Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “How are you feeling?” Usyris smiled nervously, still attentive to the weapon in Tae’s hand and the swiftness with which he had claimed it.

  “Fine,” Tae lied, unwilling to reveal weakness. A lot better before I did that. He remained still while vertigo and pain receded. An unfamiliar tunic dangled nearly to his knees, and a loose pair of britches covered his legs. Though eighteen, he had not yet completed his adolescent development, and his beard still grew sparsely and slowly enough to allow shaving on an irregular basis. Every man in Usyris’ entourage was broader, older, and taller than Tae.

  “Again, I’d like to apologize for the way we treated you.”

  Tae was not in a forgiving mood. The wound ached, deep but too narrow to hinder respiration. Scant fingers’ breadths further, it would have impaled his heart. Aborted, it would prove little more than an irritation and a seventeenth scar. The scratch on his lower abdomen, though superficial, reminded him vividly of Nacoma’s intent to torture. “I know. You didn’t know who I was.” Tae rose to a normal posture but did not relinquish the sword. Instead, he glanced around the woodlands. Two men, one Nacoma, worked among the oaks. Tae saw no sign of the other four.

  Usyris nodded confirmation.

  “Presumably, you have some purpose for waylaying strangers and torturing them to death?”

  “Killing them,” Usyris corrected. “Or, more often, chasing them back the way they came.” His brows rose, indicating an inability to answer, though he did not condone the behavior. “You’ll have to ask Nacoma about the torture.”

  Tae took a deep breath, then wished he hadn’t. Pain spread from the hole in his chest. “I’d rather not.”

  Usyris shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m sure you’ll find other things to talk about while he’s escorting you to your father.”

  The pain became internal. “Excuse me?”

  “I said I’m sure . . .”

  The repetition flowed past Tae, unheard. “And by ‘escorting,’ you mean. . . ?”

  Usyris smiled indulgently. “I mean escorting. You’re not a prisoner, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “So I’m free to leave.”

  “Of course.”

  Tae considered briefly. “I don’t need an escort.”

  “Maybe not, if you think you can survive eight hundred more traps.” Usyris clearly exaggerated, though he made a good point. “They may kill you before you can tell them who you are, but they won’t attack you if you’re with Nacoma.”

  “What if I’m with you?”

  “I can’t leave my command.” Usyris headed off the next obvious question. “Weile Kahn isn’t exactly easy to find. You’ll need someone to take you to the people trained to reach him. Nacoma’s the only one we can spare.” Usyris turned Tae a sympathetic look. “I’d hate him, too, in your position, but he’s really not that bad. Before we got assigned to this project, he’d never killed anyone. He’s just got a bad temper and a cruel streak. He’s not going to hurt you now that he knows you’re on our side.”

  Am I? Tae kept his doubts to himself and mulled his options. He had no interest in seeing his father; but his first thought, to refuse Nacoma and continue toward Béarn alone, broke down in the face of logic. Even if he managed to arrange safe passage for himself, every other innocent who traveled Westland roads would have to fight his father’s men, including any of his companions who had survived the Sea Seraph’s destruction. He had little choice but to meet with Weile Kahn, discover why his father was involved in such an evil undertaking, and convince him to recall his men. Tae doubted he could accomplish such a thing, yet he had to try. Otherwise, he condemned all the Westland peoples, and ultimately the world, to their deaths.

  Is it possible the future of humanity rests in the hands of Tae Kahn, Weile Kahn’s son? Tae barely held back a laugh. The world is in deep trouble.

  * * *

  Swiftly, Usyris prepared a pack of supplies, discussing Tae’s preferences over his shoulder as he worked. “All right. You’ve got the food, water, clothing, blanket, cleaning rag, utility blade, and fresh bandages.” He laced the leather shut, then turned. “We’ll get you a horse from the captured ones. Probably be lighter-colored than you’d want, but that’s not necessarily bad under the circumstances. You want our men to see you.”

  Tae nodded, resigned. When it came to stealth, traveling on foot served him better, but speed seemed far more important now. “Thank you.”

  “Want some weapons?”

  “Certainly.” Tae grabbed at an offer he had not anticipated. “A sword would be great. And a couple of knives, if you’ve got them to spare.”

  Usyris smiled. “We’ve gained ourselves quite a few spares.” He made a gesture indicating that Tae should stay in place, hefted the pack, then headed deeper into the woods.

