Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Rantire scowled. “A prince named Xyxthris sold out Béarn without remorse.”

  Matrinka gasped. “Cousin Xyxthris? He wouldn’t.” She shook her head so hard her thick black hair flew. “He would never turn against Béarn.” She looked directly at Rantire. “Surely they got the name wrong.”

  Rantire shrugged, granting no more quarter than she would in a battle. “If you heard those elves bandying about their million-syllable names, you wouldn’t consider the possibility.”

  Kevral rescued Matrinka from Rantire’s ire. “Is there another prince with a similar name?” It seemed unlikely. The sibilance and coarse-sounding consonants would never become popular.

  Matrinka lowered her head and shook it slowly. “None of my cousins would do such a thing.”

  “The staff-test,” Kevral reminded. “It damaged you, and you’ve had a mission to concentrate on. There’re people with a lot less inner strength than you, heirs included.”

  Matrinka said nothing, head still sagging.

  Tae settled back into his crouch, eyes narrowed and gaze directed at Griff and Rantire. “What I don’t understand is why they kept these two alive once they got a cooperative human.”

  Rantire answered first. “I was surprised, too. I think I got their leader convinced Griff was more valuable to elves alive than dead.”

  Captain pasted back strands of sea-wet hair that escaped his knotting. He studied the waters. “I quit the council and turned outcast over the issue of whether to keep or kill Rantire. No elf has ever done that before. Even those who most wanted Rantire executed appreciated my sacrifice. Besides, it’s not the nature of elves to kill for any reason. Until they began disposing of heirs, no elf had ever done so before.”

  “They don’t eat meat,” Rantire supplied. “Or keep pets. Apparently, Alfheim had no carnivores of any kind.”

  Captain gave Kevral a brief warning look that proved unnecessary. Kevral knew another reason why elves never killed, one she had promised to keep secret. When elves died of age, their souls became recycled into an infant, stripped of memory though occasionally some remembrances slipped through from previous lives. Elves never sickened. When they died of unnatural causes, their souls disappeared. If humans knew of this process, they would slaughter all the elves so that no new ones could be born. Captain had confided this detail to wring the promise from Kevral that she would kill no elves during Griff’s and Rantire’s rescue. So far, she had kept both of her vows.

  “Things have changed,” Rantire warned. “At first, the elves’ torture was laughable. They fed me food I didn’t like or gave me scratchy blankets. Later, they got past whatever kept them from hurting me.” She rubbed her forearms as if they were still in pain. “Far past.”

  Matrinka cringed.

  Rantire finished. “I wouldn’t count on their lack of experience with killing to keep them peaceful anymore.” She glanced at Captain in an obvious attempt to separate him from the elves she despised. “At least not all of them. There seem to be good elves and bad elves, just like humans.”

  “Now, perhaps.” Captain’s concession was noticeably incomplete. During the battle on the island, the elves had organized a spell that would have incapacitated every being capable of sleep. It would have affected many elves and all humans but would have left enough awake to slaughter Kevral and her friends. Captain had divided the elves by calling for those faithful to him to withdraw from the combined magics. Kevral believed she understood the agony that disunity had caused Captain. He had weakened the very singularity he had intended to hold intact among the elves.

  Darris paced, clearly wishing to summarize and needing details he could not phrase into simple enough questions.

  Anticipating his friend’s need, Ra-khir attempted to properly sequence the story and the necessary strategy. “Colbey told us Darris’ mother is dead.”

  Darris’ pacing quickened.

  “She was the bard,” Ra-khir explained for Rantire’s and Griff’s benefit. “The king’s bodyguard. She wasn’t sick when we left, so we have to assume there’s been violence in Béarn.”

  Matrinka looked stricken, and Griff’s face lapsed into horrified creases. Mior trotted back across the gunwale, rubbing against her mistress’ hand.

  Ra-khir continued, his somber expression revealing. He clearly hated acting as the bearer of bad news, no matter how easily deduced; but he saw the necessity for it. “Likely, that came on the heels of King Kohleran’s death, in a scramble for the throne.”

  “But my cousins wouldn’t resort to such a thing,” Matrinka insisted.

