The Demon World

by Sally Green

  “Cut deeper.”

  Tanya was firmer and stronger than Ambrose had expected and did a better job than he’d have dared do.

  Ambrose pulled on the arrow and the princess’s chest seemed to move up. Shits, had he caught a bone? He’d have to turn the arrow. No, he’d have to push it farther in, turn it, and then pull it out. He couldn’t allow himself to think too much. He pushed the arrow in.

  Please work. Please.

  He turned the arrow and blood flowed out, but as he pulled the arrow came loose too. Blood was pulsing out of the princess’s wound.

  Tanya said, “The blood’s a good sign. It means she’s still alive. I’ll clean the cut. You apply the smoke.”

  Ambrose sucked in the purple demon smoke, feeling its warmth and strength in his mouth, and he leaned over the princess’s chest, his lips on her skin, his mouth open. He could feel the smoke trying to leave, trying to go into the princess and also trying to go into his brain. He felt dizzy. The smoke wouldn’t make him stronger, but it would drug him.

  He held the wound shut with his fingers, his mouth covering the worst of it for as long as possible. He held on and on, then spluttered and gasped for air, his head swimming.

  The central part of the wound was no longer bleeding.

  “It’s working,” Tanya said. “But you must do it again where blood is still coming out.”

  Ambrose took another inhalation of smoke and leaned over the wound again. He closed his eyes and felt unbalanced. Hands held him in place and he heard Tanya say, “You can do it. You can save her.” He closed his eyes and felt the smoke drift out of his mouth and over the wound. He could sense it was working. The smoke was moving more slowly. Eventually he lifted his head and the smoke drifted up and away, out of his mouth and up to the ceiling.

  “It’s stopped bleeding,” Tanya said. “We’ve done it.”

  Maybe, but Ambrose wanted to make sure. He inhaled a small amount of smoke, applied it again. He could feel the smoke dipping into the wound. It was most active there, swirling and hotter. As if it wanted to heal. His head felt clear now. Crystal clear. And holding his breath was not a problem anymore. He stayed like that. The wound wasn’t bleeding. The smoke was probing less.

  Ambrose breathed the smoke out and watched it rise and move to the window. It seemed to know the way to go. Tanya opened the casement to let the smoke out, eager to see it leave.

  The princess’s face was pale, and he stroked her cheek and the deep cut there. He took another small inhalation of smoke and healed that too. Then he took her hand in his. She was alive. She wouldn’t die. He’d done all he could for now, but he wouldn’t leave her side again.

  CATHERINE

  DONNAFON, NORTHERN PITORIA

  The goodwill of the natives is essential—win it, buy it, and lie for it.

  War: The Art of Winning, M. Tatcher

  CATHERINE SAT at the table in her rooms. She had recovered from the attempt on her life two days earlier and had abandoned her plans to visit her army. In fact, she hadn’t left her room since, and she had all requests, petitions, and visitors sent to the chancellor in Tornia. He had the king’s funeral to deal with as well. Catherine had another funeral to think of—Rafyon’s.

  Ambrose was at the window, looking down to the gardens. He had spent most of the time with her, always under Tanya’s watchful eye, though they hardly spoke. Lord and Lady Donnell had visited her once, briefly, but she’d made excuses that she was still recovering and needed rest.

  Physically Catherine was strong. She had a long, thick scar across her shoulder and the bone beneath had a lump on it, but she didn’t mind it. Nor did she mind the V-shaped scar on her cheekbone. The attack had left deeper wounds. Catherine wanted to attend Rafyon’s funeral that afternoon, but she feared it, or rather she feared another attempt on her life.

  “You don’t need to go,” Ambrose told her.

  “Rafyon gave his life for mine. He was a loyal supporter. He’ll be impossible to replace in my guard and in my heart. It’s only right that I go.”

