by T. A. Miles
As to the other man, Guidry stated that he recognized him on the merit of his own superior having arrested him once, on the eve of destruction. At that time, Merran had arrived in Haddowyn intent on hunting a demon. According to Guidry, he also had not changed in appearance since then, nor had he changed his story, regarding his affiliations.
The facts evident in the pair made it plain to Thaylen that Feidor’s Crest was to be the next Haddowyn, unless they acted. Unless they trusted the untrustworthy.
“After the fall of the Old Capital, the priests of Vassenleigh abandoned us,” Thaylen said to his present audience. “That is true. For generations, we have been without protection from the horrors of Hell’s depths and fighting alone against the aggression of Morenne. Or so, we’ve believed, but what if that has not been entirely true?”
“But why would they hide? Why would they leave us to lose faith?” Ergen asked. His questions were reasonable.
Thaylen believed that Edrinor had long ago strayed from the realm of reason. “Perhaps the real question is: Why would we lose faith so quickly without them?”
It was the chief constable who said, “I’m afraid that answer is lost in a century of conflict.”
•—•
History credited Feidor’s Crest as the highest point in all of northern Edrinor. Korsten didn’t know whether or not that was true, though climbing the craggy hill atop even a horse as strong as Onyx in no way discredited the possibility. Drawing the black steed with white muzzle to a halt, Korsten looked over his shoulder at the sprawling forest below.
Only in some places, did the rock peer through, offering evidence of the trail he and Merran had taken up from the mansion of the local governor hours earlier. The house they had been guests in for more than two days announced itself with its four high towers. The rest of the structure remained hidden upon a massive ridge that was the base of the crest. The town the manor presided over, occupied a bowl beneath that ridge, layered in a mist that daylight had scarcely burned off.
At one time, the crest had been considered an extension of a god’s hand, protection from the many forms danger took in Edrinor. But protection from the gods hadn’t come for some time, according to most. Instead, the enemy had come in vast numbers. Men from the north, allied with beasts from the depths of Hell.
While the thought lingered, a scarlet butterfly took to the air in the corner of Korsten’s vision. Her appearance was as a stitch of silken reverie upon the canvas of a coarse nightmare. But she was no dream, only a surreal aspect of the waking world as he had come to know it.
I’ve not forgotten you, he said privately to Analee, the keeper of his soul, and a last measure against the Vadryn.
Letting go the view of the basin below and the thoughts that accompanied it, Korsten directed Onyx forward, following the butterfly’s incidental path toward his fellow priest. Adept was the rank they had both achieved, though such titles held little value outside of Vassenleigh. The primary purpose behind labeling Adepts was in knowing who to send out to face the demons.
Korsten and Merran were among those who were away from Vassenleigh more often than not. They were hunters, responsible for the tracking of demons and the expunging of their poisonous spirits. Between them, it was Merran who held the most experience, exceeding Korsten by centuries that Korsten would have struggled to comprehend, had he not accumulated over half a century himself and failed to become an aged man in that time.
Merran dismounted Erschal at the point where the path turned inward from the edge. His partner yet held onto the white charger’s reins, standing in contrasting layers of black beside the beast, which included his trim hair and a long coat that tended to conceal all but his shirt collar and boots. “We should walk the horses from here,” he said. “It will be easier and safer than riding.”
Korsten agreed and slid from the saddle, “The plateau looks near.”
“Through there, it would seem.”
Korsten followed his partner’s blue gaze to a passage through the rock. It appeared to have been deliberately cut. The edges of the entryway were crowded with brush and otherwise overladen with moss, creepers, and some webbing. There were no viewable markings or furnishings to suggest who might have crafted the passage or what purpose it served—if any—beyond easier access to the plateau.
“This wasn’t mentioned to us,” Korsten noted, noting also that he had not come upon any particular writings relating to it when he had taken a moment to browse Governor Dunlar’s library.
“It’s probably been here since well before the town settled,” Merran determined, and he moved into the corridor, a white moth trailing after him.
Korsten’s notice of the creature named Eolyn served as his silent greeting to her.
Before entering the portal, Korsten allowed his gaze to wander over the otherwise untouched rock and growth that enfolded the area on all but one side. Directly behind them, lay the treacherous edge of the path, but it appeared that, by way of the curious passage, the trail would now take them to the center of the crest and the flatter expanse beneath its apex. A safer route, in one sense, though it was the area locals presumed something had been dwelling for much of the last year, dragging away victims in the dark hours.
Of course, the Vadryn were not held to the dark hours of any day. They also had a better means at hiding than amid rocks stacked to the threshold of Heaven. But Korsten and Merran followed all traces of the Vadryn, wherever they found them, which included the rumors and stories of townspeople who may have been wiser to the presence of evil than even they knew.
The signs were not difficult to see, when one was given the proper focus. The signs thus far were of the stories, and also of the illness at Feidor’s Crest. The presence of the Vadryn tended to be marked by weakness, lethargy, and depression. While war itself could take a similar toll on any population, Feidor’s Crest was far enough from the Borderlands to not be so affected. At least, not yet.
