruse them later. There was nothing else of importance in the desk, and Clint frowned as he moved towards a cabinet on the other wall. The cabinet door was locked, and Clint’s spirits suddenly rose. He knew that something more important than the rebel file must wait for him beyond the locked door. He slid a thin piece of metal from his belt and set to work on the lock.

  The lock was difficult, and Clint could not risk ruining it, so he worked slowly and methodically. After what seemed an agonizingly long time, the lock clicked open. There were four drawers in the cabinet, and Clint started at the top. The first drawer contained files on all of the military installations of the Federation. The ranger quickly pulled the file for Camp Destiny, and was disappointed that there was nothing in the file to indicate the reason for the camp’s existence. He did note that there was no specified location for Camp Destiny, while all the other camps were noted by how far they were from the nearest landmarks.

  Suddenly, there were voices in the corridor outside the room. Clint replaced the Camp Destiny file in the drawer and silently slid it shut. Clint could not tell what was being discussed outside the office, but he recognized the voice of Grand General Kyrga. The Ranger drew his belt knife and backed slowly away from the open cabinet. Ready to attack the moment the door was opened, Clint sighed with relief as the voices faded.

  “That was close,” whispered Peanut.

  “What was?” asked Clint.

  “Kyrga was on his way here,” explained the fairy. “The guards told him that the emperor had been looking for him. I do not think we have much time before he returns.”

  “Then let’s make the best of it,” Clint said as he returned to the cabinet and opened the second drawer.

  The second drawer contained files for the various armies of the Federation. Clint immediately opened the file for A Corps to see if Kyrga had any nasty plans in store for him. He saw nothing of interest. Not specifically interested in the armies, Clint was about to move on when he suddenly grabbed the folder for the First Corps. It was a thick folder and most of it was about personnel and their ranks. Clint noticed that three officers had stars next to their names. At the bottom of the last sheet was another star and the words ‘Project Destiny’.

  Clint replaced the file and slid the drawer shut. He opened the third drawer and saw folders with odd names. It took a moment for him to realize that what he was looking at was a file of special projects. He shuffled through the files until he found the one marked ‘Destiny’. He opened it and quickly scanned it. He nearly gasped when he saw the requisition for thirty pairs of doors from a company in Olansk. In addition to the requisition was a hand-drawn diagram with the numbers one to twenty-four drawn on it. The numbers were in two vertical columns and next to each number was the name of an Alcean city.

  “Capture this,” Clint instructed the fairy.

  “I have it,” Peanut replied nervously, “but it is a dangerous game we are playing. It is time for us to get out of here.”

  “So it is,” Clint agreed as he closed the drawer and then the cabinet.

  He was able to lock the cabinet much quicker than it had taken to unlock. He moved quickly across the room and opened the shutters. He lowered the end of the rope out the window and then stepped out and hung by one hand as the other swung the shutters closed. As he started up the rope, he heard Kyrga’s voice again, followed by a door slamming shut. Without looking down, the Ranger continued up to the roof.

  Chapter 9

  The Bargain

  Prince Saratoma heard the noise of the door opening behind him. He whirled around and sighed with relief when he saw Morro enter the room.

  “So here you are,” frowned the elven thief. “I have been looking all over Elfwoods for you. I could never imagine that you would be hiding in the forbidden archives.”

  “Someone has to try to make sense out of what happened here,” Prince Saratoma replied defensively. “Has Legaulle regained consciousness yet?”

  “My father is barely clinging onto his life,” Morro replied. “They do not expect him to recover.”

  “Perhaps it is time for a new historian then,” mused the prince.

  “You could at least let my father die before you talk of replacing him,” scowled Morro. “I thought more highly of you than that.”

  “You misunderstand,” sighed the prince. “I was talking about you becoming the historian. You have already stated that you have a keen interest in the history of our people, and your family has held the responsibility of the archives for generations. It should be you taking this room apart and putting it back together again, not me.”

  “Legaulle is still the historian and the only person legally allowed in this room,” countered Morro. “Regardless of my heritage, I have no more right to be in here than you do. Not even a prince is exempt from the law.”

