Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The name penetrated memory slowly. Gradually, Ra-khir recalled the playmates of his childhood, including a neighbor girl named Sushara. A bit more thought brought images of a gawky younger sister with enormous front teeth. This vision scarcely resembled the woman who sat on the Bellenet Fields. “You’re Mariell?”

  She nodded, still smiling. Highlights shimmered through the cascade of hair, and her ample lips broadened to reveal teeth much whiter and smaller than he remembered. Apparently, her second set fit her mouth better.

  “You’ve changed, my lady. And all for the better.”

  “You too, Ra-khir. You look nothing like your father.” Mariell clearly blurted the words before she had time to consider them. She covered her mouth with a hand. “I meant that as a compliment. Khirwith was not a handsome man.”

  “He also isn’t my father,” Ra-khir felt obligated to explain. He dangled his hat over the upper rail.

  Mariell stared. “You’re going to have to tell me about that.”

  “And I will,” Ra-khir promised, shocked at how comfortable he felt. The sunset formed the perfect background, and the conversation felt right. The other women seemed only interested in discussing his knighthood and in pressing up close to him as swiftly as possible. “But first, I’d like you to tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Mariell drew her long legs to her chest and looked up at Ra-khir. “I like to watch the sunset. My father and I used to come up here a lot at night. He’s dead now, you know; but I always feel connected to him when the sun goes down. The colors . . .” She trailed off, her embarrassment evident in the way she buried her face against her hands. “I’m sorry, Ra-khir. You don’t want to hear all this.”

  “I do,” Ra-khir insisted. And he really did, to his own surprise. He walked over and sat carefully next to her. “Please go on.”

  Mariell obliged, explaining how the colors reminded her of different moods of her father and how his spirit seemed to touch her in the moments they hovered in the sky. The two discussed Ra-khir’s situation next, then the conversation shifted to memories of childhood. Loneliness and sorrow disappeared into a camaraderie Ra-khir desperately missed. Dusk slipped quietly into a darkness speckled with stars and only a sliver of moon, a gorgeous night to follow a gorgeous sunset.

  The first lull came only after hours of talk that made it seem as if no time had passed since their days of childhood play. Their eyes met, and Ra-khir wondered idly if he had ever known a woman more beautiful. He could not have stopped himself from kissing her if he tried, and she did not resist him when he did. At first, she only yielded, then she clumsily returned it. Warmth suffused Ra-khir, and he realized how natural it would seem to lever Mariell down on the grass and make love beneath the stars.

  Ra-khir retreated from the thought as well as the kiss. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Mariell granted him a shy smile before turning away. “I’m not. But thanks for stopping. I was so caught up in the moment, I would have let you go as far as you wanted. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Ra-khir agreed, though he could not wholly escape the surge of masculine need that told him otherwise.

  “Virginity is a gift the gods grant each human only once. Losing it should be the most special moment in a person’s life.” Mariell gazed up into the vast array of stars. “Only after a man and a woman have joined their souls for eternity should they complete the union of body as well.”

  Ra-khir’s gaze followed Mariell’s, though a tear glazed the sky to a black plain broken by golden zigzags of light. His thoughts went back to his own first time, locked in a prison with death hovering moments away. His love for Kevral would never allow him to complete the act with Mariell that His body craved, even had his honor not already rescued him from the mistake. Given the opportunity to relive his life, he would wait, even against Kevral’s protests. Regret formed a vivid picture of their wedding night, the proper time for the innocent exploration they had already savored. “You’re right, Mariell.” Ra-khir could think of nothing better to say. “And I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  Mariell rose, giving Ra-khir a quick peck on the cheek. “I really should go home now. My mother will worry.”

  Ra-khir scrambled to his feet, rescuing his hat from the dirt. “It’s not safe. I’ll walk you back.” He offered from politeness, not from desire. The moment of passion embarrassed him, and it had fully passed, leaving nothing but fear in its place.

  “No.” Mariell glanced toward town. “I walk this way alone all the time.”

  “I can’t let you go by yourself.”

  “No,” Mariell repeated. “I want some time by myself to think.”

  Ra-khir stepped back. He shared her need.

