Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Mior mewed plaintively, pacing from Silver Warrior’s back, to Ra-khir’s, and returning to the horse again. She batted at the curtain of hair covering the knight’s face.

  Ra-khir ignored her, though his weeping diminished. He had cried himself empty.

  Again, Mior swatted at Ra-khir’s face, momentarily exposing an eye.

  In no mood for games, Ra-khir growled. “Stop it, Mior.”

  She mewed again, the sound strangely muffled. Once more, the paw whipped through the soft locks, this time, tapping his cheek with sheathed claws.

  “Mior!” Ra-khir jerked up his head to confront the calico on his mount’s milky back. “Leave me—” The sight of a painted figure in the cat’s mouth cut off his objection. “What’s that?”

  Mior stared back.

  Ra-khir lifted a hand, and the cat released the item. It fell into the knight’s palm, a carven rendition of Colbey Calistinsson during his mortal days as general of Pudar’s army. He recognized it instantly. Tae gave this to Kevral. He swallowed at the lump in his throat, barely budging it. “Where did you get this?”

  Mior leaped from the horse’s back to the top of the stall, then down into the lanes of the stable.

  Ra-khir hefted the figure, studying it in the dim light. Aching eyes turned it into muddy shapelessness.

  Mior fairly howled. She jumped, hooking her paws over the edge of the stall, clawing for purchase.

  Ra-khir rescued the calico from struggle or fall, gathering her into his arms. Once settled, Mior sprang out of the stall again. Understanding dawned slowly. She wants me to follow. I asked where she got this, and she wants to show me. Despite Matrinka’s explanations and Tae’s claim that he had instructed Mior where to find the keys that rescued Griff from the elves, Ra-khir still found it difficult to believe in an intelligent cat.

  This time, Ra-khir’s fingers obeyed him. He tripped the stall’s latch, pushed the door open, and escaped into the main body of the stable. He gave Silver Warrior one last pat and confirmed that the horse had adequate hay. A bucket hanging near his water held a few remaining kernels of corn and oats. Ra-khir shut the door. When he turned, Mior had disappeared.

  Only then, Ra-khir dared to contemplate the significance of the figure in his hand. Likely, the Pudarians had buried it with Kevral or it had rolled from the flames of her pyre. He sucked in a worried breath. He would have to attend to the details of Kevral’s funeral. Renshai had specific methods for celebrating death. If the result of battle, he reminded himself. For those who died otherwise, the means of disposing of the body did not matter. Kevral would not have wanted a hero’s ceremony for the means of her demise. If Mior planned to lead him to the body, or the site of burning, he would need to mentally prepare himself for what he might find.

  “Meow.”

  The sound startled Ra-khir from his thoughts. He followed it to the far side of a distant stall. The calico lashed her tail, impatient for the knight to follow. “I’m coming,” he promised.

  The cat streaked off toward the exit, Ra-khir scrambling after her. This time, he noticed the many stalls and their well-groomed occupants: well-muscled mares and geldings with a gleam of health in their eyes. The mingled perfumes of horse, hay, and sweet mash wound through the open corridors. A few boards bore the telltale signs of cribbing, mangled into ridges by huge, flat teeth. Others held strips of lighter-colored wood, replacement for damaged pieces, not yet weathered. He even managed a fluttering greeting to a startled stable hand who scurried into a position of deference.

  Moments later, cat and knight emerged into the false dawn. Mior streaked across the grounds, a flash of white and patchy shadow in the darkness. Ra-khir trailed, losing and finding the cat at intervals. He made no attempt to hide from the sentries. They watched him but, recognizing his knight’s garb, did not challenge.

  At length, Mior led Ra-khir to an obscure corner of the castle. A grate stretched over a vent hole near the base of the stonework. Mior butted an edge loose with her head, then squeezed through the opening this created. The scratch of her nails against stone echoed through the tunnel, then faded into silence.

  Ra-khir dropped to his haunches. Even if he tore the grating off, he could not hope to fit his broad shoulders through the opening. “Mior! Mior, get back here.” He grumbled, “Who do you think I am? Tae?”