  “You speak highly of the law,” Prince Saratoma stated, “but you also once stood with my father in defiance of it. When is it right to break the law, Morro?”

  “That was different,” balked the thief. “The law was standing in the way of the future of our people. He was right to rebel, and I was proud to stand by his side.”

  “And I am grateful that you were wise enough to do so,” the prince replied with a tight smile. “This episode is no different, Morro. The Federation has broken the law by accessing our archives and taking away our women. We need to find out why they have acted so brashly, and why those certain women were chosen. I cannot help but feel that those particular women are significant in some way that I cannot comprehend. Help me uncover this mystery, Morro.”

  Morro stood silently for a while, his eyes scanning the hundreds of scrolls that represented the history of the Dielderal. He was torn between his admiration for Ellak’s son and the honor of his father’s charge as historian.

  “Legaulle and I were close,” Prince Saratoma said softly. “I do not say that to hurt you, but I think I can say that I know him fairly well. We certainly got along far better than I did with my grandfather. Despite his strict adherence to the law, I think Legaulle would approve of what I am doing. It is a task that would encompass his every waking hour if he was capable of doing it himself. I feel certain about this, or I would not be here now.”

  Morro stared sadly at the prince. “I know that my father thought highly of you. He told me so himself, but he also cared for the sanctity of the archives more than his life.”

  “He proved that not long ago,” replied the prince. “If I am wrong about what Legaulle would think, I will submit to any punishment he decides upon.”

  “My father will never wake up,” scowled Morro. “You are taking no chances with such a pledge.”

  “You are wrong,” Prince Saratoma replied adamantly. “We are all praying for his recovery. Both he and the king will recover.”

  “Have you been to see your grandfather?” Morro asked with concern.

  “When we first arrived in the Heart,” the prince replied. “He is lucky to be alive, but he will never be the man he used to be. He wants me to assume the throne.”

  “And will you?” asked Morro.

  “For the first time in many generations,” answered the prince, “the Dielderal are united in purpose. It makes no difference who holds the throne right now because our course is clear.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Morro pointed out. “From what I have heard, you were ready to seize the throne some time back. Will you take it now that it is offered?”

  “Only if I must,” answered the prince. “My grandfather is no longer the unyielding figure he used to be. He and I are one in purpose. Why should I disgrace him by replacing him while he still lives?”

  “Yet you ask me to disgrace my father by violating the sanctity of the archives,”
declared the thief. “Can you not see the irony?”

  “I see no irony,” stated Prince Saratoma, “and I see no disgrace to your father. If King Elengal were unable to perform his duties, I would not hesitate to take the throne. I would also relinquish it when he became capable once again. I do not see that as a disgrace, but rather as a way to honor his objectives and continue to serve the Dielderal people. We need an historian, Morro, and we need one right now. I pray for Legaulle’s complete recovery, but the people cannot wait for that to happen. We must understand this new threat to us.”

  Prince Saratoma rose to his feet and made for the door leading out of the archives. “Come with me, Morro. I will have my grandfather appoint you as the temporary historian. You will only serve until your father is once again capable of performing the duties, and I will never set foot in this place again.”

  Morro stared at the prince and then at the scrolls once more. He shook his head and sighed.

  “No,” Morro said with conviction. “My name must never be entered in any proclamations that the Federation might stumble across. I think I now understand why you are here, and I finally agree with you. We will scour the records ourselves, but only for the information that is necessary. What have you found so far?”

  “All four of the women were healers,” the prince reported. “All five if you count Eulena.”

  “Why do you mention Eulena?” frowned Morro. “She is caring for my father.”

  “The king heard her name mentioned when he was struck down,” replied the prince. “K’san hurriedly chose the next name on his list, but I think it is safe to include her in the analysis.”

  “So they sought only mages?” questioned the thief.

  “Healers,” corrected the prince. “While healing is magical, it is the only magic that we practice in Elfwoods. I doubt the Federation was seeking magical expertise. They already have far too many black-cloaks who are well versed in magic.”