by Martin Gibbs
“So…so how do you get a demon in your brain?” the mercenary repeated his question from earlier.
Zhy suppressed a groan.
“Well, it’s complicated,” the mage began, as if he were lecturing a class. “Warlocks are—for the most part, the only folks who can summon demons and use them. Just because they can does not mean it is common—far from it—they, warlocks, just have more powerful magical ability, demonic summoning and all that aside. And even if a warlock summons a demon, for what dark purpose I shudder to think, he must create wards to ensure the thing can’t pass through and take over.”
“So this was a warlock you killed?” Zhy asked.
“It’s possible. But it could be another scenario...one that is equally dangerous.”
“And what would that be?”
“Well, warlocks are normally the only ones who can deal with demons. But, there are...certain items that can be used to summon demons. I’ve only seen one such thing—it was a small rod—and it was behind glass at University. And while the common man can use it, they are mostly useless, unless you have at least some spark of magical ability.”
“But why?” Zhy asked. “Why would one…want to summon—something like that?”
“Not all people work for good. Some want to use demons and demonic powers.” Torplug chewed his lip. “But why summon a gherwza? What dark and evil purpose could one have?”
The mercenary looked at the mage with wide, questioning eyes.
“We’ve done what we can—well, I suppose I have,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “Let’s not get in over our heads. It’s enough to have battled the Dawn. Let’s not go down this path.”
Zhy stared blindly ahead at the road. A small caravan passed in silence. Dusk was coming. “This is too much. I’m staying at the next town throughout winter. I’m going to live on turnips and Zor’Tarak.”
Torplug looked at him with a glance that closely resembled sympathy. “I wouldn’t worry about demons any more. I am hoping that was the only one.”
“Why would there only be one?” asked Qainur.
Torplug only shrugged. “I said that’s what I hoped.”
“Impossible,” Zhy replied. “There must be more—the odds of you striking down the only one? Why, I have a better chance of being eaten by an orca right here!”
“Maybe I should have said, the only one we should encounter…of course there will be more demons out there. I just doubt we will see any more. The odds—well, that’s how you put it—are against that, too.” The mage shrugged, but his quick sidelong glances into the woods betrayed a deeper unease.
“Demons…” Qainur whispered, regarding his beefy hands.
“Are there demons around that are not in control of people?” Zhy asked. His gaze on a faraway birch tree slowly unfocused, and all he saw was a gray blur of forest. He wondered how a demon could even interact with this world…let alone take over someone. But if that someone had summoned the demon in the first place, well, then he got is proper due. His overarching doubts took over, and he wondered how demons could be…at all. And to take over your mind? He shivered, imagining a snake sliding across his brain.
“No, at least that is what I was taught,” the mage replied. “Demons inhabit the underworld, but are often summoned or consulted by warlocks. Some spells are drawn from demonic power. It is a dangerous game. Too dangerous for many.” He shrugged again. “Maybe that is why many go insane, or don’t bother with demons at all. You have to do so many things at once. Set the wards and set them tight. Then draw the demonic power, use it, then discard the demon, hoping it never left any of its essence inside your mind. Then withdraw the wards in the reverse order. It is quite a lot of work.” He rubbed his head, most likely remembering his University training.
“My head hurts, too,” Qainur said softly.
They rode in silence and eventually found an inn as dusk turned to twilight.
* * *
They remained in the common room through supper. No one spoke. They ate their roasted pheasant slowly, taking hesitant sips of mead, and absently tearing pieces of meat off the small bones of the roasted fowl. They chewed the meat out of instinct. Other patrons regarded them with a few odd looks one gets as a stranger in a small town, but shrugged and wrote them off as weary travelers. A wiry man played the sutan, and he played with amazing dexterity and ability—the travelers paid no mind.
It wasn’t until they retired to their rooms that they felt comfortable discussing the day’s action.
“I still don’t believe it,” Zhy said to the fire.
“I don’t want to either,” replied Torplug. “I saw the demon fly past us, then turn. It could have been after us, or after something else. There are many women in these caravans…demons tend to fall for sins of the flesh.”
