Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  I put my instructions into the mountain and it started working. The last several feet of the Kingsway formed a crack as the pivot-gate drawbridge disengaged. I stepped out of the way as the stone continued to alter. The people approaching were moving along cautiously and relatively slowly—the Kingsway wasn’t icy, but it was cold and a bit windy. Numb toes don’t help with narrow bridges, and the view of the long drop encouraged caution. I judged I still had about half an hour. Good enough.

  What in the world were they trying to do? A public display of disapproval? A formal declaration of intent to destroy me? Was this a way to throw down the gauntlet, or was there some other point to it? The question bothered me as I watched the slow march. I had the feeling something was going on and I wasn’t in the loop.

  By the time the head of the line reached the top of the Kingsway—ten or twelve feet from the wall—I had the drawbridge up and the wall intact. I sat on top of the wall, a clear violation of the safety rules I laid down way back when. Then again, the rule was to keep children from playing on the thing. It was a long way down. I drummed my heels idly on the outer face as the head of the line reached the gap.

  “Afternoon,” I offered. “You should really call ahead for group discounts.”

  “Behold the Light!” screamed the lead guy, and he directed the face of his medallion at me. Everyone behind him took it as a cue and started doing the same thing. Things were awfully crowded on the Kingsway all of a sudden. It’s really not the safest place to be, especially on a windy day.

  “Yes, I noticed it,” I told him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “Begone, son of darkness!”

  I continued to sit there. They continued to shout curses and banishments and, for all I know, exorcisms. It’s hard to make out what any one voice is saying when there are so many. I didn’t feel anything actually trying to banish me, but it was still broad daylight. Their attempts at demon-destruction didn’t seem to have much effect. After sunset, however, things might be different. But… surely they knew it? Or could they really not know?

  If they had tried to smite me as a mortal man—that is, if they tried to kill my mortal form with some sort of divine magic—would it have been more effective? Were they even capable of doing so? Their predecessors used a sort of cooperative magic, ritualistic prayers that acted as spells. These people didn’t; they were using the power of their faith to banish evil.

  Either their faith wasn’t up to it, or I wasn’t the sort of evil they could banish. I have no doubt they were incredibly effective against demonic Things from beyond the Edge of the World.

  Seeing they weren’t armed and apparently not about to stop, I laid down on top of the wall, folded my hands over my stomach, and pretended to go to sleep. They seemed to get the point after a few minutes of shouting at me. When they subsided to restless mutterings among themselves, I raised myself to my elbows and regarded them.

  “Are you done? I mean, I don’t want to be a spoilsport or anything. If you’ve got some more shouting to do, I can wait.”

  “Get thee hence, foul creature of the outer void!”

  “See? I knew you had some more in you. Go on. Vent. Get it out of your system.”

  I think I made them mad. Fists waved, both with and without medallions. Some of the pious mouthings started to sound slightly less than pious. I continued to wait; they wore themselves out much more quickly than I did. Standing in the cold on a narrow, un-railed bridge while the demonic thing you intend to banish politely waits for you to finish chanting and praying at it is disheartening.

  “O-kay,” I began, once they quieted to a reasonable level. “If you want to send someone up to talk, I’d be happy to receive a visitor. Send two. Send a group of three, if you like. I’d be happy to have a delegation from the church pay me a visit.”

  “After what you did to our brother, Perrin?” the lead man demanded. “You expect us to trust a treacherous creature such as you?”

  “What I did to Perrin?” I asked, sitting up fully. “I invited him in, fed him a hot meal, discussed theology, and sent him home. What happened to Perrin?”

  “You hurled him living from your walls to die upon the street below!”

  “The hell I did. He walked out of here on his own two feet!”

  “And you expect us to believe a creature such as you?”

  “Am I known for being a liar?”

  The guy in the lead hesitated for a moment, obviously considering his answer. I interrupted his musings.

  “Will someone throw me a medallion amulet thingy, please?” I asked. “Let’s see if it burns when I hold it.”

  I should have picked someone. A dozen of them came my way with great speed and murderous intent. I caught one and shielded my face and head from the rest. Those things are heavy and someone with a good arm can really make one hurt. I was going to have bruises. I was also glad I didn’t get one on the noggin.

  I held up the medallion I caught. It gleamed nicely in the sunlight.

  “All right, all of you. Shut up and pay attention. I, Halar of Karvalen, swear on this day, in the light of the sun and by the amulet in my hand that Brother Perrin left this place on his own two feet, alive and unharmed. I did him no harm of which I am aware, and I most certainly did not do anything to throw him down or make him fall.” I continued to hold the amulet for a minute, tilting it to flash sunlight at people.

  “Now that we’ve settled that,” I continued, “go home. Well, you don’t have to go home, but you really shouldn’t stay here. The Kingsway is crowded and it’s not the safest place to stand. Besides, I’m going inside. It’s cold and I was thinking about lunch. Since some of the medallions landed in the courtyard, you can have those back if you’ll send someone to ask for them. I’m not throwing them back to you; you might overreach and fall. Like I said, the bridge isn’t safe.”

  I dropped down inside the wall and walked into the great hall, ignoring the shouting from outside.

