The Demon Lord (19 page)

If only.

Taking infinite care not to disturb her own circle’s fragile outline, she stepped across it with both eyes fixed on the irregular blot of blackness. Nothing happened: there was no snarl, no sudden murderous burst of life. It remained as deathly still as any lizard on a stone.

Sedna took another step towards the door. Then a third. They were long strides, as quiet as her bare feet could make them, and each one took her closer to escape.

But further from the circle.

A fourth step. There were, she judged, four more to take before she reached the door. Halfway… She glanced to where the demon crouched like some gigantic upright insect. Fearfully thin attenuated limbs were wrapped around its hunched body, and there was not even the rhythmic movement of breathing to show that it lived. If it did…

Five steps from the circle, three from the door.

Another nervous glance, this time back over her shoulder. The demon squatted in the shadows of its own making, a grotesque gargoyle shape, placid and still. New perspiration soaked into the silken robe, thawing the crust of frost so that the garment clung close as a second skin to Sedna’s trembling body.

Six steps and two.

There was an awful eagerness in the long, bubbling hiss when at last it came. Sedna hesitated for the barest instant as her heart seemed to stop, then flung herself towards the door and heaved at it with all her strength. The feeling of betrayal when she found it locked was a physical hurt, swamping even terror for the moment that it lasted. She should have—indeed,
had
expected something such as this, but against all hope had thought that she was wrong. Wrong to have believed other than treachery and death was possible in Seghar…

There was no time now for regret; no time either for subtlety of finesse. With a mental wrench that caused her actual pain, Sedna dredged the words and patterns of the High Accelerator from her subconscious and flung the fierce spell at the lock. The whole door jolted on its hinges as lock, hasp and part of the jamb were hammered loose in a twisted mass of metal and fell clattering into the corridor outside. The demon had scarcely moved, was surely still sufficiently far away for her to run… With trembling hands that were already sore and bruised by the transmission of the spell, Sedna clutched at the weakened door and dragged it wide enough for her to—

—Spin half around and almost fall as something unseen blurred past her head to jerk the door from her enfeebled grasp and slam it shut with awful finality. The reverberations of its closing faded down the corridor, mocking her imprisonment with their escape. An enormous talon at the end of an impossibly long, sinewy limb had lashed over Sedna’s shoulder with piledriver force to end her hopes of freedom. And of life. A little to one side and that frightful appendage could have smeared her frail human body across unyielding stone as she might squash a bug. But it had not—and the implications of that merciless compassion were far worse than any sudden death she could imagine.

With a rending of fibres the great crooked claw pried one another loose, each of the three digits flexing independently like the legs of a spider. Once free they reached for Sedna’s face with all the delicacy of a lover’s caress.

The woman whimpered softly and shrank away, her own hands raised in a useless gesture of supplication. Another spell would prolong the inevitable, no more. It would not avert it. Would not save her. Nothing would. She was lost and none could help her now…

The enamel-glossy black triangle that was the being’s eyeless, armoured head dipped closer, as if to study her. Four shearlike mandibles which ended that head slid open with a metallic sound like scissors, and an errant flicker of the candle revealed a vile array of spiked and bladed teeth. They champed together, glistening, as Ythek Shri grinned down at her from its full fifteen feet of height.

And Sedna screamed. Just once. She had no time for more before the demon plucked her from the floor to be Its plaything for a little while, and while it toyed with her the sounds she made could scarcely be described as anything so structured as a scream. Those dreadful noises continued for a long time, but never quite drowned out the splatter of spilling blood and the snap of bones, or the horrid, sodden rip as flesh gave way. At last the demon tired of its torn and broken doll, and secured the still feebly-squirming bundle of tatters while its razor-bladed mandibles gaped wider.

And shut in three protracted, hideously juicy crunches.

Shadows flickered frenziedly across the walls and ceiling as Sedna’s legs danced ten feet from the ground. Then they kicked spasmodically, and apart from reflex shudders dangled still and dead at last. Only liquid droplets moved now, dribbling from the demon’s meat-clogged maw. One sparkled ruby-red as it descended.

