“Been called worse, Master.”
“I said forget it. Have you even considered how that would reflect on me? Make yourself useful and teach me something. Maybe a new spell,” ordered the apprentice. If the bard was going to be with him in the absence of the hermit, Pavel thought of making the demon useful.
Sheqer stared at him with disbelieving eyes. The demon was genuinely shocked by the demand. Upon query by the surprised Pavel, the bard explained that demonic abilities could rarely be used by mortals. Either the magical affinity required was absent or not enough, or the spell wasn’t safe for humans. Demons use and course conjurations through their essence, and no mortal could match that kind of requirement.
“Your kind, whatever and wherever the world, traffic with humans,” commented Pavel, his tone verging on the accusatory. Though he knew the demon couldn’t lie to him, half-truths and some subtle twisting of phrasing wouldn’t be beyond its twisted mind.
“Dealings with our kind, in any reality, never end well for the mortal involved, Master. I thought even you would know that,” came the bard’s reply.
“I know that, but if the Great Bard Sheqer could explain further, I would be much obliged,” remarked the apprentice sarcastically.
Though it was obviously something he didn’t want to do, the demon sighed and clarified the issue. Yet Pavel honestly had no idea. How he presented the question was in a way that gave the impression he knew something about the subject but wanted Sheqer’s version.
“Humans forget that opening a channel to one of us allows the summoned demonic entity access also to the summoner. It’s always a two-way street, and when the mortal is inadequately prepared, or less powerful, then ascendancy, or in many instances, dominance, is gained by the demon,” the bard started explaining.
“But those who have commerce with your kind seem to get what they want at the price paid,” prodded the man.
“Parlor tricks. Casting major spells, for instance. You think it’s the human doing it? Though it is easier if the summoned forcibly takes possession of the mortal form, consuming the resident soul in the process, but I guess that’s a different topic.”
“Yet, you haven’t tried anything of that sort with me,” commented Pavel.
Sheqer sheepishly admitted something in Pavel’s mortal form resisted him, and even frightened the demon. A mere attempt at probing the man’s mind punished him with pain beyond measure. That was an experience he didn’t care to repeat.
So, he did try to get inside my mind, thought the apprentice. But that’s expected. Only a fool would believe that a demon would just stand idly by his side.
“And why would I try to subvert you? Of all the humans in this world, you’re my best chance of getting back to my world. Others, mortal or otherwise, would try to use or bend me to their will, and nail me to this dimension. You haven’t, and your affinity prevents you from doing such a thing. You are on a quest on which hangs your very soul. In a sense, I am safe with you. But you can’t blame me from tempting or goading you to gratify my own cravings while in this reality. I am a Greater Demon. My nature won’t change,” continued the demon in a defensive tone.
“Just don’t get in my way, or try to be a burden, Sheqer. Save my miserable backside once in a while. Then you’d be safe from me,” grinned Pavel. However, something hard and terrible glinted deep in his unknowing gaze and made a Greater Demon shudder despite itself.
“Don’t worry about that, Master Pavel. As I said, you represent the best opportunity I have in leaving this wretched world. You might be mortal, but I’d bet you’re the strangest one around. Strange as in you exude the wonderful stench of violent death and black ruin. I smell Chaos. But it’s something that no mortal and only a few, as in select, magical beings could detect, though the latter would probably attack you on sight. Or smell.”
***
But the comment about channeling spells through one’s affinity struck a responsive chord in Pavel’s mind. He wondered about his affinity and what was possible within that limitation. The Azat knew he was of Fate and Chaos. Yet, he really hadn’t ventured into examining what he could do. He squatted, ignoring the demon who now retreated to one side of the stone platform. The apprentice entered into the meditation state taught by the battlemage.
It was one of the first lessons Encratas gave him and was intended to help Pavel develop his mental focus. An essential part of a warrior’s training, the hermit told him. But this time, the apprentice used it to search deep within himself. And found another solid mental wall. It unnerved and then annoyed him. Finding such barriers in his mind was not a pleasant experience. He felt violated, and his very essence tampered. The Azat didn’t even know how many such doors were present in his mind.
