A crone shambled out of the gloom. She had a balding pate with a few scraggly gray hairs and wore a shapeless robe of plain wool.
“Jawo-linger didn’t tell me your name,” said Ren.
The old woman stared at her with rheumy eyes. “Elisa,” she croaked, and pulled a tattered rag from a pocket to wipe the table.
“Elisa, I’m expecting a chest to be delivered,” Ren said. “Have them leave it here. It is not to be tampered with.”
Elisa ceased her dusting, turned to Ren, and nodded once, then returned to wiping the table. She’d gone over the entire surface at least twice, Tarrik thought.
The armored guards were a concern. Who were they, and who controlled them? If their eyes had been replaced with orichalcum, sorcery was at work.
“Are the guards human?” he asked Ren in a low voice.
“Mostly. Ekthras created them. He calls them dreadlords—he was ever prone to vanity and poor taste. Each is a prisoner sentenced to hanging. They are made of flesh but altered by incantations.” She glanced at Elisa. “Leave us, please.”
The old woman ceased her dusting, bobbed her head in a nod, and hurried away.
Ren watched her until she exited the tent, then continued. “Ekthras was the first of the Nine that Samal created. Or should I say enslaved. Ekthras’s intelligence and sorcerous knowledge are without peer; he is the greatest practitioner of the dawn- and dusk-tides ever to have lived.”
“And what of the sun’s power?”
Ren gave him a brief smile. “He knows not that secret. A good thing too, for Ekthras is consumed by inhuman desires. During the demon war he terrorized nations and butchered hundreds of thousands. He was feared and hated, and rightly so. He is a tyrant and in another age would no doubt have risen to command an empire built on despair—a dark lord unconstrained by morality, ruling by strength and terror. I suppose that’s one thing Samal did for this world: he stopped the rise of such a madman. But Ekthras is not your concern. Keep your mind on the dreadlords. They are augmented to make them faster and stronger than normal. And if you should end up fighting one, don’t let it hit you with its great sword.”
“Do they have a weakness I can exploit?”
She thought for a moment. “Not really. Blood loss or decapitation are the only things that will stop them. But with their armor, neither is likely. Best to avoid them if you can. Now, we’d better get to work. Leave our saddlebags here, and come with me. Bring your bottle.”
“Don’t you need to rest?”
“I can’t. This place stirs too many memories within me. The atrocities on both sides during the war were horrific. And then Samal . . . in my sleep I see the horrors still—the blood streaming in rivers, men and women burning, horses and cattle blasted to shredded meat and cracked bones. Babies screaming.” She met his eyes. “People killed their children rather than let the demons capture them. Can you imagine?”
Tarrik could imagine. He’d seen those things too. Nothing he could say would lessen the nightmares.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He dropped their gear beside the mound of blankets and followed Ren back outside. As soon as they emerged into the daylight, Tarrik felt himself drawn to the pyramid. The immense effort required to raise such a thing staggered him. Had it been built by those who had imprisoned Samal or by his worshipers afterward?
Puck’s apprentice stood a dozen paces away, glaring at them.
Ren shouted at her, “Begone! Return to your master.”
The woman frowned, half turned as if to leave, before turning back to face them. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and departed at an almost run. She too left the stench of goat in her wake.
“She is mad,” remarked Tarrik.
“Yes, but not from Samal’s touch. She was already like that when Puck took her on as an apprentice. He is far gone himself and becoming more unstable.” She shaded her eyes from the rising sun. “Come.”
Ren walked quickly along a worn path that joined a wide road that spread out ahead of them all the way to the pyramid. Flat rocks in the dirt underfoot told Tarrik they trod the ruins of an ancient road. Once this place must have gleamed as brightly as a newly built city. Now it was almost forgotten by all except the Cabal and the Nine—and the thieves who tried to break into the tomb.
They passed a cook fire with three soldiers sitting around it, chatting in hushed tones. Flames flickered over a meager pile of sticks, as if they’d had difficulty scrounging for fuel. Oats bubbled in a pot, and bacon sizzled in a fry pan. Ren stopped for a portion of both, which the soldiers handed over without speaking. As she and Tarrik continued along the road toward the tomb, she spooned the food into her mouth as if it were her last meal.
