Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Long after Tae believed he should have negotiated the caverns twice, he funneled into a dead-end. He collapsed in a despondent heap, prostrate, tears stinging eyes already sore from a million desperate attempts to find clues in hopeless darkness. Repeatedly, his fingers explored the walls finding only more wall. No passages radiated from this corner. They were trapped.

  Air stirred over his back as Kedrin’s seeking hands swept the darkness. “Tae?” His boot thudded down on Tae’s leg, and pain jerked the Easterner back to reality.

  Kedrin withdrew immediately, replacing foot with hand. His fingers ran across the fabric of Tae’s breeks, conclusively identifying. “Tae? I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” Tae said, suddenly realizing the obvious. He laughed. “We’re here.”

  “Where?”

  Tae reached over his head, working loose the trapdoor wedged into the opening, amazed by the Béarnian construction that had left him no seams to see or feel. He pushed carefully. Though the tunnel opened into a secluded area, he had long ago lost track of time.

  Sunlight filtered through the widening crack, but Tae did not falter. He would rather someone discovered him than remain another moment in the stale dankness of the catacombs. With a heave that taxed shoulders tensed into anxious balls, he shoved the stone fully aside.

  Light blasted Tae’s eyes, and he blinked repeatedly to clear them. Floating dark circles scored his vision. He caught blurred glimpses of trees, cottages, and less obvious shapes as his lids fluttered open and closed reflexively. At length, he gained a warped picture of surroundings he had barely glanced at when he crept into the caverns behind Darris and Ra-khir, squinting to widen his focus. Grass carpeted the ground, scarcely disrupted by a portal the color of earth. Figures filled the area, and Tae froze in place, certain the guards had discovered them. But the grayness of the manlike shapes defied life, and some clearly stood on all fours. Memory kicked in. Statues. Tae exhaled a long breath. A fence enclosed the area, and a nearby cottage stood like a quiet sentinel.

  Kedrin waited politely while Tae scanned the locale, body blocking the exit. He studied each piece of stonework.

  Bears outnumbered the other works, lumbering or rearing, their features fierce. Tae’s mind immediately filled with the image of elfin magic drawing them to life, fangs and claws tearing through Béarn’s youngest heirs. He shivered, pitying innocent Matrinka the sight she had suffered. If elves truly ruled Béarn now, a stonecutter’s yard could prove one of the city’s most dangerous places.

  Other objects met and passed Tae’s scrutiny: hawks perched in chiseled treetops; tiny wisules, cowardly rodents, tensed to flee from danger; and humans engaged in various activities. One of the latter held Tae’s focus far longer than the others, a stocky figure swathed in gray robes with the hood pulled so low it nearly hid the entire face. Two eyes escaped the covering, along with an edge of nose and lips. Though deeply shadowed, the eyes reflected a glimmer of life.

  Living, breathing human. Tae’s mind raced, freed by the cool comfort of air bathing sweat-slick limbs. The other had certainly seen him. The catacombs held no escape, especially now that he had collected his markers. His best strategy lay in surprise. That this meant leaving Kedrin in ignorance did not concern him; he was accustomed to working alone. Levering himself out of the hole, he stepped aside, keeping his face toward the hiding human. Wanting his hands free, he did not assist Kedrin’s ascent.

  Suddenly, the still figure in the statue court rose, throwing back the hood to reveal familiar feminine features. “Tae?” She headed toward him, at first hesitant, then running in obvious joy. “Tae, it is you.”

  Matrinka. Tae barely had time to brace himself before the princess hurled herself into his arms. He held her tightly, and her joyful tears left a wet spot on his shoulder.

  Kedrin emerged, watching the sight in silent curiosity. He did not interfere.

  Finally, they both pulled free, and Tae spoke over Matrinka’s inevitable questions. “Sir Kedrin, this is Matrinka.”

  The knight-captain executed a deep bow. “Princess. This is an honor.”

  “No. Please.” Matrinka despised formality. “Just Matrinka. And it’s an honor for me as well.” Only momentarily distracted, she plied Tae with questions. “Where’re Darris and Ra-khir?” She did not wait for a response before curiosity and need goaded her to question further. “How did you get here?”

