Demon Scroll

by Tim Niederriter

  “I think they want greater access to the city’s great scrolls. Their guild master is ambitious to train more mages here than in Besany up the river from us.”

  Melissa frowned.

  “I notice the guild is still picky about who joins their ranks.”

  “They always will be, I think.”

  Melissa nodded.

  “They demand loyalty to them first. Never disobey is what I was told growing up.”

  “You were told. I see, so you were one of their recruits.”

  “I was.”

  “What happened?”

  “I disobeyed before I could begin training. The guild master is new, but the guild hasn’t forgotten.”

  Niu scowled, then brightened.

  “Well, you’ll show them, serving as a mage for the governor instead.”

  The line moved and they approached Elaine. Niu turned as the aspirant ahead of her stepped forward. Elaine circled the nobleman, head inclined toward him, listening to a tune Melissa only caught in vague snatches over the breeze. She put a hand on each of the man’s shoulders, gazed into his eyes before stepping back. Elaine shook her head.

  “Best luck,” she said, then motioned the nobleman toward the other aspirants who had preceded him in line.

  Elaine beckoned the remains of the line.

  Niu stepped forward and silently went through the same inspection as the man before her.

  “Best luck,” she said again.

  Melissa went next.

  When Elaine’s hands clapped on Melissa’s shoulders a spark of electricity passed between them. Elaine didn’t seem to notice the jolt, but Melissa winced.

  The student witch narrowed her dark eyes. She matched Melissa’s gaze. The two of them stood, locked together for an instant. A chill ran from Elaine’s hands to Melissa’s neck, then crept down her spine. Icy tendrils touched her heart, a feeling of utmost northern winter, colder than any wind ever felt in Lowenrane. Another spark jolted Melissa, making her stagger on her feet.

  Elaine’s eyes snapped shut. Her cold presence withdrew into her hands. She stepped back slowly, releasing Melissa’s shoulders. Without a word, she pointed to the other aspirants. Melissa frowned, then followed the gesture to join the others.

  “That felt strange,” she said to Niu as she rejoined the watchwoman.

  “I felt a little sick,” said Niu. “And cold. Did you feel cold?”

  “Yes,” said Melissa. “It was like she reached into my chest and felt my heart.”

  “My grandmother says the spirit resides in the heart,” said Niu.

  Melissa nodded.

  “I understand the idea better now.”

  “Still, it seemed she reacted differently to you than to the rest of us.” Niu tapped her chin with a finger. “I wonder if that bodes well or poorly for you.”

  Melissa shrugged.

  “I don’t know, either.” She remembered what Hadrian had told her about her inner sprites being unusual. “I suspect it may be a good thing.”

  “In the end, we never know what will be good and bad,” said Niu. “That’s more of my grandmother’s wisdom.”

  “Your grandmother sounds wise, to be sure,” said Melissa. “Have you seen Lord Hadrian around, Niu?”

  “He left the city overnight.” Niu shrugged. “I don’t know if or when he’ll return, but I saw him fly away.”

  Melissa’s heart sank, excitement flagging.

  “Oh. I was hoping to speak to him.”

  “I thought you weren’t a lady.”

  “I’m not, but it didn’t seem to matter to him before.”

  Niu’s eyes took on a distant gleam.

  “Lord Hadrian is quite a hero, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a powerful mage,” said Melissa. “That’s why I want to talk to him.”

  Niu winked, then nodded.

  “Of course, Melissa. I take your word.”

  “I’m perfectly serious.”

  Niu smiled.

  “Fine, fine. Fair, fair.”

  Both lines ran out of aspirants. Lady Nasibron and Elaine met away from the cluster of aspirants, speaking softly to each other. After a few minutes of discussion, Lady Nasibron addressed the aspirants.

  “Many of you have strong talent. For now, you are dismissed. Return tomorrow at noon, and I will have my decisions on which of you to train.” She nodded.

  The clusters of aspirants broke apart. Melissa walked with Niu toward the gates leading to the streets of the citadel outside the palace. They talked a little more, then one of the other aspirants who Niu introduced as her brother, Tal, joined them. The three of them went into the city to find food for lunch.

