Shadow's Witness (31 page)

“YrsiUar,” Gale hissed through gritted teeth. The demon’s hate seemed so substantial as to be a physical thing, the only physical thing on this plane of emptiness. Gale answered the demon’s hate with a rage equally substantial. Here was the cause. Vengeance was at hand. He took a step toward the doors.

Jak clutched his hand, pulled him to a stop, and fairly jumped into his arms. “Lift me through, Gale,” he said urgently. “Lift me through!” ‘

Eyes on the pulsing doors of the shrine, Gale made no response. Anger consumed him. He felt no fear. Yrsillar was waiting for him.

Jak gripped Gale’s hand in both of his own, “Erevis!

Gale! Dammit, you can’t fight him here. He’s strongest here.” Jak shook his arm as though to bring him to his senses. “Let’s go through the gate and fight him on our own plane. Erevis! Don’t.”

“You go, little man,” he said, and lifted Jak toward the gate. Gale wanted to fight Yrsillar here.

“What? Waitvwait.” Jak squirmed in his grip like a fish. Gale turned the little man around so they could look into each other’s eyes. Gale’s resolve must have been evident from his expression, for Jak’s protests fell silent. The little man visibly wilted.

“Why, Gale?” he softly asked.

“Because when I kill him here, he’s dead for good.” Nothing less could satisfy him now.

Jak said nothing for a moment, merely hung in the air between Gale and the gate home.

“Put me down,” he said at last.

“You don’t need to—”

“Put me down, godsdammit,” Jak ordered. “This is our fight, Gale, not just yours. Those bastards hurt me too.” Jak looked at him meaningfully. Fear had given way to resolve, or resignation. “I said I’m with you and I am. Put me down.”

Gale did. Both drew blades and turned to the pulsing doors of the shrine.

“He’s waiting for us,” Jak observed. “He thinks it’ll make us more afraid.”

Gale started for the doors.

V>ale strode boldly for the pulsing double doors. The wooden slabs beat faster as he neared, as though in anticipation of his touch. Prom behind the doors he heard only silence, but he could feel Yrsillar’s brooding presence. The demon was waiting.

Beside him, Jak’s breathing came in fearful gasps.

“Easy,” he said, and reached down-to-pat Jak on the shoulder.

The hpHHng nodded, struggled to get himself under control. “I’m all right,” he said, though his breathing still came hard.

Cale saw that Jak had sheathed his dagger. He now held his magical short sword in one hand and his holy symbol in the other.

Frightened, the little man had fallen bade on his god for strength. Jak had sheathed a weapon of steel to draw a weapon of faith. Gale envied him.

The felt mask in his pocket brought him small comfort. Perhaps someday faith could be a weapon for him, but for today he would rely only on his steel.

Standing before the doors, he took a breath and kicked them in.

The moment the doors flew open, a wave of terror blew from the shrine like a black wind. Gale’s throat constricted and fear threatened to overwhelm him. With great effort of will, he fought down the supernatural terror and stood his ground. It’s not real, he told himself, it’s only magic.

Beside him, Jak let out a soft moan.

“It’s magical, Jak,” Gale said, and shook him by the shoulder. “Resist it.”

“I know,” Jak replied through bared teeth. He clutched his holy symbol in his fist so tightly that it must have cut into his palm. Gale saw blood squeezing from between Jak’s white knuckles, but the little man held his ground.

“Well provide you no amusement, YrsillarP Gale shouted into the gloomy shrine.

“Damn right,” Jak echoed with as much bravado as he could muster.

No response came from within.

They shared a solemn glance and walked through the open doors.

The shrine here looked much the same as the actual shrine back on their home plane. They saw rows of pews that led up to a raised dais and an altar.

From the opposite side of the room, Trailer’s voice boomed, the deep bass of distant thunder. “You’ve grown some since last we met, Champion.” His voice dropped so that each syllable dripped with enough

malice to make Gale wince. “Some, but not enough.”

Gale scanned the room toward the altar. He saw nothing but shadows and darkness.

“There,” Jak softly said, and pointed to the left of the altar.

The shadows and gloom suddenly unfolded, vomited forth the titanic form of Yrsillar. Gale’s breath caught in his throat.

The demon lord looked majestic. Where the lesser shadow demons had been lean and wiry, Yrsillar was a mountain of bluish-gray flesh. Powerfully muscled, the demon lord’s mammoth chest and rippling torso sat squarely atop a pair of tree-trunk-sized legs. He towered over Gale. Naked, but seemingly sexless, a nauseating spiderweb of purple veins pulsed visibly beneath the hairless, leathery skin of his body, each beat keeping time with the pulsing of the shrine doors, each beat no doubt keeping time with the pulsing of the gates back in the real guildhouae.

