by Colt, K. J.
The Demon gasped as a body launched itself over the side of the ship, not a few feet from him. There was a splash as the man hit the water, then a garbled scream cut short. Another sailor followed suit. And another.
The Demon ground his teeth as he felt his claws tearing, the wood giving way. He opened his wings, though he knew he could not fly in this storm. I’m dessert, he thought, and then there was empty air around him. A moment later, he slammed into the water, breaking the surface and sinking under with a swarm of bubbles.
He nearly blacked out from the impact, but he felt his body begin to rise. Sea or sky was nearly indistinguishable except that one nourished his lungs where the other smothered them. A rush of adrenaline kept his arms and legs working, treading water as the malicious waves batted him around. As his eyes strained into the waves, he glimpsed something on the surface, floating toward him.
Almost blindly he reached for it, finding it was warm and flesh-covered. A hand. He cast the limb away in horror, only to find something else had brushed up against him. This was not warm. It was cold, smooth, and scaly. Sieqa. I’m dead. He glimpsed movement in the water around him. One shape…two…maybe three.
The Demon was sick to his stomach. He waited for his end—that merciless pull to the crushing depths of the ocean where he would be rent to pieces and devoured. He saw something surfacing—a pale, cadaverous face with dead, black eyes. Long tendrils of dark hair streamed from her head as though they had a life of their own. She stared at him, though she was not the same creature from before. Her long fingers emerged from the water, a shadow in their grasp.
It took him a moment to realize she was offering this to him. As he struggled to keep afloat, he reached out desperately, his hand grazing hers. Then she was gone, and the object was locked in his rigid fingers. Hard, smooth, sharp—the Demon recognized the dark shape as Jaice’s obsidian blade. Nigqor-miq. Was it a threat? A gift? His thoughts were too jumbled to discern any sense of logic. He spat out a mouth full of saltwater, but his burst of energy was gone. It was all he could do to keep his chin above the waves. He closed his eyes.
“Ah! There! You will help him inside.”
The voice snapped his eyes open, and he saw the longboat heading toward him. Its passengers were a handful of dark silhouettes, lit only by the Ilangien at the helm. He had the back of the wizard’s robes clutched in his hands, securing him as Jagur stretched over the water toward the Demon.
The wizard’s grip was weak, and the Demon’s hand nearly slipped from his.
“Try again,” the Ilangien ordered, “with effort this time.”
Jagur made a funny sound between a grunt and a whine, and he pulled at the Demon with both his pudgy hands. The Demon scrounged what little strength he could to heave himself over the side of the vessel. He did not look to see the grim expressions of the passengers who had survived; he gazed only at the broken carcass of the ship, a rocky blade stuck in her belly. The tragic sight was coupled by the nausea from the Ilangien’s proximity. The Demon vomited over the edge into the ocean and hung there, clutching Jaice’s knife tightly in his hand. What next, he wondered miserably.
“Durmorth, my sincere apologies.”
The Demon turned to look at the Ilangien but was met only with a wall of darkness as his consciousness left him.
CHAPTER FOUR
GUIDING LIGHT
THE BACK ROOM at the Tipsy Sailor was burning. No one in the port town of Shailatom knew it, though, and certainly no one outside the room knew it either. Heated stares in the smoldering silence scorched the air without the aid of physical flames, and all present were cast in the light of their prize—whether they knew it or not.
Safir-Tamik and his mysterious female companion occupied one side of the table, outnumbered by the four sullen wizards seated across from them. No one, save the woman, so much as glanced at the Ilangien reclining at the table’s head. He, however, regarded each occupant in turn, assessing expressions, posture, and the unspoken atmosphere of hostility. At last the immortal could endure the silence no longer.
“Exactly what is it you want?” The clear voice was tinted with impatience.
Lelan Jagur spoke first, though his eyes remained steadfast upon the Jornoan. “We want what we paid for. We want what the contract promised. We want the Stone of Prophecy.”
“The Stone is not for you to have,” Safir-Tamik said. “It belongs to my people.”
