The Demon Shroud

by T. A. Miles

  “Deya!” Ergen shouted in the near distances of the house. “Come out, you bitch!”

  Bauris adjusted his legs, so that he could stand. He felt blood seep down his face, but didn’t let it alarm him.

  It was the open entry to the parlor that raised his alarm, and he couldn’t have said precisely why.

  Just a few steps away, the room sat in darkness that was molded with the shapes of furniture and the rims of spaces where light seeped in from other sources. There was nothing about it that should have alerted him, but …

  Pushing away from the wall, Bauris took imbalanced steps to the parlor entry. He looked in, and thought he felt a draw of air. But it was not his breath. It was not anyone’s breath; it was simply …presence.

  Peering into the shadow, Bauris’ eyes managed to find a shape beyond inanimate furniture. Someone was sitting in a high-backed chair, watching. While he strained to observe the individual’s features, a vaguely greenish light swelled into being. As if to be of assistance, or to mock him, it illuminated a face of firm angles, only just softened with the suggestion of youth. But it was not youth. This man was not young …and he was no man.

  The thought—or Bauris’ internal panic—drew the flash of silver eyes. The eyes, the raven-black hair, and the structure of the bones came together with clarity that terrified Bauris, every bit as much as recognition of Korsten Brierly had charmed.

  “You …” Bauris’ started. His voice traveled no further than that.

  The sound of footsteps rose in the periphery of his senses. They were slower, now that the rage had apparently left Ergen. The deputy governor came to be standing near at the parlor entrance, feeling not quite as a man possessed anymore—not while the chair’s occupant sat before them, secreting horror into the air just with his presence.

  “Your wife was bored with her cage,” Renmyr Camirey said to Ergen. His voice was low, with threads of violence weaving under the words, and into the skin. “I let her out.”

  The notion startled Ergen. He recoiled abruptly, like he’d been handed a hot poker. His movement opened a view of a woman in a pallid, smudged, and tattered dress. Her eyes were covered over by a fold of fabric. She stood, seeming not to breathe—seeming not to be alive, save the fact that she was standing upright.

  But she had movement left to her. That movement brought darkness.

  •—•

  Renmyr watched the haggard form of the woman leap savagely onto Ergen’s guest. Her emaciated fingers extended to points, and she anchored herself to her prey by embedding them deep into his side. The moment the blood was free from its sack, she was after it, but it was not for her.

  Extending his hand, Renmyr drew the fluid from the kicking body of the town constable. It arced across the room and onto Renmyr’s fingertips, which he reached beyond their once-human limit in order to catch the ropes of minor power and absorb them into his own being.

  Protest came with an unhinged jaw and a scream that terrified her husband enough that he began to tremble where he stood. Even now, after all he had seen.

  Renmyr stopped short of taking all of the constable’s life force with a closed fist. Then he swept his other hand through the air. From his distance, the motion succeeded in swatting the forager off the man. She flew to the wall which lined the stairs, cracking the banister before she dropped in a mildly bent heap that she could sort out on her own.

  Ergen’s terror became palpable. With every ragged breath, he offered a taste of his soul.

  Renmyr stood and the man’s knees almost buckled.

  “Take her back to her room,” Renmyr instructed. “And then go to the butcher. There’s more for you—and your associate—to collect.”

  Ergen said nothing. He never dared.

  While the man set about the task given to him, Renmyr walked himself through the room and over the body in the doorway, dragging the shadows after him. It was clear before he had even left the front hall that the boy who had been hiding above the stable had made good his escape. An instant of rage rippled through Renmyr’s being, not over the boy’s flight—survivors spread word, and fear—but because every instance of one of them scurrying away would remind him of Korsten. The agile being continued to slip from him, like beads of mercury. Hunting him required more concentration than Renmyr could spare—more than he would spare.

  Outside, there was Loel, the one who was dead by most standards, even Renmyr’s. The details of his rapidly spent youth hovered at the tip of Renmyr’s thoughts, though it was the memory of Korsten’s beauty that came to be there in its place.

  Korsten was very near at the moment, but now was not the time to take him. He would prefer that Korsten come back of his own volition, and he knew that he would, in time. For now, his heart’s dearest could rot.

  In his mind, Renmyr charged at the vision of Korsten and pushed him from the edge of his shadow. He let him fall into the very depths of the Hell he yet believed in, and rend every bone upon impact. Renmyr would collect his broken pieces later, when he decided it was time, and not until.

  But, I do want you to know that I’ve been here, my love.

  Renmyr went to the horse that he had long allowed a forager to tuck inside of, that the animal would become detached from instinct and concern for who—or what—rode upon it. The large tawny beast regarded him with dark and discolored eyes that were of knowing which belonged more to the thing within it than the original creature. As well, its appearance was beginning to take on discoloring and growths. The host and its attachment would both have to be destroyed before too much longer.