  Finally alone, Tae sat on a deadfall and tried not to think about his situation. The wound in his chest throbbed in time with his heartbeat, while the other bothered him only when he moved too quickly. Thinking about the pain only worsened it, and his mind slipped back naturally to his dilemma. He had never expected, nor wanted, to see his father again. The idea raised an ire stronger than that he felt against Nacoma. The first stirrings of hatred trickled through him, hot and ugly. At least, he could leave Nacoma once he no longer required an escort. Weile Kahn would never leave him. The elder’s advice, his mannerisms, his dealings with people haunted Tae like a shadow, unshakable. Visually, they did not closely resemble one another. Like nearly all Easterners, they both had blue-black hair and irises scarcely differentiable from the pupils. Tae sported his mother’s straight hair instead of his father’s curls, and he had not yet attained Weile’s size. Nevertheless, Tae saw vestiges of the father he loved and despised whenever he looked in a mirror. Though vague, the similarities were still apparent: the shape of his face, the set of his eyes, and the narrow nose.

  Tae had much to tell his father, none of it kind, but the need to reestablish travel in the West would have to temper the words he used. Tae cursed the urgency that tied his hands. Part of him wished to avoid Weile forever, to punish his father with desperate wondering about the fate of his only child. A deeper, meaner part reveled in the chance to confront the old man who had brought agony and death to his mother and turned his life into a constant, desperate struggle.

  Tae had expected Usyris to bring the last of his supplies, but Nacoma guided a brown mare and a dappled gray gelding through the foliage. The pack lay secured behind a simple, battered saddle, a sword and belt sheath thrust through the bindings. The bridle looked as if it might fray into oblivion if he tugged too hard, but Tae did not begrudge the gift. It was more than he had expected.

  Tae approached the massive murderer, his steps unconsciously slowing as he drew nearer. His hands shook, and he cursed his loss of composure. He kept them low, refusing Nacoma the satisfaction.

  But if Nacoma noticed Tae’s discomfort, he made no sign. The ruthless fire that had seemed so much a part of his eyes the previous day had disappeared, leaving unexpected compassion in its place. He released the gelding as Tae approached, politely moving his mare so that it did not interfere with Tae’s inspection.

  Tae examined horse and equipment, holding Nacoma always in his peripheral vision. First, he jerked the sword free, fastening it to the too-large belt sagging at his waist. The arming fueled his boldness tenfold. A closer look at the tack showed a reasonable attempt at repair. Though homely and simple, it would not break as easily as his initial glance suggested.

  Nacoma approached before Tae mounted.

  Tae’s heart seemed to spring into his throat, pounding madly. He hid his anxiety behind a stony, expressionless mask.

  Nacoma clasped his hands, a sure sign of nervousness and one Tae had not expected. “These are yours, too.” He thrust a beefy hand in his pocket, emerging with an unmatched pair of knives in sheaths. He held them awkwardly in the middle. Though he offered similar instruments to those of his torture, his manner and presentation
did not spook Tae, who took them without a word of thanks. Arranging one on the belt near the sword, he flipped the other into ready position as he considered the best hiding place for it.

  “Cut me,” Nacoma said, his voice still deep but without the booming menace and deadly edge it had once held.

  The words seemed nonsensical. “What?” Tae returned.

  “Cut me,” Nacoma repeated. “With the knife.” He indicated his torso with rapid movements of the fingers of both hands. “Anywhere you want to.”

  The idea enticed. The image of plunging the blade deep into Nacoma’s breast filled Tae’s mind’s eye, and the satisfaction that would accompany the wrench of steel tearing his enemy’s flesh seemed euphoric. Don’t tempt me, you bastard.

  “I’m sorry what I done to you. I’m real sorry.” The sincerity in Nacoma’s tone could not be feigned. “We’ll both feel better if you cut me.”

  The invitation pleased Tae, yet something stayed his hand. Nacoma’s invitation seemed madness. Weile always forgave accident, and Tae doubted his father would hold any grudge against Nacoma for actions taken before he knew Tae’s identity. In fact, Weile might see the incident as one more trial that strengthened his son. “Trust me. You won’t feel better.”

