Demonkin (12 page)

“Well.” Tania leaned against her horse's neck. “That's interesting.”

Aryn struggled to make sense of what waited ahead. The dream world was fine for making out people and other living things, like trees. Yet details in dead things remained indistinct, things like rock, cut wood, and stone. There was a line of wagons here, but why so many?

“Tania?” Aryn said.

She shushed him. He didn't like being shushed. Her other arm was still bound against her chest, tucked into the sling she herself had made.

“Tarna's south gate is gone,” Tania said. “In its place is a pile of stones as thick as any wall.” However Cantrall had taught her to see, it gave her clarity that Aryn's primitive dream world vision lacked.

Aryn considered the problem. How long would it take them to ride to another gate? A half day, at least. “Are they letting anyone in?”

“I'd gamble on a no.”

“What happened here?”

“That,” Tania said, “is an interesting question.”

She directed her horse off the road around the wagons, ignoring those gathered in line. She reached into her robes. Aryn glanced at those they passed, and many probably glanced back.

“You there!” a man shouted. “Stop!”

“Wait your turn!” another shouted.

“You can't step in front of me!”

Tania kept riding. “Stay close,” she whispered, “and stay quiet.”

“Hey!” A big man hopped off his wagon and stomped over. “What do you think you're doing?” He stepped right in front of Tania’s horse, and she almost rode over him before her animal halted. The man cursed.

Though Aryn could not make out features or hair in the dream world, he knew this man was large. His posture suggested he was very angry.

“What's wrong with you?” the man shouted.

“Eh?” Tania slumped atop her horse, glancing this way and that. “What's happening?”

Aryn caught a flash of Tania scribing
something
inside her cloak, where the man couldn't see. A glyph? What was she going to do to this man?

“You can't cut the line, missy.” The big man stared up at her. “Hear me?”

“There's a line?” Tania's voice was a crone's voice, feeble and soft. “I'm so sorry. I didn't see any line. Old Paunchy, he gets me where I need to go.”

For the first time, Aryn wondered how old Tania really was. He had always assumed she was twenty, perhaps twenty-five, but hearing that voice—

“I've been waiting a day to get inside, and so have the others!” The big man pointed back the way they had come. “Get back in line!”

Tania hunched down and pulled back her hood. “Could you direct me? I'm not sure where to go.”

“Drown me.” The man took two steps back. “My apologies, ma'am! I ... I didn't realize.”

“Eh?” Tania asked.

“I didn't realize you were blind.” The big man's bluster faded as his shoulders sagged.

“That's perfectly all right,” Tania said in her crone voice. “I don't hear so well these days.” She turned in Aryn's general direction. “Boy!”

Aryn snapped to attention.

“Boy, you hearing me?”

Had Tania done something to make her face look old, some glamour glyph? The angry man seemed cowed. Tania had warned Aryn not to speak, so he stepped his horse closer to hers and touched her searching hand.

“My boy,” Tania said. “Mute as a brick, but he's all I have. Pox took his speech when he was little, rotted his skin a bit, but he's still my boy.”

“Five take me!” The big man sounded appalled. “Please, let me guide you to the postern for the infirm.”

“Thank you, young man, but Paunchy knows the way.” Tania peered about atop her horse. “Just turn his nose in the right direction, would you?”

The cries of the others had died now, evidently grasping the situation. The big man gingerly took the lead of Tania's horse and directed them away from the main gate, or lack thereof. He wasn't such a bad sort.

“Just keep riding straight forward. A soldier will greet you at the postern. If you get lost, just shout.”

“Thank you, young man.” Tania cast about blindly for Aryn's hand, brushed it with her knuckles, and tapped her horse's flanks. “Boy! Follow!” She pulled her hood back up.

Aryn hung his head as his horse followed hers, resisting the urge to burst out laughing. Preying on the kindness of others was horrible, but he had not wanted to laugh like this since he left Terras. Despite his worries about Tania's true motivations, he was really starting to like her.

They rode until they were within fifty paces of Tarna's southern wall. A soldier marched out to meet them, a dead stick strapped across his back. A legionnaire?

“State your business!” the legionnaire demanded.

Tania dropped off her horse and pulled back her hood once more. “I'm on Valar's business.”

The man snapped to attention. “Sir.” He saluted. “What brings you here? Was it the assault?”