  A tense, short whistle faintly touched Tae’s ears. He whirled toward it, crouching. Matrinka turned her head, as did Kedrin. Between two trunks, a shadow shifted.

  “That’s Baynard,” Matrinka explained. “He’s a friend.”

  Kedrin recognized the name. “Right now, Béarnian soldiers might not count as our friends.”

  “Baynard is,” Matrinka assured. She drew breath to say more, but Tae silenced her with a subtle gesture. They would have to guard every word in front of the Knight of Erythane or risk offending his honor or losing his support. Matrinka continued in a different vein, “We’ll have to talk later. In a safe place.” She drew off her overlarge cloak to reveal another beneath it. Handing the first to Kedrin, she turned Tae an apologetic shrug. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  Tae nodded his understanding. His own dark clothing would hide him well enough, if such became necessary. “Let’s go.”

  Matrinka led Kedrin and Tae over the fence to a sturdy, robust Béarnide. Then the four slipped carefully through alleyways to a cottage. Baynard opened the door and waved the others inside. Even then, no words passed between them. Matrinka led them to a trapdoor, opened it, and gestured Tae through.

  Tae balked, the damp coolness and odor of mildew wafting upward returning vivid images of catacombs he would never again attempt to negotiate. Looking down, he saw a single room with milling figures. The sight helped to dispel the comparison, and he finally trotted down the steps. Kedrin, Matrinka, and Baynard followed.

  Half a dozen elves watched their descent through steadfast eyes that never seemed to blink. Captain rose from a chair near a table, gesturing for the newcomers to sit. Béarnian strangers rose simultaneously, opening spaces for the others as well. Kedrin, Baynard, and Matrinka accepted the sacrifice, though the knight remained standing. Tae moved to a dark, quiet corner. The man who had vacated his chair for Tae approached and inclined his head respectfully. Black bangs fringed hazel eyes, and a lean figure revealed him as a non-Béarnian Westerner. Though lanky and not more than a few years older than Tae’s eighteen years, he bore none of the typical adolescent clumsiness. “Friend of Béarn, you may have my seat.”

  Tae shook his head and made a gesture of dismissal. “Thank you, no.”

  “As you wish.” The man returned to his seat, but he did not sit. Instead, he bowed to Knight-Captain Kedrin and executed a grand flourish usually reserved for kings. “Greetings, Captain.”

  Kedrin smiled. “Greetings, Braison. Your gesture is appreciated but unnecessary. I am no longer your commander.” He reached for the youngster, and they exchanged a brief, strong embrace. Both sat. Only then, Kedrin returned to the matter at hand. “Braison, I hope you can explain the situation. Tae’s been understandably circumspect.” He tossed a friendly look in Tae’s direction to show he meant no offense.

  Tae watched in silence. The light of day had surely revealed his tattered dress, hard eyes, and disheveled appearance. In the dungeon’s gloom, Kedrin might not have recognized him as an Easterner. It had become inexorably clear that men like Tae and Kedrin did not often work together, yet the knight had said and done nothing to indicate his superiority. Tae appreciated Kedrin’s acceptance but did not delude himself into believing their differences would not affect whether the knight joined their cause.

  That thought raised many others. Kedrin’s initial refusal to leave the dungeon clued Tae that knight’s honor might prove more indecipherable than he expected. He hoped he had not ruined Griff’s chances of becoming king by his presence alone. His throat tightened as he suddenly realized the princ
e and his annoyingly devoted bodyguard did not sit among them. Are we fighting for any cause at all? Ra-khir’s presence assured it. The apprentice knight would never have attempted to free his father without more motive than desire. As he had assured Kedrin, neither father nor son would have allowed it.

  Braison’s explanation laid to rest many of Tae’s more recent doubts. He spoke of Griff, apparently somewhere safe among them, and of the false Kohleran and his politics. Tae learned that all of his friends had survived the demon’s attack and that the two Renshai had gone for assistance from their own. Braison spoke from the heart of the citizens’ resistance, of the purgings that seemed random, and of the elves’ apparent intention to utterly destroy mankind. He described the emotional state of Béarn’s citizenry and offered to escort the knight-captain through a town whose people he might no longer recognize.