  “Yes, I will.” Nacoma spoke like a man who knew from experience. “My mama teached me that. She was nice most times, but she had a temper, too. After she’d whaled on me for something and she’d calmed, she’d make me hit her back once’t. Then we could go on like nothing’d happened. Works for me, too. I’ve tried it.”

  Tae said nothing, the explanation ludicrous. He recalled a description his father had once given of the men with whom he worked on a daily basis: There are important distinctions between men who sin from necessity, from loss of control, and for the pure joy of it. Have faith in the former; they are good men in bad situations. Avoid the latter, they can be used but never trusted. They have no conscience and will do and say anything that harms others and benefits themselves. With finesse, the middle group can become your most loyal, and a leader who steers them well can help them and, ultimately, himself. Over time, you can teach them self-control. The key is to choose your punishment wisely. Herein lies a secret I have learned. Weile had leaned in close, his whisper conspiratorial. Punishment absolves them of guilt. Instead, subject them to the horror of their own regret. Strange as it seems, it’s a torture stronger than any you could inflict.

  At the time, Weile’s narrative had meant nothing to Tae, though he had remembered the words because of their significance to a father he had emulated as a young and stupid child. The current circumstance colored his understanding. If Weile spoke truth, and Tae reluctantly trusted his father’s judgment when it came to evaluating criminals, Nacoma would suffer more if Tae refused to return injury for injury. His heart still screamed for retribution, yet his rational mind dismissed the possibility. Even if Weile assessed men like Nacoma wrong, even if vengeance eased Tae’s animosity, Tae doubted Nacoma’s temper would allow for the penalty he had demanded. Tae might well find himself battling Nacoma for his life again.

  Tae stuffed the knife in his boot and seized the upsweep of the gray’s saddle. “Let’s go.” He swung into the seat.

  Nacoma lowered his head, standing several moments in contemplation. He cast one last longing look at the knife in Tae’s belt, shrugged, and headed for his mare. A moment later, he clambered aboard. The ease of the dismissal and mounting convinced Tae his father’s advice had steered him wrong. His hand tingled, and he could feel the impression of a hilt against it. Just the fantasy of dealing Nacoma back his own appeased some of Tae’s rage, and he realized he probably could not have dealt the blow. Whatever his faults, Weile had not been or raised a killer. Though Tae had struck down enemies without remorse, he had done so only in self-defense. He could no longer consider Nacoma a threat.

  Nacoma glanced back at Tae. “Ready?” Disappointment tinged his tone, and the dullness of his eyes made Tae reconsider. Perhaps his father had understood men like Nacoma.

  “Ready.” Tae kicked his horse into a walk, prepared to go wherever Nacoma led him. Without the regretful assassin, he would never find his father.

  The ride through open roads and fields brought a joy Tae scarcely realized he had missed. Early on, Easterners stopped them frequently, and Tae occasionally recognized fringe members of his father’s entourage. Soon, word of his presence preceded them, and Nacoma’s conversations became shorter and more directed. Tae grew accustomed to the wary prickle that came of eyes studying him from the sidelines. Most of his father’s men had never met him, and their curiosity seemed only natural. Even the rain that pelted them on the second day seemed a blessing after the constant need for stealth and battle. They traveled northward, toward the great trading city of Pudar, yet they stopped on the second evening a few hours shy and west of its gates. This time, Nacoma brought Tae to a farm cottage lost amid the fields and forest. He tapped a halting pattern on the door.

  A few moments passed in silence. Then, the door creaked, and a woman’s face poked through the crack. She passed a few words with Nacoma, then flung the panel fully open. Nacoma gestured to Tae to dismount and followed the woman inside. Tae ground-tied the gelding and trailed the others to a spartan common room, strangely devoid of windows, and containing a rectangular table with four chairs as well as a shelf stuffed with crockery.

  “Sit,” the woman said. Her dark hair lay piled on her head, and a homespun dress fell to her ankles. He found her nationality impossible to guess. Though darker than most Pudarians, she could pass for a small Béarnide, an Easterner, or a mixed breed Westerner baked from the sun. “Kinya will be with you shortly.”

  Tae sat, recognizing the name. A jowly, friendly-featured man, Kinya was an old and trusted member of Weile’s organization. They had met on several occasions, and Tae guessed the other man would serve not only to lead him to his father but also to definitively identify him.