Aryn stared. Why was this legionnaire saluting Tania? Why had he called her “sir”?

Tania returned his salute. “The assault?”

“Yes sir.” The legionnaire dropped his arm. “A demon took the south gate. Tall as three men it was, in blood armor that absorbed every spell. It smashed the gate and portcullis. It had a lightning sword.”

That was the Mavoureen general from Terras! As Aryn dropped off his horse as well — it seemed time for that — he resisted the very strong urge to grab Tania and shake her. Where were Kara and Trell, Sera and Byn?

“That sounds terrifying,” Tania said mildly. “Where is it now?”

“It left, sir.”

“Did it?” Tania waited.

“Yes sir.” The legionnaire lowered his voice. “To be right honest with you, sir, I don't know the whole of it. You'd best beg an explanation from Captain Traeger.”

“Where is he?”

“Overseeing the western wall.” The legionnaire beckoned her closer. “I can have him summoned—”

“No need,” Tania said. “The threat is past and he's very busy. What's your name?”

“Malon Jakob.” He inclined his head. “Fourth Sword.”

“Who leads your division?”

“Sir, that would be First Sword Dynara Keris.”

“Lead me to her,” Tania said. “Any first sword worth her blade will know the situation as well as the captain.”

Aryn had no idea what was going on and knew enough not to ask, yet. His father had taught him that, one of the times Dupret noticed him. Listen and think.

“Just follow me, sir.” Malon only then noticed Aryn. “Sir, who is—”

“He's with me,” Tania said.

“Yes sir.” That seemed to cover it.

Malon led them to the wall. Tania led her horse, snapping her fingers when Aryn did not. He dared not question her now, but when they got inside she would owe him one whale of an explanation.

Malon led them to a narrow postern in the wall, likely an iron door from the way it ground against the stone. This postern was scarcely big enough to admit a single person, and inside was another door just as thick. Malon opened that door and stood beside it.

“Straight in,” Malon said. “You'll emerge in the southwest martialing yard. Head due north until you exit the yard and turn right up the stairs. First Sword Keris stages out of the barracks at the top.”

“You'll see to it our horses are brought inside the city?” Tania asked.

“I'll see to it personally, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Malon.”

The legionnaire straightened. Aryn was not sure why. Tania glanced at him. “Stay close.”

She walked through the narrow doorway, Aryn all but stepping on her heels. The first door slammed the moment they were through. The second slammed five paces after. They passed through a long, low tunnel filled with murder holes.

Soon they reached a third door, again wide enough for a single person. That opened, and finally they were through. As his world opened back up, Aryn only then realized they had been inside the wall for that entire trek. Tarna's walls were as thick as a common room.

“Tania,” he whispered, but she turned and leaned close.

“Not here,” she whispered back. “Too many ears and eyes.”

Aryn held his questions. He had described the Mavoureen general to her, and he had no doubt she had made the connection. They needed Kara's help. They needed someone’s help.

Jair’s kind face entered Aryn’s mind unbidden, the face of a man both patient and wise. His comfort and counsel. Aryn missed Jair often, sometimes without even thinking about it. A good friend gone.

With the exception of Sera, Jair had been his only real friend, and now that friend rotted in the ground at Terras. They had dueled and fished and hunted, and Jair had listened better than anyone Aryn knew.

Tania led him around ranks of drilling soldiers, squires, and others. She slipped beside or around those who crossed their path and following her let Aryn do the same. They climbed a set of wide stairs and approached a large building made out of dark lines.

Aryn assumed it was the barracks, but his dream world sight proved more and more frustrating. It simply lacked the fidelity to reveal true detail, and would for the rest of his life. He pushed past self-pity. Many others had endured worse and Tania endured just fine.

A legionnaire challenged them at the door.

“Valar's business,” Tania said.

The legionnaire saluted and stepped aside. Tania stepped
inside
, and Aryn walked right on her heels. Five people occupied the building and all of them stopped moving when the door opened. Everyone looked up at once.

“Well.” A woman as tall as Kara and as muscular as Trell crossed her arms, armor clanking. “Who do I demote for letting you in here?” This would likely be Dynara Keris, the leader Malon mentioned.

“First sword?” Tania inclined her head. “I'm Tania Lace, Valar's first hunter.

Dynara’s stance changed not a bit. “Fine, so you are.” She turned back to her soldiers and leaned over a table. “How much of my time do you need today? I've got a half league of wall to inspect and a day to do it.”

