by Colt, K. J.
“I hail from Celaedrion in Veloria.”
“Oh, please!” she giggled and patted his arm. “Two jesters! No one’s ever told me they’re from the Haunted Forest.”
Eraekryst looked confused, and the Demon discouraged him from pressing the matter with a slight shake of his head. The server collected the money and was on her way.
“Haunted?” the Ilangien asked once she had gone. “What does she mean by ‘haunted’?”
“Don’t know,” the Demon said before sipping the stew from his spoon. “I think y’re ‘aunting me.” He paused. “But I got y’r meaning. They don’t see y’r lil’ glow.”
“Or your Shadow.” Eraekryst lifted a buttered roll and examined it. He took a sniff before he bit off a chunk. His eyes widened in delight. When he had finished the morsel, he exclaimed, “Human food is so rich!” He looked at the Demon, who was already nearing the bottom of his bowl. “How can you resist such enticing edibles?”
The Demon cast him a humorless expression and set the purse on the table. “I’m not made o’ money, mate.”
“The bag has grown in size,” Eraekryst observed.
“I didn’t get paid,” the Demon said under his breath. “Remember?”
“Then how did it—”
“The same way y’ got the bloody purse.”
“Ah. Your occupation.”
The Demon colored. “Not by choice. I tried to give it up. I did, actually, for a few years.” He finished his stew and attacked the rolls.
Eraekryst watched him. “Do you not wish to eat it more slowly, so as to relish the taste?”
“’Ungry,” he mumbled, and tore another bite.
The Ilangien finished his roll and dipped his spoon in the stew. “’Tis tainted by the flesh of an animal,” he said, pushing the bowl away.
“Yeah, ’s why ’tis called ‘beef’ stew. Cow.” The Demon’s eyes moved to the bowl.
“You may indulge yourself, Durmorth,” Eraekryst offered.
“Y’ sure? If y’ don’t eat meat, do y’ eat plants?” He had been raised on fruit and meat, and any miscellaneous green matter was only consumed out of necessity. He could not imagine anyone liking the taste of leaves and stems.
“Vegetation is a renewable form of life. ‘Twould be my preference to cow fragments, yea.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the Demon said, pulling Eraekryst’s bowl toward him.
“Then you will willingly accompany me,” the Ilangien said, his tone brightening.
The Demon paused, considering. “On my terms,” he said at last. Since I can’t seem to escape you…yet.
“As you wish it.”
They finished their meal in relative but comfortable silence, and then the Demon resignedly followed the Ilangien to the waiting carriage. They traveled until the light began to slip beneath the horizon, whereupon they stopped to spend the night at an inn. The evening proved uneventful, as did much of the following day, until the cloudy afternoon sky opened up in a steady cascade of rain.
CHAPTER FIVE
NORTHBOUND
THE CARRIAGE HAD STOPPED unexpectedly outside a humble inn in a small town called Hargad. The driver had come down and opened the door, the rain pouring off the brim of his hat. “This is the end of my route, gentlemen. I’ve stopped here so that you may have respite from your journey.”
The Ilangien and the Demon exchanged a glance. “I do not understand you,” Eraekryst said. “Our destination is Mystland.”
“Well, yes, that’s what you told me. Far be it from me to discourage you to visit the casters there, but you’ll have to find another driver to take you along the Link. I don’t leave the Southern Kingdoms.”
“This you did not impart to me as I handed you the golden token,” Eraekryst said.
“Do we get our money back?” the Demon mumbled.
The driver gave them a funny look. “You must be foreigners…I thought you knew. I don’t know how the system works outside the Southern Kingdoms, but a carriage can only travel its territory. This is my final stop. You can look for a caravan or another wagon headed north.” He tipped his hat, and more water poured off. He stepped aside to allow them to exit.
Eraekryst and the Demon watched him drive away in the direction from which they had come.
“Were you aware of this rule of carriages?” Eraekryst asked, suspicious.
“I don’t ride in them. I walk,” came the flat response. “Y’re the smart one. I thought y’ would’ve asked.”
