And Aeolil knew that she was all that stood between it and freedom. Not just the freedom to kill Agrylon, or her, but to break free into the realm of the living and wreak havoc unseen since the Devastations.
Survive first, Aeolil reminded herself, but she knew her limits. Defeating it was not within her power, not even with luck, surprise and Agrylon’s war-staff.
The Staff! Aeolil spotted it across the room, not far from its fallen master. A Black Robe’s war-staff was a potent weapon, bound with many spells and attuned to the il’iiyir of its wielder. If she could get it to Agrylon, if she could rouse him, perhaps he could turn the battle.
She scanned the room, trying to piece together a plan that could delay the Neva Seough’s escape long enough for her to bring Agrylon back into the fray. She eyed a few key ingredients on the nearby shelf, assessed her own small inventory of spells, and decided upon her course. In her hasty analysis, it seemed the best chance of turning this Shadow back to the Dark, but she was uneasy with the key element of her plan: being the bait.
Aeolil eyed the demon’s progress as her fingers slipped into the hidden pouches within the bodice of her dress, removing the components she would need for each of the spells she planned to cast. There would be no time to gather them after her plan was set into action; preparation and speed of execution were her only chance for survival.
One of the demon’s claws pierced into the light, and the Dark erupted from the casting circle, breaking the confines of its wards and sundering Agrylon’s spell of containment entirely. Shadow leaked like a grey cloud into the room from the puncture in the casting circle’s wards, swallowing the light hungrily.
“Agrylon,” the thing rumbled, its voice a thick basso rasp, repeating the name with each methodical, unrushed step, “Agrylooooon.” All of its eyes were focused on the fallen wizard, its breath coming in heaving gasps. “Long have I waited for this. Long have I hoped to repay you for your great treachery. But worry not. I will not kill you just yet. The Nameless One awaits your audience in Erkenàdun. She wishes to have a word with you.”
Aeolil rose up on one knee, drawing her trembling arms up into casting position, and set her plan in motion.
First, she sent a jar of silver shavings flying from the shelf with a quick gesture and minor nudge of iiyir. A more forceful application of the spell shattered the jar in mid-air, spraying its contents in the direction of the gloating demon. As the shards of glass and tiny silver shavings flew toward her target, she set her third spell into motion with a minor word of power. It was one of the first offensive spells most apprentices learned from their masters: infusing a mundane object with a small quantity of iiyir to energize it, and then binding that with directed kinesis to create a deadly projectile. For an unprotected human or animal, it could easily deal a mortal blow if the caster’s aim was true. Aeolil harbored no such unrealistic expectation in this case, nor was that the intent of her plan.
The enchanted fragments flashed through the congealing gloom like lancets of captive lightning. The Neva Seough’s dark flesh sizzled with each impact, penetrating and transforming several of its myriad eyes into vapor with a pop and hiss. The wounds glowed softly after each impact, bleeding pus and trailing noxious smoke.
There was no scream. No roar of pain. In fact, there was almost no reaction from it at all. But the attack had achieved its desired effect.
The Neva Seough turned on her.
Aeolil wasted no time celebrating her fate as the demon’s new meal. One last thrust of kinesis toppled Agrylon’s war-staff next to his limp hands.
“Whelp,” spat the Neva Seough.
Survive first, she reminded herself again, clearing her mind and gathering her il’iiyir for one last spell. Aeolil watched as the tentacle that passed for the creature’s tongue slipped out from behind its cage of teeth to taste the air like a snake.
“You are almost ripe!” it exclaimed. “Two prizes in one visit: a Black Robe and a young breeder for the Pits.”
It feeds on your fear. It is goading you. Ignore it, she thought, drawing a short figure in the air with the thumb and index finger of her left hand. Focus or die. This is your only chance.
The demon’s presence loomed before her, overpowering her senses with its size, smell, and the blackness of the iiyir that emanated from it. There were evil men in the world, and Aeolil had met some of them, but this was beyond that. This wasn’t evil that resided within a human shell. It wasn’t mere greed or amorality. This was evil distilled to its purest impure physical essence, and the black iiyir flowed through its veins like mortal’s blood.