  Saben

  The more time he spent inside, the more the library made Saben think of the place as a prison for books rather than a place to honor knowledge.

  The library also seemed to hold a personal distaste for him. After four hours of fruitless searching, he returned to the others, hungry, frustrated, and sweating from the unnatural chill that crept from the passage to the magic wing.

  “It is all in there,” he said, motioning to the doorway to the passage.

  “Best not to be fools in broad daylight,” said Jaswei, trying her Tancuonese.

  Rond nodded, jowls shaking. He smiled.

  “Right. And may I add, your accent makes words quite pretty.”

  Jaswei raised an eyebrow. She’d understood Rond easily enough.

  Saben rolled his eyes.

  “We’re going. This isn’t done, but it won’t be done today.”

  “Agreed,” said Rond.

  Jaswei and Saben both glanced at him. Tancuonese presumption ran deep in the troubadour. Saben led the way out.

  Deckard

  From Soucot on the western shore of Charin, Deckard Hadrian let the wind carry him. He flew high above the sea, angling toward the north where the mires of Linien drained at the delta of the River Hirena, or as the Hervs named it when they still walked the world, Ophidia's Tail. Deckard was not old enough to recall the time of the ancient higher beings before demons and maladrites contested control of the world. He read. He heard tales of old, sometimes from those who still lived from that time. Yes, being an immortal in Mother Mercy's service carried its benefits.

  Descending rapidly, he spied the river's mouth, rising from morning mist. He must have been flying all night, yet the sunrise gave him light and no sensation of fatigue. Part of his gift, one he rarely told to others, was his lack of need to rest as mortals did. A unique blessing, to be sure. Well, almost unique, but that did not bear thinking on at the moment.

  Staying alert, Deckard scanned the ground as he descended. The river basin was home to countless creatures, many of which were unknown in the lands of mercy, west of Linien. Indeed, the river serpents were as powerful as many lesser demons, though thankfully not numerous and slow to breed. Like many creatures left behind from the times of old, the stories told of their shaping but in the lands of mercy, no one would tell who could create new lifeforms by combining humans and beasts. No, to find those stories one must look to the east.

  Vakari fisherfolk, wingless and for the most part, harmless to Deckard, came and went with their rafts as he glided upstream, a few hundred spans over the River Hirena and the treetops of the basin's copious wildlife. For all he could see, the placed could have been green to the surface of the swamps. Yet, experience and memory reminded him of the brackish fens and dark wood trunks of its creeping trees. Foliage obscured the shadow side of Linien from above, and Deckard saw no need to approach any closer, with the wind carrying him steadily.

  He swiftly passed north of the delta. Cloying smoke, smelling of cookfires rose from fires on either bank. Deckard ignored them. It must be noon by now, judging from the elevation of the sun. On the horizon, countless sparkling turrets gleamed like tiny diamonds along the ring city's edge, high above the world, including Deckard. In due time, he could fly to the city where Mother Mercy dwelt in splendor but there were faster wa
ys to reach those dizzying heights for Deckard and true wizards.

  Below, he spied the peaked dome of the Great Temple of Nassio. Constructed by the vakari nation that gave the temple its name, the building might have belonged in the city above, rather than the swamps below.

  He circled the temple.

  Golden passages lined with bone-white aura stone supports that glowed with inner fire visible even by daylight led into the temple at every level of the towering edifice. The dark shapes of winged vakari warriors circled the temple on patrol. Deckard knew well they must see him.

  Once named by their master, he might well be a target as much as Tandace Lokoth back in Soucot. Mercy's spies had difficulty reaching the center of Nassio, primarily because of the difference in species. Among the creatures banned from dwelling in the lands of mercy, the vakari were among the most numerous and powerful. Warped by the ancients, they provided a dangerous foe even as they often served to interdict conflict between Mother Mercy's subjects in the west and the people of the Kism in the east. The last blessing, though it saved many lives, meant Deckard would not be welcome in the temple.