  Tae shrugged at the obvious naiveté of their companion. Though he clearly believed Matrinka wrong, he surprisingly chose diplomacy. “It didn’t have to be your cousins. We figured out no one passed the staff-test. The council knew. Others might have found out also. With all the potential heirs unworthy, that leaves a free-for-all for the throne.”

  Even Ra-khir cringed at that. He had more reason than most to worry. Framed by Béarn’s prime minister because of personal differences, Ra-khir’s father moldered in Béarn’s dungeon. A coup would catch him in the middle, loyal to Béarn and her proper ascension yet considered a traitor to his own side. “There’s no way for us to know exactly what’s happened. We’ll just have to assess the situation when we get there and pay attention.”

  More nods of agreement followed, but the mood of the group had chilled noticeably. Matrinka looked away, Mior’s attentiveness suggesting that her mistress cried. Even the excitement of coming battle did not penetrate Kevral’s discomfort. Once they rescued the heir, she had believed all would turn out well. Yet their mission had only raised more issues and questions, discovered enemies where none once existed, with magic humans had no experience to face or counter. The war that, until that morning, she had believed ended had truly only just begun.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Summoning

  The goal of a warrior is not to engage in a test of strength or skill; it is to kill the enemy.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Clouds darkened sky that arched over Nualfheim’s forest, and the Nine of the elfin council waited for Dh’arlo’mé to speak. Excitement and rage warred within their quiet leader, dulled by a fatigue he had never known before he left the lands of elves to become the Northern Sorceress’ apprentice. Now it fogged his thoughts, trebling his irritation. Tired or not, the Nine must act immediately. If Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor, the one who called himself Captain, reached the shore, humans might soon arrive to slaughter the elves on their island. The two hundred thirty remaining elves would stand little chance against hundreds of thousands of humans.

  A breeze stirred air otherwise stagnant, and rising mist speckled the elves’ hair. Dh’arlo’mé trapped his heart-shaped lips between his long fingers and fastened his single emerald eye on Hri’shan’taé, an ancient second in age only to Captain. Rumor claimed it took her fifty years to form or switch an opinion or a mood. She would prove the most difficult to goad to action.

  “Fellow Elders,” Dh’arlo’mé started, “I apologize for the hastiness of this gathering.” The leader of the elves shortened the once-necessary amenities as he had done for the last dozen meetings. Once, the slowness that pervaded every action of every elf had seemed right to Dh’arlo’mé, Recently, it had become an aggravation; since the battle, it had receded almost to memory. In less than a quarter hour, the entire council had gathered and the conference began. “It is with great regret that I recommend renaming one of our own and borrowing a term. I cannot describe the crimes of Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor in our language. Words for such do not exist.”

  Sixteen gemlike eyes, ranging in color from sapphire to ruby, gazed earnestly from canted orbits. Each met Dh’arlo’mé’s remaining eye, avoiding the socket empty since the battle during which elves had slaughtered Béarn’s envoy.

  “I am forced to borrow from Otherspeak and call it . . .” Dh’arlo’mé switched to the Northern human tongue for ‘treason’ and ‘traitor.’
“. . . forraderi and him a forrader. Among humans such is punishable by death.”

  Vrin’thal’ros broke in. “You’re not suggesting we kill one of our own.”

  “Certainly not.” Dh’arlo’mé lowered his hands and flicked back fine red-gold hair with a toss of his head. “Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor cannot have many years left. When his soul leaves him, it can only return to us.”

  Hri’shan’taé, She of Slow Emotions, smiled. A long time had passed since the birth of an elfin child, an event always preceded by a death.

  Dh’arlo’mé swept another glance around the Nine. “I recommend we rename the outcast Lav’rintir.” The name translated to “destroyer of the peace.” “And that he be considered unworthy of trust or knowledge. I beg your forbearance in that I have already confiscated his belongings. What I found there may prove the answer to our dilemma.”

  The interest level rose immediately, expressions more suited to humans than elves for their loss of subtlety. Only Hri’shan’taé maintained her mask.