“I had no experience to prompt such an inquiry,” Eraekryst said, as if the Demon should have known this.
The Demon turned and faced the inn with a sigh. “Le’s not discuss this in the rain.” He drew his arms around himself and walked toward the building with his head down, the Ilangien behind him and seemingly impervious to the weather. They opened the door to a warm but smoke-filled atmosphere. The smell of savory food mingled with the wood from the hearth. The smoke came from a multitude of patrons with pipes who sat near the bar. There were others seated at tables, bleary-eyed and expressionless—a story clarified by the tankards in front of them. The activity, aside from the drinking, centered around gambling or muted conversation.
As they stepped inside, they warranted attention. Eyes searched them as they moved across the room to an empty table off to the side. The Demon shifted uncomfortably, his hidden gaze darting around the room.
“What is our course of action?” Eraekryst asked.
“We’re not going to get much farther today,” the Demon said, his voice barely audible. “If we stay ‘ere tonight, I can see if someone’s ‘eading north along the Link. Maybe catch a ride.” He drew a tense breath.
“Is something the matter?”
“No,” the Demon answered immediately. “We should sit down. People are watching.”
Eraekryst glanced at the surrounding patrons. “This concerns you? Perhaps they are merely curious.”
“Whatever. Let me see what I can learn.” The Demon went to sit at the bar, and the Ilangien tailed him, careful to sit at a distance.
The Demon spoke in a low tone to the barkeeper, and the man seemed responsive to what he had to say. While they talked, Eraekryst’s attention wandered. He watched the patrons, interested in their mannerisms, their behavior, their interaction or lack thereof. Some of them watched him in turn. He looked at the Demon again, only to find a third person had joined their conversation.
Eraekryst felt a hand light on his arm. A young lady stood there with a pleasant smile. “Can I get something for you?”
“Nay, I am yet satisfied from yesterday’s meal,” he admitted.
“Yesterday? I’d be starved if I were you.” Her eyes moved from his face to the rest of him. “Maybe I can bring you a drink?”
Eraekryst hesitated.
“My treat,” she said, her eyes bright. “My name’s Aida. Just give me a moment.” She slipped away.
Eraekryst turned his attention to the hearth, his feet taking him there. The smoke burned his eyes and agitated his lungs; he wondered how the Demon could endure it. He especially wondered at the appeal of drawing in tainted air and then expelling it again. What could be inside those strange little sticks with cups attached at the end?
“Here you go,” came the young lady’s voice. She pressed a cup into his hand, her delicate fingers lightly grazing his. “You’re not from around here. Are you traveling from somewhere?”
He sniffed the contents of the drink, finding its scent peculiar. “Everyone travels from somewhere. I am journeying to Mystland.”
Her blue eyes widened. “Are you a caster?”
“What is a ‘caster’?” Eraekryst asked.
“You would know, if you were one. Wizards and witches are casters.” She tucked a length of her dark hair behind her ear. “Why would you want to go to Mystland?”
“I need the help of a ‘caster’ to remove this.” He lightly touched the silver band around his neck.
“It’s actually ver
y pretty, I think.” She gazed at the collar, at him, then took a step closer. There was but a hand’s distance between them. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I had not tossed it to you. I am Eraekryst of Celaedrion.” His focus moved to the drink, and he took a delicate sip. The strong flavor caused him to grimace. “This is poison?”
Aida giggled, laying her hand on his chest. “No. And you can’t drink it like that. You need to drink it fast—in one motion.” She gestured as though she was holding the cup.
“Ah. I have done this once before, long ago,” he murmured. “It will warm me, will it not?”
She gave him a funny smile. “It will.”
He did as she directed, downing the drink. He took a quick breath, his eyes watering.
“You get used to it,” Aida said, her body now pressed up against his.
Her shrinking proximity had not evaded Eraekryst. He opened his mouth to comment, but he turned at the sound of laughter behind them. It came from a table with three middle-aged men watching them. “He’ll be on the floor with that,” said the heaviest-set of them.