  He shifted his weight from the mystic sprites he held within that bore him lighter than a feather. Pushing the wind to shift, he glided toward the highest aperture of the temple, a slender, balcony with no guard rail despite the height, wrapped in a circle around the dome and patterned with bright blue and red tiles.

  Two vakari warriors broke from patrol to pursue him. Neither made a sign or sound of magic. With his lead, they could not catch him with mundane wings or weapons. He landed on the balcony, then darted on foot through the passage into the temple itself. Some mortals, even some demons could call him daring, but in the service of his oath and his pride he only measured such action as his role.

  Besides, he neither heard nor saw any real evidence of magic within the temple. True enough, his senses were dimmed by the song of countless spirits, both sprites, and banes within the columns of white stone, but the vakari were not subtle mages. If one of them wielded enough power to threaten him, he would certainly detect that individual at this range.

  He stepped out of the passage, ignoring the sound of commotion from the warriors landing on the balcony outside. They spoke in the language of Nassio, one many vakari conversed in throughout Linien. Deckard had never studied the reptilian tongue, but he was familiar enough with the language of the ring city on which it was based to understand the two warriors were requesting help. Caution served them well, probably saving their lives for the day.

  Deckard dropped slowly to the bottom of the dome. He landed not before the lonely altar, which he had expected, but also before the ornate gold and aura-stone throne that now sat behind it.

  Deckard's eyes moved from the high back of the gaudy metallic chair to the reptile sitting on it. This creature resembled the warriors he had seen above, belonging to the same caste of reptiles. He wore a purple sash and pale, baggy trousers more ordinary vakari eschewed in favor of lighter wear. The warrior sitting on the throne appeared older and more battered than the guards.

  Vitally, the old warrior's wings were bent inward, scarred in places. One of those wings bore a particularly long, pallid and puckered wound, long-since healed.

  Deckard smiled at the sight of the familiar reptile.

  "I take it you've made yourself a king, Zalklith," he said in the speech of Mercy.

  Zalklith's mouth curved in an approximation of a human's smirk.

  "Deckard Hadrian, healer and killer. What brings you to my temple, old friend?" He spoke in the language of mercy, though accented and tinged with the hiss of his people.

  "Unfortunately, I think you already know."

  "Unlike you, I've grown old since we last met. My memory is not what it was when you healed my wings. Enlighten me."

  "Allow me to congratulate you first. An outcast with broken wings must have quite a story to sit a chair such as your throne in a place as holy as this."

  "True, but I'd rather not relive or retell it. So, immortal," Zalklith's voice came out as a rasp. "I indeed have you to thank for this position...in part."

  "I wouldn't try to take from your accomplishment, old friend."

  "Of course, what need has a man such as you for a place like this. No human could ever rule Nassio."

  "Indeed not."

  "Now you know I do not see you as a threat. I do wonder why you are here. Linien is not kind to your race, Deckard."

  "Lucky for your guards I am swifter than they."

  "Don't underestimate them. I expect they'll be here in moments."

  "Quite. They're probably still gathering strength."

  "I told them to beware a flying human."

  "Wise. I only wish the assassin who attempted to kill the Governor of Lowenrane several days past had been warned of such. I would not have been forced to take his life."

  "Oh?" Zalklith's facsimile of a smile slipped away. "Are you accusing me of foul play, Hadrian?"

  "Is there a vakari warrior trained in magic you know with a grudge against the lands of mercy?"

  "Of course, but not one. Many. Remember which side Nassio was on when Kanor fought Lowenrane."

  "The Lowenraners and Kanori suffered worse than any vakari."

  "You know they did. You were there."

  "And you? I don't recall you going to sea back then."

  "It was a different time. I was still clawing toward where I sit now." Zalklith emitted a low hiss. "Do not question my honesty, Hadrian. I owe you, but such a debt only carries so much weight."

  Deckard motioned to the altar, a simple bone and iron design that had stood in the room for well over a century but never gathered dust.

