Demonkin (12 page)

“You are all mad,” growled Theos. “Are all of you so thrilled with the state of the world today that you are willing to entrust your lives to fate? You may be so timid as to let death prevail, but I am not.”

Theos whirled away and started stomping towards the trees.

“Where are you going?” Kalmar asked excitedly. “We were warned not to go near the village.”

“And I think Fakir especially meant you,” added Zynor.

Theos ignored his companions and walked into the trees.

“He is going to die,” Valera frowned. “There is magic protecting that village. I can feel it from here.”

“We must go after him,” Kalmar declared as he got to his feet. “Theos’s anger might not be directed at the villagers, but he seems incapable of controlling it. Whatever protects the village may see him as a threat. We must stop him before he gets there.”

* * * *

Something in Fakir’s mind tickled him to consciousness. He didn’t open his eyes, but he heard the sounds of the village behind him. Children ran through the alleys nearby, and villagers walked by, carrying heavy burdens. He could hear the sighs of their breathing and their heavy step as they struggled to bear whatever load they were carrying.

“Eat and drink,” commanded a nearby voice.

Fakir opened his eyes. Set on the floor before him was a bowl of rice and a bowl of clear broth. Fakir raised his head and gazed at the person on the other side of the desk. The woman was ancient. Her skin was shriveled with age, and her eyes were as black as death. What little hair she had left hung in scraggly strings down the side of her face. Her skin was bronzed by the sun of hundreds of years, and her hands were little more than leathery skin stretched over ancient bones. Fakir nodded in greeting and picked up the bowl of broth. He sipped it slowly as he felt the hunger within his body screaming for nourishment. The warm liquid slid down his throat and radiated warmth in his belly. He sighed and smiled slightly. Picking up a few grains of rice, he savored them in his mouth for several moments before eating them.

“You have famished yourself before,” the old woman noted with interest. “Were you prepared to die here if I decided not to reveal myself?”

“My life was in your hands,” Fakir Aziz said weakly.

“Lies,” spat the woman. “Do not try to hold me responsible for your own foolhardiness. You were not invited into Smirka. Perhaps I should have let you die.”

“Why didn’t you?” asked Fakir.

“Because there are others with you,” frowned the old woman. “Already they seek to discover what has become of you. Soon they will come to assault the walls of Smirka. I will not allow that.”

“There are none in my party who wish the people of Smirka harm,” declared Fakir Aziz. “They are only here because they follow me. I have asked them to wait a distance away.”

“And so they have for three days,” replied the witch, “but they will come. Make no doubt about that. And when they do, they will die.”

Fakir Aziz frowned. The woman’s words were the first indication of the length of time he had been waiting, although his hunger and thirst had indicated almost as much. Fakir did not reply to the woman’s words. He finished the small bowl of rice and placed the empty container on the floor. He finished the broth and placed that bowl next to the first.

“Why have you come here?” asked the woman.

“To gather you,” Fakir replied.

“To gather me?” cackled the old woman. “You have no idea who you are talking to.”

“I think that I do, Crystil of Smirka,” replied the Mage. “You have executed your charge faithfully for many many years, but the time has come for you to leave this place.”

The woman’s eyes opened wide. Fakir could not tell if it was astonishment or fear that gripped the woman, but he noticed an instant change in her demeanor. The sureness that had enveloped her was gone, and her bony hands began to shake slightly.

“You are nothing more than a man,” she said accusingly.

“I am neither man nor demon,” stated the Mage. “I need your help, Crystil. Come with me.”

Crystil’s eyes grew even wider, and a bony hand rose and covered her mouth. “Great mercy of the gods! How can this be?”

“All things are possible,” smiled the Mage. “You have cared for these people for centuries, and you have done well. Now I have another task for you. This one may not be so easy.”

“Easy?” balked the witch. “Do you think it has been easy protecting these people in a land filled with murderers and marauders?”

“I did not mean to make light of the tremendous task you accepted,” explained the Mage. “I know that it required great skill and greater devotion, but the next may well require your death.”

“My death is long overdue,” replied Crystil, “but my work here is not complete as long as one villager breathes. I cannot go with you.”

