by Paul Collins
‘Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?’ demanded Zimak.
‘I told you enough for you to deduce it,’ Jelindel said calmly. ‘Is it my fault that your mind is lazy when it comes to conjuring ideas?’
They arrived before the town gates as the mist around them began to darken with evening. There was a stable nearby, so they left their horses there and carried their packs through the gates and into the town.
People were going about their business, but everything was still hushed as if the folk were frightened of attracting the attention of something huge and horrible.
‘We need to find a market and an inn,’ said Zimak.
‘There’s an inn,’ Daretor said, pointing to a sign bearing a green bull with four horns.
‘Ah, good,’ Zimak replied. He turned to face Jelindel. ‘Will you come to the market with me after we drop our packs?’
‘And be part of that tasteless ritual of sweaty muscles that you want to put on in every village that we visit?’ she replied with distaste. ‘Not likely. Besides, what about that rib you broke a few weeks ago, and the gash in your arm?’
Zimak held up his arm to display a well-healed scar. ‘I’m fit to take on a lindrak now. These yokels are strong but they don’t know how to fight – hie, I can get a local physician to vouch that I’m carrying a broken rib. That should improve the betting. Come on, Jaelin, please help me. I can’t speak their language.’
‘Then I shall write out your spiel and you can read it. As I remember, it goes: ‘Your attention please. I am Zimak, champion of the Hamarian and Skeltian fighting squares in Siluvian kick-fist at age fourteen. What man among you will meet my challenge to last a single round for ten silver argents against a stake of ten?’’
‘I’ll look a fool reading it.’
‘You’ll look educated,’ said Daretor.
‘That’s right – smart is alluring,’ added Jelindel. ‘You’re always complaining that girls prefer my brains to your body. You may return tonight with a girl as well as a fatter purse.’
The Green Bull was a small place that was clearly better used to serving drinks than accommodating travellers. The landlord cleared firewood out of a back room and set a boy to sweeping the place clean while Jelindel bargained on the price.
They did not expect to find a fire blazing in the hearthroom. In spite of the warm air outside, the place was full of townsfolk enjoying the heat. It was dry heat, quite pleasant for folk who lived their lives in dampness.
Silence descended upon the taproom the moment they entered. It was as though a knife had cut through the hubbub. A bullhound lifted its chunky head warily and gave a deep-throated growl at their intrusion. When they ignored it, the hound lowered its head and dozed again. Like the patrons of the inn, it was more astonished than hostile to see strangers in the valley.
It wasn’t until the three had dumped their saddle bags upon an oaken table and were seated that the noise of the taproom resumed.
They had arrived late in the afternoon, and the light was still as strong as it ever got in the valley. Daretor went outside to practise rebuilding his swordwork in the wood-yard. Two months after losing his sword skills to the dragonlink, he was again a band 2 or thereabout, but the axe would be his weapon of choice for a long time to come. The wound below his ribs was still painful, a constant reminder that no fighting skill could be gained without the price of hard work.
Jelindel eventually agreed to go with Zimak as far as the marketplace, and there she translated Zimak’s wishes to a local boy. When he had finally grasped that Zimak wanted to stage a throw-wrestling tournament that evening, she left him to his own devices.
The local Temple of Verity was a half mile away, and she made her way there through the mists.
A number of religions were tolerated in the valley, and there was even a monument to the Grattocrian Prophet from the lands thousands of miles west across the ocean. It was built of white marble which had attracted thick splashes of deep green moss and slime from the continuous damp.
She walked on to the Temple of Verity. Its tall double doors were closed, which was unusual for a religion that preached the act of welcoming as one of its central tenets.
Jelindel noticed scorch marks and splintering all along the iron-studded oak boards. She knocked loudly, and presently heard the slapping of sandals on stone behind the door. An eyeslit popped open.
‘Yes?’ a quavering voice asked from the other side.
‘I am Brother Jaelin.’
‘State your business,’ the voice demanded.
‘I wish to use your temple library. I am a scholar in search of books relating to –’
‘The library is closed; it cannot be used. Go! There are two crossbows trained on your heart.’
