A Demon in Silver (War of the Archons)

by R. S. Ford

The vision was haunting and revitalising all at once, imbuing her shattered limbs with a last vestige of power. She drew in breath through collapsed lungs, filling them so her chest expanded, the shattered ribs cracking back into place, the scorched flesh binding once more. Seared hands, no more than blackened bone, pressed flat against the desert floor as she raised her head, her body wracked with pain. A howl issued from inside her, a sound as alien to her ears as the nightmare was to her mind. Across the desert, as the red sky turned to yellow, there was no one to hear her scream.

  In the still of the desert her dead flesh cooled. She shivered as she lay there, grasping onto life, willing herself to move as night turned to day and the blazing heat of the sun began to bake the ground.

  The first attempt to stand filled her body with unholy agony and she whimpered, crying out, though no tears would fall from her scorched eyes. She rose, only to collapse to the earth. On her second attempt she managed to remain standing for a moment, squinting cracked brows into the searing sunlight before falling again. The third time, gritting her smashed teeth, feeling blood fill her mouth and the scabrous flesh of her body cracking in the heat, she managed to remain standing.

  The desert rolled to the horizon in all directions. She had no means to determine which way she might find help or if any route would provide succour. With no notion of where to go, she took her first step.

  As the sun beat down she placed one foot relentlessly after the other. The baking sands eroded the flesh that remained on her feet and blood pooled thickly between her toes. The pain numbed her senses and with every step she issued a moan. Misery enveloped her but she would not give in. She would not die in this place. Whatever the state her body, her spirit was still intact. She would not let the wretchedness of her torn and rent flesh defeat her will to carry on.

  As the day wore on, the heat became oppressive. It was curious that she could feel it despite her blackened flesh, her charred nerve endings still able to react to the vagaries of the sun. But she paid it little mind. Better that she focus on finding help, rather than questioning why she could still feel, or why she still lived.

  Despite her wounds, she walked inexorably on, the pain relentless. Her cracked skin began to weep, drying instantly in the sun, leaving a sheen over her body. When she moved, her skin would break open again, the torment unbearable, and yet she bore it still with every tortuous step.

  Scorching day turned to freezing night and back to day. Still she walked with relentless tread. Refusing to stop. Refusing to die. When she saw hills begin to rise in the distance she almost wept. How would she ever go on? Even were she not grievously injured, crossing those hills would be a task that required immense effort. But what other choice had she? Turn back? Pick another direction?

  No. She had come this far. She would move ahead or die. Those were the only options open to her.

  The ground hardened below her feet the higher she trod. The boiling sand of the desert replaced by scorching rock. Every footstep left a bloody imprint behind her. In places she had to crawl, her hands burning on the sharp surface.

  Above her the sun had risen high, taunting her with its unyielding rays. She ignored it, not allowing it to leach the strength from her. One step at a time.

  A noise made her stop. She stood in the silence of a gorge, ears straining, but there was nothing but her heart beating in her chest, her breath coming short and shallow.

  As she took another step the noise came again, the low growl of an animal. In the gorge, there was no way to tell how close the creature was and she slowly turned, feeling the atrophied sinew crack and whine in her neck as she did so. Her breaths came faster, her heart pounding. She saw nothing, but it did little to stifle her panic.

  One more step and she heard the tinkling of shale behind her, the scrabble of paws on rock. Without looking around she burst into action, the pain of movement agonising, the rock tearing the soles of her feet as she moved faster.

  She was surprised by her speed, the impetus of panic, or fear, imbuing her with an inner strength she thought had waned. Despite her newfound vigour she would never be able to outrun the beast pursuing her.

  But she would not stop before it took her.

  Would not give in to the hunter.

  The gorge dipped and she slipped down a sheer slope, feeling the broken and cracked flesh shred from her palms and feet and buttocks. The jolt of landing at the bottom sent her broken teeth clashing together, every joint screaming in protest. As she continued her flight she dared a glance back, seeing her pursuer standing at the top of the rise, feline eyes staring in hunger, its shoulders bunched, huge paws gripping the edge of the rock as it prepared to follow.

