NiDemon
Copyright ©2011 by Shawn P. Cormier
Published by Pine View Press at Smashwords
Discover other titles by Shawn P Cormier at Smashwords
Nomadin
NiDemon
Necromancer
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook may be given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please feel free to do so. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then all I ask is that you please leave a review at Smashwords or another online retailer, LIKE it on Facebook, or spread the word via old-fashioned word of mouth. This will help the author in his never-ending quest to be popular! Want to read poetry and short stories by Shawn P. Cormier then visit his authorsden page. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Acknowledgments
I am eternally grateful to my parents, John and Emily, for their continued support, to my great-uncle, Paul Cormier, for his ever-present and often needed encouragement, and to my wife, Lynn, for her understanding.
A special thanks goes out to Philip Gillis, Brian Arnold, Graham Littlefield, Tom Goodrich, Simon Coates, Nigel Hawcroft and Stuart Webb for putting their faith in an aspiring author. Cheers, gentlemen.
Finally, tremendous thanks go out to Robert Vardman for his editing prowess.
This book is dedicated to my children, Thomas and Nicole, the two best people I know.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter I What Comes Later
Chapter II The Gorgul
Chapter III Tannon Bulcrist
Chapter IV Ledge Hall
Chapter V Tales and Treachery
Chapter VI Taken
Chapter VII The Sword and the Stone
Chapter VIII Drexhage Hollow
Chapter IX The Land of the Dead
Chapter X The Nihilic Sword
Chapter XI Grovelstone
Chapter XII A Rune in the Dark
Chapter XIII Lies
Chapter XIV Death
Chapter XV Sword's Power
Chapter XVI Prophesy Fulfilled
Chapter XVII Return to the Living
Chapter XVIII What Came Before
Chapter XIX Peaty's Demise
Chapter XX Farewells
About the Author
Author's Note
Chapter I
What Comes Later
The old man ran on, leaping over rooty obstacles and stones with a speed that belied his age. Tripping now would mean certain death, or worse. His soiled gray cloak trailed behind him as he raced through the dense forest maze. His breath came in ragged gasps. A branch snagged the flailing garment and tore it from his body. He sped on without looking back. Looking back would be a dire mistake. Looking back would only confirm his fears. And yes, even he was afraid.
His legs ached and his chest pounded. How long had he been running? He had escaped at sunrise. Surely it was nearing sunset by now. At the outset, he had been able to use his powers, first to breach the wall, then to conceal his passage, but it was tiring to do so and keep the pace he had set for himself, and he grew weary fast. He could not risk standing his ground. There were too many hunting him, and they had a Nephalim with them, or more rightly the Nephalim had company. Defending against twenty men was one thing—defending against twenty men and a demon of the spirit world was another. In his present condition, the Nephalim would easily over-power him. Better to escape. He knew where to go. It wasn't far now. He knew because he had the map, the map his pursuers so desperately wanted. It was the map they were after. He was just its legs, and to cut him down was their only way to recapture it.
He ran on, concentrating only upon shoving one foot in front of the other. It was close. He could feel its tug within him, pulling him along, drawing him eagerly forward, filling him with renewed vigor. The Crossing was near! Soon he would be safe, the map as well, and all the wondrous worlds it touched! With that thought, he redoubled his speed, but his foot caught a root. He faltered, righted himself, staggered forward.
Even before he struck the ground, he knew that he was doomed. And so too the world entire.
A hulking shadow moved with determination through the thick forest. Behind trudged twenty black-garbed men wearing metal masks over their down-turned faces. The huge leader stopped. Two red wings probed outward from its shoulders and wrapped around its giant frame like a well-tailored, red velvet suit. Its face lay hidden in shadow, but a smile was just visible through the gloom. Swinging ponderously on a branch before it, was a soiled grey cloak. The old man's cloak. The men in the rear grew anxious and shuffled their booted feet. Their leader raised a clawed hand, and the men fell instantly silent. It sniffed the air, wagging its head from side to side. The men nearest looked quickly away as the shifting light revealed the creature's face.