“You must, for the Great Demon stirs,” retorted the Mage. “Your powers are needed.”

“My powers are nothing compared to those of the Great Demon.” Crystil shook her head. “He is a matter for the likes of you.”

“And I need your help,” the Mage persisted. “Will you deny your powers to me?”

A tear formed in Crystil’s eye and rolled down her leathery cheek. She dabbed at it with the tip of a bony finger and brought it before her eyes. Her expression saddened and she sighed heavily.

“I have not done that in ages,” she said softly. “I did not know that I was still was capable of tears. What of my villagers?”

“They will be safe until our mission is complete,” answered the Mage. “If you survive, you may return to them.”

“And if I do not survive?”

“Someone will take your place.”

“Promise me that,” demanded Crystil. “Promise me that my people will not suffer, and I will go with you.”

“I so promise,” declared the Mage.

* * * *

Theos walked across the valley with the other three mages following him. As had happened with Fakir Aziz, the field workers casually laid down their implements, filed into the village and closed the gate. No shouts of alarm were issued and the farmers did not rush. Kalmar expected the worst when Theos reached the gate. Kalmar halted and his arm came up, but Zynor placed his large hand on Kalmar’s arm and shook his head.

“I suspect any display of magic out here will be worse than Theos trying to enter the village. We must convince him to return to the camp.”

“Theos already has shields around him,” added Valera. “We cannot use magic to stop him.”

Kalmar stared at Zynor for a moment and then nodded in agreement. He hurried after the mage from Tyronia. Theos reached the gate and halted. He examined the gate without touching it and then turned to examine the wall surrounding the village. The wall was only the height of a man, and it was constructed of rock and red clay. A simple straw cap ran along the peak of the wall to protect it from downpours.

The Tyronian mage brought his hand up to the gate and pushed at it. The gate swung open easily revealing a well-beaten plot of ground with several huts blocking further entrance into the village. Narrow alleys led away from the gate to either the left or the right. Theos decided on the left path and stepped through the archway, or rather that was his intention.

As the Tyronian mage stepped under the arch, his shields lit up brightly with tendrils of energy swirling over its invisible surface. Theos opened his mouth in a cry of pain, but nothing came out. The others watched helplessly as Theos dropped to his knees and clutched his throat.

“Release your shields,” ordered Fakir Aziz as he stepped into view.

Theos looked up pleadingly at the Mage as the energy swirls increased.

“Release your shields!” Fakir demanded louder. “Trust in me or die.”

Theos’ body twitched with convulsions, and his head was thrown back in a silent scream. Suddenly the shields winked out of existence and Theos collapsed to the ground. Fakir moved swiftly to his side and knelt. The others moved closer and that was when they noticed Crystil. Valera gasped involuntarily at the sight of the old woman, but Zynor examined her with curiosity.

“Are you Crystil?” he asked.

The witch nodded silently, and Zynor bowed in respect.

“I am honored to meet you,” Zynor said.

Crystil gazed at Zynor with confusion. She was uncertain whether the old man was ridiculing her or not.

“Is Theos alive?” Kalmar asked anxiously.

“He is,” Fakir said softly. “Why are you here when I told everyone to remain at the clearing?”

“Theos could wait no longer,” explained Kalmar. “He was sure that you had come to harm. The rest of us were trying to figure out how to stop him.”

Crystil knelt next to Theos and examined him. A deep frown furrowed her brow. “This is not my doing,” she declared.

“Of course not,” Fakir replied curtly. “Your magic would have killed him outright. I modified your spell to one of repulsion, but Theos was too single-minded to act rationally. He thought his shields would get him through the gate, but it was his shields that almost killed him. Perhaps I was in error in including him in this group.”

“He could have left the group and returned to Ur,” Zynor said softly. “His actions may not have been the best in this case, but it was your safety that drove him to action. Do not judge him too harshly.”

“I agree,” Kalmar added quickly. “We can all work to channel his anger. Let me heal him.”

