Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  He frowned when he saw a mass of buildings to the north with a smoky haze lingering above them. He gauged it to be a small city and wondered why Ren would risk alighting so close when she was weak. She would be an easy target for enemies in her depleted state, which meant he would become a target too.

  They curved in low along the coast, and Tarrik realized Ren was heading for a narrow cove with a black-sand beach battered by waves higher than his head. To his surprise, as they approached, he noticed three horses, all shades of brown, tied to a large driftwood log, and a fire blazed on the sand. Only one of the horses was saddled, and there was someone waiting for them. A small man waved as they approached, as if unconcerned to see a sorcerer and a demon descending from the sky, then returned to tending the fire.

  The disc skimmed a foot above the sand and slowed as they came within a few dozen paces of the man and then hovered over the sand, which hissed and steamed around them. The black sandy beach stank of rotting fruit and decay, a cloying, inescapable odor caused by what, Tarrik wasn’t sure. Perhaps it came from the mounds of seaweed tangled around driftwood strewn along the tide line. Past the sand and cliffs, verdant mountains rose to dominate the sky, so green that Tarrik could imagine the thick, syrupy air beneath the canopy, an unwelcome contrast to the thin, dry air of his abyssal realms.

  “Bring our gear,” Ren said without looking at him, and she hopped down onto the sand and walked toward the fire and the man.

  His injuries were rapidly healing, but he wasn’t happy with her command. Tarrik gingerly shouldered both sets of saddlebags, picked up one saddle, and stepped off the platform. When he was far enough away from the disc’s residual heat, he dropped his load onto the cool sand and went back for the other saddle, then made a final trip to retrieve his spear. As he lifted it, the disc sparkled beneath him and disappeared. He jumped a foot to the ground, landing with a crack on sand that had been turned to glass. He tottered as heat rose to caress him, and Ren turned.

  “Quickly,” she said over the gnashing waves and gusting wind. Ren had already taken a plate from the man and was perched on another log near the horses.

  Tarrik trudged toward her and the stranger, leaving their bags where he’d dropped them. He wasn’t going to lug everything over to the fire when they could walk the horses to the gear later.

  “Who’s this?” the man said to Ren as Tarrik approached. “You said bring an extra horse, but I thought it might be for equipment. You know I don’t like surprises. Has his background been checked? Where’s he from? Big bastard, isn’t he—a bloody savage.”

  The man was barely taller than Ren and of a similar build. He had deep crimson skin, light-brown hair, and a forked beard. And, to go with the beard, the voluble man had hairs growing out of his nostrils. His eyes were brown, with almond-shaped pupils much like a cat’s. Apart from his odd skin and eyes, his face was somehow nondescript, with no single defining feature.

  “He’s my new bodyguard,” Ren said. “That’s all you need to know. He isn’t like others of his kind.” She began eating a sizeable pink-scaled roasted fish along with toasted slices of bread.

  “That remains to be seen,” the man said, and narrowed his eyes at Tarrik.

  Other than salt and sweat, no scent came from him, Tarrik realized, almost as if his body reflected his nondescript face. At least he wasn’t a demon.

  Tarrik jammed the butt of his spear into the sand so it stood upright and took the plate of food the man held out. Ignoring the pewter fork, he used his fingers to dig into the white flesh of the fish and sated his physical hunger. The bread he left untouched since it was hard to stomach.

  The man watched him warily for a few moments. “Did she forget to feed you? She forgets to eat herself sometimes. Well, you do,” he added when Ren rolled her eyes.

  The two of them seemed at ease together—friends or colleagues, Tarrik thought.

  The fish was flavorsome, although lacking the animal delight of red meat. The meal would do for now until he could find something with warm blood running through its veins. Between this and the crabs, he felt he was missing some vital nutrient, and perhaps he’d lose strength if he kept up this unnatural diet.

  “Who are you?” Tarrik asked around a mouthful.

  The man glanced at Ren, and she nodded her permission.

  “Veika Yunnik, employed by the Lady Branwen to oversee various matters in Niyas. And you are . . . ?”

  “Tarrik.”