“You are a thief and a liar!” Jagur blurted. “You never intended to uphold your end of the agreement.” He took a breath to calm himself, though his round face was already ripe. “You would have had me deliver some worthless rock to my peers, keeping the Stone for yourself. We funded this expedition, and we expect our rightful property.”
“You were content enough with the ‘worthless rock’, it seemed,” Safir-Tamik said with a snide smile. “I cannot answer for your ignorance.”
“You tried to deceive us, and you will answer for it!” another wizard cried, rising.
Jagur motioned for him to sit down. “We will take the Stone and consider overlooking your treachery.”
Safir-Tamik shook his head. “You speak of treachery, but it was your hired thief who brought you the rock. He seemed to know the true identity of the Stone, yet he never mentioned this to you. I suggest next time you hire better help.
“As for the Stone, you know nothing of the power within, and in your hands it would be wasted. What do common wizards know of prophecy?” he scoffed. “For ages my people have recorded the path of the future, predicted events the most reputed soothsayer could not foresee—”
“You have stolen from your own people, then,” Jagur countered. “I am certain you will learn to live with the guilt. I truly don’t care. We are taking the Stone, and you will honor the contract.”
“Listen!” Safir-Tamik snapped. “You don’t understand what he is. Your simple minds could not grasp the scope of his ability. He is the Mentrailyic—the Immortal Prophet, the Seer of the Mountain. Once word has escaped that you possess the Stone of Prophecy—and it will—others will seek him, hunt him. He will be snatched from your fingers and exploited, all because of your incompetence.”
“And you will protect him from the world?” Jagur sneered. “I find it difficult to believe that one being could stir such a fire.”
“Don’t you?” the woman voiced. “Isn’t that why you want him?”
The wizards glared at her.
“The Stone is Broken,” the Ilangien mused, seemingly heedless to their argument. “Explain this statement.”
Finally Safir-Tamik turned to him, though the Jornoan could not hold the immortal’s penetrating gaze. He hesitated, clearly reluctant to heed the request. “It’s a cryptic message.”
“Most obviously,” the Ilangien said, humorless. “Do you know its meaning, or are you avoiding an answer?”
“I think,” Safir-Tamik began slowly, choosing his words, “it refers to the One Fate.”
The Ilangien continued to stare at him. “You believe I have found it.”
“What else could it mean?” the Jornoan grumbled. “When I first heard the phrase, I didn’t know for how long it had been true. All whispers since fell silent.”
“What are we talking about?” Jagur demanded.
“We talk of nothing.” Safir-Tamik rounded on the wizard with a glare. “This does not involve you.”
“I beg to differ,” Jagur returned, his nose in the air. “This ‘One Fate,’ as you call it, clearly affects the value of the Stone. And it proves that you had other motives to organize this journey—”
“It proves nothing!” Safir-Tamik snapped. “You are hardly one to sling accusations when your involvement in this whole affair is illegal.”
Jagur’s hue deepened. “You—”
“Mystland law,” Safir-Tamik pressed. “This would be the retrieval of a magical item without permission from the Medori Council, not to mention blatant theft.”
“Item,” the Ilangien echoed, a
hint of a smile crossing his face. “There is an item.” He touched the collar around his neck. “’Tis my preference to accompany the party who can remove this piece.”
There was a moment of silence where everyone in the room turned their attention to the collar in question.
Jagur waved his hand. “A trifle. Of all the skills and talents of my peers, I can promise that at least one will be able to remove it.”
“You are an ignorant fool,” Safir-Tamik said. “You think you can wave your fingers to undo the complicated workings of my people?”
“Nay, Medoriate Jagur is only a translator,” the Ilangien said.
“That collar is not some useless decoration,” the Jornoan continued, his attention upon the wizard. “It has a purpose, and it is undoubtedly protected by powerful magic—magic wrought by the hands of my people. No mere wizard can undo the spells that forged it.”
“Can you, then, undo them?” the Ilangien asked.
