“It’s obvious you have enemies. Powerful ones, from what you said. I believe your paranoia could be excused,” replied Pavel casually.
“I had some notice that a pair of dusty vagrants was sent my way. But I thought it better to err on the side of caution,” answered Encratas, staring thoughtfully at Pavel. “If you are what I think you are, then there’s no need for introductions. You know my name and I know yours.”
Invited inside, the pair saw the lower portion of the tower was mostly hollow. A cleared space on the ground floor and then a stone stair led up to a room which Pavel guessed to be at the sixth or seventh level. The material which made up the tower looked ancient, yet surprisingly, the huge stone blocks appeared well-maintained. Even the air inside the structure was fresh. He had expected the mustiness that such constructions invariably contained.
But as they walked up, the man could sense a number of magical emanations around them. In addition to renewing the air inside the tower and keeping it whole against the ravages of time, he guessed that the inside of the entire tower was also full of traps, magical and non-magical, and both kinds could kill you. The enchantments around them were too numerous for mere housekeeping.
Reaching the beginnings of inhabited floors, another metal door awaited. This one had ornate trimmings in gold and other metals, inlaid with precious and semi-precious stones. Still, if the viewer were to look carefully, he’d notice engraved sigils and arcane symbols hidden within the flowing decorative forms.
The man looked at the bard who merely grinned and then rolled his eyes. It was not the existence of the magical protective objects and traps which astounded him, but the sheer number of them. He could sense that the door itself formed the nexus of the magical barriers guarding the tower. And from what he detected, it was formidable in its complexity and strength. Though from Sheqer’s reaction, the bard apparently took it as a sign of the hermit’s questionable mental health. Not that the demon wasn’t careful. Pavel noticed that Sheqer studiously avoided touching the doors.
Encratas gruffly assigned them rooms on that level and forbade them from going up the tower without express permission. Pavel noticed that the injuries on Encratas’s face were already gone, a circumstance which led him to add healing skills to the hermit’s list of spells. As a battlemage, such ability was expected, but knowing and seeing the effect of such an enchantment were two different things.
“Training starts tomorrow,” was the hermit’s parting words. “Food will be brought to you.”
Pavel idly wondered if Sheqer would be disappointed at the disappearance of his physical souvenirs on the face of the hermit. And the words of Encratas were exceedingly curious. He already knew why Pavel was there. If so, the man didn’t expect that the instructions given to the hermit would be that detailed. He thought he would have to explain his presence and request to the recluse. Nor did he say anything about the bard’s true nature. The man assumed that Encratas would see right through the disguise.
The rooms were small, adequately furnished, and each had a small window – if an enlarged slit in the wall could be called a window. A jug of water waited in each room. Pavel choose what he thought as the better space. The bard didn’t check his quarters but instead followed his master.
“Well, I guess he knows why I am here,” said Pavel as he thankfully took to the bed, disdaining to remove his clothes, except for his boots. The bed creaked under the weight of his armor, but it held. He never thought lying down after a long trek would be gratefully welcomed by his mortal body.
There are still a lot of things I need to learn about being human. My memory is still hazy on that one. Being human again or being mortal? Which is which? he reflected. And this demon won’t be of any help in that direction. We’re both in the same situation.
Then he thought of the inexplicable – at least for him – failure of Encratas to see through the demon’s impersonation.
“Why can’t that hermit see you for what you really are?” asked Pavel, not caring if the recluse could hear him or not. Encratas was bound to help him anyway. Still, he was careful about using the word demon.
“That? Not of this reality, Master. Except for those who summoned me and you, who triggered the box trap, nobody could see me for what I really am. All those enchantments which guard this tower don’t matter. Deities and sufficiently powerful mages excluded,” replied Sheqer, who was peering out of the window. “Nice view. Overlooks the gorge.”
Apparently, the demon also had a similarly cavalier attitude about being found out by the hermit. Though his answer revealed that he was, even at such a diminished state, more powerful than the hermit.
“I wonder what training he could give you?” said Sheqer, looking at his master.
“Weapons training, scouting, anything martial would be highly appreciated,” answered Pavel. “Improvement and understanding of magical skills. Actually, anything would be welcome at this point. And while we’re here, we better brush up on how to act normally. I get the strangest feeling that being mortal was done to me. I noticed some basic information on how to act normally escapes me. Either that or I’ve hit my head once too often.”
“True. You’d end up slaughtering an angry mob howling about a foul creature in their midst otherwise. That foul creature would be me, not you, of course.”
“Only if they deserve it, Sheqer,” replied the man who immediately pondered on the import of what he said. It was an answer borne out of reflex, and Pavel was bothered by the lack of any remorse or hesitancy on his part.
A thoughtful examination of his impulses showed that he wouldn’t have qualms about destroying even a city if he thought it deserved to be wiped off the map. It was a disturbing discovery. Pavel doubted if an ordinary human would feel the same way.
This question about what I am is bound to drive me insane one of these days, brooded the man. I want to believe I am human. I bleed. I breathe. I feel pain. Yet, those damned voices in my head tell me I am more than a bag of flesh. There! It came out again. Really? Bag of flesh?
