by Colt, K. J.
The innkeeper exchanged a horrified glance with his wife. “Sir, this is terrible news.” He approached Eraekryst. “You say you can’t tell how he died?”
“Nay, I found not a mark upon him,” the Ilangien said from behind his hands. He turned to press his head against the wall.
“Might he have been ill…or cursed?” the innkeeper asked cautiously.
“Cursed?” Eraekryst exclaimed, rounding on the man. “What do you mean by this?”
“N-nothing,” the man said, taken aback. “I just thought maybe it was possible he had fallen ill.” He hesitated. “We did see a young—er—man wandering the streets.” He ignored his wife’s wide-eyed glare. “What did your brother look like?”
“He was a frail young man, but he was in fair health last I saw him, but a couple days ago.” Eraekryst turned his eyes to the ceiling. “I cannot believe he is dead!” he cried.
“How can we be of assistance?” the innkeeper asked.
Eraekryst turned to him. “If your hearts are moved by pity, I would ask but a shroud and a cart to take his body to the forest. There I can see that his spirit rests.”
“We can help you,” the innkeeper said. He turned to his wife with a knowing look. “Grab a sheet for us. I’ll take Jess with me in the wagon.” She scurried off, and he continued, “Let’s have a look.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness. Thank you!” Eraekryst said, leading the way out the door. He took the man to where the hooded Demon sat crumpled in the corner.
The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “This is your brother?” he asked.
“Aye,” Eraekryst said mournfully. “We share the same mother.”
“Who was his father?” the innkeeper mumbled.
“Your pardon?”
“He does look pale,” the man covered badly.
“Aye, for he is dead,” Eraekryst said, humorless. “I had sent him ahead to find lodging. I should have accompanied him.” He shook his head.
“Now, there, you can’t have known this would’ve happened,” the innkeeper said in an attempt to console him. “What matters now is that he’s laid to rest. Jedinom have mercy on him.”
Eraekryst nodded.
The wife came up behind them with the sheet. Her color drained when she saw the victim. Her husband took the sheet and patted her arm. “Go inside, and have Jess hitch the cart.”
The woman disappeared, and the innkeeper approached the Demon with the sheet. “We can cover him up while they get the cart ready.”
“I cannot,” Eraekryst said.
The innkeeper turned to look at him, confused.
“I cannot bear even to regard him,” he said. “I simply cannot believe he is…” He buried his face in his hands again.
“That’s all right. I’ll do it,” the man said.
After a short wait, a young man led a mule with a cart to the mouth of the alley. Eraekryst watched as both men lifted the Demon’s body and carried it to the bed. They set it down rather roughly, and the Ilangien twisted his mouth in sympathy for his unconscious companion. Then they began a quiet trek beyond the town and into the woods. The cart jostled and jolted with every rut and root, but Eraekryst insisted the body be brought to a fair-sized clearing.
“Lorth, Jess, we forgot the shovel,” the innkeeper said.
“Shovel?” Eraekryst asked.
“You want to bury him, right?”
“Is that customary, to bury the dead?” The Ilangien was truly curious—he had not heard of this tradition.
Both men looked at him as though the answer was obvious.
“Where I hail, we burn our dead,” Eraekryst said.
“Do you want us to start a fire?”
“Nay, I wish to say my farewell to him in solitude.” He turned to the men. “I thank you again for your assistance and your kindness.” He glanced skyward at the gathering clouds. “Do not tarry on my account; foul weather is afoot.”
The innkeeper and the young man seemed grateful and eager to take their leave. Eraekryst waited until they had gone before he approached the shrouded body set beside a fallen log. “’Tis time for you to awaken, Durmorth,” he said and took a seat upon the log.
The body stirred as the Demon clawed to free the sheet from his face. Once he had wrenched it away, he stared at the Ilangien, his breathing too labored to speak.
