As if summoned by the mention of explosions, there was a sudden loud crash. The windows rattled, and the entire house seemed to shake slightly.
“What was that?” several voices asked.
Darissa, still only wearing a sheet, stepped to the window Morvash had opened for ventilation, to be greeted by a loud, inhuman roar. She leaned out and looked down.
“What is it?” Morvash called.
“A demon,” Darissa said. “There is a demon on your front steps, trying to smash in the front door.”
The house shook again.
“It just hit the door with all its fists,” Darissa reported. “It has four.”
“Did it come for us?” Marek asked.
“Karitha!” a hoarse voice bellowed.
A few confused voices asked, “Who’s Karitha?” or something similar, but one woman let out a frightened yelp and abruptly sat down. Morvash recognized her—the only known magician he had not yet spoken to.
“Karitha?” he said. “The demonologist?”
Another roar sounded.
Morvash hurried to her side and knelt beside her. “Do you know who that is, and why it’s looking for you?”
Marek leaned out the window and called, “What do you want with this Karitha?”
“She must free me, give me a name, or die!” the demon roared.
“I don’t…I don’t remember,” Karitha said, taking Morvash’s hand.
“I know she is in there!” the demon called. “I have her scent!”
“I don’t…” Karitha said again. Then she took a deep breath. “I summoned it. To kill Wosten.”
“It did kill him,” Morvash told her. “Seven years ago.”
“I don’t remember,” Karitha said again. “Did it? But it didn’t come back. There was a wind, and a powder that blew in my face, and then everything disappeared, and I thought I was dead, but I didn’t go anywhere.”
“It’s come back to you now,” Morvash said. “Why? Why is it so angry?”
“I don’t know!”
Another wordless roar came from outside.
“Well, what do you remember about it? You summoned it, yes?”
Karitha nodded. “Wosten cheated me,” she said. “And he stole herbs from my garden, and mocked me, and he wouldn’t apologize or pay me back, and finally I had enough, and I gave him a final warning, but he still wouldn’t give in, so I summoned Tarker the Unrelenting to kill him, and then…then there was the wind and the powder and I thought I was dead. I thought my summoning had gone wrong.”
“Wizard!” the demon bellowed. “Come speak with me!”
Morvash looked up, and saw that everyone was staring at him, even the other wizards. He gave Karitha one more quick glance, to make sure she was not about to faint or scream, then got to his feet and made his way through the crowd to the window.
Everyone, even Prince Marek, stepped aside to make way for him, and in a moment he was leaning out the window, staring down at the demon on the front steps.
It was as big as a large man, or perhaps slightly larger than a mere man, with black hide and four heavily-muscled arms. It was staring up at him with two blank yellow eyes that almost seemed to be smoking.
“You are the…no. You are not the wizard who made these spells.”
“No, I’m not,” Morvash said. “He’s not here right now. I’m renting the place. What did you want?”
“I want Karitha the Demonologist! Either allow me to enter, or send her out to me.”
“Why? What do you want with her?”
“She summoned me! She must release me!”
“When did she summon you? She’s been right here ever since she was brought back to life, and we didn’t see her summon anyone.”
“Seven years ago!” The roar was loud enough to rattle the windows, and Morvash could smell what he took to be the demon’s breath, reeking of smoke and hot metal. “I have been trapped in your miserable world for seven years!”
“Oh,” Morvash said. “Hold on.” He pulled his head back into the gallery and called to Karitha, “It says it’s been waiting seven years for you to release it.”
“I think she could hear that,” Marek remarked from beside Morvash’s shoulder.
“That’s right,” Karitha said, so quietly Morvash almost did not catch the words. “I summoned Tarker the Unrelenting, but I never released it.”
“How does that work?” someone asked. Morvash did not see who had spoken.
“The summoning—when you summon Tarker, you must immediately tell it the name of the person you want it to kill,” Karitha explained. “If you don’t, it kills you, instead. Then it pursues its target, smashing through any defense, until it catches and kills him—that’s why it’s called ‘the Unrelenting,’ because it won’t stop until its target is dead. It can’t, no matter what it needs to do or how long it takes. But when it’s done, it comes back to the summoner, and you must either speak a secret name to release it, or name a new target, and if you take too long it kills you.”
“A little like the Rune of the Implacable Stalker,” remarked a wizard who Morvash now remembered had given his name as Lorgol the Mighty; Lorgol was the one who had turned himself to stone when one of his spells went wrong.
“So release it,” a merchant, Kelder Sammel’s son, said.
“Yes,” Morvash said. “Wosten is long dead, I promise you.”
“I don’t know how,” Karitha said.
“But you summoned it!” Darissa exclaimed.
“I know,” Karitha said, “but I don’t remember how! I’ve forgotten all my spells—I didn’t think I would ever need them again. I thought I was dead!”
“You can’t just say, ‘I release you,’ then?” Morvash asked.
She shook her head. “No, there’s a ritual.”
Another thump came from below as the demon pounded on the door again.
