A Clash of Demons

by Aleks Canard

  Her and Felix had gone to Duskmere. She’d been so proud. And didn’t pride goeth before the fall?

  Trix barely noticed the memories flooding her mind. Combat’s trance prevented her from seeing them clearly.

  Trix flipped herself over the wraith using magic. Aimed for a kill shot on the plaga’s head. It teleported. Trix figured it would. The wraith would want to face her. Trix landed on the ground less than a metre away from the plaga’s face. Altayr came around the flank, assaulting the beast with a spell barrage. Light discs lacerated the wraith’s hindquarters. Maggots and dust poured out. Altayr advanced. If he could land a direct strike into the wraith’s torso with his staff, he might be able to paralyse it temporarily.

  Then all Trix had to do was swing.

  Trix kept her guard up, bobbing to avoid the jeiun’s jaw. She was moving it towards the temple entrance. Didn’t reckon it could teleport that close to its boundary. Her mouth became devoid of moisture. She could feel her skin cracking. Peeling like she’d spent fifty consecutive days under the Desraxe sun, cooking herself on the sand. Though that wasn’t possible. Machina skin regeneration meant that they couldn’t be sunburnt short of being exposed in space.

  She felt lightheaded. Anyone else would’ve compared the feeling to a head-cold, but Trix had never had one of those. Only bad hangovers. Mucus built up in her nose. Conjunctivitis was welding her eyes shut. Soon her organs would start failing.

  The wraith backed into the invisible barrier barring it from leaving the temple. Altayr’s spell barrage prevented it from teleporting away. The sorcerer approached the plaga’s head. He was charging a direct burst of Theia’s Light. He jumped forward, twirling his staff above his head than slamming it into the wraith’s ribcage. Both its heads reared upwards in pain. The beast’s claw smacked into Altayr’s arm. His staff skidded across the stones. He hit the wall. Managed a pathetic barrier to stop his bones breaking.

  Altayr felt sickness infecting his body. Bacteria struggled to overtake the famine in a race to kill him.

  Trix was swaying on her feet when Altayr had stunned the wraith. She seized the opportunity, throwing her full force behind the slash. The jeiun’s head came off. Then the plaga’s. An ear-splitting scream made Trix fall to her knees. It wasn’t a scream, but the sound of magical energy being expended. After who knew how many years, the wraiths were no longer bound to Isaldaj’s temple.

  The wraith imploded on itself. Left nothing behind but two different coloured powders. One was from the jeiun, the other from the plaga. Wraith powder contained properties opposite to that of the wraith that left it behind. In this case, ingesting them would cure plague, and stop famine.

  Trix felt liked she’d been stuck and bled dry. Her skin creaked like wooden floorboards. She knew the powder would save her. Chances were her accelerated healing would stave off death. But those weren’t chances with which Trix wanted to gamble. She relinquished her grip on her sword. Crawled. Her skin fissured. Blood struggled to push through the cracks. It was thick. Viscous like honey.

  Machinas — so far as anyone knew — didn’t age aesthetically past their mid-twenties. Had Trix been able to see a mirror, she could’ve glimpsed a future wherein time had punished her more than mountain ranges. Already she could feel her head clearing. Her sinuses were too congested to notice that Isaldaj’s temple no longer reeked of death and decay.

  She turned to see what had befallen Altayr when she reached the powder. Her vision was still blurred, but she could see vomit trickling from his mouth. His breathing was shallow. Laboured. Like death would’ve been preferable to inhaling. The powder piles weren’t that big. Maybe a cup full of each.

  Trix scooped powder from the jeiun pile with shaky hands. She shoved as much as she could into her mouth. She’d tasted foul concoctions in her time, but wraith powder took first prize for the most revolting thing she’d ever eaten. However, the effect was immediate. Moisture returned to her skin. Of course, this expedited the problems caused by the plaga. Mucus compounded on itself. Her head-cold thundered around her skull.

  Moving no longer made Trix’s bones grind. She took a pinch of plaga powder. Her sinuses cleared. Head-cold vanished. She was still on the ground, but she could stand. The soreness from being struck in the head didn’t vanish. That didn’t matter. Trix could ignore that. Just like she was ignoring the blood running down her cheeks.

