Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  As he walked, Ra-khir sighed, dismissing two young women who approached by making polite reference to his hurry. He quickened his pace, hiding his flustered need to rush. At all times, a Knight of Erythane must appear calm and controlled.

  Three women milled at the entrance to the knights’ quarters, one who appeared underage, the second in her twenties, and the third at least as old as his father. All moved toward him, eyeing one another like dogs claiming territory. That distraction held them long enough for Ra-khir to dash through the door. Once there, he let some of the tension drop from his shoulders. Only Knights of Erythane had permission to enter.

  The hallways lay empty. Those knights not on duty either rested or ate, and Ra-khir passed no one before reaching his father’s office. Only then, he paused, glancing toward the row of unadorned doors that led into each man’s room. His own beckoned, a chance to wash the horse scent from him and change into fresh clothing. He weighed the crime of facing the captain while untidy versus leaving him waiting, and found the former the lesser of the two. Without further diversion, he knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Kedrin sounded curt.

  Ra-khir removed his hat. “It’s Ra-khir.”

  “Come in, Sir Ra-khir.”

  Sir Ra-khir. The title still sounded strange to Ra-khir’s ears. He opened the door.

  Kedrin looked up from his desk, rolling a quill between his fingers. A wooden chair stood in front of the desk. Behind him lay neat stacks of books and extra gear. A window in the back displayed a view of the courtyard.

  Ra-khir stepped inside and closed the door. He walked to the chair but did not sit. “You wished to see me, Captain?”

  “Yes,” Kedrin said. “Sit down.”

  Ra-khir obeyed, placing his hat in his lap. His father’s expression revealed nothing, his regular formality too familiar to shed any light on his mood. “Captain, I apologize for my appearance. I was tending my horse, and I came directly.”

  Kedrin said nothing, waiting for Ra-khir to finish.

  Ra-khir complied, “Captain, I apologize also for my many errors today. They were inexcusable.” He lowered his head, feeling the sting of rising tears. Surprised, he banished them swiftly.

  “Not inexcusable,” Kedrin contradicted. “Merely puzzling.” He dropped the quill and leaned forward, his tone once again that of a father. “What’s bothering you, Ra-khir? Is it the women?”

  Kedrin trod the edges of Ra-khir’s concern. “In a way, Captain.”

  Kedrin sat back in his chair frowning. “It’s difficult for everyone. I know you’re getting more than your share, and some of them are quite . . .” He searched for a polite term for those few who dressed seductively or rubbed against the men to excite them beyond control. “. . . aggressive. And I remember eighteen well. It’s difficult enough keeping your thoughts from such things.”

  Ra-khir awaited the “but.”

  Kedrin duly supplied the rest of the thought, “You can’t allow it to interfere with your duties.”

  “Captain, that’s not it.” Ra-khir studied his hands, hoping his father did not notice the dirt that had managed to slip beneath his fingernails while working in the barn.

  Kedrin came around the desk and crouched beside the chair. “The reprimand is over. ‘Father’ will do now.”

  Ra-khir appropriately amended, “Father, I’m certain the barrage of women has much to do with it, but it’s Kevral who has stolen my concentration.”

  “Explain.”

  Ra-khir sighed deeply. Naming his concern brought it more strongly to the fore, and the tears threatened his composure again. “The dark elves gain little from sterilizing Béarn alone. Pudar is bigger. Assuming they track such things, even a few weeks without a new pregnancy should raise concerns.” His hands began to tremble, shaking the hat in his lap. “Unlike us, they have no knowledge or experience with elves. They won’t know the cause, and chaos might result.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or something worse.” He hoped he would not have to clarify. The idea of a kingdom organizing rape seemed an evil beyond contemplation.

  Kedrin’s soft voice pulled Ra-khir from the downward spiral his thoughts had become. “Ra-khir, if anyone could protect herself, it would be Kevral.”

  Ra-khir nodded agreement, though his words contradicted. “But Kevral’s strength is also her greatest weakness.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She believes herself capable of handling anything. She would stand when retreat would serve the world better, and any argument to the contrary would only assure she remained.”