His inner perception withdrew from the daunting wall and studied the area before it. It was a chaotic swirl of energy, black and streaked with lines of blue. It was unfamiliar to his mental senses yet felt personal, as if they belonged to him. The tendrils which swept past and through his mind’s eye didn’t feel evil. But Pavel could detect an aimless undertone to their presence. The energy wanted to be released.
He grabbed a passing misty branch of the cloud, and it obediently rested in his mental grasp. It flowed around hands he had projected into the scene, and dutifully adopted the form of a sphere as commanded. Keeping contact with the eldritch energy, Pavel opened his eyes, pointed to a section of the palisade, and forced the power to strike the wooden posts. A thin, nebulous dark cloud erupted from his outstretched finger. Suddenly and silently, a large hole appeared in the wooden wall.
Somehow, he wasn’t astonished at the resultant destruction. What was unusual for the man was the feeling that what he did was a natural action as far as his body and mind were concerned. In addition, an unfamiliar sense of well-being accompanied the exercise. He felt increased strength and an unnatural sensation of heightened physical abilities. Then as abruptly as it arose, the changes he felt disappeared.
All of a sudden, Pavel realized that he just gave himself an additional task for that morning. The damage affected three of the upright wooden stakes, and he had to replace them before Encratas came back and started asking uncomfortable questions. Thankfully, the compound had spare lumber the hermit kept on hand to repair damaged and worn sections of the palisade. The man stood up and immediately sensed that he was physically weakened by what he did. Heightened physical ability and then weakness. It mystified him. He glanced at Sheqer who didn’t look surprised at the display of power. But the demon had a satisfied smirk on its face.
“Hey, bard. Come over here,” Pavel called out. “Guess who’s going to help me rebuild that wall?”
***
The change in Pavel’s circumstances happened suddenly. On the third day since the abrupt departure of Encratas, he was rudely awakened by the hermit who tossed a package at him. The apprentice noticed it was just before dawn.
“Cut your hair and shave. As best as you can. The term hermit fits you more than me. Then go to the first room on the floor above you. Don’t bring that nosy bard of yours.”
The battlemage left. Opening the small leather pouch, a mirror, and the necessary accessories met his eyes. Pavel grabbed the mirror and looked at himself. He never did have the opportunity to examine his appearance, though he tried to trim his hair and beard from time to time. Sheqer never commented on the man’s looks, and the latter certainly didn’t want the demon holding a knife near his throat, even for the ostensible purpose of cutting his hair and trimming his beard.
Pavel saw a tall, yet scraggly, bearded man in his late thirties looking back at him. Square firm jaws, deep-set gray eyes, and unkempt hair. He did have excellent muscle tone and a dark tan, the result of the weeks of practice. Encratas had reason to scold him, though the apprentice didn’t see the relevance of the hermit’s grooming instructions to his training as an Azat.
He did his best and shaved off his beard. The hair he cut to what he believed was an acceptable length and tied
in a knot at the back of his head. As Pavel left his room, he found the bard waiting in the corridor.
“Sorry, Sheqer. You’re not included in the hermit’s call,” Pavel apologized. The bard might be a demon, but he had been with the man since the apprentice found himself outside the cave among the ruins.
“I did have a feeling about that. Master Encratas arrived at speed and with a very concerned expression.”
“You saw him arrive?”
“I don’t sleep, and that leaves me haunting the grounds and the woods below,” laughed the bard. “But if your Master’s demeanor was any indication, he must be carrying a weighty burden.”
Pavel went up the narrow stairs and found an open door on his left at the top of the stairs. The hermit was inside, watching him. The small room was empty except for a full-length oblong mirror mounted on ornate metal legs. Encratas motioned for the apprentice to step inside.