  The scrabble of nails recurred, more slow and distinct. Clearly, the shaft led downward. Ra-khir placed his face against the grate, staring through a single hole. He saw only darkness, then, suddenly, a golden eye nearly touching his own.

  Ra-khir jerked backward with a hiss of surprise.

  Mior shouldered back through, this time dropping a gem at his feet. He picked it up, instantly recognizing the green stone Kevral had carried, another present from Tae. Guilt lanced him. He gave her gifts, and I killed her.

  Mior made a loud, hoarse cry, like the battle howl of a tom.

  “Mior, is Kevral’s body there?” Ra-khir hated to ask. He could not remain here much longer without attracting guards. They would allow him free passage, but loitering at a vent into the castle would not go unchallenged.

  Mior sat, enormous eyes fixed on Ra-khir’s face, as if measuring him for attack. She meowed again.

  A thin voice touched Ra-khir’s ears, scarcely louder than the wind, “Mior?”

  Ra-khir sprang to the grating. “Kevral?” he said, pitching his voice low to avoid attracting attention. It can’t be.

  No answer.

  Ra-khir looked at Mior. “Is she down there?”

  Mior mewed.

  Ra-khir licked his lips, fighting desperate hope. For a moment, his sensibilities refused the possibility that the King of Pudar would lie. “If Kevral’s alive, um . . .” He tried to think of a complicated enough command to assure the cat did not perform it accidentally. Recalling that Matrinka claimed Mior tended to count “one, two, many,” he avoided instructions that required a tally. “. . . walk in a circle, then sit.”

  Mior tensed, then did as instructed. She flicked her head sideways, regarding Ra-khir, as if irritated by his denseness.

  Ra-khir placed his face back against the grating. “Kevral!” he screamed, no longer caring who heard.

  A trickle of sound returned. “Matrinka?”

  Matrinka? Ra-khir hoped his voice did not resemble the queen of Béarn’s. He guessed the one who answered could not hear him any better than he could her. Yet the decision to call out the name of Mior’s usual companion fairly clinched the identity. “It’s Ra-khir!”

  More words returned, muddled mostly into incomprehensibility. He sifted a few from the mass, along with the thunk of a chain. “Guards. Prisoner. Help.” From that, he made intuitive leaps. She risked the same discovery he did by shouting, and she was being held against her will.

  Ra-khir drew breath to shout back a reassurance. Before he did, Mior laced against his legs, mewling a soft warning. Ra-khir glanced behind him at a pair of sentries definitely headed his way. I have to go. He weighed the need to comfort Kevral against detection and found the latter more pressing. If they moved Kevral, he might never find her again.

  Reluctantly, Ra-khir clambered to his feet. “Come on, Kitty. By now that mouse is in his hole, brushing his whiskers and laughing at you.” He hefted Mior, forced a smile for the sentries, and headed back toward the castle entrance. They watched him pass without challenge.

  Dangling from Ra-khir’s arm, Mior returned an alarmingly human glare, as if piqued by the indignity of being used as a shallow excuse. She squirmed free of his grip but followed resolutely.

  Ra-khir’s mind awakened sluggishly to a situation growing impossibly desperate. The urge to clamp his fingers around Cymion’s neck and squeeze until the blue eyes gaped and glazed horrified him. As he walked, he forced rich, cleansing breaths of night air. Its chilliness barely soothed the fire in his gut, leaving a queasiness that merged horrible grief with blustering rage scarcely contained by the realization of a political issue that could spark war. He
would have to find a way to handle the matter with delicacy and still rescue Kevral from imprisonment. Exhaustion retreated, too insignificant to warrant attention. He would spend until sunup thinking. Somehow, he would find a way. He would have to.

  CHAPTER 38

  Chaos Incarnate

  [Colbey] is a Northman. To them, war is religion.

  —Santagithi

  Working as a unit, the lysalf managed to paint the Northern sky with images, raging above the heads of warring Ascai and Skrytila. With artistic magic, Chan’rék’ril drew haunting images while Captain’s wind mastery granted the figures movement. The others chanted jovinay arythanik to add the power necessary to strengthen the works and convince.