The men were not fooled by what they saw. Although they knew no mortal creature more beautiful and fair, they also knew none as deadly. Golden hair, broad-set azure eyes, angled jaw—a man's face so handsome and noble, yet so deceiving. The Nephalim's red wings folded back to reveal a muscular body clothed in the finest silks of green and gold. At its belt hung a sword, thin as a whip, its black hilt glinting like polished onyx. If not for the wings and clawed hands one would swear to be gazing upon a prince. But Nephalim it was, a Shadow, a spirit creature of the Ether, spawned in the Darkness before the Light and able to choose any form it pleased, and so it chose this one. Its smile widened.
With a signal, the Nephalim continued at a faster pace, cursing the weakness of the flesh around it, these men who moved so slowly, who tired so easily. It longed to leap to the air and fly, but it would need the twenty men if it were to wrest the map from the old man. It wasn't one to be fooled by appearances either. This old man was anything but ordinary. Nomadin were never as they looked. Created before Light, not visible in any accepted sense of the word, they assumed whatever appearance they chose, casting their image into the minds of lessers, into the minds of men. Like myself, thought the Nephalim. Its smile faded.
No. It would need the twenty well-trained fighting men, so it would tuck its wings away and run with this pack of humans. A necessary evil. It had surely taken much longer to overtake the old man this way, but the fighters would prove their worth in the end. Not that a Nephalim was ever afraid of a Nomadin wizard, but the old man could readily defend himself, even against a Shadow of such rank and power. A prolonged battle was not what it wanted. It wanted the map.
"I sense our hunt is drawing to an end," said one of the masked men as he jogged along beside the Nephalim. "I trust you will live up to your end of the deal."
The Nephalim's distaste for its companion was evident upon its handsome face. "You may be foolish to place your trust in one such as me, sir," the Nephalim replied, its voice deep and clear. The man fell silent as he struggled to keep up with the faster pace kept by his winged leader. "But you may be certain of our bargain. They will be yours as promised."
The man nodded weakly and dropped back to run with the others. The Nephalim smiled again, its handsome features flashing white teeth. Yes. The man was a fool to make a deal with a Shadow. They all were. The Nephalim sniffed the air. The stench of the Nomadin was overpowering. Soon it would kill. Soon it would kill them all.
The forest gathered gloom as the sun began to set. The trees they ran beneath, mainly oak and elm, hung wearily over them as they struggled to keep up their breakneck pace. This wood, in this world, was known as the Damp Oaks for a reason. The tangle of boughs overhead rarely let sunlight down t
o the forest floor, leaving it perpetually damp underfoot. But it was just that which made tracking the Nomadin so easy. It had been much more difficult to follow the old man while he had been running through the hard, dry surrounding fields. Then suddenly he had swung east and had crossed into the forest, making tracking that much easier. The Nephalim knew there had to be a reason for the Nomadin's change of course, but it couldn't see one. Nomadin were seldom so foolish. No matter, it thought. His foolishness will cost him.
Without warning, they came upon their prey. The old man stood before them, his back to a moss covered tree. The men halted abruptly, forty booted feet skidding to a muddy stop among the leaves and stones. They waited anxiously behind their winged leader. They had been warned about the dangers of underestimating a Nomadin. They would hold back until commanded otherwise. The Nephalim's velvety wings snapped outward to remind them of their peril, and forty boots shuffled backwards, as if afraid those red wings might reach out and grab them.
Good, thought the Nephalim. Fear in front. Fear behind. Let them all be afraid.
As if on cue, the Nomadin shed its shape and the old man disappeared.
The forest air exploded with the hiss of high-pressured steam and the Nomadin's new form sprang forward, its long reptilian neck lancing out toward the men in the rear.
A Gorgul, mused the Nephalim. A steam dragon. Clever.