“So, about you? We really haven’t discussed what runs in that mind of yours. The journey was so full of your complaints about the terrain, the emptiness of the land, and almost everything, that we didn’t get to talk about what makes up Sheqer?” asked Pavel, shifting his thoughts to a less confusing topic.
“Oh, you know what I am,” answered the bard nonchalantly.
“But good and evil are but relative terms. You know they differ and change from society to society. The norms of a milieu might not be the same in another time, even within the same culture. It could even be the opposite of what was accepted before. I am more interested in your stand on Order and Chaos,” remarked the man curiously.
“Never really thought about it. My kind is more interested in power, as I mentioned. Whether we serve either entity in our pursuit of more power is immaterial. Though some of the worst humans I’ve seen were positively demonic in their pursuit of what they called good,” mused Sheqer.
“Then what do you know of Order and Chaos?” inquired Pavel, knowing that in his present state, significant gaps in his knowledge needed to be filled. He knew he was an agent of Fate and Chaos. But an unnaturally amnesiac one.
“Now that’s a beauty of a question. For now, they’re intertwined, feeding off each other,” commented the bard casually.
“Huh?” Sheqer’s answer was totally unexpected, and the demon saw the confusion on Pavel’s face.
“How do I explain this in human terms? Normally, such concepts come naturally to us and those of a magical bent. Experienced magical bent, I hasten to qualify,” explained the bard. Then his voice took on a lecturing tone. “Order demands more order, which eventually leads to chaos. You know humans. Finicky as… any of the myriad hells. More chaos leads to demands for order. And in such a way do mortals, of all races and kinds, feed the balance which keeps reality from turning on itself. But it has been heretically proposed that, at the end of all time, Chaos will preva
il. But then Order will bring back lost realities. I’m not sure about that last part. I haven’t been there yet.”
6
When a Demon Sings
“Damn it, bard! Be a bard!
Sing something happy!” shouted Encratas.
Pavel woke up before dawn. He couldn’t sleep. Something was profoundly bothering him, yet he couldn’t determine what it was. Not to mention being in a mortal shell was a new experience for him. Whether the novel sensation was because of losing his memory or something else was immaterial to the man.
Dealing with the here and now was more important. Deep within the man was a belief that whatever actually happened to him would be explained to him in due time. Whether the story would be told by a deity or a mortal was a laughably insignificant matter to his continued existence.
The compulsion to do what an imperious and irresistible command in his very nature was more critical. The man told himself that he was graced to be an instrument of beings greater than himself. What more could he ask? It was a feeble palliative to the internal turmoil he knew was boiling inside him, but Pavel understood his present limitations and the inherent dangers of trying to force an understanding of his very nature. Somehow, a visceral intuition told him that way led to madness and a very bad ending.
Their dinner the previous night was brought to them by the hermit’s companion, a lad of about sixteen years of age. He didn’t answer Pavel’s polite queries or the bard’s loud questions. The boy didn’t even give his name and left as quickly as he arrived.
Sheqer came in, bringing his meal. From the looks of it, Encratas had no plans of starving them or withholding food from his larder. Bread, roast chicken, slices of beef, soup, and an apple was their fare. But the bard, who didn’t need to eat, merely picked at the food. The man could see that it was more for the taste.
After a while, Sheqer gave him his dinner which Pavel heartily welcomed. He was ravenous but his eating was also encouraged by the thought that a strenuous day awaited him when his training started. He needed all the energy he could get.
“Quiet lad,” said Pavel, referring to the boy who had brought their dinner as he munched his way through a meal fit for two men.
The bard’s boisterous laughter greeted his remark.
“That was no boy,” he told the Pavel after he got his breath back. “I could smell her.”
“He looked male to me,” replied the man, continuing with his meal.
“Attire and a bit of glamour. Powerful magic, but there’s no mistaking the scent of a female. Trust me, there’s a difference,” grinned Sheqer.
Pavel didn’t say anything. It was Encratas’s personal business. If she was his lover or a slave, it didn’t matter to him. Nor was he inclined to push the matter further. But the thought that the demon might do something that could create a problem came to mind.
“That’s his business, Sheqer. Not ours,” he advised sternly. Trust a demon to see through male and female disguises.
“Of course! As long as the lad doesn’t try to poison us or stick a dagger into your heart while we sleep, it’s none of our business,” smiled the demon. “Now, what do you want me to do tomorrow while you’re training?”
“Stick around. For one, I don’t know the land, and second, we just met the fellow living above us. Not that I don’t trust him, but we’ve just arrived. In the home of a hunted man.”
“Right. I could practice my bardic skills while you’re busy. First time for everything!” said Sheqer excitedly.
He bade the bard a hurried good night before Sheqer took it into his head to practice right there. Pavel was tired, and a demon’s questionable attempts at human entertainment wasn’t really conducive to a good night’s sleep.
But his slumber was far from peaceful. Vaguely recalled dreams invaded his consciousness. All he could remember was they were terrible ones, filled with images of dark and malignant creatures. Hungrily stalking him.
