Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  The tavern keeper scooped up the coin in a flash. “Of course, of course! We cater to all types here.”

  He ducked under the bar and rummaged around, coming up after a few moments with a dust-covered bottle of green glass. He gave it a cursory wipe with his sleeve and placed it on the counter. Tarrik took the bottle and looked around for a quiet corner. A few other patrons sat about, though all seemed interested in their drinks rather than conversation.

  He uncorked the bottle and took a long swig. The spirit went down burning and spread a welcome warmth through his empty stomach.

  “Ah, go easy,” said the tavern keeper nervously. “I’ll not have you throwing up and passing out. The scavengers here will pick you clean, and I don’t want you blaming me.”

  “Food,” said Tarrik. “Meat.”

  He made his way to an empty table and leaned his spear against the wall next to it. The chair gave a creak of protest when he sat down but seemed sturdy enough.

  Bloody sorcerers. He took another swallow. Time was he’d been content to live out his life in exile, one of the outcasts who had no involvement in the goings-on of the higher demons. Always thinking only a day ahead to where his next meal would come from or how the day’s card games might play out. And now here he was, sitting in a strange tavern, drinking among pathetic humans, waiting to see whether the sorcerers would figure out that Ren had bound a demon and who his new master would be. Puck? Moushumi? Lera? Or even Marren?

  The funny thing was, he thought, they’d all be worse than Ren.

  A woman entered the tavern scantily clad in tight silks, her lips painted red. She handed the tavern keeper a coin, then eyed the customers. Tarrik took another swallow and ignored her.

  She sauntered between the tables until she ended up at his. “Buy a girl a drink?” she said throatily, fixing her eyes on him.

  “Piss off,” he said. As worked up as he was right now, he wasn’t in the mood for a woman.

  She blinked and drew her shoulders back.

  “I said get lost!”

  She sneered at him and walked away, finding an elderly man in a side booth to pester. Good. She wasn’t a patch on Jaquel.

  Or Ren.

  Tarrik coughed, spraying spirits across the table. He coughed again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood and fire, what was wrong with him?

  He sniffed and swallowed more of the liquor and cursed when he found the bottle almost empty.

  A server emerged from a doorway beside the counter, carrying a plate piled high with slices of meat. He deposited it on Tarrik’s table. “That’ll be a silver.”

  Tarrik handed over another gold coin and waved the empty bottle at him. “More of the same. And quickly.”

  Ren and the Nine could die burning in a bonfire, and he wouldn’t care. She’d enslaved him! And then come to save him. Blood and fire!

  He rubbed his aching eyes and tried to ignore the insistent ache of Ren’s bindings. He felt sorrow, for an unfathomable reason. Leaving her to be tortured and killed would be justice, wouldn’t it?

  The second bottle came. He took a swig, then set to eating the meat. It was overcooked, but the pinkness in the center was almost palatable. He devoured the fare anyway, using his fingers to eat. When he was done, he licked them clean, then sat back, legs stretched out in front of him, nursing the now half-empty bottle.

  Ren’s bindings still pulled at him, but they were weak. Weaker than earlier? Difficult to determine.

  For a long time Tarrik sat there, wondering about his future and past. And about Ren. Who was she really? Killing Lischen and Indriol had to have weakened the Nine and was a trespass that Samal surely wouldn’t forgive. Ren had argued that the Nine should not go ahead with their attempt to free Samal. Or so she’d told him. But she was Samal’s creature just as much as the rest of them.

  Tarrik took another swig and found the bottle empty again. He slammed it onto the table, and the Widow’s container tipped over and rolled over the edge, shattering on the floor. Every head turned to stare at him.

  Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t seen the place fill up, but a score or more people were drinking there now—mostly laborers, judging from their thick builds, worn clothes, and tired eyes. He didn’t care for their disparaging stares, the uncouth remarks they didn’t bother to hide. He was Tarrik Nal-Valim, demon of the Thirty-Seventh Order! And they were mere animals, fit only to serve him or die by his blade!

  Despite the two bottles of spirits, his anger sprang to life, going instantly from banked coals to a raging bonfire. Red swamped his vision. He realized he was on his feet, his hands clamped into fists, glaring at an empty spot in front of him.