Eraekryst, in turn, regarded him thoughtfully. “You wonder how it is that you are here. I can assure you that I had laid not a hand upon you, either. ’Twas a masterful concoction—a performance worthy of considerable appreciation on your behalf.” He found the Demon’s reaction indeterminable. Eraekryst sighed. “You may thank me later. The innkeeper willingly transported you in his cart, as he believed you were my recently deceased sibling.” He folded his hands and rested his chin upon them. “And yet he was almost too willing to assist me. Do you have some prior connection with him?”
“Leave,” the Demon whispered.
Eraekryst lifted his chin. “I will not. Do you think that I fear the pending storm? Or perhaps that I am unaware of the energy surrounding you that connects you to the natural forces?” He exhaled. “How do you suppose it was that I followed you after your second attempt to evade me? Fortunately for you I appeared when I had, lest you raze some unsuspecting Human community. As it is, this forest will have to endure your tempestuous tantrum.”
“Go!” the Demon cried, desperate. A sudden stab of pain sent him writhing, his face tense, his eyes pressed so tightly that tears welled at their corners.
The sky, in response, roared and festered with blackening clouds. The wind smashed through the trees like a massive hammer, and a scattering of electrical snakes lit the heavens.
Eraekryst stood, marveling at the power behind the storm. He glanced at the Demon and shouted, “I am an immortal! I do not fear the fury of the Wild!” His colorless hair streamed like a banner, though for as frail as he appeared, he did not seem to move with the force of the wind. His silvery eyes glittered; he was enjoying himself.
The Demon gave a strangled cry, oblivious to whether the Ilangien lingered or not. The storm had found him, as it always did. Lightning raced down to join both earth and Demon to the sky, his rigid form streaming with blinding, white light as electrical energy sizzled and snapped around him, filling the air with the odor of ozone.
Just as suddenly, the light died, and the Demon lay still. Heavy drops of rain spattered the ground, soon giving way to a sky-born deluge. Eraekryst stood quietly in the midst of it, his eyes upon the white form several feet from him. When the downpour had lightened, he said, “I am not one easily impressed, but your performance was enthralling.”
With great effort, the Demon turned his head to look at him. “Y’ stayed?” he whispered.
“There was no purpose in leaving,” Eraekryst said offhandedly.
“Y’re crackers,” the Demon breathed.
“I do not understand.”
“Can immortals die?”
“By some unnatural cause, aye. ’Tis unlikely but not impossible.”
“Next time, when I say, ‘go,’ y’ go.” The Demon’s expression was grim.
Eraekryst smiled. “Fret not, Durmorth. ’Tis your health that concerns me.”
“I’m doing much better. I jus’ need a little time,” he murmured, closing his eyes as though he might sleep.
“Does it cause you pain?”
The Demon did not open his eyes, but he did smirk. “Feels great.”
Eraekryst could not tell whether he was serious or jesting. He reclaimed his seat upon the log. “This very instance only supports why we should continue our venture together.”
Now the Demon did open his eyes—to glare at the pale immortal. “Nigqor-slet. Y’re the reason I left.”
“I gather you are yet displeased with my behavior at the tavern.”
The Demon made a funny sound.
“Admittedly, the beverages I consumed caused me to feel rather euphoric. I was not in complete control o
f my actions,” Eraekryst explained, somewhat mystified by the recollection.
“Y’ were drunk,” came the flat response.
Eraekryst’s eyes lit. “Yes, that is the word. When last I indulged in potent Human beverages—”
“Y’ve been drunk before?” the Demon asked, incredulous.
“Aye. Allow me to finish my sentence,” the Ilangien said, peeved. “When last I was ‘drunk’, ’twas the same night I was ambushed and imprisoned.”
“An’ y’ wanted to repeat that?”
Eraekryst frowned. “My intention was to contribute to your funding through something called a ‘bet.’ I had not anticipated the potency of the drinks and the effect they would have upon me in my weakened state.”
“Now y’ know. Next time, leave me out of it,” the Demon said.
“’Twas a compliment I sought to offer, yet you were most disconcerted by the attention.”
“I don’ like crowds, an’ I really don’ like to be stared at.”
