by Duncan Pile
The demon glided heavily towards him, roaring in pain and fury as spears pierced it from all sides, wreathing it in flame. Rimulth stood at the edge of the clearing, firing flaming arrows at the foul creature. He wanted to run to the Dag-Mar’s side, but the shaman had given him strict instructions that if they were attacked again, he was not to use magic. These demons had one objective - to drain the power from magic users until they were just dried up husks, though for what purpose Rimulth didn’t know. The Dag-Mar had insisted that Rimulth’s newly discovered powers were too weak to make any difference. If Rimulth used magic and the Dag-Mar was overcome, the creature would turn on him and kill him as well. The ageing head-shaman had made him promise to do his duty to his tribe, and make sure they weren’t left without a shaman.
Watching the battle unfold, Rimulth was pretty sure this wasn’t going to happen. They knew what to expect this time, and before the demon had made much progress across the clearing it was entirely aflame. The numbing cold was receding as it howled in impotent fury, forced back by the flames. The tribe had thrown most of its flaming arsenal at it, and continued to do so even as it shrank back in defeat. With one last howl, it folded in on itself and disappeared.
Rimulth felt a surge of triumph, bellowing a victory cry as their enemy was defeated. He rubbed at his arms to combat the intense cold. Shivering, he looked at the burning ground where the demon had been vanquished in confusion. Why would the cold remain when the demon was gone?
In that moment, he was hit by a horrifying realisation, chilling him more completely than the demon’s presence could ever have done. Filled with dread, he spun out to face the darkness, and his worst nightmare came to life before his eyes as another demon slid into the clearing. It howled, the fearsome sound threatening to break him inside, but what broke him even more was the knowledge that most of their weaponry lay burned and useless on the ground. He spun back in alarm to face the Dag-Mar. The old shaman met his gaze with a look of grim acceptance, and Rimulth cried out in impotent fury. Filled with defiant anger, he reached within to draw on his magic, but the Dag-Mar’s mind clamped onto his with the full strength of the older man’s power.
“Use no magic!” his voice echoed sternly in Rimulth’s mind, and with tears in his eyes, Rimulth let go of his power. He met the old shaman’s gaze one more time, seeing a look of approval on his heavily tattooed face as the demon glided towards him. The tribesmen were yelling, picking up burning remnants of their spears with their bare hands and flinging them at it, but they had little effect. A few spears and arrows remained, and those were fired at the demon, but they weren’t nearly enough to stop it from reaching the Dag-Mar. Towering over the aged shaman, it reached out with heavy arms and grabbed him by the shoulders. His back arched in agony and he let out a throat-lacerating scream. The other tribesmen ran in, thrusting their swords and knives into the demon’s back, but it didn’t even seem to notice. The weapons passed uselessly through its dark form as it continued to drain the life out of the Dag-Mar.
Rimulth couldn’t bear to watch the shaman’s agonies, tears streaming down his face as the old man’s soul seemed to be ripped from his very body. His feet left the ground as the demon pulled him up into the air, his legs twitching uncontrollably as the monster roared in triumph, magical power pouring into its hungry being. It swelled horribly as it drank his essence, every moment of the shaman’s agony feeding its hunger.
The Dag-Mar’s screams grew fainter as his strength failed him. The villagers stabbed at the demon with tears streaming down their faces, yelling in fury as they slashed and hacked at a being they couldn’t even touch. Rimulth watched on helplessly, knowing it was futile. The demon could only be damaged by fire, and they had none left, except for the few flickering logs in the centre of the clearing. The Dag-Mar was as good as dead, and though it hurt him to the core to do nothing, and his whole being screamed at him to summon magic and cast those few burning logs in the demon’s face, Rimulth knew he had no choice but to honour the Dag-Mar’s final instruction. If any of them survived this, his tribe would need a shaman.