The solitary candle hissed, and choked on blood, and died…

Fog boiled across the surface of the mirror, so that Voord could see no more—as if he had not seen enough already. Like his hand, the Vlechan’s face was almost drained of colour—almost, but not quite. There remained the unmistakable blanched greenness of nausea suppressed by pride alone. To vomit would be to show weakness. In his time as an inquisitor
Eldheisart
Voord had authorised, had supervised, had personally inflicted equally ingenious torments. So why retch at this… ?

He had absorbed each image shown him by the mirror with a cold, almost a clinically professional interest; aware with every mutilation that an unseen brooding presence was watching him, noting his reactions, assessing his wor-thiness for its aid. He had felt shock, disgust, the ever-present crawling fear—but had neither felt nor shown the slightest pang of pity or remorse.

And yet, though he had watched everything, he had still seen less than Sedna. His eyes were not eyes, and his knowledge of sorcery was sparse. Where he had beheld only a monster formed, it seemed, from armoured darkness, she had known exactly what the calling of
an-shri
entailed. Like all demons, Ythek Shri had many names, many titles, born of the awe and terror It commanded by its very presence: Warden of Gateways, De-vourer in the Dark… but most appropriate, and most explanatory to those who knew its meaning, was simply Herald. It was a herald, in very truth, an emissary, an ambassador between the world of men and the planes of the Abyss; and its function, its purpose, its self-appointed, chosen duty was to encourage human wizards in their reverence and summoning of the Ancient. The Demon Lords. To call on Ythek Shri, whether by accident or design, was no end in itself, although it had been so to Sedna ar Gethin. It was a beginning.

Of all this, and of much, much more,
Eldheisart
Voord remained in comfortable ignorance. The only mouth which could have told him, warned him of what he had done, was shredded, half-digested tissue now. It was ignorance, combined with his own lack of patience and the undertow of fear which he would not admit— overshadowed maybe by some other influence—which caused him to forget the ending of his conjuration. The Pronouncement of Dismissal. For no such Pronouncement was made. An envoy had been summoned, without reason for that summoning, and a Gate was open. Both the envoy and the Gate remained—and both were an invitation.

Slowly the grey surface of the mirror began to swirl in upon itself, heavy spirals of movement like stirred water. Slowly at first, but with ever-increasing speed, it became a whirling, dizzying, slick-sided funnel pouring into nothingness. Voord reeled as he stared down its throat, and vertigo tugged hypnotically at him. Had he been standing he might have taken the few unsteady steps required to tumble and be lost, but kneeling—

though his brain spun giddily in time with the vortex and he slumped forward—he caught his weight on outflung, outspread hands. Pain seared him as the ruined palm slapped hard against the floor. Blood flowed again and the spiralling continued ever faster. A whirlpool of mist. A maelstrom that threatened to suck away his very soul. But he would not, could not be enticed, and with juddering abruptness the spinning of the vortex stopped. With a sound like the breaking of the world, the mirror of seeing cracked from side to side and its surface turned jet black. Crouched helplessly on hands and knees, Voord raised his head enough to see; and he saw darkness, seeping like smoke from the fissure in the mirror’s substance. It did not dissipate, as true smoke or true vapour would have done, but became thicker, denser, heavier—as if it was taking physical form. As Sedna had done before him, Voord wondered momentarily what that form would be. But he wondered only for an instant, then apprehensive curiosity gave way to undiluted, abject terror. He sprang to his feet and fled.

Aldric spent a sleepless night in Evthan’s house, having made it brutally plain to the rejoicing villagers that he found no cause for celebration in that evening’s work. Though Gueynor stayed with him, he did no more than stare into the fire as he held her hand in a grip which seemed his only link to life and sanity. It was as he had said: granting the needful gift of death was no more to an Alban
kailin-eir
than simple decency, like his burial of that pitiful morsel of humanity in the clearing by the mound. It was never a deed done lightly, for no matter what opinions were voiced, no matter what emotion was displayed or hidden, the taking of life left scars upon the life of he who took it, regardless of any just cause. Aldric had killed before, so many times. Yet this killing had somehow soiled him as no other had; as if he had administered a punishment where none was called for. Would it be so with Crisen? he wondered. If the king’s command to kill him was not just, but Aldric carried it out through obedience, would that obedience wipe clean his own guilt in the matter… ! He was
ilauem-arluth, kailin, eijo
, swordsman, slayer—but he was neither an assassin nor an executioner.