“Can’t we find another demonologist who knows the right summoning?” Kelder asked.
“You’d need to go past the demon to get to him,” Morvash pointed out. He looked out the window again, and saw that Tarker had descended the steps to the street and was looking up at the window in a calculating way that made the wizard suddenly nervous.
“It wouldn’t work,” Karitha said. “When you summon Tarker, you give him a secret name to bind him, and you need the secret name to release him, and it has to be a different secret name each time—in fact, that’s why it’s a dangerous spell, because if you try to use one that’s bound him before it doesn’t work, and he’ll kill you, even if the demonologist who used it before has been dead for a thousand years.”
“So what secret name did you use?” Morvash asked, watching the demon. It was backing away and looking up.
“I don’t know! I don’t remember! It was about fifty syllables long, so that I could be sure no one had used it before; I had it written down, but I don’t have the paper anymore, it was hidden in my workroom, and I don’t remember it! It’s been seven years!”
“Darissa,” Marek called, “do you think you could help her remember?”
“Send her out to me!” came a roar from the street.
“I don’t know,” Darissa said. “A memory like that from seven years ago? What happens if she gets a syllable or two wrong?”
“Then it kills me,” Karitha said. “No one ever said demonology was safe.”
“Then give it the name of someone else to kill,” Kelder suggested. “You don’t need the secret name for that, do you?”
“That would be murder!” Darissa protested.
“So was killing this Wosten character, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t want to kill anyone else!” Karitha wailed. “If being dead is like the last seven years—and besides, after it
killed whoever I sent it after, it would come right back to me again, and anyway, except for you people right here, I don’t know who’s still alive and who’s died since I was turned to stone, and if I tell it to kill someone who’s already dead, that doesn’t work, it kills me instead.”
“I always thought demonology sounded like a stupid occupation,” someone muttered.
“It’s what I could get, all right?” Karitha snapped. “Not everyone has a dozen masters clamoring for her as an apprentice.”
“It sounds to me,” said one of the former warlocks—Abaran of something, Morvash thought, maybe Fishertown, “as if we will not be going to your uncle’s place any time soon. I am certainly not going to try to slip past an angry demon.”
“I’m just glad the protective spells on this place are strong!” Lorgol said.
“So am I,” Morvash said, closing and latching the window as he saw Tarker prepare to leap. He knew it was magic and not wood and glass that guarded the house, but he was not sure the spell would work properly if there was an actual physical opening. “So am I,” he repeated.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hakin of the Hundred-Foot Field
26th of Leafcolor, YS 5238
Hakin had lost Tarker’s trail briefly at the Cut Street Market in the Old Merchants’ Quarter, but of the six streets leaving the market only two ran in approximately the direction Tarker had been heading, and after a few seconds’ hesitation he chose the left-hand one, running west up the hill into the highest part of the New City. That seemed as if it would be a shorter route to the Wizards’ Quarter, and he thought that was the part of the city where the long-lost demonologist was most likely to have turned up.
He did not know the street’s name; he was not familiar with this part of the city. It was a well-to-do area, certainly; there were more gates than doors along the sides. He guessed that Tarker was just cutting through, and would probably come out on Arena Street and turn south.
But then he heard the demon roar, and it seemed to be coming from one of the cross-streets. He picked up his pace.
He followed the bellowing, turning right at the next corner, and spotted Tarker standing on the steps of a strange dark stone house, pounding on the front door with all four of its fists clasped into one massive hammer of demonic flesh and bone.
The door did not yield an inch. Hakin’s eyes widened. That, he knew, must be magic; there was no natural substance that could withstand such a blow without cracking.
That made sense, though. If Karitha really had been turned to stone by Wosten’s sylph, and someone had turned her back, it would have to have been a wizard. Not all wizards lived in the Wizards’ Quarter, or even in Arena; almost every part of the city had a few magicians scattered about. That ghastly stone monstrosity certainly looked like it should belong to a magician of some sort, though Hakin might have thought a demonologist would be a better fit than a wizard.
He hurried up the street, and began calling Tarker’s name.
The demon ignored him as it stepped back and bellowed, “Send her out to me!”
There was a moment of silence as Tarker looked up, waiting.
Hakin saw a hand appear, and realized an upstairs window was open—and then it wasn’t, as the hand pulled it shut.
Tarker roared again, gauged the distance, crouched, and jumped. It punched at the upstairs window as it passed, but caught the stonework a story above, and scrambled up to the roof. It was obviously looking for a weak spot in the house’s magical defenses.
Two gargoyles Hakin had not noticed at first sidled quickly away from the demon. It was definitely standing on a wizard’s house. Interesting that the gargoyles made no move to defend their home from attack; presumably their creator had not thought their help would be needed.
Indeed, whatever wizard had placed the protective spells on this house had not made the same mistake Wosten had; Hakin could see Tarker’s blows bounce harmlessly from roof tiles, chimneys, and stone walls.