  “I’ll see you again, won’t I?” Mariell’s gentle question revealed much unspoken. Although she worried for the speed of their relationship, she did not want to lose it entirely. From that one line, he realized she wanted to turn a moment of desire into a slow courtship.

  Under other circumstances, Ra-khir might have wished for the same. Now he could not allow it. Despite his promise to Kevral, he would not let himself become trapped the same way she had. His honor drove him to settle one affair before opening another. He loved Kevral. He could come to love Mariell, if he allowed it; but he did not have the freedom to do so now. “Mariell, you’re wonderful. But if there is a time for us, it isn’t now.”

  Mariell headed away, her reply floating to Ra-khir at a low volume he scarcely heard. “I understand.” He had expected any other answer.

  Ra-khir replaced his hat and returned to his position against the fence, watching the horizon where the sunset had once flaunted its magnificent palate. West and north, he looked, toward Pudar, his thoughts and heart on Kevral alone. More tears escaped his eyes. Kevral, I hope I’ve seen enough, because I can’t do this anymore. His vows to the knighthood, once the essence of his universe, now bound him like a trap. His duties prevented him from joining her in Pudar. I have to know where you are. I have to know if you’re all right. Ra-khir listened to the wind, hoping for some consolation he did not receive. Somehow, some way, they would come together again.

  * * *

  Kevral would never let King Cymion know how much she despised the life her defiance had bought her. Pudar’s children knew nothing of swords or dedication; and their mothers hovered, encouraging tears and tantrums with their suffocating overprotectiveness. Her days among the guards, once a chore, now seemed a distant reprieve. But pride kept her from admitting Minister Daizar to her chambers for discussion and from answering any summons to his court. If she had to suffer another fifteen months in Pudar, she would see to it the king received no benefit, except the confidence of his youngest subjects.

  Clouds shot in suddenly, graying an otherwise bright, cold day. The wind picked up, flinging road dust across the practice field hard enough to sting exposed flesh. A recalcitrant three-year-old threw down her practice sword, screaming for her mother.

  Kevral rushed in for swift intervention, but the girl preferred kicking and shrieking to gripping the hilt of a sword. Gentle discussion changed nothing, and Kevral turned to harsher tactics. “You’ll stay here until you get this, if it means you stay here through the night.”

  The admonishment did nothing to slacken the little girl’s howls. “I don’t WANT that!” she shouted. “No! Noo-ooo!”

  Kevral reached for her arm, just as General Markanyin rode up on a wildly snorting bay. He pulled the horse to a sudden stop, and it skidded into a half turn, kicking up clods of grass. “Armsman, we need you!”

  Kevral scowled, not wishing for word of her difficulties to reach the king yet glad for any interruption. With young children, time often made the difference between fits and reason. Unwilling to let the general know she appreciated his arrival, Kevral whirled on him. “You’d better have a very good reason for interrupting a Renshai’s teaching!”

  “Armsman, we’re under attack.”

  Alarm rang thro
ugh Kevral. Only dire necessity would drive the king to send his general to her rather than leading his troops into battle. Exhilaration exploded through her, scattering the warm ecstasy of coming battle. She stifled the urge to charge with reckless abandon. Doing so would lose any advantage she had gained against the king and his minister. “Why is this my concern?” she managed calmly, hoping Markanyin could not read the desperate war she fought inside herself in her flushed cheeks and quivering hands. More than anything, she wanted to fight. “My contract spells out my responsibilities clearly, and defending Pudar is not among them.”

  Markanyin drew a deep breath, as if to bellow a command. Clearly, he struggled against long-ingrained habit as well, accustomed to soldiers’ unconditional obedience. “We need you, Kevral. It’s not an army. It’s a thing—indescribable. It mangled a patrol, and it’s headed toward the walls.”

  The sky darkened even in the moments Kevral listened to the description, and a familiar sulfurous odor carried on the wind. Demon!

  “The king shredded your contract when he sent me. He’s been trying to apologize. He’s even authorized me to offer his son’s hand in marriage.”