With one final kick of his legs, the Dag-Mar ceased to move, and the demon threw his corpse away like a used rag. The tribesmen backed away from the dark creature, their faces broken in grief and defeat, but instead of swivelling to face them, the demon’s heavy shoulders bowed, its head dipping down towards the ground as its black torso began to ripple. A loud groan emitted from its mouth - a noise that was somewhere between pain and ecstasy, growing louder as the ripples became waves, distorting its shape into something unrecognisable. It slowly lost all form, taking on the shape of an enormous, pulsating sac, deep groans coming from somewhere within its heaving bulk as it writhed and throbbed on the ground. The villagers stepped back in alarm. What further horror would they have to face?
The sac bulged outwards as if something trapped within it was trying to break through the repulsive membrane. It strained and stretched, pressed outwards by some thrusting appendage, and then it ripped, a clawed hand thrusting into the air. Rimulth stared in unwilling fascination at the strands of dark gloop roping from long, bony fingers. An arm followed the hand. The skin of the emerging creature looked as if it had been badly burned. It was charred all over, cracks in its blackened skin revealing reddened flesh, exposed to the air like a thousand open wounds. But the creature didn’t seem to be in pain. It pushed itself slowly out of the crack, its long, thin arm followed by a seared shoulder and the back of its head. It had no hair at all, burned flesh pulled tight over its skull.
With a loud sucking sound, its head and shoulders came free. It slowly stood up, revealing a ridged spine and lean torso. Like its arms, its legs were slender, but they gave the impression of whip-taught strength. Its feet ended in wicked claws, shorter than those on the end of its twice-knuckled fingers, but they still looked like they could cause grievous damage. It lifted its head and pivoted in a full circle. As its face came into view, Rimulth drew in a sharp breath, repulsed by what he saw. The same ruined skin that covered its body stretched over its face. Its mouth was a narrow crack, its nose nothing more than two slits, but the worst thing was its eyes. Smouldering like living coals, they were the eyes of death: bleak, inevitable, and without mercy. It held his gaze for a moment, but then its head snapped up, as if it had heard something in the distance. It stared away over their heads, focussed elsewhere.
Balkrist yelled from the edge of the clearing, rushing in with his sword extended, drawing its attention back from whatever had occupied it. It raised its arms as he neared it, bony protrusions thrusting from its wrists, natural weaponry that dripped with black effluent. In a blur of movement almost beyond Rimulth’s ability to follow, it sidestepped the attacking tribesman, a bony weapon slashing across Balkrist’s extended arm. With a yell of primal fear, the warrior fell to the ground, his arm flopping down beside him, severed in a single swipe. The burned creature watched him as he began to writhe in undisguised agony.
Balkrist looked fearfully at his severed arm, his breath coming in shallow, panicky gulps. Rimulth thought they were all dead then, and tried desperately to summon up enough courage to face it like a warrior and shaman of Eagle’s Roost, but to his surprise, the hellish monster’s bony weapons withdrew into its wrists. It looked once more into the distance, and without warning, turned in the opposite direction and darted from the clearing. One moment it was there, and the next it was gone, a black and red blur that sped away from the village at impossible speed.
Rimulth looked around at his fellow tribesmen, their faces mirroring the horror and disbelief of his own feelings. Slumping to the floor, he gave in to his emotions. He fell to his side and curled into a foetal ball, ragged sobs wracking his whole being.
Twenty-Four
Sometime later, Rimulth was picked up by gentle hands and guided into a tent, where he was led to a seat and given a tumbler full of fern whisky. He tipped the contents down his throat with numb fingers, barely noticing its searing bite.
&n
bsp; “Rimulth,” someone said gently, but he didn’t look up. “Rimulth,” the voice said more insistently. Lifting his head, he stared blankly at the speaker, vaguely recognising Chief Hesketh. “Put him to sleep. His soul has retreated deep within his mind. We’ll try again when he wakes.”
He let himself be guided to the hut he shared with the Dag-Mar, and as he lay down on his bed, the empty cot across from him allowed awareness of his loss to penetrate the haze of shock that shrouded his perceptions. He would have cried again if he had any tears left, but his eyes were dry, his sorrow utterly spent. Within moments, exhausted sleep stole over him and postponed his pain.
