Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  Ren moaned, low and long.

  Tarrik’s dark-tide sight caught a glimpse of an image: a man, hauntingly beautiful.

  “Yes,” Ren whispered.

  The face swirled into darkness, replaced with a knife that shone with reflected moonlight, sharp enough to split a hair.

  Ren whimpered. “No.”

  The knife disintegrated, and faint music filled the night. Delicate notes rang out, somehow entering Tarrik through his skin, his hair. They changed . . . became ominous—and seductive.

  “Please . . . ,” said Ren.

  Tarrik glanced at her and saw she was still asleep.

  The shadowy motes re-formed, this time into a hazy, oozing image . . . treacle flowing down a wall. The chill intensified until it became unearthly, something that hungered to consume living heat.

  More notes joined the others, silvery, tinkling, emanating from Ren. They entered Tarrik’s mouth and nostrils, filling his lungs with a disturbing harmony.

  Ren drew her legs up to her chest, hugging her knees. Another whimper.

  The presence intensified, a mixture of cold and power so strong that Tarrik had to turn away, trembling. He hoped it didn’t notice him.

  Samal had opened a door, wherever he was, and reached out to Ren. And his presence was exquisite. Tarrik had the impression he was seeing the barest inkling of what Samal had done to the Nine, how he had ensnared them and taken control of their minds.

  Ren cried out, writhing, her fingers clawing at her blanket, one hand digging into the dirt. She coughed, then said something so softly Tarrik couldn’t hear. Then again, her voice becoming stronger.

  Her eyes suddenly opened, and she snarled and lurched to her feet, mouth speaking potent cants. The shadow motes and music around her dissolved into the night, and she stepped back, as if uncertain. Then she laughed softly, a sound disconcertingly intimate.

  Tarrik sensed the despair behind Ren’s reaction, and for a moment he could see all too clearly what had happened. Even from his arcane prison, Samal tormented and cajoled those he controlled. The demon lord was a faint, disembodied jumble of desires and emotions, all the more insidious for it.

  “Demon,” Ren’s voice rasped with suppressed anger, “I take it you weren’t going to use that on me?”

  Tarrik realized he still held the bared blade in his hand.

  “No,” he said. Not tonight.

  “What did you see?”

  He licked his lips. Was this another test? “A demon lord visited you. A disembodied spirit. I think it was Samal.”

  Ren glared at him, and Tarrik thought she might blast him from existence. But she looked away, then down at her blanket, now jumbled at her feet. She picked it up.

  “Samal was in my dream. I’ve experienced unsettled sleep before but never imagined . . . well, now I know; I can ward against intrusion.” She looked at Tarrik again. “There was a discordance . . . something disrupted his sending. I think it was you or your presence.”

  That wasn’t what Tarrik wanted to hear. He wanted nothing to do with any demon lord—not here, nor back in the abyssal realms. Samal was dangerous, depraved, and malevolent.

  What fools these creatures were! Even after centuries of dealing with demons, they still didn’t know the truth. Blind and ignorant, they strode forward as if they were all-seeing and all-powerful.

  Whatever Ren was embroiled in, he wanted no part of it.

  Midmorning on the third day after leaving the ruined tower, they saw smoke rising into the sky from the many chimneys in the town ahead. They crossed another stream and found a worn wagon track following the bank, which made their going easier. Soon the water pooled into a sizeable pond, man-made from the look of the stones damming the stream. Tarrik could see small silver fish darting in the shallows and larger ones deeper in.

  “We’ll stop here,” Ren said, halting her horse.

  “Why? The city’s not far.” Judging by the haze on the horizon, the settlement they were approaching was much larger than a town.

  “That’s why. We’ll rest in case of trouble, and I’ll bathe to make myself more respectable.”

  “Are you expecting trouble?”

  She flashed him a smile. “Always. Stand watch, please.”

  She gathered a towel and a bar of soap and headed down the slope to the pool.

