Authors: Deborah Chester
The horse surged
ahead of him, lunging up and out of the water onto the bank. Snorting and
stamping, it switched its dripping tail and shook itself violently.
Caelan followed,
gaining ground only to find his knees buckling beneath him. Despite
severance,
he had little strength left. But at least he had sweet peace—no
tormented emotions, no cries of misery, no pervading coldness, no stench of
foul water. Gasping for breath, he collapsed on the ground and passed out.
A low, chattering
sound stirred through his mind, half rousing him. He listened, uncaring, then
sank away from the noise.
Something nudged
him, blowing hard and nervously on the bare skin of his back. It tickled, this
warm breath. Caelan came awake reluctantly. He was nudged again, and something
twitched through his hair, brushing over the back of his skull.
Swearing in alarm,
he rolled over and sat up.
The horse snorted
and whirled away from him, then stopped at the edge of the water, pawing and
tossing its head.
Elandra, like a
ghost figure, remained on its back.
Breathing hard,
Caelan blinked himself fully awake and sat up. The strange, pale light
continued to fill the cavern area next to the river. It was white and silvery,
almost like moonlight, yet unnatural. The shapes of the horse, the walls, the
scattered stones all seemed flattened, without dimension, and without color. It
made everything feel like a dream, yet would he smell the pungent river in his
dream? Would he feel this cold and stiff in his dream? Caelan rubbed his face
and shoved back his hair, then climbed to his feet.
He untied his
sword and breastplate from the saddle, letting them crash onto the ground, then
took down his bundle of clothing eagerly. He was freezing, as cold as when he’d
first climbed out of the icy water. Rubbing his bare arms briskly in hopes of
warming up, he found his clothing slightly damp around the edges but mostly
dry. He dressed quickly, leaving off his armor for the moment, and wrapped
himself tightly in his cloak.
His teeth started
to chatter, and he felt no warmer than before. He needed a fire to thaw himself
out.
But first he
checked Elandra. She must be cold and wet too.
He was sure she
was very uncomfortable up there in the saddle, trapped with no one to take care
of her needs while he slept.
When he touched
the empress’s cloak, however, he found it dry. The hem of her gown was dry. It
was as though she had never crossed the river.
He frowned. Had he
slept that long?
Yet his own
clothing was still damp in places where the water had splashed it. Why had it
failed to dry when her clothing had?
Or had she gotten
wet at all?
No matter where he
touched Elandra, her clothing was dry. She seemed warm and comfortable. Amazed,
Caelan withdrew his hand. Even from this, the spell had protected her.
Ruefully, he told
himself it was too late to regret not drinking from the cup while he had the
chance. He could be standing here warm and dry ... and with his wits frozen in
limbo. Caelan shook his head. He would rather have the physical misery than
surrender to whatever had been in that cup.
A sound caught his
attention. Glancing around, he saw a row of eyes, glowing red, feral, and
unearthly. They watched him from the boulders piled along one side of the cavern.
Caelan froze. For
an endless moment he could do nothing but stare back. He barely dared to
breathe. His sword was an eternity away, at least four strides. If the watchers
chose to attack, he might not reach it in time.
He swore harshly
and silently in his mind.
Slowly, taking
care to make no sudden moves that might precipitate attack, he drew his dagger
and very cautiously slipped into
sevaisin,
reaching out with the
lightest of all possible senses to find out more about what was lurking just
out of sight.
He felt the
creatures shift and stir uneasily, sensed something coming to life, sipped of
the foul force that sustained them, and felt it reach out to him in response.
Shuddering, Caelan
pulled back. He was all too aware of the temptation to strengthen the link, to
join and share himself with the demons.
They moved closer,
edging away from the rocks and moving between him and the mouth of the
passageway.
He resisted the
urge to step back. The river of black water ran behind him, cutting him off.
There was no escape, no retreat. He would have to fight, and suddenly his heart
beat too fast and his throat burned.
But he refused to
panic. He gripped his dagger more tightly, then took a cautious step toward his
sword. It stood propped up against his breastplate. His best protection,
useless. He took another step.
