Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  “I am Lady Branwen of the Nine,” Ren said. “I am not expected. Send word to the commander here and whoever else requires notifying.”

  A guard stepped forward, wisps of sandy beard escaping the sides of his mask. “My lady, if you will wait outside, I’ll send word to the commander. Is there anyone who can vouch for your identity?”

  “There is not. And I prefer to wait inside. We will require refreshments.”

  “I am under orders to—”

  Ren stamped a foot. Thunder cracked like a thousand whips, and dust swirled in a sudden gust of air that rustled their clothes. The guards shielded their eyes, blinking at the irritation. The wind died as abruptly as it had come, but a web of cracks emanated from Ren across the pavers.

  “I will wait inside and will require refreshments,” she repeated.

  The bearded guard licked his lips and bowed. “Yes, my lady.”

  Another guard rushed off, presumably to take word to the commander, while three others led Ren and Tarrik inside. The two walked past paneled walls and elaborate doors set in metal frames and many wide, spiraling staircases. Servants bustled everywhere, some cleaning, some carrying linen. Many avoided the newest guests, stopping and retreating, or kept their heads lowered, eyes on the floor.

  Sorcerer and demon entered a room furnished with velvet lounges and low tables. A girl dressed in a simple smock hurriedly set out trays of fruit and nuts and a crystal carafe of red wine before bowing her way out backward. The three guards remained, standing at attention by the only door. Tarrik noted there were no windows. Illumination was provided by alchemical globes set into iron sconces, which gave off a soft yellow light. Murals of hunting scenes covered the walls. Animals Tarrik barely recognized tore at each other with tooth and claw, while humans on horseback shot arrows into the fiercest-looking creatures and held up severed heads dripping gore as trophies.

  He left Ren picking at the fruit and positioned himself between her and the guards, his back to a wall, hand resting on the pommel of his pigsticker. She seemed at ease, but that could be a facade.

  All three guards looked professional enough, though from the way he’d seen the other soldiers handling the spears, they were probably incompetent. Armies focused on working together, not as individuals, which was a weakness in certain situations—like this one.

  In his mind, he rehearsed his first moves against them if it came down to violence. Limbs severed, blood splashing across the—

  He heard a firm knock on the door. A woman walked in dressed in a tight-fitting shirt and skirt of scarlet, with a Tainted Cabal brooch similar to Ren’s pinned next to her heart, though hers was crafted from silver. Her artfully curled brown hair appeared artificial and dull next to Ren’s long black braid.

  She took a few steps toward Ren, then stopped and bowed as Tarrik moved to intercept her. The woman leaned to the left and smiled past him. “My lady, your presence is required.”

  “Where?” asked Ren.

  “The commander’s hall. Alone, my lady.”

  “My man follows where I go. No exceptions.”

  “I . . .” The woman frowned, looking from Ren to Tarrik and back again.

  “Lead on,” said Ren. She plucked an apricot from a bowl and strode toward the door. Tarrik moved to shadow her.

  In the paneled hallway, the woman gave them a wan smile and led them farther into the citadel. Behind them, the three masked guards followed.

  The stone floor underfoot was old, showing indentations from centuries of traffic. Some sections were carpeted with rugs, many of them faded and threadbare.

  Ren slowed slightly to bite into her apricot and made to touch Tarrik’s arm to gain his attention. He jerked aside.

  Ren blinked, then whispered, “Guard your words, and make no rash actions unless I’m threatened.”

  He nodded, torn between wanting her threatened and the knowledge it would place him in danger.

  They picked up their pace to close with the woman. As they passed a potted plant, Ren placed her apricot seed onto the soil at its base.

  They ascended a wide marble staircase that wound from the first floor to the third without leading onto the second. At the end of another corridor, the woman led them into a hall. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered one wall, and Tarrik had to squint to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright light let in. The floor was white marble, and three massive chandeliers hung from chains, their oil lamps unlit.