Safir-Tamik still did not look at him. “I can determine the nature of the binding, and my connections can—”
“We know what your promises are worth,” Jagur interrupted.
“Words have little substance,” the Ilangien said, his voice calm and even. He studied each person at the table. “But promises are the foundation of my hope. Entice me in your sincere offers. Give me cause to follow you, and you may name me your willing companion.” He stood. “I am weary. Do not be tempted to rouse me before you have determined your best proposal.” Before another word could be said, the Ilangien turned and left the room, shutting the door neatly behind him.
The Demon was surfacing from the depths of dark and cloudy waters. All was silent until he rose to meet muddled sounds and indistinguishable shapes of light and dark. Was he awake? Dreaming? Dead? Maybe he had drowned in the Draebongaunt after all. His limbs were heavy—too heavy to move, and he could feel his heart beating slowly, steadily in his chest, resonating in his ears. He took a breath, decided it was real, and deliberately opened his eyes.
There were cracks in the ceiling, some thin, some large and spidery. Patches of plaster had fallen away in some places. He blinked and tried to refocus his thoughts, but it was so difficult to concentrate. He turned his head, and the room slowly shifted with his vision. Doq en nigqora? What is this place? The walls were crowded around him, and his only visual escape was a small painting hanging crookedly opposite him. The image was of the ocean, vast and dark, beneath a cheerful blue sky filled with happy, puffy clouds. The shoreline had a dock with a small ship and a—
What’s wrong with me? The Demon blinked again. He tried to rub his eyes, but his heavy arms… Are tied? To a bed. And they were. He stared at the rope that bound his arm to a bedpost. I’m in a bed. A real bed. With a pillow. And it’s soft. Then a new revelation. Where are my clothes? He could only feel the quilt atop him. His thoughts began to spin. What happened? Am I a prisoner or a guest? What is this place? Panic began to gnaw at him.
I have to get out of here. At last it was a thought upon which he could focus.
He pulled one arm, tugging at the rope. Burn it. Focus. Burn….
He jerked at the sound of a door, though he could not recall seeing a door. But of course there had to be a door. How else would he have—
“Oh! You’re awake!” It was a young woman with a soft, round face. Her hair was tied back, bound under some sort of cap, though a strand or two had worked their way free. She brushed them away and smoothed the apron over her plump figure. Then she glanced at him and blushed. “I suppose you’re wondering about all this.” She gestured to the room.
The Demon stared at her, waiting.
Her color deepened. “Your friend asked that we help you. My name is Hanna. I’m the medic’s assistant—your nurse.”
“Untieme,” the Demon said, though his words were slurred together by his thick tongue.
“Oh!” The nurse smiled and put a hand to her lips. “I forgot about the sedative.”
“Whatsedadiv? Aspell?” he demanded.
The nurse’s eyes widened. “No, not a spell. Medicine. To help you sleep. He insisted we give it to you. And he said under no condition should we untie you or allow you to leave.”
“’Oo?”
“Your friend, sir.”
“I donave—” He stopped and took a deep breath.
The nurse came closer, her face bright with curiosity. “So, you’re a demon? Your friend said that’s what you are. I always thought demons would be scary and ugly. But really you look just like a boy…except for the white hair and skin, your eyes, wings…” She giggled. “I guess maybe you are a bit different.”
“Not afraid?” he asked, trying to keep his sentences short. If she did not fear him, she might be willing to help him.
She shook her head. “Oh, no, sir. Not at all. Your friend said you were harmless.” She blushed again.
Harmless. Right. He nodded toward his arm. “Please.”
“I really shouldn’t. Your friend—”
“’Esnot mabloody friend,” the Demon gritted, and the nurse withdrew. He took another breath. “I need to…y’ know….”
She stared at him blankly.
“I needtago….”
Hanna hesitated. “I guess I could untie you, if you promise to come right back.”
He nodded.
She approached the bedpost and started to undo the knot.
The Demon gagged.
“Ah, he has worked his charm upon you, milady.”
