Then she kissed me, and I had no further questions.
6
“The world is crumbling,” Charon said, his low, gravelly voice tinged with concern. His ragged hooded cloak was pulled tightly around his head, despite the relative warmth inside the cottage. “There will be dark times ahead.”
“We’ll be okay,” I said. “We have each other. And Argos.”
“Yes, I suppose love always wins out,” he said with a cynical laugh, dragging heavily on his sheepskin flask. I hoped that it was only wine inside, but deep down I knew he was drinking something more potent. “Rome has fallen. The light of civilization has been extinguished.”
“Didn’t you ride with Attila’s hordes?”
Charon shrugged his lanky shoulders. “It was exhilirating.”
Tanked, was more likely.
“A little dramatic predicting the end of the world, don’t you think,” I said, watching his sallow skin and sunken eyes in the flickering candlelight. In the shadows, I caught Argos watching us thoughtfully, but keeping his mouth shut. He knew that this was official business. Charon was my warden, and I was bound to listen to him. Best not poke the bear and get sent on one of his idiotic missions to impress the Crimson Conclave.
“At least you and the woman had a good run. Almost five centuries. A man could do worse.”
I looked back at the darkened room where Isabella slept.
“You’re a ray of sunshine,” I said.
“Heed me,” Charon said, slurring his words slightly, “Marrack will plunge what’s left of the world into chaos. He is—he is intent on finding you. For he fears your…”
He hiccupped and almost vomited on the table.
“Yes, I’m aware of my supposed destiny.” I scratched my throat. “If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you come and find me during the Fimbulwinter?”
“Too cold,” Charon said. “I had my own plans.”
“For a thousand years?”
“That was half a millennium ago,” Charon said, slaking his endless thirst again. “Let it go, Kal. Water beneath aqueducts, as the Romans said. Ah, the Romans. I will miss their parties. Such vitality. You know, there was once three women at once, all naked…”
I ignored his story as my hands shook with anger. I had no choice but to do what he told me. Expecting him to brave the Fimbulwinter and snatch me from the diamond-encrusted talons of Vedrfolnir was unrealistic, anyway.
“Why are you really here, Charon?”
The Ferryman stood, the tip of his hood almost touching the ceiling’s wooden crossbeam. Finishing the last of his ambrosia, he tottered toward the door.
“You are to fix this chaos Marrack has wrought,” he said as he searched for the handle, “and then—and then—”
“And then what?”
“Just grant me a moment.” He finally found the handle, and flung the door open with more force than necessary. “And then, the world will be saved and we’ll all be heroes.”
“I don’t need to be a hero,” I said, following him into the warm night. Outside, the sea rustled softly. It was peaceful here in Thrace, even after the Romans had officially turned it into a province shortly after Isabella and I had returned.
Then, few people messed with witches. And Isabella had displaced Filippa as the leader of the coven, which meant that no one messed with us. By displaced, I meant dispatched—prior to saving my ass. Being in the magic business was tough. Guess all that training had come back to bite Filippa. Lucky for me. Otherwise I would still be unable to cross the sea for fear of my insides turning to molten liquid.
“Then you just stay here in your little tent,” Charon took a few steps before falling face first into the dirt. A plume of dust rose around him, and he coughed. “And wait for Marrack to find you.”
“He hasn’t yet.”
“He will,” Charon said, coughing on the ground. “It’s only a matter of time. Of which he has plenty. A limitless supply.”
He thought this was very clever, or funny, because he laughed.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” I crossed my arms, not offering to help him up.
“You must use your guile.” Charon rolled over, his cloak clinging to his damp, ashen skin. “You can’t kill him. You will never be strong enough.”
“Go home.”
“My pocket.” Charon fumbled with the folds of his tunic. I made no move to come over. Eventually, he freed his hand, holding up a small piece of parchment. “This contains instructions on how to rid yourself of him.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Kalos Aeon, I am your warden.” Charon struggled to his knees and looked me in the eye. Smelling of vomit and the sickly scent of ambrosia made it difficult to take him seriously. “And you will do as I say. You will rid the world of Marrack. And you will do it before there is nothing left to save. Your destiny is tied to his. As I have said.”
“Yes, but I don’t believe you.”
“Then you have no choice in the matter. Maybe this is your destiny.”
“With certainty like that, I’ll get right on your little task.” The note fluttered into the dust as Charon crawled away, groaning and cursing his lack of ambrosia.
I stooped down to pick it up. It was brief. As I rose, a hand pushed against my back.
“What does the note say?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”
“I love you, Kalos,” Isabella said, kissing my shoulder deeply. “Together, nothing bad can happen to us.”
I had already read the note, so I knew it was a lie. But I still said, “Of course. Go back to bed.”
She returned to the cottage, leaving me alone with my thoughts and Charon’s decree.
I rubbed the stubble coating my chin and read the note again.
Nearly five hundred years, and I’d have to find this damn hawk again. Unless the world wanted to be plunged into darkness forever.