Qainur mumbled something. He stared into the fire, hands wrapped around a half-full flagon of mead. It had been half-full for hours.
Torplug continued. “It came back to me so fast. Light of M’Hzrut. A spell designed to work against demons. The scream you heard was a host body. Whoever it was had been practically dead the second the demon grabbed hold.”
Qainur looked up and shook his head. “Where do you come up with these names?” he asked. “G’s and R’s and X’s and Z’s, and all that all just jumbled together.” His sudden change of the subject seemed both out of place and comforting at the same time.
Torplug chuckled, assuming he was referring to the gherwza. “The ancient language of Welcfer is difficult. I even have trouble with it. There are different ways of speaking and writing, my friend. This town, for instance. What kind of a name is Duynton? It sounds like the sound a court jester would make when you jump on his testicles.”
At that they all shared a laugh, eager to have an image different than of a blue fireball and a demonic bat. Each stared into the fire for some time, and although they had shared a brief moment of relief, the echo of a scream still reverberated in their minds.
* * *
Dawn was just beginning to break when Torplug sat bolt upright in bed. “The Temple of M’Hzrut!” he screamed, wiping sweat from his brow.
His companions stirred, coming sleepily into consciousness. “What’s wrong?” Zhy asked, yawning hugely.
“The Temple! The Temple! Of course!” He said the word temple as if were more important than an average village temple.
“What temple?”
“Far to the north, farther than Welcfer, near the top of the world is a temple –a small little temple, you have not heard of it? M’Hzrut?”
Qainur yawned sleepily
Torplug waited a few seconds, waiting for Zhy and Qainur to come awake. Neither seemed to recognize the name.
“You have not read of it?” The small-man was still incredulous.
“N-No, I have not…wait, a little. Temple of what?”
“M’Hzrut!”
“Savages! Do ever go to the temple for worship?”
At this Zhy laughed. “The last time I was in a temple, my grandmother had died. I was seven.”
Qainur nodded. “Aye, I have only been to one once, and that was to stand for a man who was getting married. I later had to kill him because he went to bed with the lady’s sister.”
“Well,” the small-man shook his head again, still not able to comprehend the fact that his companions were so illiterate in the religious folklore of their own country, “there is a temple in the greatest northern reaches. Supposedly, the great pillars of the world are there, holding it up from the demonic spirit world. Once the pillars are shattered, evil will flood the world in waves of thousands upon thousands. We all will die. Or worse.” He stopped and stared at the dead embers of the fire.
“Grinding goats! What does this have to do with anything?” Qainur asked. “Oh…and what could possibly be worse than death? Gaah!” He shook his head and scowled at the far wall.
For once he seems to be using some sort of logic, Zhy thought to himself. It reminded him of a humorous story
he had read—something about a destiny worse than a destiny worse than death—as if anything could be worse! Horrible torture maybe… Instead, he scowled and responded, “You don’t do well in the morning, do you?”
The warrior grumbled. A loud pop came from his bed as he cracked a knuckle on his thumb.
“Don’t you see? If the pillars are broken, demons will flood the world. I know we only saw one, but...that close to the main road? I had a nightmare...a vivid nightmare of—” Torplug broke off.
“It was one demon, as you said,” Zhy said softly.
“But what if there were more?” Torplug asked. He sounded in a panic. As if he were still living whatever dream he was having; the small-man shivered and then sniffed loudly. Then he sniffed again. Zhy had finally had it—exhaustion or not, he was getting irritated to the point of screaming.
“Oh stop it!” he barked.
“Stop what?” the small-man asked.
“That Sacuan-blasted sniffing! And you, Qainur, with your knuckle-cracking and your loud snoring. It’s enough! Great Sacuan’s scrotum!” he barked, thumbing his earlobe roughly.
“You and that blasted ear-fondling,” Torplug said, his voice the edge of a frozen knife. “Savagery. And you snore, too. Like a drunk,” he hissed.
