Anaya herself had never seemed so animated. As the whirling column of flame grew before her she seemed impervious to its heat; rather her face shone with excitement, her skin flushed pink in the glow of the creature before her, her eyes wild, like a child witnessing the sea for the first time.
And then it was here. To Cheris it appeared as little more than a roaring column of flame, but she knew it was so much more than that. It had intelligence, a powerful will, and, most of all, a seething wrath against its summoner, the being that had sucked it into this dry plane, like a shark in a desert. It knew it was doomed here, in a world nearly devoid of the magical forces it needed for its survival. All it could do was feed on the little energy available, and the mage that had called it forth would be its first victim.
Helpless and terrified, all Cheris could do was watch the events play out before her. She heard a crash and realised that Marcus had fallen off the chair and was slowly but frantically trying to pull himself towards his staff. She looked at Anaya, a tiny figure before the burning demon. She was attempting the binding ritual Cheris realised, the attempt to subjugate the creature to her will. However, Cheris could see that the presence of the writhing twisting pillar of fire just a few feet away from her was proving unsettling. After flicking desperately over a few pages of the book, Anaya started to speak the ritual, but her voice was faltering, hesitant, unsteady. Then Cheris heard the voice. The demon was a magical creature and could enter the heads of those with a similar sensitivity, and it was there she could hear the voice; it was all fury, all hatred.
‘What is this? Who has called me to my doom?’
Anaya did not answer but continued to read from the book; the heat was affecting her now all right, rivers of sweat poured down her nose, off her brow and into her eyes, making it ever more difficult for her to read without making mistakes.
‘You are too late, flesh creature; your words cannot have any effect on me.’
Still she ignored the voice, she had nearly finished, she was nearly there, the demon would soon be hers to control.
‘And still you try. Tell me, creature, how can you read without your eyes?’
Cheris whimpered softly at this. Despite all she had done, Cheris felt desperately sorry for Anaya, but she couldn’t look away; she couldn’t avert her eyes as a gout of near-white flame shot forth from the demon straight into the other woman’s face.
With a piercing scream Anaya collapsed behind the table. The demon slid forward towards her. The table ignited and Cheris saw the roof beams beginning to blister and smoke. Her lungs and throat became dry and choking; she hoped the smoke would kill her before the flames could. She almost willingly inhaled their acrid poison. Let it be done with, there was no escape after all. She commended her soul to the Gods.
There was more terrible shrill screaming. Cheris’s stinging eyes watched as the demon moved back to its original position. This time, though, at its burning heart, suspended several feet above the ground by forces she didn’t comprehend, was Anaya.
Or rather the thing that had been Anaya. Cheris beheld it as its screams ceased. She watched as hair and flesh blackened and melted to nothing. She watched her face, bereft of eyes, liquefy and evaporate away from the skull, the mouth open in noiseless agony; she saw her robes burn off her and the tallow under her skin ripple and slough off her bones. The smell of burnt flesh, like a spitted pig, made Cheris gag, bringing bile to her throat. Finally, it was just the bones that remained crackling and popping in the flames, flames that turned whiter and burned hotter as then, in one final dramatic flourish, the skeleton disintegrated, imploding in on itself, fragments of bone no larger than dust particles floating up to the roof where the thatch had started to burn.
Then Cheris realised the demon was slowly moving towards her.
She was beyond terror now, gibbering like a child, the Gods a distant memory. She felt the thing’s heat, her robe soaked with sweat, her hair glued to her face. She tried moving and for the first time her toes and fingers responded, they moved slightly. But it was a pathetic, futile gesture, too little too late.
The vast tower of flame was almost upon her. She looked up at it, and in its fire she thought she could see the outlines of a face or, more accurately, a skull of death. It regarded her for a second through two empty pits that could have been eyes. She looked back at it, unsure if terror was making her hallucinate – demons were not supposed to have eyes. Behind and above it the roof blazed; she could even see a couple of night stars.
‘Your power is mine, surrender to me, be as fuel to my great majesty, let it be the purpose for your brief and futile existence.’
Cheris was weeping now, but the tears dried in the heat before they could run down her face. Anaya had visited Keth’s furnace upon them, a veritable vision of the underworld. She swore softly to herself as the hem of her robe started to smoke, and then start to crisp at her feet, with the slightest flicker of a blue flame beginning to catch at it.
‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she quailed.
Just in front of her face she saw the wall of flame bulge slightly. From the body of the demon an appendage of pure fire emerged slowly, about the same dimensions as a human arm. It obviously knew of her helplessness, for it seemed to be toying with her. It stopped about eight inches from her face and started to wave and twist in front of her. Then, at last, Cheris found her voice, dry and raspy with the heat and her fear.
‘Just do it you bastard, just do it, you filthy ... abomination!’
The demon paused for a second as though surprised; the flame on Cheris’s robe crept a little higher as smoke rose from the rest of the garment and her hair.
Then there was another noise. Slowly and uncertainly, like a new-born deer, Marcus rose to stand unsteadily before the monster, one hand leaning on the table, the other clutching his staff, which shone like a shard of ice in his hand.