  “Problem?” Mary asked. I noticed she was in her professional killer outfit, but wore an over-robe to make it less obvious. Maybe it was a way to keep warm; winter was definitely still here.

  “Religion.”

  “Ah. Always a problem.”

  “Not always, but usually. The local dimwits think I threw Perrin off the wall and they’re cheesed about it.” I shook my head. “I think he slipped on his way down, which is a shame. I liked him. It’s actually a wonder these goofballs didn’t lose anyone, bunched up as they are on the Kingsway.”

  I didn’t really want to make it any more inviting, but maybe something safer was called for. If it was enclosed, like a tunnel bridge, maybe. I could put a dragon’s head at the lower end, so entering the Kingsway was akin to going down a dragon’s throat. Maybe the whole Kingsway could have a scaly pattern, too… I worked the idea into a mountain-message spell while we walked.

  “I wouldn’t think it a major loss to the world,” Mary continued.

  “Perrin might be, but the rest of them? Probably not. Why the robe?” I asked, changing the subject. “Are you cold?”

  “A little, but mostly it’s Dantos’ wife getting prissy about my outfit,” she answered as we walked through the hall. “I get the impression women don’t wear anything form-fitting. I haven’t seen anything but skirts. Have you?”

  “Not the last time I checked, no. I’ve seen a wide variety of clothing choices in brothels, but those can’t be counted as dress for polite company.”

  “I’m many of things, but not a prostitute,” she said, primly. “Speaking of fashion choices, though, what’s with the head-things?”

  “Head-things?”

  “The hair-bag older girls wear. Like the one Laisa has on her head.”

  “I think it’s called a wriage, if I remember right.”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “It shows she’s married. Loose hair is for children, a braid is for an eligible but unmarried girl, and the bag-thing is for married women
—I don’t know if they braid their hair or let it go loose in the bag, though. I seem to recall something about the type of braids being significant, but it’s a faint memory. Age? Occupation? Engagements? It’s a tip-of-the-tongue thing for my brain.”

  “Me, too, now that you mention it. Leftovers from meals?”

  “Probably. If you’re interested, claim to be a foreigner and curious about the custom. I’m sure any young lady in town will be happy to tell you all about it. Or ask Laisa.”

  “I’m not that interested.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What are you going to do about the religious zealots?”

  “Invite a couple to tea, find out if I can get them to be as reasonable as Perrin was, and kill them if I have to.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Depends on who they send,” I allowed.

  “I meant with killing them.”

  “It still depends on who they send. We might get along. Hold on a second,” I told her. I finished my message spell and put it into the nearest wall. She watched, perplexed. “There,” I told her. “I gave the mountain a message rather than plug in and tell it myself.” She shuddered.

  “Any news on the mirrorphone?” she asked, avoiding the topic.

  So I told her about my conversation with Seldar and with the receptionist at the Palace. She nodded thoughtfully and I continued.

  “Now I’m thinking of calling Thomen,” I finished.

  “I thought you said he hated you?”

  “That’s what I’m told. He might need an opportunity to vent on me. Who knows? Some yelling might relieve him a little. Or not. Maybe punching me a few times will help him feel better. My point is, I don’t know if his knowledge of my possession can overcome his emotional difficulties at my dark half’s actions.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” she advised.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s been my experience people don’t do well at that. They get something in their gut and then their heads don’t have much to say about it. If he spent the last few years learning to hate you, the best you can hope for is civility to your face while he plots to murder you. That’s about it.”

  “I’m thinking I might also get a clue as to whether or not he’s the one who tried to pummel my brain.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Besides, if I can get him to be civil, that’s a foot in the door. I can be unfailingly polite and helpful, right? Experience will change his feelings.”

  “Are you stupid?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Unwise, sometimes, and stupid only on occasion.” I thought about it for a moment. Mary remained silent, looking at me as we walked. “Okay, maybe,” I allowed.

  Mary took my arm and patted it.

  “You’re forgetting the trust issue. People don’t trust you after you crush them. Yes, yes; I know—it wasn’t you. But for them, it was you. For years, you were the Demon King.” She frowned in thought. “Look, if you knew someone who was consistently a wife-beater and a child molester, what would you think of him?”

  “Doesn’t he look natural.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At his funeral. I’d be thinking, ‘Doesn’t he look natural?’ after the undertakers finished with his corpse. Assuming they didn’t cremate whatever was left. If I leave the head pretty much intact, they can hide the rest of the injuries—”

  “Let me try again,” Mary interrupted, squeezing my arm meaningfully. Fingertips between the bicep and bone, right where it hurts. “Let’s say you know someone who has no children, but consistently does hard drugs, pimps for low-budget porn movies, and beats his wife even though she never complains in public. You know it, but you stay out of it because it’s not your business, right?”

  “…right,” I agreed, reluctantly.

  “For years, he does this. It’s his life. That’s the way it is. Then, one day, for no apparent reason—at least, no reason you saw—he suddenly becomes a model citizen. Goes to church on Sunday, pays his taxes, gets a working-class job, drives his wife to therapy sessions, joins the neighborhood watch, volunteers at the homeless shelter, and mows his lawn. The works. Do you buy it?” She shifted her grip to a more gentle one.