  The words swirled by Kevral, mostly unheard. Her heart hammered in her chest, battle rage a sheer ecstasy she could no longer control. She would have fought the demon without a single concession. “Get these young warriors to safety!” she shouted to their desperately hovering parents. “General!”

  Guessing her need, Markanyin lowered a hand. Catching it, Kevral scrambled up behind him, even as the horse broke into a run toward the castle.

  “Darkness, claws and teeth,” Markanyin explained over the thump of the horse’s hooves and the diminishing shouts of parents and children. “And it’s enormous. Headed toward the west gate.”

  Kevral could scarcely hear the general over the roar of blood in her ears. As they plunged through the city streets, ordered shouts and commands from ahead replaced the chaos into which her young students had degenerated. As they rounded the castle, amassed soldiers hove into view, and the ramparts teemed with bowmen. Clouds swallowed the sun, casting Pudar’s warriors dull silver against the massive black shapelessness that flashed toward them.

  “Fire!” the bowmen’s captain screamed.

  Kevral leaped from the slowing horse as shafts arched and sped toward the demon. Rolling, she did not see them strike, noted only that the creature still blustered toward them, unslowed. Blood lust burned like acid through her veins, and she could do nothing else but run for the barred gates.

  “Armsman!” General Markanyin shouted, the sound swallowed in the din of cocking crossbows and the windlike howl of the demon.

  Deafened except to her own need, Kevral skittered up the gate. Fists the size of her torso hammered the wall suddenly. Stone rumbled, shifting; and men plummeted, screaming, from the ramparts. Others loosed shafts in ragged disarray. Kevral reached the top just as the giant hands slammed the wall again. Sound thundered against her ears, deafening. Mortar shattered, and rock flew in all directions, soldiers tumbling and scattering beneath it. The gate trembled and leaned, only partially affixed. Drawing her swords, Kevral dove for the demon.

  Memory struck Kevral as she flew toward it. My weapons can’t hurt it. I’ll glide right through it. In midair, she changed her expectations, planning a wild roll that might save her from breaking limbs. Plunging both swords into the bulk of the beast met no resistance. She tucked, preparing for the transition from nothingness to solid ground. Too soon, she struck something fleshy, the demon, with bruising force. Momentum broken, she slid to the ground, unhurt. Instinct and training kept both weapons in her hands.

  Kevral sprang to her feet. The demon braced itself on four legs, and two clawed hands tore down hunks of Pudar’s wall. It seemed to take no notice of her. Her attack had inflicted nothing more than the myriad arrows and bolts scattered on the muddy ground. She swung at it anyway, swords cutting repeatedly through a darkness that now seemed no more substantial than air. Clearly, this demon had a solidity the other lacked, yet it still did not admit her weapons. She could affect nothing.

  The screams of the dying mangled the commanders’ cries for order, and chaos ruled briefly among Pudar’s soldiers as well as its enemy. Hopeless frustration washed over Kevral. Courage meant nothing in such a war. She did Pudar and herself little good jabbing useless weapons into a formless creature. Her mind raced, seeking a solution that, this time, did not exist. No magic here, nothing that could harm the demon. A spear flew gracefully through the creature, without pausing. Arrows and bolts toppled in an awkward rain, one tearing a furrow above Kevral’s left ear. Pain shot through her head, and warm blood trickled down her cheek.

  Kevral staggered, swearing. “Modi!” she gasped, the pain call instantly rousing her to a battle she had no hope of winning. Her swords could not cut; but, miraculously, something else did. As if from nowhere, a sword slashed the demon’s side, spilling thick, tarry blood. Kevral’s blurry gaze followed the hilt to a steady hand and a wiry blond warrior she guessed was Tyrion.

  The demon roared, whirling toward the wound. Its shoulder struck the wall, sending more rubble pounding to the ground. Even as it turned, the warrior seemed to disappear. Kevral followed the blur that had once represented a man and now seemed merely a part of the demon itself. She back-stepped, blinking, trying to regain the senses the injury had stolen from her.

  Abruptly, the man appeared at Kevral’s side, not Tyrion, but Colbey. “Here,” he said, tossing her the sword.