The men nearly fled, but the Nephalim knew they wouldn't. Their fear of Shadows ran deeper than their fear of Gorguls. Much deeper.
"Hold the line!" one of the men shouted. "Hold the line!" Twenty swords jumped from their scabbards, creating a deadly picket in the air.
The Gorgul drew back, gathering its neck behind it like a spring. Steam vented from its gills. Its dragon-like wings beat the air, shredding the bark from the surrounding trees. But the men held their ground, and to their surprise the Gorgul did not attack.
It wouldn't, the Nephalim knew. The Gorgul was nothing more than an illusion, as was the image of the old man. Beneath both was the Nomadin, and if the Nomadin meant to scare off the fighting men with this image, then he chose poorly. The men waited patiently behind their winged leader.
"Give me the map, and I will spare your life," the Nephalim said, holding out a clawed hand.
The Gorgul hissed and blew steam.
"You leave me no choice then." The Nephalim reached for its sword, folding its wings onto its back. "You truly are a fool. The Breaching Arts are useless against so many, and your Nomadin magic holds little sway over a Shadow such as me. You cannot win."
The Gorgul hissed and blew steam.
The Nephalim regarded the steam-dragon curiously. Something wasn't right. This Nomadin defied everything it knew about the accursed True Language lovers. First by allowing himself to be tracked, then by giving himself away so easily, now by refusing to give up an obviously flawed charade.
The fighting men advanced through the shrouded air, their swords held ready.
"Wait!" cried the Nephalim, its eyes wide in warning.
So much steam. Why is there so much steam?
The Nephalim's crimson wings jumped outward in anger. "No!" It thrust out a hand, claw-tipped fingers weaving an intricate pattern in the air, calling forth its Nihilic power for the first time since the chase began. The Gorgul disappeared, so too the steam. The bark on the trees returned to normal. The Nomadin was nowhere to be seen.
"Clever. Very Clever." The Nomadin was not the fool after all. The image of the Gorgul had been a trick, an illusion to occupy them while the old man made his escape. No matter. They would hunt him down again. And when they caught him, their attack would be swift and deadly.
Then the map will be mine, the Nephalim thought.
It turned to the baffled men. "He's on the run! Have ready with your swords. He isn't far."
The men stood suddenly stiff. They shuffled back uneasily as a cloud of steam billowed past their leader's head. The Nephalim spun about. The Gorgul had returned.
"You cannot fool me twice," the Shadow said, raising a hand to dispel the ruse immediately.
But this Gorgul remained. This Gorgul was not an illusion.
Behind the hulking steam dragon, arms raised high, stood the old man. The shout of his spell was lost amidst the uproar of the armed men, but the Nephalim fell back, beset by a swarm of sparkling lights that rose from the ground at its feet. Tiny sparks roiled about its head, clinging to its shoulders, covering its bright red wings, dimming their brilliance. Still more lights rose from the earth but the Nephalim remained unruffled and sheathed its thin black sword. A clawed hand reached out toward the Nomadin, palm raised. A smile split the shadow's lips. White teeth flashed in the gloom as again its clawed fingers moved with mystical purpose.
The magical lights brightened in reaction, but quickly they dimmed, and their movement slowed. To the Nomadin's astonishment, the lights began to gather, collecting in the Nephalim's open hand, pooling like shimmering blue water. Freed of the old man's spell, the red velvet of the Shadow's wings shone like blood once more, stretching outward in a lazy yawn. More and more of the magical lights gathered in the Nephalim's palm until but a few remained outside its grasp, smoking like spilled embers upon its boots. Soon, its clawed hand held a blazing ball of white-hot fire.
"You see!" the Nephalim shouted, drawing its sword again, its handsome face illuminated by the magical orb. "Your True Language holds no sway over me! Now you will pay for your ignorance. Now you will know the power of Nihilic." It drew back its arm.
