NiDemon

by Cormier, Shawn P.

  "Or minutes," said Anselm, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. As he attempted to unfold it, the paper turned this way and that, as if resisting his efforts. "Open up, you filthy rag!" he yelled.

  "Your map!" said Ilien, brightening. "Your magical map!" He had forgotten all about the irascible, talking map. "I thought it was lost."

  "What!" screeched the map, unfolding suddenly with a snap. "I never get lost! I'm a map!"

  Anselm moved quickly to grab its edges and keep it from shutting. "You left it back at Greattower," he said. "I took it with me." The map struggled briefly, then gave up. Ilien moved closer. On the map, the Eastland was depicted in excruciating detail. As before, there were so many markings that it was difficult to read. The Midland Mountains filled the entire western edge, that much was plain to see. After a moment's hunting, Ilien found Ledge Hall, marked with the small icon of a castle. The Midland River ran in a crescent line from north to south, not far from the mountains. The Kingdom of Asheverry lay near the river on its eastern side, a dark star upon the map.

  "Show me the tunnel," said Anselm, and suddenly it appeared as a thin red line drawn straight as an arrow from the castle of Ledge Hall to the star of Asheverry. "Show me where we are."

  The picture of a donkey grew visible just north of the tunnel line. "Quit it!" growled Anselm. The donkey disappeared, replaced by a single green dot. "Was that so hard?" asked the Giant, snapping the map tight. The map remained silent, but it shook with repressed laughter. Anselm studied the layout.

  "Now show me the nearest tunnel exit," he said.

  A red dot appeared on the tunnel line, not far from their green one.

  "You see," he said, turning to Ilien. "It's close. An hour's march." He looked up at the sky. He released one end of the map, and it folded back to its compact self. "Gather your things. We've no time to lose."

  They made their way northward. Anselm led the way, covering the ground with long, even strides. Ilien trailed behind, often running to catch up with the Giant. His leg still hurt from his encounter with the shadow the night before, and Anselm noticed him limping along in the rear. The Giant came back to him, a frown upon his face.

  "I'm sorry, Ilien. I forgot you were hurt."

  "I'm fine," replied Ilien, stopping to catch his breath.

  Anselm knelt, and lifted Ilien's pant leg. The purple bruise on Ilien's ankle had turned black and green. "It's worse than before," he said. "I'll carry you. Climb on my back if you can. We'll travel faster this way. It's not far to the tunnel and the going should be easier once we're inside."

  Ilien did as he was told. Anselm set off at a jog, with Ilien bouncing up and down on his back. By mid-afternoon, after a few stops to consult the map, Anselm lowered Ilien to the ground beside a large pile of boulders that lay strewn at the base of a steep hill. The Giant inspected the rock pile, then consulted the map again.

  "It should be here," he said, pointing to the place on the map where the red dot marked the tunnel exit. He stared at the tumbled collection of boulders. "It must have collapsed. There should be a stair beneath this rubble, if I'm not mistaken." He put the map back in his pocket, then moved to search the rubble more closely, pushing rocks the size of Ilien out of the way with ease. A few minutes later, he uncovered what he was looking for—a dark entrance into the earth, and the beginnings of a stairway leading down.

  "Move out of the way, Ilien," he said. "I have to clear off these stones." Ilien jumped back as a boulder rolled in his direction. Soon, Anselm's excavation was complete. He smiled, his face shining with sweat, and pointed at the shadowy stairway carved into the ground.

  "It's a bit small," said Ilien. The stairs were no more than four feet wide, the passage a little more than five feet high. Ilien sized up the Giant. "You'll never fit through."

  "Sure I will," said Anselm. "Don't worry about that."

  Anselm moved closer to the stairs, as if determining in his mind the best way to crawl through. "These exits were built for the men of Asheverry. They complained that the tunnel was too long, or so the story goes. They needed exits placed every mile for safety." Anselm shook his head. "Men prefer the wind on their faces to the ground beneath their feet. The Giants obliged, but made the exits small to keep them more easily concealed, and to save on their toil. Don't worry, I'll fit though."

  Ilien stared at the stairway leading down into utter darkness. "That thing from last night," he said. "You don't think it'll follow us down there, do you?"