  Above the heads of battling mortals, familiar gods with angry visages demonstrated gruff displeasure at the display. Odin’s single eye seemed to burn, backed by the boom of thunder and the background flash of lightning. Thor’s red beard bristled in hot aversion, and Aegir glowered amidst an ocean of boiling clouds. The elves deliberately avoided images of Ragnarok’s survivors; Captain had warned against the sacrilege. In an age of change, when balance teetered and lesser deities ruled, tempers might flare at even a slight offense.

  Gradually, the slamming chime of steel lessened. Human eyes flickered, then held, on the churning clouds and the unavoidable patterns they formed. Ascai warriors disengaged from Skrytila, and no one dared take advantage of the many distracted openings this gained them. A few fell to their knees in prayer, others following in a broad circle that finally included every man. Seizing the opening, Captain stepped onto the battleground. Reehanthan chose a more dramatic entrance, swooping down upon the men as if from the mural Chan’rék’ril painted. He landed beside Captain, inky hair flopping back into position and yellow eyes unlike anything the humans might have seen. Captain had chosen Reehanthan to accompany him mostly for the sharp features that, unlike his own, could never pass for human.

  *Warriors!* Captain speared the area with khohlar, certain it would travel farther than his loudest voice. *Arise and look at me.*

  Those nearest scrambled to obey. Whispers traversed the farther ranks, then those, too, stood in ragged rows. They drifted nearer to the elves.

  From the corner of his eye, Captain noticed that, missing Reehanthan’s voice in the jovinay arythanik, Chan’rék’ril struggled to maintain the pictures in the sky. The leader of the lysalf raised his hands and face, fingers spread. Slowly, he opened his arms, as if in silent communication with the deities. Taking his cue, Chan’rék’ril allowed a controlled fading of his magic, until nothing remained but brief flickers of lightning from the storm Captain had summoned. *My masters are displeased with their followers.*

  The Northmen looked around nervously at their bloodstained blades and the littered corpses. A wounded man moaned loudly, beyond caring.

  Captain lowered his arms and glared into the mass of warriors, deliberately seeking out gazes that refused to meet his own. *All Northmen are brothers, no matter their tribe. When you battle neighbors, you slaughter family. Odin has tired of your squabbles. The Valkyries have ceased taking those who died bravely in battle—they say Valhalla already holds its share of fools.*

  Whispers and a dying man’s screams broke the silence that followed Captain’s words. *Where are the leaders among you?*

  All the warriors’ gazes swept the battlefield, settling on two disparate locations.

  Captain gestured toward one site, then the other, hoping it appeared as if he plucked the generals’ locations from the crowd himself. No one had directly pointed them out, and the warriors surely did not realize that every other man had done as he had. One gaze would have revealed nothing. “Approach me!” He watched as a burly redhead limped toward him, bearing a shield with the Ascai symbol, a sword through three wavy lines representing the sea. Skrytil’s general rode a muscled bay stallion, weaving between his followers. Dents blemished his helm, and mail peeked through rents in his tunic. A nose more scar tissue than flesh jutted from beneath blond bangs. War braids swung over broad shoulders.

  As the Ascai reached Captain, he attempted a bow, face screwing into a pained knot. A bloody gash gaped in his thigh. “What are you?” he asked gruffly.

  “Elves,” Captain started honestly, then lapsed back into lie, “messengers of the gods.” He gestured for Reehanthan to handle the Skrytila, then walked to the injured general and placed a hand against the wound.

  The Ascai stiffened but did not pull away.

  Captain called up magical remedies, as he had so many times during Rantire’s captivity. Millennia alone on the sea had given him plenty of time to practice. The ability to heal had come naturally. His weather mastery had taken centuries of effort to craft and perfect. He watched peace settle over the Ascai’s features as pain flowed from the injury. Then, gradually, the bleeding subsided and the flesh twitched minimally toward closing. Having reached the end of his ability, Captain withdrew, leaving a painless, partially healed gash in place of the vast gorge.

  “Thank you, elf,” the Ascai general said. He raised a stiff-fisted arm in the air, and cheers erupted from his assembled men. Captain glanced to Reehanthan. The elf chattered with the Skrytila general in the human Northern tongue.