Hakin slowed to a trot, and then a walk, as he drew up to the house. He could not see Tarker now, as it had crested the rooftop and was somewhere toward the back of the house. Hakin formed a trumpet of his hands and called, “Hai, in the house!”
That same upstairs window opened a crack, the hand ready to slam it shut again at the first glimpse of the demon. “Who are you?” someone called.
“My name’s Hakin. I’ve been looking after the demon for the last few years, keeping it out of trouble. Is Karitha the Demonologist really in there?”
There was a pause before a different voice called down, “Yes, she is!”
“Then let the demon in, and have her release it! It’ll go back to the Nethervoid and no one will be hurt.”
The first voice spoke again. “First off, we can’t let it in—the wizard who placed the protections isn’t here. Second, she doesn’t remember how to release it!”
Hakin could hear thumping and banging as Tarker tried to smash a hole into the house, but it did not sound as if it was meeting with any success. “What do you mean, she doesn’t remember?”
“She spent seven years thinking she was dead; she doesn’t remember her magic! Releasing it requires a secret name, and she doesn’t know what name she used.”
“That’s…really unfortunate,” Hakin called. “Really unfortunate. Because for the seven years since I first met Tarker, all it has ever wanted was to find Karitha and be released.” Then he heard monstrous footsteps and looked up.
He did not need to say anything; whoever had been looking out the window must have seen him look up, because the casement slammed shut and Hakin thought he could hear the click of a latch from thirty feet away.
“Hakin!” Tarker bellowed from the edge of the roof. “Talk to them! Make them give me Karitha!”
“I’m trying!” Hakin called back. “But there’s a problem!”
“I do not care about problems! Give me Karitha!”
“I’m working on it!”
Tarker swung down over the edge, hanging from two of his hands, while his other two and both feet slammed against walls and windows, trying to break through whatever magic guarded the house.
Hakin watched the demon pound ineffectually for a few seconds, then sighed, crossed the street, and settled onto the front steps of a far more ordinary home. He was not sure whether Tarker would ever tire of its futile task; he knew he had never seen the demon sleep, or show any sign of fatigue, and its very name was ‘the Unrelenting.’ It might be able to beat uselessly on that place for the rest of time.
That might be interesting, Hakin thought. Maybe he could charge admission, or sell souvenirs. The famous whomping demon! Watch it try unsuccessfully to smash its way into a wizard’s house!
But what would become of Karitha? She couldn’t stay in there forever; wouldn’t she starve to death?
Of course, if she died, that would release Tarker. That would be unfortunate for her, but would put a peaceful end to the matter for everyone else, and she had sent a demon to murder Wosten, so she wasn’t exactly an innocent.
But there were other people in there with her—or at least one other person, because he had heard two voices from that window. He shouldn’t need to starve, whoever he was.
Of course, whoever that was, wizard or someone else, he could leave any time he wanted to; Tarker wouldn’t bother anyone except Karitha.
But maybe he didn’t know that. He had said the wizard who placed the protections wasn’t there, so maybe this poor unfortunate wasn’t a magician at all, and didn’t know how any of this works.
Even if he was a wizard, it might not be obvious that Tarker wouldn’t hurt him. With a sigh, Hakin got to his feet, trying to ignore the soreness in his calves and feet that had resulted from running halfway across the city. He ambled across the street and up the front steps of
the strange gray house and knocked on the blue-painted door.
He waited, and after awhile he knocked again. Perhaps whoever was inside had not heard his knock, or had thought it was more of Tarker’s bashing.
Eventually, a voice that he thought was the same one who had done most of the talking through the window called through the heavy wood, “What is it?”
“I just wanted to point out,” Hakin said, “that anyone in there who wants to leave can do so—the demon won’t bother anyone but Karitha. The rest of you, whoever you are and however many, can come and go safely.”
There was a momentary silence; then the door swung open a few inches and a tired-looking young man said, “Are you sure of that?”
“Pretty much,” Hakin said. “The one exception is if it decides you’re in its way. It’s under various restrictions—you know how magic is—and it can’t intentionally harm anyone other than its target unless that person is keeping it from its objective. If you block its path to Karitha it’ll rip you to pieces, but if you step aside it won’t touch you. I’ve lived around it for seven years, and it’s never so much as scratched me.”
“Aaaaarh!” Tarker had dropped to the ground behind Hakin, and now it was charging up the steps. Hakin quickly stepped out of its path, and watched as the demon slammed into…something. Not the door; whoever was behind it had not reacted quickly enough, and the door was still unlatched and open a crack.
It had not budged under Tarker’s assault, though, and now Hakin could see that the demon had not actually touched the door at all. It had been stopped short at the front edge of the threshold, silently pounding its four fists on thin air.
For a moment the two men froze where they were as the demon thrashed and shoved; then the man inside swung the door wide and stared, fascinated, as Tarker failed to force its way in.
“That’s a pretty good protective spell you have there,” Hakin remarked, shouting over Tarker’s shoulder.
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 26