The ambiguous visions greatly irritated the man. He was supposed to be the hunter, not the prey. He wondered if it presaged what was to come. Pavel had counted on anonymity and surprise when the time came, but if what he sensed was true, then it would be a trying and challenging road. He hoped it was just anxiety rearing its head in his subconscious.
Do my enemies know I am coming? he wondered briefly. Then he looked at himself. Mortal. Human, noted Pavel idly. But even the word sounded foreign to me. I was something or some being before – that my mind screams at me. Then what am I really?
Such swirling, turbulent considerations and apprehensions tumbled and rose in his troubled thoughts. He knew he had a task to do, and somehow, Pavel also realized he had a decade to do it. His entire soul depended on what he had set out to do.
And that solid, unmovable door in my mind. Memories? considered Pavel. Suddenly, with a decisive, firm resolve, he again laid all such concerns aside, hoping that his belief was correct that knowledge and lost memories would be returned to him if and when the time was right. Whoever had the power to lock away part of his mind had a reason for such a seemingly unfathomable deed. Memories made a person, or so he assumed.
I must have made a bargain. An agreement. The finer points of which elude me, Pavel decided.
With that simple thought, disturbing ideas again assailed his quieted mind. In all, it was a restless night which resulted in the man staring out his window just before the coming of the morning sun. He continued to tell himself that he was human. A mortal gifted with power and enormous responsibility. Yet the thought never took root in his subconscious. It just glided along and lay on top of a brooding disquiet.
As the bright orb slowly rose on the horizon, the man could see the land below the tower. The bottom of the deep gorge had a small river passing right through it, and in contrast to the barren wasteland of the plain, below was a forested area that followed the course of the water. Yet Pavel could see the great height which marked the distance between the tower and the floor of the canyon. If his training was going to be conducted down there, it was going to be a tortured trek going up and down.
***
“Pavel, show me what you know,” said the battlemage.
The training ground was indeed down in the canyon, where a palisade enclosed a cleared area. The fear of the man about walking down from the tower was resolved when Encratas laid down a large circular, baroque band in the hallway. Its arcane nature was immediately betrayed by the verdant glow it gave off when the hermit muttered a few words in a voice too low to hear. The metal collar was large enough to accommodate two men within its circumference.
The hermit, carrying what appeared to be a sizeable rolled piece of hide, pointed to the artifact, indicating that the pair should step inside the circle. When the two were within, a flash erupted, and they suddenly found themselves on a stone platform down in the gorge. The square dais was large enough to require three wide steps leading down to the ground. Pavel idly noticed that they reappeared within a similar round metal ring which was embedded in the stone floor of the structure.
Stepping out of the circle and walking down, the pair inspected the area where they had been transported. The wooden palisade had an iron gate, and the bard pointed out that the wooden posts were likewise braced with iron chains running horizontally in three ranks along the walls.
“Not a good sign,” grinned the bard, pointing at the iron bracing. “The area must be filled with unfriendly locals for a lot of iron to be displayed. Your training is going to be interesting.”
A surge of energy at their rear told them Encratas had arrived. The battlemage didn’t waste words. Once he had the pair’s attention, he pointed to several target dummies arranged on one side of the enclosure and then walked toward the section. His training was going to be a strict, demanding affair, thought Pavel.
The pair were both carrying their staves, though he had transformed the sword into a small dagger and kept it hidden on his person. If the hermit knew about it, he gave no sign. Yet Pavel was int
rigued by the lack of weapons in the training area. Nor was Encratas carrying one, only the rolled hide carried under an arm. Once they reached the practice section, the hermit unrolled what he had brought. All Pavel could see on it were illustrations of a longsword, a mace, a quarterstaff, and a spear. Encratas turned to the duo and first spoke to Sheqer.
“Do you intend to train too?” he asked.
The bard shook his head with a smirk.
“Then stand aside and leave space for this fellow to practice,” came the brusque instruction to the demon. Then he looked at the man. “Pavel, isn’t it?”
Pavel merely nodded.
“Any good with that staff?” asked Encratas.
“A bit,” answered the soon-to-be-trained man. That was when Pavel was asked to demonstrate what he knew. Using the staff, he attacked the target dummy. Pavel relied on instinct, and his body surprised him with martial knowledge he didn’t know he had.
“Not bad,” said the battlemage. “We’re trying to hone what you know and fill gaps in your knowledge about unfamiliar weapons. There’s no need to make you an expert in all weapons. That’s impossible. Even Weapons Masters do not have that ability. Familiarity and an acceptable degree of technique are what we want.”
“Master Encratas, could I practice my singing and strumming skills while you both are busy?” asked the demon solicitously.
Please say no, Pavel thought immediately.
“Stay on the platform steps,” instructed the hermit.
We’re doomed, concluded the trainee.
***
“Let’s see your skill with a sword,” said Encratas.
Pavel thought the battlemage was referring to the ethereal blade, but he was wrong. Encratas reached in the opened hide coverlet and pulled out a longsword.
Neat trick, he noted, though surprise showed on his face.
Encratas looked at him, and for the first time since they arrived, smiled.
My Name is Ruin Page 6