  The Huntress looked far from her best, but looking as haggard as a drug addict suffering withdrawals was by and large a huge improvement on the disease-ridden corpse she’d looked like only moments before.

  Trix took a handful of each powder. Stood. Her head rushed like it contained a blood whirlpool instead of a brain. She staggered to Altayr’s aid.

  Trees began revitalising beyond the courtyard’s walls. Though they would forever remain cracked. Their pieces suspended in the air by ancient magic. Plants were even reverting to their natural states inside the temple.

  But the wraiths had not totally vacated the temple yet. Their presence lingered in the powder that Trix was feeding Altayr.

  The machina knew not what she did. Only that she had to do it, or her friend would die.

  11

  Altayr Van Eldric was dying.

  Trix of Zilvia felt better with each second. She laid her friend on the stones. Opened his mouth. First went the powder for famine, then for plague. His body reacted slower to the remedies than Trix’s had. Trix heard his heart stabilise. It’d been doing an unhealthy jig, worse for his constitution than dancing on hot coals while being stabbed.

  ‘Trix,’ he whispered. The machina breathed a sigh of relief. Altayr would live. So would she. They were going to be okay. That was when a sinister voice wafted from the grave-well. It beckoned Trix closer. Altayr’s charm translating Djurelian must’ve still been in effect. The familiar jingling sound accompanying magical translation was evident in her ears.

  ‘You darkle, white one. Here on sacred ground, you and the sorcerer have risen the dead, and married the damned. Bound their souls in the next life.’

  ‘We set them free,’ Trix said. Her voice was hoarser than a punter who’d kicked on for five consecutive nights at a music festival. Plum splotches were underneath her eyes. The blacks of her eyes were cracked haphazardly, making her irises look like they had melted.

  ‘It was Jekassa who brought the plague here, and Jinor sowed the fields with salt when none would aid his beloved.’

  Ah fuck, Trix thought.

  ‘You have purged their evil when it was to stain this temple for eternity, until the end of days. They deserved to suffer.’

  ‘Their evil killed those who were helpless. They had to die.’

  ‘Mayhap they did. But it was not your decision, white one. You and the sorcerer have partaken in the remnants. As Jinor and Jekassa were bound, so shall you both be. Your lives entwined from this moment on. You will feel each other’s pull across the stars. A curse on you.’

  Trix eyed her sword. It was where she’d left it. By the entrance. Whenever a magical voice cursed you, it usually didn’t mean good things were about to happen. She ran for her weapon, stumbling over her own feet. She needed rest.

  The voice spoke one last time when she reached her sword.

  ‘Not all curses can be stopped with a sword,’ the demonic voice from the grave-well said. ‘Jinor and Jekassa would have told you, the worst curse of all is love.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Trix muttered. Her ears popped. She was no longer holding her sword by the entrance. She was back by Altayr’s side. He had just said her name. Trix’s sword was untouched on the stones.

  ‘Did I dream?’ Trix said, speaking to herself. She pinched her skin. It seemed like she was awake. Trix walked to the grave-well. Peered inside. Darkness reigned between the stones. Yet the smell of death was gone. The temple was freed from the wraiths’ influence.

  ‘But what was that voice?’ Trix said. She was speaking so quietly only a machina would’ve heard her. She knew it couldn’
t have been a dream because the machina often forgot her dreams. Nightmares were all she remembered upon waking. And the voice from the grave-well hadn’t been scary enough to be a nightmare.

  She heard Altayr shuffle around behind her. He was still flat on his back, his hands moving to his snakeskin pouch. His entire hand and part of his forearm disappeared inside. He pulled out a vial of cloudy liquid. Altayr drank the lot. Trix walked to her sword. She half expected to find herself back at the sorcerer’s side when her hand grasped the grip. Nothing happened. She placed it back on its mag-panel. The sheathe unfolded around it.

  Then Trix went to Altayr. His olive skin was regaining colour. He’d been paler than a coward at gunpoint. He outstretched his hand. His staff came to him. Altayr stood by using it as a crutch.