It’s too close, she thought, even as she brought her right palm to her lips.
Its tentacle grabbed her wrist scant inches from her mouth. The appendage snaked around her fingers, sniffing at the powder in her palm. It laughed, drawing itself up before her like a mountain, a shadow blocking out a shadow.
“Oh,” it mocked. “Shall you put me to sleep with your powerful magic, little sorceress?” Its laughter brought the fetid stench of old death hissing through its teeth. “I should bend you over backward and suck your entrails out from your loins.”
Aeolil didn’t waste her breath on banter. She blew out across her palm, scattering the small residuum of sand and sulfur into a thin plume that stretched out beyond the Neva Seough’s shoulder. She whispered the one-word incantation that comprised this child’s spell even as her arm was yanked violently behind her back, thrusting her chest out toward the maw of the beast.
It’s done, she thought, but her relief was swallowed by sheer terror.
It laughed again, its tentacle-tongue snapping around her delicate neck as two of its arms pinned hers to her side. Warm urine trickled down her thigh, but considering her circumstance, she felt no shame. It pulled her head back as it squeezed her airway shut and whispered into her ear, saliva dripping down her shoulder. “That was the best that the apprentice of mighty Agrylon could manage?”
It turned toward Agrylon, bending her body backward violently as it dragged her behind. Aeolil choked out a gasp through its stranglehold. Her head swam. Her vision blurred. She knew consciousness was fleeting. Even as she fought the slide into oblivion, she felt the dizziness crowding out her thoughts. Survive first! she screamed at herself, but the demon seemed unaware of her flailing limbs and errant kicks as she struggled for freedom.
If the spell hadn’t worked, if it hadn’t been powerful enough to counteract Agrylon’s battered unconsciousness, she dared not imagine what degradations awaited her in the Pits. Then she heard his voice.
“Myszdraelh!” Agrylon spat.
The Neva Seough dropped Aeolil immediately to the floor, and she rolled clear with what strength she had left. She sucked in a lungful of precious air, scowling at the hot stench but thankful for life. She scrambled backward on her elbows until she bumped into a bookshelf, shaking with fear and relief.
“Myszdraelh!” boomed Agrylon again, his voice gaining strength. The demon’s eyes snapped wide open, and its limbs twitched limply at the utterance of the word. “I name thee, Myszdraelh of the Neva Seough. I name thee and I command thee. Into the circle, demon – and take your shadows with you!”
Myszdraelh convulsed across the floor, slack-jawed and writhing in spasms. The Dark that had enveloped the room oozed like thick oil back to whence it came, following in the wake of its liberator to cower behind the wards not long since shattered.
Agrylon stood over the failed casting circle, his robes the only shadow not retreating from the incandescent lightning licking his outstretched war-staff. “That’s twice you’ve underestimated me,” the wizard said, “and once for my apprentice.”
“You will not bend me by name alone,” Myszdraelh hissed.
“Won’t I?” Agrylon challenged. “You appear well bent already.”
“Your world is ending, wizard. Enjoy your moment while you may. Dine on me now, for I will sup on your shallow soul for eternity.”
Agrylon’s smile barely
bent the curvature of his lips. “You are a guest in my world, Neva Seough. What do you know of its end?”
“By the time you realize the folly of your arrogance, we shall -”
Agrylon tapped the haft of his staff on the floor, and the constricting energies about the demon pulsed brightly. Myszdraelh hissed in pain, and Aeolil flinched as the residual energy charged the air between them. “Why do you seek the death of Calvraign the Cythe?”
“Call him what you will, it is too late for him now,” it screeched, its maw struggling against each word. “You may compel my speech, but it is too late. Your nightmares are loose.”
Agrylon lowered his staff toward the Neva Seough. Myszdraelh squirmed; its neck twisting as if caught in a tightening noose. Its eyes bulged in their sockets as Agrylon whispered fiercely between clenched teeth, “Speak plainly, Myszdraelh, I am not long on patience.”