  The woman disappeared through a doorway. Shortly, Kinya entered. His well-tended locks lay flat, closely-cropped to his head. His bald spot had expanded, and a few silver hairs sparkled amid the black. Otherwise, he looked no different than when Tae had last seen him. Another man, an enormous stranger, stood in the doorway with arms folded. Kinya looked Tae over, grinned a welcome, then nodded to the other man, confirming Tae’s suspicions.

  “Hello, Kinya,” Tae greeted.

  “Hello, Tae Kahn.” Kinya took the chair to Tae’s right while Nacoma remained standing. “What have you been doing?”

  “This and that,” Tae replied vaguely. “Mostly avoiding trouble, until I ran into this . . .” He paused just long enough for Kinya and Nacoma to fill in derogatory terms. “. . . gentleman.”

  Kinya’s dark eyes flicked briefly to Nacoma, then returned to Tae. “How’s your brother?”

  A test? “Unless a half brother has come along in the last few years, I don’t have one.”

  Kinya looked slightly abashed. “My mistake. Your father talked about naming a child after a close childhood friend who died. I can’t recall the name.”

  Another test. What’s wrong, Kinya? Paranoia or blindness. “Curdeis.”

  “Right. That’s it.” Kinya’s smile widened. “I guess it was just talk.” He gave the thug in the doorway a more definitive nod, then turned his attention to Tae’s escort. “Nacoma, return to sparrow hawk sector. I’ll take care of Tae Kahn from here.”

  Nacoma turned Tae an oddly motherly expression. “Good-bye, Tae Kahn. And I really am sorry.”

  “I know,” Tae returned, unable to forgive yet. “See you around, maybe.”

  “Yeah, see you around.” Nacoma spun on a heel and strode through the door. He gave Tae one last, plaintive look, one last chance to speak forgiveness.

  Tae said nothing, leaving Nacoma to the mercy of his conscience.

  The door slapped closed behind him.

  Kinya continued to smile at Tae. “Sorry about the necessary formality.”

&n
bsp; Tae shrugged, neither excusing nor condemning.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  That’s what happens when your father tosses you away. Tae rose. “Yeah. Not as long as it was supposed to be.” Though he suppressed the thought, he could not keep sarcasm from tainting his tone.

  “You may not believe it, but I haven’t seen your father this excited for a long time. Maybe ever.”

  Tae refused to comment. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Tae Kahn!” Kinya’s clenched fists were so tight, his fingertips blanched. He studied the boy in the sparse light leaking in from the farther room. He bore the expression of a father pushed to the boundary by a toddler’s tantrum.

  Tae turned Kinya a fierce look of defiance.

  “Never mind.” Kinya shook his head. “Let’s go.” Whirling, he pushed past the massive figure in the doorway, whisked through a pantry, then headed out the back exit into the last moments of twilight.

  Kinya led Tae on a winding course that took them alternately through forest, meadow, and pasture. They walked in silence at a pace that taxed Tae’s shorter stride. Pride did not allow him to fall behind or to request a slower gait. The nearer they drew to his father, the stronger irritability and outrage grew. The safety of friends and Westlands seemed to lose significance to the relationship that could and should have flourished but had collapsed into hatred. Desperately, Tae scrambled to dampen his emotions, to play the necessary game with his father that would restore Westland travel. Yet the rage proved more tenacious.

  Clouds masked the sunset, and only the world’s plunge into darkness marked the day’s passing. Kinya’s circuitous route lost Tae all sense of direction. He felt certain they looped and doubled back, probably covering half or less of the straight distance they would have gained with the same amount of time and effort. Repeatedly, Kinya paused, head tipped to catch sounds through the blackness. Apparently satisfied, they moved ever forward.

  Finally, when it seemed they could have reached Pudar and returned twice, Kinya stopped. He paused again, eyes restless, head swiveling. Tae scanned the darkness, seeing nothing but the bowing of weeds and branches in the wind. He heard their rustling and the rising and falling cadence of night insects. A rare whirring bark broke the stillness, answered by distant foxes. Finally, Kinya knelt, pressed a shoulder to a boulder, and rolled it aside. Brushing aside moss and dirt, he revealed a filthy board otherwise lost beneath the overgrowth. He rapped a fist on the wood in patterns: one-pause-three-pause-two-pause-one. A muffled answer returned from the opposite side, a single tap. Kinya moved the board aside and ushered Tae ahead.