by Jenn Lyons
The fugitive, grasping at thin branches in the highest portions of a sickly mangrove tree nearby, breathed his first breath after they had left. He didn’t know how long it would be before the hunt master realized he had been deceived and returned. To give weight to his worry, he heard the sound of hoof beats as he lowered himself.
He had no time to move back up the tree; he was trapped on a lower branch, with only the possibility that the shadows would still conceal him.
A straggler demon, wearing ornate metal armor and cloaked in long, flowing black, rode into the clearing. The hood of his cloak covered a more concealing helmet. In his right hand, the hunter held a long spear, and in the left hand he held the reins of his mount. He rode a magnificent creature, a giant stallion warhorse with a coal-black coat and hooves of burnished fire. The horse was elemental, full of burning energy and the inferno’s warmth, melting the frozen ground as it moved.
The fugitive could not help but think this rider’s horse was far superior to any of the other demon steeds, but that thought brought little comfort. The hunter moved through the glade, with none of the impatient rush of the rest of the pack. He dismounted his horse and bent over to examine the tracks leading to the water. Then, as the young man watched him, not daring to move, the demon raised its head, and saw the fugitive.
He leapt at the demon hunter. He hit the cloaked figure hard, bowling him over and knocking the spear from his hand. The giant horse screamed in rage.
But the young man had mistimed his attack: as the two rolled, both splashed into the lethal black water.
The terrified man lashed out, hitting the hunter in the stomach and jaw. He might as well have hit a tree; though the demon staggered back, the young man was certain he’d caused no real damage. He scrambled up to reach the spear, but he felt an iron-like hand grab him by the throat and drag him underwater. He couldn’t stop himself from groaning as the hunter grappled with him. He tried to free his neck from the demon’s grip, but immersed in the foul liquid of the lake, he couldn’t gain the leverage he needed. He twisted, trusting in the oily water to make his attacker’s grip weaken, and elbowed his assailant. He felt the hit strike home, and the grip on him released. He pushed himself up into the air, gasping.
There was movement behind him. He kicked with all his weight, but the hunter grabbed his leg. His opponent was stronger than him—stronger than four of him. The figure pushed his foot away from him, sending the hunted young man sprawling onto the tidal line between water and land. Realizing his opportunity, he scrambled up and grabbed the spear, dodging the demon horse’s flashing hooves.
His hand closed on the weapon and a surge of energy rode up his arm. He felt like he was holding a forge, an inferno, the sun itself. It was the first true warmth he could remember experiencing, yet for all that it seemed familiar.
Armed, he turned back to the demon in the water. The dark surface of the lake in front of him broke, and a being rose from the depths. He gasped and took a step back.
A dragon rose from the lake.
The beast was long and sinewy, its body made of snakelike coils that twisted and flowed back into the water. He thought the dragon’s color black, or at least a midnight blue. The silhouette of the dragon, its scales and teeth and the depths of its eyes, was outlined in a pale luminescence. The glow made it look otherworldly, ethereal—less like a dragon than the ghost of a dragon. A ghost, in a land of ghosts.
“Run!” the demon yelled to him.
Its voice was female.
The demon only had enough time to turn in the dragon’s direction before the monster struck. It snatched up the demon knight and sank razor fangs through black armor with an awful crunch. The dragon shook the demon and tossed her body to the side. She screamed, awful and high, before she was silent.
He had that much time to look at the dragon before it attacked, snapping its long neck forward to swallow him whole. The man barely readied the spear. He knew as he did it would be a gesture of defiance and no real defense. He felt two sensations, simultaneously—the flux of energy cascading over him as the spear pierced the upper roof of the dragon’s mouth and pain as the creature’s teeth crushed the skin, muscle, and bone of his right leg. The sensation added to the constant pain of his missing heart, and with it came a different pain: the return of memory.
Every memory.
Every memory of every lifetime.