“I did not realize Humans were so anxious about magic,” Eraekryst confessed.
“They wanted to kill me.” The Demon sighed. “’S why I don’t like to be seen.”
“They are merely ignorant. They do not understand that you pose no threat to them.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’ like people,” the Demon grumbled.
Eraekryst gave a nod. “Then I will see to it that you need not encounter them as we resume our northward trek.”
“Y’ don’t give up, do y’?”
“I am as persistent as you are stubborn, verily.”
“Right. Stay away from ‘ard drinks, an’ maybe I’ll go with y’ the ‘ole way.”
“I acquiesce to your preference, Durmorth,” Eraekryst said.
“An’ stop using those bloody big words. I’m still learning the language.”
“You will learn them if I inflict them upon you, bloody or not.”
The Demon did not respond, tired of the conversation.
Eraekryst stood and glanced skyward. “The rain abates.” He looked at the Demon. “That means the droplets from the sky grow few and scattered. We should soon reacquaint ourselves with the road.”
Eyes narrowed, the Demon scowled at him. “I’m tired an’ ‘ungry. Go abate y’self for a while ’til I’m ready.”
“You wish to linger here?”
“Unless y’r clever enough to find a way to ‘elp me back to town, yeah.” He closed his eyes and turned away on his side.
Eraekryst sighed and set down a small, wrapped bundle. “You mortals are so inconvenienced. I will divert myself in the town, which means I will most likely languish in boredom until you achieve some source of motivation to stir yourself from the mud.”
“Goodonya. Now bugger off.”
The Ilangien went on his way to allow the Demon his recovery.
The significantly colder air upon his damp skin and clothes woke him with a chill he could not shake. All that remained of the storm was an overcast sky, and the Demon guessed that it was late in the afternoon. He had no idea how long he had slept, and it truly did not matter to him so much as the fact that he felt infinitely better. For as dramatic as his wellings were, his resulting weakness gave way to a renewed sense of strength and vigor. They were, in fact, the only remedy that could ease the symptoms of his malady.
He yawned and stretched his limbs, his wings. Then he did his best to clean his face with his sleeve. He sat up and noticed a small parcel wrapped in white sitting on the log where the Ilangien had been, though he did not retrieve it right away. What’s his game? Why does he want my company so badly? Then, with a smirk, he thought, If I stay here, will he come to find me? He already knew the answer, though he wondered what smart remark the Ilangien would have for yet a third attempt at evasion.
I said I’d go with him, the Demon thought, resigned. He slowly stood and approached the bundle. His clawed fingers pried away the linen to reveal the black, glassy surface of an obsidian knife. Jaice’s knife. He must have recovered it after the wreck. Or stole it after he knocked me out. Why return it now? An act of trust?
He turned the knife over in his shaky hands, his thoughts drifting to its previous owner. If it could have been different, I would have joined him. A life of freedom. Though it seemed the Demon had no obligations, the pall of the Quake was in many ways worse than an actual prison. He rewrapped the knife and hid it in his cloak, wondering what, if anything, the Ilangien would have to say about it.
The burning in his stomach reminded him of his next destination: anywhere with food. He did not much feel like spending the time hunting, not when he might be able to feast on a warm meal at someone else’s expense. The Demon shifted his form and quickened his pace out of the woods.
He came to the town and carefully avoided the inn where he had fallen ill. No good could come from the innkeeper sighting the walking dead. He traveled up the road a short distance until he spied a likely tavern. Once inside, he would have his choice of pockets to pick. No one gave him a second glance as he walked through the door and moved toward the back of the busy setting to select his target. Evidently, this was the popular place for the locals to come and unwind. No one was dressed better than a commoner except for… The Demon blinked and focused on a silken hat. His eyes moved down to the familiar round face and portly body. Lelan Jagur.