…
When he next awoke Rimulth was in his right mind. He still felt numb and couldn’t even look at the Dag-Mar’s cot, but he was in control of his limbs and his senses. Forcing himself to rise, he went to the latrine and relieved himself before making for the chief’s hut. He refused to look up as he skirted the clearing, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground in front of him. He knocked on the door to the chief’s hut, which swung open to reveal the concerned face of the chief’s wife, Raven. Her motherly face was wreathed with concern. She took his hand in her own, the feel of her calloused, warm skin a comfort to him.
“Come in dear heart,” she said, using an intimate term mothers usually reserved for their own children. Rimulth’s own parents were away hunting in the valleys, and in their absence, Raven’s care really mattered.
“How are you doing?” Chief Hesketh asked once Rimulth was seated.
Rimulth shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He felt completely numb inside. “How is Balkrist?” he asked.
The chief dropped his head. “Not good,” he answered. “The wound was clean enough but there is something else wrong with him. It’s as if he was poisoned by the demon’s touch. He is feverish and getting worse,” he said wearily, trailing off into silence, and for some moments, no-one said anything. Chief Hesketh was the first to speak again. “The Dag-Mar’s death is an insufferable loss,” he said, “but unfortunately we don’t have the luxury of grief. There are things that must be done.”
“What things?” Rimulth asked, without any real interest in the answer.
The chief frowned. “Rimulth, it pains me to add another burden to your sorrow, but there is something the Dag-Mar kept from you. The messengers who’ve come to us over the last few weeks have led us to understand that the two demons we faced today have killed every other shaman in the mountains.”
Rimulth’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Why would the Dag-Mar have kept this from him? The chief seemed to read his mind. “The reason the Dag-Mar didn’t tell you was because he didn’t want to add too much pressure while you were in training, but there’s no avoiding the facts anymore. Rimulth, you are the last shaman of Eagle’s Roost.”
Rimulth couldn’t take it in. It couldn’t be true. “But I’m not ready,” he blurted. “I’ve only just learned how to enter a trance, and I only know two rites.”
“I know,” the chief said grimly, “but thankfully the Dag-Mar prepared for this eventuality. Birds have already been sent to Hephistole, the Chancellor of The College of Collective Magicks in Helioport. A long time ago he travelled through these mountains, seeking out the Dag-Mar. They forged an understanding, and have been in contact ever since. As part of their compact, the Dag-Mar has made sure all of our rites are scribed onto parchment and sent to the college. You must go to Helioport. It is the only way to complete your training. Hephistole will know of the situation within days, and will prepare for your arrival.”
He struggled to grasp the implications of what he was being told. “You mean I have to leave the tribe? And go and live with…” He couldn’t even say it.
“With plainsdwellers,” the chief finished for him sympathetically. “Yes, Rimulth, that is exactly what you must do. I wish I could make this easier for you but I can’t. You are the only person who can carry on our traditions, and without training, you cannot fulfil your role as shaman.”
“But how can the plainsdwellers teach me how to be a shaman?” he asked. “I know you said the rites are written down, but I can’t even read. Being a shaman has always been taught from one shaman to another. How can someone who knows nothing of our ways ever understand?”
“It is our only choice,” Chief Hesketh said. “You leave in two days.” Rimulth could tell this was the end of the conversation. Chief Hesketh wasn’t the kind of man you could argue with, and although he cared for Rimulth as he did every member of the tribe, he cared even more about preserving their way of life.
Swallowing his objections, Rimulth nodded and sat up straight. “I understand,” he said, earning him an approving look from the chief. He was dismissed after that and went back to the hut he used to share with the Dag-Mar, trying to come to terms with the wave of tumultuous change that had crashed mercilessly over his life, sweeping him away with it.
…
The next two days passed slowly for Rimulth. There was much to do, and even though he asked if he could delay his departure until his parents returned from their hunting trip, the chief was adamant that there would be no delay.