He screamed—as primal and brutal as the demon’s voice—and felt himself lifted into the air by the dragon as it flipped back its head to finish the act of swallowing.
There was a short pause as the dragon realized something was wrong.
The dragon lifted its clawed hands to clear the obstruction from its mouth, but it was too late. Light, the bright yellow light of a sun that had not been seen in the living world for thousands of years—and in this place, never—glowed hot and brilliant between its teeth. Liquid star fire dissolved the surrounding flesh through gashes that opened in the dragon’s skin.
The incredible light, and the sound of the dragon’s death-cry, carried for miles in every direction. The dark lake’s waters splashed thick and viscous against the shoreline from the force of the body that crashed back down beneath its surface. The force sent out ripples that faded, and grew still.
The woods were silent, as if from shock. Finally, the man dragged himself to shore. He held the spear in one hand and dragged the demon’s body with the other, which he let drop once he’d cleared the water.
Walking was an act of will made possible only through the spear’s magic. If he had been alive, his twisted, crushed leg would surely have meant his death. The hell-horse kept trying to close with him. He had to threaten the beast with the spear to keep it at bay. He pulled the helmet from the fallen knight’s head and stared at her face.
Her skin was red and her hair was a single black red stripe across her head. If her eyes were open, he knew they would be all the colors of the forge. Here in the Afterlife, he could see her soul, see the sticky black corruption of demonic taint. But worst of all, he recognized her. He knew her, knew her even if her appearance had changed with her rebirth, even if she no longer looked like the woman who had once saved him from a fate much worse than death.
He knew in that moment what a sick joke Xaltorath had played on him.
“Elana . . .”
He put his head in his hands and wept.
82: A MEETING OF WIZARDS
Xaltorath was having a grand time.
He killed everyone he met, often in spectacular ways, rending limbs apart, eating children whole, and using the skulls of husbands to bash in the heads of their wives. He left a large burning path of destruction behind him, reveling in the carnage as he called his brethren from Hell so they too could play. They raped and destroyed and devoured the souls of those slain.
He loved humans. They had such a delicious heat to them. They felt such pain. He could never hurt them enough to satisfy his appetites.
Ahead of him, standing in the road, was an innocuous-looking man in a tattered patchwork sallí cloak. One might have dismissed him if it were not for the simple band around his head, the long narrow wand held in his grasp.
One would never have recognized Sandus as the Emperor, wielding two of the most powerful artifacts in the entire world, if one hadn’t known better.
Xaltorath grinned. ***I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU!***
Emperor Sandus was not amused. “Go home. Send your people home.”
Xaltorath stopped to pick bits of someone’s leg out of his teeth. ***NOT THIS TIME.***
Sandus nodded as if accepting the answer and pulled back his arm. A stream of red energy pulsed forth, not fire so much as boiling gas. At the last moment the beam deflected and landed on a series of nearby apartments, which went up in flames.
“He’s right,” Gadrith said, as Sandus looked around for the source of magical aid. “The demon and I have a bargain. He helps me and in return he burns this city to the ground. You can’t say
that they don’t have it coming. This city deserves to burn.”
Sandus inhaled. “So the boy was right. You’re still alive.”
“Technically? No. I’m not.” Gadrith held his hands up, letting the full sleeves of his long black robes fall back against his elbows. “Shall we finish this? Once and for all time?”
Sandus stared at the demon, then at Gadrith. “The last time we fought, you lost. Have you forgotten that now I am Emperor?”
“Oh, I have never forgotten. You are what I made you.”
Xaltorath turned away from them and started toward the center of the City. He reached over and tossed a shopkeeper to his death, splattering the back of his skull against a brick wall.
“So, who shall you deal with first, Your Majesty?” Gadrith said. “The demon prince? Or the man who destroyed your family? Would you like to know what I did with the soul of your wife? I’m willing to go into explicit detail.”
Sandus’s nostrils flared. He chanted in a foreign tongue. Balls of deadly energy formed around his hands. He answered by tossing them straight at Gadrith the Twisted.