  “Just Tarrik? From the far south, I assume?” A shrewd look came to Veika’s face. “Does Bidzil the Deathless still lead the Blood Shakar tribe?”

  Tarrik knew a trap when he heard one. He had no idea who the tribe or its leader were and cared less. Tarrik shrugged and turned the fish over to get at the flesh on the other side.

  “Cat got your tongue?” said Veika.

  A cat again. What cat? “I have been exiled for some time. If Bidzil the Deathless still rules, I wouldn’t know.” Both true statements.

  Veika opened his mouth again, but Ren hushed him. “Enough. Let me eat in peace. And I assume we’re not camping on this beach tonight? The wind coming off the ocean will chill me to the bone.”

  “Ah, my lady, but you would look so lovely in the moonlight reflected off the waves, the tangerine flames of the fire highlighting your burnished skin and midnight hair. Why, such a sight would—”

  “We’re not at court now, Veika. And you know better than to try to impress me with flattering words.”

  “It is the truth, my lady, hardly flattery. Have you given any thought to my proposal that you approach the lord of Atya and propose a marriage of—”

  “I have not. My studies do not allow time for such diversions.”

  “Hardly a diversion, my lady. You would become one of the most powerful—”

  “We’ll discuss this at a later time,” snapped Ren.

  She put her plate on the sand beside her, and Tarrik saw she’d barely touched the fish and bread. He didn’t blame her for being put off her food by Veika’s chatter. He talked far too much for such a small man. Tarrik already felt like punching him in the mouth to quiet him.

  Veika bowed his head and grimaced, then busied himself cleaning up. He tossed the remains of Ren’s meal into the fire, then did the same with the skin and bones and bread left on Tarrik’s plate. He took the plates and forks and a griddle he’d used to roast the fish down to the water to wash them.

  “Who is this runt?” Tarrik said.

  “Don’t call him that. He’s one of my spymasters, a good one. He’s been in my employ for over a decade.”

  “What hold do you have over him?”

  She looked at him. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “You must have something he wants, or you know some secret of his that he doesn’t want known. Why else would he serve you? Or perhaps you’ve bound him as you have me.”

  “His wife and daughter were taken by slavers from the south. He went after them, but by the time he found them, they were almost unrecognizable. They’d been starved, beaten, and abused. They didn’t survive the trip back to Niyas. Veika returned to his job as a trader, but his heart wasn’t in it. When I met him, he’d lost something vital, something to keep him going, and he was close to losing the will to live. I saw he had gained other skills while searching for his loved ones and offered him employment and a cause greater than any other he’d known.”

  That explained Veika’s barely concealed hostility, since he thought Tarrik was from beyond the Jargalan Desert. The man’s life was a sob story, then. A weak man who had been unable to protect what he valued. And now he was a stray dog eating out of the first friendly hand. What if another master offered a tastier treat? Perhaps Tarrik could undermine his loyalty. Except the only things he had to offer were himself and his spear, both limited by Ren’s bindings.

  “He talks too much,” he said.

  “That has been remarked upon before,” said Veika from behind him. He stacked the wet plates and utens
ils into a sack. “Watch your mouth, Tarrik. Rudeness will get you killed in some places.”

  “If you were a threat, you’d already be dead.”

  “Charming. I don’t know where you find them, Lady Branwen.”

  “All sorts of places,” said Ren. “Now, let us get a good night’s sleep. I assume you’ve arranged a campsite?”

  Veika nodded. “We’ll saddle up and be there soon. It’s not far.”

  He looked at Tarrik. Tarrik stared back.

  “The saddles,” Veika prompted.

  “Tarrik doesn’t know how to saddle a horse,” interjected Ren. “They ride lizards where he’s from, as you well know.”

  “Almost the same thing.” Shaking his head, Veika scooped sand onto the fire to smother it, then collected the three horses’ reins. He led them over to the pile of gear and soon had them saddled and the cinches tightened.

  They rode up the beach and onto an ascending rocky path that took them along a crumbling rise to a flat area of wiry grass. Veika rode at the fore, and Tarrik remained at the rear. He needed a drink, some dripping red meat, and a woman to sate him. What he had was a spear and a reeking animal.