  Kedrin listened quietly throughout Braison’s narrative, the tightening set of his lips the only visible sign of emotion. Only after the one-time Knight of Erythane finished did Kedrin finally speak. “You believe in the rightness of this cause?”

  Braison nodded, hazel eyes fastened to the blue. “With all my heart. I have met the proper king of Béarn, and we need his judgment and guidance. With or without the Knights of Erythane, I will see him on the throne.” Stiffly sober, his features became a study in defiance.

  Kedrin’s mouth twitched to a smile without a hint of mockery, only pride. “I trust your honor, Braison. I always have. Even when it interfered with your knighthood. Once, I despised your decision to relinquish your title, though never your person.” He glanced about the room, gaze falling first on Matrinka, then Tae. “At my suggestion, my son risked his life, and those of his friends, for this same cause. Then, I suffered the guilt of believing I sent him to his death. Now I know he’s alive, but I still may lose him.” He lowered his head, the words clearly more painful than his tone implied. “In this, we are all allied, no matter our background. Without the true heir, Béarn, and eventually the world itself, will fall. I will support this, and the other knights will as well.” He winked at Tae. “Had you mentioned Griff when you came to me, I would have come without hesitation.”

  Tae saluted to acknowledge the more dangerous and desperate path he had chosen. The idea had not occurred to him at the time because he did not know whether or not Griff had survived the shipwreck.

  Kedrin returned his attention to Braison, to Tae’s infinite relief. He had spent too long on the streets to weather the stares of city officials comfortably. “It is my pleasure and my honor to assist King Griff’s return, yet I still ask one favor.” The intensity of his focus made it clear he wanted something from Braison, not the group. “When the proper ascension is restored, I want you back where you belong, among the Knights of Erythane.”

  Braison smiled, his youthful features aglow, and a light flashed through his eyes. For a moment, Tae thought he might wiggle like a praised puppy, but he contained the excitement his face betrayed. “You’d have me back?”

  “And believe us the better for it.”

  “Captain,” Braison started, his next words so predictable, Tae mouthed them as he spoke. “It would be an honor.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Scepter of the Elfin Kings

  Like armor, magic is a crutch. Crutches are easily lost, and their wielders with them.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Colbey Calistinsson sat upon Odin’s massive throne, Hlidskjalf, the stone warming to the heat of his body. Inset gemstones on the arms flashed and sparkled in the light. In the centuries since the AllFather’s death, the chair had mostly lain empty. Others came, at times, to look out over all the worlds; but to them it still seemed a guilty pleasure. Through the millennia, few but Odin and his wife sat upon the high seat. Respect and an awe that reached beyond the grave kept the gods away, though Colbey believed they had all come at least once since Odin’s death. Curiosity goaded even the deities.

  Colbey watched Dh’arlo’mé. For hours, the aging elf sat on the floor of his private chamber on Nualfheim, clutching the Staff of Law. His red-blond hair hung like a curtain over his eye, and a smile seemed permanently etched against his cheekbones. Colbey’s frown had become nearly as lasting. Like gods, elves did not concern themselves with the passage of time; the length of their lives precluded it. Yet, in the last several months, Dh’arlo’mé’s actions had become little distinguishable from humans. It made no sense for him to commune so long with a staff emptied of power.

  A deep sigh rumbled from Colbey, and he tapped his fingers against the rubies, sapphires, and diamonds set into Hlidskjalf’s arms. Emotion and thought wafting from Dh’arlo’mé told more than Colbey wished to know. No doubt, the Staff of Law contained more essence than Odin, the forces, and circumstances had led him to believe. The grim, gray father of gods had made a grand show of draining the staves of their power.

  Colbey leaned forward, devoid of options. Continued superficial study would gain him little more information. The time had come for him to invade Dh’arlo’mé’s thoughts, no matter that the effort would desperately weaken him. He should remain safe here. Even the gods seemed unlikely to bother him. Yet the idea of exhausting his endurance at a time when so much lay at stake bothered him. The need remained, ugly and urgent. Resigned, Colbey lowered his head and let his consciousness ease toward the leader of the elves.