They came to a line designated by red flags flying on long poles driven into the ground. More orichalcum-eyed guards were stationed in front of the markers, their backs to the pyramid, gazes fixed firmly ahead. Off to both sides stood two groups of men and women, each studying a large parchment and engaged in intense discussion. From the talismans at their belts, Tarrik reckoned they were sorcerers.
A wagon filled with wooden coffins was stationed close by. Two teamsters stood by it, smoking pipes and watching the sorcerers. A few dozen yards beyond them were several empty graves with piles of earth beside them and eleven metallic markers showing the already-filled plots.
“It’s dangerous work,” said Ren, nodding toward the wagon and makeshift cemetery. “The Cabal’s ancient foes set traps around the pyramid, and these Cabal sorcerers are here to learn how to bypass them. Those who fail are injured, or worse. And all those who fall while undertaking such a momentous task are honored.”
“I’d imagine unearthing a demon lord interned in an arcane prison would be hazardous. The corpses get a nice shiny gravestone,” Tarrik said.
A woman sorcerer with short blonde hair shouted at her colleagues and stamped her foot. She waved a hand toward a flag, then pointed at the parchment and shook her head vigorously. A male sorcerer sat on the ground nearby, arms clasped around his knees, staring at the flags.
“There’s trouble brewing between the Cabal and the Nine,” said Ren. “They’ve never worked well together.”
The closest group of sorcerers had stopped their deliberations to stare at Ren. With a glance at her companions, one woman approached. She wore a red silk dress split at the sides to reveal black leggings, and her brown hair was cut short. She had high cheekbones and friendly eyes and a smile Tarrik had often seen on women who weren’t afraid to kill.
Ten paces away she stopped and bowed to Ren, then spoke quickly. At first Tarrik couldn’t understand what she said, so thick was her accent, but his ears quickly adjusted to the tumble of long vowels and strangled pronunciations.
“And then Rusina stuttered on a cant when a demon emerged, and her shield wasn’t solid in time. It took three of us to get the foul creature off her, and by then we were too late. We’re trying our best, but the dangers are tremendous. We’re working day and night. We need more rest.”
“I understand,” said Ren. “But the Cabal sent you here to learn, to test yourselves. You can run back to Ruruc in disgrace, if you dare, or you can stretch your abilities now and return to acclaim. It’s your choice. An opportunity like this only comes once in a lifetime.”
“I . . . I mean, we . . .” The woman glanced over her shoulder at her companions. “We could really use some help with the more intricate calculations and cants.”
“The Nine are all busy preparing for the final breakthrough. The traps and imprisoned beings outside the pyramid are far lesser than those we will be facing once the real work begins,” Ren told her. “This is a test of your abilities, and it seems you’re failing. If you’re unhappy with your task, I suggest you return to Ruruc. The same goes for your colleagues.”
The woman bowed a few times, then backed away before hurrying across the dusty ground to return to her group.
Ren ignored the Cabalists’ renewed stares and walked
toward two barrels that seemed to designate an entrance of sorts to the row of flags that led to the tomb’s base. Tarrik saw that stacks of bleached bones were piled to either side of the entrance tower and along the pyramid’s base.
Ren strode past the orichalcum-eyed dreadlords that flanked both sides of the barrels and came to a stop in front of a group of flags arranged in a rough circle. She removed a cloth from her pocket and stretched it between both hands. Tarrik saw she held a map of the pyramid and the surrounding land, with numerous minute notations and symbols mostly congregated around the entrance tower.
A hundred yards away stood the tower itself. Writing ringed its sinister opening, angular and primitive. Tarrik recognized it as ancient Skanuric. For the letters to be visible from this distance, they must be huge.
His eyes were drawn to the pitch-black maw beneath the writing. As he gazed at it, the darkness swam. There seemed to be something more than darkness there, and at the same time something less. He became light-headed and swayed on his feet, then stumbled to his hands and knees, his head spinning, his stomach twisting. Bile spilled from his mouth as he heaved onto the dirt.