  ‘Do you feel any different?’ Trix said.

  ‘Aside from the pain, no. Who was speaking before? I heard a voice come from the grave-well. It spoke to you.’

  ‘I don’t know. It cursed us both.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘I thought it was going to attack, so I fetched my sword. Then it spoke again, and I found myself back here. Next to you.’

  ‘Trix, you never moved.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘A sorcerer seldom speaks unless he is. Though I can only say what my eyes have seen, and after what we just went through, mine may have deceived me.’

  ‘What do you think it meant when it said the worst curse of all is love?’

  ‘I expect it was trying to be poetic, considering what we just accomplished.’

  ‘All curses have to leave a mark. Usually you can tell. I didn’t feel anything. And it said we would be bound. We’re not conjoined.’

  ‘I feel like this curse is more powerful than a standard hex. I expect there will be no trace at all. I’ll search us both when I’m feeling better. It will probably be harmless.’

  ‘Or we might have both dreamt the voice. Wraith powder has been known to induce powerful hallucinations.’

  ‘That is a distinct possibility. Speaking of which, you better save what’s left,’ Altayr gestured to the powder. Breeze had blown it around a little, but it mostly remained where it had fallen. ‘Wraith powder sells for more than a fistful of dollars.’

  ‘Why don’t you take it?’ Trix said. ‘I’m sure a sorcerer can make better use of them for elixirs. I’ll take J’vari’s reward.’

  ‘You must be feeling lucky. I was unable to ascertain the nature of her ring. When she showed it to me.’

  Altayr walked to the wraith powder. Produced two vials from his bag. The powder flew into the new vials with subtle finger movements. Half of the plaga’s dust, which looked like shimmering green chalk, was left behind. For this, Altayr pulled out a third vial. He filled it, then handed it to Trix.

  ‘I told you it was yours to take.’

  ‘And now I’m gifting some to you. Your line of work is a dangerous one, and while you may be as resilient to damage as that impossible sword of yours, others who join you are not. Myself included. Keep this not for yourself, but for any who fall sick while they’re with you.’

  Trix nodded. Took the vial without fanfare. She slotted it onto her bandolier, where one of her silver bombs had been. ‘We’ll need to show J’vari the powder as proof.’

  ‘So we will.’

  ‘Most people who have contracted me to kill wraiths refuse to believe a little powder is all that’s left. They think some kind of severed, ghostly head is in order.’

  ‘Yes, but most people are ignorant.’

  ‘I expect you’ll want to summon a portal.’

  Altayr was putting his full weight on his staff. ‘I think this time walking might be better. A portal in my condition might not send us where we’re intending to go.’

  Trix took one last look at the temple. Snow had started falling on the stones again. The forest’s ground was still covered.

  The sorcerer and the Huntress walked towards J’vari’s convoy with little haste. For the world was tranquil, and there was time enough to wander.

  12

  Lazy laughter and sauntering smoke spirals came from the convoy.

  It was no longer in a perfect circle. J’vari’s people were preparing to move out. It looked like they were headed east, towards the valley Trix had seen when J’vari walked her part way to the temple.

  J’vari’s caravan was still in the same place. She was sitting outside, swinging on a cloth hammock, smoking a pipe. Her eyes were closed. She was content.

  ‘We’ve killed the wraiths,’ Trix said.

  J’vari’s eyes opened. Her slit pupils sharp enough to cut. ‘My, white one, your talents must have improved markedly since I last saw you. You,’ she nodded to Altayr, ‘were levitating her unconscious body.’

  ‘I underestimated magical forces.’

  ‘And you have proof of your hunt?’

  Altayr revealed the vials of wraith powder. J’vari requested to smell them. Altayr obliged.

  ‘I am satisfied you have told the truth. I intend to see the temple myself before we leave, now that wraiths no longer stalk its halls.’

  ‘Now there’s only a matter of the payment,’ Trix said. If she wasn’t promised payment before a hunt, then she would walk. It was all the same to her, whether she killed a monster or not. It was only once she’d become involved that she liked the thrill.