“Yeah,” agreed another. “I’d give him a few minutes.”
“I do not understand your meaning,” Eraekryst said, stepping away from the young lady.
“Oh, that explains it. He’s a foreigner,” the heavy man said.
“Even foreigners drink,” voiced the third, a short, slight man.
“Why will I be on the floor?” Eraekryst asked, concerned.
“They’re just trying to get a reaction from you,” Aida said, hooking her arms through his. “Don’t listen to them.”
“I bet you five kingpiece that Semmon, here, can out-drink you, outlander,” the heavy man said, gesturing to his skinny friend.
“I know I can out-drink him,” Semmon said, puffing out his shallow chest.
“I’m in on that bet,” the third man said, dropping some coins on the table.
“What do you say?” the heavy man pressed, his stare upon the Ilangien.
“I say you should leave him alone,” Aida defended.
“You don’t know him. Maybe he needs the money,” Semmon said.
Eraekryst considered his words. The Demon had not been paid for his venture. He would certainly benefit from a few more tokens—especially ones he did not have to steal. “What does this ‘bet’ entail?” he asked, and trio at the table smiled.
This is better than I hoped, the Demon thought, staring at the contents of the coin purse. The barkeeper, in addition to giving him a room for the night, had directed him to a merchant who was headed for the Northern Kingdom of Caspernyanne. The merchant, for a fair price, was willing to carry passengers in his wagon. The Demon had purposely not specified his destination, hoping to avoid rousing any suspicion or prejudice against magic and the medori. He was one himself—a mage—in addition to being a demon, and he was grateful the light in the tavern was too dim for either man to see the color of his skin or eyes from beneath his drawn hood. The less he had to disclose, the better fortune would serve him.
He could afford to celebrate—just a little. Maybe indulge in a sweet drink or one of the small cakes on the tray behind the counter. He might even be in the spirit to share it with his unlikely companion. Eray—Eri—Erik, was it? The Ilangien had only mentioned his name once. If this goes off right, I might tolerate him the whole way to Mystland.
A heavy-set man came up from behind him. “I need another round, Wilt.”
“Who’s buying?” the barkeeper asked.
“Semmon. He just don’t know it yet.”
“What are you about?” the barkeeper asked.
“Nothin’. It’s between us and the outlander.” He nodded toward a table near the hearth.
The Demon followed his gesture. Sieqa. The Ilangien was sitting across from two men. There was a pretty young woman attached to his arm, smoothing his hair. One of the two men was face-down on the table; his companion was trying to rouse him. Eraekryst sat with a smug look on his rose-tinged face. A small collection of cups was stacked in a pyramid before him. I wasn’t talking that long, the Demon thought, astounded.
The heavy man waddled to the table and set down three more cups, each of which the Ilangien consumed as though they were water. “You look at me as though you expect some sort of reaction,” Eraekryst said to the two conscious men.
“There’s somethin’ wrong with you,” one of them said. “No one can drink like that.”
“Does this mean I have won?” Eraekryst asked.
The man nodded numbly, pushing his money toward the victor, and his large friend did the same. The third, skinny fellow still did not move.
By now the activity had earned the attention of other patrons. They started to approach the table, their curiosity expressed through their questions. “How many did he have?” And, “Maybe I should challenge him.” Or, “There’s no way to cheat…unless he’s got magic.”
The Demon watched it all, his concern growing when others approached the bar to buy the Ilangien more drinks. It seemed the whole establishment was intent on making the immortal drunk. I should end this. Now. Though even he wondered how much more the Ilangien could stomach. He stood and approached the growing crowd. Everyone else was taller than him, so he could see nothing of what was happening, but he assumed each outburst of cheers and laughter meant another drink had been downed.
The Demon hated crowds. He hated being touched at all—much less bumped, stepped on, tripped over, elbowed, or shoved. He could not stand the Human odor that overwhelmed his nose at their proximity. And even worse was when they all stared, their eyes picking him apart like vultures over a kill.