“I need questions answered. Where is the royal apprentice, Kara Tanner?”

Dynara harrumphed. “In a cell.”

Aryn wanted to shout a dozen questions about that.

“And Trell?” Tania asked. “The Tellvan swordking?”

“Left with a demon.”

“Any idea why?”

“He made a bargain. Damn thing wanted a rematch and Trell agreed if it stopped killing us.” Dynara's voice took on a hard edge. “He's the best fighter I've ever seen, that Trell, but I imagine he's quite dead now.”

“Thank you, first sword.” Tania walked past Aryn to the door. “Let's go.”

Aryn grabbed her shoulder once outside and drew her close. “I have no idea what's going on!” he whispered.

She poked his stomach. “You're cute when you're flustered.”

“I'm not flustered!” Aryn hissed. “I'm confused!”

How could she call him cute? The flesh on his seared face blistered like overcooked steak. He now regretted the vanity he had allowed for so many years, but her comment still hurt. Once, he had been far more than
cute
.

“Look,” Tania said, and there was an apology there. “We're going to meet with my master. Stay with me until I report to him, and then I'll answer your questions.” She paused. “If he allows it.”

Aryn forced himself to relax. “You can't tell me what's going on unless your master allows it?”

“Yes. I'm not really supposed to talk about what I do unless I'm authorized.”

“All right.” Aryn knew how unreasonable he was being, how Tania had dropped her whole life to bring him to Tarna. “I understand. It's a blood oath or something, right?”

“You're not angry?”

“No. If you swore not to tell me, I respect that.”

Tania kissed his cheek. “Yet another admirable trait.” She squeezed his hand and strode away down the steps.

After a moment, Aryn decided to follow her.

ARYN FOLLOWED TANIA to a man standing by a stable, with their horses. Tarna's handlers must have wrangled them inside while they spoke with First Sword Keris. They rode those horses at a plodding pace through wide streets crowded with soldiers and people. Everyone was going somewhere, fast, and tempers seemed short.

Tania seemed in no hurry, and Aryn forced himself not to be. Stressing over time lost was pointless. They would ride at the speed they would ride.

Soon they turned onto a side street, much narrower than the main streets. It was a mix of worn cobblestone and hard-packed mud bordered by building walls. Aryn knew from his books that most of Tarna's buildings were built from clay bricks, as both stone and clay were bountiful in the mountains, but he couldn't see that.

He knew these buildings had glass windows, but he couldn't see those either. He couldn’t make out the details on eaves or railings. These structures were masses of interwoven dark lines dense as a child’s scribbles.

Wooden signs — he assumed they were wood — hung from posts before many of the buildings, but Aryn had no idea what services they advertised. Orange blobs representing people jostled each other on this narrow street. Here, a pair of men he made as merchants haggled over the price of a barrel of fish. There, five taut forms wearing swords — he assumed them to be mercenaries — sat on the stoop of a rowdy tavern. Yet Aryn could only guess.

If this was what seeing was going to be like for the rest of his life, he was no longer sure he could call this “sight”. How did Tania manage? They halted before a building that looked like all the others.

There was noise inside, the clinking of glasses and male and female laughter. A tavern. Aryn felt confident enough in that, and decided he would simply need to learn to use his other senses to fill in what his eyes missed. This wasn't hopeless. It would simply take time.

Tania slid off her horse and tied its lead to a post, and Aryn mimicked her. She stepped close enough to speak quietly. Aryn decided this must be where Valar waited, or someone who reported to Valar.

“I don't know how long this will take,” Tania said. “The one thing I can tell you is that I'm not supposed to be here. I once swore, quite fervently, that I would never come back.”

Aryn waited for orders.

“This will either go fast,” Tania said, “or take forever. Either way, I must ask you to wait here.”

“I will.”

“I'd say go inside and get a drink, but any man who sees your skin will start an uproar that'll spill into the streets. This city is filled with worried people, and even a hint of the word ‘demon’ will get you lynched.”

Only then did Aryn understand how precarious his situation here was. His heartbeat quickened. He did not know what Tania had risked to bring him back here, but he suspected it was something very dear to her.

“Go,” he said. “I'll be fine.”

“You better be.” She strode into the tavern.

