The Oathbound (21 page)

He had every reason to be nervous. This was the first time he and his apprentice (who was now huddled out of the way in the corner) had ever attempted to bind an imp to his service. The summoning of a spirit from the Abyssal Planes is no small task, even if the spirit one hopes to summon is of the very least and lowliest of the demonic varietals. Demons and their ilk are always watching for a chance misstep—and some are more eager to take advantage of a mistake than others.

The torches on the walls wavered and smoked, their odor of hot pitch nearly overwhelming the acrid tang of the incense he was burning. Mice squeaked and scuttled along the rafters overhead. Perhaps they were the cause of his distraction, for he was distracted for a crucial moment. And one of those that watched and waited seized the unhoped-for opportunity when the sorcerer thrice chanted, not the name “Talhkarsh”—the true-name of the imp he meant to bind—but
“Thalhkarsh.”

Incandescent ruby smoke rose and filled the interior of the diagram the mage had so carefully chalked upon the floor of his cluttered, dank, high-ceilinged stone chamber. It completely hid whatever was forming within the bespelled hexacle.

But there
was
something there; he could see shadows moving within the veiling smoke. He waited, dry-mouthed in anticipation, for the smoke to clear, so that he could intone his second incantation, one that would coerce the imp he’d summoned into the bottle that waited within the exact center of the hexacle.

Then the smoke vanished as quickly as it had been conjured—and the young mage nearly fainted, as he looked
up
at what stood there. And looked higher. And his sallow, bearded visage assumed the same lack of color as his chalk when the occupant, head just brushing the rafters, calmly stepped across the spell-bound lines, bent slightly at the waist, and seized him none-too-gently by the throat.

Thinking quickly, he summoned everything he knew in the way of arcane protections, spending magical energy with what in other circumstances might have been reckless wastefulness. There was a brief flare of light around him, and the demon dropped him as a human would something that had unexpectedly scorched his hand. The mage cringed where he had fallen, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh, fool,” the voice was like brazen gongs just slightly out of tune with each other, and held no trace of pity. “Look at me.”

The mage opened one eye, well aware of the duplicity of demons, yet unable to resist the command. His knowledge did him little good; his face went slack-jawed with bemusement at the serpentine beauty of the creature that stood over him. It had shrunk to the size of a very tall human and its—
his
—eyes glowed from within, a rich ruby color reminiscent of wine catching sunlight. He was —wonderful.

He was the very image of everything the mage had ever dreamed of in a lover. The face was that of a fallen angel, the nude body that of a god. The ruby eyes promised and beckoned, and were filled with an overwhelming and terribly masculine power.

The magician’s shields did not include those meant to ward off beglamoring. He threw every pitiful protection he’d erected to the four winds in an onslaught of delirious devotion.

The demon laughed, and took him into his arms.

 

When he was finished amusing himself, he tore the whimpering creature that remained to shreds ... slowly.

It was only then, only after he’d destroyed the mage past any hope of resurrection, and when he was sated with the emanations of the mage’s torment and death, that he paused to think—and, thinking, to regret his hasty action.

There had been opportunity there, opportunity to be free forever of the Abyssal Planes, and more, a potential for an unlimited supply of those delights he’d just indulged in. If only he’d thought before he’d acted!

But even as he was mentally cursing his own impulsiveness, his attention was caught by a hint of movement in the far corner.

He grew to his full size, and reached out lazily with one bloodsmeared claw to pull the shivering, wretched creature that cowered there into the torchlight. It had soiled itself with fear, but by the torque around its throat and the cabalistic signs on its shabby robe, this pitiful thing must have been the departed mage’s apprentice.

Thalhkarsh chuckled, and the apprentice tried to shrink into insignificance. All was not yet lost. In fact, this terror-stricken youth was an even better candidate for what he had in mind than his master would have been.

Thalhkarsh bent his will upon the boy’s mind; it was easy to read. The defenses his master had placed about him were few and weak, and fading with the master’s death. Satisfied by what he read there, the demon assumed his most attractive aspect and spoke.

“Boy, would you live? More, would you prosper?”

