The Demon Lord (40 page)

And then there were no more demons.

“My lady… !” Aldric used the honorific with sincerity for the first time ever, his voice shockingly clear in the vast stillness which no longer thrummed with the Song of Desolation. His ears had grown accustomed to hearing that sound constantly in the background of whatever he heard or said or did, and now that it had been silenced he seemed capable of hearing even the soft beat of Gueynor’s heart.

She turned in answer to his voice and she was Gueynor Evenou, Evthan’s sister’s daughter. Not Sedna ar Gethin the Vreijek witch—not half-and-half—just Gueynor… In silence she held out her hands and Aldric took them as they opened. In one the spellstone glowed—and its fires now seemed no more than the gentle fluttering of an alcohol flame—and in the other, there was dust. All that remained of the knucklebones of Sedna. Only dust…

Marek, at the Alban’s shoulder, looked at it and smiled sadly. “There was little enough for obsequies,” he said, and sifted the fine white dust into a leather pouch. “But these poor bones at least received a better and more worthy funeral than I could give.”

“You?” said Aldric. “But you didn’t even know her…”

“She was a sorceress—I am a demon queller. That makes us siblings of a kind. And I do no more than give respect to a sister…”

“So it’s over,” Gueynor said. “At long last.” Her relief was undisguised.

“Not yet.” Both Marek and the girl looked narrowly at Aldric. He returned their stares without embarrassment and jerked his head toward the darkness of the tower. “Crisen is unaccounted for.”

“Crisen is dead,” Marek said quietly. “Ythek took him.”

“But did you see him dead?” persisted Aldric. “I have my reasons for wanting to be sure…”

“No,” Marek admitted. “I didn’t see him. Because…” He hesitated, plainly reluctant to introduce ugliness into the peace of afterwards. “Because if he died as I believe he died, there would be nothing left to see.”

“Aldric, please…” As he unlaced war-mask and unbuckled helm and coif, Gueynor touched her fingers gently to the sudden vulnerability of the young
eijo’s
scarred cheek. “Let it go. Dead is dead.”

“Maybe so.” Aldric remained unconvinced—as unconvinced as Rynert the King also would be. Then he stiffened and his gaze slid past Gueynor to focus on the shadow cast by a rack of weapons. Indrawn breath hissed between his teeth. And the shadow moved.

And he moved. A swift step in front of Gueynor and the Cernuan, and a lifting of his
taiken
to a guard position. “But half dead,” he said somberly, “is still alive.”

If only just… Crisen Geruath had spent only a matter of minutes in the company of demons. Long enough for him to have been obliterated, had that been their intention, yet not long enough for even Ythek Shri to do much which was both delicate and painful. But damage had been done. He lacked an eye, much blood and a deal of living flesh—and it went beyond the merely physical… Aldric had seen the expression on Crisen’s lacerated face before; then it had been on a hunting dog—but man or dog or any other creature, that vacant blazing of the eyes had just one meaning.

Crisen had gone stark mad.

Gueynor stared in horror and then caught at Aldric’s steel-sheathed arm. “Kill him…” she whispered.

He glanced sideways, lips skinning from his teeth in a small, appalling smile. “Kill him? Kill that? No… If
he
was still Crisen the Overlord then I would kill, and willingly—but
it
is not. That… thing is nothing. Less than an animal. Less…”—he looked full at the Jouvaine girl—”less even than a wolf.”

“What would killing be except a kindness?” Marek said, with a long straight stare at Widowmaker. Aldric caught the look and shook his head just once, turning the
taiken
so that starlight shimmered up and down the blade.

“Pretty…” was all he said.

“A kindness,” the demon queller repeated with no more attempts at subtlety.

Aldric watched him for a moment, studied Gueynor for the same brief time and nodded. “Just so,” he murmured dispassionately. Isileth Widowmaker whispered thinly as she slid into her scabbard. “So show some kindness if you wish. Or not. I am not disposed to it…”

They stared at him and then at Crisen; and both huddled unconsciously closer to each other as the sane will do in the presence of insanity and the unremitting hate which is its cousin. The Overlord watched them all. The dull glitter of his one remaining eye did not blink; he scarcely seemed to breathe; even the blood which streaked his lacerated form had long since ceased to flow. About him there was only dreadful immobility.

“God…” he said thickly. “My god…” It might have been an oath; or a prayer; or a plea for the mercy that was life or maybe death. “My god…” Crisen said again. And then his voice rose to a scream: “You killed my god… !” He was charging forward now, a reeling, staggering run on flayed and broken feet, and in his ruined hands there gleamed a battle-axe…

Aldric did not reply—words were useless here—but his arms thrust out to either side, pitching the demon queller and the girl out of Crisen’s way and gaining for himself some space to move.

Barely in time. Sparks and a scraping sound of metal gouging metal came from his shoulder as he flinched aside from underneath the falling axe. Crisen did not shout in triumph, nor utter any war-cry; instead his lips emitted a formless wailing like a dying dog as he stumbled past.

Aldric turned with him, right hand closing on his sword, and Isileth came free in a singing arc of steel. There was scarcely any sound of her point striking home—a slight thud and little more—but the Overlord went down as if his legs were hacked from under him, crashing full-length against the floor and skidding with his own momentum. There was a single cut, less than an inch long, where the base of his skull became the nape of his neck, and this had scarcely bled at all. But it went between the linked bones of his spine and broke the cord within…

Crisen lay face downward with his arms, his legs, his body all useless now, and he was dead. But all three had heard his voice in the instant that breath left him. “Oh god…” he said. “Oh father…” And said no more.