Ren touched a hand to his shoulder, seeming to ground him somehow. He spat to remove the sour taste from his mouth, found his spear, and stood slowly, brushing dust from his pants.
“What is it?” he asked, keeping his gaze from the gaping opening.
“Samal is imprisoned in another dimension. The pyramid covers a stone structure laced with orichalcum, but it isn’t a physical prison. It’s a conduit. The opening you can see is composed of the very fabric of reality, twisted to suit a particular purpose. No one can look at it for very long, as you found out—the gate bends the eye and the mind. You stood up to it better than most, though. Probably your demonic nature, or the fact you’re used to traveling from one world to another.” She looked thoughtful. “I should investigate this further.” Then her eyes narrowed, and she smiled wryly. “Here I am, thinking there might be a future for me beyond Samal’s release. Anyhow, the Nine have spent many years attempting to unravel the sorcerous wards and have more or less succeeded.”
“More or less?”
“You have to be careful, as the gate remains mesmerizing—it pulls you in. One of the Cabalists’ apprentices lost his mind and dashed into the void.”
“Where did he end up? With Samal?”
“No one knows.”
For the first time Tarrik grasped the scale of what the Nine had undertaken to attempt to free Samal. This prison had been created by armies of warriors and sorcerers with a combined power never again seen in this world. Scores of sorcerers must have worked upon the cell, and only because they could not kill Samal. The Adversary had lived up to the name given him by the other demon lords. And now the Nine—depleted to seven—believed they were powerful enough to break Samal free. If they succeeded, they would be unstoppable.
My fate is bound up with the fate of this world. If Samal returns, I will cease to exist.
Tarrik’s eyes flicked to the blackness again, and he tore them away, focusing instead on the bones along the base of the pyramid.
“Who piled the bones there?” he asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Haven’t you been here before to try to free the Adversary?”
“No. The Nine were scattered, our powers suppressed, voluntarily and involuntarily. We were hunted by those who opposed Nysrog and his armies. It’s a miracle that all Nine of us made it this far without anyone being killed.”
“Until you came along.”
“I have always been part of the Nine.”
“But not in the beginning? Indriol told me the others gave themselves willingly to Samal. You had to be corrupted.”
Ren stared at the prison, her mouth twisted in revulsion. “It doesn’t matter now. My previous life is a distant memory. It’s impossible to return there. All I can do is . . . well, do my best.”
“Were you one of those imprisoned after Nysrog’s defeat?”
She shook her head. “I ran. Scared out of my mind and always looking over my shoulder—with good reason. I ended up in the far south, a thousand miles from the Jargalan Desert. After my first encounter with the Orgols, they left me pretty much alone. I traded basic sorceries for food and essentials and learned their tongue over a few months. I’d been living out there for years before I stumbled on the curious story of a shaman who could bend light. She could do much more than that, as I found out.”
Ah. So that was where Ren had stumbled onto the secret of her sun power. “What happened to the shaman?”
“I killed her. Samal’s bindings are strong, even from within his prison. They permit no mercy. I have killed many in Samal’s name over the decades. It wearies me. I have become too accustomed to the sight of corpses.”
“Your actions are not yours, not really. Samal is your master. You are his slave.”
“Samal is the fist that pounds us, the claws that tear. The hand that molds us. Just as humans found a way to control demons, Samal reversed the process. The Nine are his slaves. He is powerful, Tarrik, and he cannot be stopped. Some thought to try, long ago. I was one of them.”
“You’re going to try again.”
Ren laughed softly. “I am a fool.”
Tarrik didn’t reply. He was frightened to realize that Ren reminded him more and more of Contian, who had treated him with respect and as a friend. Tarrik was wary of the similarity, knowing that demon emotions ran deep, and succumbing to them could cause him great misery and pain. His passions were not easily diminished.
What was she like before Samal corrupted her?
“Blood and fire,” he muttered to himself.