Yet worst of all was the unshakable feeling that he had killed the wrong man. All the responsibility rested on Crisen Geruath’s noble shoulders, for Aldric’s mind, concentrated by his brooding, had sifted what he knew of the Overlords at Seghar again and again until he almost sickened of it. Round, and round, and round…

What had been done to Evthan had not been punishment for striking Keel; that had been the reason given,

not the reason for it. Even the ferocious beating he had suffered was meant only to conceal traces of—what was that Vreijek name?—ar Keth… no, ar Gethin’s shape-shifting sorcery. Aldric wanted words with her. Soon. And with Crisen. And the Overlord himself. As clan-lord and as king’s confidant, the Alban realised now, he had certain responsibilities, ignore them or avoid them how he would. He could travel carelessly for just so long, pretending to himself that his sworn word had no immediacy to it, and then his duties would overtake him one way or another. As they had done now. Better by far if he turned and met them willingly.

But he was alone, and it was the Geruaths who ruled this province. There was nothing to prevent them disposing of what they might regard as no more than a nuisance. He recalled the “bandits” who had killed Youenn Sicard. Somebody had already tried such a disposal once… It would be best if he sent some kind of message back to Alba: a form of insurance, perhaps, which would provoke thought and make hasty violence less appealing. Or merely a way to achieve vengeance from beyond the grave…

It would have to be committed to the keeping of someone he could trust implicitly, and under Heaven there were few enough of those. Now that Evthan was dead…

Gueynor. She had been sitting on her customary cushioned stool all night, drawn close beside his chair at the hearthfire of the house, and now she was huddled in uncomfortable sleep with her head resting on the Alban’s knee. She had walked beside him to the door of Evthan’s home, straight-backed and dignified, but once that door had locked behind her and no one else could see, the girl had broken down and cried bitterly for her dead uncle; indeed, had cried herself at last to sleep. It had pained him that he was helpless to comfort her, but he knew that any words he might speak were already redundant, and had kept silent. It would be better for her if she left this place, for whatever reason—Aldric knew only too well how memories refused to heal when they were continually refreshed by association with surroundings and places and faces… Oh yes, he knew.

But he was puzzled; why had there been no soldiers in the village, looking for him? Twenty-four hours had passed now, plenty of time for the man who had escaped to reach Seghar and make his report, more than enough time for a troop of cavalry to have been detached from the garrison and sent in haste to Valden.

Unless… A slow smile of relief spread over Aldric’s face as what had been an idle notion—almost dismissed as too unlikely—became more and more probable each time that he reviewed it. The last mercenary had been a young man, very young—and so very, very frightened. Might he… ! Why not? When he fled from what must have seemed his own inevitable death, he could easily have kept on running, away from the mound in the forest and out of the Jevaiden, back to whatever farmstead in the Inner Empire he had come from. It was the only possible reason for there being no reaction from the citadel, for neither of the Geruaths seemed men who would indulge in the subtle, cruel game of cat-and-mouse. Where they were concerned, reprisals were invariably immediate. And severe. Aldric was unable to get the image of that Tergovan merchant out of his head: A man pulled apart by horses—for saying something which the lord’s son didn’t like… ! What would be done to a foreigner who killed the Overlord’s retainers? Aldric had no idea, and for once had no desire to broaden his education. But it would certainly be imaginative, elaborate— and extremely painful.

Yes… it would be best if he sent a letter to Dewan ar Korentin. Gueynor could take it to the coast—at least his Drusalan florins were acceptable that far—and could see it safe aboard an Elherran merchantman. By the time she returned he would have… His flow of ideas stalled for lack of information. Would have done something positive, anyway.