Why had he not realized it sooner? Once he had been able to number the days and hours that had passed since Cerrie’s and Lyssa’s murders. Now there were whole hours that went by without him thinking of them. He felt as if they were slipping away.
He closed his hands into fists, as if he could hold the memories tightly in his grasp. The gem on the ring winked in the firelight and, releasing his hands, he pulled off the ring and held it in his palm.
If a seer had told him a year before that Devlin would become the Chosen One, defender of Jorsk, Devlin would have laughed. Who could have imagined such a thing? He was a metalsmith turned farmer, not a warrior. He’d lacked the stomach for violence and killing. His gentle spirit had been one of the things that Cerrie had claimed to love.
Would she even recognize him? If she came back to life, would she find any trace of the man he had once been? Or would he be a stranger to her?
Devlin clenched the ring in his fist and raised his arm, prepared to throw it away. A clap of thunder sounded, though the sky was clear, and he saw a light flash briefly in the woods to his right.
Holding himself absolutely still, he listened, and heard nothing. Nothing at all. The night was too quiet.
Dropping the ring on the ground next to his bedroll instead, he half rose, and pulled the axe from its sheath. Keeping his eyes on the direction where the flash had occurred, he picked a stone from the ground and tossed it in Stephen’s direction. There was no response.
He tossed a second stone and a third, until he heard a muffled groan. “Stephen,” he hissed.
“What?” the minstrel asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“Quiet,” Devlin whispered. “There is something out there, and I do not think it means us well.”
He rose to his feet, still keeping his eyes on the forest. From the corner of his eye he saw Stephen unsheathe his sword, then pull on his boots. The minstrel stood up and joined him.
“What is it?” Stephen asked, following Devlin’s gaze.
“I do not know,” Devlin confessed, circling around the fire so that it was at his back. His eyes were still light dazzled, and he could see only vague outlines within the trees. There was nothing overtly menacing, yet he could not shake the feeling of dread that had overcome him. For himself he had no fear, but his was not the only life at risk.
His eyes scanned the perimeter of their camp, never resting in any one spot. “Keep your eyes sharp,” he ordered. “It may be nothing, but better safe than surprised.”
He heard a sharp gasp behind him, then the minstrel said, “Devlin,” in a quiet voice.
Devlin continued scanning the forest, wondering why Stephen had not finished his thought.
“Devlin,” the minstrel repeated.
Devlin turned, and his breath caught in his throat. At the edge of the clearing stood a giant. Easily twice the height of a man, he seemed formed out of the very night itself, for he was all darkness. No light glinted off that shape, no hints of gray or white alleviated its utter blackness. The creature had a head, but no signs of eyes or other organs could be seen. It made no sound, yet somehow it exuded a sense of incalculable menace and hatred. If pure evil had a form, this was it.
Stephen began backing away slowly, until he was on the left of the fire, by their bedrolls. Devlin was on the right, keeping the fire between himself and the creature. Behind him, he heard the horses whinnying in fear and wished he could give vent to his own fears as well.
The creature turned its head back and forth, as if considering which one of them to pursue. Then he turned toward Stephen.
“Get out of here,” Devlin ordered. This was no time for foolish heroics. Stephen, his eyes fixed on the dark monstrosity, did not move. He seemed paralyzed, or under a spell.
Devlin circled the fire and grabbed the minstrel by his shirt. He pulled Stephen back just as the creature reached for him. “Run,” he said, giving Stephen a firm push in the back.
Stephen took a few stumbling steps. The creature turned and reached one impossibly long limb for Devlin.
Devlin swung his axe. It passed cleanly through but instead of severing the arm, the limb simply re-formed behind his stroke. He tried again, with the same result.
His gut tightened with fear. How could he fight a creature that he could not harm? It was as if the creature was made of mist, or of the blackness of the night sky.
But there was nothing insubstantial about the blow that struck him in the chest. Devlin went flying backward, his axe dropping from his hand. He landed on his backside twenty feet away. Instinctively he threw his knives, but they passed through the creature to no effect. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled out his dagger, though he did not know what good it would do.
To his surprise, the creature did not pursue him, nor did it turn its attention toward Stephen, who was standing near the frightened horses. Instead the creature cast its head around, as if searching for something. And then it glided silently toward the blankets where Devlin had sat only moments before.
“What is it doing?” Stephen asked.
“How should I know? But be prepared to make a run for it, if we must.”
The creature’s arm elongated, stretching down until it touched the ground, then began pawing at the blankets. Devlin caught the glint of gold in the firelight, and suddenly realized what it was searching for.
As the creature clenched the ring within its fist, Devlin’s mind raced with the implications of the act. This was no chance encounter. The creature had been sent to find and destroy the Chosen One. Somehow, the creature had homed in on the ring of his office as if it were a magical scent.
But Devlin had taken off his ring, and now the creature was confused. Dropping the ring back to the ground, the creature turned in their direction.
There was but one chance. If they ran in opposite directions, the creature could follow only one of them. Thus the other was sure to live. Devlin knew what he must do.