  Tarrik’s fingers hooked into claws. They were being pursued, and she stopped to bathe? He dismounted and took out the bottle of spirits he’d found wrapped in cloth at the bottom of the dead sorcerer’s belongings. A few swigs later he felt better, more in control. Humans didn’t understand that demons felt everything so deeply. They angered hotter and quicker, hated darker, and loved . . . with their very souls.

  Tarrik drank a quarter of the bottle and placed it back in the saddlebag. He’d had better. When you imbibed so much to cope with this realm, you couldn’t help but become an expert.

  The horses cropped grass at the edge of the track, and Tarrik let them. No one was coming from either side. He found a place in the shade where he could keep one eye on his surroundings and one on Ren in case some water creature tried to kill her. Maybe a snake. He’d heard they could grow as big as trees on Wiraya. Ren’s clothes—clean ones she’d donned this morning while she hid behind bushes—hung on a tree branch above her boots and belt. He caught a glimpse of her shining skin in the water and a faint sound of a song on the breeze.

  His thoughts wandered, as often they did, but kept returning to Contian and his first apprentice, Delfina. So the old man had finally found someone to love. At least he’d known that happiness, after all he’d endured. A shame their daughter had turned out so twisted. Contian would be turning in his grave. He had been a reluctant member of the Tainted Cabal, but allegiance to a demon such as Samal Rak-shazza would have horrified him.

  Tarrik heard hooves clopping on the road. Soon, from around the bend, a young boy appeared leading a pack mule. As they neared, Tarrik saw the baskets lashed to the beast’s sides held various fruits and vegetables, brown and green and purple. He came up blank on their names, eons having passed since he had laid eyes on Wirayan fruit. They probably tasted awful.

  Road dust coated the boy’s shoes and the cloth of his pants. He stared at Tarrik, his mouth hanging open. His expression led Tarrik to think he’d suffered a serious head wound at some stage in life.

  “Close your mouth,” he said as the boy and mule passed, “or a bug will fly in.” The boy stank of wariness and curiosity.

  “What?” said the boy.

  “Never mind. How far is the city?”

  “Not far. You look funny.”

  Tarrik sighed. Coming from this lout, he’d take that as a compliment. The young human was no good except as a piece of meat.

  The boy glanced toward the pool. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open even more. Tarrik smelled the musky scent of lust emanating from him.

  Ren had emerged naked from the water and was toweling herself dry. Tarrik stared for a moment himself. He couldn’t blame the boy.

  “Keep moving,” he growled. “Now you have a story to tell your friends.”

  The boy hurried away with frequent glances back in Ren’s direction.

  She’d wrapped the towel around herself and waited until the boy disappeared. Then she motioned for Tarrik to turn around. He gave her a shallow bow and did so. Soon she was clothed again, her damp hair leaving wet trails on the collar and shoulders of her embroidered scarlet shirt.

  “Maybe you should have bathed farther upstream,” he said.

  “Have you ever tried to wash properly squatting over a shallow stream? It’s awkward and undignified.”

  “And revealing yourself to the local boys isn’t?”

  She snorted and mounted her horse, then kneed it along the road. Tarrik followed on the gray. As she rode, she combed her raven hair free of tangles. By the time they reached the city, the wind had mostly dried her tresses, and she plaited them into a single braid.

  A marke
t was set up at an intersection outside the city, wooden stalls lining all four roads and filled with goods and produce. Chickens squawked in cane baskets, ducks quacked, and frogs . . . did whatever they did. One stall sold metal utensils and various knives; another, homemade leather goods. Tarrik squinted at them—very homemade. A steady stream of people arrived from the town and left with their sacks and saddlebags full. A thin layer of dust coated most of the goods and the stalls, and not many of the merchants seemed inclined to do much about it. Shouts about products filled the air, along with lies about how one merchant’s goods were superior to another’s, a human trait he found contemptible. The stench of humans and their emotions—mostly sour greed—was overwhelming, and he tried to breathe through his mouth.

  “Ooh, honey,” exclaimed Ren. She dismounted and exchanged a few coins for a jar of the disgusting light-amber-hued substance. She wrapped the jar in a spare shirt and tucked it into her gear, and they continued.