Crystil rose to her feet and clapped her hands loudly. Almost immediately a stream of farmers appeared. Fakir Aziz rose and backed away from the fallen mage as the farmers brought a litter and lifted Theos onto it. They lifted the litter and moved back into the village. Crystil locked eyes with Kalmar as if measuring his worth. She eventually nodded with some sort of satisfaction.

“All of you are welcome to Smirka,” she stated. “Follow me.”

Crystil turned and moved to the left around one of the huts. The other mages followed in silence. Fakir Aziz moved with the rest at the end of the line. He was not surprised that the journey ended at the unique building in which he had met Crystil. Theos’ body was already placed on the floor before the desk. The other mages noted that Crystil removed her sandals before entering the building, and they did so as well. Kalmar knelt next to Theos and began to heal him. Fakir Aziz took the time to introduce the members of his little band. Crystil was polite, but she did not speak. After a while, women arrived with bowls of broth and rice for the guests, and when the sun slid out of the sky, mats were brought for the visitors to sleep on.

Crystil disappeared before the sunset. Kalmar worked into the night with only brief spells of rest. He refused offers of help from the others, as he did not want to take the time to explain what he was doing. When the Koroccan mage was at the point of exhaustion, Fakir Aziz knelt next to him.

“Rest,” ordered the Mage. “You have done the work of many this day. Theos will be fine in the morning.”

“I need to be sure,” objected Kalmar.

“I am sure,” smiled the Mage. “Rest.”

Kalmar reluctantly nodded and moved to a mat. He was asleep in moments. When he awoke, everyone else was already awake, even Theos. The Tyronian mage sat staring at Kalmar as if he had been waiting for Kalmar to awaken. Kalmar sat up and stretched, yawning loudly.

“Thank you,” Theos said softly. “I am not good with such words, but I want you to know how grateful I am for your help.”

“Anyone would have done as much,” Kalmar said with embarrassment.

“That is not true,” frowned Theos. “I can not imagine myself acting as you did if you had treated me as I have treated you. I thank you for my life.”

Kalmar did not know how to react to such words. Thankfully, Fakir Aziz chose that moment to speak.

“It is time for us to continue our journey,” he declared. “Crystil will be accompanying us. I hope each of you will make her time with us as comfortable as possible. Let us go.”

Crystil led the group outside and waited while everyone donned their boots. As she walked down the short flight of steps, the villagers assembled. Creating a path from the building to the village gate, the villagers dropped to their knees and bowed their heads to the ground as Crystil approached. No one spoke during the solemn procession and when the last of the mages had exited the gate, one of the villagers closed it. Crystil turned back towards the village and dropped to her knees in one of the fields. She bowed her head to the ground facing the village. When she lifted her head a few minutes later, two damp spots darkened the soil. She rose wordlessly and followed the other mages.

General Forshire rode through the gates of Despair and headed for the Imperial Palace. No one paid any particular attention to the lone general riding through the city. The palace guards opened the gate promptly to admit him, and the general rode directly to the stables to care for his mount. Before he had finished at the stables, Colonel Taerin appeared.

“Grand General Kyrga would like to see you in his office,” stated the colonel.

Clint nodded and finished up. He turned and looked into the eyes of the Federation colonel. “How did he know that I had returned?”

“He seems to know everything,” the colonel smiled thinly.

“And you seem to be evasive with your answers,” Clint retorted. “Am I under constant surveillance?”

The colonel was taken aback at such a suggestion. He had taken a liking to the general from Tyronia, and General Forshire had never said a harsh word to him before. “Not at all,” he answered quickly. “Or at least not that I know of. I know that he sent down a request yesterday that he wanted to see you as soon as you returned. I am merely fulfilling that request.”

“Ah.” Clint smiled and nodded. “I am sorry for my terseness, Colonel. I rode hard and long to get here. Perhaps my manners are a bit frayed.”

“I understand, General,” smiled the colonel. “I am sure that you have time to clean up before meeting with Grand General Kyrga. I will try to be more explicit in the future. Why do you care for your own mount? The stable hands are quite experienced.”

“I prefer to tend to my own mount,” answered Clint. “I find it relaxing after a hard ride, and it gives me time to get my thoughts together. Has anything exciting happened since I have been gone?”