Time spent in the presence of the townspeople had not revealed who among them might have been possessed, if any of them indeed were. Also, the ill who were made known to Korsten and Merran showed no physical evidence of having been victims of a resident demon. The only sure detail was that the people of Feidor’s Crest were breaking beneath an oppressive depression and fear.
Merran led the way into the passage, and Korsten followed. The corridor itself was short, never gaining enough depth to lose the light from outside. The interior walls were as much overgrown as the entrance—perhaps for that reason—and the floor angled slightly upward. Shallow stairs had been crudely hewn of the rock, and soon brought Korsten and Merran to the topmost shelf of the crest.
The plateau was vast, and did happen to create the illusion of a palm held open beneath the crest’s curling peak. In the shadow of a sleeping god’s fingers, the trees were spread unevenly, forming loosely connected patches of open ground. Those spaces were rimmed with narrow posts that cast overlong shadows.
“Let’s leave the horses for now,” Merran decided.
Korsten slipped his hand from the reins and gave Onyx a brief stroke along the neck.
The shadows and their coinciding posts both appeared to shift as clouds moved in front of the sun. The illusion of movement was as the breath of wind, or the draw of the sea from shore. While it should have brought some sense of life to the remote place, it made the area feel dead in a way that could only harm the living.
Merran was the one to cast a Lantern spell as the area swiftly darkened. The luminous white orb hovered near, at shoulder level, spreading a glow several paces out.
It seemed odd to consider that a possessed member of the town might have been journeying up this far with each victim. The Vadryn struggled to hold onto form for long without hosts. In that regard, it seemed nearly impossible to consider that a demon outside of a human vessel would be capable of performing the reported feats. The beast would
presumably be destroying the bodies well before reaching the peak, in order to imbibe of all of the victim’s lifeforce at once, and to provide itself a surge of strength that would provide it a more physical hold, even if only for a short time.
Korsten had witnessed that before. As it happened, it was among the more dangerous forms for a demon to have. But the fact remained that the natural state of the Vadryn was more spirit than body and when in a body, they were unwilling to let it go. They fed off the mortal souls they joined with, but often only in small measures, in order to preserve their chosen vessel. It stood to reason, then, that if one had come to bingeing, it must have felt desperate. Imposed upon by another demon, perhaps …or perhaps it was having difficulty in finding a suitable vessel for whatever it hoped to accomplish.
Korsten struggled to regard them quite so self-aware as that—as to have agendas that they intended to accomplish as individuals. More often than not, the Vadryn behaved as creatures of instinct; instinct that was both raw and brutal. When joined with a person, they could take on the intellect—and even the interests and aspirations—of that individual, though it had always seemed a dark mockery from Korsten’s perspective, because the person would, in turn, take on the demon’s inherent brutality, cruelty, and wont for destruction.
The wind stirred just then, as if a breath from the past. Korsten imagined that he heard whispers upon it. He looked over his shoulder, back toward the carved passage through the rocks, and at the tops of trees rooted high above the town of Feidor’s Crest.
•—•
The northern woods opened onto a sunken span of earth. The wide road sloped toward a close collection of structures that were laced together by a heavy fog. Renmyr stopped to observe it, the animal beneath him stamping hooves restlessly, owed to both anxiety and hunger.
He drew back on the reins and looked into the black eyes striated with green-tinged amber. The action heightened the horse’s anxiety, but also served a reminder to what had folded itself within the essence of its being. There would be no grazing here.
The horse and rider behind him, who had accompanied him for some time now, stayed well distant. The rider made not a sound and scarcely breathed, save to draw in the magic Renmyr allowed him to share, which hovered in the air around them. Globules of yellow-green light hung in the atmosphere, at times blending with the damp air, creating smears and finely draping stains that came and went at irregular intervals. It interacted with the present fog, which felt more living than the town it surrounded,
Renmyr watched the mist’s slow drift over Feidor’s Crest, like the coils of a serpent tightening around its meal. There was indeed presence within and near to it. More than he expected.
His gaze traveled across the mostly hidden town, toward the towers prodding through the haze above it. Renmyr’s interest lingered there, briefly, before traveling further upward, toward the high steeple of rock that appeared poised to reach down and seize everything below it in a god’s fist. Though such a god may have been rigid as a corpse, Renmyr knew well that death was not always the end of a body, just as life was not a promise of a new beginning. It could just as easily mark a prolonged suffering.
Two
Rel hurried through the street, making his way to the market. The cook had forgotten the chicken she wanted for the master’s dinner. Well, she said it was the butcher that forgot it, but Rel knew the woman didn’t remember things. She forgot his weekly allotment most of the time—his earnings for helping her out when she didn’t want to leave the house. It wasn’t even his work; he was supposed to be minding the stables. Now, he had to hurry and fetch a bird, else the master wouldn’t have more than stewed roots for dinner, and he complained about them giving him a sour stomach.
The master complained about a lot of things—he was a regular thorn—but Rel didn’t mind much. He stayed out of his way mostly. At the moment, there were not many bodies in Rel’s way. People had taken to staying indoors as of late. Rel didn’t mind that, since it let him get his errands done quicker.