  Constrained by his own oaths not to enter the thoughts of allies, Colbey had never deliberately read an elf’s mind before. The thought processes seemed alien, tied in unfamiliar loops and sparked by ideas that humans might never consider. Excitement struck him as a warm wash of color tainted by greed. Giddy with power, Dh’arlo’mé had bonded to the Staff of Law, embracing the knowledge and influence it promised. Already his mind filled with concepts once beyond his comprehension, and the space devoted to the wild chaos of magic enlarged at the expense of instinct and feeling. Another presence swirled among racing thoughts grasping for understanding. Colbey approached it hesitantly.

  The raw power radiating from the being blasted him, stronger than he expected. He had never withdrawn from a physical battle, yet his mind reflexively recoiled from the thing in Dh’arlo’mé’s head. It seemed familiar and strange at once, nothing like the entity that had unsuccessfully coaxed him to become its champion in the months when he had carried the Staff of Law. Without need for direct challenge, he sensed it would attack at his slightest touch. Colbey feared nothing, but no good could come of battling or joining the unbridled representation of law. Always he had chosen the course of balance. Colbey withdrew.

  Fatigue weighted the Renshai’s limbs and blunted his thoughts like one too many servings of wine. Even after five lifetimes, he still underestimated the effects of his rare explorations. Something followed him back to Hlidskjalf, a faint buzzing that hinted of coming warfare and a duel hungrily anticipated. Colbey’s hand tightened around Harval’s hilt; and he leaped from the throne, prepared for battle. The whisper of presence disappeared, leaving nothing to indicate it had ever existed.

  Colbey drew Harval. The sword listed to the right, ungainly in his hands. Alarm prickled through his hand, then filled his head. He had grown painfully accustomed to the unpredictable shifts in balance that recently had rendered the weapon all but useless. Now, the savage, capricious changes became a constant that should have soothed but only rattled him more. Despite his best efforts, the balance teetered suddenly and dangerously toward law.

  Colbey returned to the chair. Dh’arlo’mé still sat, attention focused fully inward. An army could have entered that room without his notice. Colbey felt equally engrossed in thoughts of his own. Where did the Staff of Law get its power? Why hadn’t Chaos paralleled its growth? The natural proclivity of the worlds toward balance should have assured it. Only one explanation seemed to fit. The Staff of Law consumed someone or something of astounding power. The source eluded him, clearly not Dh’arlo’mé who retained his own personality. The change had come before the binding
of a champion.

  Ignorance of magic hampered Colbey’s speculation. The urge to slaughter Dh’arlo’mé passed swiftly. It would prove a temporary solution that accomplished little more than angering Frey. He had promised his brother-in-law not to kill elves, and he had every intention of keeping that vow, not only to maintain goodwill. A god killing a lesser being, even a god who still considered himself human, would create repercussions beyond his imagining. It always did. Once before, gods and Wizards believed they could rescue the balance by slaughtering the Staff of Law’s champion, then himself. Ragnarok had resulted, and Colbey had branded those who had assailed him fools. No matter how prestigious, he would not join their ranks.

  Colbey paced, seeking another option and finding it unpalatable. Someone would have to wield the Staff of Chaos, someone of great morality and power. For, ultimately, it would destroy him.

  * * *

  Clouds blotted the morning sky, and lightning wound through the gloom unaccompanied by rain or thunder. The turbulence seemed proper background for the confrontation between Béarn’s chosen and its usurpers. The Knights of Erythane rode at the head, Béarn’s rearing bear banner raised high. The white horses walked with their triangular heads proudly aloft, manes braided with blue and gold ribbons, and their riders like lordly statues on their backs.

  Immediately behind the knights, Kevral rode at Griff’s left hand, amid a semicircle of guardians that included Braison, Baynard, and Rantire. The elves followed, riding two abreast. The Béarnian renegades came next, in ragged ranks that seemed a mockery of the Knights of Erythane’s precision. The remaining Renshai trailed. The entire tribe of three hundred had come to restore Béarn’s king and guard its heirs, sparing only those under the age of ten and a disappointed few to watch the children. The Renshai filed in the wake of the procession without any pattern to their location or movement. As always, they would fight and win—or die as warriors, not soldiers.