“Shut the door,” instructed the hermit, who was now making complicated passes with both hands over the mirror’s surface.
The apprentice did as commanded and stood near Encratas. The movements of the hermit and the changing surface of the furniture indicated a magical rite underway. Sheqer was right. The hermit had artifacts stored away. Pavel doubted if the object in front of him was the only one in the tower. The battlemage stopped what he was doing and looked at the shiny and now glowing surface of the mirror. Apparently satisfied, he turned to Pavel.
“We’re in a bind. But I have made a decision. Though the attention of a pesky bird that followed me all the way back merely reinforced my conclusion that the course of action I had decided upon was correct.”
“A bird?” asked the mystified Pavel. Events during his stay in the tower never failed to amaze him. Now, it was birds.
“A damned big one. Kept on repeating the name of a region far from here,” explained Encratas. “But I believe that annoying messenger was meant for me. I just came back from visiting an old friend. A scholar. Though you could call him a mage. Expelled from the Council a long time ago. My friend shared my concerns about the corruption which was eating those pasty-faced and limp-wristed bastards on the August Seven.”
Encratas explained that Sunor, the old mage, kept on moving from place to place, fearing assassination. But a sign appeared a few days ago that the mage wanted to talk to the battlemage. Considering the rarity and suddenness of the summons, the hermit left immediately.
The battlemage didn’t think the Council considered the scholarly man to be a threat. Still, Sunor didn’t trust Kouvas and his people to leave him alone. Encratas had stopped trying to convince the old man that he was in no danger. But after further reflection, he mused that considering the times, a hefty dose of paranoia was good medicine.
“But that’s not why I called you here. We need to part ways as soon as possible. Sunor told me of a great danger which now threatens the tower. The next attack won’t be by assassins or by mages. Even I have my limits,” said the hermit. “It’s time to leave the tower.”
“We’re going with you?” inquired Pavel. All things considered, he didn’t think that was a bad idea. Both he and the bard didn’t know shit about the lands hereabouts.
“No. I am going to Dagorath, a region north of here. It’s what that damned bird kept on repeating. Yet remember this. Your new tasks might come to you in dreams or through the utterances of other Fated like us. Or through even an animal. Good luck with that one. At least the bird could mimic human words. One feels our Lady is an uncaring mistress at times, but who are we to pry into the workings of Fate? Yet the Mistress is never unjust. Time might pass, but the scales would be balanced one way or another,” explained the hermit slowly.
“How about my training?” said the apprentice. It was all so sudden and given what he had been taught in the short time he was under the tutelage of Encratas, there were a lot of things he didn’t know.
“I am afraid that’s beyond me now. The Lady might send somebody. I really don’t know. But tasks await me in Dagorath, of that I am sure. I have lacked in my responsibilities to her Ladyship, and it’s high time I try to redeem myself. But it won’t be in this part of the world. That’s your job now, even as an Azat. Keep the balance. Try to survive,” answered the battlemage with a grim smile. “Come closer and stand before the mirror.”
Pavel positioned himself as instructed. He could see his reflection and immediately confirmed his suspicion that, even with the impromptu grooming, he looked a mountain hermit more than Encratas. The battlemage clarified that he intended to cast a spell of Seeming on Pavel, using the enchanted artifact. At the mention of the conjuration, the man remembered Sheqer’s suspicion about Tip. Encratas already assumed that the mages accompanying the assassins took back with them an image of Pavel and wanted to minimize the chances that the apprentice would be recognized.
“How about the bard?” he asked. Sheqer was also present during the fight.
“They won’t be interested in him. It’s the warrior they would be after. Hold still. Let me do this correctly,” Encratas told him.
As Pavel stared at himself, he quickly aged a decade, and his hair turned white. One of his irises turned amber. His body filled out, and his height lost a few inches. The jawline became more pronounced and a few age lines appeared on his face, giving him a cynical and experienced look. He did look different now. The color of the hair and the amber in his eye would definitely catch attention, but there wouldn’t be any connection to the mountain goat who fought the guild of assassins.
