Silent Requiem (Tales of Ashkar Book 3)

by Kayl Karadjian

  Quinn followed the demon, and the five of them entered the Prison of Luyce. The walls of light hummed softly as they made their way through the strange structure. The outside of the prison made it deceptively large; the inside was much smaller and simpler than Quinn anticipated.

  A long corridor greeted them with forward being the only direction to go in. There weren’t any doorways to other rooms on either side. There weren’t any staircases that led upward. Just a long corridor that fed into a larger, rectangular room that contained four boxes of light.

  The boxes were the size of small homes. There was no way to peek inside of them, though Quinn could make out familiar yet exaggerated silhouettes of different types of demons.

  He saw one shaped like an aeuviai, titanai, zorvinai, and rimasai. Like the boxes that housed them, they were far larger than the other demons who took after them.

  Gilbel hobbled up to the one to the far left that housed Aeuvi. As he neared he started speaking in demonic tongue as if he was speaking to an audience. He made his way down to the box at the far left, stopped for a moment, then continued back to the right.

  He made his rounds back-and-forth, all the while blabbering in a way that he hadn’t before, like one would speak to kin or someone who they’ve known for a while.

  And the more he spoke, the more uneasy Xai’jet, Zavalin, and even Garjuun appeared.

  “What’s he saying?” Quinn asked.

  The three nearly jumped.

  “Oh, uh…” Xai’jet rattled, his bony yet animated face contorting every which way. “He’s just telling them to tell Lion to do something about the Shadow and rogue demons.”

  “Do you guys know anything about her?” asked Quinn as he looked down at his new arm. “It felt like she was my sister. It was so strange.”

  “We only know her as the scourge that she is,” Xai’jet said with a shrug. “She’s been around forever. She’s known to stay on the outskirts, but she’s notorious for killing any who come across her. Nobody knows her end game.”

  “Okay, we’re good to go,” Gilbel said as he returned to the group.

  “Gilbel,” Quinn said.

  “What’s that?” the demon asked.

  Quinn stared at Gilbel for a long minute, then turned to exit the prison. “Nothing. Let’s just get out of here.”

  _ _ _

  The five of them wound up back in the same spot that Quinn had appeared at, only this time there were no demons to bar their path. Not even Shushana crossed their paths, though Quinn would have lied to himself if he didn’t want to meet her again.

  “Well, off you go,” said Gilbel to the four of them.

  “So, that’s it, huh?” Quinn replied as he eyed the short, almost cute demon who gazed up at him with an aloof expression.

  “I did as I promised, didn’t I?” he said as he shooed them away. “Now scram, before someone else shows up.”

  “Well, thank you, Gilbel,” Quinn said while he retrieved the weird stick thing. He waved it up in the air and flicked his wrist like he was ringing a bell. “Take care.”

  “Will do,” the demon said.

  Above their heads opened a rift followed by an image of Tarla’s face and the image of the main room of her home.

  “You made it—what is that!?” she squeeked as she pointed at Quinn’s newfound power. “Come on!”

  Quinn and the demons aside from Gilbel were hoisted up by invisible hands, and Hell’s scalding atmosphere was replaced with Ashkar’s soothing one. Quinn felt much lighter again, for he had grown accustomed to Hell’s odd gravity.

  But there he was, sitting around with his friends. He had made it to Hell and back. Even more, he was now powerful. He had no need for a tome of spells, his power was his own to command.

  And now that he had his friends back, he wondered what he could do with such power.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Tarla said as she inspected Quinn’s arm and face.

  “I don’t know,” Quinn answered, “but if I’m going to be the odd one out, then at least I can kill any elementalist or warlock or any other bastard who comes knocking.”

  _ _ _

  Gilbel held out his hand just moments before the rift closed, keeping it open on his end. It was still closed on Ashkar’s end, but that made no difference—he could open and close the gateway as he pleased.