He expected it to be the beginning volley of an epic mage duel, the first round of a fight that only he could handle, because Gadrith was so very dangerous.
Instead, Gadrith took the blows to the chest, gritting his teeth together in a horrible smile. He sank to his knees while the energy burned his skin and consumed his body.
Gadrith laughed as he died.
Too late, Emperor Sandus realized his terrible mistake.
“We can’t stay here while the City burns,” Tyentso said to Teraeth.
The vané chewed on his thumb as the church to his goddess* filled with bodies, living and dead. Refugees poured inside—thinking they could find shelter here from the demons ravaging the City.
But even the Cathedral of Thaena wasn’t safe. The demons would come there too.
“I’m not capable of taking on a demon prince,” Teraeth admitted. “Even my arrogance has its limits.”
“Clear the way,” a deep voice bellowed, and the people who stood over Kihrin’s corpse looked up to see Qoran Milligreest and a group of soldiers carrying someone on a cloak.
Tyentso’s eyes widened. “I thought he was in Khorvesh.”
“He’s the High General,” Teraeth whispered. “Someone must have brought him back through a gate.”
Therin tore his gaze away from his son’s corpse as he heard Milligreest’s voice. His breath caught. “Is that . . . Is that Jarith?”
The soldiers laid Jarith’s body down on the floor in what clear space was available. There was no obvious injury on the man, but that did not change that he was dead, his face frozen midscream.
Milligreest said to Therin, “Can he be Returned?” His voice was even and tight, thick as iron bars.
“I’m not sure—” Therin bent down to look at Jarith. It was as if he had never stopped being a priest, the old ways returning to him by instinct.
“If a demon tore his soul out, there’s nothing that can be done,” Tyentso said. “I’m sorry, Qoran.”
The High General’s head whipped up at the sound. He looked at her, brows drawn together as he tried to place a voice he hadn’t heard in twenty years. Recognition dawned, and the man shook his head. “Raverí, you shouldn’t have come back.”
“Never knew what was good for me,” Tyentso answered. She turned to Teraeth. “Give us a moment?”
Teraeth frowned at her and the High General, then nodded as he returned to Lady Miya’s side. Therin followed, either to give Tyentso and the High General their privacy or because he was protective of Miya around males of her own kind.
“How bad is it?” Tyentso asked.
Qoran scowled. “As grim as I’ve ever seen it. Why have you—”
She laid a hand on his arm. “That can wait. First, I have to deal with Gadrith.”
“You won’t need to,” Qoran said. “Gadrith’s the only thing that’s gone right so far.”
Tyentso’s expression tightened. “What?”
Qoran shrugged. “Sandus killed him. At least we only have to worry about Xaltorath.”
“Sandus killed . . .” Tyentso exhaled. “That bastard. That slimy morgage-sucking, goat-raping demon’s cunt!”*
The High General blinked at her, taken aback by the naked anger of her words.
Tyentso leaned up and kissed Qoran on the cheek. “I’ve missed you, Qoran. But Sandus is dead, and Gadrith is very much alive. You and the others need to stop Xaltorath. I’ll take care of my . . . husband.”
She turned away from him and ran outside into the burning night.
83: XALTORATH’S DAUGHTER
The hunting demons came back the second time, quiet save for the occasional soft growl from the dogs. No doubt it was one thing to skirt the edges of the dragon’s lake domain, and quite another to come near when the dragon might be injured, angry . . . hungry.
They inspected the edge of the water until they were certain that there was no dragon about to descend on them—and then continued with their search. The demons gave shouts of triumph as they found the body of the unconscious woman.
The hunt master dismounted, motioning to two of his men to grab the woman by the arms and hold her up in the air. He grabbed her chin and turned her head from side to side. She was tall and lean. A single stripe of hair ran from her upper forehead to the base of her neck, black or crimson, depending on how the light struck it. The skin of her face was a red-brown hue, but her hands were black.