Overlong, powerful arms ended in bony, three-fingered hands, each digit capped with a black claw as long as Gale’s hand. Membranous wings sprouted from his back and spanned the room. He stood still as a statue, a nightmare carved of stone. The voids of his eye sockets, each as large as a Sembian fivestar, stared holes into Gale’s soul.

From the darkness around him emerged the shadow demon that Gale had wounded earlier, a miniature version of its master flitting about Yrsillar like a moth flitting about a flame.

Silently, majestically, Yrsillar stepped to the altar and regarded them coldly.

“Not enough,” he said again. From behind the demon lord’s shoulder, the shadow demon hissed.

This is just how Yrsillar chooses to appear to us,” Jak whispered through the side of his mouth. To

heighten our fear, but he’s made of nothingness, Gale, nothingness. Remember that.”

Gale nodded grimly, his eyes on the demons. “We give him nothing,” he whispered in reply.

“Damn right,” Jak said, and sounded as though he meant it.

They stepped forward into the main aisle, blades ready, and walked halfway to the raised dais and altar. Yrsillar regarded them in unconcerned silence, hate embodied. Gale felt the demon lord’s hunger for them as an itching between his shoulders. He ignored it and spat on the floor in defiance.

At that, the shadow demon hissed, pawed at the air, and flitted about in agitation. Yrsillar said nothing, did nothing, simply stood before them and let their fear build. “

Silent seconds passed. They seemed an eternity. Though his heart pounded, Gale braved the buzzard of hate and held unflinchingly Yrsillar’s baleful gaze. He refused to bow to his fear.

The stress became too much for Jak, however, and he began to lose composure. His breathing sounded like a bellows and he shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

“Dark,” he oathed under his breath, “Dark and empty.”

Gale placed a hand on Jak’s shoulder and shouted at Yrsillar. “You’ll get no fear to feed on from us, ecthain.” Defiantly, he held forth his enchanted blade. At that, Yrsillar’s wings beat once—and he began to laugh in a booming, mocking chuckle.

“Once more you face me, Champion of Mask, and once more I smell the fear you try to hide. You stink of terror.” He shifted his gaze to Jak. “As do you.”

The little man let out an alarmed peep. “Trickster’s toes,” he muttered like a chant, “Trickster’s hairy toes.”

Gale grabbed a fistful of the little man’s cloak and gave him a single shake. “We give him nothing,” he hissed. “He wants you to be frightened. Give him nothing.”

At that, Jak started to rally. He slid a step closer to Gale so that his shoulder bumped Gale’s thigh. The touch apparently gave him strength.

“We give him nothing,” Jak softly agreed, and his voice sounded steady. Shaking only slightly, he returned Yrsillar’s stare. The shadow demon hissed in rage. Yrsillar beat his great wings in anger and looked sharply at Gale. His mocking tone turned deeper, heavy with hate and dripping with hunger.

“Ill savor your soul, Erevis Gale. As I will that of the other Champion.”

Jak’s breath caught at that, but Yrsillar did not so much as glance at the little man. “Both of you will live out the rest of your lives in pain. I will hold your souls in thrall, feasting at my leisure.” He stepped from behind the altar and down the dais, graceful despite his size. Muscle rippled with every move he made.

As though by prearranged plan, the shadow demon darted like an arrow for the ceiling.

“I will force you to watch impotently as I swallow the souls of the ones you love.”

Gale thought of Thazienne defiled by this creature and his rage doubled. Guilt, self-loathing, and hate for Yrsillar fueled his anger. He gripped the enchanted long sword, with both hands, knuckles white with anger.

“Leave him to me,” he said to Jak through gritted teeth. “You keep an eye on that thing,” he indicated the shadow demon, “and watch my back.”

Jak nodded once, vigorously. “We’ll watch your back,” he replied, and held up his holy symbol in a bloody hand. His gaze went to Gale’s pocket and he

added meaningfully, “You’re not alone, Cale. Remember that. If you accept the call, yon are his Champion.”

Cale nodded and gripped his shoulder. Jak smiled and looked up to watch the shadow demon.

If you accept the call…

Tentatively, Cale reached for his pocket, for the symbol of Mask, but stopped halfway.