The wizard was near the bar, his reddened face turned toward someone sitting near him. Another wizard. The Demon glanced around the room, but they were the only medori to be found. Don’t let them find you, Erik, he thought, glad he could not feel the Ilangien’s presence nearby. I’m sure that’s why they’re here. He did not know why he should be so surprised that the wizards had followed their prey. At any rate, he knew who would be paying for his meal.
Like a breath of wind, he slipped among the patrons to close the distance between him and the wizards. He knew they would not notice him; no one ever noticed him unless some drunken immortal decided to point him out.
“We should go,” Jagur said. “I’m not comfortable lingering here.”
“I can finish my meal,” the other wizard said testily. “The spell will keep him compliant. And who’s to notice?”
“We are rather conspicuous, I think,” Jagur said in a low voice. “Just hurry, if you will. I will wait by the carriage.”
The Demon’s fingers were quick to work; the task was so very easy. The weight of the leather purse in his cloak was like a buttery roll melting in his mouth. He himself melted to the back of the room, waiting for the second wizard to leave. Bastards. What have you done now? He took a seat at a vacant table and rested his chin upon his hands, biding his time. Presently, the other medoriate stood, left his coins upon the counter, and made a hasty exit.
A young server passed near the Demon with a tray full of brimming tankards. He caught her attention on her way back to the bar. “Can I help you?” she asked, trying to peer beneath his hood.
“Do y’ave any chicken?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MEDORI TERRITORY
THEY ROSE FROM the earth as though they were anchored by roots, their trunks twice as tall as the average man, their branches bridging the gap between the two of them so that they formed a sort of organic archway. To the ordinary observer, they looked like trees. Eraekryst reached out with his long fingers to touch the “bark” of one of the trunks. He closed his eyes and extended his senses through the Ilán, knowing the Light would detect any life within the tree. The tree, however, was cold; it had never had life, was never alive. It was, therefore, not a tree at all.
“Young man—er—Ilangien! Come away from there! We have not yet discussed our course of action.”
Eraekryst sighed at the wizard’s beckon. The Ilangiel were immortal, and as such they had the luxury of time. It would stand to reason that they would be a patient people, without the need to rush or feel a sense of urgency. Eraekryst might well have been the first Ilangien cursed by a state of perpetual boredom, which resulted m
ost often in irritable impatience. He opened his eyes and turned to the five wizards with a frown. They stood huddled, several yards away, watching him suspiciously.
Against his better judgment, Eraekryst heeded their summons. “This, then, is the Southern Gate of which you had spoken?” he asked, as though they were resuming an earlier conversation.
“Yes, yes, it’s the gate,” Lelan Jagur said. “Do not fidget with it, lest you raise suspicion.”
“For what do we wait?”
“We are trying to come up with a suitable plan,” another of the five said. “Your collar will undoubtedly be detected and then questioned.”
“This is a measure of security,” Eraekryst inferred.
The wizards ignored him. “We can say that the collar is a sort of medicinal device. He does look rather wan, don’t you think?”
“Since when is a collar medicinal, Breccar?”
Eraekryst began repeatedly flicking Jagur’s hat—a habit he had claimed when his existence went unacknowledged.
“I told you to stop that!” Jagur cried.
Undaunted, Eraekryst met his gaze, and Jagur had to turn away. “The medori inhabitants fear contamination from imported cantalere?”
Jagur frowned, clearly agitated. “As I said, they are concerned with security. Now please keep quiet, and let us have our discussion!”
“’Tis not a discussion,” Eraekryst said coolly. “For even discussions have conclusions. You wallow in fear at your own transgressions, and for you, fear is in limitless supply. We will linger an eternity.”
“You have an insolent tongue!” Jagur spat.
“For which action have you earned my respect?” Eraekryst asked. “For my abduction or for the pending exploitation of my innate foresight?”
“Do not forget that we have brought you here to help you.”
“Aye, to help me help you. See how I am prisoner still?” He turned his attention back toward the gate.
Jagur was incensed beyond words. “You are ungrateful, you are—you are—” He fell silent to watch slack-jawed as the Ilangien strode up to the gate and moved to step through it.