The apprentice trembled and nodded slightly, his eyes glazed with horror, a fear that was rapidly being subsumed by the power the demon was exerting on his mind.

“See you this?” the demon hefted the imp-bottle that had been in the diagram with him. Plain, reddish glass before, it now glowed from within like the demon’s eyes. “Do you know what it is?”

“The—imp-bottle,” the boy whispered, after two attempts to get words-out that failed. “The one Leland meant to—to—”

“To confine me in—or rather, the imp he meant to call. It is a worthless bottle no more; thanks to having been within the magic confines of the diagram when I was summoned instead of the imp, it has become my focus. Did your master tell you what a demonic focus is?”

“It—” the boy stared in petrified fascination at the bottle in the demon’s hand, “it lets you keep yourself here of your own will. If you have enough power.”

The demon smiled. “But I want more than freedom, boy. I want more than power. I have greater ambitions. And if you want to live, you’ll help me achieve them.”

It was plain from the boy’s eyes that he was more than willing to do just about anything to ensure his continued survival. “How—what do you want?”

Thalhkarsh laughed, and his eyes narrowed. “Never mind, child. I have plans—and if you succeed in what I set out for you, you will have a life privileged beyond anything you can now imagine. You will become great—and I, I will become—greater than your poor mind can dream. For now, child,
this
is how you can serve me....”

 

“Here?” Tarma asked her mage-partner. “You’re sure?”

The sunset bathed her in a blood-red glow as they approached the trade-gate of the city of Delton, and a warm spring breeze stirred a lock of coarse black hair that had escaped the confines of her short braids; her hair had grown almost magically the past few months, as if it had resented being shorn. The last light dyed her brown leather tunic and breeches a red that was nearly black.

Kethry’s softly attractive face wore lines of strain, and there was worry in her emerald eyes. “I’m sure. It’s here—and it’s bad, whatever it is. This is the worst Need’s ever pulled on me that I can remember. It’s worse than that business with Lady Myria, even.” She pushed the hood of her traveling robe back from an aching forehead and rubbed her temples a little.

“Huh. Well, I hope that damn blade of yours hasn’t managed to get us knee-deep into more than we can handle. Only one way to find out, though.”

The swordswoman kneed her horse into the lead, and the pair rode in through the gates after passing the cursory inspection of a somewhat nervous Gate Guard. He seemed oddly disinclined to climb down from his gatehouse post, being content to pass them through after a scant few moment’s scrutiny.

Tarma’s ice-blue eyes scanned the area just inside the gate for signs of trouble, and found none. Her brow puckered in puzzlement.
“She‘enedsa,
I find it hard to believe you’re wrong, but this is the quietest town I’ve ever seen. I was expecting blood and rapine in the streets.”

“I’m not mistaken,” Kethry replied in a low, tense voice. “And there’s something
very
wrong here—the very quiet is wrong. It’s
too
quiet. There’s no one at all on the streets—no beggars, no whores, no nothing.”

Tarma looked about her with increased alertness. Now that Keth had mentioned it, this looked like an empty town. There were no loiterers to be seen in the vicinity of the trade gate or the inns that clustered about the square just inside it, and that was very odd indeed. No beggars, no thieves, no whores, no strollers, no street musicians—just the few stablehands and inn servants that
had
to be outside, leading in the beasts of fellow travelers, lighting lanterns and torches. And those few betook themselves back inside as quickly as was possible. The square of the trade inns was ominously deserted.

“Warrior’s Oath! This is blamed
spooky!
I don’t like the look of this, not one bit.”

“Neither do I. Pick us an inn,
she‘enedra;
pick one fast. If the locals don’t want to be out-of-doors after sunset, they must have a reason, and I’d rather not be out here either.”

Tarma chose an inn with the sign of a black sheep hanging above the door, and the words (for the benefit of those that could read) “The Blacke Ewe” painted on the wall beside the door. It looked to be about the right sort for the state of their purses, which were getting a bit on the lean side. They’d been riding the Trade Road north to Valdemar, once again looking for work, when Kethry’s geas-forged blade Need had drawn them eastward until they ended up here. The sword had left them pretty much alone except for a twinge or two—and the incident with the feckless priestess, that had wound up being far more complicated than it had needed to be thanks to the Imp of the Perverse and Tarma’s own big mouth. Tarma was beginning to hope that it had settled down.