Jelindel froze, then fought to calm herself.
‘As you wish, I shall go,’ she said, turning very slowly and starting down the steps. Five steps down she stopped and slowly turned back. ‘That’s an unusually powerful guard spell you have on the doors. I’d say all the brothers of this temple combined must be hard put to maintain it.’
‘Stop, wait!’ the monk behind the doors shouted.
There was the rumble and crash of a beam being heaved and dropped, then the doors were flung open. One of the monks of the order’s penitent division hurried out of the entrance and down the steps to Jelindel. He wore a tight-fitting leather cowl that showed only his face and disappeared into his robes. His hands were bare and his feet were sandalled.
‘How did you detect the guard spell?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together.
‘It is my work, holy brother,’ Jelindel said warily, feeling her way.
‘Then – then are you the one that was sent to us, the senior Adept we have petitioned for all these years?’
‘Perhaps. I am Mage Auditor Jaelin, an Adept in a very new order.’ In fact it’s five seconds old and there’s only one member, Jelindel added to herself.
‘Then our pleas were heard!’ the monk exclaimed. He turned and waved the hidden archers away. ‘Come in, Brother Jaelin, come in. Tell us how we may help you rid our valley of this daemonic scourge. I’m Brother Pendram.’
Jelindel’s heart began pounding again. What had she managed to plunge into with those few words? She was taken to a hearthroom lined with books and furnished with reading benches. Ten monks had gathered there.
‘Tell me of the daemons in your own words,’ Jelindel prompted as Brother Pendram closed and barred the hearthroom door.
‘But you already have our letters and petitions,’ quavered an elderly monk with sparse white hair and a long, fresh scar down one cheek.
‘I cannot ask questions of a letter or petition, and I need to know much more than you have written – oh, and I really would like to work in this library.’
Brother Pendram shuffled forward.
‘It began five years ago, Mage Auditor. Cattle were found torn to pieces in the fields, with strange footprints nearby. At first we thought it to be dire bears, but the daemon-beings avoided our hunters and smashed our traps as if they thought like humans. Then a shepherd was taken, and another. A farmstead was attacked while the farmer was out a-hunting what we still thought were dire bears. His wife and three of his seven children were slashed dead as though fallen into a chaffing mill.’
‘And nobody had seen these daemons until then?’ asked Jelindel.
‘No, but since then we have,’ Brother Pendram said. He wrung his hands at the very thought. ‘Our temple head, Brother Clevarian, organised the townsmen into a great line, and they combed the valley close-like until the daemon was flushed out from a stand of veritone oil trees.
‘Oh, he put up a terrible fight, but Brother Clevarian managed to bind his legs with that spell which spits glowing blue coils. The menfolk of the town killed the daemon after a fierce battle, but since then we’ve had maybe three dozen more daemons and lost twice that number of townsfolk killed by them.
‘We – we can hold the daemons back wi
th Brother Clevarian’s magic and our warriors, but our good brother is growing weak with the strain and he has been wounded twice.’
‘That is why we made the petition,’ said the older monk eagerly.
‘So you are Brother Clevarian?’ asked Jelindel, noting the wound on his cheek.
‘Oh no, Mage Auditor. Brother Clevarian is with the town militia at this moment. Daemons always appear around evening. We know not why.’
‘Feeding time,’ someone suggested from the rear of the group.
‘So these daemons eat their victims?’ Jelindel said dubiously.
There was an outburst of conflicting opinions on the subject but it soon became apparent that no one had actually seen anyone being eaten by the daemons.
‘If nobody’s sure, let us not argue,’ Jelindel said, exasperated. ‘Have the attacks centred more on the temple or the militia of late? I would guess on the militia.’
‘Yes, why yes,’ Brother Pendram replied. ‘How did you know that?’
‘They have realised that Brother Clevarian is the cornerstone of your defence and are seeking him out. That is bad. What do they look like?’