“Oh!” the nurse spun to face the Ilangien. “I’m sorry, but he said he had to—”
“Did he?” The Ilangien smiled. “No matter, I am here to claim him.” He lingered in the doorway, studying the irate demon in the bed. “You seem most disconcerted, Durmorth, but I have found you a comfortable setting and Human healers.” He gestured to the Demon’s head, where his wound had been cleaned and wrapped.
“Rope, sedadive.” The Demon scowled. “Whaddoya want?”
“This I have already disclosed to you,” the Ilangien said. “I do apologize for the precautionary measures, but you would not have waited for me.”
Bloody right! “Lemme go.” It was not a request.
The Ilangien waved his hand. “As he wishes, Lady Hanna. Please release him.”
The Demon’s heated stare remained upon the glowing immortal until he felt the pressure gone from his wrists. His arms still felt as though they were made of stone, but at least he was free. He sat up, and the blanket slipped off his bare chest. Sieqa. My clothes.
The Ilangien smiled at his dilemma. “They were rags. I had Hanna burn them. Besides, your wings had torn holes in your cloak.”
The Demon shivered and clumsily drew the blanket around him. His entire body protested every movement, and he felt like a puppet with someone else pulling the strings.
“I took the liberty of securing new attire for you. I cannot imagine it will fit well,” he said, frowning at the Demon’s slight frame, “but it was all I could manage.” He pointed to a table a few paces from the bed, whereupon there was a neatly folded pile of garments.
“Y’ rob someone?” the Demon asked, scooting toward the edge of the bed with the blanket in-hand.
“Nay, your business associates have paid for them, as well as your care.”
The Demon stopped and gaped at him.
“I would not entertain their demands until they saw to your needs,” the Ilangien explained.
The Demon shook his head in disbelief, and the world spun. He focused on the table and awkwardly shoved himself from the bed. His wobbly legs buckled beneath his weight, and he collapsed to the floor in a daze.
“Oh, this was unforeseen,” the Ilangien murmured. “That you are also immobile. My mistake, verily.”
“Fixit!” the Demon cried, too pained to move.
“It will wear off, sir,” Hanna said, her brow creased with sympathy.
“When?”
“I—I can’t say for sure. Later today, perhaps.”
“No,” he said, stopping her with a glance. He pushed himself up and reached atop the table. His fingers fumbled for the clothes, pulling them off the edge and down upon him.
“But how will you dress?” she asked, concerned.
“In privacy,” the Demon grumbled. “Don’t need y’relp.”
Hanna started to back away, but the Ilangien addressed the Demon. “Her assistance is imperative if we are to leave expeditiously.”
“We’re not going anywhere.” The Demon tangled himself in the shirt and threw it down, fuming. “I told y’ no.”
“Heed my words, Durmorth. The wizard and the Jornoan have no intention of compensating you for your thievery. They have labeled you a traitor and a scoundrel. Soon they will cease arguing and agree on a plan to abduct me. You are my best option, and our goals are similar. In each other’s company we should be able to evade—”
“Then I would be a scoundrel. An’ y’d put my life in danger.” The words were becoming easier for the Demon to form, though he wondered if the Ilangien heard them at all.
“You did not have to liberate me from Kirou-Mekus. You did so out of compassion, and for that I am grateful, but my true liberation is not yet realized. Help me—if for no other reason than your contempt for those who have cheated you of your reward.” The Ilangien glanced at the door as though someone would come barging through it at any moment.
“I did ‘elp y’, an’ this was ‘ow y’ thanked me.” The Demon bundled part of the blanket in his fist and shook it at the immortal. “I don’t want y’ with me. Y’re clever enough to get this far, find y’r own way north.” He closed his eyes, and his features shifted to become more Humanlike, as his wings shrank and vanished. When he opened his eyes again, they were both staring at him. “Want to watch me dress, too?” he snapped.
Hanna joined the Ilangien, and they turned their backs respectfully, though they could still hear the Demon fumble and curse behind them. “I have also secured a carriage,” the Ilangien said, persistent in his persuasion, “but we must hurry. If they detain us—”