  “Hmm. What do you mean by ‘buy it’?”

  “He’s a new man. He hates drugs, won’t even watch porn, and will never lay an ungentle hand on his wife again. Unless she insists,” Mary added. I thought about it.

  “No… I suppose I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people don’t change like that. I’m tempted to say people don’t change at all. The overnight switch is too much to believe. He’s still a drug-using, porn-producing, wife-beating person, even if he doesn’t want to be one at the moment. He’s not doing it right now, sure. Whatever it was inside him that made him that kind of person is still there. I admit, I tried to push Mark into a turnaround by scaring him, but I knew he wasn’t going to really be a model citizen. I expected him to behave better, not be a saint.”

  “And?”

  “And… that’s your point,” I admitted, sadly.

  “Go on. Explain it to me.”

  “For nine years, I was a nasty bastard who earned the nickname of the Demon King. Now, after being absent a few months, I’m back and I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m a better person, despite still being a blood-drinking monster. Most people aren’t going to believe it even if I spend nine more years being Arthur at Camelot and pouring out the Holy Grail on anyone who wanders near me.”

  “I’d say you’d have to wait at least a couple of generations,” Mary suggested. “All the existing people will have to die off and their children and children’s children will have to grow up knowing you as a figure with a bright halo.”

  “This is a problem, yeah, but some people will believe me!”

  “Only if they already believe in you,” she countered. “Seldar sounds like one. Tort, whenever you find her. T’yl, too. And, of course, your daughter and granddaughter. That Beltar guy. Maybe a few others. Maybe Dantos—I’m not sure about him. He regards you with a sort of religious awe. He might not care if you’re the Demon King or not; he’ll still do anything you tell him to.”

  “He’s a special case. Nekelae are demigods to the People of the Plains. It’s our job to be terrors in the night while they placate us and ask for our protection.” I paused for thought. “Actually, I’m not sure a nekela is a nightlord. It could be a necromancer.”

  “So, am I a nekke-lay? Or a nightlady?”

  “Ask Dantos. I’m sketchy on the plains details.” I paused for thought. “I don’t think I’ve eaten many of them.”

  “I will, and I’ll let you know. So, did you get my point?”

  “About being the Demon King no matter what I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. I don’t like it.”

  She gently squeezed my arm and pushed the pivot-door to a kitchen.

  “I didn’t think you would. Is it too early for lunch?”

  “I don’t think I’m hungry. And you can always call it brunch.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I left her to her meal while I went for a walk around the halls. She had a good point about the Demon King problem and she finally drove it through my thick skull. My public image is awful. While it’s probably totally justified regarding the Demon King, I’ve been defamed, slandered, libeled, misrepresented… I need more words. I need a public relations manager. I need a public relations firm.

  Where’s Linnaeus when I need him?

  Dead. And his only living descendant is working against me, last I checked.

  There’s a thought.

  I can’t convince a kingdom I’m a changed man. Can I convince one person? Could I persuade Tyma it was a demonic Thing that killed her father, using my body? If I could get her on my side instead of trying to set my side on fire, it would help. Not today, nor tomorrow, but perhaps in a year or ten, rather than a generation or three.

 
; Which left me with two big questions.

  First, how do I find her? She’s probably well-hidden, cloaked behind walls of magic to foil location spells. She would have to be to survive this long. My other self would have turned her into minstrel chops and fed her to something unpleasant.

  Or would he? Would he care? He strikes me as the type to have a sensitive ego, so he could have hated any sort of mockery, been sensitive to anything that could be viewed as an attack on his dignity. On the other hand, it’s almost a requirement to have at least a six-pack of overconfidence to go with the case of megalomania. After murdering Minaren, he might have dismissed her as beneath his notice. It was also possible people never again brought any of her work to his attention—the consequences of bearing bad news and all that. Interesting. I’ll have to ask. It was tough to know which way to call it.

  The other big question was somewhat more stomach-churning. Assuming I get to talk to Tyma without her trying to strangle me with her harpstrings, how do I open up such a conversation? An elaborate apology? Explanations? Disavow all knowledge? Shift blame? Or say I’m sorry?

  That’s tricky. Maybe I should let her punch me as much as she wants some evening. It might help her get it out of her system. I really don’t know, but beating on me until she’s too exhausted to move might let her feel better. Worth a shot, I suppose.

  Despite all the souls I’ve consumed, I still don’t understand people.

  As I headed through the palace toward my workroom, Dantos crossed my path. He stopped and saluted. I returned it.

  “My King, there are a number of guests who greatly desire audience.”

  “Oh? Who are they?”

  “Former knights of the Baron Gosford, Sire.”

  “I suspect I know where this is going, but I suppose I should ask. Why do they want to see me?”

  “They would serve the King, Sire.”

  “Thought so. All right, I’ll see them. Lead on.”

  Dantos walked with me through the cavern-halls.

  “How many are there?” I asked, as we walked.

  “Six, Sire.”

  “Did they show up as a group?”

  “Yes, Sire. They returned with me through the under-door.”