  Guards were stationed along the wall opposite the windows—at least a dozen. A few clutches of men and women milled about, all garbed in shining silks and brocaded velvets. Some elderly and frail-looking humans sat at tables along with clusters of what looked to be nobles and merchants and high-ranking officials. And in a chair on a crescent dais above them—more like a throne—was a man who could only be the commander.

  His brown hair was cut short but still in need of tidying, and above lips like sausages, his watery eyes gazed at Tarrik and Ren with a predatory gleam. He could be younger than Ren, though Tarrik wasn’t sure. His clothes were expensive, with gold trim on his boots, sleeves, and collar, though the patterned scarf around his neck was faded. A jeweled dagger and sword hung from his belt, the gaudy decorations impractical and pitiful. To Tarrik, he reeked of sour piss and wine. And fear.

  To either side of him stood a plain-robed man with a short beard. Both had talismans hanging from their belts—focus and calculation aids that marked them as sorcerers.

  The commander stood, one hand on the arm of his chair for support. “I am Commander Veljor, lord of Ivrian, warlord of the Sixth Army of the Tainted Cabal, conqueror of the Plains of Khisig-Utgall.”

  Ren stepped forward. “Heavy titles indeed. I am Lady Branwen of the Nine.”

  The words were softly spoken, but they caused the buzz of conversation to die. The two sorcerers clutched their talismans.

  Veljor smiled faintly, an amused grin that puzzled Tarrik.

  Two servants brought forward a padded chair and placed it ten paces from the dais, its wooden legs squeaking on the marble. The commander gestured to Ren to sit.

  Ren released the hook that secured her orichalcum sword to her back and let the blade slide to her hip, then positioned it at her side as she perched on the edge of the chair. Veljor could not hide the covetous look he gave the weapon.

  Tarrik felt Ren’s bindings constrict, forcing him to protect her. He stepped to the left and slightly behind her, where he could draw easily and step in front to intercept an attack if need be. She needn’t have bothered, for he was on high alert. This place felt like a den of marfesh. He loosened his shoulders.

  “Your man makes no obeisance,” said Veljor.

  Ren tilted her head, regarding the commander. “He holds no allegiance, except to me.”

  Veljor wrinkled his nose, as if talking of servants was distasteful. “I am intrigued you are here, Lady Branwen. I must admit, when word was first brought to me, I was skeptical. Another of the Nine in our city. But my sorcerers confirmed it was you after your little display. If you’d sent word of your arrival, such disruptions would not be necessary.”

  Tarrik saw Ren stiffen for an instant before she affected disinterest. “I find I receive a more honest reception this way.”

  Veljor sat in his chair, leaned back a little, and frowned. “Word of the Nine is sketchy, if you’ll forgive my honesty. We follow the Tainted Cabal. They have proven their worth as allies and instructors in many things. But the Nine . . . rumors of your power precede you, though little is known of what you actually do.”

  Veljor’s sorcerers remained focused on Ren, nervously touching their talismans. They looked like dogs set to guard a lion.

  “We are still a part of the Cabal,” Ren said. “Have no fear. I am here to gather information and to locate and study artifacts from the ancient ruins. It is both my hobby and my calling. Ivrian seems a good place to start my exploration of the western continent.”

  “You don’t find it interesting that anothe
r of the Nine is here?”

  “We do not keep tabs on one another. Our purpose is clear, and each of us works toward the greater glory of Nysrog and the Tainted Cabal.”

  “All praise Nysrog, the Deliverer, Reaper of Men, First among Demons, and Unchainer of Souls,” said Veljor.

  “May he channel our desires,” intoned Ren.

  The words skittered up Tarrik’s spine. The Cabalists apparently followed Nysrog because they wanted him to amplify and focus their atavistic urges. Such devotion was anathema in the demon realms and a sign of just how far Nysrog had descended into madness. It was a constant battle not to lose total control, to surrender to your emotions and lusts, and even the greatest of demons sometimes failed.

  “You will join us for dinner tonight,” Veljor said. His words weren’t a request.

  Ren smiled. “I am honored, Commander Veljor. My man and I will attend.”

  “It will be an intimate gathering. I don’t think—”

  “He will accompany me.”

