Blast that little man!
Kirjath spat a dark lump of jurrum into the grass. At least he still had jurrum. Soggy as the leaves were, they eased his nerves.
As he walked, the day improved, for the closer he came to Fendwarrow, the more motes were in evidence. He summoned Dark essence from wherever he could find it—the shade beneath logs, the dark flecks beneath leaves, from the cracks between broken rocks. The motes covered his skin like feasting flies, easing his burns with their numbing cold. The motes balked at the sunlight, and he had to repeat his invocations to keep them from the shadowed folds of his trousers. Dark essence flickered over his naked chest and back in agitated, frenetic patterns. To have something serving him eased his anger slightly, even though it was just the tiny particles of Darkness.
He hid from those who travelled on the shore road that morning, using his motes to assist where the cover of reeds or scrub was too thin. He skirted the village of Waxworth, and thereafter there was no traffic at all. Little reason for anyone to visit the lepers in their pools at Rotcotford, or to go any further into Bentwood County unless you were aiming for Fendwarrow. After seeing no one for a while, he grew careless, and so some travellers caught up to him on the road beyond Rotcotford, as he was walking through a grove of silken trees.
He heard the hoofbeats too late to weave the Dark motes into an illusion. He drew the motes hastily into his mouth instead, and swallowed. Better that they were concealed. His stomach groaned under its painfully cold contents. He hoped the riders would pass him by quickly—the fewer the folk who knew he was a Shadowcaster, the better. He had no time for a challenge with some bright-eyed Lightgifters, or a patrol of zealous Swords.
“Hsss! Leper!” he heard a man warning his companion. “Ride clear! Ride clear!”
The two riders passed him, giving him a wide berth before cutting back onto the road ahead. They turned to face him there, and halted. A tall, youthful man, and a slender woman with a regal expression. The crystal orbs at their necks left no doubt about their profession.
Lightgifters!
Their white robes were travel-stained, and both tried to deny their tiredness by sitting a little too upright in their saddles. Kirjath noted the stiff line of the man’s lips.
Blast and set fire to them! He wasn’t in the mood for challenges, or conversation.
“Halt there leper! Come no closer, we will have none of your disease. Halt, I said!” The man rose slightly in his saddle. Kirjath came to a halt, keeping his gaze on the ground before his feet, concealing his obsidian orb beneath his chin.
“We seek a Shadowcaster—have you seen any?” The man sounded as if it disgusted him to have to ask questions of an evidently diseased peasant.
“You do know what a Shadowcaster looks like, don’t you, leper?”
Despite his initial resolve to let the riders pass, Kirjath clenched his fists to create fresh pain. Pain always helped to focus his mind. Kirjath eyed the woman from under his eyebrows. He winced against the cold in his guts. He could use her.
“Speak up, beggar, or shall I open your mouth for you?” The man looked not a year past twenty-one, yet he was arrogant enough for one twice his age and rank.
Yes, the woman would be very useful. No need for the bantam cock, and no way to avoid him.
Kirjath held a dangerous pattern in mind, the triple looped prism of Decay. An apt curse for one who had named him a leper. It was good to have adequate resources again.
The tall man glared expectantly down at Kirjath. Kirjath raised his head and opened his mouth wide. He spewed the Dark essence out, filling the air with a swarm of motes which rushed into the pattern of his chosen spell.
“Decay!” he shouted, his arms thrown wide.
The Dark essence struck the tall Lightgifter full in the face. He screamed in his saddle, waving his arms desperately to ward himself. He made a feeble attempt to summon Light to his hands, but already the Dark spell was wreaking its havoc, and only a few sprites came to his panicked command. They would be consumed as he ministered his own healing.
The woman fell backwards from her horse, landing somewhere beyond the animals in the dirt.
Curses! The woman had placed herself in the only protected area. Whether it was skill or fright, Kirjath couldn’t gauge. He had enough Dark essence to fight them both, but only if he drew them into the same place and could use one spell.