So it was with great disdain and reluctance that the Demon tried to squeeze his way to the front of the audience. He winced and ground his teeth when a heavy boot stepped squarely on his foot. “Watch it,” he growled under his breath. Someone’s arm connected with the side of his head, and he fought the urge to set the man’s clothes afire. Finally, he emerged at the heart of the commotion. Someone had cleared the drunken man out of the way to make more room for the growing assortment of empty drinking vessels.
Eraekryst was eased back in his chair, a satisfied smile upon his rosy face. When he spied the Demon, he glanced at the crowd around him and said, “This has been quite a diversion, but now I must go.” He tried to stand, but the wall of people would not yield.
“What’s your story, stranger?” someone called out. “Are you a caster?”
“My story?” Eraekryst asked. “I cannot be limited to just one story. I am a myriad of tales, and none of them have yet been heard by mortal ears. I am swathed in tales of treachery, mysteries of the spoken word, and songs of sorrow that promise to draw tears from stone.”
“Sing us a song!” someone shouted.
“Nay, I do not sing. My heart lies entrenched in the thorns of my abandonment. No voice of clarity can rise above the flowerless roses that for so long ensnared me.”
“He’s a poet, he is!”
“Yes, a bard!”
Eraekryst smiled sadly at them. “Do my words entice you? Would you hear a tale from one not of this land—a foreigner, as you say?”
“Tell us!”
“A story! A story!”
Abruptly, the Ilangien stood, nearly toppling the table and its contents. He swayed on his feet, though he did not seem to notice. “This is not a night of sorrow but of revival!” he announced, his voice clear and smooth as it carried throughout the room. “For I am liberated! Decades of time’s dust have covered me, withered my flesh, and lapped at the nectar of my life. No longer.”
Eraekryst assessed his audience, dropping his voice to above a whisper. “Have you ever felt your heart weighted by the bleakness of a night unbroken? When the cold presses so sharply, as a blade upon your spirit, a poison to your mind—how can there be hope? Your enemies surround you as an impenetrable wall, inflicting their torture relentlessly so as to shatter the fragile vessel of your mind and body.�
� He clenched his fists and pressed them to his face. “Salvation is but a vision unrealized! Cruel dream, crueler company.”
His body relaxed, and he slowly let his arms fall to his sides, his palms open. “Then there is something,” he said. “Something unexpected, unlikely—something so astounding that it leaves you blinded in the blazing light of a dazzling and wonderful sun—a miracle!” The silver-blue eyes lighted upon the Demon, and he knelt upon the floor, facing him. “A miracle,” he repeated, then gestured to his horror-stricken counterpart.
The Demon felt as though his bones were being picked clean by their eyes. “Don’t,” he whispered, though the word never left his lips. His tongue, like the rest of him, was immobile, petrified.
“Though he is wanting in physical substance, his bravery and his determination are unequaled. This durmorth—this demon—for all his Shadow, had risked his own life to deliver mine. He is a magical mystery upon whose white wings returned to me the hope I had lost.” Eraekryst beamed at him, oblivious to all else. “And now he accompanies me to Mystland, land of the medori, so that I will walk blind no more.”
“Did he say ‘demon’?”
“Who is that guy?”
“I don’t see any wings….”
“He must be a caster!”
“Look at his eyes—you can tell from his eyes.”
Heat rose to the Demon’s face, though his limbs felt heavy and frozen. He tried to back away, but a wall of Humans stood fast behind him. When a hand reached to lower his hood, he panicked. “Don’t touch me!” he cried, staring back at all the faces. He shrank where he stood, the people closing in on him. No!
There was nowhere to escape.
“You must not harm him,” Eraekryst said, though his voice was lost amongst the questions and the murmurs.
“He’s gotta be a caster.”
“Pull down his hood!”
Searching for the source of the voices, the Demon could not concentrate to fade to Shadow. He had to escape. “Back!” he shouted, and a fist-full of violet flame burst in his hand. It spread along his arm, then to his shoulders, neck, and head—a halo of fire that did not so much as singe him. But the crowd could feel its heat.