“When I say now, cut the horses loose and run for your life. In the confusion we can make our escape,” he said.
“But how will I find you?” Stephen asked.
If his plan worked, there would be nothing left of Devlin to find. But he could not tell the minstrel that. Stephen had a stubborn streak of his own. Devlin thought furiously. “Circle back the way we came. We will meet at that inn we passed yesterday.”
“May the Gods go with you,” Stephen said.
Devlin took a few side steps, edging himself away from the minstrel and closer to the fire.
“Now!” he shouted.
Stephen slashed the ties that held the frightened horses. Screaming with terror, they ran off into the night. Stephen ran, too, in the opposite direction.
Devlin ran across the clearing, his course taking him on an angle that crossed the monster’s path. He needed to make sure the monster knew which of them he was to pursue. But he did not see the obstacle that caught his foot and sent him sprawling. As he hit the ground, the dagger flew from his hand and was lost in the darkness.
Devlin rolled swiftly to his side and rose, though his right ankle protested the strain. The creature swung its head in his direction. He knew he could not let the creature kill him. Not without a fight. He had to buy time for Stephen to make his escape. Devlin looked frantically, searching for a weapon. Any weapon. But his axe was gone, and his dagger was gone as well.
There was still the fire. Hobbling a few steps, he reached in and grabbed the end of a burning brand with his bare hand.
The end he held was unburned, yet still hot enough to hurt. But this pain was comforting to one who had worked so many years with hot metal.
“Devlin!” Stephen exclaimed.
“By Kanjti’s left ball,” he swore, as he realized the minstrel had returned. Now Devlin’s sacrifice would be for naught.
“Run for it!” Stephen urged.
He could not. His ankle was throbbing, and he could barely stand, let alone walk. “I cannot. But there is no reason for you to d
ie as well. This creature was sent for me. Save yourself. Your people need you. There is naught you can do here.”
The creature advanced. Devlin swung the flaming brand in its direction. Unlike the sword, the flames caused it to pause, and for a moment he hoped he might somehow prevail. But then the creature reached one black hand into its middle and pulled something out. With both hands it formed a ball of utter blackness, which it then threw.
Devlin ducked, but the demon missile still grazed his shoulder with such force that it tore off clothing and skin. He knew that if the missile had struck directly he would have been dead.
“Here, monster,” Stephen called.
Devlin turned his head, incredulous. Stephen was jumping up and down, waving his cloak in an attempt to divert the creature. “Over here, monster! Try a minstrel for a change.”
But the monster paid no heed to him, and Devlin jumped out of the way as the next missile flew. This one missed as well, but cost him dearly, for as he landed his injured ankle gave way, and he fell to the ground.
Stephen began throwing things from their packs at the monster, hoping to gain its attention. Shoes, cooking pots, and a quiver of arrows all bounced off with no apparent effect. And then he heaved a ceramic jug which broke as it hit the monster’s back, dousing the creature with liquid.
The scent of kelje filled the night. Devlin, with sudden inspiration, pulled his left arm back and threw the torch. The monster burst into flames as the alcohol ignited. It screamed, a high unearthly whine, and clawed at its flesh.
Devlin dragged himself backward, crawling away from that horrible sight. And still the monster continued to burn, with a bright white light that lit the clearing as if it were day.
“By the Gods,” Stephen said.
Devlin silently agreed.
As the fire burned, the monster seemed to shrink in on itself. Devlin and Stephen both armed themselves with fresh torches, but there was no need. The fire continued, blazing white-hot, until there was nothing left of the creature save a blackened stinking circle on the ground.
Sixteen
THEY BUILT THE FIRE UP HIGH AND REMAINED ON guard for the rest of that long night, but there were no further attacks. Devlin was furious that Stephen had returned to save him, but he was unable to give full vent to his anger since without Stephen’s help the creature might never have been destroyed.
As punishment for his impetuosity, Stephen spent most of the next day in search of their horses. Devlin, unable to move far because of his injured ankle, had nothing to do but think about the events of the night before, and he did not like his conclusions.
He had seen magical creatures before. The skrimsal. The banecats. Ordinary creatures given extraordinary size, strength, and viciousness through magical spells. Some said such creatures were bred by mages, others that they were accidental creations, caused when natural creatures were caught up in magecraft. Though they were magic, they were also living flesh, and had weaknesses that could be exploited. When cut they bled, and thus they could be killed.
The creature last night had been different, able to transform its substance from solid to mist and back again at will. It seemed to be a creature of pure magical energy, which meant it had been sent by a mage of great power. But which mage would have a motive to harm the Chosen One? Which mage would be able to key such a spell to the ring he wore? Devlin could think of only one man who fit that description.
Later that afternoon, his horse wandered back into camp on its own, nosing him familiarly, then gratefully slobbering down the grain that Devlin laid out. Stephen returned a short time later, having found his own horse. Apparently it had headed back in the direction of home until it was caught by a farmer.
They continued on their journey, staying in inns and farmhouses when they could. When forced to camp, they took turns standing guard. As the days passed and nothing unusual occurred, Stephen began to relax. But Devlin could not. He had a strange prickling sensation at the back of his neck, as if he were being watched.