‘Leave the girl be and face a man, why don’t you?’ His voice was strong, firm and commanding.
The demon stopped again. The arm of flame remained perilously close to Cheris’s face, but, for a few seconds, was completely still.
‘Tenetrej pulo ataralius,’ said Marcus, raising his staff.
There was no response from the demon. For one second, maybe less, all was still. Cheris heard her pounding heart and saw Marcus standing proud before the monster. Then, without warning, the arm of flame shot forward to cover Cheris’s face, upper body, and finally her legs, clothing her in white immolating fire.
How the girl screamed – she did not realise the power in her lungs. All of her terror, her fear, her pain was released in that scream. She saw the flames licking over her; she could hear their gleeful crackle surrounding her. It was the ghastliest doom she could imagine.
Then the flames were gone.
Then the flames were gone and she was still sitting there, hot but untouched. Her flesh had not melted from her bones; her eyes had not liquefied. Even the flames on her robe were no more. She looked at Marcus, who looked back at her with the gentlest and saddest of smiles.
‘Be strong, Cheris! Be the mage I know you can be. Know that I love you, as a father loves his daughter.’ He then turned from her and faced the demon whose howls and snarls resounded in her head.
‘Come on, you vile spawn of Lucan. Let us return to the void together!’
And with that his staff blazed white, and a bolt of pure magical frost shot forth at the demon’s heart. Its white flame turned a cool blue and Cheris recognised a change in its howling. It was in pain.
The blackened beams of the cottage suddenly started to collapse as clumps of burning thatch started to rain down upon them. Marcus’s robe was on fire, and his hair was starting to burn. She began to realise the nature of the spell he had put on her, a protective spell; she could not cast or even move while it lasted but it was an impervious layer, a second skin. It could resist flame, falling beams and thatch, anything that would threaten her. It would last too, maybe for hours, even after the death
of its caster. Exactly as Marcus must have intended.
Marcus and the demon circled each other even as the flames consumed the cottage. The timbers of the walls were burning now, the daub blackening and disintegrating. Marcus stopped, held his staff up high and cried out.
‘Stoviatum clamelis san drekovium!’
He was still swaying on his unsteady legs but with that last cry he summoned the last of his strength and leapt straight at the demon, disappearing into its fiery heart. The demon roared again; it was in terror this time, though, and, as Cheris watched, its flame cooled, white to red, red to blue, and then from its base up to its tip, a full ten feet, it started to freeze. The flame stopped dancing and flickering and within seconds it had become a column of pure blue ice, completely solid. Like the great ice pillars of the north that the sailors told fanciful tales of. All around it, though, the cottage burned, the fires glittering on the many facets of the silent demon.
And then the demon exploded.
Shards of pure ice shot everywhere, bouncing off her protective skin, flying into the sky, where a great pillar of smoke was forming, and hissing into the flames. She half expected to see Marcus appear at its centre, smiling at her or scolding her for some minor misdemeanour, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Her mind was too active to digest this fact properly, but as she lay in the midst of it all the entire cottage finally collapsed. A great roof beam fell towards her but bounced off to land a couple of feet away. The walls either side of her crumbled, the thatch, glowing and smouldering, flew into the night air and finally she was smothered by a pall of smoke, dust and mortar. It continued to burn on top of her and, though still protected, the drugged wine and heightened terrors of the evening finally did their work and she passed out of consciousness, into a dream of pure darkness.
She was woken by the dawn chorus. It was a harsh noise as the trees around her appeared to be dotted with crows. There was a foul taste in her mouth and she spat out a mouthful of dust and ash. This caused a fit of choking and her nose and eyes ran black. Carefully she got to her feet, brushing off dirt, burnt wood and daub, emerging in a billowing grey cloud. All about her was a scene of utter devastation. She stood at the centre of what was once a cottage but was now nothing more than a pile of still-glowing embers amid piles of black-and-grey spoil. A smouldering tower of black smoke rose into the air before being picked up and dispersed by a brisk northerly wind. She stood and tried to walk, grimly aware of the picture she painted.
Her hair, face and clothes were filthy, coated in grey and black powder which she felt she would never wash off. She slowly made her way out of the confines of the cottage, climbing over the charred remains of what was once a door. Once she had done that, she turned and looked about her, the import of last night’s events slowly creeping into her consciousness.
Marcus was dead. Anaya was dead. Marcus had died to save her, she thought; he could have placed the protective field around himself but had chosen not to. She thought of his final words to her and choked back a sob; he had been with her throughout all her time on the island. She could not remember life without him. How shall I tell Gilda? she thought to herself. As for Anaya, she had obviously toyed with this plan for a long time, probably with no real intention of following it through, until her exhaustion and threat of recall to the island had pushed her over the edge. Cheris hadn’t known her that well – she stayed mainly on the Isle of healing after all and Cheris had only been in her early to mid-teens when she had left – but she had seemed a good person, if too strained and driven. Anyway, no one deserved to die like that. No one.
She spent a little while scrabbling through the ruins; she wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps she was looking for signs of Marcus, anything, something she could mourn properly, but it was a fruitless search. She did find a couple of things, though. First, her staff and its blade, both untouched by the flame. She had expected no less. Magical staffs, after all, had all sorts of protective charms woven into them. Anaya’s staff was there, too, but she left it untouched. She would tell the knights about it when she saw them.