Aryn pulled his cloak close and sat himself against its outside wall. He huddled, wrapped in robes, and listened to tavern songs and rowdy cries. The laughter of women and the chuckling of men.

Weeks ago, that had been his life. The prince at the ball. He should not miss it — missing it was selfish and shallow — but he did, and desperately. He had never appreciated how lucky he was until his life burned away.

Had he been arrogant? Certainly. Had he been an ass? More than once. He would take it all back for the chance to look human again, but not if it left Sera in the Underside, screaming her lungs out as Davazet tortured her.

Releasing the dream world felt like putting down a heavy stone. Aryn’s head throbbed and he only now realized how much holding the dream world exhausted him. His training at Solyr had taught him to hold it for brief periods, long enough to scribe glyphs, not for hours at a time.

Aryn thought again about Tania's offer to help him see. Whatever Cantrall had taught her was leagues beyond what he was doing. He wondered who Valar was, and why Tania merited such respect from soldiers. He wondered why she spoke so casually of demons.

He settled his chin on his chest and took a nap.

TRELL WAS TOO TIRED TO WEEP and too broken to move. Spread out before him lay corpses. Hundreds of them. The town Abaddon had slaughtered was wrecked and burning.

The armored monster sat now in a meditative pose, knees spread and ankles crossed. The lightning sword that had blown men, women, and children into steaming chunks was sheathed on its back. The smell of death and ash threatened to choke Trell, and he almost wished it would.

Never in his life had Trell felt so helpless as when Abaddon cut down the people of this village. The woman with dark hair fleeing with her baby. The man with the scarred face who threw his body in front of a cowering boy. The young man dragging his ailing father as Abaddon lumbered closer.

Not all had died in terror. Many had fought and some of those had attacked Trell as well, thinking him part of the assault. Abaddon's lightning blew them apart before they got close. Others were split in twain by Abaddon's blade, crushed beneath its feet, or sucked into the empty void beneath its skull helmet.

That helmet was open now and Abaddon had no
face
— just a set of glowing yellow eyes floating in a void. When Abaddon devoured someone's soul, he gripped their body in one massive hand. Something came out of the victim — a bright trail — which slipped into the maw inside the helmet.

The corpse left behind turned gray, then black, then burst apart, crumbling into so much bone and ash. It was the most terrifying death Trell had ever witnessed. He had witnessed so many deaths today.

“Trell.” Abaddon broke the silence. “I do not devour souls.”

Trell ignored its useless words. It was not just the horror of seeing a village of men, women, and children hacked apart. It was knowing that this had happened in dozens of other places to thousands of other people.

This slaughter had happened in Carn. His wife had been slaughtered just like this and Trell wondered if she cowered, or wept, or fought. He imagined she had fought.

“It's a trick,” Abaddon said.

“A trick?” That got Trell's attention.

“We designed it to terrify you.” Abaddon's yellow eyes stared at Trell from the void inside its helmet. “The Five made your world and set its rules. We cannot truly devour any soul here. Such power cannot be destroyed.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you appear broken, and I need you not to be.” The demon chuckled. “The people I 'ate' are simply dead. The trail is a glamour. Their true souls are beyond now, standing before Order and Ruin. Your people’s superstitions are comical.”

“You torture people in the Underside,” Trell said.

“We torture souls,” Abaddon said, “and that is different from destroying them. Paymon, my master, is only satisfied with total subjugation. Any subject who demonstrates free will is brought before the paingivers.”

Trell picked up the hand of a dead woman. Abaddon's lightning sword had seared it clean off. It seemed like the hand of an oversized doll, so clean was the separation.

“Torture damages the mind,” Abaddon continued, “and that
can
be destroyed. To Paymon each soul is a coin, a measure of his worth against the dozens who compete for influence. There is no need for coins to think.”

“Why did you make me watch you kill everyone?” Trell put down the woman's hand.

“I wanted my duel. I now know I will never have it. If I have broken your mind in my many attempts, I do regret that.”

“You don't regret.” Trell trembled with useless rage. “You don't understand the word.”

“A fair point. But I would offer you the opportunity to understand us.”

“Why?”

“I seek dialogue. The Mavoureen are not a people given to long conversations. Paymon and Hecata, his demon queen, created us for tasks. Most of those tasks involve killing, torturing, or cleaning.”

“Cleaning?”

“It gets messy. All that blood.”