Oh, and in case I missed it: I couldn’t kill Marrack. Because I was too weak. I crumpled the note into the folds of my robe and stomped back to cottage.
But all the same, I knew, in the morning, that I would listen to Charon.
Because I had no choice.
7
That night, I tossed and turned in our bed, unable to sleep. Isabella’s short breaths felt hot and sticky against my skin. The soft snort of Argos’ breath was like an impending doomsday clock.
Finally, I rose and walked along the village’s path, not stopping until I reached the cliff where Filippa had instructed me to leave forever fifteen hundred years prior. I edged up to the rim, where another step would send me plunging into the sharp rocks below.
Thrace. Beautiful, scenic, but not devoid of hazards.
The mission from Charon wasn’t to kill Vedrfolnir. That would be a tall order, considering how the legendary hawk had tormented and worn me down for the better part of a thousand years. But a direct offensive was more in line with my nature, if I could do it quickly upon setting foot on the northern shores.
What Charon commanded instead was not within a demon’s nature. It was to meet the Storm Pale with compassion, understanding—and gracefully turn the hawk from foe to ally. Then, with Vedrfolnir’s help, a plan would be devised to banish Marrack from the face of the mortal Earth. Before there was no Earth left to save.
Over the years, befriending the hawk had never entered my mind. But Marrack the Demon King was too powerful to fell alone—even incapacitating him was a tall order. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that Charon spoke the truth. As a rogue and thief in a former life, however, perhaps it remained in my nature to use, as Charon put it, “guile” in order to emerge victorious.
After all, the brash-headed alternative had only bought me an extended stay in the freezing wilds.
“It has taken me many years to find you, Kalos Aeon.”<
br />
I stiffened. Even with my back turned, I would recognize this man’s mellow voice for the rest of my life. It was mismatched to his ruthless character. He used its sonorous strains as a sort of cloak, a way to lure people into his demonic web.
My eyes smoldered in the starry night, but I didn’t answer. The water was calm off the shore.
“I have laid an empire to ruin looking for you, Kalos, and you will not even turn to bow to your king?” The ground shook, and the air turned dusty hot for a moment. Then the previous sense of tranquility returned, as if nothing had happened. Life was like that. Everything just a ripple.
“I wasn’t exactly laying low.”
“There is the insolent man I know. Will you not turn to face me, coward?”
I stared out at the beautiful waters, the moonlight glistening against the glassy black surface. “Here to remedy your failure from all those years ago?”
Marrack’s voice was tight when he answered. “The Demon King does not fail.”
“Of course not,” I said. “My own survival notwithstanding.”
The ground beneath my feet crumbled. I fell backward just before the chunk of soil dropped into the ocean. Footsteps approached as I scrambled to my feet. With the sea at my back, he had the definite advantage.
When I turned around, I was face to face with Marrack. He was well-dressed, immaculately groomed. I wondered if he had ridden in like this, or specially organized himself for the occasion.
“Your tongue outstrips your abilities, Kalos.” He was close enough that I could feel his breath upon my face.
“That’s not what your harem has told me.”
He hissed with annoyance, his eyes flashing orange. The fierce light remained, even after he brought his breathing under control. “It is best not to provoke me.”
“Because you might almost kill me again?”
“Because I will do something worse.”
“What? Find me in another thousand years and bore me to death?” I said with a carefree demeanor that was merely an act. “Wouldn’t that be a shame.”
His hand shot out, wrapping around my throat. I kicked at his chest, but he raised me without difficulty. Taking a step forward, he thrust me out over the abyss. My feet dangled over the jagged rocks and foamy waters hundreds of feet below.
“You will not die if I drop you, Kalos,” Marrack said. “As you are born of my essence, you are incredibly difficult to kill. And eliminating you forever would be a shame.”
“I don’t think you can do it,” I managed to groan out as the world began to darken.
“In time, I will,” Marrack said, his white teeth glinting like vicious little shivs in the moonlight. “But for now, a life of eternal pain, followed by eternal servitude will be your punishment.”
“I don’t think you understand what eternal means,” I gasped.
“No,” he said with a cruel grin, extending me further out over the cliff. “It is you who does not understand the meaning of the word.”
And then he hurled me far into the sea. I hit the water with a crash, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs. As I plunged into the darkness, I contemplated his words. The piece of parchment, ruined and formless, floated past in the black.
Then I drifted to the bottom, all alone.
8
I checked the map, holding the parchment up to the dim moonlight. The crudely drawn diagram, which I had paid for in bloodied silver, offered me little direction.
I could be a hundred kilometers from Cadiz or twenty-five kilometers, which was where I needed to be. The overgrown road didn’t illuminate a path forward.
“What do you think?” I crouched and held the map before Argos’ snout.
“I don’t think I like Marrack’s new world.”
“You weren’t one for the Roman way of life.”
“I now find my tastes skew more Epicurean than apocalyptic.”
The thick bushes growing along the pathway rustled. There was little to be worried about here in nature. Of course, that was merely an illusion. The world was dark, bloodthirsty. Men still fighting over the scraps of an empire that had collapsed over three centuries prior.
