Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  Tarrik examined his summoner again. Black hair, those penetrating blue-black eyes, that figure, and an immense sorcerous talent. The pieces slotted into place. This woman was Contian and Delfina’s daughter. He knew sorcerers enjoyed a longer life span than normal humans, though nowhere near as long as demons, so it was possible . . . blood and fire. He filed the revelation away for another time. She was still his jailor, and he wanted nothing to do with her.

  “Just to be clear,” he said, “you want me to honor the oath I made to Contian, not to you, all because you happen to have his talisman and catalyst? If I do, you’ll release me from your sorcerous bindings, and I’ll serve you for a year and a day. Does that about cover it?”

  She met his eyes for the count of a dozen heartbeats, then nodded.

  “I could just kill you as soon as I’m released,” he said.

  “You won’t.”

  So sure of herself.

  “You believe your sorcery is puissant enough to defend yourself. But you have me bound. Why not order me to perform whatever task you like? I’ll be forced to comply. Why—”

  Tarrik broke off and smiled. Her nervousness and desperation fell into place. She was on the run. But summoning emitted powerful energies, which would have given away her position. She was looking after her own skin. Still, he was intrigued. And what was service for a year and a day against the possibility of a much longer time of bound servitude? Slave, she’d called him, and rightly so. Why was she insisting on unforced service instead?

  “Why are you doing this? Why not just force me to do your bidding?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the woods beyond the tower, as if expecting someone, or something, to appear. Following her glance, he saw the tower stood upon a hillock with a fast-flowing river on one side. To the south and west, the forest stretched to the horizon.

  “I don’t want a slave,” she said, turning back to him, “demon or not. I’d have to be too careful, too . . . vigilant. I have enough to worry about.”

  I’ll wager you do. She was definitely scared and expecting some kind of attack.

  “Set me a single task then. Once it’s completed, I’ll be free to return to my realm.” Except she’d still know his name and could summon him again when she had the strength. He’d better head off that idea. “After that, you can summon other, lesser demons who would suit your purpose better than I.”

  She shook her head, strands of hair sticking to her damp cheeks. “No. I’ve decided on you. Lesser demons might be more malleable, but I require someone with a little more finesse.” A slight upturn of her lips.

  Had she just given him a compliment? How much did she know about him?

  “Very well. Undo your bindings, and I’ll swear service to you.”

  A tinkling laugh broke from her lips. “I don’t think so. You swear, by your true name—then I’ll release some of them.”

  It had been worth a try, but she’d been testing him already. “I will not serve you willingly. You are not Contian. You will have to keep me bound to prevent me from returning to Shimrax. Our relationship will be as master and slave, as you so easily called me.”

  That should do it. No mention of how quickly she’d die if her bindings slipped. This woman deserved no respect from him. What she deserved was to be defiled and to die a painful death—as did all humans who made slaves of demons.

  Curling a finger around the strands of hair stuck to her face, she tucked them back over her ear, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Tarrik, assessing him anew. After a long moment, she let out a resigned sigh. “Then our bargain is struck.” Disappointment tinged her words. “I wish . . . I didn’t have to, but I will keep you bound. Serve me well, and I’ll not mistreat you. You’ll find me a hard master, and my path may be a difficult one. Perhaps . . . I will release some of the bindings to give you more freedom than others would. Is this acceptable?”

  “It is,” Tarrik said, and her shoulders slumped with relief. “I’m not doing this for you,” he added. “I’m doing it out of respect for Contian. What happened to him?”

  Her mouth drew into a tight line. “A demon ripped his head off.”

  “Ah.”

  “Not a summons of his. He . . . disliked the practice.”

  “He was a sensible man.”

  “Not sensible enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked away. “Never mind. So what’s next?”

  Uncertainty knotted his stomach, but there could be no other way out of his situation. “I’ll swear if you release some bindings. I, Tarrik Nal—”

  “Wait.” She held up a hand to stop him.

  What was it now? He’d agreed to her terms. Let it be done and his service commence. He’d follow her commands to the letter, whether to her benefit or not. There would surely be opportunity to misinterpret the spirit of them occasionally.

  “I . . .” She swallowed. Another glance over the tower’s edge.

  Tarrik could see distant figures atop a ridge now. Her hunters, edging closer. Four, he decided, that his eyes could discern.

  She spoke as if her thoughts pained her. “This was a last resort, summoning you. I’d rather not have gone down this dark path. Going over my . . . Contian’s notes, I decided you were the only demon I’d be comfortable summoning.” She met Tarrik’s gaze briefly before looking away. “I’m outlawed as well in certain regions. Running from . . . those who would do me harm. And some of my own people wouldn’t shed a tear if I disappeared.”

  An admission from her, a confession. Did she hope it would absolve her of enslaving him? If so, she wasn’t as smart as he’d first thought. She was desperate, and those chasing her were close. Besides, she was a sorcerer. They existed only to use others.

  “You want me to kill for you,” he said.

  Her eyes met his again, and Tarrik was struck by their intelligence. “I want you to save me.”

  Her words—an echo of Contian’s all those centuries ago—chilled Tarrik down to his essence. Were they a trick? He didn’t think so, but when dealing with sorcerers, it was best not to take anything at face value.

