Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Cymion nodded, studying Ra-khir with a new intensity. “You didn’t see her, and her voice was garbled.”

  Ra-khir worried for the direction this seemed to be taking. He had not expected the king to crumble and, at least from the moment he claimed to have placed Kevral on her pyre, it seemed clear that he had a hand in her imprisonment. “Yes, Sire.”

  “Are you certain, young knight, it was Kevral you spoke to?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Cymion leaned forward again, his look predatory. “How can this be so?”

  “Your Majesty,” Ra-khir started, without the necessary words to finish. Propriety did not allow him a back-step, though he could not help feeling as if the king might pounce at any moment. “I’m afraid I can’t reveal that without violating Queen Matrinka’s confidence.” He had never actually promised Matrinka not to reveal the cat’s intelligence, but he doubted describing it would accomplish anything more than raising concerns about his sanity.

  The gaze of every Pudarian weighed heavily on Ra-khir, and he suspected the knights watched him as well.

  “You didn’t see her, and you didn’t understand what she said. You’re basing so grave a crime on that?” Cymion’s scrutiny intensified, if possible. Then, suddenly, his expression opened, and he nodded. Some great truth had reached his mind. “I believe I understand now. You, sir, are the father of that baby. Aren’t you?”

  Ra-khir could feel his fellows stiffening behind him. Once he had discovered Kevral, he had believed the pregnancy fictitious, invented by the king to explain a healthy, young warrior’s demise in peacetime. Decorum demanded he respond to the king’s question, and its phrasing did not leave room for speculation. He sought a way to voice his doubts without offending the king. If such a baby did or had existed, it was certainly his. He answered the only way his honor allowed. “Sire, if the Lady Kevral bore a child, it could only be mine. Had I known of it, Sire, had I been contacted at the first knowledge of its existence, I would have stood by her side as her husband on the day of its birth.”

  No one dared to speak, but glances and gestures flew through the courtroom. Ra-khir felt hot tears building in his eyes again, more frustration than sorrow. He could say nothing now that would rescue Kevral. His request appeared to have gained him only public humiliation.

  The king cleared his throat, nodding sagely. “That explains much. Sir Knight, I understand and forgive your need to believe the woman you love still lives. In the same situation, many men would let their hopes and dreams build the same scenario.”

  Ra-khir opened his mouth to assert his knowledge, but no words emerged.

  The king spoke over him. “Do the Knights of Erythane have other business with the crown?”

  Shavasiay’s voice boomed at Ra-khir’s back. “No, Your Majesty. Thank you for your accommodations and for your indulgence.” A harshness in his tone was clearly directed at Ra-khir. “Had I full knowledge of the situation, Your Majesty, I would never have granted permission for him to waste the court’s time.” The knights bowed as a unit, even Ra-khir.

  The king’s lies fueled rage, but Shavasiay’s mistrust ached more deeply. Though he hated the need, Ra-khir did as propriety demanded. “Your Majesty, I deeply apologize for any inconvenience or discomfort I may have caused.” The words seemed to burn his lips, a poison he would sooner have swallowed than spoken. Kevral, my hands are as chained as your own.

  Cymion crooked his head sideways, lips pursed and expression too sympathetic for Ra-khir’s taste. “Apology accepted. No harm done, and no offense taken. You may stay as long as you wish and, always, Pudar will welcome the Knights of Erythane.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Shavasiay glared at Ra-khir as he stepped back into the ranks. “But I believe it best for us to be on our way as soon as possible.”

  “As you wish.” Cymion clapped his hands, summoning servants from the wings. “The stable hands will have your steeds ready momentarily. Godspeed and best wishes to King Griff. And you, young man, take care.” He directed those last words to Ra-khir.

  Ra-khir detected a tinge of gloating in the king’s otherwise friendly demeanor.

  “Dismissed,” Cymion finished.

  The knights gave one last formal bow, then turned and left the courtroom.