Stephen tried on several occasions to engage Devlin in speculation about the origins of the creature that had attacked them, but Devlin refused to allow himself to be drawn in. He did not want to give any hint of his suspicions to the minstrel, lest Stephen find a way to spoil his plans. Again.
Devlin breathed a sigh of relief when the white towers of Kingsholm came into view. By then his nerves were stretched taut. He was constantly on edge, wondering when the next attack would come and what form it would take. The fact that no attack was forthcoming seemed an especially devious form of torture. A man could go mad with waiting.
They parted ways as they entered the city—Stephen to find his friends, and Devlin to the palace. There he reported the success of his mission to an indifferent Royal Steward. His duty accomplished, Devlin was free to search for answers.
Master Dreng resided in the old city, off a once fashionable plaza whose picturesque fountain had long since run dry. Many of the residences sported the small signs of decay, rusting ironwork, missing roof tiles, or crumbling masonry. In contrast, Master Dreng’s residence seemed newly built, with gleaming white stonework topped by glittering ceramic tiles in every hue of the rainbow. The effect was dazzling. And though the rest of the houses pressed close to each other, there were empty spaces on either side of the magician’s dwelling.
Devlin mounted the steps, and as he approached the door slowly swung open, revealing an elderly servant whose frail, hunched form made him seem as old as time.
“Master Dreng is not receiving callers,” the man intoned, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “Seekers of wisdom may return tomorrow, or you may leave your message with me and I will see that Master Dreng learns of your need.”
The servant leaned on the door, and it began ever so slowly to close. Devlin stuck his foot in the lintel. He thought about shoving the door open, but feared the servant would shatter to pieces.
Thrusting his right hand in the gap, instead he said, “In the name of the Chosen One and the Kingdom of Jorsk, open this door or forfeit your life.”
The ring on his hand sprang to life with ruby fire. It was a bit much, but it served its purpose.
There was a small gasp, and suddenly the resistance against the door was gone. Devlin pushed it open with his left hand and saw the retreating form of the servant as he scuttled away.
He stepped inside and found himself in an entrance hall. On the right, a wide stone staircase with worn carpet runners led to the upper stories. Ahead, where the servant had disappeared, there was a long hall with doorways branching off on either side. To his left was a room with scattered chairs and couches.
“Dreng!” Devlin shouted, but there was no answer.
He advanced down the hall and threw open the first door on his right. This proved a closet. The door on his left was a dining room. He continued on, finding in turn a small study, an empty room with no discernible purpose, a pantry, a small bedroom, and, finally, the kitchen, where he startled a young woman kneading bread. Making his apologies, Devlin retreated and returned to the front hall. He climbed the staircase, calling out the mage’s name.
On the second floor he found three bedrooms, one of which appeared to be the mage’s, and an elaborate bathing room. But there was no sign of Master Dreng. He began to feel foolish. What if the mage was not home after all of this?
At the end of the hallway was a small wooden door. Devlin opened it, expecting to find another closet, but instead found a narrow set of wooden stairs, scarcely more than a ladder. He looked up, and saw a faint light. “Dreng!” he called, as he began to climb.
As his head came up above the floor level, he saw that he was in a large room with a steeply pitched roof. Bookcases and cabinets lined the walls, while glowing white orbs set in wooden support beams provided a dim light. A large wooden table holding an empty decanter and a carelessly piled stack of books came into view next, with two stools beside it. Mounting the final stair, he looked around and realized the room cov
ered the whole top floor of the dwelling.
“Dreng!” he called, for there was no sign of the mage.
“You needn’t shout,” Master Dreng replied. Devlin whirled, as Master Dreng stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the room. In his right hand he held a goblet of wine, which he raised in mocking salute. “So the Chosen One has returned safely. Again.”
His voice was slurred, giving testament that the mage was well acquainted with the contents of the wine cup.
Devlin had spent the last fortnight carefully planning what he would say, but all of his cool logic disappeared with that mocking toast. In a single motion he twisted his right forearm, and threw the knife, pinning Master Dreng’s right arm to a nearby post.
The crystal goblet shattered as it hit the floor, red wine running across the floor like blood. Devlin held the second knife in his left hand, so the mage could see it.
“That was just a warning,” he said.
Master Dreng gaped at him, mouth open in astonishment. “Have you gone mad?”
It was a fair question. Caerfolk wisdom held that those who disturbed wizards at their work were liable to find themselves transformed into goats. Or worse. And yet Devlin saw no use in dissembling. He favored a direct approach, and if this mage took offense, so be it.
“Just how far would you go to win your wager?” Devlin asked.
Master Dreng began to raise his left arm.
“I would not move, if I were you,” Devlin warned him. “I am thinking a dead mage is just as much use to me as a live mage, and for once the Geas seems to agree. So be still and answer my question.”
Master Dreng’s left arm fell down by his side.
Devlin advanced slowly across the room, skirting the worktable until he stood within arm’s reach of the mage. “How desperate were you to win that wager? So desperate that you had to help fate along?”
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