  When a grubby young boy walked close to the gray and his shoulder brushed against a saddlebag, Tarrik caught the boy’s eye and held up an admonishing finger. The potential thief gave a resigned grin and turned aside.

  Soldiers guarded the road entering the city, their uniforms a greenish-gray color that reminded Tarrik of pond slime. Each had a shield-shaped red cloth sewn over his right breast, upon which was an embroidered black . . . bird? Only one, a grizzled veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard, wore a sword. The others carried daggers and thick batons of steel-banded wood. They seemed more interested in eyeing the women walking past than preventing trouble. Useless scum who wouldn’t last a day in a demon realm.

  He and Ren passed the soldiers without incident. Underfoot the road turned from packed earth to stone. Soon they were riding through streets filled with dust and garbage. Narrow alleys to each side were muddy and piled with refuse buzzing with flies and scurrying vermin. A woman emptied a chamber pot from a third floor window without looking below. A pig, tied with a length of rope to keep it from wandering, snuffled toward the waste. Tarrik would never understand how humans could live in such disgusting conditions, though the lower demons were the same.

  Ren led them to a shop front with a sign depicting a needle and spool of thread. No prizes for guessing what the owner did. Tarrik scratched his chest where the rough material of the shirt itched his skin. He’d be glad to get out of the dead man’s garments.

  They tied the horses to a hitching post, and Tarrik felt a brief burst of sorcery from Ren.

  “To prevent any would-be thieves,” she said when she saw him looking at her. “And could you stop glowering? It makes you noticeable. More noticeable.”

  The shop was filled with crates of cloth and tables holding folded pants and shirts, underclothes and coats, jackets and hats. A wooden counter dominated one wall with a long metal ruler screwed to its surface and a few pairs of large shears.

  A short man blinked at them from behind the counter. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he hurried toward the pair. He wore a linen apron with six needles stuck into it close to his collarbone.

  “Good day, my lady. Welcome to my humble establishment. It’s a fine day in Ivrian. The rain yesterday cleared the air and—”

  “My man here needs some clothes,” Ren said curtly. “As you can see.”

  The tailor stared at her for an instant before letting his eyes roam over Tarrik. He wrinkled his nose with what Tarrik assumed was distaste for his current attire.

  “I see. Yes. He’s sizeable, isn’t he?”

  “That’s why I hired him.”

  “A sound policy. Now . . .” The tailor moved to a nearby table on which sat various trousers of fine quality. “This is the latest fashion in all the major cities. See the double stitching along the seams and the distinctive—”

  “Three sets of clothes will suffice,” said Ren. “One good set for any formal engagements I have to attend; the others are for working. They all need to be loose enough for a swordsman. One pair of riding boots, and another for walking.” She turned to regard Tarrik, and he noted a glint of amusement in her eyes. She tapped her cheek with a finger, as if thinking. “Something dark, I think. To match his coloring and make him all the more menacing.”

  “Indeed, my lady!” The tailor rubbed his hands together. “I have plenty of suitable stock on hand.”

  Ren held out two gold coins, and the man’s face fell. “Whatever these buy. And make it quick—we haven’t got all day.” She turned on her heel and made for the door.

  Tarrik watched until she was gone, then drew another two gold coins from his stolen purse. “Something a bit nicer,” he said with a smile.

  Chapter Three

  Under the watchful eye of the tailor, Tarrik tugged on his new clothes as if he were donning armor. And in a way, he was. He thought of the garments as his first line of defense against Ren and this world of demon enslavers.

  The woolen topcoat and trousers were black with a patterned silver trim and cunningly placed slits to allow freedom of movement. The charcoal cotton shirt was almost too tight when he fastened the strange buttons the tailor called “mother-of-pearl.” Black leather boots completed the outfit: almost knee-high, with silver side buckles.

  Tarrik walked around the shop a few times, squatted, and leaped.

  The tailor beamed and clapped at his antics. “A much-civilized improvement, if you don’t mind me saying. A masterful assembly. Dark and brooding.”