  Fear was replaced with the instinct to survive. She had to try, to make one last show of defiance.

  She ran on, the gorge narrowing at either side, before opening up. Ahead was a dead end; a wall of sheer rock barred any hope of escape. And as she stopped before it, the pain in her body returning more keenly than ever, all she could do was laugh.

  The noise echoed around the gorge. She turned to see the mountain lion approaching slowly. It knew there was nowhere for her to go. It was a lean beast, ribs showing starkly through the tan fur that covered its flesh. It padded forward on dusty paws, claws drawn as it moved silently toward her.

  All she could hope was that the end would be quick.

  Or perhaps she should fight?

  She almost laughed again at the thought. Her body was broken. There was nowhere to run. The lion would have little trouble bringing down prey much larger and in infinitely better condition. And yet…

  The lion was within ten yards now and she took a step forward to meet it. There was no doubt in its eyes, and it did not falter in its approach despite her defiance. Why would it? She was easy meat.

  A victim.

  But she would not be a victim. Not of this beast. Not here, in this place.

  Her fists clenched as she took one more step. A crimson flood descended over her eyes. Blood. The screaming of demons. A flash of a silver spear. A flurry of feathers.

  The mountain lion bared its fangs, leaping at her. Her hands caught the beast’s jaws. Its fetid breath blew in her broken face as she felt its teeth pierce her hands, tearing flesh and muscle to the bone. The lion roared.

  She screamed back, defiant, as the crimson haze turned to black.

  The scream carried her through the darkness. Through the silence where there was no pain. An endless limbo into which she would have gladly submerged herself forever.

  Her eyes opened, seeing the sky above the gorge had turned to dark grey.

  She was lying on the ground. For how long she had lain there she could not say. Turning her head, she saw the mountain lion on its side, dead eyes staring, jaws unnaturally wide, split apart.

  Gingerly she raised her hands, bracing herself to see palms torn to shreds. They were still cracked and broken, scabbed from the fire that had consumed her, but they were whole. Black blood covered them, dried and crusted, falling away as she clenched a fist, sending dull pain through every digit.

  With some effort, she managed to stand. The dead beast before her looked pitiful now, all ferocity stripped from it. Just a corpse in the desert – as she soon would be if she did not start moving.

  Still wracked by pain she began her journey, retracing agonising steps back along the gorge.

  There was no time to question what had happened. She had to survive, that was all she could think about. Not where she had come from. Not how she still lived after being so horribly burned, after falling from the heavens, after killing a beast that should even now be feasting on her immolated flesh.

  She could not even ask her own name.

  The desert cared nothing for it.

  7

  The Cordral Extent, 105 years after the Fall

  ‘DON’T choke the hammer.’

  The echo of those words rang in Garvin’s ears. Advice his father had given him, what seemed a hundred years ago. Garvi
n Longfeather had long since learned to swing a hammer with deft ability but still his father’s advice came back to him every time he raised one.

  His mule snorted as Garvin hit the nail. Once, twice, and it was in. He took the waterwheel in his strong hands, flexing the spoke to see if there was any give. The nail had done its job and Garvin stood, hefting the wheel into an upright position. With a grunt, he lifted it back onto the axle, knee deep in water, feeling the sun blazing off his shoulders. When it was fixed on he took a step back and looked at the waterwheel. Without it they were lost. Without it nothing would grow in this place. It was their most precious possession and one Garvin cherished.

  In the distance, he could hear the boys laughing. He had always regretted bringing them here, to this harsh and merciless land, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it now. Best teach them well and raise them right. They’d grow strong at least, in this arid place. Garvin wouldn’t have to worry on that score.

  He paused to cup a handful of water from the stream and douse his sweating head, feeling momentary relief wash over him. Then he stepped from the water and tethered the mule to the counter-axle. It tried to bite him, swinging its dolorous head, but Garvin had learned to be quick when dealing with the mangy animal. Many a bruised arm had taught him that much. Despite the beast’s bad temper, it began to walk anyway, turning the axle and moving the waterwheel attached to it.