Ren glanced at him. A mischievous glint came into her eyes, and she smiled at him. A moment later it was gone. She swung her sword to the side and crouched on her heels. She plucked a stem of grass, dried to straw, and wrapped it around a finger, then stared unflinchingly at the portal to Samal’s prison.
Tarrik couldn’t look at it for more than a heartbeat before he had to tear his gaze free or risk another display of weakness. He moved a few paces away and leaned on his spear. Ren looked like she didn’t want to be disturbed, and he had much to think about. What would the return of the Adversary mean for this world, especially if Samal gained access to Ren’s sun power? Once Samal was free and turned his gaze to Tarrik, he wouldn’t see a fellow demon, just a source of power to be absorbed and exploited. And Ren, under his command, would simply hand Tarrik over.
Unless . . . if Tarrik could absorb the essence of Ananias before then, he might have enough power to flee if Ren died.
He scratched at the shell around the essence. He could feel it pulsing within, almost like a heartbeat. Warmth emanated from the surface, welcoming rather than dangerous. For the moment.
He pushed against a section that felt softer than its surrounds and was rewarded with a short burst of energy. He scooped the morsel up and corralled it with dark-tide tethers so he could absorb the energy gradually instead of all at once.
Heat spread through his mind, filling him with vigor. He almost felt his dark-tide abilities growing stronger. Blood surged through his body, coursed along his arms and legs, his torso, creating delicious shivers. Such delight! He wanted more. Needed more.
He reached for the shell again but regained his senses and pulled back. To lose control now would be to lose himself entirely. But how much time did he have before the Nine released Samal? Less than two days. The risk of losing his mind had to be weighed against the risk Samal posed to him.
Ren stood and dropped the now-curled piece of grass to the dirt. “Come, Tarrik, we have much work to do before the attempt to free Samal begins.”
He grabbed her shoulder as she turned to walk away. For a change, she did not flinch from his touch, but Tarrik dropped his arm all the same. “You are not safe here,” he told her. “The Nine want you dead. The Tainted Cabalists clearly distrust you—they just tortured you. How do you kno
w they won’t try to disrupt your sorcery? And Samal will know that you killed Lischen and Indriol—he will not be merciful. You know the far south, and you’re able to make your way among the Orgol. You could go there and live. Here, we will be killed.”
Ren’s expression became resigned. “I have no choice.”
And she strode off back to the encampment, away from Samal’s prison.
For the rest of the day, Ren busied herself writing in her journal and sketching sorcerous diagrams. She frowned at Tarrik if he came close enough to interrupt her concentration, so he spent most of his time sitting at the entrance to their tent, wondering how to escape his looming fate.
“You know, you speak in your sleep sometimes. And not always in your demon tongue,” said Ren.
Tarrik looked up to find her squatting in front of him, her head tilted to one side as if she were examining him.
“It’s Nazgrese,” he said. “Our language.”
“How did Jaquel die?”
Her abrupt question threw him off-balance. Sadness threatened to engulf him, though Jaquel’s death had happened long ago. He averted his eyes from Ren’s gaze.
“She grew old, as humans do. I watched her wither. At the end, her mind was fragmented . . . sometimes she didn’t know who I was. I buried her beneath an apple tree she’d planted as a seedling. Apples . . . disgusting things, but she loved them. How is it that a plant can last longer than a human life?”
Ren touched his shoulder lightly, as if expecting him to flinch. But he found her touch welcome. They’d begun to trust each other, and each had taken a risk. With a growing fear, Tarrik remembered that was how his relationship had begun with Jaquel. She had found a crack in the hard veneer he so often presented. And in the end, she’d died.
“She taught you how to care for humans.”
It was a statement, not a question. But like so many assumptions sorcerers made about demons, it wasn’t the truth.
“No. We care, sometimes too much. We also hate with an intensity that makes human emotions seem shallow. You humans are incapable of fathoming the depths of our emotions. When I love, I do so without reservation, with every fiber of my being. What Jaquel did, and Contian too, was make me love them. A path that can only lead to despair. For humans die, and love for them leaves a scar.”
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 33