The demons moved
closer. He could almost see them now, crouched there in the shadows, waiting,
watching. When would they attack?
His heart pounded
like a drum. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples and throat.
Subconsciously he assumed a fighter’s stance, feet well braced, standing
lightly on his toes, shifting his weight slightly from side to side, ready to
explode into action.
I have fought
demon-spawn before and lived,
he tried to reassure himself.
Caelan’s knuckles
ached from gripping his dagger so hard. After a moment he realized he was
throttling the weapon as he might an enemy’s throat. Easing out a breath, he
forced his fingers to loosen.
Caelan took one
more step toward his sword. Still too far, although now he thought he could
fling himself bodily at it and perhaps reach the tip of the scabbard. Not good,
but better than before.
He was supremely
aware of the water at his back, aware that anything could rise up from its
depths and come at his exposed back. His eyes flickered back and forth,
measuring, gauging, watching. He listened to his own breathing. It sounded
harsh and unsteady.
The demons came at
him.
Caelan flung
himself at his sword. His outstretched hand clamped onto the scabbard. He could
hear them coming, claws skittering and scraping over stone. He whirled to face
them, drawing the sword as he did so and flinging the scabbard aside.
Panting, he
stopped only because they had. Now out in the open where he could see them clearly
in the pale, ghostly light, they crouched in a semicircle and stared at him.
The demons were
short, no taller than Caelan’s hipbone, and entirely hairless. Their leathery
skin was black and crisscrossed with wrinkles. They had arms and legs like a man,
with long, prehensile fingers and toes, all ending in long, sharp talons. Their
tails were long and ratlike, and flicked back and forth nervously.
Caelan brought up
his sword in smooth readiness. He thought about attacking, but some instinct
bade him wait.
Just when his taut
nerves could be stretched no farther, one of the creatures crept toward him.
Caelan swallowed hard and let it come.
Fanged and
snouted, the creature stared up at him with red eyes that were entirely too
intelligent. Its long tail flicked restlessly back and forth.
When its tongue
flickered out between its fangs, Caelan nearly jumped out of his skin. It was a
serpent’s tongue, long and forked, quivering in the air as though measuring
Caelan in some way. Then it flicked back out of sight. The creature opened its
mouth in a toothy grin.
“Welcome, creature
of shadow,” it said in a hoarse, gravelly whisper. “Art thou Beloth, our
master?”
Astonished and
horrified at being so grossly misidentified, Caelan stared back at it. “No, I
am not!” he said with force.
The demon rocked
back on its haunches, while the others scuttled away into the shadows, hissing
with palpable disappointment.
“Servant of
Beloth, our master?” the demon asked hopefully.
This time Caelan
was wise enough to curb his denial. Tipping his head to one side, he asked,
“Why do you ask me this?”
“Thou art aware,
not asleep in the spell of protection,” the demon said.
“And that makes me
a servant of—of your master?” Caelan stumbled over the words, finding himself
unable to utter Beloth’s dire name aloud.
“Thou looks like
man-spawn, yet cannot be,” the demon said. “Thou has no fear of the shadows,
walking without spell of protection.”
If it only
knew,
Caelan thought wryly to himself.
“Thou has bathed
in the waters of Aithe and come unto us.
We will serve
thee, servant of Beloth, until our dire lord and master walks free once again.”
Caelan opened his
mouth to repudiate everything, but the other demons came scuttling forward in
an uneven, almost ratlike gait. They surrounded him. He tensed, wanting to back
away, but their clawed fingers were already clutching at his clothing, stroking
and petting him in reverence.
“Don’t worship
me!” he cried in disgust. “Get back, all of you!”
They moved a short
distance from him, but not far enough, and sat on their haunches with their
tails coiled about their ankles. Their fangs gleamed in the strange light;
their red eyes shifted to his face and down again. They smelled of death and
something worse. The very sight of them turned his stomach, yet he knew he must
keep his wits now, must take the advantage they had mistakenly given him and
utilize it wisely.