The Gorgul's neck thrust suddenly outward. The Nephalim spun about, its wings rising up to block the attack as a jet of scalding vapor struck its back. The plume of steam swirled upward, deflected by the shadow's wings, filling the air and obscuring the trees all around. The Nephalim waited patiently for the assault to end, safe from the boiling storm that would have scoured the skin from a mortal man, safe and on guard, for it could sense the Nomadin approaching through the misty air. Though its vision was obscured, it didn't need eyes to know that the Nomadin stood within striking distance, defenseless, confused. Sword in one hand, white hot magic in the other, it turned and waited a breath longer, then thrust its sword forward. The steam blew back, revealing its prize.
The Nomadin clutched at his chest, fingering the blade that impaled him. The color drained from his face and he released a silent cry. The Gorgul sprang forward but the Nephalim twitched a finger. "No." And the steam dragon froze helplessly in place.
"The witch should have let me finish you when I first had the chance," the Nephalim said, pulling its sword from the old man's chest. It sheathed the bloody blade and raised the burning orb up high. "But then again, I would have missed all the fun."
The Nomadin crumpled to the ground. The Nephalim reached out and the pouch at the old man's waist flew into its clawed hand.
"Poor fool," the Nephalim said. "You've lost everything now. Your life. The map—your son, too."
The Nomadin's eyes flew wide in surprise.
"Oh. You did not know? Yes. Your son. He died at Drexhage Hollow. I slew him myself."
The Nomadin struggled to his knees.
"Now I will finish you with the power of your own True Language," the Nephalim said, holding aloft the flaming globe of magic. "How fitting—that the truth should set you free."
The helpless Gorgul roared in fury as the fighting men leaped to attack, cutting its front legs out from under it. The Nephalim's laughter rose above the din as it hurled the blazing fireball down upon its hapless foe.
Chapter II
The Gorgul
Ilien jumped in his sleep. "Gallund!" he cried. "Gallund, no!"
The Swan raised her wing, peering under it at Ilien. It was the third nightmare in as many nights. What had the boy suffered at Greattower? What had he seen?
And what had she done—sending him alone to face the NiDemon, to rescue the princess and retrieve the key? How could she have been so careless? The price of her vision was often heavy, she knew. B
ut seldom was her vision so muddled and so costly. So many men and Giants slain. The Nomadin wizards revealed as the ones who sent the Groll to hunt down Ilien. And Ilien himself—a twelve-year-old boy left to grapple with what he'd witnessed, what he'd learned about the Nomadin, the NiDemon, and himself. Ilien still hadn't spoken about what had happened. Where was the book? Where was the key? What exactly happened at Greattower? He still writhed about in his sleep, fighting off visions of God knows what.
The Swan shook her feathered head. One thing was certain. She lifted her other wing, revealing the sleeping figure of Windy.
The Prophesied Child was safe.
Ilien stirred and sat up in the dark. The predawn sky stretched black and cold around him, his bed for the night a shelf of rock high up on one of the towering peaks of the Midland Mountains, his blanket a feathery wing. Three days of clinging to the Swan's back had brought him and Windy this far. How many more days of flight were ahead of them? The Swan refused to tell them where they were going. She'd spoken little since whisking them off on her back to rescue Gallund.
No one said much since Greattower, really. Windy seemed lost in a perpetual daze, leading Ilien to wonder if she hadn't fully recovered from her ordeal with the NiDemon. There had been so little time to deal with anything since their escape from the Nomadin. As for Ilien, he wasn't ready to tell anyone what he had learned. Not yet, at least. Maybe not ever. What good would it do to tell them that he might not be the Prophesied Child, that the Book was already open, that the Necromancer was free, that he might be—
It didn't make sense. Nothing made any sense. He was no more the Necromancer than Windy was the Chosen One. Regardless, the book was open. Reknamarken, the Necromancer, was free. Free to raise his army of spirits again, free to conquer Nadae once and for all.
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