  Once mounted, Renmyr exited the stable with Loel following on his similarly claimed horse. The town had been worked through slowly and, at first, from some distance. But now that it had been discovered by them, it was time to finish. Other affairs were waiting as near as Endmark, and now was not the time for play with Ashwin’s pawns.

  •—•

  Clouds came fast over the trees, encroaching on the town, as if poised to be lain over a dead body. Thaylen moved away from the corridor window and returned to his son’s bedroom to find his wife fussing over the bedsheets. He had come to take it for nervous behavior on her part and said, “Leave him be.”

  She did not. She only cast a quick glare in Thaylen’s direction. “If the bedding is free, he roams. Did you know I found him at the window again, staring out?”

  “At what?” Thaylen asked. He had no recollection of such behavior. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

  “How am I to know what he sees?” she snapped. “He’s gone mad! He does nothing—all day he does nothing, save sleep. When he finally moves, it’s to stand staring at—nothing!”

  Thaylen let her have her rant. When she finally gave up on the bedding, he made a reach for her, but she would allow no contact. He let her go, looking at their second child, who was not a child any longer, and who might have been married soon, had it not been for his unexplained slide away from his senses.

  With a heavy sigh, Thaylen put out the candle on the console by the door. And that was when he saw color glinting upon the window glass.

  Stepping across the room, he looked out at the trees and rooftops in the near distance, then down into the yards of his own estate. He noticed nothing of particular interest, except …between the manor and the town, at the base of the shelf where the road met the first gate …

  There was a glow among the trees, like a torch or a lantern, though green was a peculiar shade for fire.

  “What do you see, Father?” came the voice of his eldest, projecting from the doorway with the tone of impatience he had seen fit to face their troubles with.

  “Someone in the forest,” Thaylen stated, continuing to watch the light.

  “Shall I send some men out?”

  Thaylen observed the glow seeming to move …possibly to expand. Perhaps there was more than one torch. Perhaps
the off color was a trick of the overcast sky …prelude to a storm. Normally, he would have sent men to investigate and to ward strangers off of wandering onto the grounds, but something about the circumstances made him hesitate.

  The ill-colored lantern light drifted, as if it had discovered the road that led around the estate and toward the crest. So, it was a rider, then. Another of the priests, possibly, coming to join his fellows.

  “Father?” his son prompted.

  “No,” Thaylen eventually said. He brought his gaze inside and looked over at one son, and then the other. To the other, he said again, “No. No one is to leave this house or its grounds tonight.”

  Four

  The horses were recovered and the path taken back toward the lower shelf of Feidor’s Crest. There appeared nothing which required discovery, either at the plateau or along the path leading up to it. While it was true that the potential of an ancient cemetery held some interest, it was not important. Not compared to the potential presence of a demon.

  If there did happen to be one of the Vadryn among the townspeople, the candidates were many and their evidence of guilt circumstantial. Many of those who were questioned, admitted to feeling generally unwell. Thus far, only one citizen was committed to their bed over it, and that was the governor’s son. That could imply someone near to the young man. It could implicate Governor Dunlar himself, who complained of depression, the general illnesses of age, and of feeling that his mind was not always his own.

  Unfortunately, such confessions would tend to rule him out. The Vadryn did not make a habit of admitting to their presence, until they felt they had been cornered or that an assault would go either unchallenged, or unnoticed. They were creatures of the shadows, which was why the prospect of one making a known menace of itself—being seen hauling off victims—seemed somehow incorrect.

  “Do you believe that the story of a beast was a lie?” Korsten asked Merran, while they made their way carefully down the path. They were especially cautious, now that the ledge was partially concealed by the fall of evening. Even with Lantern spells, the complex shadows still managed to obscure some of the edges.

  In response to Korsten’s question, Merran asked one of his own. “Do you?”

  Korsten knew that the reason Merran asked was to do with more than Korsten’s opinions, or even his observation. It was to do with Korsten’s contact with the Spectrum of magic. He had made contact at three points during his Emergence and one of them had been red; the color of blood and the sensual being. Of the talents accessible at that point, Allurance had been the most prominent; a pathway of awareness between himself and others based upon the blood. It could help to establish a rapport with others through charm that played upon their attractions, their desires, or their physical sensitivities. It could lend strangers to trust and it could belie disguise or duplicity. In all of that, the Vadryn were included.

  But the talent—though at its most pronounced level—was still newly in practice for Korsten. It had advanced his ability with some spells and had enabled him to make some key discernments, as well as to generally communicate well with those who may otherwise have been too distrusting or afraid, but it had not made it possible for Korsten to know at once, whether or not someone was possessed. As to whether or not someone was lying …

  “I honestly don’t suspect that Dunlar’s been hiding a duplicitous nature,” Korsten finally said.

  Merran answered with an accepting silence at first. Before long, he said, “Even if he has been totally honest, it’s possible that the men around him have not been.”

  “You mean that someone may have been fabricating the story for his benefit,” Korsten translated. “But what benefit is there to convincing the governor that a demon has been abducting people from his town?”

  “If there was something equally dark to conceal, someone might fabricate such a tale.”