A rush of sprites pulled through the grass from all directions towards her, summoned from the silken trees, from rocks which glinted in the sunlight, from the bright flowers beside the road. She was good, and fast. But she was a Lightgifter.
“Web!” he shouted, a new pattern in mind. He clapped his hands. His blackened right hand struck the blistered left. He howled with pain, but it was done. The motes spiralled outwards and collected in a swirling, spherical web which cut through the air around him, blocking any attack from the Light. The exhaustion he tried to deny showed in the meagre lattice which failed to cover more than a quarter of a sphere. It would have to be enough to hold the attack.
The woman was still summoning Light essence—her radiant aura towered over the horses. She was stronger than he had thought. He would need more shielding to check her power. He recalled the motes from the mounted Lightgifter with a sharp gesture, binding their added essence into his shield. The man toppled from his saddle, gasping first, then screaming as his limbs failed to protect him from the fall. The rot had bitten deep into him, and his healing was not complete. There was a loud crack and groan as he hit the ground.
The Morgloth. I need the Morgloth!
The thought came with a powerful desire, a rushing tide of lust for the demon’s presence, a yearning for the might he would command through it. Yet he knew it was also becoming an addiction. He tried to use logic to suppress the eagerness. He could win against two Gifters.
But not during the day, not weakened as he was.
Far better if I use the Morgloth and finish them off for sure.
He did not have enough essence to create a gateway inside the shield, not enough to complete his purpose and remain protected.
A blast of sprites cut past his head. The Lightgifters were working in unison, channelling the collected Light essence into a blade which burst through his flickering shield.
By the balls of Krakus!
They were too good. The young man was on his feet again, and he worked in perfect synergy with the woman, meshing his flow with hers to create a unified spell. She must have countered his Dark spell already. It was too late to change anything, Kirjath realised. His hasty plan had to succeed. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the chaos of energy swirling around him. Heat scorched past his head.
It was going to hurt.
The symbol of the Gateway was clear in his mind. He recalled the motes from their shield, drew them to his hand. He managed the first words of the Gateway before the Light seared through his chest. The rest of the words came out in a harsh shriek. It had to work.
He forged on, guiding the motes to their place in the circle, holding the pattern grimly in mind. A twin spell raced through his legs, bringing him to his knees.
It wasn’t Healing these Gifters brought. It was Fire. The Darkmaster had assured them all that such spells had been outlawed in the Dovecote. Obviously not all of the Gifters followed their Rector’s command. Every nerve in his body screamed. The Light really was the nemesis of Dark.
“Morgloth, serve your master!” he cried to the darkening circle at his feet. He fell onto his stomach to avoid the next searing flash of sprites.
“Morgloth, I command you!”
A familiar presence swelled in his mind, coming like a charging bull. He offered the target of a certain tall Lightgifter to the mind within his mind. It was time to feed.
A spell of lightning brilliance shot from the Gifters’ hands. The air crackled with its heat. But at that moment, the demon emerged from the Gateway and blocked the attack with its bulk. The beast took the assault full on it
s chest and spread its ragged wings wide. The power of Light would have left Kirjath screaming, yet the beast didn’t even flinch. The essence was absorbed into its slick black skin.
The horses wheeled, and fled.
The Morgloth leapt, and descended on the tall Lightgifter. Kirjath stiffened as the anticipation swept through him. He forgot about his pains. He smiled as the woman screamed. She stumbled backwards on the road, and fell to the dirt.
The Morgloth filled him more than ever, it was stronger than ever, and he welcomed its presence. The bite, the suck, the life-force which drained into his body like water falling from a cliff, the empty sensation of an unlimited void, the sweet purity of a moment of satisfied lust, all this washed over Kirjath like an intoxicating drink, filling his mind completely with raw power and ecstacy.
He saw the world through the Morgloth’s eyes, he was the Morgloth, and his chin was wet with blood. He tossed the sack-like remains of the Lightgifter aside.