  * * *

  The grounds of Pudar’s courtyard rolled past beneath Silver Warrior’s steady hoof falls, and Ra-khir perched in the proper position without need for visual clues. His mind, jumbled with a million desperate thoughts, spiraled into helpless circles. He rode without comment toward the castle gates. Once through, he knew his head would begin to function again, yet the finality of leaving would bring many horrible realities to bear. His chance to rescue Kevral would disappear, dooming her to whatever dark purpose Pudar planned. Shavasiay’s reprimands would begin, and his own honor would hold him in abeyance.

  No. That one thought broke through the tangled web. Nothing followed, and Ra-khir continued, swept along by training that now translated into instinct. The courtyard gate loomed ahead. Balanced on Silver Warrior’s rump, Mior loosed a sad howl. No. Sudden need gripped Ra-khir. His voice quavered over the drum of hoofbeats. “Captain, sir, we have to stop.”

  Shavasiay barked a halt command that emerged like a curse. The riders drew rein, and the horses obeyed instantly. Without turning, the acting captain bade, “Ra-khir, come up here.”

  Ra-khir rode forward, despising the dry cotton that abruptly filled his mouth. Silver Warrior drew up beside Shavasiay, grinding to a halt without command from his master.

  “Why,” Shavasiay said, “do we have to stop?”

  Ra-khir met the angry, brown eyes with a steady gaze. “Because, sir, we cannot leave Kevral behind.”

  Shavasiay’s tone bore a flat quality, indicative of building rage. “She’s dead, Ra-khir.”

  Ra-khir shook his head slightly.

  “The king set her pyre himself.”

  “The king,” Ra-khir said, gaze unwavering, “is lying.”

  Shavasiay’s face whitened, and his hands clenched to blanched fists on his reins. “Ra-khir Kedrin’s son. That’s offensive, an unacceptable transgression.”

  Mior wound to Ra-khir’s lap. He continued to return his commander’s stare, hand falling to the cat’s soft back. “Perhaps, sir. But it’s also truth. My loyalty is to Béarn and Erythane, not Pudar. And always to honor.”

  Shavasiay lowered his head, the brim of his hat dropping his eyes into puddled shadow. His lips tightened, turning nearly as light as his features. “Your truth is not reality. It’s a trick of your desire. I indulged your daydream once, not again.”

  Ra-khir did not give quarter, not even to defend himself. “The elves denied imprisoning the king, too. Had we accepted that answer, Béarn would still serve a crooked prime minister and a host of dark elves.”

  The acting captain sighed, “Ra-khir, we all know you and your friends acted bravely in the best interests of Béarn. But you’re letting grief and guilt cloud your judgment.”

  “Kevral is here, sir. A prisoner in Pudar’s dungeon.”

  “You sound certain.”

  “I am, sir.”

  Shavasiay glanced at the other knights, then back at Ra-khir. “Would it violate Queen Matrinka’s confidence to tell me how you know?”

  Ra-khir tapped a shoulder, and Mior clambered to his neck. “No, sir. But you wouldn’t believe me.”

  About this, Shavasiay took Ra-khir at his word. “You are free to present your case to Captain Kedrin, or to the king, when you return.”

  Ra-khir nodded his understanding, the cat bobbing with him. “Understood, sir. And I’m certain King Griff would do whatever it took to free Kevral. She battled through the entire force of elves for him.”

  “That’s a Renshai’s job.”

  Ra-khir concurred. “It is, sir, but that doesn’t make the king any less grateful. By the time we get back to Béarn, however, it’ll be too late. Pudar will do as they
please with Kevral and kill her or hide her where we’ll never find her.”

  Shavasiay sighed. “So what would you have us do, Sir Ra-khir? I don’t believe the king would weather another audience.”

  Hope blossomed with the caution of a rose in the moments before dawn. At least for the moment, the acting captain seemed willing to consider the possibility that Kevral lived. “We do whatever we need to.”

  “Storm Castle Pudar?”

  “If necessary.”

  Shavasiay threw up his hands in abrupt and indignant frustration. “You’re serious.”

  Ra-khir thought that obvious from the start. “Never more so.”

  “Ra-khir.” Shavasiay’s tone turned singsong, as if he confronted a child too young to grasp the intricacies of the situation. “I understand the shock of losing a loved one. I forgave your lapse in the king’s court when you learned the news. Your behavior since that time, I cannot. You’ve embarrassed us in front of the king. You’ve uttered politically dangerous insults. And . . .” He loosed breath in a long sigh. “I’ll let your father deal with what you did to that young woman.”