  “You mean murder.”

  “Maybe, or maybe the source of the plague that seems to be looming over Feidor’s Crest.”

  “I’m not very comfortable with that irony,” Korsten said. “That someone outside of Vassenleigh would use the idea of murder by demons to conceal the reason behind plague, while from within Vassenleigh it was a rumor of plague that was begun in order to offset the reality of demons.”

  Again, Merran presented a reasonable suggestion. “Perhaps they were inspired by the cemetery on the plateau.”

  “By the tablets that would seem to depict the Vadryn attacking a town or city?” Korsten grimaced at the idea. “Morbid, but possible.”

  “We’ll conduct more interviews, since we’re being tolerated,” Merran decided. “Undoubtedly, there’s something here. Whether it’s natural disease, disease inspired by the Vadryn, or a deranged liar …we’ll uncover it, and do whatever must be done.”

  Korsten accepted that, aware that they were still relying on Merran’s experience more than anything else at this stage of their working together. That, in no way, distressed Korsten. His vast amount of experience and his ability to guide were among the many reasons they had been assigned as partners. His skill had won a rare confidence in his ability to survive, even working alone.

  Merran also connected with the Spectrum at three points. Among them, black was the color chosen as his focus when he was awakened to his role as one of the Vassenleigh Order. It was the color of mortality and the physical being, which contributed potently to his role as both a hunter and a healer.

  Each of them had made contact with white—the color of the spirit and the inner being—but each of them demonstrated that connection differently. In Merran, it had bolstered his talents for Endurance, Reasoning, Healing, and Foresight, giving him new or stronger access to several different spells. For Korsten, it had only enhanced his Reasoning, which was not surprising, given his penchant for study, even before becoming a priest. The only other benefit was the potential of a new talent, but he had been told by his superiors that it lay dormant yet.

  Where Korsten and Merran separated was at brown and blue, respectively. Brown, associated with nature and the outer being, supported Korsten’s general awareness and some of his physical abilities while blue, relating to the mental being, bolstered the swiftness of Merran’s mind and the strength of his logic.

  All of these attributes were largely considered natural qualities that any individual had at least some access to, just in being alive and aware of themselves and their environments. Through the Order, potential was brought to full realization, through carefully guided stages of introduction, learning and practice. Some went to Vassenleigh with the intent to bring out their potential and to forge a conscious relationship with the Spectrum of magic. Others were simply awakened, called to the Order on the strength of a helpless understanding.

  Merran represented the former of those options, and Korsten the latter. There were others, of course, who never felt any pull to Vassenleigh or its system, yet who were still aware of the natural order of magic and how to access it. Such use of it was considered wild and frequently dangerous. By all accounts that Korsten had heard of, even before Vassenleigh, it was known as witchcraft. Everything else had been typically attributed to demons, though only in stories. During Korsten’s time in Haddowyn and before that, in Cenily—the city of his birth—priests were considered merely legend, and not of a type that required frequent mentioning, even for entertainment’s sake.

  When his memory arrived too close to topics Korsten was not willing to revisit, he broke himself away from his wandering thoughts by allowing his gaze to wander. He looked over the spread of trees and darkness below the path. Beyond the glow of their own Lanterns, there was only sparse light pressing through the shadows to indicate that any structures existed on the lower ground. The most prominent source was at the governor’s estate. Among the yellow-orange glimmer of fires cast by men to illuminate the darkness the world always returned to, was the amber-green of a di
fferent kind of fire. It was one that Korsten had never actually witnessed, but that books tended to describe as witch fire or roving spirits of the dead. His time with the Vassenleigh Order had alerted him to the reality of myths, or at least to the relationship of myths to reality. And anything that had to do with dead spirits, may well have been to do with the Vadryn.

  “Merran,” Korsten said.

  “I see it,” his partner answered, and it was decided without further words that they would quicken their pace.

  •—•

  Before leaving for the butcher’s, Ergen had done precisely what was instructed of him. He had secured Deya back in her room and he had taken care of Guidry. He had given him the flask that had been given to Deya months ago. Doing so was more implied to him than ordered, but Ergen had learned to read into what was being told to him when it came from the mouth of Renmyr Camirey. That particular horror had introduced Ergen to a myriad of tortures in idea, well before any actual harm had befallen either him or Deya.

  His wife had never been right since their visit to Endmark the year before. Ergen had gone on business, on Thaylen’s behalf. Deya took some tainted food or drink, he thought. She was weak on the return. And then they came upon Renmyr. His carriage had simply been on the road, not even moving. Investigation of that affair led to this, though Ergen couldn’t fully recall precisely how, now that he was thinking on it.

  Deya continued to get worse; that was all he really remembered. Ergen thought that she might be with child. She was indeed with something, and it was not in her womb.

  “But she’ll get well again,” Ergen murmured aloud. His own voice brought him fully around to his current environment, and he coughed as the stink registered once again, as if he had newly entered the back of the butcher’s shop.