“His father?” wondered Marek.

“Or the Father of Fires, his god?” said Gueynor softly.

Aldric looked down at the corpse as he cleaned and sheathed his sword. “Maybe,” he said, and stared out at the pallor in the sky which would become another day. “Maybe… But what would make him speak of either— or even think that they would listen… ?”

Aldric checked his saddle-girth and glanced up towards the sky. It was clear blue: no clouds, no rain, no threat of thunder any more. A summer sky at last. “So,” he said in a quiet voice meant for no one’s ears but Lyard’s and his own, “the sun also rises on this Gate of the Abyss…”

“Not so, my lord.” Marek, standing beside Gueynor on the steps of the inner citadel, had either heard the words in some strange fashion or had read them from the Alban’s lips. “Seghar is not a Gate. Not now. The way is closed.”

“Is it?” Patting his courser’s neck, Aldric looked towards them across the big Andarran’s withers. “Marek Endain, you above ail people should know that ways can be reopened. Closed doors can be unlocked.” The Alban’s right hand touched his crest-collar, and though his voice did not alter he commanded with the full weight of his rank and title in the words: “Stay here; until you are sure that what you claim is true.”

Marek did not bow outright—he was a Cernuan and not a man of Alba—but he inclined his head, acknowledging the order as he would one emanating from the king himself.

“Will you not stay, Aldric—even for a little while?” There was an unmistakable note of pleading in Guey-nor’s eyes. Aldric wavered;
so like Kyrin
, he thought. Then shook his head.

“No. You stay. I have to go… in part, to put right what has been set wrong here. Some of my duties remain.” Marek gazed at him and nodded, understanding.

“But Aldric…!” As he set boot to stirrup and swung into his saddle, Gueynor hurried down the stairs and caught at his leg. “Aldric, what will I do… ?”

“Rule,” he answered and leaned down to take her hand. “Despite your birth, lady, you are the sole legitimate heir to Seghar. By right of succession and by right of conquest. You are the Overlord, Gueynor.” Bending low from the waist, Aldric raised her fingertips and touched them to his forehead in token of respect for her new found rank. “This place is yours, to do with as you will; to hold or to leave. But I ask you one thing only; if you choose to hold Seghar, then give a thought to your dead. Honour them. And hold it well.”

She stood in the shadow of the Summergate with Marek at her back, and watched as man and horse dwindled slowly towards the forest. Aldric did not look back as he rode away—not even once. That was as she had wished. Yet when the distance-thinned wail of a wolf came drifting down the wind from the Jevaiden, he stiffened in his saddle and made to turn around; but instead recalled his promise and raised one arm instead, as he had at Evthan’s funeral. Half in salute, half in farewell.

Then he shook Lyard to a gallop and was swallowed by the trees.

-ain
. Suffix of friendship or affection. (Alb.)

Altrou
. Foster-father; also a title given to priests. (Alb.) 

-an
. Suffix of courtesy between equals. (Alb.)

Arluth
. Lord; master of lands or of a town. (Alb.)

Coyac
. Sleeveless jacket of fur, leather or sheepskin.(Jouv.)

Cseirin
. Any member of a lord’s immediate family.(Alb.)

Cymar
. Over-robe for outdoor wear. (Alb.)

Eijo
. Wanderer or landless person, especially a lordless warrior. (Alb.)

-eir
. Suffix of respect to a superior. (Alb.) [

Eldheisart
. Imperial military rank next below
hautheis-art
. (Drus.) 

Elyu-dlas
. Formal crested garment in clan colours.(Alb.)

Erhan
. Scholar; especially one who travels in order to study. (Alb.)

Exark
. Imperial priestly rank; a provincial cleric.(Drus.)

Hlensyarl
. Foreigner; a discourteous form. (Drus.)

Ilauem-arluth
. Clan-lord. (Alb.)

Kailin
. Warrior, man-at-arms. (Alb.)

Kailin-eir
. Nobleman of lesser status than
arluth
. (Alb.)

Kortagor
. Imperial military rank next below
eldheisart
. (Drus.)

Kourgath
. Alban lynx-cat; also a nickname. (Alb.)

an Mergh-Arlethen
. Horse-Lords; high-clan Albans living mostly in Prytenon. (Alb.)

Mathern-an arluth
. Full title of the King of Alba. (Alb.)

Pesoek
. Charm; any lesser spell. (Elth.)

Politark
. Imperial priestly r&nk; a city cleric, superior to
exark
. (Drus.)

Taidyo
. Staff-sword; a wooden practice foil. (Alb.)

Taiken
. Longsword; the classic
kailin’s
, weapon. (Alb.)

Taipan
. Shortsword; usually restricted to formal dress
elyu-dlas
. (Alb.)

Taulath
. “Shadow-thief; mercenary spy, saboteur, assassin. (Alb.)

Telek
. Spring-gun; close-range personal weapon. (Alb.)

Traugur
. Corpse resurrected by necromancy. (Alb.)

Tsalaer
. Lamellar cuirass worn without sleeves or leg armour (otherwise
an-moyya-tsalaer
or Great Harness). (Alb.)

Tsepan
. Suicide dirk. (Alb.)

Tsepanak’ulleth
. Ritual suicide. (Alb.)

Ulleth
. Skill, art or “accepted way”; referring to the traditional style. (Alb.)

Ymeth
. Dream-smoke; common narcotic drug (Drus.)