Brother Pendram fetched a large folio of sketches and laid them on a reading desk before Jelindel. There were several excellent sketches of strangely humanoid yet reptilian things, and some featured human warriors for comparison. At least seven feet tall, Jelindel noted, and six fingers on each hand. The thumb and two inner fingers were almost human to look at, but the outer fingers were massive and tipped with long, curving claws. Their bodies were balanced by a long, thick tail and there was a crest at the back of the head and what were either pointed ears or horns at the front. The snout was filled with even, pointed teeth, yet the slit-pupil eyes above the flaring nostrils were oddly intelligent.
Jelindel asked to speak with the artist, but Brother Pendram pointed to the blood splattered at the bottom of the page.
By the time she left the temple, Jelindel suspected the worst. There were more problems in this mist-shrouded valley than just the linkrider. Still, she had felt the lump in the fabric of the paraworld that emanated from the dragonlink. It was definitely here, amid the glittering splash of guard spells that outlined the town.
Jelindel headed back to the marketplace with Brother Pendram beside her. There was evidently a weakness between paraworlds somewhere nearby, and these abominations were crawling through. Brother Clevarian, being elderly, was probably not able to see it, but Jelindel fancied that she might be able to do better. A guard spell could be made to seal the weakness once it was found, then the grateful townsfolk might rally to flush out the linkrider.
Zimak was at work with all-comers in an improvised square lit by mutton-fat torches on poles. As Jelindel arrived he was squaring up against a broad-shouldered man with Daretor’s build but a much lighter skin and a dark beard. The man fought well, feinting to great effect until he caught Zimak and held him off the ground.
Zimak reached back blindly over his shoulders and boxed his ears over and over again, then seized the man’s arm as his grip loosened, swung him about, threw his shoulder against the man’s midriff and heaved him out of the square.
The cheers and groans were suddenly stifled as a new opponent loomed out of the swirling mists, a thing towering seven feet tall and with a crest at the back of its head. It advanced slowly at first, and the crowd began to scatter. Zimak seemed to decide that this was some new opponent and squared up to meet the daemon. It stopped at the edge of the square and gave a gurgling growl like a blocked drainpipe being cleared.
‘Five to one on twenty argents!’ Zimak shouted to totemakers who were no longer there to take bets.
The daemon charged. Zimak stepped into the charge, batting its outstretched clawed hand aside and stepping into its grasp but twisting about and tripping it. The daemon went sprawling in the dust, and bellowed in surprise.
Jelindel seemed to suddenly snap out of a trance.
‘Zimak, run!’ she shouted. ‘It’s trying to kill you.’
‘That’s not in the rules,’ he shouted back with a dismissive wave.
The daemon rolled lithely aside and sprang to its feet, again facing Zimak. This time it slashed at the youth with its long outer claws as it closed with him. Again Zimak stepped inside the long arms, performed a jump-spinning kick and struck the thing in the snout. It staggered aside, stunned for a moment.
‘Run, damn you!’ screamed Jelindel. ‘It hasn’t got any money!’
She had no idea why she chose those particular words, but somehow they made sense to Zimak. He sidled away from the baffled daemon and made for Jelindel, but now it came after him.
They fled down the darkened, misty streets, but the daemon came after them with huge, two-footed bounds. Dodging between alleyways was all that kept them beyond its claws.
Suddenly a warrior dashed between them and the daemon. He was armed with an iron-shod pike with cross-guards, and he was skilled in its use. He made a jabfeint with the point, then swept underhand with the weighted butt of the pike and caught the daemon in the underbelly. It gave a bubbling rumble of annoyance and struck at him, slashing the air between them with its claws. Deftly the daemon backhanded its opponent and raked his ringmail and leather armour to shreds. The man cried out and went sprawling.
Zimak dived for the fallen pike but it was very heavy in his hands. The daemon advanced on the warrior who was trying to roll clear and Zimak jabbed hard at its leg. It gave a deep yowl and turned on him. Zimak backed away until his back met a damp stone wall. Jelindel thought of using a word of binding, but her lips froze in terror at the thought of lying exhausted before such a monster if it managed to break free. She flung her knife instead. Her throw was clumsy, but she still managed to hit the daemon in the open mouth.