But, Gault’s
mercy, what did they mean he had bathed in the waters of Aithe? That was the
mythological river of death, the black waters formed from dead men’s souls.
During the most ancient and turbulent days following creation itself, when
Beloth had strode the earth and destroyed all that he touched, the shadow god
had killed so many men that their destroyed souls had flowed and comingled into
a river that encircled the world. Later, when the top of
Sidraigh-hal
had been smote with the combined powers of the gods of light, allowing lava and
smoke to spill forth, when on the mountain’s scarred slopes the black city of
Beloth and Mael had been broken asunder and all the stones scattered and the
ground itself salted and burned, then had Aithe sunk into the earth, flowing
below ground.
Caelan realized he
had swum through the souls of damned men. Dear Gault, small wonder the water
had burned his flesh and rendered him so cold now. He felt tainted to the core.
Shivering, Caelan looked down at himself, wondering if he could see any stains
left by the touch of those icy waters.
“Thou art one of
us. Thou art welcome in the place of shadows,” the demon said while the others
chorused hisses and grunts of acclamation. “Not for a thousand years has one of
warm blood come to walk among us. We give to thee all that is ours.”
Caelan’s eyes
narrowed. “You lie,” he said sharply, forgetting the need for caution. “What of
the riders who passed through here not long ago? What of the Vindicants, the
priests who have used this passageway often?”
The demons
whispered among themselves long enough for Caelan to regret his hasty
questions. Then the spokesman gazed up at him and bared its fangs. “Man-spawn
have no interest for us. Under the spell of protection, they pass by on the
other side of the river. They are not our meat. Kostimon has gone past many
times in his span of years.”
“You know Kostimon
by name?” Caelan asked in fresh astonishment.
The demons’
laughter was a harsh, raspy cacophony.
“Kostimon the
Doomed!” one cried.
“He is doomed!”
echoed another.
“Doomed!”
They all laughed
again.
The spokesman
edged even closer to Caelan and tugged at the sodden hem of his cloak. “Kostimon,”
it said, its tongue flickering out, “will be our meat when his time ends. Soon,
he will be ours. We will be permitted to go for him. We will feed. Soon!”
“Soon! Soon!
Soon!” the others echoed in chorus.
Caelan felt colder
than ever. He stared at these creatures and understood how the emperor would
finally die.
“When we have
taken his soul from his flesh,” the demon said, rubbing its snout
affectionately against Caelan’s leg, “wilt thou accept the honor of pouring his
soul into Aithe’s waters of the damned?”
Caelan gazed down
into the demon’s red eyes, feeling almost mesmerized. Eagerly the others
crowded closer around him, and Caelan found himself without an answer.
The silence
stretched out too long, and they hissed suspiciously.
“If I am here,” Caelan
said quickly, “then I will accept the honor extended to me.” He met their
hostile eyes and tried to show no fear. “I have many duties. My master gives me
many tasks.”
“Let us help thee,
favored one,” the demon said eagerly, its tongue flickering in and out. “Let us
make thy work easier.”
Swallowing hard,
Caelan pointed at Elandra. “I must take the woman beyond this realm of shadow,
back into the world that is her own.”
The demons hissed
in fury. “Not permitted!” the spokesman said. “No man-spawn goes this way. We
guard the passage to the Gate of Sorrows.”
Hope quickened in
Caelan. He stared at the passageway, and knew it had to be the way out. “If
Kostimon has gone through here, then—”
“No! No! No!” they
chorused. “No man-spawn crosses Aithe. Only thou, servant of Beloth.”
Caelan frowned.
“Then let me pass,” he said carefully.
They shifted
aside, red eyes glowing with new hostility. “Thou may go to the Guardian, if
thou has been sent by thy master. But not her.”
“She must come
with me,” Caelan said sharply.
“No!”
“You have called
me master, yet now you disobey me.”
They did not seem
impressed by his rebuke.
“Let us wage war
for thee,” the spokesman said at last. “Let us tear souls from man-spawn and
bring them for thy supper. Unleash us, and we will go swift, swift under the
dark cloud that mighty Beloth brings to shroud the earth.”