  Someone stepped into his line of sight. “Calm down, friend,” rumbled a deep voice.

  The first thing Tarrik took in was the man’s midnight skin. Next was his height and bulging muscles, the arms roped with sinew. Orgol blood ran thick in this man’s veins. He would be quick too. A heavy sword hung from his hip.

  “Calm down?” said Tarrik incredulously. This lump of meat had no right to command him. He didn’t know what Tarrik had lost. Freedom. His home. Self-respect. Ren.

  “Blood and fire!” he shouted, and the man backed away a step and drew his blade. The thick sword moved as easily as a stick despite its weight. The man’s eyes held no fear.

  Tarrik sneered at him. His every muscle itched to fight this half-breed and pound him into the dirt. He would break his arms and legs and spill his guts on the sawdust. But his rage was best focused elsewhere.

  He kept his voice low, managed to speak through clenched teeth. “I’m leaving.”

  The man nodded, but his sword didn’t move a hair.

  Tarrik grabbed his spear, then made a wide circle around the man. Disappointed murmurs followed him all the way outside. No doubt wagers had been made on who would win a fight.

  On another day, Tarrik would have made an example of the muscled patron, as he had with Albin in Ivrian. But not today. Not now.

  He was going to do something stupid. He was going to find Ren.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tarrik hefted his spear and set off at a jog. Across the city, the Demon Tower loomed. Ren would be there—he was sure. At the thought, her bindings grew stronger, tugging at him. He still felt he could ignore them if he wanted to, but his own feelings were more of a compulsion now than her sorcery. The Tainted Cabalists thought they could use demons for their own ends. Today, they would find out what an unfettered demon was capable of. Tarrik let the rage inside him come to life. His head swam; his arms and chest ached for violence.

  He reached the paved square in front of the tower and looked up at it rearing into the sky. The edifice’s stone blocks were gigantic, and the seams between blocks were barely visible. The only door was wide open, and four leather-armored guards were stationed there, two to either side.

  This close, Tarrik felt he could sense Ren inside the tower. But whether this was the result of her bindings calling to him or his imagination, he couldn’t tell.

  If the Cabalists intended to keep Ren a prisoner for any length of time, they would have to prevent her from using sorcery. This could be done a number of ways, but the easiest was to keep sorcerers unconscious and deep underground, unable to replenish their repositories with the dawn- and dusk-tides. Eventually their power would leak away, and they’d be helpless.

  His stomach clenched at the thought of what the Cabalists would be doing to Ren. He had to get inside, then make his way to the lower levels.

  He mentally assessed his repository of dark-tide power. He hadn’t used much, and as always, his store leaked far less than that of other demons. It was a talent that was barely understood, or so he’d been told. By his judgment he had enough for a dozen or so shadow-steps and a few bursts of his shadow-blade before he was drained to the dregs. That would have to be enough.

  He hefted his spear and walked slowly toward the tower. As he did, he stoked his anger—held it tight, nursed it.
r />   The guards saw him coming. They stood up straighter and loosened their swords in their sheaths.

  Tarrik loosened his shoulders and stretched his neck to either side. His hands quivered with all the suppressed rage the spirits hadn’t been able to dampen. Blood surged through his veins, drummed in his head. He grinned, relishing the violence to come. Finally, he was free to take out his anger on these human slavers.

  “Halt!” shouted a guard. “What business do you have here?”

  “Move aside!” snarled Tarrik.

  The guards’ swords rang from their sheaths. Their blades swung up to point at Tarrik.

  So be it.

  Tarrik allowed his fury to fill him with its heat and strength. He swapped his spear to his left hand and uttered a cant. His dark-tide power connected to the conduit he’d created, and his shadow-blade materialized in his right hand.

  The guard in front of Tarrik only had time to widen his eyes in surprise before a shimmering sword of pure force sliced through his neck. Blood sprayed from the wound, splashing the pavers.