  The link was now established, and while it was not large enough to accommodate the invasion, it was but the catalyst for Gilbel to initiate it from the other side.

  The other Lords were now informed and ready to launch the attack once Luyce’s light ran out, and by their calculations, that time was drawing near.

  And when that happened, the universe would once again be at stake.

  _ _ _

  Pyril quaked with excitement, as did the other executioners who were huddled in the dark recesses where the shadows reigned. The time was drawing near, and soon they would be in the presence of a new executioner.

  Ten years she had been transported to that fiery place, though ten years passage in Ashkar was several centuries in Hell. It was the longest that any executioner had stayed in that place, for it was a dangerous realm, one that many a potential executioner did not return from.

  But this one had deliberately chosen to stay longer, and soon they would all know why. In that time, the executioner, who had only been a mere mortal at the start of the process, would journey to where Hell bled.

  It was there that she would seek their source of power, the thing that made them executioners. It was that black sludge that armed them with power and the terrifying presence to match.

  And it was that same power that corrupted those cut by the blade of an executioner, for those chosen to join their ranks would be ushered to Hell and summoned back if they survived.

  For anyone else, it was but a quick journey to Hell never to return.

  Dozens of executioners stood around a stone slab that served as the bed of both departing mortals and arriving executioners. Together, they tapped the tips of their blades at the edges of the slab. A thick miasma emanated from the tips, coalescing across the top of the slab until it was entirely covered.

  The rift was open, and all that was left was the new executioner to make her way across from Hell to Ashkar. They all waited with bated breath. Seconds passed like eons.

  Pyril saw a faint form coming together, one darker than the shadows themselves. And when they saw what kind of color this new executioner had, the group collectively gasped.

  Like him, the others had glowing eyes of differing colors. Some had green, the weakest of executioners. Others had blue, though they were fewer than those with green. Even fewer were those who had red eyes, like Pyril.

  But none had purple. No, a purple-eyed executioner had yet to appear in centuries. Until now.

  Pyril instinctually kneeled, his head reaching the top of the slab. The others did the same without knowing the proper course. None of them did.

  What does it mean?

  The new executioner rose from her stone bed, glancing around at all the other executioners. She surveyed each one individually, then moved her legs off the slab and jumped onto her feet.

  “We are at your command, legendary one,” Pyril asked as he rose, though remained with his head slightly lowered. “Is the moment of our reign at hand?”

  “Reign?” she snapped as she reached for her weapon. It was then that Pyril realized how unique it was. Hers was a double-bladed scythe, the likes of which no executioner has wielded. “What would such weak souls reign over when gods exist?”

  “I do not understand,” Pyril said.

  “It matters not,” she replied, then stabbed the executioner closest to her with one end of the scythe. In the blink of an eye his armor and blade was absorbed into her scythe, leaving but the vulnerable flesh of a human underneath. He wilted and collapsed onto the floor.

  The others were too shocked to react fast enough, and even if they had Pyril was unsure that they could stop
the onslaught. Dozens sprang at the purple-eyed executioner only to be cut down in swaths, their own power bolstering that of hers as she absorbed each and every one of them.

  How could this be? The legendary purple-eyed executioner was supposed to lead us, not destroy us.

  Pyril lunged at her, but even he was too slow. He felt her scythe bite into his chest. He felt his own essence draining before him. He tried reaching for her face to rip it off, but his pale hand barely came close.

  His world blackened before he could feel the ground.

  _ _ _

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Quinn as he tried pushing Tarla away. “W-what are you doing?”

  “I need to take a sample,” she said as she rushed at him with a vial and a sharp instrument.

  Before he could evade her she snipped off a piece of his shoulder, and while it hurt like hell, he did not lash out at her. It was then that he realized how dangerous he could really be if he wanted.

  Killing evil demons brought him no remorse, but he wasn’t like Wu. He couldn’t just immobilize someone with space magic if he wanted to.

  Or could I?

