by Vox Day
Cajarc smiled and gestured toward the wounded captive. “Allow me to present to you Hrolf Snaketongue, once the king of Nidarhälla, now an eagle who will soon fly to the gods on scarlet wings. Snaketongue, you have the honor of being the first to fall to Ar Dauragh, soon to be the King of Mordlis and the Iles de Loup.”
The raid on Nidarhälla marked a turning point in Speer’s relationship with Cajarc. When they returned to Tønstadr and the godi carved the blood eagle on the Snaketongue's back, it was Speer, not Cajarc, who stood in the place of honor at his right hand. The Écarlatean became less of a teacher and more of a trusted advisor. Confident in Speer’s sorcerous abilities—and more importantly, his willingness to use them ruthlessly—Cajarc began to plot a plan of conquest using the Iles de Loup as a stronghold from which the southern continent could be assaulted.
The sea strength of the reavers meant they would always have a place to which they could fall back, an island fortress that neither the elves nor the dwarves could ever hope to take. It would not be hard to convince the reavers to attack the southern kingdoms, but it would be difficult to impose at least an element of discipline upon them. They were a fractious people, much given to battling amongst themselves, and on the main island alone, there were at least one hundred clan leaders who styled themselves kings.
It was a challenge, not a problem. Of more concern was the fact that, despite hundreds of encounters with dozens of women procured for him from Tønstadr, Nidarhälla, and the surrounding villages, Speer was yet to father a child, or, insofar as Cajarc could determine, even impregnate a woman.
“The matter is beyond me,” the sorcerer confessed reluctantly as they pored over a map of the islands in the library. “You were not to begin your initiation into your father’s magics until your thirtieth year, but I fear that we shall have to modify his plan for you. He intended that you have at least seven heirs before I turned you over to your next teacher. But now, I don’t see how that is possible.”
“I will have another teacher?” Speer understood the importance of heirs from the strategic perspective, but his present lack of them didn’t affect him in the slightest. Fatherhood held no interest for him. “Who is he? When will he come? What is the nature of the discipline he teaches? Will I finally learn diablerie?”
Cajarc raised his hand. “You will have your answers, Ar Dauragh, but not from me.” He seemed uncharacteristically somber, and for a moment looked like he wanted to say something but instead began to roll up the map. He restored it to its place on a shelf among a number of other maps, and sighed and beckoned to Speer.
“I see no alternative, so there is no reason to put this off. Follow me. It’s time you learn what lies beneath the castle.”
“The dungeons?” Speer asked as they walked out of the library. He was inordinately excited. Was this why he had never been allowed to descend below the ground level? The door that gave access to them behind the kitchen was always locked. Had his new teacher been kept captive here for all these years? Or was it one of his father’s colleagues, a true Witchking, living hidden away from everyone, even from the castle attendants?
Cajarc produced a key from a thong around his neck and unlocked the thick wooden door. It opened easily and quietly, as if it had been used with regularity. Speer followed Cajarc down the steep circular stone stairs that led to the dungeons below the ground level.
It was without windows, dark and damp. The only light that ever shined upon the stony walls and floors had to be fire or magical in nature. With an indifferent gesture, Cajarc lit all of the rushlights in bronze sconces attached to the stone walls on both sides. Most of them were half-burned already, Speer saw.
“Is there a prisoner here?”
“Of sorts.”
Cajarc led Speer past some empty cells, which showed no signs of having been occupied in years, and to a large iron door that was not only locked but barred with three thick metal slats. The upper and lower slats were iron, but the middle one gleamed argent in the rushlight. It was silver. It also featured a square with a handle at about eye level. Speer assumed it covered a window into the chamber.
“What are you keeping in there?”
“At the moment, nothing. Help me remove these and get the door open.”
When the door opened, Speer saw at once that the large room inside was directly underneath the main tower, because it was the same unusual shape. It was a pentagon, and within it was constructed a permanent pentagram that consisted of two tracks of iron connecting the five massive silver candelabra, each of which held three fresh, fat candles. The two tracks were about four fingers deep and permitted the addition of a salt or liquid pentagram as well as the iron.
Someone, it was very clear, intended this room for some very serious summonings. The excited fluttering in Speer’s stomach abruptly soured, as for the first time he felt a little afraid of whatever it was that Cajarc intended. It did not help his nerves when two of the guards entered the room, one carrying a large sack and the other a small barrel. After lighting the candles, the two men began to fill the iron tracks, first with salt from the sack, then with a dark red liquid that was poured from the barrel. Speer knew from its smell that it had to be blood.
Cajarc must’ve sensed his alarm. “It’s only the pig we had earlier for dinner,” he said.
“I only thought—”
“Yes, I can imagine. The blood of Man and Dwarf is more potent, Ar Dauragh. The blood of elves, and your blood, for that matter, is even more so. But pig’s blood will suffice here. After all, it would hardly serve our purpose were we to unduly prey upon the very people we wish to follow us.”
“My blood is more potent than a Man’s? Cajarc, am I not a man?”