  Anselm considered his question, then shrugged. "There's no other way. You still have the Dorundum stone. It protected you once. It should protect you again."

  Ilien felt its hard outline in his pocket. Why did it protect me, he wondered. If its only desire is to return to the Land of the Dead, then why keep me alive? Why protect me at all? He was about to ask Anselm those very questions, but the Giant dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled down the stairs, twisting and turning to eke his way through.

  "Come on!" he called.

  Ilien followed. Anselm stopped several times to unwedge himself from the narrow confines of the stairway before plodding forward again. In this fashion, they made their way down into the tunnel. The stairs were straight and steep, and soon Ilien found himself thirty feet below the outside world, the square outline of the sky framed by the tunnel exit behind him. He signed the Nihilic light spell, and the space around him grew brighter. Anselm's back end stared him in the face.

  "I may be stuck!" shouted the Giant. "Give me a push!"

  Ilien grimaced, then set his shoulder against the Giant's derriere. He pushed with all his might, but it wouldn't budge.

  "Push harder!"

  Ilien retreated up the stairs, then rushed forward like a tiny battering ram, crashing into Anselm's rear side. The jolt thrust the Giant forward with a thwump. Ilien tumbled after him, landing hard on a smooth rock floor. His light spell went out. Anselm picked him up and dusted him off in the dark.

  "We made it," said the Giant. "I told you I'd fit."

  Ilien again signed his light spell, and Anselm stood squinting in the brightness, waving his hand through the cloud of dust that swirled around them.

  Ilien peered back at the stairs. "There's no turning back now," he said. "I doubt you'd fit through going out."

  "Don't worry. We won't have to turn back," said Anselm. "Even if we had to, I could always fit through naked, without the extra bulk of my clothes."

  Ilien hoped beyond hope that they didn't have to turn back. He couldn't imagine pushing a naked Giant back up the stairs.

  "Cast that magical light of yours over here," said the Giant, his voice echoing in the gloom. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

  Ilien brightened the light as much as he could, and their shadows jumped on the smooth stone walls. The sloping tunnel was thirty feet wide, with a roof high enough for Anselm to stand erect. Its stone floor was covered with a thick layer of dust. The dry air tickled Ilien's nose, and he suppressed a sneeze.

  They were silent as each contemplated what awaited them along the Long Dark Road. Rockslides, blocked exits, cave-ins. Or worse. Who knew what creatures had crawled their way in over the long years since the tunnel was abandoned? Again, Ilien thought of the terrible black creature that had attacked him the night before. The creature had followed him back from the Land of the Dead. There was no reason it couldn't follow him into the dark underground passage. He felt the grovelstone in his pocket, but it gave him little comfort. He felt even more uneasy knowing what it was, and where it came from.

  Anselm turned and raised a finger to his lips. Ilien's eyes went wide, and his heart jumped. He strained to detect what the Giant had heard. The pressing silence remained unbroken.

  "Did you hear that?" whispered Anselm.

  Ilien started to say no. Then he did hear it—a faint echo.

  "Follow me!" shouted the Giant. "Quickly!" He charged forward into the blackness.

  Ilien leapt after him, his magical light bounding up an
d down as he ran. Anselm's fleet form was a shadow up ahead. Were they being pursued? He dimmed the light and ran on, mindful that his magic revealed only ten feet of space in front of him. Anselm was nowhere to be seen, though he could hear the echo of heavy footfalls ahead of him.

  "Anselm!" he cried. "Don't leave me!"

  He came upon the Giant so suddenly that he ran into him from behind and tumbled to the hard tunnel floor. His light winked out.

  "Light, Ilien! Give me light!" shouted Anselm.

  Ilien climbed to his feet and the magical light flared forth, dazzlingly bright in the dusty air.

  Stretched on her side, her black eyes shining dully, lay the Swan.

  Chapter XII

  A Rune in the Dark

  Ilien jumped back, afraid that it was a trick of the foul black creature. It was impossible for the Swan to be there, so impossible that Ilien thrust his hand into his pocket and clutched at the grovelstone, suddenly unafraid of it. The prone figure before him lifted its head. Sharp, black eyes peered into his, feathery brows lifting in surprise and relief. A hoarse whisper broke the heavy silence.