  “Tell me your name,” he said.

  “It holds no power. I am not a demon.”

  “Nevertheless, I have to call you something. ‘Master’ is . . . not palatable, and I cannot serve you freely.”

  She nodded and clasped her arms around her torso. Tarrik noticed she was shivering in the cold morning air even though she was bathed in sunlight. Her hands and what he could see of her arms bore the signs of a swordsman: calluses, and scars where another’s blade had sliced her skin. But no sword hung from her waist.

  “Very well. My name is Serenity Branwen.”

  Before he could stop himself, Tarrik snorted. “Serenity?”

  “The times were peaceful when I was brought into the world. That peace was fleeting.”

  “Why do you need me? Isn’t your sorcery enough to protect you?”

  “The creatures they’ve sent after me are immune to sorcery.”

  Ah, no wonder she needed help. Deciding there was no point in delaying any further, Tarrik knelt on one knee and bowed his head. “Do your worst then. I refuse to serve you freely.”

  Expecting more talk or delays, he was startled when some of the bindings vanished immediately. The glowing ring that caged him dissipated into sparkles, which faded to nothingness. Only a charred circle remained on the timber floor.

  Tarrik raised his arms above his head and stretched his back. He could kill her now, or attempt it. But despite the two of them never having met before, she knew him well. Contian’s doing, Tarrik realized. He surreptitiously tested her bindings with a trickle of dark-tide power. They were more than adequate, though not full bindings. He would have to serve until released.

  “The name Serenity is too well-known in some parts of Wiraya,” she said, interrupting his musings. “Call me Ren.”

  He nodded slowly. “Did you bring me a weapon . . . Ren?”

 
He had learned the art of the sword and spear from many masters but didn’t actually need a weapon since his demon catalyst was of the shadow-blade variety and secreted underneath the skin of his forearm. Another truth he’d keep from her. Soon he’d have a whole bagful. It was good policy to keep your summoner in the dark as much as possible.

  Ren cast her gaze around the derelict tower, as if a weapon might miraculously appear.

  “Don’t tell me you summoned me to fight for you and didn’t bring a weapon for me to use?”

  “I thought I’d brought one up here, but . . .” She rubbed her eyes with a trembling hand. “There’s a sword downstairs.”

  She was tired, and no wonder after being chased and backed into a corner, then exerting herself in a major summoning. She’d need to rest soon before she collapsed from exhaustion. He took a few steps toward her, then stopped when her face hardened with resolve.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, holding his hands up.

  He skirted the dead goat and its pool of gore and stopped an arm’s pace from Ren. This close, he could see a paleness to her reddish-brown skin and a darkness around her eyes. Behind her, a half-rotten staircase led down.

  “How close are your pursuers? I mean, how long until they get here?”

  Tarrik had seen them in the distance, but he had been away from this world for many years. He couldn’t yet judge travel times.

  Ren picked up her leather sack and tucked the book inside, along with Contian’s talisman, all the while tilting her head to keep one eye on the demon. Tarrik could sense the pulse of her incantation as she maintained her grip on his bindings. She didn’t trust him, and she was right not to.

  “Half an hour maybe,” she said. “They’ll stop to plan. Some of their hunters found me a few days ago and must have gotten word to their masters. I sensed them closing in and tried to outrun them, but somehow they tracked me. I holed up here, not wanting to stay at an inn or anywhere someone might recognize me, but two men found me last night. That’s when I decided I had no choice but to summon you.”

  A puissant sorcerer always had choices. Was she feigning helplessness? And she clearly hadn’t run from the men who’d found her.

  “I assume they’re downstairs, the dead men?”

  Ren nodded, and Tarrik descended the decrepit staircase. Ren followed more slowly.

  The ground floor was in better shape than the top of the tower, and the sorcerer had obviously been living there for a few days. The floor was mostly clean of dead leaves, and there was a bed of green ferns covered with a blanket. The remains of a small fire lay against one wall, ringed by blackened river stones.

  The two corpses had been dragged against another wall. They were hard-looking men, lean and weatherworn, garbed in sturdy brown pants and shirts, standard wear for trackers and hunters. Two bows rested against the wall beside them with two quivers of broadhead arrows and one sheathed sword. The weapon was short but would do.

  There were no visible wounds on the bodies apart from the lifeblood that had dribbled from their noses and ears. Ren had killed them with sorcery.

  She moved to a set of saddlebags next to the makeshift bed and deposited her sack next to them. Against the bed rested a sheathed sword with a hilt fashioned to resemble feathered wings and a silver snake entwined around the orichalcum pommel. The blade reeked of power, though it looked too long and heavy for Ren to wield effectively.

  “Cover yourself, demon, for decency’s sake,” she said.

  “A dead man’s sword and a dead man’s clothes. How gruesome.”

  “I didn’t know I’d be forced to summon you or that you’d be naked.”

  “Call me Tarrik,” he said. “Or I’ll call you Serenity.”

  She sniffed, then nodded. “Very well . . . Tarrik.”

  “What else do you know about these creatures coming after you?”