“That is what I am hoping your new teacher will be able to determine.” He looked at Speer and shrugged. “As it happens, I am increasingly suspicious that you are not enough of a Man to breed with a mere woman. Your bloodline is too pure. Which, of course, is encouraging on one level but creates difficulties on another.”
“Am I correct in assuming that my teacher is not a man either?”
“He most certainly is not.” Cajarc put his hands on his hips and looked around the room, nodding approvingly. “All right, one last thing and we can go out and get that door closed. Give me your hand.”
“Why?” Speer winced as Cajarc drew what looked like a silver dagger from his belt and nicked his finger, then squeezed five or six drops of his blood into the very center of the giant pentagram.
“He’s been waiting a long time for this. And he’s not going to come if he doesn’t know you’re here.”
They retired behind the door, and at Cajarc’s direction, the two silent guards slid the three heavy slats into place. Then, after receiving a small, writhing, burlap sack from one of them, the sorcerer sent them back up the stairs, leaving Speer and Cajarc alone.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Speer said, sensing that the older man was hesitant about summoning what Speer assumed must be a demon. He was eager to learn diablerie, but from what he had read of the art, the sort of precautions Cajarc was taking were extraordinary and indicated that the spirit being called was of considerable power.
“It’s not a good idea,” Cajarc admitted. “It merely happens to be the only one I’ve got. If you have any suggestions, I’m willing to listen.”
“It makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your plan, I mean. It makes sense. If I’m not entirely human, if my blood is magically potent, then it is because I am, in some way I don’t understand at all, part demon. And since my human antecedents are gone, we had better direct our questions toward my demonic ones.”
Speer grinned ruefully. “Unless, of course, you wish my next course of study to be necromancy!”
“Let the dead stay dead,” Cajarc said dismissively. “They’re unreliable bastards anyway. Demons don’t hesitate to lie, but at least you have a reasonable hope of anticipating their self-interest. What
ever they do or say, it will always be with the object of getting inside a body somehow.”
Speer nodded. It didn’t surprise him that the Écarlatean had at least a modicum of familiarity with the darkest art. The sack Cajarc had been given still appeared to be moving. “Is there something alive in there?”
“Indeed. Consider this your first lesson in diablerie. You know what a demon is?”
“Immortal spirits without souls.”
“Yes. But do you know what that means?”
Speer reflected and realized he had never actually thought through the concept.
“No,” he admitted.
“Their spirits are immortal because they are the sons of angelic fathers. They died long ago, thousands of years ago. But they remember the flesh and they crave it above all else.” The sorcerer lifted the bag. “Thus, we offer them flesh and bind them to it, lest they possess us instead.”
“And that works?”
The sorcerer laughed. “Watch and see, Ar Dauragh. And fear not, this is the true art of the Witchking. The one I am calling is a powerful spirit, but he would never harm you. One might even say he is the only family you have left to you.”
Speer watched as Cajarc began speaking in the ancient Etruccan tongue, something he had been learning but had not yet mastered. He was impressed: The incantation was a long one, and yet the sorcerer—or rather, the diableriste—needed no text. He recited the long and difficult summoning without stumble or hesitation.
There was a flash from inside the iron chamber, and a deep, ominous grumble came through the small opening in the door. A foul stench of refuse and decay reached Speer, and an oppressive shadow seemed to fall upon the two men who stood together staring into the chamber at the swirling, smoky darkness within.
“I am here.” Speer heard a rumbling, inhuman voice from the heart of the shadow. “Is the moment come at last? Does the child live?”
“He lives and stands here beside me. Will you keep your vow to Ar Mauragh and teach him? His son has need of instruction only you can provide.”
A rhythmic gutteral thunder was the initial response, and it took Speer a moment to realize that the demon was laughing.
“No vow to a dead man binds me, sorcerer. Only this iron, salt, and blood. Release me and we shall discuss the matter.”
Instead of replying, Cajarc reached into the sack and withdrew one of the castle's cats, a small white one with orange markings. He put his arm through the window, and with an upward flick of his wrist, lobbed the squalling animal into the center of the giant pentagram. His view partially blocked by Cajarc’s arm, Speer didn’t see exactly what happened, but he had the impression that something arrested the cat's movement through the air, as it seemed to almost float down to the floorstones, its back arched in feline alarm.
The swirling shadow flared, almost blindingly purple-bright in its darkness. Then it was gone, leaving only an unnaturally still cat crouched on all fours and staring hungrily at Cajarc and Speer as they stared back at it through the window in the door.
Cajarc nodded to Speer, and the two of them removed the three metal slats again so the diableriste could open the door. Somehow, the sight of the little white cat crouching in the middle of the great iron pentagram frightened Speer more than anything he had ever seen before. And yet, there was nothing visibly strange about it, other than the way it steadily stared at him as if taking his measure.
“Welcome, Scaum-Durna,” Cajarc said. “I am so pleased you have accepted my humble offering. This is Ar Dauragh, the only son of Ar Mauragh.”
“I have come, little brother.” The cat spoke. To Speer’s horror, the voice that came out of the little creature's mouth was the monstrous one that had spoken from the shadow.
“And now that we are together at last, we shall finish what your fathers began.”