  Ra-khir locked his jaw. He already knows, you bastard.

  “You’re on report, Ra-khir. One more problem, and I’ll recommend discharge.”

  Kedrin would have final decision in such a matter, yet Ra-khir knew his father would not rescue him. To do anything other than follow the acting captain’s counsel would appear to be favoritism.

  “Get back in ranks.”

  Silver Warrior tensed to move, but Ra-khir reined him back. Pudar’s intentions for Kevral became suddenly clear. “No.” His voice emerged soft but clear.

  All empathy left Shavasiay’s features. “Ra-khir, that’s an order!”

  Ra-khir went rigid. All of his life, he had envied the Knights of Erythane. For the last five years, desire for the position had consumed him. Only one other thing meant as much to him, the one he would lose if he followed Shavasiay’s command. His mind cleared, and grim certainty filled him. He jerked off his hat, spilling red hair that whipped into his face. Mior leaped to the horse’s flank as Ra-khir yanked his tabard over his head. Béarn’s tan bear on blue flapped in the breeze, joined by Erythane’s orange and black. He jammed both into Shavasiay’s hand, then tossed over Silver Warrior’s reins. He did not offer weapon and mail. Those belonged to him.

  “What are you doing?” Shavasiay demanded.

  Ra-khir sprang from the saddle, Mior leaping after him. “I have to follow my honor, Shavasiay, and it is clear about this.” He clamped his hand to the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowing at the enormity of what came next. “I’m declaring war on Pudar.”

  * * *

  The prophecy became a deep chant that cycled through Dh’arlo’mé’s soul, a promise of a future wholly dedicated to him. He stood upon the island beach, sand warm beneath sandaled feet, ocean wind lashing his red-gold hair, and waves tenting into monstrous mountains of water before battering the shore with bits of rock and shell. Spray splattered Dh’arlo’mé’s face and hands, cold pinpoints that reeked of salt and dead things sucked deep beneath the waters. He noticed curious elves watching him from treetops and around the furrowed rings of the doranga trunks, but he paid them no heed. Creatures of Midgard withered; elves and men alike would breathe their last this day.

  Dh’arlo’mé raised one arm. Once before, the elves had summoned a demon in this very place, in the control of a powerful young female named Baheth’rin. The madness in the demon’s fiery eyes as it destroyed her had haunted Dh’arlo’mé long after the realization that it would never return to exact its revenge.

  Where once it chilled, that remembrance now brought a smile to Dh’arlo’mé’s lips. He had grown above such trivial matters. The denizens of Midgard had become less than trifles, and he stirred war among them for the joy of watching them tear one another apart. His true nature had finally matured to full reality, and it held an incomplete relationship to the law that had spawned it. The thoughts of an individual elf no longer mattered. The being, once Dh’arlo’mé, disappeared beneath the wild torrent of what he had become. And he did not have enough cognizance even to wonder for the past.

  A new world! Dh’arlo’mé raised his other arm. A new world wholly devoted to me. A smile touched the broad lips, barely. The entity Dh’arlo’mé had become maintained a subtlety of expression that might discomfort even an elf. He delved for the proper words, imbuing them with timeless magic. It would not prove enough to summon any demon, as law/Dh’arlo’mé had done before. He sought chaos incarnate, the lord of all demons, the most powerful and hideous kraell to scour island and countryside free of life. Then, and only then, Dh’arlo’mé would banish the creature he had called, and the sudden tip to ultimate law would spur a second Ragnarok in Asgard. Once the gods slaughtered one another, nothing would remain but Dh’arlo’mé and the new world he built in deference to self.

  Thee Father shal avert hys fate.

  Then thee worlds shud celebrate.

  But far ynto dystrukshon hurled

  Law’s vast plan ys then unfurled:

  A new world to create.

  All must dye to pave thee way.

  A syngle god to rule thee day.

  Thee only enemy wyll make

  One small lapse; a fatal mystake

  Leave thee world at thee mercy of Gray.