I searched for Hathus, a descendent of the Visigoths. Like the Romans they had plundered and killed, the Visigoths were now merely another mark on history’s ledger. But warlords carrying their bloodlines remained, even after the Muslims had sacked Spain.
“So the map,” I said.
“You have been betrayed, demon.” I spoke many languages, now, so I understood his tongue. A contingent of foul-smelling men emerged from the bushes. Their weapons were bitten by rust and stained by blood.
It had been lonely, returning full-time to my salvage retrieval gig. But work kept my mind from what Marrack was doing.
What Isabella now did, corrupted by his influence.
The broad-shouldered men stalked out from their hiding spot, led by a tall and handsome warlord.
“Hathus,” I said.
Beneath his helmet, I saw his eyes move slightly. “Impressive trick, demon.”
He brandished a long spear toward me, the point glinting in the silvery moonlight. I could sense its aura, even when held in the hands of a mortal.
Its power would be immense, even without essence flowing through Hathus’ veins. This man was also a seasoned fighter, just as the client who had requested the retrieval of Woden’s Spear had indicated.
Argos growled unconvincingly.
“Is this your loyal attack dog?” The advancing circle of men laughed at the medium-sized animal. I looked down to find Argos trembling, his brown eyes focused on the floor.
A vengeful energy coursed through my veins. Part of the reason I had accepted this job, travelling all over Europe in search of the last remnant of the Ragnarök, was because of a rumor.
Isabella and Marrack were searching for the spear to aid in the world’s destruction. But they lacked my experience and perhaps the dogged tenacity.
As well as a willingness to enter situations which were decidedly unfavorable, even for a demon. My eyes flashed with orange anger.
Hathus laughed, unperturbed. “You think we have not met your kind?”
“I was kind of hoping you found that thing on the side of the road.”
He turned the painstakingly carved wood over in his hands, feeling its power. It had to be intoxicating. An instrument of a fallen god.
“We have killed many of your kind, demon. Some of you walk amongst us.”
I sensed the aura swerving in from the right side. With a quick stroke, I slashed into the darkness, my blade finding a man’s throat. Brackish blood sprayed across the verdant landscape as he gurgled and died.
“A werewolf. Very impressive.” But I was faster.
Hathus was a man who had experienced death. More than that; he had lived it for his entire life. It was etched into the graying stubble adorning his chin, much like a river carves its mark on stone.
More men emerged from the bushes.
“You should not have followed us, demon.” He walked closer, standing tall. “I will drain you of your magic, increase the power of those who serve only me.”
Yes. We had a burgeoning Scourge of God on our hands. If the Romans were still around, they’d be shaking in their sandals.
But it was only me and a terrified dog.
Another attack came from the left, this time a vamp. A newer one, fresh. Vamps were faster, but this one was uncoordinated and loud. I plunged the blade through its eye and kicked it backward.
The remaining party, thirty strong, charged, ready to tear me limb from limb. Anger boiled up from within my stomach, consuming my entire being.
With a quick, violent motion from my free hand, I swiped my fingers through the air, grabbing pieces of their souls. Then, searching deep within my own humanity, I broke
off a piece of my own, sacrificing it to the dark magic.
“Firus ignitus,” I yelled, not bothering to channel the inferno. An old demon standby, but it served its purpose. The bloodthirsty cries turned into anguished screams as the burning men crumpled to their knees.
I slashed at a mortal who made it through, severing his leg at the thigh. Another half-shifted werewolf caught me with a rake across the back, and I whirled around in rage, my sword decapitating him clean.
“Then your essence is all mine,” Hathus roared in the middle of the dancing flame, emerging as if he were some sort of wraith. I realized, bleeding and running hot, that he was no mortal.
He, like me, was a demon.
The spear knifed through the crackling orange light with inhuman speed, plunging into my gut. Pain surged through my skin as I tasted blood in my mouth.
With stunned eyes, I looked at him.
“Yes, demon. You will belong to me.”
I thought of Isabella, how Marrack now controlled her. An uncontrollable rage took control of me, and I unleashed a feral scream into the night.
With both hands, I wrenched the spear from my torso, pushing him back into the flames. Too surprised to react, Hathus could only watch in horror as I took my sword and threw it, like a meter-long dagger, at his heart.
His lips were silent as he toppled into the pyres, quickly consumed by the flame. I walked over, feeling the heat lap at my arms, and pulled the spear from his arms.
“Saves me a trip to Cadiz,” I said, the world spinning. I weaved in and out of the narrow pathway through the flames, stumbling to the singed bushes nearby.
“Kal,” Argos said, tugging at my ruined leather armor. “Kal, you can’t go to sleep.”
My eyes felt weighted down by stones. A terrible pain, like the march of a Persian army, pounded within my bleeding torso.
I gripped Woden’s Spear tightly, like a life raft in the storm.
“Don’t let that bastard Marrack have this.”
Then the dark world faded from view.
9
Storm Pale Page 3