The second discovery was a little more surprising. One of the few features of the house still standing was the stone fireplace. Close to it, under a pile of ash, she saw a shape that intrigued her. She kicked the detritus away, first with her foot and then with her hand. How in the name of Keth had that survived? Leaning forward, she put her hand in the dirt and pulled out a book. It was Anaya’s book, the one that had so terrified Marcus. There was something disquieting about its binding; it felt like a thick hide or skin and was yellowish in colour. Inscribed on it in a flowing hand was the title Shtia Demontia nenneven azhatrneko. She opened it and scanned its hand written pages briefly.
She wondered at the language Anaya was speaking last night. It sounded similar to Elvish, but the dialect was unfamiliar to her. And now, in front of her, was the corroboration. It was a form of Elvish, as she had suspected. All mages had to have a working knowledge of the language; magic was originally learned from the elves after all. No doubt that, after a little hard work, she would be able to understand it, but that was obviously out of the question. It was a book concerning demonic secrets and their summoning after all. She would take it with her and give it to Sir Norton.
And what would she tell the knights when she saw them? She did not want to tell them of Anaya’s folly but after a quick study of the facts she saw she had no choice. She couldn’t leave the book lying around and she was just too tired and fragile to think of concocting some feeble lie which no doubt would be torn to shreds by the knights in seconds. Anyway, it was damning evidence against the complacency of the college in keeping someone here for far too long. No, the truth was the best policy here.
She walked up to the well, drew some water and emptied the whole lot over her head, washing the grime and filth off her face and hair. The shock of the water made her shudder, snapping her out of her tiredness, if not her sadness. Her robe, its hem torn and burnt, the rest of it coated in grey-and-white ash and black soot was beyond redemption. She hoped the knights had a spare one for her. She shivered in the morning air; hopefully, they would have a cloak for her, too.
Carrying the staff and book she went towards the woodland path, heading southwards back to the knights. Before she started off she turned for one last look at the scene of the previous night’s tragedy. She started to think properly about what had happened and for the first time a deep sense of loss started to hit her. Her heart started to flutter up into her throat and her eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Goodbye Marcus,’ she whispered hoarsely, then without looking back she turned and headed down the path.
She had not gone far when she stopped. Was it her or did she just hear a twig break? She waited, still as a statue, straining her ears for the slightest sound. If only she could tell those birds to shut up for a second! Nothing came to her, though; she must have imagined it. After scanning the trees one more time she carried on.
She was half expecting to meet the knights on the path. Surely they had seen the smoke and would have come to investigate? She kept rehearsing what she would say to them when she did see them; she was already resigned to bursting into tears. On her own, she could be fairly self-contained, but in front of others her emotions would be laid bare; she knew everything would come welling to the surface and she hoped she could at least retain an element of self-control. It then dawned on her that she would be expected to fight in battle a few days. The thought chilled her to her marrow. Even this walk was tiring her out – how could she be expected to take on an army in her current state? Perhaps Felmere would excuse her this time. Knowing his eagerness for this battle, though, somehow she doubted it.
At long last she espied the clearing and the silhouette of the caravan close to the stone steps leading down from the path. She felt relief washing over her. Being on her own felt strange, disturbing. Years and years at the college living cheek by jowl with so many other people meant that she was used to no
ise, gossip, friendship and arguments. Her trips to the sea rose garden were one of the few times she could have time on her own, almost. And right now the thought of seeing a familiar face felt like a balm to her shattered nerves.
She reached the steps and climbed down them, casting about for a sign of one of the knights. She saw no one, though. After leaning her staff against the side of the caravan and placing the book next to it, she walked around the clearing, fully conscious of what a sight she must be.
There was no one there.
‘Sir Norton?’ she tried calling out but her voice was still croaky.
The remains of the knights’ fire was there and their tents, but she could see the fire had died hours ago.
‘Sir Norton!’ she called again, firmer this time; she felt her nerves tingle slightly and tasted bile in her throat. Her damp hair made her shudder slightly.
The clearing and campsite were deserted, that much was clear, so where could they have gone? She had not passed them, so they must be further down the road. And where were the horses? They would have kept them tethered surely? Unless, of course, they had to ride off somewhere. Biting her lip slightly she passed the clearing and continued onwards down the southward path. It was much wider here, and muddier, she had to pick her way along the path to avoid the water-filled wheel tracks and other muddy pools that dotted it. Eventually she gave up; seeing there was a high kerb of grass to the right she clambered up it and continued slowly on her way.
She had not gone far when she saw something through the trees; the pale sun had caught something white making it flash like a star – only for a second, but a second was enough. She climbed down from the kerb, crossed the path and went to investigate.
She stumbled on a tree root and was whipped by some trailing nettles, stinging her hand. She stopped and sucked her wounded fingers. She had had enough of woodland to last an eternity. After a silent curse to herself (Elissa help her, her language was appalling these days; it must be being around so many soldiers), she continued onwards.
The Forgotten War Page 64