‘Hac’ti paz! Hac’ti paz!’ shouted the warrior, who was back on his feet by now.
‘Zimak, he says throw him the pike!’ shouted Jelindel.
Zimak obliged as the daemon pulled the knife from its mouth and flung it down. The leather binding of its handle was smoking.
The warrior and daemon had another exchange of blows, then a crowd of armoured men surged around them out of the mists. The militia closed in but the daemon fought back fiercely, snatching a pike from one man and thrusting it into the chest of his companion. A shield splintered as its claws scraped across it, and the saliva from its jaws burned clothing and skin wherever it spattered.
Somewhere from within the mad mess of weapons and limbs a monk struggled close enough to speak a word of binding and thin blue coils of fire ensnared the legs and tail of the daemon.
The warrior who had saved Zimak and Jelindel ducked under a sweep of the daemon’s deadly claws and drove the point of his pike into its neck, just behind its jaw. Even then it did not die, but one of the militiamen soon got a clear chop at the weakened daemon’s neck with his broadsword. The daemon howled and staggered, and now the militiamen were able to move in closer as its movements slowed.
The thing writhed and bellowed on the damp cobblestones for several minutes until loss of whatever it used for blood sapped its strength. Finally the militiamen closed in and it was despatched, skewered by a half dozen spears and pikes.
‘I fought that unarmed?’ said a badly shaken Zimak, looking down at it in disbelief.
‘When ignorance is bliss, there’s folly in wisdom,’ Jelindel answered.
‘What?’
‘I rest my case.’
The warrior with the heavy pike came up to them now.
‘I am Holgar Drusen,’ he said in the language of the valley, leaning heavily on the staff that he clung to with gauntleted hands. ‘I’m a blacksmith and armourer when not in the town militia.’
‘I am Mage Auditor Jaelin, and this is my assistant Zimak,’ replied Jelindel, grateful that Zimak could not understand. ‘Thank you for saving us from that thing.’
‘What is a Mage Auditor?’ the man asked suspiciously.
‘I was sent from the Tem
ple of Verity in the capital, Hez’ar, to report on your troubles here and help if I could. The accounts that we received were so fantastic that my superiors could not give them credence.’
‘Well, now do you believe?’ demanded Drusen gruffly, his anger and impatience ill disguised.
‘This was a convincing argument,’ said Jelindel, gesturing down to the daemon’s body. She peered at the warrior’s gloves. ‘There’s blood dripping from your right glove. We must bind the wound. Give me your hand.’
‘No! No, I get many wounds. This is a trifle.’
‘Mage Auditor Jaelin!’ called Brother Pendram from behind Jelindel. She turned.
Brother Pendram came through the crowd of militiamen, supporting an exhausted monk who was somewhat older than most of those she had met so far. Like the other monks, he wore a tight-fitting, kid leather cowl that showed only his face. Jelindel noted this and more besides as she strained to feel the tingle of any aura around him.
Jelindel bowed low to Brother Clevarian. Zimak did not.
‘Who’s this, Jaelin? What’s going on here?’ asked Zimak in Skeltian.
‘Shut up and bow.’
‘Brother Pendram has told me of your mission here, Mage Auditor,’ panted Brother Clevarian, also in Skeltian. ‘As you can see, we have our hands full.’
‘Mage Auditor?’ exclaimed Zimak.
‘I speak Baltorian,’ said Jelindel in the local language, but the damage was already done. ‘This valley seems to be the site of a weakness in the fabric that separates the paraworlds.’
‘Paraworlds? Pah, heresy,’ the old monk said in Baltorian. ‘Hell is boiling through here, boy. Hell and all its torments. Ah, but the prophets give me strength; I need no foppish theories about paraworlds.’
‘Mage Auditor?’ laughed Zimak.
‘Silence!’ exclaimed Jelindel fiercely. Zimak said no more, but retained his smile.
‘Why did you come?’ rasped Brother Clevarian.
‘I was sent for,’ replied Jelindel. ‘Your brothers feared for your health and safety in the face of constant battles like the one of minutes past.’