  As Tarla turned away to walk over to a desk, Quinn whipped his hand at her foot and concentrated on it. Instead of piercing her it wrapped itself around her foot, and as he whipped it a second time he flung her into the air.

  “Hey, what’s the matter with you!?” she blasted, her arms dangling and her face upside down staring at him with a nasty frown.

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” Quinn said as he let go, and Tarla remained floating where she was.

  The witch shifted herself so that she was upright again, then lowered herself gently until her feet were on the floor. She then turned as if she was going to smack Quinn, but thought better of it and moved to continue what she was doing.

  So it really does do whatever I tell it?

  He had commanded it to kill whoever he pleased. He had commanded it to save his friends. And now he had commanded it to immobilize Tarla.

  There appeared to be no limit to its ability, leaving Quinn to wonder just how powerful he had become. He was certainly far superior than other elementalists his age. Damian would have just been a fly to swat now.

  What about Tarla? Was he more powerful than her? Better yet, what about Master Wu? He wondered what the Grand Master Magus would think of him now.

  “So what are you doing?” Quinn asked. Likewise, the other three demons huddled around Tarla to the point where they were breathing down her neck.

  “Relax, will you?” she said as she flung her elbow back to give herself space. She inserted the sample into the vial, then sealed it shut. To Quinn’s surprise, he saw the black sludge move to the top of the vial and clump in the area closest to Quinn.

  It really did have a mind of its own, and it was trying to get back to him.

  Without pause Tarla reached for a stack of books, ruffling through them until she found the one that she was looking for. She flipped it open and started reading.

  A while passed, leaving the others to wait in boredom. Garjuun was the first to tire of waiting, and Quinn let him out to play with the hellhounds. The other two demons mused about on their own, taking a gander at the many odd objects found within Tarla’s home.

  “Aha!” she said triumphantly as she redirected her attention to Quinn. “I knew this was familiar. Quinn, this is the same power as an executioner.”

  “A what?” he asked.

  Tarla picked up the book and shoved it in Quinn’s face with her finger on the page that she wanted him to read. “Executioners, while having a power that is not demonic in origin, obtain their powers from the realm of Hell. Four types of eyes have been recorded, each a different color and each comprising a hierarchy.”

  She pointed at Quinn’s eye that was covered. “Purple, the most powerful of executioners. Such color is so rare that not even this book labels the depths of its power. I suspect that you went through the same process unintentionally.”

  “Does that text make mention of someone named Shushana the Shadow?” Quinn asked.

  “No,” Tarla said. “Who is that?”

  “I came across an executioner with purple eyes in Hell,” Quinn answered.

  Tarla tapped her chin in pensive thought. “Strange. I must research more about the Executioners.”

  “Thank you, Tarla,” Quinn said, garnering a wry smile from the witch.

  “Oh, come on,” she teased. “Don’t start getting all sentimental with me.”

  “I’m serious,” he said. “You’re one of the only other people in my life who helped me just to help. I’m sad to leave, but I’ll try to visit sometime.”

  “Leave?” she repeated. “You’re not leaving anytime soon.”

  “What?” he blurted. “What do you need me for?”

  Tarla pointed at the black suit. “I need to study this, you need to tell me everything that you know, and you can’t just waltz back into a normal life anyway. Where did you expect to go, Arcadia?”

  “I’m going to show the School of Eight what true power is,” Quinn said as he turned for the door.

  Tarla’s hand gripped his fleshy shoulder and yanked him back. “You didn’t come back from Hell just to be a fool again, did you?”

  Quinn felt an anger rise from within, but when he found Tarla’s stern eyes the feeling subsided. She was right. It was just pride that fueled him. He looked at the other two demons, who had been silent thus far. They gazed back at him with worried expressions. He didn’t blame them.

  “Sorry,” Quinn said as he brought his hand in front of him. “I’ve waited for this moment for my entire life.”