  “As you know, long before I became the Sorceress’ apprentice, Captain served her and her predecessors.” Dh’arlo’mé used the eldest’s chosen name since they had not yet voted on the change. He did not wait for acknowledgment. Captain’s millennia on man’s world had become common knowledge long before any of their births. Already on man’s world, he had not suffered the fires of Ragnarok, a windfall Dh’arlo’mé could not help begrudging. Surely that accounted for Captain’s sympathy toward humans. “I had believed myself the only one in possession of Wizards’ books. His collection made mine look meager.” The excitement flared again, finally overcoming fatigue. Without his own books, Dh’arlo’mé would never have found the passage that spurred him to teach the elves to direct and combine their magic and, eventually, create the gate that had rescued them from the Ragnarok. He had pored over Captain’s library with a diligence that precluded sleep. History had taught him much, including the procedure and purpose for summoning demons.

  The council’s excitement went beyond facial expressions. Thoughts slipped through in a gentle murmur of khohlar or mind speech.

  “I believe we all agree we cannot allow Captain’s ship to reach human lands. To do so would condemn all elves, current and future, to death.”

  Tight nods met Dh’arlo’mé’s dire forecast. They had observed humans for three centuries and dreaded mankind’s swift violence. Every elf murdered left a hole never filled, a line of babies never born. Humans wasted lives like water, and yet their numbers only seemed to grow. A single elfin death was an intolerable abomination. “What would you have us do, Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin?” Vrin’thal’ros asked at length, using the complete name as elves always did. “We set the winds and waters against them, but they’ve sailed beyond range of our magic. We have only one ship of our own, and no one as well versed in sailing as Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor. Even should we catch up to them, they would attack us and slaughter more than one.”

  Dh’arlo’mé grinned. Vrin’thal’ros had presented the dilemma perfectly, leaving only the opening he had discovered in the Northern Sorceress’ books. “We pursue them with one who travels faster than sea craft and whose strength exceeds their own. One more of chaos than ourselves. One whose ties to evil make him expendable should he fail.”

  The Nine met Dh’arlo’mé’s words with silence. He suspected they conversed one to one. Khohlar allowed for broadcast to an individual or to everyone within range, nothing in between.

  Finally, Petree’shan broke the silence with the obvious question. “Who could fit that description?”

  “One in here.” Dh’arlo’mé drew an old book from the folds of his cloak, the cover faded except for a vivid triangle where another book had rested against it. He stroked the cloth lovingly. Portions of the text described the Northern Sorceress’ two personal summonings in frightening detail, along with the wards and bindings required to safeguard the summoner and shackle the demon to a contract. “One in here.”

  * * *

  The drizzle strengthened to a cold rain that battered the common house roof and drenched the autumn night. Even after three hundred years of weather, many of the elves still chose to spend the night amid or beneath the long, serrated leaves of the island’s trees. The clouds veiled stars that winked and sputtered as they never had on Alfheim, and their patterns shifted in the heavens with the changes in the seasons.

  Dh’arlo’mé believed anticipation would keep sleep from him, but exhaustion wrenched away his burdens while he still studied a page of text. Nor did he awaken when others of lighter heart, who did not yet require sleep, gently slipped the book from beneath his arm to read the necessary passages. Soon, nearly every elf had weighed the danger of a demon against that of human violence. Not all might agree with their elders’ decision, but none would challenge it. The nature of elfin society did not allow it.

  The morning dawned bright and clear, burning off the glaze of clouds and sparking rainbows from moisture trapped on leaves and grass. The dull tan stretch of beach seemed to dance with fire in the sunlight. Dh’arlo’mé ignored the warm tickle of sand between his toes, marching directly to the gathered elves, his chosen. He had selected these for their inherent tendency toward magic and their ability to focus spells.

  Dh’arlo’mé scratched absently at the scar tissue in his empty socket. Over time, magical healing would replace the eye, but it would take two centuries to complete the process. As green as sprigs of algae spiraling in the drifts, his other eye examined Baheth’rin at the center of the cluster. She stood with her head bowed and yellow-pink eyes closed, white hair like a shroud around her shoulders. She did not join in the myriad conversations surrounding her.