  ‘Of course, white one,’ J’vari said. She slid the platinum ring off her finger. Held it out to Trix. ‘Djurels are excellent judges of people. We often see things other do not. Such is the power of this ring. When near an illusion it will grow warm against your skin. Placing it against the illusion will dispel it, showing you how the world truly is. May it serve you well, white one.’

  ‘My thanks, J’vari. This price is fair.’

  ‘Where do your people venture now?’ Altayr said.

  ‘We follow the valley to the east, further inland where the air blows warmer, and the sun shines hotter. Then north.’

  ‘Farewell, J’vari.’

  ‘Isaldaj djinka koa,’ the djurel said, bowing lower than the first time. She turned to Altayr. ‘Your jakzia has changed since last we spoke, Red one. Its edges darkle, as does all of hers,’ J’vari pointed to Trix. ‘Careful, white one. You tinct the world where you walk.’

  Once, in her much younger years, Trix would’ve killed J’vari where she stood for such a comment. But the djurelem spoke not to berate nor insult. She spoke as a warning, based on what she thought was a solid belief. Trix still simmered, though she didn’t lash out. If anything, she felt like J’vari was right. She didn’t want to admit that to herself. Balthioul had hailed her as the ultimate monster.

  Beatrix Westwood was going to prove them both wrong.

  ‘If I do as you say, why are you not afraid?’

  ‘As the rocks stain the water pink, not all that is tainted is defiled. Beauty may come from acts deemed most vile. When a fire scorches the earth that which arises afterwards becomes better than what preceded it. But for scorched earth to renew itself, the fire must stop burning. You understand, don’t you?’

  Trix nodded.

  ‘You saw death’s face in that temple, white one. I suspect it was like looking into a mirror. Warm days and cool nights,’ J’vari bowed once more, then settled back into her hammock, closing her eyes, and rocking in time with her heart’s gentle beat.

  Altayr and Trix let her be. They walked into the forest, knowing that they might never see J’vari again. Though if voyaging among the stars had taught them anything, it was that chance encounters tended to be more likely than not.

  They spoke once they were under the trees.

  ‘What planet beckons you now?’ Altayr said. He looked much better than he did in the courtyard.

  ‘I don’t think you’d believe the coincidence. One of my friends is getting married.’

  ‘I expect the affair will be dull compared to the union in which we participated.’

  ‘It’s on t
he Bastion. I think the biggest surprise is that Andy found someone willing to marry him in the first place.’

  ‘Who is to be his betrothed?’

  ‘A menisel named Aetta. She’s one of the Bastion’s top analysts.’

  ‘If it is to be a zirean wedding, custom demands you bring a date.’

  Arriving to a Zirean wedding without a date was inconceivable. The height of rudeness. Zireans had a superstition that newlywed couples should only be surrounded by those who were in relationships. Such company would give their marriage a better chance. Not so much anymore, and not among medcanols or menisels, but zireans viewed single guests at a wedding as exuding negative energy. Why, altaeifs believed there had to be something wrong with you if you were an adult and could not find a date. If only for one night.

  Trix doubted that such an archaic — and, she thought, foolish — tradition would be expected to be honoured at Andy’s wedding. But she figured it couldn’t hurt. It’d be a cultural way to show Andy she cared, despite having footed the bill for his engagement ring in the first place.

  ‘Well, since you’re here, will you come with me?’

  ‘Of course. I can use the time to peruse the Bastion’s newest goods. And I shan’t pass up another chance to dance with you.’

  ‘It wasn’t half as terrible as I imagined,’ Trix smiled.

  ‘When is this wedding?’

  ‘In about thirty hours. We have time.’

  ‘You were cutting it close, taking a contract so near to the date.’

  ‘I don’t think Andy expected me to show. He knows I’m always busy. He also knows I don’t do weddings, or generally any kind of party with more than ten people.’

  Altayr grinned. He still looked like shit. But he no longer felt like it.

  ‘You are one of the few people I know whose friends would do anything for her. And I know that you would, if Andy asked, kill a monster or save him from any situation in which his death was an imminent possibility. In fact, friends are the only people you’ll help with no promise of money. Attending his wedding shouldn’t be as arduous as you make it seem.’