Zhy’s face colored, and he opened his mouth, but Qainur turned back to face him. “Yes, you do, you grounded goat!” It’s ‘ground goat’ you big oaf. You grind goats, and then they are ground. And whoever heard of grinding goats anyway? Zhy thought with a deep scowl. Qainur added a scowl of his own and then raised his fists in the air. Instead of striking, he cracked each knuckle on each hand. “To Hell with you, Zhy.” And he promptly turned away to face the wall.
“I—”
“A little harsh, Qainur, but ...” and Torplug sniffed loudly. “If we annoy you so much, you can leave.” His face was devoid of emotion.
“I…” He looked down at his hands. Soft. Woman-like. Why? Why did I let them get to me like that? This was supposed to be an adventure? But the sniffing and the knuckle cracking, and—he reached up to thumb his earlobe and then let his hand fall. “I am sorry,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “I think we have traveled long—maybe too long—in each other’s company.”
Torplug allowed himself a small laugh. “You are right there. And it was bound to happen. Qainur, a well-traveled mercenary. Never traveled with anyone. Me, I deal with people all the time and can put up with their odd habits. Most of them anyway. Good to get it out of the way.”
Qainur grunted. There was silence, and then he shifted his bulk again to face them. “Aye.”
“I can let it go ...” Zhy added. “I’m sorry. Sometimes sounds get to me. And I suppose I should not get annoyed with you if I do this—” and he touched his ear. He cracked a smile.
The small-man laughed again, but this time with honesty. Qainur coughed and then chuckled briefly. They each sat and contemplated the silence for a few moments before Zhy re-opened the conversation they had been having. I guess there’s little sleep for tonight in any case. He thought he saw Qainur nod.
“What if the demon you killed was one of millions that are loose?”
“I hope the Temple still stands, Zhy. The pillars...if they have fallen—”
“I’m sure they haven’t.”
“We had better hope they haven’t. Can you handle more of those beasts?”
“Not a million! But surely a few hundred, I would think.”
“Good,” Qainur said flatly. He still clung to an innocent hope that an entire planet could be saved by protecting a single temple.
Torplug yawned hugely. “It is very late, or very early. I’m sorry to have disrupted your night.”
Qainur grunted.
Zhy forced himself out of bed and started to rekindle a small fire. No sense in trying to sleep any more. As he stirred the ashes, looking for an ember, his mind was working slowly. Then he suddenly thought he understood everything and wheeled on Torplug.
“Well, if we aren’t too late, maybe you are going to this temple. Maybe it is really you these Knights and demons are after.” But even as he said this, his mind faltered and he realized how absurd that sounded. He started to apologize but turned to the fire, not wanting to say anything else that was childish and stupid.
Torplug looked at him in wonder. Then he chuckled. “I wish I were that kind of hero—I mean, someone so dangerous as to be hunted by the Black Dawn.” He said the last sadly, as if being hunted by an elite band would be honorable! “No, my reasons for going home are far more mundane.”
The mage took a deep breath. It seemed a good time to get their thoughts back from the dangerous precipice of despair. There was not much holding them back from collectively drowning their sorrows for the rest of the winter. “I have to return home, for—work. People are looking for me, but they will stay on the main road and will not cause violence to you. But they have certain talismans which negate my magic. The temple is far beyond my home, and I am in no way prepared to travel that kind of distance. No, my employers want me home. Soon. I then get to spend the remainder of winter in taverns, as much as I hate to.” He looked at Zhy.
Qainur’s stare was blank “Why would a mage…?”
Zhy caught on, having spent the majority of his adult life in a tavern. But he would let Torplug explain himself.
“Teaching at University would pay, but not good enough. Service to the kingdom would be just as poor. There isn’t much for a mage to do, really, unless I wanted to hunt for small villages, which would also pay next to nothing. No, this earns me far more.” He looked at Zhy and nodded.
“What are you both on about?” Qainur asked.
Zhy turned. “Remember when he told us what males do for a living…?”