  “And you want to marry this woman?”

  Insulted, Ra-khir jerked his head up. He glared into the white-blue eyes, finding a sparkle of mischief. A slight smile completed the picture. His father was joking. “I let her talk me into seeing other women in her absence, but I can’t go on this way. If she’s still alive, I have to see her. I thought I could wait for an answer, but I can’t. I love her.” Folding his hands between his legs, Ra-khir sank into the chair. “Is that bad? Is it against knight’s honor to demand a yes or no?”

  Kedrin ran a hand through Ra-khir’s hair, so like his own. “Not the act itself. Only how you handle it.”

  “Not that it matters.” Ra-khir shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, though he knew the gesture futile. “I’m mortified about the errors.”

  “I know you are.”

  “I’ll try not to let myself get distracted.”

  Kedrin stood, heading back around the desk.

  The lack of reply bothered Ra-khir. He tracked his father’s movements in silence.

  “We both know it’s going to get worse.”

  Ra-khir wished he could promise otherwise. “Am I on suspension?”

  “No.”

  Ra-khir waited for the other boot to fall. When it did not, he dared to speculate. “I’m discharged?” He could not hide the distress.

  “No.”

  A tiny smile of relief edged across Ra-khir’s features. “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “I know you will.” Though the discussion seemed finished, Kedrin did not dismiss Ra-khir. “Elves have reported back that the Western roads may be safe to travel again. Béarnian scouts have confirmed that, at least in the near vicinity, no Easterners remain. It’s probably a slow withdrawal, and we don’t know how far. King Griff has urged caution. He doesn’t want to lose anyone testing the limits.”

  Ra-khir waited, an excited tingling beginning in his chest.

  “There’s some sense in sending a small but strong force out to explore the roads. Make them safe, not only from Easterners but from the encroachment of the woods and damage of weather.”

  Ra-khir held his father’s pale gaze.

  Kedrin smiled. “I believe half a dozen Knights of Erythane should assist such a project. The council and the king agree.” He tented his fingers on the desktop and threw the floor open to Ra-khir.

  “Captain, I’d like very much to volunteer for that duty.”

  “I’d counted on that, Sir Ra-khir. And so, apparently, did the queen. She requested that, if you accepted, you meet her in the covered garden at midday tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do so,” Ra-khir promised.

  Kedrin pursed his lips, apparently loath to speak his next words. “Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t have to say this . . .”

  Ra-khir lowered his eyes, certain something offensive would follow. Understanding the need born of his many errors that day, he steeled himself for the worst and held his pride in check.

  “I know you have a long-standing friendship with Queen Matrinka, but the situation has changed. Please act and speak according to station.”

  Every beginning apprentice knew the proper approaches to royalty, yet repentance and growing excitement left no room for annoyance. “Of course, Captain.”

  “Dismissed.”

  All the anguish of the morning disappeared in an instant. I’m going to Pudar. I’m going to Kevral. Ra-khir practically catapu
lted from his chair and had to force himself not to run to the door. Finally, he caught the knob, only to have his father call him.

  “Ra-khir?”

  He turned.

  “Bring yourself back alive, please.” Kedrin stood behind the desk, his stance stiff and revealing. The decision to send his only son, the youngest of the knights, weighed heavily upon him.

  “I’ll do my best,” Ra-khir vowed, opening the door. He headed to his room to wash and pack.

  * * *

  The road the elves traveled led, as most, to the walled trading city of Pudar. Although Captain had never come in person before, he recognized it at once from the many descriptions given to him by Wizards through the centuries. Rock walls towered to four times his height, sentries marching the parapets; and guards stood attentively inside a wrought iron gate. Some details did not jibe. Men toiled to reconstruct a smashed span of wall on the far side of the city. In daylight, as now, the gates should stand open. And the Wizards had described crowds of vendors who could not afford stands inside the city: children hawking misshapen vegetables, craftsmen with handmade creations, cults seeking converts, and an ever-changing host of others that seemed to rotate daily. Aside from the rubble, the Eastlanders’ reign of terror explained the differences, and Captain did not question his destination. He approached the gates with calm confidence, his followers flitting after him like children hiding behind a mother’s skirt.