His resolve to follow the chief’s wishes was stiffened by his failure to help Balkrist. The warrior’s wound had been severe but clean, and under normal circumstances he would have recovered. They’d successfully staunched the blood flow, but rot had set in almost immediately, spreading rapidly throughout his body. Rimulth knew enough to apply poultices packed with the most potent of healing herbs, but nothing seemed to help, and within the short space of a single day the warrior had gone from bad to much, much worse.
The rot was ferocious, assailing Balkrist’s body with unstoppable tenacity. Starting at his shoulder, where his arm had been severed, the flesh had gone from healthy pink to putrid green, and then to stinking black. It progressed so quickly that Rimulth could actually see it inching over his skin, claiming what once was vital with slow, creeping death. The smell of decay was so foul that no-one could bear to be in Balkrist’s hut for any length of time. The warrior’s wife had died years ago and they’d never had any children, but he was well loved, and the tribes-people stood outside his hut murmuring quietly as he suffered.
At the end of that long day Balkrist had given in and asked for a warrior’s death. The rot had spread all down his side and over half his chest, and it was beginning to eat up into his face. Normally it was up to the village shaman to decide whether or not to grant such a request, but Rimulth wasn’t trained yet and it was Chief Hesketh who gave the nod. Balkrist couldn’t raise himself off the bed even an inch, so the deed had to be done there in his hut. The chief gave Rimulth the choice of whether to be there or not, and though he was tempted to leave the hut, he chose to honour the warrior by being present. Balkrist had been a pillar of his life, and of their community, for as long as he could remember, and the least he could do was make sure that a shaman was present at his death – even an untrained one.
A dagger was held point down over his heart, and with his last strength the warrior reached up with his remaining arm, joining his hand with Hesketh’s, and the two of them thrust it downwards, bringing the warrior’s nightmare to an end.
Later that day they had taken what remained of Balkrist, along with the Dag-Mar’s corpse, and had burned them, as was their custom, in the Sacred Place of the Dead. Rimulth had not learned the Rite of Passing, and so they had to make do with a few simple words from the chief. As he watched those two important figures go up in smoke, he felt like his childhood was being burned with them; his childhood, his life, everything. He stared dry-eyed at the pyres until they were completely burned out.
…
The next day he arose to a cold, misty morning, and his first thought was that the time had come for him to leave Eagle’s Roost. He would leave the mountains that had always been his home and travel to a plainsdweller city where he would finish his training as a shaman. It felt like some kind of fever dream come true, but he
knew it was cold, hard reality. Nothing would ever erase the shadow of the last few days from his mind.
The only small mercy was that he wouldn’t be going alone. Chief Hesketh had asked the tribe for a volunteer to accompany him on his journey, and Younger Talmo had stepped forwards. Rimulth had to admit that he would feel safer with the experienced warrior alongside him. More importantly, he wouldn’t feel as completely separated from home as he’d imagined.
And so it was that Rimulth found himself at the boundary of the village with Younger Talmo, saying goodbye to everyone and everything he’d ever known. The farewells happened in a blur, and all he could think about was the absence of his parents. They would respect the importance of the duties he has chosen to shoulder, but it would still break their hearts to find out he had left without having the chance to say goodbye. The only individual parting words he would remember afterwards were from Chief Hesketh:
“Go with our blessing, Rimulth, and do your duty. Keep the mountains in your heart and bring back to us the ways of the shaman.”
Rimulth could only nod his agreement, choked by emotions that rendered him tongue-tied. Shouldering his small pack and picking up his spear, he turned his back on the village and began the long journey down the mountainside with a heavy heart.
Twenty-Five
Ferast watched the fight unfold with interest. He’d been riding north on his latest stolen horse when he came across three men overpowering a travelling merchant. A single guard lay dead in the middle of the road. Ferast could hardly believe the stupidity of the merchant. What kind of idiot travelled with valuable goods and just one man to guard them? The merchant looked like a fat man starved of food, his once-fulsome flesh hanging in sagging folds of excess skin. He was dressed in clothes that may once have been fine but which had been patched and re-sown far too many times.