At the butcher’s, he made his claim on the cook’s behalf, shouting toward the back of the shop. He knew he would have to wait for the old man to give it over, since there was someone else present. The man waiting was a tall fellow, broad at the shoulders and wearing a fancy cloak, like he belonged to the governor’s family, maybe. Though Rel was fairly certain he hadn’t seen a cloak quite so nice on any of them. Feidor’s Crest was on hard times; everyone knew that.
So, maybe this man was from another town, or maybe one of the cities further south or on the coast. The prospect made him curious. Rel dreamed about the coast, with its cities made up of grand houses and with boats the size of houses on the waters. And there was no fighting there, he’d heard. Maybe no one got taken from there either.
Rel thought about asking the man where he was from, but thought better of it and called out to the butcher again instead. “There’s a chicken here for the house of the deputy-governor! Can I take it?”
There was no answer. The old man must have been readying something for the stranger, but Rel couldn’t wait. He looked around at the birds hanging in range. Maybe he could just take one. The cook had already paid for it anyway. She had simply gone and left it behind, like she would her head, if it wasn’t attached.
Rel gave a glance in the stranger’s direction again, determining whether or not the man would think him a thief and try stopping him. He didn’t seem much interested in Rel, one way or the other. So, he just had to reach one of the birds and be on his way.
It was an odd thing when one of the chickens fell off the rack in front of him. It slapped against the table suddenly enough that it made Rel start a bit. But it was what he was after, so the oddness of the moment was overlooked. He reached for the meat, halting when another bird smacked the countertop. With his hand hovering over one chicken, Rel looked at the other, then quickly toward a third as it slipped from its hook and struck wood.
The rank of flesh grew heavier and more like taint than recent cuts. Rel withdrew his hand, his eyes settling on the bird in front of him, which was without its feet. Browned, broken bones stuck out from flesh that had gone soft and a bruised ruddy color. The feet were still on the hook, like something had snapped them off, or like it had rotted from the bones out.
That wasn’t right. And what wasn’t right, was sick or evil. He’d been told that enough times by the cook and whether or not he believed her didn’t matter while there was meat rotting off the rack in front of him.
Rel took a swift step back and looked at the cloaked man, who stood there as if he didn’t notice any of it. The smell of decaying meat swelled to gagging levels, and Rel decided to go, and that he wasn’t so interested in where the stranger might have been from after all.
He turned and rushed from the shop, pausing at the sight of another cloaked stranger who was sat upon a horse outside. The look of him—gaunt and with eyes the color of sickness—inspired Rel to run. He noticed the peculiar lanterns of green floating near the rider after the fact, but he wasn’t stopping to look again. He wasn’t stopping until he was back at the house, and could tell what he’d seen.
•—•
Morning had spent itself with haste and the afternoon was no more frugal. Discussions of the past and debate over what lay ahead always led to argument—damned near to an exchange of blows when dealing with the younger men who were held to ignorance by their youth, or the older ones blinded by stubbornness. On the other side of their stubbornness was fear they wouldn’t acknowledge.
From the open doors of the manor house stable, Bauris Guidry looked through the treetops, to the unsightly rock standing erect over the town.
“It’s all one fantastic play of dominance,” he said while preparing his pipe.
“What is?” the deputy governor asked, when he came into view and earshot. He followed Bauris’ gaze toward the treetops and the crest, before continuing
into the stable to collect his horse. “You’ve a particularly grim view of things, Guidry.”
Bauris lifted one shoulder. “Realistic, Ergen. Considering what I’ve seen …”
“I don’t want to hear anything more about what you’ve seen, old man,” the deputy interrupted, his words scored by the sounds of aged leather and metal connectors while he prepared his horse for its return to town. “I understand that you and Governor Dunlar are longtime friends. I understand also, that you’ve done nothing but fill his head with your past traumas, until he finally believes they’re upon his own town and house.”
“You’re barely old enough to—”
“My father,” Ergen inserted sharply, “told me plenty concerning your unpleasant demeanor, and your self-absorbed consideration of your own fears. I’ve heard enough and have seen enough to understand that it’s become a malady. A sickness. And now that there’s real illness at Feidor’s Crest, you’ve convinced Thaylen of evil, and convinced him to trust strangers who claim themselves part of a dead order. Is it not plain that they are opportunists—performers taking advantage of instability and desperation, brought about through time of war?”
Bauris waited for him to come away from the stall with his horse. He eyed the younger man in the corner of his vision. Ergen would have been a mere infant at the time of Haddowyn’s fall. He had grown into the narrow-minded son of his narrow-minded father, always believing that everything he needed to know in life would be available for easy observation directly in front of him. Undoubtedly, everyone was grateful for the fact that Thaylen had two sons, both old enough that Ergen would never be given opportunity to rise beyond a secretary in his duties to Feidor’s Crest.
Placing the stem of his pipe between his teeth, Bauris said, “I merely stated that one of them appears precisely as a young man I once knew, and gave his name.”