It was only when he saw the woman crawling backwards away from him on the dirt of the road, felt his wings spreading wide for the strike, that he realised what was happening. He had lost his mind.
“Stop!” he shouted at the demon. “I am the master, I am the master!” he raged. It felt as if his mind would burst. The demon had landed on the woman, its black wings arched into the air, its legs straddled her, and part of his mind could smell the sharp scent of fear.
Not my mind, the demon’s mind. He clenched his fists. Pain.
“Stop, stop, stop!” he screamed at his beast, clamping his thoughts around the parasitic mind within, forcing it to submit. He was stronger, he was the master.
Submit, damn you! you foul, beautiful beast. I need this woman alive. He grinned as he felt the animal mind crushed inside his. It felt good to overpower the demon. It proved how strong he was, how immense his skill. He was Lord Kirjath Arkell. He wet his cracked lips, and approached the demon. In the mud at its feet was its quivering, terrified prey.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she babbled incoherent words like too many invocations jumbled together. She tried to scrabble backwards through the undergrowth, but came up against a large boulder. Kirjath commanded his demon aside, and straddled her himself. The black beast stood close by, flapping its wings in frustration.
Kirjath held her chin in his good hand. Her eyes looked as if they might roll back in her head and be lost forever.
“Heal me, Lightgifter,” he commanded.
She stared back at him, uncomprehending, her fear pushing reason and logic far from her mind’s reach. He slapped her, once, with the back of his left hand. Pain jabbed at his flesh like a thousand thorns. But he saw the shift in her eyes, the return of some intelligence behind her gaze. She knew what she was dealing with now, a man who was beating her. Her nostrils flared a little in anger. Kirjath smirked.
He slapped her again, then grabbed her chin in his suppurating hand and forced her wide eyes to look at his.
“Heal me, Lightgifter,” he repeated, “my hands, my head, my skin—you can heal these?”
Her expression hardened, but then her eyes flicked to the right, to the hungry beast, its skin like dirty oil, its muscles rippling as it shifted from one barbed leg to the other, its taloned hands curling restlessly at its sides. All resistance left her face. Kirjath struck her again.
“Try to fight, and my beast knows to tear you apart. Remember that as you work, and keep a steady hand.”
“I need to rise,” the woman said, staring blankly at him.
He backhanded her again. “Did they not teach you any manners in the Dovecote? You will address me as my Lord, for that is what I am.”
She continued to stare blankly.
He raised his hand for another blow.
“Please my Lord, I need to rise.”
He struck her anyway.
Once Kirjath had released her, the Lightgifter rose mechanically to her feet. She kept her gaze downcast, though Kirjath knew she still harbored a burning anger. It was going to be a pleasure to drown the flames of that particular fire.
The woman closed her eyes, and Kirjath shifted uneasily as she searched for Light essence. He reached for the Morgloth, and felt the demon stiffen in anticipation.
Any sign, and you rip her head off.
Sprites pooled between her hands. She muttered a few words of invocation, and approached his side with a sullen expression.
It was horrible being touched by the Light—a prickling, uncomfortable feeling like sunlight crawling under his skin. He wanted to scream. He watched in silence as the Light essence filled his wounds. The sprites pooled where the Lightgifter pointed to. She continued to cover his damaged body as if smearing salve, chanting all the while. He pulled his trousers up to expose the raw skin of his calves, and she added sprites behind his knees. Then she began a new incantation, words unfamiliar to Kirjath’s ears, words with a lilting sing-song sound to them, though there was little joy from the singer. He gasped as heat swept across his body. It felt like he had stepped from a blizzard to stand before an open furnace.
He grabbed her by the throat. “I’m warning you! No tricks.”
“The warmth is part of the healing,” she said tonelessly, when he eased his grip.
He reluctantly allowed her to continue. The breaks in his damaged flesh began to seal. The angry red of his burns faded to a shiny pink beneath the sparks of Light. The sprites faded, and fell from his body like dust, their power spent. He could still feel nothing in his right hand, but the skin had lightened from black to grey.