  Garvin paused to watch as the blades cut through the water, depositing it in the trough that flowed from the shallow stream. The gutters began to fill, running down the hill towards the field, and Garvin felt relief wash over him just like those waters.

  He allowed himself a rare smile. He hadn’t smiled much in the five years since Tilda had died giving birth to their son, Fenn. There had been little reason for it, and Garvin took whatever simple pleasures he could. A working waterwheel and well-irrigated fields were about as much pleasure as he’d find today.

  Suddenly one of the boys screamed. The smile drained from Garvin’s face as quick as it had appeared. He was moving before he even knew which direction to run, the hammer dropping from his hand before he realised he might need to use it as a weapon.

  ‘Da!’

  Garvin recognised Darrick’s voice. His older boy sounded panicked. It was rare Darrick succumbed to any emotion, not since Tilda had died.

  He moved down the ridge, feet slipping on the loose gravel. Darrick shouted for him again. Garvin slipped at the bottom, falling on his arse and tearing his trews on the sharp shale. Stumbling to his feet he raced along the valley floor, following the sound of his son’s shouts. They weren’t so loud now but he could still hear them. As his feet stamped along the dusty ground and the breath came short in his throat he realised they were no longer in alarm. In fact, they were squabbling as usual.

  Garvin slowed, turning the corner to see his boys looking at something on the ground.

  ‘Leave it!’ said Fenn, grabbing his brother’s shirt.

  Darrick pushed his younger brother aside, a stick in his hand.

  ‘It’s dead, ain’t it,’ said the elder brother. ‘Doesn’t matter if I give it a poke or not. I wanna know what it is.’

  ‘No,’ said Fenn, clearly in distress. ‘Leave it.’

  Garvin moved toward them, unable to see what it was they were looking at. Darrick was threatening something on the ground, holding his stick out like a broadsword.

  ‘Darrick,’ Garvin said.

  Both his sons jumped, turning as one to see their father approaching. Fenn immediately ran towards him.

  ‘Da. We found an animal. It’s all burned.’

  Garvin moved forward, gingerly. He could see now what they were fussing over. Something lay dead at the bottom of the valley, blackened by fire. Some hair was charred and matted to its head and there was blood on its hands and feet. Garvin couldn’t tell if it was man or beast and from the smell he didn’t fancy getting close enough to find out.

  ‘What are we gonna do with it, Da?’ asked Darrick, still brandishing his stick.

  ‘Well we can’t just leave it here to rot,’ said Garvin, looking the thing over and wondering how it had managed to get itself in such a state. ‘We’ll have to bury it.’

  Gingerly he cupped one hand beneath the corpse and turned it over. It was human – but whether man or woman he couldn’t tell.

  ‘Ugh, Da! It stinks,’ said Darrick.

  Garvin couldn’t argue with that; it stank like someone had set fire to a pile of donkey shit.

  ‘Fenn, run back to the house and get my shovel—’

  Eyelids flipped open in the charred face, two pools of white amidst the blackened flesh. Fenn and Darrick screamed, Garvin scrabbling back from the body, holding his arms out to protect his boys, not that they needed protecting from the burned and broken thing that lay before them.

  The corpse sucked in a long wheezing gulp as those eyes stared, searching the sky for something. Blue irises glared like clear water in black earth, searching until they came to rest on Garvin.

  He and the boys could only stare as the corpse raised a hand. Garvin at first wondered if it was a hand of accusation, if this was some messenger of the Scorpion god Vermitrix come to send him through the Bone Gate. It took him too long to realise that this was no corpse. That this was a soul in pain, begging silently for succour.

  ‘Darrick, get water from the well, as much as you can carry,’ he said. ‘Fenn, run back to the house and find as many blankets as you can.’

  As always, both boys obeyed without question.