And then this afternoon, Kethry had nearly fainted when it “called” with all of its old urgency. They’d obeyed its summons, until it led them at last to Delton.

Tarma saw to the stabling of their beasts; Kethry to bargaining for a room. The innkeeper looked askance at a mage wearing a sword, for those who trafficked in magic seldom carried physical weaponry, but he was openly alarmed by the sight of what trotted at Tarma’s heels—a huge, black, wolflike creature whose shoulders came nearly as high as the swordswoman’s waist.

Kethry saw the alarm in his eyes, realized that he had never seen a kyree before, and decided to use his fear as a factor in her bargaining. “My familiar,” she said nonchalantly, “and he knows when I’m being cheated.”

The price of their room took a mysterious plunge.

After installing their gear and settling Warrl in their room, they returned to the taproom for supper and information.

If the streets were deserted, the taproom was crowded far past its intended capacity.

Tarma wrinkled her nose at the effluvia of cheap perfume, unwashed bodies, stale food odors and fish-oil lanterns. Kethry appeared not to notice.

Tarma’s harsh, hawklike features could be made into a veritable mask of intimidation when she chose to scowl; she did so now. Her ice-cold stare got them two stools and a tiny, round table to themselves. Her harsh voice summoned a harried servant as easily as Kethry could summon a creature of magic. A hand to her knife-hilt and the ostentatious shrugging of the sword slung on her back into a more comfortable position got her speedy service, cleaning her fingernails with her knife got them decent portions and scrubbed plates.

Kethry’s frown of worry softened a bit. “Life has been ever so much easier since I teamed with you,
she‘enedra,”
she chuckled quietly, moving the sides of her robe out of the way so that she could sit comfortably.

“No doubt,” the swordswoman replied with a lifted eyebrow and a quirk to one corner of her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder how you managed without me.”

“Poorly.” The green eyes winked with mischief.

Their food arrived, and they ate in silence, furtively scanning the crowded room for a likely source of information. When they’d nearly finished, Kethry nodded slightly in the direction of a grizzled mercenary sitting just underneath one of the smoking lanterns. Tarma looked him over carefully; he looked almost drunk enough to talk, but not drunk enough to make trouble, and his companions had just deserted him, leaving seats open on the bench opposite his. He wore a badge, so he was mastered, and so was less likely to pick a fight. They picked up their tankards and moved to take those vacant seats beside him.

He nodded as they sat; wariuly at Tarma, appre ciatively at Kethry.

He wasn’t much for idle chatter, though. “Evening,” was all he said.

“It is that,” Tarma replied, “Though ‘tis a strange enough evening and more than a bit early for folk to be closing themselves indoors, especially with the weather so pleasant.”

“These are strange times,” he countered, “And strange things happen in the nights around here.”

“Oh?” Kethry looked flatteringly interested. “What sort of strange things? And can we take care of your thirst?”

He warmed to the admiration—and the offer.

“Folk been going missing; whores, street trash, such as won’t be looked for by the watch,” he told them, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, while Tarma signaled the serving wench. He took an enormous bite of the spiced sausage that was the Blacke Ewe’s specialty; grease ran into his beard. He washed the bite down by draining his tankard dry. “There’s rumors—” His eyes took on a sertain wariness. He cast an uneasy glance around the dim, hot and odorous taproom.

“Rumors?” Tarma prompted, pouring his tan kark full again, and sliding a silver piece under it. “Well, we little care for rumors, eh? What’s rumor to a fighter but ale-talk?”

“Plague take rumors!” he agreed, but his face was strained. “What’ve magickers and demons got to do with us, so long as they leave our masters in peace?” He drained the vessel and pocketed the coin. “So long as he leaves a few for me, this Thalhkarsh can have his
fill
of whores!”