  Kevral snatched the hilt from the air, more shocked by the gesture than by his sudden appearance. A Renshai never surrendered a sword, and the fact that two more graced his sword belt did nothing to lessen the honor. Kevral did not question, consumed with the realization that the massacre had now become a battle she could fight. Howling like a wolf, she dove for the sable bulk of the demon, new sword carving a line that leaked sticky blood. Even as the sword performed, it vaporized in her hand.

  The demon lashed out, limbs sucking back into the soup and appearing in places nearer to Kevral. Red eyes glared from a narrow head on a stalklike neck, and it struck, snakelike. Kevral scrambled backward. Its teeth clicked closed, barely missing her face. A dribble of saliva burned her arm.

  “Be still!” Colbey commanded. It, she hoped, not her.

  The demon reared up, head towering over Pudar’s wall. A voice rolled from its nostrils, accompanied by dense smoke. “I am bound by Odin’s wretched law. Even you cannot unbind me! Prince of demons, your influence is nothing here.”

  Colbey spoke beneath the rumble of its words. “There is much chaos here, not all of it from the demon. Elfin crafting. The sword is composed of chaos. My belief and yours give it form.” Raising a hand, he clutched it around nothing, and another sword took shape in his fist. He tossed it toward Kevral.

  Again, Kevral snatched the hilt from the air. Finished talking, the demon slashed for Kevral even as she lunged in for a strike. The claws overreached her, but the demon’s wrist slammed against her shoulder, driving her sideways and to one knee. Her sword opened a cut in its chest, and a stench more like feces than blood accompanied the gooey black liquid that seeped from the wound. The sword faded in Kevral’s hand.

  Kevral could no longer see Colbey, but his mind joined hers. *Concentrate! Use the mental training your torke taught you!* He steered her muddled thoughts toward the scraps of magic in her hand, reshaping them to sword form.

  Kevral focused her mind, and the blade straightened in her fist.

  *Good!* Colbey encouraged, then slipped away.

  Regaining her balance, Kevral charged. The demon mutated again, this time growing half a dozen arms like branches. She dodged beneath all of them, suddenly barraged by an uncoordinated hail of arrows and bolts again. Pain scored her shoulder, unnoticed. She drew all attention to maintaining the sword in her fist and dodging the demon’s deadly strikes. The power in one of those appendages could kill her instantly. And the claws . . . memory manag
ed to seep past the intensity of her concentration, Captain hurling himself like a living shield to spare her the scratches of a demon. “Ten years each,” he had gasped. “I can afford it. You can’t.” Kevral did not dare to wonder what would happen to her if the baby aged instantly inside her. The sword grew ephemeral, a ghostly impression of its former reality.

  “Fools! No more shooting!” someone shouted.

  Kevral never noticed whether anyone obeyed. Sword! She reassured herself of its presence, forcing certainty of its reality. She hammered doubt with the same wild strength as her enemy. The weapon wavered, then returned as steady as it had been in Colbey’s hand. She hacked and sliced at the ever-changing creature, jabbing for the center of its being and evading its ceaseless attacks. Skepticism died as need became a frantic boil of answered certainty. Doubt had no place in a mind fired with war lust. Soon, she no longer had to concentrate on the sword. It simply was.

  The demon warped shape again, this time a horse’s head on the body of an enormous cat, hawklike talons jutting from its chest. Kevral bore in, her thoughts scrambled by pain and excitement. Her sword lopped off a claw, showering her with foul-smelling tar. The demon screamed, snapping as much from pain as attack. The flat teeth crushed the hollow between Kevral’s neck and left shoulder. Agony speared her arm, then it went limp. Raw, hot rage sputtered through her. “MODI!” she screamed again, and power seemed to accompany the call. She hurled herself at the demon, her sword as evanescent as the creature she challenged. The realization scarcely penetrated her consciousness that Pudarian soldiers now battled beside her, their weapons useless but their courage spurred by her own.

  Now no worry for aging or death could stop Kevral. She had written off her own life, and nothing mattered but taking the enemy with her. The endless glory of Valhalla awaited if she died audaciously enough, and the world itself might depend upon her success. If the demon survived, no one on man’s world, except Rantire, might have the weapons necessary to halt its spree of destruction.