I won’t do it this way, he thought to the Shadowlord. Staring death in the face, most everyone turned to the gods. Cale had never consciously acted out of fear. To turn to Mask now would be to surrender too much of himself. He wouldn’t.

You make the first concession, he thought to Mask.

He received no reply, no stroke of divine lightning.

Unsurprised, Cale looked down the aisle and regarded the demon lord.

Yrsillar stood at the end of the center aisle, near the base of the dais. Briefly, Cale wondered what happened to the body of the Righteous Man while Yrsillar manifested here. Was he in stasis? Dissipated? Nothing? He didn’t know, and had no time to consider the matter further.

He stared into the voids of the demon’s eyes and held his gaze. Yrsillar said nothing but the veins beneath his leathery skin began to pulse faster. His wings fluttered intermittently, filling the room with gusts of fetid wind. He held the slit of his mouth partly open, a half-moon carved in the face of a nightmare. His claws glistened despite the gloom. Cale sensed his hunger, sensed his growing anticipation.

Cale took a step toward him—

Inexplicably, Thamalon’s words suddenly rang in Cale’s brain—Unbridled aggression can sometimes be an enemy—but he pushed it aside. Unbridled aggression was all he had.

Snarling, he gripped the hilt of his blade in both

hands and strode toward the monster that had murdered so many.

•Ž- •Š• •Š• •Š• •Š•

The gray-skinned shadow demon eyed Jak evilly as it flitted about the ceiling rafters. Willing to take his eye from it for only a moment, Jak spared a quick glance over his shoulder to shout encouragement to his friend.

“Cale! Remember that you’re not alone! Mask is with you if you ask!” Cale showed no sign of having heard him.

Jak looked back just in time to see the demon streaking down for him.

“Dark!” He dived to the side and used the back of a pew for cover. The shadow demon’s claws screeched across the wood and tore his cloak, but did not .reach flesh. He regained his feet in an instant. The demon had already darted back into the air. It hovered near the ceiling, willing to wait for another opportunity.

“Feeeeed,” it hissed at him.

Cale’s fury propelled him forward. Feeling nothing but hate, he walked resolutely toward Yrsillar. He felt apart from himself, numb, as though he were watching the scene unfold from above. With each row of pews that he passed, his anger increased. Yrsillar’s veins pulsed faster, his claws opening and closing in reflexive anticipation.

Undeterred, Cale’s hate demanded that he advance. His walk turned to a run, his run to a charge. Yrsillar crouched on his powerful legs and held his claws out wide.

As Cale closed the last few strides, he held his blade high and shouted years of pent-up rage into the rafters, sent a lifetime of self-loathing careening into the nothingness of the Abyss. Yrsillar answered with a terrible roar so full of malice that it would have blown Cale to his knees but for bis forward momentum.

Only then, in that final moment, did it occur to Cale that Mask had long ago made the first concession, had made two, in fact—the darkness back in the real shrine, and the-golden aura that protected him now.

Too late, he realized, as he bent against the demon lord’s roar like a man in a snowstorm. He would have to stand or fall on his own.

Yrsillar made no move to retreat, he merely crouched and held his claws at the ready, a giant predator awaiting its prey. His veins bulged beneath his skin, tracks of livid, sickening purple.

Cale lunged forward and swung his blade toward Yrsillar’s chest in a vicious upward are, the stroke so powerful that it cut through the air with a whistle.

As fast as a hunting cat, the huge demon bounded back a step and hopped atop the dais. Cale pursued, reversed his stroke, and chopped downward. Impossibly fast, Yrsillar jerked back. Gale’s long sword rang sparking off the altar block.

Little more than a gray blur, a claw streaked for Gale’s throat. Using the altar as cover, he dropped beneath the blow and slashed upward with his long sword. The blade cut a swath through empty air. Yrsillar’s arm had arced before Cale ever got bis blade into position. He jumped back to his feet, held the long sword before him like a pike and lunged over the altar for the demon lord’s chest.

Yrsillar swooped up and under with one of his claws. Caught in mid-lunge, Gale’s momentum prevented a dodge. Golden light flashed brightly as his

protective spell flared out of existence. The power of the spell seared Yrsillar’s flesh but the demon lord did not recoil. Cale whiffed the meaty odor of charred skin. The powerful, dagger-length daws tore through Gale’s cloak and split his leather armor from abdomen to throat. A shallow gash opened along his entire torso. The blow stunned him. Warm blood coursed from the wound. Without the protective spell, his soul began to seep from bis body/Unable to defend himself, he reeled on the altar, an ironic offering to Mask awaiting the sacrificial knife.