  They’d gone barely fifty paces when Veika called a halt. A few twisted shrubs with interwoven branches bent by the constant wind formed the bones of a shelter. A covering of thick canvas was roped over the top and pegged to the ground to form a crude roof. Wood was already stacked inside a ring of stones, and two leather satchels were tucked under one of the bushes.

  “It’s not much, but it’ll keep the wind out,” said Veika as they dismounted.

  “Thank you,” said Ren. “It’s far better than sleeping in the open out here. Tarrik, help Veika stow our gear. I’m going to sleep. I’m exhausted.” She found a spot underneath the shelter, rolled herself in a blanket, and lay still.

  Very odd, Tarrik decided. While directing her sorcerous contrivance, Ren had been full of energy, even at the end of their trip when daylight was fading. And now she was fatigued and hadn’t even replenished her repository with the dusk-tide. Surely it was depleted. He was wise enough to know something strange had happened.

  Veika ignored Ren’s command, settled himself beside the ring of stones, and struck an alchemical fire stick to set the kindling ablaze.

  Tarrik looked at his horse, which returned his stare. He propped his spear against the shelter and set to work. He felt Veika’s gaze on him, as if the man wanted to catch his eye to gloat about not helping, but Tarrik ignored him. He packed their bags and saddles into a pile and tied the horses to the shrubs, where they could graze the windswept grass.

  “Don’t talk much, do you?” said Veika as Tarrik squatted on his haunches on the other side of the fire.

  “I try to avoid it.” The heat on his face felt comforting, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the orange light flickering on his lids.

  “Better to have people think you’re an idiot than have your words confirm it, I guess.”

  Tarrik allowed himself a small smile. This Veika was annoying, but his words were as wind. He almost responded with a jibe about failing to protect one’s family but thought better of it. He didn’t know how long they’d have to travel together, and the man might yet be useful to get to Ren. Such a ploy would be easier if the runt wasn’t hostile.

  “Most savages from the south would have drawn steel at that insult,” said Veika.

  “I’m not most savages,” replied Tarrik, opening his eyes. “And I wouldn’t need steel.”

  Veika had been running a whetstone along a dagger. Now he twirled the blade with a flourish, and it disappeared, probably inside his sleeve. “I don’t like working with people I don’t know. And even less with ignorant savages.”

  “Do you have any spirits?” Tarrik asked. The runt’s chattering was annoying, and he seemed to want to irritate. Perhaps that was his plan, to needle until his opponent snapped.

  “I have a bottle of rum, Black Widow’s Barrel. Niyas is famed for it.”

  “Fetch it.”

  Veika’s eyes bored into Tarrik’s. “It’s very expensive.”

  Tarrik grinned and held out a hand. “I’ll owe you.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Veika rose and rummaged through his saddlebag. He produced a brown glass bottle with a black label and handed it to Tarrik, who uncorked the drink and took a long swig. The rum was too sweet for his taste, but it burned his throat and numbed his emotions, all that was required.

  “By the gods, take it easy,” snarled Veika.

  Tarrik wiped the back of his hand across his lips and passed the bottle back to him. “It’ll do.”

  “It’ll do? This rum was aged in fired oak barrels for ten years! The finest sugarcane in Niyas was pressed for its juice—”

  “It’s a bit sweet. Do you have anything else?”

  Veika’s face turned red. “It’s rum! Fermenting gets rid of the sugar.” He cradled the bottle like it was a baby and sulked back to his side of the fire. He wiped its neck on his sleeve before taking a sip. “Too sweet!” he muttered, shaking his head.

  A pile of flat cakes sat atop a stone, warming by the fire. Veika picked one up and munched on it. Tarrik assumed he was supposed to ask for his share but didn’t. Even though the rum had left a disgusting sugariness in his mouth and he wanted to get rid of the lingering taste, asking this idiot for food was a step too far. Besides, the flat cake probably tasted like sawdust.

  He went through their gear until he found Ren’s healing kit and the bottle of pure alcohol. He swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. When he returned to the fire, Veika had a puzzled look on his face.

  “You’re disgusting,” he said. “That’s for cleaning wounds.”

  “We savages usually are disgusting. The southern lands are harsh and do not tolerate niceties.”