  "I'd think you'd have gotten rid of this thing, after all the trouble it gave you."

  "You were not the only source of my salvation, Deckard Hadrian."

  "Have you become a true believer, then?"

  "I trust my benefactors, though the more recent ones I trust the better. Do you understand?"

  Deckard nodded.

  "I see. You've made a deal with someone in the city."

  "Quite astute as expected for an immortal man." Zalklith smiled. "You are not familiar with my newer allies. You can guess they are as welcome in the lands of mercy as I am."

  "Maladrites?" asked Deckard. "Or renegade demons?"

  Zalklith shrugged with one leathery arm.

  "My great high priest does not call himself either. Now, enough catching up Deckard. You have hinted at why you're here and I hope your curiosity is sated."

  "Sadly, Zalklith, you have only raised my suspicions."

  "We must all keep some secrets, even from our friends."

  "I don't doubt that's how you feel. But I am not allowed that luxury."

  "Nothing to such nonsense! How many times did you tell me the female traveling with you back then shouldn't hear the truth?"

  Deckard grimaced.

  "I may lie at times. I may mislead. Such actions are necessary to perform the tasks set before me."

  "Set before you, indeed, by golden Mother Mercy herself. Hadrian, you do not know what is right so don't pretend the authority to question my motives."

  "I do not pretend, Zalklith." Deckard's fingers twitched on both hands. He eased the sprite strings from each fingertip. Each string could shoot several yards on command, and when tipped with a bane, they could pierce flesh and bone.

  Zalkith's reptilian eyes narrowed.

  "Guards! The time is upon us. Remove this human."

  Deckard hurled himself backward, drifting over the white marble and gold-leaf plates of the sanctuary floor. A rain of spears pursued him, striking and glancing off the tiles in front of him. He held the iron robe tight, knowing it could absorb the worst of that form of weapon.

  "King of Nassio," he said. "I will take this as confirmation of your intentions."

  "Do what you will, Hadrian. Let me see if you bleed like mortals, both human and vakari." Zalklith stood, unfastened his sas
h and let it flutter to the floor between the throne and the altar.

  He started to sign a spell in the air before him, to Deckard's surprise. Last he'd seen Zalklith, the vakari had lacked any magic training.

  “Until we meet again,” Deckard murmured, and leapt for the balcony above. At his light weight, his muscles easily carried him to that apex and then down to the passage.

  He kicked a breeze at his back and sailed from the temple into the air.

  He climbed for the clouds, quickly leaving any pursuing warriors in the distance. Cold and wet, he emerged above a layer of fluffy condensation. Using the ring city and the sun to guide him, Deckard turned to the southeast.

  The next morning, Deckard arrived at the southernmost port city of Kanor. The moment he touched the ground, he went looking for an answer to the larger question Zalklith had raised in his mind.

  Which patron helped the scarred vakari take his throne?

  Melissa

  She arrived at the palace yard the next day, alongside Hilos. On a wooden board, suspended by a nail, hung a sheet of paper with not six or seven, but many names listed on it. As they drew closer, Niu and her brother, Tal, joined them. Tal squinted over the heads of the other aspirants, then shook his head.

  “Can’t read it from here.”

  “There are forty-four names,” said the voice of Aryal Hekatze from behind them.

  Melissa turned to see Lady Nasibron’s sword servant standing beside Elaine. Aryal wore fencing clothes, long hair tied behind her head, and carried both her sword and Lady Nasibron’s great blade, in a belt sheath and on a side-sling baldric respectively. Elaine’s dark hair had been fashioned into a dozen black braids, contrasting with her pale gray gown.

  “You’re early,” said Elaine. “My teacher won’t be here for another quarter-hour.”

  “We’re eager, of course, Lady Tanlos,” said Hilos with a smile.

  “But forty-four,” said Melissa. “That must be nearly everyone who was here yesterday.”

  “Indeed,” said Aryal. “That’s the record Lady Nasibron asked me to pen for your previous meeting.”

  Niu sighed, sounding relieved.

  “I thought it would list those who were accepted,” she said.