  Garvin stared down at the body. He knew there was little he could do to save the waning life in front of him, but he couldn’t simply stand by and let it die. That was not Garvin Longfeather’s way.

  Carefully he knelt and took the burned body in his arms, lifting it gently. It weighed hardly anything, but the stink almost made him gag. As he began the long walk back to his house all he could think was how useless this was. Even the most skilled apothecary would be able to do little but alleviate the pain. Whoever it was he held in his arms, they needed no healer. A priest would be more apt.

  Garvin walked with growing despair as the wheezing body stared up at him. The eyes still gaped but they no longer pleaded. There was a resignation there now – as though this life had held on for the longest time, waiting for another human to find it in the desert before it could succumb to the mercy of the All-Mother.

  When he finally made it back to the house both his boys were waiting for him on the doorstep. Garvin didn’t pause, carrying the body inside and laying it on his bed, the filth and burned flesh instantly dirtying his clean sheets.

  He took up one of the blankets Fenn had laid out in a pile and tore it into a strip. After dipping it into the bucket of water Darrick had fetched, he approached the body. Still it stared up, the eyes the only thing that seemed untarnished. Garvin had no idea where to start. Fenn walked forward and Garvin could see he was fighting his fear. Gently, the boy raised one of the body’s arms so Garvin could wrap the bandage.

  ‘Darrick, get a knife from the kitchen and cut the blankets into strips.’

  Silently, his son obeyed.

  As day turned to night Garvin Longfeather and his sons bandaged a broken and burned body they had found in the desert. With the grey moon rising over the desert, he doubted the stranger would last till morning.

  8

  GARVIN had expected the stranger to die overnight. But as he stood in the doorway, watching the dull red light of morning encroach on the room, he saw it breathing, stronger than the day before.

  It was hard to believe the All-Mother had not come – it would have been a mercy – but it was obvious she was busy elsewhere.

  He stepped into the room. The body’s chest moved up and down in a steady rhythm. Garvin could see he and the boys had done a good job. Almost every inch of their patient had been covered, hiding the charred flesh beneath. If he’d possessed balm he would have used it. There was every chance his blankets wou
ld cause an infection, but it had seemed the right thing to do at the time. Besides, this soul could well be bound for the Bone Gate whatever they did; it was unlikely it would survive long enough for infection to set in.

  Slowly he reached forward, touching one of the bandages on the body’s arm. It had dried in the night, become encrusted over the flesh beneath. The smell that had assailed him the day before had relented slightly and the windows to the room were open, the fresh morning air chasing the stench away.

  Garvin peeled back the dried material, hearing a sickening sound as it came away. He stopped, half expecting the body to convulse in pain as the flesh was torn away from bone but still it made no sound. The underside of the bandage was encrusted with dirt and blood and the scab had come away from the body to reveal… healed skin. The flesh was raw and livid but it looked healthy.

  He frowned, staring at the arm that had been miraculously renewed overnight. Unable to believe his eyes, Garvin peeled away more of the bandage, seeing yet more blackened skin and dirt slough away with it to reveal whole flesh beneath.

  With careful tenderness, Garvin reached out a hand, his fingers gently brushing the skin of the body’s arm. How was this possible? Magic?

  No. There was no magic. Not anymore. There hadn’t been magic for a hundred—

  The arm snatched out, grasping Garvin’s wrist. The eyes flicked open, regarding him with that cold blue stare. He opened his mouth to speak. Maybe the body could hear him; maybe he could offer some words of comfort.

  Before he had a chance to say anything the hand tightened on his wrist. He issued a grunt of pain, the grip so tight he felt his bones grinding.

  Garvin snatched at the hand, the bandages that bound it cracking and peeling under his own clawing grasp. It felt as though his arm would break and he almost shouted for mercy.

  As quick as that arm had snatched out it weakened, falling back to the bed. The eyes closed, and Garvin staggered back, knocking over a chair.

  He stared down at the body. This corpse-like figure that had seemed on the threshold of the Bone Gate, possessing so much power in its grip.