  The guards broke position suddenly, though their spear tips remained pointing skyward.

  Taking this as a positive sign, Captain walked right up to the gate.

  The leftward man, the taller of the two, spoke in the common trading tongue. “Who are you? And what is your business in Pudar?”

  The nearest elves skittered behind their leader. Captain halted, knowing it best to show no fear or nervousness. He would more likely achieve his intentions by dropping Griff’s name. “I am Captain. I’m in the employ of King Griff of Béarn, and I wish to meet with your king.”

  The speaker’s fingers tightened on the haft of his spear. He studied the elf with overbearing intensity. “Which Captain shall I say has come?”

  Captain tried not to consider the question beyond polite human convention. It seemed futile to attempt to explain that humans had called him by only this name for millennia and that he had forgotten any calling he might have had before that time. His elfin title, Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor, meant Elder Who Has Forgotten His Name; but Dh’arlo’mé had stripped even that from him in favor of Lav’rintir. Recalling Colbey’s claim that Frey had disowned Dh’arlo’mé, Captain freely returned to his previous title. “You may call me Captain Arak.” He wondered what the Pudarian would think if he knew the elf had addressed himself as “Captain Elder.”

  “Wait here please, Captain. I will relay your desire.” The taller sentry motioned to the other, who trotted into the city. As they passed, the guards on the parapets slowed to study Captain and his party. They did not stop, however, which Captain took as a good sign. They did not see him as a threat.

  Captain turned to attend to his followers, explaining the situation in terms they could understand. He placed Reehanthan in charge of the group in his absence, then selected out Hal and Dhyan. Reehanthan demonstrated organizational abilities, one of two who had approached the exiled Captain about assembling and leading the lysalf. Hal and Dhyan displayed an affinity for humans, having been the first to converse with the imprisoned Rantire and, later, with Ra-khir and Kevral. Captain gestured at Hal to raise his cloak hood, shadowing the huge, yellow-white eyes that would look strange to the Pudarians. Dhyan, like himself, could pass for human among people who had never met elves.

  Shortly, the guard returned, accompanied by two others. They spoke briefly with the tall sentry. He nodded, then addressed Captain again. “Captain Arak, these men will accompany you to the castle.”

  “Thank you,” Captain said, calling khohlar to Hal, then Dhyan, to join him.

  The gate creaked open. Captain and his two companions slipped inside, and the other elves shied back toward the forest. “They’ll wait outside,” Captain explained.

  The guards exchanged glances, then shrugged. Surely no human could understand travelers who preferred cold woodlands to the warmth and bustle of a city.

  The guards led the three elves through the streets of Pudar, townsfolk staring unabashedly. The guards kept their weapons sheathed, but their manners remained rigid. They had spent too much time worrying about any who approached Pudar to fully lower their defenses, personal or city wide. Captain and his followers trailed in a silence that surely bothered the humans more. Elves could pass days without verbal or mental communication and never notice the lapse.

  The marketplace seemed subdued compared to the competitive shouts and crammed walkways the Wizards had described. Tarps covered most of the stands, and the remainder housed dull-eyed merchants who let their wares, rather than voices, attract patrons. Foreigners trapped in the city had turned to local commodities, their drab displays no more interesting than the native Pudarians’ any longer. A few displayed finely woven cloth or carvings that flaunted the talents of a Béarnide, yet the scattered buyers seemed more intent on necessities.

  At length, marketplace gave way to cottages that gained complexity as they neared the colossal form of Pudar’s castle. Towers and turrets cut jagged patterns against the expanse of cloudless blue. The courtyard gates opened without a command, and the guards walked Captain, Hal, and Dhyan along the main pathway. Captain nodded politely to each of the leather-clad warriors at the gate, and they stiffly ignored him, swords belted at their waists and polearms jutting skyward. The guards at the castle entry opened the door without a word. This time, Captain did not bother with a greeting.