  Dh’arlo’mé laughed, then commenced the evocation. The words of the spell rushed from mind to lips, torn away by wind that swelled with every syllable. He concentrated totally on calling. He did not bother with bindings; he fully intended the slaughter of all living things. He could almost hear the demon’s malignant voice oozing into his ears: Elf, you are either the bravest or most foolish creature in existence to call me here without protection. It would not immediately attack him, he felt certain. It would know that only one of great power could bring forth its ilk, and no dullard could be so endowed. It would listen to his plans, then laughter would discharge in a thunderous rumble. Eventually, it would come for him, and he would banish it. If it turned on him immediately, it would lose the chance to shred elves and humans, sent back before it could feed. He would simply call another.

  Playful ocean breezes howled into a gale. Waves bucked and slapped the waters, pummeling Dh’arlo’mé with spume. Hair stung his face. Clouds dropped from the sky to enwrap the world, darkening from white to dense gray. A figure black as a hole formed above ocean churned to frantic lather. The clouds dulled to shadows, and the shapeless thing absorbed them. It folded in upon itself, collapsing down to a density that defined a new color, darker than black. Wind blasted the trees, bowing them until their leaves touched the sands. Elves scrambled to earth, scattering away from a storm beyond any they had known in their long existences. Dh’arlo’mé stood alone upon the beach, eyes fixed on the creature he had summoned.

  The demon appeared to collapse, its density shifting lower and into a figure smaller than Dh’arlo’mé expected. It did not worry him. When chaos became predictable, it ceased to be chaos. Though bound to certain laws on this world, ones of his own making, demons remained true to their own substance. He had anticipated a ghastly monster, mountain-sized, all dagger-clawed and poisoned fanged, hovering on formless wings. Yet this creature dropped in the water with a muted splash. Legs sprouted at the contact, and it took human shape, clutching a sword that maintained the inky depthlessness, as if it, not the entity, was demon.

  The winds dropped in an instant. Color washed over the summoned figure, settling into proper position as if placed by an artist’s brush. A light tunic of yellow-trimmed purple covered a sinewy frame. Blue-gray eyes filled sockets narrowed in confusion. Golden feathers hung around a scarred but ageless face.

  Startled for the first time in his life, Dh’arlo’mé back-stepped with a hiss. “You!” He pointed a threatening finger, scrambling for different magics.

  Colbey brandished the sword and charged.

  CHAPTER 39

  One Against A Kingdo
m

  Sword work is based on quickness, not speed; on power, not strength.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  A summer breeze wound through the turrets of Stalmize Castle, bringing the aromas of tar, smoke, and heated metal to Tae’s nose. The irregular clang of a blacksmith’s hammer rang through the streets, accompanied by the indecipherable rumble of myriad conversations. A child’s giggle or shriek occasionally penetrated the monotone of adult voices. Tae tuned to more distant sensations, the occasional damp odor of freshly turned earth, the rare bleat that wafted dimly beneath other sound, and the rattle of wind sweeping leaves. Those latter perceptions brought his mind back to time spent riding or tramping through Westland forest. Although assassins had hunted him, and the party itself barely trusted him, those seemed like simpler, more carefree days.

  Tae rested his arms on the stone rail outlining the fifth-floor balcony. Behind him, curtains fluttered in the breeze, gauzy fabric occasionally flapping against his tunic. Though Eastland affairs had not left much time to worry about his companions over the last few weeks, they never slipped far from his thoughts. He wondered whether Pudar had survived Kevral’s brutal teachings and if Ra-khir pined for her love as much as he did. Will becoming essentially a prince gain me any advantage in that contest? Tae answered his own question with a vague shake of short, dark locks. If stature had mattered to Kevral, Ra-khir would have won before the contest started. He trusted her to base her decision on love.

  As Weile and his men handled immediacies, luxuries shifted into position as well. Many entertainers had come to offer their services to the new king of the Eastlands, including several bards. Their music, though skillful, only raised longing for Darris. The healers awakened thoughts of Matrinka, and the slightest glimpse of a calico cat aroused painful waves of nostalgia. The thoughts that assailed Tae now dashed all belief in himself as a loner. A bizarre and oddly mixed cluster of companions had become as much a family to him as the father whose cause he now championed voluntarily.