  Her tone was like ice, and Veljor flinched. He coughed into his hand to cover his reaction before returning Ren’s smile.

  Tarrik smelled the hate emanating from him and suddenly feared for himself in this place where everyone and everything were unknown.

  “You will tell me more of your purpose at dinner,” said Veljor. “Until then you may have the run of the common areas of the citadel.”

  “We are still tired from our journey,” Ren told him. “We will retire to the rooms you provide for us and join you this evening at any hour you require.”

  Veljor pouted, his sausage lips making the expression ludicrous. Tarrik noted the conversational din that had subsided earlier hadn’t returned. He glanced to the sides of the room and saw that everyone was fixated on the dialogue between Ren and Veljor. Something was off.

  “Very well,” the commander said. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “My man here wishes for a weapon. His broke when fighting off bandits, and he’s had to make do with a commoner’s sword since.”

  Veljor looked behind them to where the woman who’d led them from the reception room stood quietly. “Caterine will see to your needs—won’t you, my dear?”

  “Yes, my lord.” She curtsied low.

  Veljor stood and bowed to Ren. She rose and did the same.

  Veljor’s eyes flicked to Tarrik, who again made no obeisance. The commander’s jaw clenched. A small man with no honor, enraged at not receiving what he perceived as his due.

  It was only after they’d left the hall that Tarrik realized Veljor did not wear the symbol of the Tainted Cabal.

  The servant, Caterine, led the pair along more paneled hallways and down wide spiraling staircases. Uneasy after their encounter with Veljor, Tarrik walked at a proper distance behind Ren, two paces. Close enough to barrel her out of danger or pull her behind him, and far enough to draw his knife without impediment.

  They emerged into a courtyard of packed earth, dustier and dirtier than any place inside the citadel they’d seen so far. Fire-hardened ceramic pipes descended the walls to deposit their water into rain barrels and troughs, and wooden training dummies dotted the area. At intervals around the yard, stands held staves, spears, wooden practice swords, and a few steel weapons. A dozen or so soldiers trained with swords and spears, and these caught Tarrik’s eye, along with the ferocious clatter of their weapons. They were stripped to the waist and moved more swiftly and precisely than the common guards, which betokened greater skill and long hours of training.

  Caterine beckoned her guests through wide doors into a large room. Heat, fumes, and the clanging of metal came from forges to their left, where solid men wearing thick leather aprons and gloves pounded steel and stoked furnaces.

  Caterine waited, hands clasped in front of her, until one man, shorter than the others, removed his gloves and approached. His face was covered with a bristly gray beard, his forearms scarred from cuts and burns, and a jagged, hair-free seam ran from his jaw up to an ear. He glanced at Tarrik, then at Ren, and finally at Caterine.

  “Suppose you’re here for a weapon?” he said in a deep voice.

  Caterine nodded. “Commander Veljor would like a sword for—”

  “No sword,” Tarrik said, unbuckling his weapon belt. “A spear. A good one. This pigsticker can go to someone better suited to it than I.” He tossed the sword aside, and it thudded onto the dirt.

  The blacksmith’s eyes narrowed, and a callused hand came up to stroke his beard. “An easy weapon to learn but a hard one to master. Right then. This way.”

  He led them deeper inside the room and unlocked one of five large iron-banded doors. Inside were long fighting weapons of all kinds, leaning against walls and stacked in barrels, with a few mounted to the wall. Most looked to be the same as the spears the soldiers outside used: heavy hafted with short tips. But there were also pole arms, lances, and javelins, and some elaborately bladed monstrosities.

  Tarrik moved aside a forest of spears and shook his head. Nothing. Most were too heavy to be effective. He might as well go back to using the pigsticker.

  Then a six-foot haft mounted above his head caught his eye. It was thinner than the others, easier to handle, and made of solid blackwood, smooth and polished, as if it had seen much use. The tip was a good foot and a half long, and flat metal wings jutted from where it joined the shaft—three fingers wide each, enough to deflect blades and useful for a myriad of other purposes. He wasn’t likely to find a better spear unless he had one custom made, and that was improbable.