  Captain cleared his throat, then spoke in a resonant voice. “Generals, proclaim your blood brotherhood. Enemies no longer, Skrytil and Asci must bond as allies.”

  The generals eyed one another suspiciously.

  “Do as I say!” Captain roared. “Or I will call the wrath of Thor down upon you both.” He punctuated his words with an ear-shattering clap of thunder.

  Startled, the Ascai stiffened. The Skrytila made the first move, holding out a massive arm swarmed with thick, blue veins. The Ascai glanced at Captain. Reading danger there, he clasped the Skrytila’s hand. For several moments they held one another, at arm’s length. “Brothers we are,” the Ascai finally said. “And brothers will remain. So long as I live, you will have only allies among the tribe of Asci.” The Skrytila returned the promise, then pulled the other general to him. They embraced, clapping one another on the back to seal the bargain.

  Captain fought back a smile. Even after so much hardship, his face naturally assumed that expression, and now he had more reason than usual to grin. He could not imagine prejudice fully disappearing in a moment, but so long as they believed him a gods’ herald, he felt he could at least maintain an uneasy accord.

  The generals parted, lapsing into a low discussion that captain could not hear. A moment later they both turned toward the battlefield. “Men,” the Ascai called. “Sheathe your weapons. We are at peace.”

  “As are we,” the Skrytila added.

  The Ascai general bowed to Captain again. “We’ve agreed to abide by your division of borders. Whatever you decide will remain permanent, and you may assure the gods that we shall never again battle over who owns which piece of dirt.”

  “Very well, then,” Captain said. “Perhaps the Valkyries will throw open the gates of Valhalla again, when you battle enemies as brothers.” His piece spoken, he headed back toward the waiting jovinay arythanik. Much work still remained. As many as eight more tribes might require convincing, and he did not wholly trust even this tranquillity to last.

  *Nice work,* Reehanthan sent to Captain.

  Captain acknowledged the praise with a tip of his head. It both pleased and worried him that magic subdued the world’s most savage warriors. The svartalf also knew enchantment and khohlar. Surely, they had spurred the attacks and fed the intolerance, yet they must have done so in secret. Captain’s boldness, not competence, had won the day. Soon, he hoped, it would end many more battles. And restore a brotherhood that had once made the Northlands strong.

  Captain could no longer stifle a smile. Many problems remained, not the least of which was the infertility plague. But at least the process of peace had begun.

  * * *

  Once again, the Knights of Erythane formed a wedge in King Cymion’s courtroom, bu
t, this time, Ra-khir took the head position. The king’s features displayed stoic interest, his curly hair and beard surrounding his face like a lion’s mane. Pudarian guards remained in their semicircle around the throne, tiny imperfections in their formation grating on Ra-khir’s sensibilities. Irritated by his focus on detail at a time when words mattered more, he cursed the obsession pounded into him by his knight’s training.

  Ra-khir bowed for the third time since entering the courtroom, waiting for King Cymion to speak.

  Cymion turned his hard, blue gaze directly on Ra-khir. “What can I do for you, Sir Knight?”

  Ra-khir licked his lips, forcing all judgment from his voice. “Your Majesty, I regret the need to bother you in this manner.” He barely recognized his own voice, and the words seemed to issue from another. Syllables he had rehearsed tumbled forth, gaining meaning only after their speaking. “But it appears mistakes were made.” He met the king’s eyes momentarily. “Your Majesty, Lady Kevral is alive.”

  A light sparked in the king’s eyes, then disappeared before Ra-khir could guess its meaning. The Pudarians’ ranks became more crooked. “Alive?” Cymion sat back thoughtfully. “How can that be? I set her to the pyre myself.” He added, “And the baby, too.”

  Ra-khir said nothing more, awaiting a less rhetorical question from the king.

  The royal forehead wrinkled. “Did you see her?”

  “No, Sire,” Ra-khir admitted. “But I spoke with her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Your Majesty, I . . .” Ra-khir swallowed hard. “I couldn’t understand much. It was garbled, and . . . she said she was a prisoner. Guarded.”

  The king ran his fingers through his beard. “Garbled, you say?”