“He… He is your key,” the demon snarled. “Without your key, your way is locked. If your way is locked, then you fail – and your failure will be our victory. So the Nameless One has foreseen.”
From past experience, Aeolil recognized the rasping sound coming from Agrylon’s throat as a chuckle. She wasn’t fond of the noise. It was disturbing, like the triumphant caw of a villain from a bard’s tale. “I have a ring full of keys, demonspawn. But thank you for letting me know which the Nameless One thinks most important. I’ll be sure to tuck it away.”
Agrylon approached to the very perimeter of the restored circle, his back to Aeolil. “But, lest you think trifling in my affairs may go unpunished….”
There was a pause, and then Aeolil heard a faint whisper. She could not make out the word that Agrylon spoke, but the Neva Seough was not so fortunate. Myszdraelh’s eyes flickered and then burst into flashes of indigo flame. It let loose a howl, its jaws gnashing, as its steaming, empty sockets bubbled over with scalding pus.
Agrylon raised his staff over his head and uttered a final word of dissolution. The casting circle came to life one last time, a beacon of light that swallowed the shadows from floor to ceiling. The next moment, Myszdraelh was gone.
Aeolil sat in silence as Agrylon surveyed the blackened mess of the casting circle, leaning heavily on his staff. He shook his head, frowning. He was showing the strain of the encounter now that his adversary was vanquished, his posture stooped and his breath coming hard through his clenched teeth.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he muttered, turning to look at her with a cocked eyebrow.
Aeolil stood, her legs still shaking, but her voice steady. “You opened a doorway to the Dark, Agrylon! To the very Dark itself. What shouldn’t have happened was you opening the gods-bedamned door in the first place!”
“No,” Agrylon replied, with a nonchalant shrug and a shake of his head. “The door was to Shadow, to the outskirts of Shadow, no less. The dead man was a conduit, and a bit of clever bait, too.”
“Bait?”
“A worm, squirming on a hook. When we took a bite, the Dark came through him to get to us.”
“The Dark can’t just come through Shadow because you knocked.”
“No, indeed,” agreed Agrylon, “it simply should not have happened.”
“But it did.”
“Aye. It did.” The wizard scratched at the dried blood that caked his silver mustache. “Tomorrow will be a busy day. You may go and clean yourself up. I will summon you if I need you.”
Aeolil clenched her hands into fists at her side. “If you need me?” she mocked. “I just saved your life. I think you owe me an explanation – and now, not tomorrow, if you need me.”
Agrylon tilted his chin upward and looked archly down on his pupil. “You did well, Aeolil, all things considered, but don’t become enamored with yourself. As I recall, you didn’t save anyone, but you did assist me in saving us both. You affirmed my choice of an apprentice, most assuredly.”
“I affirmed-” Aeolil clamped down on her lower lip with her teeth, and then drew in a deep breath. There was only one way she could see around his self-satisfaction, and that was to skip straight to his secrets. “Why Calvraign, Agrylon?” she asked. “Which key is he on your ring? Which lock does he fit?”
The wizard turned away, walking over to one of his bookshelves and glancing over its contents. “There is much you do not know, Aeolil,” he said, as if each word spoken was a bit of tedium dragged from his lips. “Much you do not need to know, and much you should not know.”
Aeolil stared at his back, wondering if this were really the time to test him. Always she had been the attentive student, the obedient servant, and afforded him the respect his status deserved. But now, covered in her own piss and vomit, with the slaver of a demon still painting her breastbone and a fate of rape and death only a click behind her, she stared at his indifferent back and steeled herself for confrontation.
“I know enough. I know that you’ve been beside yourself ever since he arrived. I could tell you didn’t expect it, or plan for it, but both you and Guillaume were pleased. I know you, and you aren’t pleased by surprises, yet somehow this fit into your plans. Why? What does Calvraign have to offer you?”
Agrylon didn’t acknowledge her. He continued perusing his texts, the blackened nail of his index finger tapping the spines of the books as he reviewed their titles, one by one.