  A wiry man dressed in a puffy, single-piece outfit of gaudy gray-and-red stripes met them in the entry with a deep bow. “Welcome to Pudar’s castle.”

  “Thank you,” Captain said.

  “Come with me.” The man headed down the corridor with a grace worthy of an elf. Captain, Dhyan, and Hal trailed him, and the guards took up the rear. Traversing a corridor covered with artful tapestries that smelled faintly of mold, they arrived at an archway leading into a room. The greeter motioned them to enter. Captain and his companions complied. Two couches faced one another, and a table sandwiched between held a bowl of fruit. Captain sat on a central cushion, Hal and Dhyan taking seats on either side of him.

  The greeter plunked himself down on the couch across from them. The guards took up positions at the door. “You must leave any weaponry with me.”

  “We have none.”

  “Ahh.” The greeter glanced toward the guards in the doorway. “So, should I presume your title, Captain, is not a military one?”

  Captain consciously forced the expressions elves rarely displayed, glancing at his companions as if the answer should seem obvious. “I pilot a ship. Hence, it’s Captain.”

  The greeter nodded knowingly. “And you claim to be Béarnides?”

  “No.”

  When Captain did not elaborate, the greeter pressed. “‘No,’ you did not claim so? Or, ‘no,’ you’re not Béarnides.”

  Captain followed the phraseology carefully. “No,” he started carefully, “neither. I said we were in the employ of King Griff of Béarn.” Elfin patience could have allowed the questioning to continue through the night, but Captain knew the formality would press a human to exasperation. “Do we see the king now?”

  “No.” The greeter waved a finger toward the guards. “But Lord Javonzir, the king’s adviser, has agreed to see you. Will that suffice?”

  Captain preferred the arrangement. It lessened his chances of violating proper decorum as well as assuring a wise audience. “Absolutely. We appreciate his time.”

  One of the guards left his post and disappeared into the hallway. Dhyan selected an apple from the bowl, passing it from hand to hand for several moments, then rolling it along his arms. He took another apple, then a third and
a fourth. By the time the guard returned, with a medium-built, dark-haired man in tow, Dhyan was juggling the apples in lazy circles.

  The greeter stood and bowed to the new man. “Announcing Lord Javonzir, adviser to King Cymion of Pudar.”

  Captain rose and bowed. Hal lurched up and did the same. Dhyan scurried after his companions, neatly catching the apples as he went, and executed a gesture of respect well-learned in Béarn.

  Javonzir applauded the performance. “Well done, young man.” He headed for the opposite couch, the greeter scurrying out of his path. The guards followed him inside, shoving aside the table to take positions between the elves and the king’s adviser.

  Dhyan bowed again, then tossed the apples in gentle arcs, back into their bowl.

  Captain sat, calling singular khohlar to each of his companions to do the same. They obeyed in leisurely elfin fashion.

  “So,” Javonzir said, hazel eyes pinning Captain. “The guards tell me you’re a sea captain in the employ of Béarn’s king.”

  Even Captain had tired of the repetition. “Your guards speak truth, Lord.”

  “That would be King . . .” Javonzir prompted.

  Finally, Captain realized the formality stemmed partially from the strangeness of the elves and their mission. Griff had arrived while Easterners still slaughtered messengers. “King Griff, Lord,” he supplied. “Petrostan’s son, Kohleran’s grandson.”

  Javonzir absorbed that for several moments. “King Kohleran is dead?”

  “I’m afraid so, Lord.”

  The news did not surprise Javonzir. Kohleran’s illness had spanned years. “Well, then. What can we do for King Griff?”

  Captain grinned. “Lord, I’m in King Griff’s employ, and he sanctioned my mission. But he did not send me.”

  Javonzir glanced toward his greeter, who hunched sheepishly and left the room, apparently returning to his post. “All right, Captain. What can I do for you?”