The seagull soared over Speer’s head in a clouded grey sky. A storm was sweeping in from the sea, but it was still two or three bells out and the rain had not yet begun to fall. The other birds kept their distance from it. They were able to sense there was much more to the gull than what could be seen by Man’s eyes.
“Have you considered the matter?” he heard the demon’s voice in his mind.
“Is there no other way?”
“I understand your reluctance. But it has been five years. Cajarc stands in your way.”
“Perhaps if I try to convince him again?”
He heard the demon’s rumbling laughter both in his mind and from the sky above him. Scaum-Durna had taught him a great deal since the first summoning, and in truth, the spirit did seem to regard him as his brother.
Diablerie, as it happened, was entirely misnamed, for demons were not devils, but merely the unwanted children of devils. The dark power of the Witchkings had its source in their understanding the significance of this difference, as they made use of the demon’s longing for their long-dead flesh to fuse the soulless with the souled. Speer himself was the product of several such unholy infusions, he had learned. So strong was the demonic spirit in him, the child of the two most powerful Witchking bloodlines, that he could no longer breed conventionally with unsullied mortals.
It was still possible with demonic assistance, of course, but there was little point in doing so if new infusions would be necessary with every child Speer would father, and perhaps even every grandchild. Instead of the expected decades, it would take centuries to wreak his father’s revenge upon those who had defeated him, and even with his life extended by sorcery, Speer could not reasonably expect to survive that long.
And so Speer had come up with another plan. Observing that animals mature much faster than men, he proposed combining man, demon, and animal into one fast-breeding, intelligent, and warlike race, a race that would be willing and able to wage war on Man and Elf alike, without mercy and without remorse.
But to his surprise, Cajarc rejected his plan out of hand, telling him it was an abomination and the very opposite of the Witchkings’ dream of elevating Man to godhood. The sorcerer argued that to degrade men and make them into some sort of bestial weapon would be a betrayal of Speer's father, not the execution of his most sacred charge. He counseled patience.
But Speer was not patient. He was eager to leave Mordlis, desperate to make use of his newly acquired skills, hungry to make war and shed blood. And always he had Scaum-Durna whispering in his ear.
“We can do it tonight. Summon me in the usual manner, but not in the chamber. In a simple circle from which you can release me.”
“What good will that do? Even if I release you, Cajarc will simply banish you as soon as he finds out, and then you won’t even be able to continue teaching me.”
“Not if you give him to me.” High overhead, the gull furled its wings and plunged down toward the sea. It came up again with a small fish in its beak. “Give me his body. No one will know he is gone, but he will no longer stand in your way. Or in the way of our goals. He is not the only one who knew your father, and you can be certain that your father never hesitated when faced with such disloyalty.”
“Cajarc isn’t disloyal!”
“Isn’t he? Your sole purpose in life, your sole dream, has been to avenge your race. The Écarlatean has served you well, but he is no Witchking. He has limits that do not touch you. He is bound by strictures and moralities your father scorned. You must do what is necessary, no matter the cost. Your false parents died at their own hands, and your father slew your mother—”
“My father did what?”
“She died willingly before she could be captured after giving birth to you. She paid the price. If Cajarc was truly loyal, he would do the same. And if he is not willing, then you know he is not loyal and merits no restraint on your part.”
“Are you sure you don’t simply want his body?”
“The body of a sorcerer is not undesirable, I admit it. But Cajarc has only to stand aside and I would make no claim on him. Instead, he puts you off and whines about abominations and degradations an
d bygone moralities. So give him to me.”
Speer looked out to sea as he considered the demon’s words. The storm clouds were visible now in the distance, almost black as they loomed low over the white-capped waters.
“I will give him one last chance, tonight,” he told Scaum-Durna. “If he will not serve me as I wish, you may do as you see fit with him.”
The winds were howling outside. The vehement force of them could be heard despite the thick stone walls of the castle. Rain lashed the parapets. It would be a miserable night outside for the guardsmen on duty. But it was warm and dry in the library, where the dark, smoky shadow of Scaum-Durna twisted and writhed within the magical bounds of the chalk circle that Speer had drawn before summoning the demon with one of the spells the demon itself had taught him.
“What are you doing?” Cajarc shouted, red-faced with fury as he strode in through the door.
Speer looked up from his codex, a history of one of the early dynasties of the Thauronian kings, who appeared to have been an exceptionally bloodthirsty lot, even by Wagran standards.
“I had some ideas I wanted to discuss with Scaum-Durna. I didn’t want that damn bird flapping about here crapping on everything.”
“This is too dangerous! Do you not realize you are dealing with an ancient and very powerful spirit here? You do not summon a fell spirit of that sort of age and power outside of the spell chamber downstairs! Ever! Do you not understand the risks you are taking?”
“I would not harm the little brother,” the demon addressed the sorcerer. “If you recall correctly, you said as much yourself.”
“Stay out of this, Scaum-Durna!” Cajarc snapped. “I mean you no disrespect, but this does not concern you, it concerns Ar Dauragh’s judgment—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the lack of it!”
The demon subsided and continued to coil about itself in the confines of the magical circle, all the while staring malevolently at the sorcerer.
Cajarc turned back to face Speer.