Aeolil narrowed her eyes, feeling a dangerous thrill as she recalled her conversation with Calvraign. “Or is it his children you’re after?”
She jumped back as Agrylon wheeled on her, his eyes literally glowing with rage. She thought for a moment that he might strike her, and backed away another step. But he made no further move, standing there with his hands clenched on his war-staff and the gold burning like fire in his eyes. “What do you know of it? Don’t play games with me, girl! Did you speak to the king?”
“No,” she replied, startled by his visceral reaction. “I know that his mother has the Gift. I can see how that would interest you. But what would Guillaume care of such things? Or have you bothered to let him in on the specifics of your little plot?”
Agrylon gathered himself, relaxing his tight muscles with a deep but quiet breath. “I don’t much care for your tone,” he informed her, “and my business with the king is my own. I see that you’ve taken a liking to the boy, but don’t think for a moment that matters in the grand balance of things.”
“I see,” she said. “Then we shall soon discover if the king is as tight-lipped as you on the subject. Hiruld and I will be close enough to make some conversation at the royal pavilion this afternoon.”
Agrylon didn’t respond immediately. He watched her intently, and she could feel his eyes study her face, looking into and through her. “Tread softly, lest you wake the beast, Lady Aeolil.”
“Oh, put your nursery rhymes away,” she snapped. “I’m not a child anymore. At least show the backbone to threaten me outside of some stale metaphor! You’re as melodramatic as the Neva Seough.”
Aeolil shook her head, trying to calm her frustration and appeal to him with reason, or compassion – whichever might work. “Calvraign is a genuinely good man, Agrylon, and that is a rare enough thing that I will risk your enmity on his account if I must. Please. What do you have in store for him?”
“Very well,” the wizard said, “I will tell you something of what I intend.”
Aeolil suppressed a victorious smile. He would be evasive and vague, but with Agrylon even a table scrap should be considered healthy fare.
“The king and I have plans for him, yes. We always have,” he admitted. “Do you think the likes of Brohan Madrharigal are dispatched to just any widow’s son? No, we knew he would be something special from the beginning. You surmised it correctly enough, yourself. His mother has the Gift, as do many of those in her line. If he is paired appropriately, his progeny will be powerful indeed.”
“And yours to mold,” prompted Aeolil.
“Of course. And in the meantime, we have the makings of a fine general. Vanelorn can
only stay fit and hale for so long. The king will need a new lord high marshal, and if the king at that time is Hiruld, he will need the likes of Calvraign to guide him.”
“You certainly have a good deal of confidence in a shepherd not long from the hills. Don’t you think a more seasoned knight would be suited for that task?”
“From Brohan’s reports, the boy is no slouch with a blade. I’m sure he can hold his own for now. By the time the spring campaign comes around, he’ll be a good sight better. The war will season him in quick order.” Agrylon smiled, but that was seldom a comforting gesture from him. “Your shepherd will be a veteran knight within the year.”
“A lord high marshal must be much more than a veteran knight, and you know it. He’s a bit old to begin training at the War College. Or has Brohan been schooling him in strategy and tactics for the past ten years as well – grooming your little warlord for you?”
“As a matter of strict fact, yes. How many men can say they came within a move of beating Brohan Madrharigal in Mylyr Gaeal? Not the beginner’s board, mind you, but all five tiers with the iiyir tides and all. Not a small feat for a young man about your age, eh, Lady Aeolil?”
“No,” she said, stunned and a little disconcerted. Calvraign had almost beaten Brohan on the Grand Master’s board? No one had come within eight moves of a victory over Brohan for longer than she had been at court, not even Agrylon or Renarre, who were the closest Providayne had to offer the bard in competition. She had heard once that some lord at Aeth’lyn Fann had achieved a stalemate, but even that had been hard fought. She tried to reconcile this with her perception of the young Cythe, but the mantle of master strategist didn’t rest easily on his shoulders in her mind.
In Siege of Daylight Page 35