  Tarrik glared at him until he looked nervously away.

  The clothes were certainly of far better quality than he’d been able to find on Shimrax, a menacing world only fit for exiles and criminals. But that was his lot now. He was unlikely to see again the wondrous cities and sublime architecture of the other abyssal realms: sorcerously woven voidstone towers spiraling into the sky with intricate elder-glass bridges spanning hundreds of paces. Or to attend the Nazgrese Games, where higher-order demons pitted themselves against each other in tests of speed and strength and dark-tide talents, or the extravagant feasts and sophisticated revelries hosted by the demon lords when—

  Tarrik ruthlessly crushed his memories from before the shame of enslavement. To dwell on the past would lead to rage and despair, and he couldn’t afford to lose himself. Not in this world. Not under the restraints of a sorcerer.

  He adjusted himself through the trousers. “They’ll do,” he said to the tailor.

  “I expected nothing less. Now, let me wrap up the other clothes your . . . er . . . employer wanted for you.”

  The man bustled about behind the counter, wrapping each item in brown paper. Perhaps he thought Tarrik was a plaything rather than a bodyguard.

  Let the meat-bag think what he wants. He doesn’t matter.

  While the tailor was about his business, Tarrik braided his hair in the intricate grash-bren style, signifying a shamed demon forced to follow an inferior leader. He had to pause a few times to remember the pattern sequence, and he didn’t have a white cord to intertwine with the braid, but no one here would know the difference or understand the style’s significance. The pattern was a physical reminder to himself, a motivation to break free.

  The tailor approached carrying a pile of flat packages. “I must say you look quite intimidating. My clothes accentuate your . . . er, physique and the air of danger about you. Quite menacing.”

  Tarrik buckled on his miserable excuse for a sword and took the packages. “That’s what I get paid for.”

  “Indeed! Though I dare say you’re not just for show. Now, your collar isn’t quite straight. If you’ll—”

  “I’ll fix it.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to leave my establishment with such a small detail—”

  “I said I’ll fix it.” Tarrik turned away, leaving the tailor with one hand outstretched.

  He paused at the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the brighter light outside. The transition from dark to light or light to dark had undone many a warrior, the perfect moment of disorien
tation for an enemy to attack.

  He stood just outside the shop, squinting under his raised hand until his eyes attuned. None of the passersby looked threatening, though he didn’t know enough about the characteristics of these humans to make an accurate assessment. For all he knew, there could be a knife under every coat, a blade under every skirt. If any of them made the slightest threatening move against him, he’d cut their throats.

  A yelp came from over by the horses. An urchin jumped back nursing a hand, then sulked in the shadows of a nearby shop awning. The child had long hair, but Tarrik couldn’t determine if the scamp was a boy or a girl. The thief had obviously tried to take something from his or Ren’s horse and been chastised by whatever protective cant Ren had placed upon their belongings. He wondered why the waif wasn’t dead. Perhaps Ren thought killing thieves would attract too much attention. Nevertheless, her mercy signified weakness. Something he could exploit if an opportunity presented itself.

  Ren lounged against a wall across the street as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She raised her eyebrows at his clothes, then took a bite from a pastry she was holding and glanced down both sides of the street before she strode toward him.

  “Bought it from a street vendor since you were taking so long,” she mumbled.

  She didn’t ask if he wanted any, which suited Tarrik. Sweet foods tasted foul and disagreed with his guts. He didn’t know how humans tolerated such saccharine fare. Contian even used to add honey to his tea. Tarrik shuddered. Bee vomit, of all things.

  “You’re supposed to be unnoticeable,” continued Ren. “Isn’t this outfit a bit ostentatious?”

  “I don’t know what type of bodyguards you’ve had before, but unnoticeable isn’t an advantage. The less you’re attacked, the better as far as I’m concerned. It means I’m less likely to be killed.”

  “Whoever comes after me won’t care if you’re noticeable or not.”

  “Then there’s no harm done.”

  Ren tilted her head to look up at him. “Rebellious, aren’t we? I’ll let it go this once. But do not test me.”