Trell rested his head in his hands. It felt like his skull would split right open. He needed Abaddon to
stop
talking.

“I was created for leading others in battle,” Abaddon said. “I alone was made to understand strategy, to think and reason beyond simple goals. That required intelligence and cunning far beyond the average Mavoureen.”

“And what,” Trell said, “is the
average
Mavoureen?”

“A soldier that never questions, never really thinks for itself. I’m different. Hecata formed what drives me from souls ripped from dozens of generals and warriors we took from worlds like yours. We took each world in glorious battle, and we now protect their people from the Alcedi.”

“So that's what you do? Conquer worlds? Enslave souls?” Trell grew curious despite his disgust. Abaddon might reveal things even Kara did not know. He wished he could put his arms around her right now.

“We gather souls for Paymon,” Abaddon said. “Souls are difficult to create, impossible to destroy, and coveted by many deities, including your own precious Five. Your world is one of hundreds accessible through the Underside. A rather small prize.”

“You want me to believe you made our souls?”

“We did not. The Five made you and this world, as they made dozens of others. The Five are equal to Paymon in all respects, though my master would not admit that. Hecata might, but she has a perspective our demon king has lost. Paymon has grown obsessed.”

“With what?”

“His souls, his coins, and his reputation.” Abaddon turned its empty skull helm to the sky. “When you are immortal, Trell ... when you are a god ... it becomes difficult to measure yourself against deities within your sphere of influence. Souls controlled are one measurement. It is Paymon's favorite measurement.”

Trell wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that revelation. “This slaughter, all these invasions ... it's nothing more than a dick-measuring contest?”

“Yes!” Abaddon thumped its armored thigh. “That is it exactly! Once, millennia ago, our war against the Alcedi was a just one. Their method of subjugation is far worse than Paymon's.”

“How so?”

“They wipe your minds and turn you into pretty dolls. You want us instead of them.”

“You torture us,” Trell reminded him.

“Torture is reserved for those who displease Paymon and souls new to the Underside.” Abaddon shook its skull helm. “Really, Trell, can you imagine the number of Mavoureen it would take to torture every person in your world? We'd never have time to do anything else. Unlike the Alcedi, we let you keep your minds.”

“You keep saying Alcedi.” Trell huffed. “They really exist?”

“Of course they exist. I thought it would take years to get that through your thick head.”

Trell almost smiled, almost, before he remembered all the people Abaddon had slaughtered today. He hated this demon for making him hate it just a little less. A merciless demonic weapon should not laugh. It should not make jokes or voice opinions.

“In the realm of influence that touches your world,” Abaddon said, “the tiny portion of the Underside that overlaps with your insignificant speck, the Alcedi and the Mavoureen compete with the Five for dominance.”

“The Five are no different?” Trell could almost believe that, given his experience as Life's Champion.

“I honestly don't know. I've never spoken with any of them, only their champions. They do protect you when they can. If you want to think they do it because they care for their creations and not because you are a measure of their power, I recommend you do so.”

Trell wondered if this is what it felt like to go mad.

“Anyhow,” Abaddon rumbled, “I'm done killing humans. Since I will not have my duel, I have no choice but to complete my task.”

“Your task?”

“I must take you to the Underside. Paymon has requested an audience.”

Trell stood with great effort. “I'm to be tortured, then?”

“I'm afraid so.” Abaddon stood as well. “I don't give the orders.” It slammed down its faceplate, fixing him with its grinning metal skull. “Our next stop is Pale Lake, in the province you call Rain.”

Trell groaned. “That's leagues from here.”

“It is a long walk. If you're very lucky, your sickness will kill you before we reach it.” Abaddon's big shoulders shrugged. “We will walk slow.”

That simple mercy baffled Trell. Abaddon was offering him a way out. Was this demon truly a mixture of generals from a dozen worlds, mashed together to lead an army of Mavoureen? It did not seem to regard murder as a crime. It saw killing humans as sending them to a better world.

How simple would warfare be if slaughtering those who stood against you simply sent them to a “better world”? Trell could never accept that. Death — at least all death not instantly inflicted by lightning — was painful and drawn out and terrifying.

Yet Abaddon was a demonic construct, not a man. It had no conscience and lived by different rules. How could Trell hate a construct? He did not hate a sword, even when others used that sword to slaughter innocents. A sword was a tool. So, apparently, was a demon general.