The demon laughed and said something. Then he pulled a knife from his belt and moved to slice open the woman’s throat.
Kihrin stepped out from his hiding space and whistled to draw their attention. He spun the gold spear in his right hand with practiced ease. “Why are you doing that, buck-head? She’s one of yours, isn’t she?”
The horned demon turned, surprised and pleased. **So quaint. You think that all our kind are friends? The strong prey on the weak. It is the only law.**
“Really?” Kihrin chuckled. “That’s . . . stupid. Impressively stupid. I know demons aren’t smart, but no wonder you all lost the last war. Step away from her. I didn’t leave her there for you to kill.”
The demon licked his knife before he put it back to the unconscious woman’s throat. **Drop your weapon and surrender, or I feed on her soul.**
“Again with you being an idiot,” Kihrin said. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? I’m not saving her from you. I’m giving you a chance to leave here and go back to your masters before it’s too late. Take it.”
The demon laughed. **You’ll take on all of us? By yourself?**
Kihrin smiled with the warmth of a man who didn’t believe himself outmatched. “You must be young. Tell me, did your masters even bother to tell you just who it was you hunted tonight?”
The demon’s expression hid in shadow, but his growl carried through the air well enough. **A boy. A boy not yet past his first quarter-century, no matter the vané blood that runs through dead veins. A boy named Kihrin.**
“This life, sure. Didn’t Xaltorath tell who I used to be? He has to know. I’ll give you one last chance . . .”
The demon walked away from the woman. **Tear out his lower soul. Bring the spear and the rest to me.** Hounds, demons, and hell-horses advanced.
Kihrin snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. A few demons laughed as they advanced, then pushed their horses to a gallop to ride him down.
The demons ordered to hold their captive up for the master’s pleasure had less than a second to register that their victim had woken. Then she kicked one demon away from her. She grabbed the other by the tentacles above its ears and twisted its head in a perfect circle to the sound of snapping bone. The second demon came at her with a glowing sword that radiated a heat-sucking cold fire. She ducked under the weapon, drew her hand into a fist, and punched him.
Her hand went through his armor, and then through his chest, exiting through his back in a spray of gor
e. She twisted his spine into two pieces, then let the corpse fall away. She moved with beautiful grace, as if violence were a dance she had practiced since childhood.
Her eyes burned with all the colors of a forge.
She tore the sword away from its dead owner’s grip before it could dissolve. The color of the weapon turned from blue to red.*
She began her slaughter in earnest.
Meanwhile, Kihrin set the spear to the ground, and readied to take the demonic charge. The demon steed did not impale itself so much as dissolve, reduced back into energy and chaos. The energy flowed up the spear and added itself to his own, which he used to move his attackers back into each other. Just for fun, he put out every bit of cold fire in a two-hundred-foot radius. Torches went out. Cold-fire hooves stopped burning. He stabbed at hounds, with much the same result as the horses. A few of the dogs faced their demise with pleading, shining eyes—obscenely grateful for oblivion.
The master of the hunt decided that it would be best if he rode elsewhere, fast. As he galloped away, the spirit of the rest broke with his exit. In a matter of seconds, the clearing was empty save for the man, the woman, and the fading soul-forms of annihilated demons. He summoned up a glowing ball of mage-light.
The two people stared at each other.
The woman reached up to retrieve her cloak from where it hung off the tattered branches of a tree. When she had draped it across her shoulders, she turned back to him.
“That,” she said, pointing at the spear, “belongs to me.”
Kihrin smiled. “I don’t think it would be in my best interests to return Khoreval to you, before you’ve promised me I won’t be her next victim.”
The woman stopped, startled. “You know her name?”
“Of course. Who did you think named her?”
The woman blinked at him with those fiery, fierce red eyes. “That’s not possible.”
“Ah, the skeptical sort. Still, it’s the truth.”