  "Ilien. You're alive. I dreamed you were dead. I dreamed—"

  The great bird's head fell to the ground, and its tail feathers quivered in the light of Ilien's spell. Ilien rushed forward, certain then that it was indeed the Swan, his teacher and guardian, his old feathered friend. He fell to his knees and cried out in alarm, "You're hurt!"

  Anselm examined the Swan from head to tail, looking for wounds. The Swan's feathers were in tatters. Dark stains, like spots of spilled wine, shone on her wings. She lay still and silent. Ilien feared for the worse, unsure of what to do.

  "She'll die, Anselm! Help her!"

  The Giant tended her in silence, then laid his large hand upon her brow. "She's hurt, but she will not die," he said at last. He lifted the Swan's head, uncurled her long, graceful neck and peered into her face. The Swan opened her eyes. Her wings shivered. "Penelope," he said. "We're here."

  She smiled, and shifted the great bulk of her body sideways. "You found me," she said. Anselm laid her head to the ground, and she stretched out as if asleep.

  Anselm tended her the best he could. Ilien stood helplessly nearby, hoping she would be alright, and wondering how she ended up in the tunnel. The Swan said little as Anselm prodded her here and there, asking if this or that hurt as he lifted a part of her feathered body. After a few minutes, Anselm turned to Ilien, his face grim.

  "Her left wing is broken. There are deep bite marks on her leg. She'd be fine if she were anywhere but here." He turned back to appraise the giant bird, smoothing the feathers of her brow with his hand. "Wolves did this."

  Ilien squeezed the grovelstone in his pocket, then quickly put his hands at his sides. The magic of the stone would bring no aid, but perhaps he could. He had once miraculously healed the Swan when the Groll had impaled her with its poisonous tail. That had been Nomadin magic, and his Nomadin magic was unreachable now. But Bulcrist had raised the Swan with a Nihilic rune in the cellars of Ledge Hall. Perhaps that same magic could help her now. He remembered the rune the NiDemon had signed in the air. He could recreate it! The shining rune appeared so vividly in Ilien's mind that it seemed to waver in the darkness before him. Would it help? Was it a healing spell or just a means of reviving someone from weariness, or waking someone who had fainted? He wasn't sure, but it was worth a try.

  Anselm grabbed Ilien's arm before he could attempt it. The Giant pulled him along the tunnel until they were out of earshot of the Swan. The light from Ilien's spell barely illuminated her form thirty feet away.

  "Ilien," said the Giant, breathing hard. "There is a choice to be made." He peered back at the Swan, his eyes shimmering in the light. "She is too hurt to travel". He paused, and looked at Ilien. "She needs care. If we leave her she could die. But if we don't . . ."

  Ilien put a hand on the Giant's arm. "We don't have to choose," he said. "I think I can help her."

  Anselm looked relieved. "Of course! You healed her before. I'd nearly forgotten." He turned and started back toward the Swan. "A quick spell and she'll be good as new."

  "Wait!" called Ilien. "There's something you should know."

  Anselm stopped and turned back. "What is it?"

  Ilien approached, afraid to tell him that he intended to use Nihilic. He had drawn the Light rune several times behind Anselm's back, but this new rune was far more complex. Anselm would know that he was using NiDemon magic.

  "It's not that simple," he said, conscious of how his words echoed around him. He lowered his voice. "My Nomadin magic has left me."

  Anselm stood silent for a moment. Then his eyes grew wide, and he stepped toward Ilien. "But you are Nomadin."

  Ilien shook his head. "I was Nomadin." He peered past the Giant at the prone figure of the Swan. "I can't conjure my Nomadin spells anymore. The True Language has left me."

  Anselm looked incredulous. "How is that possible? You conjured light. What about your pencil?"

  "My wand is lost," answered Ilien.

  Anselm glanced at the Swan. "You said you could help."

  "I can." Ilien met the Giant's perplexed gaze. "With Nihilic magic."

  Anselm's eyes narrowed. "Are you a NiDemon now? Have you forsaken the True Language for the untrue? Has Bulcrist so poisoned your mind that you've forgotten what you are, forgotten what he's done, how he uses Windy, even as we speak?"