  Ambrose turned to her. “He would want you to be safe. There is no disrespect in missing it in these circumstances.” Ambrose sounded exhausted and he turned back to look out of the window and added, “Let’s wait to hear if Davyon has learned anything.”

  Catherine tapped the tabletop with her fingernails. Davyon was interrogating her assailant. The man had been caught as he’d tried to escape. He’d been unlucky and fallen and twisted his ankle as he’d fled, a small injury but it would cost him his life as he’d taken Rafyon’s. “You believe he’s the one who attacked me, don’t you? There are no doubts in your mind?”

  “There are no doubts. He had the bow and arrows on him. He doesn’t even deny it. But we need to know who sent him. Why he did it.”

  “You mean we need to know if there are more of them?”

  As if on cue there was a knock on the door, and Tanya let Davyon in. The general looked tired and drawn but his voice was as clipped and precise as ever. “The assassin’s name is Wilkes. He’s a young man, not even twenty-one years old, I’d say, though he’s not so sure of his age. He’s the son of a farrier.”

  “An ordinary young man then,” Catherine said.

  Davyon shook his head. “Not quite, Your Highness. He says you’re a woman who wants to destroy the prince and all men. He says you’re perverted in wanting to lead the army. He says you’re not a real woman, you don’t know your place. He’s a man fueled by hate, mostly a hatred of women. Amid his very long ramblings, he talked of his wife—the cause of all his problems, or so he says.”

  Catherine had expected that his hatred might be to do with her being Brigantine or the attack by her father, but it was even more fundamental. The problem was that she was female.

  Ambrose asked, “Do you think he was sent by anyone?”

  “It’s hard to say if someone has put these ideas into his head or he’s come up with them himself. But in all his talk—and he’s not silent, let me tell you that—he never mentions anyone persuading him to attack the princess. It seems that this was his idea. His duty to the men of Pitoria, he says. He says the princess is an evil influence who has tried to kill the prince many times. He idolizes the prince actually. I told him I worked closely with Prince Tzsayn and he called on me to help him by killing the princess. He called me a traitor when I refused.”

  “So he’s working alone,” Ambrose agreed.

  Davyon nodded. “He’s a fanatic.”

  “What will happen to him?” Catherine asked.

  “He killed Rafyon and tried to kill you, Your Highness. The penalty is death by hanging.”

  “It won’t bring Rafyon back, though,” Catherine said. She rubbed her face. Rafyon had been killed for nothing.

  There was no excuse for her to stay in her room. She was supposed to be a leader, not a coward. “I’ll go to the funeral and after that I need to get back to work. I still want to meet my generals.”

  “Do you intend to go to the blue-hairs’ camp?” Davyon asked.

  Catherine hesitated. She knew she should be seen if she was to be the leader, but she was still nervous about being exposed and vulnerable. Leaving the castle for an afternoon to go to Rafyon’s funeral felt daunting enough. “No, I want the generals to come to me here.”

  Davyon left and Ambrose and five white-hairs escorted her to the funeral. It was a short and depressing ceremony. Catherine had only known Rafyon a few weeks but he’d been loyal to her from the first moment. He had been intelligent and brave, and now he was dead because of a man who hated her for no other reason than she was a woman. She looked at all the men around her, and wondered what they really thought of her. Did they all think she shouldn’t lead the army? Back in Brigant women couldn’t speak. Here things were more liberal, but still there was something else women just shouldn’t do. And the penalty for women who overstepp
ed the mark? Being killed—that was the same wherever you were.

  Back in her rooms alone, Catherine paced around, unable to rest. She couldn’t forget the faces at the funeral. Rows and rows of solemn men, but who knew what was going on in their heads? Any of them could attack her. It didn’t have to be someone sent by Lord Farrow, a disgruntled blue-hair, one of her father’s assassins—it could be any man who hated women with any sort of power.

  There was a bang from the corridor below.

  Catherine jumped. And then froze, listening.

  Silence. Then a woman’s laugh. It had just been a door slamming.