“There. But remain where you are,” pronounced the hermit, bringing out another grooming kit. “I don’t know where you learned to trim your hair, but you should probably ask for your money back.”
The pair remained in the room for several minutes as Encratas finished his work. Then he told Pavel that a scale and leather armor set, together with a longsword and a mace, had been sent to his room. Even the bard was given a short sword and a suit of leather armor. Their packs, laden with provisions and necessary equipment, had also been brought to Pavel’s room by Tip.
“No magical, bottomless sack?” smiled the apprentice.
“As if. Those things exist, but very rare and beyond the reach of mere mortals like us, even if we’re Fated Ones. A Dark High Thief might have one, but I believe the last was caught by a nasty temple guardian. Look, a spell might make a sack lighter, but manipulating magic to create dimensional pockets is a skill and ability belonging to gods and extremely powerful entities I’d rather not meet,” replied Encratas. “Oh, your Seeming does not work on the likes of us and your companion. Avoid powerful mages too. They’re bound to sense the presence of the spell.”
Pavel then asked what Encratas meant by Fated Ones. Encratas did mention the term Fated before, though the Azat had assumed the recluse used it in a different sense, not as a title or description. The hermit gave him an amused, though pitying smile.
“That’s us. Her claws and pawns. Though sometimes, one wonders if she really cares what happens to us,” remarked the hermit.
“That might have something to do with the uncountable things she has to take care of,” commented the apprentice.
“True. Yet time means nothing to such entities – Order, Chaos, Fate, and their manifestations. Her sense of justice was what drew me to her service in the first place. The Golden Blades of Order never did forgive me for turning my back on them. Golden, my ass. It’s not even worth shit on the battlefield. Those pretentious jerks really got their balls and brains mixed up,” Encratas spat with disgust. “The nice armor does work wonders in getting women to spread their legs. Bastards.”
“When do we leave the tower?” continued Pavel, anxious to learn the more important details rather than how golden armor wouldn’t stand a chance against even a smith’s hammer. Or other information about the womanizing tendencies of the Golden Blades of Order.
“Yesterday is better than today, and now is preferable than tomorrow,” said Encratas.
“How
about your personal effects in the tower?”
“Like this mirror?” laughed the hermit. “They don’t belong to me. What I have is what I could carry. This tower is an ancient sanctuary granted by the Lady. The only undestroyed remnant of the civilization which once occupied this plain. An empire, I believe. Until they pissed off the deity of another people and war ensued. This barren plain was the result of such a conflict.”
***
That afternoon, the four stood on the other side of the bridge, across the tower. Pavel would have wanted a few more weeks within the structure, but Encratas was obviously set on his decision. The Azat didn’t push the matter.
The four spent a few minutes looking back at the place which had been their home and sanctuary. It stood like a sharp knife pointing at the blue sky. Despite himself, Pavel felt like he was leaving home. But it was probably worse for the battlemage and his assistant. His glance lingered at Tip. The spell of Seeming was as good as Encratas declared. Nothing gave away what the demon suspected. Pavel reflected that if it was that good for the girl, then it would work as well for him. The hermit faced the apprentice. Encratas had a thoughtful expression on his face and though he was in front of the Azat, it was evident that his mind was elsewhere.
“You still have two unfulfilled quests to be accepted as a Sidi candidate. Then a task to prove yourself as a worthy Sidi. The fact that you’re the last one of your Order makes that quest obvious. That would have been killing Kouvas, which would be well-nigh impossible, since the bastard is the Prime of the Council of Mages, or the Archiereus of the Dark Moon Temple. Either way, you would have done us both a great service,” started Encratas, his eyes focused on the far horizon behind Pavel.
His statement shocked the man. Targeting the individuals mentioned was, as the battlemage stated, an impossible task. Pavel didn’t say anything. It was apparent that the hermit had not finished speaking.
My Name is Ruin Page 11