  “We understand,” Xai’jet said, “but there’s more to life than fighting. Wouldn’t it be nice to just stay here? We wouldn’t be able to follow you back to Arcadia, and even if you went, what would happen when they think you’ve become a demon?”

  “You’re saying that I should just disappear?” Quinn asked.

  “You already have,” added Zavalin. “Besides, aren’t we all that you need?”

  “They’re both right, Quinn,” Tarla said. “Remember why you went to Hell in the first place?”

  Quinn took a deep breath and fell onto a chair, the taxing effect of his adventure catching up with him. Not since first entering Hell did he have even a moment to relax, and it finally wore him down to the point where he needed to rest.

  “Okay, I’m staying,” he resigned. He held up a finger. “But I’m not going to be your—“

  A strange sound filled the air, one very similar to the sound that Tarla’s rift made when she had first opened it. A hole just like it appeared in the middle of the room, followed by Gilbel’s portly frame jumping through.

  He spared no time to greet them, instead flying toward the door, slamming it open, and dashing across the field. So stunned were they that only Tarla bolted into action, running after the demon and yelling every obscenity she knew in both the common tongue and demonic.

  Quinn moved toward the door after her, though by then she had already stopped midway from the house to the tree line. Gilbel was nowhere to be seen.

  “What happened?” Quinn asked. “How did Gilbel get through?”

  “I… I don’t know,” Tarla said, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She looked over at Quinn. “Wait, you know his name?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Yeah, he was the one who helped me find the others.”

  “You need to tell me everything,” Tarla said. “Now.”

  Chapter 14

  239th Dawn of the 5010th Age of Lion

  Thousands gathered in the middle of Arcadia in the new section of the vast kingdom dedicated to Arcadia’s leaders, past and present. The tomb, where Cad’s remains would be buried, had just been finished.

  Many justified his death in many ways, including being the first leader to be buried there. To Guy, there was no justification for his departed soul.

  The past several weeks had been a period of mourning. Mourning for the loss o
f loved ones, and mourning for the hope of something better. With every war that hope was cracked even more, and for Guy it had all but shattered.

  Good things were supposed to happen to good souls.

  Cad’s casket, ornate and beautiful, was set just under the newly erected statue of his likeness that stood as tall and proud as he once did. The statue held Cad’s blade with two hands, poised and ready to meet anything that threatened Arcadia.

  The funeral procession was already at midpoint, though Guy had not listened to any of it. Many people had already spoken, including Graeme and Laralen. They now stood next to Guy, mere feet from Cad’s casket.

  Near them stood Rin, Cad’s daughter, who had yet to speak. In his absence she had assumed leadership as the Avanos of the Tokkan Peaks. Like him, she had shining blond hair, braided and draped over her shoulder. She had inherited many of his traits, physical and otherwise. She was as strong an Avanos as her father was.

  When the last person stopped speaking, Rin herself stepped forward to say her peace. Like her father had, she wielded a large two-handed sword. Plate covered her from the shoulders down, with wolf fur attached around the collar of her hauberk.

  Many would find it odd that a person wear armor in lieu of a more traditional garb, but those who know the Avanos way know that there was nothing more traditional than heavy arms.

  “Many of you came to know my father as a man of sacrifice,” Rin said as she looked around into the crowds. “And sacrifice he did. He sacrificed the life that he knew to forge a better one for others. He sacrificed his family so that other families could thrive. Most of all, he sacrificed his life so that others could experience one without strife.”

  For the first time since the funeral began, Guy listened with nary a wandering thought. Both her posture and the inflection of her voice was strikingly similar. She was truly Cad’s daughter.

  “In his sacrifice, many of you got to know Cad Hildir, former Avanos of the Tokkan Peaks and now former Avanos of Arcadia,” Rin continued. “And in his sacrifice I was robbed of a father, thrust into a life that I did not ask for.”

  Despite the clear catharsis in her eyes, Rin remained hardy in the face of Arcadia.