  As the guard’s body crumpled lifelessly, Tarrik leaped for another, darting his shadow-blade toward the man’s chest. He jerked backward, and Tarrik thrust with his spear, puncturing his leather armor. The man cried out in pain, one hand grabbing the spear shaft, its blade deep inside his stomach. With a savage grin and a twist, Tarrik yanked the spear free, and the guard fell to the ground, spurting blood and screaming.

  Tarrik shouted another cant, and his shadow-blade vanished. He gripped his spear with both hands as the remaining two guards came for him. One leaped forward and lunged, trying to get inside Tarrik’s guard. Tarrik batted the sword aside with the spear’s shaft, jumped forward, and hammered its butt into the man’s face. Bone cracked, and the guard reeled.

  Tarrik dodged to the side, and the second guard’s blade passed through the space he’d vacated. Whipping his spear around, he swept the man’s feet from under him. The guard fell with a thump and rolled away.

  Tarrik ignored him and returned to the other. One hand clutched his face, which dripped crimson, while the other held his shaking sword. His eyes darted, as if he were searching for someone to help him. Tarrik thrust once, twice, both deliberate feints, then jabbed his spear tip into the guard’s thigh. The man screeched and staggered away, dropping his sword as he fell.

  Tarrik spun, spear blade cutting through the air, causing the last guard to fall back. The man circled Tarrik warily and danced backward out of reach when Tarrik moved to close the distance between them. Stalling for time.

  Tarrik faked a thrust, sending the man leaping aside, then turned and darted toward the third guard. He plunged his spear into the man’s side, twisted, then jerked it free.

  “No!” the remaining guard exclaimed with horror. “You fecking pig! You’re a dead man!”

  Tarrik spoke a cant, and his shadow-blade sprang into existence again. He thrust with his spear, then tossed it into the guard’s legs while simultaneously charging at him. The guard tried to dodge but tripped on the spear shaft tangling his legs. He stumbled, and Tarrik drove his shadow-blade into his chest. The man moaned and gurgled as blood spilled from his lips.

  “I’m not a man,” said Tarrik. “And mercy is for the weak.”

  He slashed his shadow-blade across the man’s throat, then sprinted through the now-undefended door into the Demon Tower.

  The entrance foyer was massive and meant to impress, with polished marble tiles and gilded chairs and tables. Far above hung chandeliers with dozens of alchemical globes. Good, Tarrik thought. That means the shadows will be stable.

  Men and women rushed toward him, having heard the commotion outside. When they saw his gore-spattered appearance, they turned and fled.

  He ignored them, searching for those who stood their ground and whose lips moved with cants of sorcery. Two women and a man. Shimmering spheres of emerald power sprang up around them. Tainted Cabal sorcerers.

  “Where is she?” roared Tarrik.

  Let them know why he’d come. Let them know that their foolish actions had brought forth a demon’s wrath. Violence and death and ruin.

  One of the female sorcerers glanced at the man. She wore a blue silken dress, and long metal needles held up her abundant brown hair.

  The man held out a hand to stop the woman and stepped toward Tarrik himself. He boasted a graying beard and dismissive sneer.

  “Surrender now, and your death will be swift,” he said.

  The third sorcerer sidled slowly to the man’s right in an attempt to move out of Tarrik’s line of sight.

  “Where is she?” repeated Tarrik.

  The man affected a puzzled frown. “Who?”

  Enough of this farce. Tarrik might not be able to penetrate occult wards, but there was more than one way to kill or render sorcerers ineffective. The easiest way to negate their power, of course, was not to be in their view. He stepped back, feigning uncertainty, and took in the shadowed areas of the entry foyer. They were few and not dark enough. To his right, though, was an inky corridor.

  Tarrik snarled and ran at the male sorcerer. His mouth opened in shock.

  Midstride, Tarrik fixed his sight inside the corridor and poured himself into the darkness. His essence dissolved into the void, and he re-formed thirty paces away, against the wall in the shadows. Out of the sorcerers’ vision.

  He ran along the tiled passageway, searching for a way down. He barely had any thoughts other than to find Ren and kill anyone who tried to stop him.