His scalp itched furiously, and when he ran his left hand over it, it was dry and hairless. Scar tissue rumpled the skin, but it was clean. It was bearable.
“I can do no more now,” said the woman, turning her back on both him and his beast. Her statement came out in a monotone. “I can only heal, not re-create. Your skin is permanently damaged. It will not fester now. With time, your right hand may recover. It will never have strength.” She paused for a moment, then said, “I will not try to attack you again. You and ... that thing, may leave.”
Kirjath cackled. The woman certainly had nerve.
“Well, you may not leave,” said Kirjath, grabbing her arm and spinning her to face him. “I have further need of your services.” He leered at her as a lecherous fool would leer at a serving maiden, then laughed again. Not that, not only that. He had far greater plans for her. She would serve him in many ways.
“We shall ride together from here.” He shot a glance at the Morgloth. The beast was still eyeing the woman with an intense hunger. Kirjath grinned. The mastery, the sheer nerve of his domination of the beast made him feel jubilant.
Retreating down the road a short way, Kirjath came to the corpse of the Lightgifter’s partner, the tall man with the once-too-sharp tongue. Blood had pooled at his shoulders, staining the white fabric of his robe with a deep red collar.
Kirjath removed the white cord from the man’s waist, then pulled the robe from the body. When he donned the robe himself he found that it fitted him well, leaving only the toes of his boots and the tips of his fingers exposed to the sun. The cowl shaded his head comfortably; soft, wet fabric cooling his itching scalp. He smiled down at the vacant corpse and rolled the slack head with his boot. A fly settled in the man’s open mouth.
“Speak up, or I will open your mouth for you,” he mimicked in a wheedling tone. Then he kicked the slack jaw shut. The teeth clocked together with a hollow sound, and the jaw hung slackly once more. He smirked towards the woman. He saw she had averted her gaze, but not enough to be unaware. She looked ill, and tears fell from her cheeks.
“Remember your partner here, should you have any clever little ideas. Do you understand, wench?”
There was a pause. “Yes,” she replied at last, eyes still downcast.
Kirjath waited, his gaze menacing.
“Yes, my Lord.”
The monotone could not fully conceal the loathing.
The Gateway still s
pun idly in the road. Kirjath scooped a small amount of Dark essence from the Gateway spell, pooling it in his left hand. Holding a new pattern in mind, he spoke the words of Silence, and directed the motes into her face, her mouth, her throat. A look of panic became resignation a second later.
Morgloth improve women’s behaviour, Kirjath mused.
Without her voice, she would have no way to command the Light. Just like him, she needed both word and pattern for her spells.
She stared woodenly ahead of her. She was his.
Without warning, the Morgloth launched itself at the woman.
Kirjath cursed. He had lost concentration for a moment; already the beast infused a large part of his mind, like ink soaking into blotting paper. It wanted to feed.
He tried to isolate the demon again in the chaos of his thoughts. The Morgloth pushed the woman to the ground, forced her head back with sharp talons. Kirjath didn’t even bother to shout, he gripped the demon’s mind with all his mental power and clamped down fiercely, desperately.
Would it turn on me if I lost control?
To be ravaged by the hands of his own creation would be the ultimate failure. He had to keep a grip on himself. He spoke the command clearly, and banished the Morgloth to the Gateway. The pressure in his head became immense and painful. The beast issued a guttural growl. Kirjath felt a shudder within his mind, like a rotten fruit rupturing underfoot.
And still the Morgloth resisted.
Kirjath tightened the net of his psychic hold, and felt the demon scream. With a slash of its tail, the Morgloth leapt for the Gateway. It fell into the void with a screech, and was gone.
Kirjath stared at the earth as it faded from jet black to the brown of the surrounding roadway. The tension slowly eased from his shoulders. There was much to be learned about demons. The Darkmaster might have been wise to hide the Gateway spell and to never use it. The Morgloth seemed to be getting stronger every time.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 24