  “You’re no gods-damned savage. And don’t try to deny it. You could be one, but too much is off about you. Few would see it, but I’m paid to notice things others don’t.”

  Tarrik remained silent. He grabbed his own blanket and settled down close to the fire, laying his spear beside him. He wasn’t in a hurry to sleep but just wanted to get away from the runt’s ceaseless prattling. He felt Veika’s gaze on him but wasn’t worried about the man trying to kill him. Veika was in Ren’s employ and seemed both fearful of her and loyal.

  He lay still, the warmth of the fire at his back, and eventually heard Veika take to his own makeshift bed. Seemingly only moments later, Tarrik jerked upright, his spear instantly in his hand, at the sound of an animal screeching.

  The red and white crescent moons shed little light, and the night was dark, a band of stars stretching across the sky in a speckled ribbon. Something howled in the distance, and Tarrik clambered to his feet. Veika’s blanket was empty, though Ren still slept, it appeared.

  Tarrik found the small man a dozen yards away, his face turned to the eastern hills. He held out the bottle of Black Widow’s Barrel as Tarrik approached. Tarrik shuddered and shook his head.

  “More for me,” said Veika. He took a sip and smacked his lips appreciatively.

  “What’s out there?” Tarrik asked.

  “A manticarr. Sounds like it stumbled on a pack of wolves. It’ll probably kill them all and spend the night feeding, so we should be safe. I don’t like Lady Branwen being out in the wilderness like this; it’s too risky. There’s a wraithe here in the south too—I’ve seen her from a distance. I’m not sure even Ren could match such an ancient being. Anyway, we’ll be in Dwemor Port tomorrow.”

  “What’s a manticarr?”

  “A gods-damned creature as big as a house. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I know how to kill people.”

  “I’ll bet you do. Well, you’ll find plenty of work with the Lady Branwen.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Why would a single man need three saddles?” Veika said. “People notice such things. And when they do, they start to ask questions. I don’t want people asking q
uestions about me or about the people I work for.”

  Tarrik let the man’s voice roll over him and disappear into the wind. Veika had talked all morning, through much of their midday meal, and into the afternoon. He was silent only when his mouth was full. Ren seemed to cope well enough, but already Tarrik wanted to throw him off a cliff. A high one.

  Now, as they neared the city of Dwemor Port, Veika slowed his horse to ride alongside Ren and spoke in a low tone, clearly hoping Tarrik wouldn’t hear.

  “Are you sure you can trust him?”

  “More than most,” she said, and Tarrik knew she was referring to her sorcerous bindings.

  “That doesn’t alleviate my concerns. I will find someone more suitable for you. This—”

  “This warrior is suitable.”

  “But I don’t know him,” said Veika.

  “Neither does anyone else.”

  Veika glanced over his shoulder at Tarrik, pursing his lips and scratching his head. Perhaps he was worried he wouldn’t be paid if Tarrik let Ren get killed. Or perhaps he lusted after his master.

  “May I remind you that your last choice didn’t work out,” he said softly.

  So Tarrik had had a predecessor. It had to have been a human warrior, since Tarrik was her first summoning. He racked his brain but couldn’t recall any other higher demon having gone missing in mysterious circumstances recently. Despite his exile, he still kept in touch, as gossip traveled freely between realms.

  “You may. But in this I stand resolute.”

  “I seldom question your wisdom, my lady—”

  “You seldom don’t!” said Ren, laughing. “But I am firm on this. I believe he is the best choice.”

  “He doesn’t say much.”

  “He doesn’t have to. It’s not his job.”

  They crested a large hill, and the city wall came into view below: weathered stone held together with crumbling mortar and topped with a wooden palisade of sharpened stakes. Behind it huddled a sizeable city, its streets filled with the restless thrum of humanity, all unaware they lived in a cage of their own making. Buildings stretched as far as the eye could see, shrouded by smoke, and a deepwater harbor crowded with ships sat on the western edge. Canals flowed from the harbor to crisscross the relatively flat city. Tarrik could make out more walls inside the outer one; clearly the city had expanded as its inhabitants had swelled in number. The older walls were now festooned with wooden buildings that rose high above the rest.