  Crackling sorcery sounded behind him, and the corridor was lit with brilliant blue light—the sorcerers reacting to his disappearance. He hoped they might believe him invisible or concealed somewhere in the chamber with them. Their confusion and their attempt to find him would buy him valuable time as they scoured the room with incantations.

  Tarrik skidded around a corner and met the eyes of a surprised woman. She fumbled for the talisman at her belt, but his spear caught her in the stomach. She screamed and doubled over, her hands clutching the shaft. He jerked the spear to the side and landed a boot in her ribs, kicking her free. She tumbled against the wall, curled into a ball.

  He ignored her cries and ran past. Her wailing would alert the other sorcerers of his location. Even more so than before, speed was urgent.

  He spoke his seldom-used scrying cants, sending dark-tide tendrils out in front of him. Almost immediately one rebounded, bringing information with it: a staircase down.

  Tarrik took a corridor to the right, heading toward the stairs. Two guards appeared before him, moving slowly. Too slowly. One died in a spray of blood as Tarrik’s spear blade opened his throat. The second only had time to fumble for his sword before he too collapsed from a double thrust to his chest.

  Elation filled Tarrik. He laughed and bellowed in his native Nazgrese—words of jubilation, rage, and challenge. He barely saw whoever it was he killed next. Servant, guard, or sorcerer, they all fell to his spear when he came upon them from the darkness.

  A guard stationed at the top of the stairs managed to draw his short sword just as Tarrik threw his spear. The guard twisted, and the spear blade opened a gash in his side before it thudded into the wall. He grunted but stood his ground.

  Tarrik charged, spoke a cant. His shadow-blade materialized. It blocked the guard’s feeble thrust, shoving it to the side, then ripped across the man’s stomach. Tarrik leaped over the crumpling guard, yanked his spear free, and raced down the stairs.

  His boot slipped, and he almost fell, and then he slowed his pace. As Tarrik descended, the stone walls darkened, shining with dampness and salt encrustations. He sent out another scrying wave and found Ren. Somewhere ahead, maybe fifty paces.

  He came to an iron-bound door with a massive lock. A torch burned in a sconce, sending flickering orange light across the walls. Tarrik turned the door handle, and the lock clicked open. When he wasn’t seared by wards, he grinned ferally. He was still alive and had almost reached Ren.

&n
bsp; By now the sorcerers would know his goal. They would be gathering, readying themselves to kill him, fearful of what would happen if Ren were freed.

  He thrust the door open and came face-to-face with four guards. They wore mismatched boiled leather and armor that looked to have been scavenged from a full set. Each held only a short sword.

  The guardroom floor was covered with straw, and a dozen crates and barrels were stacked against the walls. One barrel was surrounded by four stools and topped with cards and dice, a handful of copper coins, and a waterskin. Beyond the room, he saw cell doors of solid timber with iron-barred windows.

  The guards pointed their blades at Tarrik, their wide eyes taking in his dripping spear and blood-spattered appearance.

  “Surrender!” one shouted.

  Tarrik leaped forward, his first spear thrust piercing a guard’s eye into his brain. He parried another guard’s sword with the spear’s shaft, then kicked the man in the knee. Bone cracked, and the man collapsed to the floor before being finished off with a quick stab in his side.

  Tarrik moved on to the final two guards. One had backed away a few paces and looked ready to run. The other came at Tarrik in a wild rush. He was the tallest of the four, well-built, and his thrusts and slashes were guided by an expert hand. His blade came in a blur, straight as an arrow, and Tarrik barely managed to twist and turn it aside. The edge cut through his shirt and drew a burning slice across his skin.

  He hissed and used his momentum to bring himself around to slash with his shadow-blade at the man’s thigh. It was met with steel and turned aside.

  Tarrik aimed for the guard’s neck and again was blocked.

  Running out of time. Kill him.

  A counter came at Tarrik, quick and placed well—a stab to the chest that would have killed him. Using his spear shaft, he forced the blade down and to the side, leaving the man wide open. His shadow-blade skewered throat, tongue, and bone to pierce the brain. He jerked his blade free, and the guard slumped to the floor.

  The fourth guard looked frantically over his shoulder before facing Tarrik again. Maybe he thought to barricade himself in a cell.