  Catherine’s stomach was tight with nerves. She paced again. But what if it wasn’t just a door slamming? What if it was another attack?

  She stopped and listened again. But there was nothing to hear. She waited and waited and reminded herself that she had protection. There were guards outside her room. She was safe. If she was attacked, the smoke would save her. She really should carry it with her at all times.

  Catherine got the bottle of demon smoke and set it on the table. The smoke was moving slowly in the bottle, its color varying slightly from a pale lilac to a deep bruised purple. She put her hand on the bottle and the smoke moved faster, darkening and swirling by her hand.

  Catherine stroked her finger down the bottle, watching its intensity move with her. The smoke had saved her and the smoke made her strong. It gave her a feeling like nothing else, a feeling of being powerful. She’d felt it the first time she’d used it and then again on the Northern Plateau and after crossing the river. It was a feeling of power, but also, as she’d used it more, she felt a kind of peace. And that feeling was the one she’d felt when she was recovering from the arrow wound. She’d been in the most dreamy, hazy place, floating, and her body had felt alive.

  Another assassin could get through at any time but the smoke would always save her.

  There was a small perfume bottle in a velvet bag that Lady Donnell had given her. It would be perfect for holding a mouthful of smoke. Catherine turned the bottle of smoke upside down, loosened the cork, and let a thin wisp escape. She stoppered the bottle while leaning forward and sucking the smoke into her mouth, then breathed it out into the small perfume bottle.

  And already the smoke made her feel strong.

  No harm in feeling strong.

  She inhaled some more. The heat on her tongue was intense. She closed her lips, but the smoke tried to push its way out. Finding no route that way, it swirled around her mouth, seeping upward into her brain and down into her lungs. She breathed it out in a long stream and watched the smoke cloud in front of her. It swirled and she sucked the cloud back in again, smiling to herself at her quick reaction. She felt strong.

  TASH

  DEMON TUNNELS

  THE BRIGANTINES had set up a simple system for collecting purple demon smoke. They threw a dead human body into the central well—only one at a time—and all they had to do was wait. When a newly formed demon climbed out, he was helped up by four Brigantine soldiers and then slaughtered while he was still unsteady on his legs. The purple smoke was collected and another human body thrown in. It was horribly efficient and strangely sad to watch. The first farmed demon seemed to realize in his final moments that his life would be very brief, and he fought and struck at the soldiers, but he stood no chance agains them.

  All this was done under the watchful eyes of the young girl and the older Brigantine commander. Tash had noticed the girl going in and out of tunnels, reappearing at different levels. She seemed familiar with, almost at home in, the demon world.

  The demons themselves had moved farther up the terraces. There had been a few skirmishes with the soldiers after the initial battle, but now the positions were being held. All the lower terraces were occupied by Brigantines and the upper levels by the demons, and Tash and Geratan were hidden between the two.

  The Brigantines had a stock of bodies, all Pitorian soldiers with blue hair. They weren’t throwing in the bodies of their own men.

  The transformation time, though, was not quick. There was a lot of waiting around between a body being thrown into the central core and the emergence of a new demon.

  If they do it continually, then they will make about two demons each day.

  Geratan was lying close to Tash and she wasn’t sure she liked him answering her questions when she hadn’t even asked them.

  You were wondering, Tash. And I had the answer. So I thought I’d tell you.

  I didn’t even know you were touching me. Piss off out of my head.

  Stop swearing in mine!

  But Tash could see Geratan was smiling.

  It’s not funny, Geratan. Men are dead. And demons are being born then killed, and the Brigantines are going to use the smoke to make more dead humans and more dead demons.

  Yes, you’re right. It’s serious. Very serious. And there’s nothing we can do here. All we’re doing by staying is risking getting caught by either the Brigantines or the demons. We should go and warn the Pitorians.

  Tash moved away from Geratan while she thought about this. She still had an urge to stay close to the purple smoke—somehow it felt good. But this wasn’t the time, not with the place full of Brigantines.