  “This one,” he said, and reached up to take the weapon down. The spear was heavier than he’d expected.

  “You’ve a good eye,” rumbled the blacksmith. “That’s been gathering dust for years. The common soldiers prefer a heavier shaft, while the senior officers favor swords. The last man to use it was quite the legend. It’s said he slew dead-eyes by the hundreds, ghouls by the score, and even a few wraithes.”

  “Not a soldier then?” said Ren.

  The implication was that only a sorcerer, one of great power, could stand against a wraithe. Tarrik recalled Contian explaining they were one of the elder races of this world, possessing eldritch powers normal humans couldn’t hope to match.

  “No,” the blacksmith agreed. He turned back to Tarrik. “If you’ve chosen, I’ll get back to the forge. If I don’t keep an eye on my workers, the swords will be crooked and the horseshoes straight.”

  Tarrik hefted the spear and transferred it from hand to hand, feeling the wood, the balance, the sheer brutality of the thing. It was a weapon made for an expert, hidden away under the dust in a storeroom. The cumbersome spears of the soldiers paled into insignificance by comparison. And the blackwood was as hard as steel, known to dampen sorcerous abilities and emanations.

  That gave him pause. Would Ren allow him to keep it?

  “You can use it,” she said, as if reading his mind. Her message was clear: the blackwood wouldn’t interfere with her arcane bindings of him. “Perhaps the story of the previous owner killing wraithes with the spear isn’t so far-fetched.”

  The infantrymen were still practicing in the courtyard. An addition to the group drew Tarrik’s attention: a lanky soldier lounging against one of the rain barrels. He was garbed like the others with black leather armor and vambraces and the same helm with a mask over his lower face, leaving his eyes clear. He sauntered toward Tarrik and Ren with a dangerous grace. He was a good head taller than the other soldiers, though still shorter than Tarrik.

  Tarrik could have sworn he heard Caterine mutter “Shit” under her breath. She angled them toward a side door out of the courtyard, but the soldier intercepted them.

  “I see we have some new arrivals,” he bellowed, and Tarrik imagined the false smile beneath the mask.

  The man’s armor was polished and scuff-free, and a longer-than-usual sword swung from his hip. Tarrik smelled arrogance and violence emanating from him. He stepped between the soldier and Ren an
d saw her nod briefly in response. Commander Veljor had sent someone to test Tarrik and presumably injure him as payback for his failure to abase himself sufficiently.

  Truly, humans were savages.

  The soldier would be a blades man without peer and ordered to make a show of their fight before bringing it to an abrupt conclusion with a sliced hamstring for Tarrik, or perhaps a blade through his forearm or even his heart. Already, the other soldiers in the courtyard had stopped their sparring and gathered into small groups. Coins were exchanged along with urgent whispers.

  Caterine held both hands out in front of her as if to push the soldier away. “Captain Albin, these are Commander Veljor’s honored guests. They are weary and on their way to their rooms—”

  “Come now,” interrupted Albin. “It looks like this man has a new weapon he’d like to test. From the looks of it, it’s been gathering dust with the other rejects for some time.”

  He glared at Tarrik, as if expecting an immediate reaction to his attempted insult. Tarrik remained silent and leaned on the shaft of his newly acquired spear. He glanced at Ren, and the sorcerer looked away.

  Blood and fire. Fighting when there was no need was a waste of energy, but without Ren’s intervention, he couldn’t see another way out of the situation. She would want him to win, to teach Veljor a lesson. And she seemed curiously confident he wouldn’t lose.

  “Big fellow, aren’t you?” Albin said. “Muscles slow you down, make you easy pickings. Then it’s like carving a roast!” He laughed too loudly, and the soldiers around them joined in.

  When Tarrik didn’t respond, he added, “Don’t speak much. Do you speak at all?”

  “When words are required.” An image of punching the pompous fool in the face and a flash of his uncontrolled empathy hit Tarrik: Albin crouched over the insensate form of a woman, one hand stealing her purse while the other groped under her skirt. “You have the soiled mind and heart of a thief and a molester. You are a broken man.”