  The Giant's remarks stung, and Ilien shouted, "I didn't leave the True Language! It left me!" The light from Ilien's Nihilic spell brightened with his anger. "I didn't ask to be brought to a NiDemon! I didn't ask for any of this!"

  Anselm's face softened. He reached for Ilien. "I'm sorry."

  "I've done nothing wrong," said Ilien, pulling away.

  They faced each other in silence as the dust settled around them.

  "I can't use Nomadin magic," said Ilien. "Nihilic is all I have. Even then, I may not be able to help her. The Swan brought me to Bulcrist for a reason, don't you think?"

  Anselm shook his head. "I don't like this."

  Ilien strode forward. Anselm followed, his face creased with worry. Ilien stood before the Swan and cleared his mind of all but the rune Bulcrist had traced in the air. He could see it clearly as if it were outlined in silver ink, sharpened by his anger and resolve. It resembled nothing he'd ever seen before, and he blinked in dismay at its complexity. It faded from his mind's eye.

  "What's wrong?" asked Anselm.

  Ilien ignored him and closed his eyes, willing himself to see the rune more clearly. It slowly took shape. He studied it carefully, trying to find something familiar in the tangled lines that might help him recreate it. Dismayed by its elusiveness, Ilien's heart sank as it faded once more.

  I can't do this! The Light rune had been as easy to draw as a single letter. This rune was like trying to remember an entire passage from a book. Do I need to reproduce it perfectly? he wondered. He couldn't see how that was possible. He squeezed his eyes tight, frustrated by his lack of understanding. The True Language was simple compared to this. Say the words and the magic would come. The words had to be pronounced correctly, of course, and the more fluent you were the more power the language yielded. But even then, invoking magic using the True Language had been a matter of degrees. Saying the words incorrectly, or using the wrong tense, resulted in at least some magic.

  The Nihilic rune floated like a phantom in his mind's eye. It quavered and became more convoluted as Ilien frustration grew. He remembered something Gallund had once told him, a trick to help him pronounce the word illubid, the word for light in the True Language. "You're saying the word without depth. Your mouth has breadth and width. It has length. It can expand and contract. Use it. It needs to twist and roll, to dance to form the word and give it power. Say the word flatly and receive a flat result. Now try it again."

  Yes, thought Ilien. Depth! That was it! He'd been studying the rune as if it were drawn on a paper, as if it was flat. It wasn't
so. It had depth. The rune shone silver in his mind. He focused once more on the wavering image. He felt his inner vision shift, and the rune turned three-dimensional.

  Dismay filled his heart again. The rune became even more complex. How could he possibly trace such a complex three- dimensional image in the air?

  Anselm cleared his throat, and Ilien's concentration faltered. The rune disappeared.

  "What are you waiting for?" asked the Giant.

  Ilien opened his eyes and answered him irritably. "I'm studying the rune!"

  "What rune?" said Anselm. "From this angle it looks like you're staring into space."

  Ilien jumped with sudden understanding. "What did you say?"

  "I said it looks like you're in a daze."

  Ilien turned back to the rune, closing his eyes again and conjuring it before him. "I think I've got it," he said.

  The rune shimmered in shades of silver, three-dimensional now, with length and width. And depth! Anselm had said, "from this angle". That was the key.

  Again his inner vision shifted. The rune began to turn, to slowly revolve as if it dangled on a string. That was it! A sudden comprehension flooded through him as the rune jumped and split in two. There wasn't just one rune, but two superimposed upon each other. One faced forward, and one faced sideways. Ilien saw the second rune hiding behind the first.

  It all became clear and simple. Two runes—two hands—one behind the other. Together, the runes were far too complex to recreate with his fingers. Separately, they were quite simple. They would be easy to trace, one with each hand.

  He raised his hands and held his breath. He traced the first rune with his left hand, and the second rune, the one behind it, with his right. His fingers left silver marks in the air. Anselm gasped. The conjured light around them dimmed. When Ilien finished, a replica of the three-dimensional rune hung shining before him.

  Nothing happened. No sharp smell of flint in the air. No change in the Swan. The rune faded away. Anselm looked expectantly at Ilien. The Swan lay motionless, breathing slowly.