The warrior shook his head dumbly. “No…”
“Males. In Welcfer. For work. Do I need to say it?”
Qainur thought and then reddened. He leaped from his bed. “You? No! And I shared a room with you, you aberration! How can you even sit in a saddle? You, a prostitute!” The word flew off his lips in a spray of spittle.
“You back-woods imbecile! I don’t take men on as clients, Qainur, though some do. I believe you have a saying in Belden that goes something like ‘Men are men and women are women. In Welcfer, women are women and so are the men.’ But I’m not one of those who enjoys that sort of thing. So stop looking at me like that!” the mage snapped.
With that Qainur calmed, but was still red in the face. “I didn’t ...”
“The cultures are different. Much different.”
Suddenly, Qainur’s hand flashed up and his sword was out. The room fell silent.
Zhy and Torplug each gave him a questioning glance.
He pointed at the window then his ear. Then at the door. He motioned everyone to the other side of the door frame. Neither Zhy nor Torplug heard a sound, until the door opened slowly. A figure in black crept in, his sword out, but held at hip level. Qainur wasted no time and struck.
But the seasoned warrior saw the movement and was able to parry the blow a split second before it cleaved him from shoulder to kidney. A ferocious battle ensued in the confined space. Qainur was at a disadvantage, given his larger sword and the small room stacked with beds and small furniture. Qainur’s speed and strength were his only benefits now, for he leapt atop beds, jumped onto end tables, and spun off to the floor in lightning-quick flashes of steel.
“Torplug!” Qainur managed to bark, but he didn’t dare move his gaze from the fight.
Zhy looked at Torplug, whose eyes were glazed. The small-man pointed at his chest and then at the warrior, his movements achingly slow against the crashing and clinking of swords. Zhy turned and saw the Knight wore a talisman around his neck—a ward of some sort. A powerless mage and an overmatched mercenary. Better than dying in a—oh damn, I am in an inn!
Almost mindlessly he drew his small knife, not knowing what he could possibly do. Offer to open a bottle of wine for the Knight, after h
e guts Qainur.
A hideous growl emitted from Qainur as he slashed again at an opening. The Knight was lightning, sliding sideways and blocking the thrust. He made a thrust of his own, and it took all of Qainur’s strength and skill to leap back upon a bed and block the sword with an ear-shattering clang.
Torplug looked at Zhy, his eyes glazed, but pleading. Now, he mouthed.
The Knight had to dance backward to block a move from Qainur. Another thrust and another step backwards. Zhy raised his hand, the knife extended straight out. And again Qainur thrust, sending the Knight backward into Zhy’s knife. The knife slipped quietly into the man’s back, dead center between two vertebrae. It missed his spinal cord barely, but still he stumbled, and the sword faltered from his grasp. Qainur did not hesitate and kicked him hard in the chest, sending him flying backward.
Zhy stared numbly as Qainur heaved the Knight forward, tore out the knife, and kicked him back to the floor. There was a hideous groan. The look on Qainur’s face was a look Zhy had seen several times—lips set in a flat line, face calm, eyes dull. He watched as the warrior calmly drove the knife into the Knight’s heart. Not once, but twice. There was no emotion in his thrusts—the knife drove in with an almost gentle force. The mercenary then removed the knife, wiped the blood on a clean section of the Knight’s shirt, and proffered it to Zhy.
Zhy stared at the body, numb. Of its own accord, his left hand moved up and thumbed his earlobe. He squeezed hard enough to crush the soft flesh, but he noticed nothing.
“Thank you,” was all Qainur said, still holding the knife.
With motions that were not his, Zhy took the knife and sheathed it.
Chapter 10 — Follower
There is a time to follow and a time to lead. When one is following, one wants to lead, and when one leads, one often wants to follow. Whom do you follow? A man with a knot that is unknowable, or one with a knot you can strive to become?
Prophet Broundoun III, IV Age
Fa and the stranger and Ugly Nose were far ahead. I could hear them, but not see them. Ugly Nose could not see me. That was good. I wish Fa could see me.