  Geratan turned to Tash and mouthed, Well?

  Tash put her hand on his. Fine, let’s get out of here. Though I’m not sure which way is out.

  Geratan sat up and turned round to look at the terrace.

  We need to pick a tunnel that will bring us out to the south of the plateau and not close to Rossarb. But since we’ve no idea where any of the tunnels come out, or even which is north or south, this nearest one looks as good as any other.

  They set off with Tash in the lead. Soon the sounds of the demons and the Brigantines faded to silence behind them. Gradually the tunnel narrowed and steepened. They both had scrapes on their hands and arms when they reached the top. Then the tunnel curved sharply round to the left and then down, and, although she was disoriented, Tash had a horrible feeling they were going to end up back on a terrace in the cavern. She touched Geratan’s arm to ask him. We seem to be going back on ourselves. What do you think?

  Let me take the lead.

  Geratan led the way then, moving slowly and silently past another turn in the tunnel where he abruptly stopped.

  Tash couldn’t see past him so she touched his arm. What is it?

  Demons! A lot of demons.

  Tash peered round Geratan. Shits! There were too many to count. All red, all huge, all—thankfully—with their backs to her.

  She knew not to even breathe.

  Geratan was gently guiding her backward. You’re doing fine. Nice and quiet. Keep going slowly.

  If they hear us, we’ll never make it.

  And so we keep on like this—silently.

  Much as Tash wanted to run, she knew they’d hear her if she did and they’d catch her. The only safe way was to be slow and silent.

  How many were there?

  Forty or fifty.

  Shits! Like a demon headquarters?

  The demon war room, perhaps. The red-and-white ones—I think they’re the old ones—they were in the middle, and lots of the biggest red demons.

  Shitting shits! We would pick the worst tunnel.

  We just have to go back the way we’ve come to the central cavern and pick a different one.

  They made it back to the terrace and crouched in the tunnel entrance, peering out.

  What do you think? Which way should we try? Geratan asked.

  Go left. The tunnel we first arrived through was that way. Try one nearer to that.

  Agreed.

  They crept along the terrace and up a level. Tash chose a tunnel and soon they were running along it. At first, as the tunnel rose gradually, Tash was hopeful that it would lead them to the surface, but then ther
e was an abrupt left turn and the tunnel descended. Tash stopped and Geratan grabbed her hand. I think it’s going back the way we came.

  Yes, I agree. We’ll just have to go back and try another.

  But how many more? And how many before we come across a demon?

  I don’t know, Tash. But we have to keep trying.

  Tash felt like not trying. It all seems too complicated.

  We’ll do it, Tash. We just have to take it slowly and carefully.

  They went back to the terrace and tried two more tunnels, both of which headed upward then veered sharply round and down, back to where they’d begun.

  Geratan looked exasperated, but said, Let’s pick another tunnel.

  I’ve been thinking . . .

  Yes, mostly in swear words.

  Seriously. I was thinking that . . . maybe the tunnels are changing. The tunnels can seal up if a demon dies, and I guess the demons make the tunnels. So maybe they’re changing direction as well.

  I think you might be right. Look at those lower terraces.

  The terraces occupied by the Brigantines did look different. They looked narrower and had fewer tunnels than she remembered. And there were three tunnel entrances that were so small that a man would struggle to crawl through. Tash stared at one of these and it did seem to be getting smaller and smaller as she watched. It didn’t take much longer before the tunnel reduced to the width of a barrel, then a bucket, and then it was gone. Not only was it gone and filled in, but the stone seemed to be bulging out now, filling in the terrace too.

  Did you see that? Geratan asked.

  Yes, it’s horrible. Like the stone is swelling and trapping us here.

  There’s still hundreds of other tunnels. Just a few less over there for us to try.

  Tash looked around the huge cavern and the terraces behind them still seemed to have lots of tunnels. The bridges and carvings all looked the same.