  Dh’arlo’mé smiled, more certain of his choice. Baheth’rin had gained much confidence and self-control in the centuries since crafting the gate between Alfheim and man’s world, barely in time to save any of them. The desperation of that moment returned to him now: the blistering heat, the acrid stench of burning flesh, and the hopeless certainty of death. He had forced himself past endurance, goading Baheth’rin, who had come closest to conjuring an escape. Desperately, he had placed the survival of elfinkind into her hands, boosting her with his own strength, shielding her with his own body, forcing encouragements past the raw, horrible screams that seemed far more natural. And she had succeeded. No individual elf had done anything so powerful or remarkable in the time since. Despite Dh’arlo’mé’s training with the Northern Sorceress, his own abilities paled before Baheth’rin’s. His power stemmed from authority and leadership, not skill.

  Now, once again, the fate of all elves lay in Baheth’rin’s small hands, and she took her responsibility seriously. Dh’arlo’mé placed an encouraging arm on her shoulder. “Do you feel ready?”

  Baheth’rin opened her eyes and nodded. “I spent the night reading. I’m ready.”

  Dh’arlo’mé guided Baheth’rin to the shore, then gestured for the others to take their positions. The chosen ones settled into a grim semicircle open toward the sea and with Baheth’rin and Dh’arlo’mé as its centerpiece. Waves chopped the shore, foam glimmering through tide. Sunlight settled like a fiery blanket, disrupted by ripples, and the water appeared the same clear blue as the sky. The other elves gathered in a hushed crowd beyond the chosen ones, attention riveted on caster and guide.

  Dh’arlo’mé turned his head to glance at the chosen. The twenty elves began a chant that rose and fell to the rhythm of the sea. It buoyed Dh’arlo’mé and, he hoped, Baheth’rin. The steadiness of the sound brought solace and sharpened focus. It would amplify Baheth’rin’s spells as well as bolster her concentration. Again, she shut her eyes and lowered her head, one ear cocked to catch the first whispers of Dh’arlo’mé’s guidance.

  Dh’arlo’mé obviated her need to hear, instead choosing singular khohlar. Drawing the book from the folds of his cloak, he sent the incantation that would draw the weakest of demons to them. Khohlar w
orked best for concepts, granting means to send a paragraph of need or instruction in an instant. Now, he slowed the process to an unnatural crawl, enunciating each syllable with deliberate care. All that Dh’arlo’mé sent to Baheth’rin, she spoke aloud. He sensed her nervousness through the backwash of their contact and struggled to maintain an aura of unshakable confidence, in her and in himself.

  Gradually, a dark blotch appeared above the ocean. Dh’arlo’mé maintained his contact with Baheth’rin but fixed his concentration on that point. Cautiously, he edged knowledge of its presence into his sending, careful not to break the flow of the enchantment. Baheth’rin’s eyes flicked open, attentive to the hovering, shapeless shadow. Her head rose, her manner betraying no fear, though her mental contact told a different story. Anxiety balled beneath a thin veneer of confidence.

  The chant swelled. Baheth’rin tapped its power from long habit, crafting ropelike bindings and wrapping them tightly around the darkness that was not yet a being. It seemed less black than absent of color, as if a hole had opened in the ocean sky, sucking in shadows rather than displaying pigment of its own. Suddenly, a vast sensation of horror slammed Dh’arlo’mé, upending reason. For an instant, he lost his contact with Baheth’rin. The world seemed to spiral out of control, dragging him into an endless, spinning void. Shape, form, and being rejected all meaning. He fumbled for them, sacrificing identity along with reason. Desperately, he scrambled for an anchor, finding it in sound where sight and touch had failed him. Using the chant as a lifeline, he scrambled back to law, battering Baheth’rin’s mind with images of solid entities.

  When Dh’arlo’mé regained his toehold in reality, he found the darkness intensified into a formless, ceaselessly moving object ringed by glowing bands of Baheth’rin’s magic.

  “Elf.” The demon’s voice crashed like the most violent storm against stone. “You called me to this world, and you will pay with your life and those of your kind.” It strained against the wards, random appendages disrupting and retreating into the soup.