  “One stumbled across me a few weeks ago. I barely managed to escape with my life. My sorcery didn’t work against it; somehow my power twisted around the creature. I lost it in the dark, then circled back for my horse.”

  Few creatures of this world were immune to sorcery, the same as in the abyssal realms.

  “Doesn’t sound too dangerous,” he said flippantly.

  She glared at him. “When I said I lost it, I meant two mercenaries I’d hired held the creature off while I ran. They died for me.”

  “They died for money. That’s what mercenaries do. You didn’t force them into their chosen careers.”

  The subtext was obvious: not like she’d forced him into this arrangement.

  “Still, if I hadn’t hired them, they’d be alive,” she said.

  Tarrik shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Who set these creatures on you?”

  Ren looked everywhere except at him. “I don’t know.”

  Lying. She’ll get us both killed.

  The bigger of the two dead men was still smaller than Tarrik, but he would have to do. He grabbed the corpse under the arms and hefted it to a sitting position. The carcass was cold and stiff, and Tarrik grunted with effort as he forced its limbs in directions they didn’t want to go. Eventually he managed to remove the man’s shirt and pants and donned them himself. The coarse material was damp and cold and scratched his newly created skin, which would take a few days to firm up. The pants didn’t cover his ankles, nor the shirt his wrists. He must look like a boy who’d outgrown his clothes.

  The boots were too small for his feet, so he discarded them. Shoeless was the preferred method of hunting in his realm anyway, and his soles would be as tough as old leather soon enough.

  Checking the sword, he found its blade spotted with rust, but the edge was still keen. Shaking his head at the lack of care the man had taken with the weapon, Tarrik buckled the sword belt around his waist.

  “You said these creatures are closing in. You can sense them?”

  “Vaguely. I can sense the ripples surrounding them. Whatever was done to make them immune to sorcery creates a . . . vacancy. That’s the best way I can describe it.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Three, and they’re approaching from different directions.”

  Tarrik grunted. He thought he’d seen four figures on the ridge, but maybe his eyes hadn’t adjusted to this world yet. He drew a breath in and considered their options. He would prefer to leave Ren here and hunt alone, but he doubted she’d allow that. The other option was for her to stay inside the tower and fight from within rather than just hide, to take advantage of the protection its walls offered. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about her when the fighting started.

  “I’ll fight them outside,” he told her. “You stay in here and block the door and hope none get past me.”

  “I . . . thank you,” she replied.

  Tarrik drew the sword and unbuckled and discarded the belt. The blade was crudely made and heavier than he was used to for its size.

  His bare feet crushed soft leaves and twigs as he took a few steps away from the tower to give himself room for warm-up exercises he’d learned from a master swordsman centuries ago. With slow movements he moved the blade through various positions: tip almost touching the ground, vertical with the hilt at eye level, forward thrusts and sideways. It was a measured dance designed to stretch and loosen muscles and instill efficient footwork and lethal strokes.

  As he moved through the exercises, he tried to stay relaxed in body and mind. He sensed a headache fast approaching—a consequence of the summoning. He needed food, and soon, if he was to cope with the settling pains, his newly materialized body would endure. But there was no time to eat, not until the threat to Ren was dealt with.

  Tarrik shoved and kicked at the tower door. There wasn’t much give, so it would probably do. If Ren were killed, he’d be free. But the power she held over him prevented him from leaving her to a grisly fate.

  He scrounged a mass of dry twigs from underneath the trees, then piled pine branches heavy with sap on top. When the mound reached
his waist, he stopped, sweat pouring from his skin. He swiftly crafted a makeshift torch, then set himself to wait. Not knowing what these beasts were that had been set to hunt Ren—or their abilities—put him at a disadvantage. Fire would scare away some; with others, he could use the flames for cover and as another weapon.

  The creatures came when the sun had traveled a finger’s width across the sky. Their shadows moved among the trees, furtive and liquid.

  Tarrik used the barest trickle of dark-tide power to light the torch, then shoved it into the kindling, which crackled with flame immediately. He took a few steps back and ran through a final sword form. Good enough, he decided, though he’d prefer a spear rather than a sword.

  Holding the sword close to his leg, he stood very still alongside a tree and kept an eye on the woods. His innate demonic talent of concealment would keep him hidden unless he made any sudden moves, and he hoped surprise would give him the edge. To his left, the fire blazed. He trusted it would be enough to deter an attack from that side.

  A musky scent reached his nostrils, underneath it a hint of stagnant water. He frowned. Marfesh, a rare type of Twenty-Seventh Order demon, resistant to sorcery. Their immunity made them peerless sorcerer killers but also complicated any summons. Tarrik was in luck, as although they were vicious, they weren’t particularly intelligent. What worried him more was that a sorcerer must be controlling them, a sorcerer hidden from Ren’s senses, which was why he’d seen four figures but she’d only sensed three.

  Killing his own kind didn’t bother him. It was how things were. Three more demons that wouldn’t ascend to the next stage of their existence. Like uncounted others. Once, Tarrik himself might have been a marfesh, though he hoped he’d begun higher up in the natural order. Only when you advanced to the Thirty-Third Order did you retain your memories. Something to do with the development of the brain.