Asheira spun and fired another arrow, again hitting a charging demon in the heart just moments before it reached her. The creatures had numbers on their side, and a ferocity that put raging barbarians to shame. The only thing keeping the half elf and her companion alive was the fact that the beasts were easy to kill. These were only common demonlings, the result of generations of uncontrolled breeding.
Demons from the Abyss would be stronger than this, as only the most powerful managed to escape that realm and reach the material plane to begin with. And then there were the Imperial Demons, creatures that were native to this universe, but had spent thousands of years selectively breeding their warriors. They fought with discipline unheard of in their ancestors, making them more like True Demons or even devils.
The demonlings had neither the brute force of their ancestors, nor the skill of those that had taken a divergent path since arriving en mass to this universe. They were the dragon fodder of evil creatures, too worthless to bother controlling. They just showed up almost at random, in swarms ranging from half a dozen to over a hundred. And they fought anything that moved, killing and raping until none of them still breathed.
It seemed rather unlikely to Asheira that this attack was coincidence, that a band of roving demons would happen to be traveling so close to city of catmen. And that they would appear this very moment, just as she entered the Grove of Wardens that the old man had sent her to… impossible.
Coincidence or plot, it made very little difference at the moment. Asheira turned and fired again, wondering how much longer her luck would hold out. Her aim was decent, but not exceptional, even while she hummed tunes of accuracy under her breath.
Just to her side, the monk she barely knew was single-handedly holding off three of the creatures in unarmed combat. His fists glowed slightly, and she knew something more than just concussive force was causing damage every time he connected.
The last charging demon kept low, running on all fours instead of leaping on its hind legs like the others. This one took an arrow in the shoulder but kept coming undaunted, crashing into Asheira and knocking her legs out from under her. The creature smelled strongly of rotting flesh, bits of previous kills still glued to its body by clotted blood, and the half elf almost gagged as she tried to roll away.
The demon sunk its fangs into her left calf and began dragging her away, almost like an animal dragging its kill back to its lair. She was far from dead, but then these creatures had never been known for their intelligence. Maintaining a steady course of action was almost impossible for them.
Asheira grabbed another arrow, and even while her back slid against the stony ground, managed to nock and fire. The missile sank deeply into the scaly creature’s neck, causing it to release its intended meal as it opened its jaws to shriek in pain. The monster could still have done significant damage before it died, but it wasted its final moments clawing vainly at the arrow shaft protruding from just below its ear.
Asheira rolled onto her stomach and got a quick look at the rest of the battle, surprised to see her companion still standing. The man, for the life of her she couldn’t recall his name just now, was bleeding from at least a score of wounds, but they all looked superficial. An elbow slammed into the face of the only demon remaining on its feet, and just like that the battle was over.
The fey nobleman watched the work of his new partner with equal parts revulsion and admiration. “Why did you have the demons scratch them? Why would you wound your own minions?”
Tharkal Tay debated whether to answer. Prudence suggested he keep silent, since he couldn’t possibly lie to the idiotic fairy. Another part wanted to talk, to stall, to give the foolish creature more time to realize the mistake he’d made. That part eventually won.
Tharkal Tay was the youngest of the True Demons, and he was considered a fluke by the rest of his kind. Something the god Drovak had created at the last moment as his attention finally shifted towards other projects.
The True Demons all varied in appearance, their only physical commonality was their sterility. They were servants of the God of Oblivion, dedicated to restoring the universe to the perfection of nothingness. As such, it was only right that they had no progenitors and would have no descendents. Their god drew them from emptiness, and to that emptiness they would return when they fulfilled their function.
Of all the countless physical variations among his kind, few inspired such horror as Tharkal Tay’s. Wings, four arms, and four tentacles sprouted from his torso. It was a monstrous cacophony of limbs, all vying over the cramped space. It shouldn’t have been possible to control them all, not without a brain the size of a watermelon. But Tharkal Tay did so with ease. And more. He controlled far more than just one overcrowded body. He directed minds, dozens of them. And in a few minutes he would manage even more.
“The mind is a peculiar thing,” Tharkal Tay ultimately answered. “It likes to follow orders, but it requires the illusion of freedom. It prefers to see itself choosing to follow, rather than find itself being compelled. Inconsistencies alert the brain that the latter is the case, and it rebels.
“My worms are creating false memories of this encounter, so that the subjects won’t even realize they live in a fantasy world while carrying out my orders. They’ll have no memory of ever meeting me, and thus have no reason to suspect their version of reality is anything other than it appears.
“I can’t erase the evidence of trauma however. The brain will always know that something terrible and violent happened at this point in time. So the false memories I implant reflect that.” Tharkal Tay paused and pointed a long barbed tentacle at the pair still writhing on the ground in the grip of grand mal seizures. “They will leave here believing they were ambushed by a small swarm of demons. It is difficult to believe they could have prevailed without any injuries. So I give them recollections of such wounds, and my minions score their bodies to match.”
Heralkyth, Lord of the Eastern Fey, nodded his approval. “You’ve thought this out.”
That was an understatement. Tharkal Tay’s taste for drawing out his own victories began to wane in this case. The fairy annoyed him with its inability to recognize greatness. “I’m a genius, Kyth. I think everything out. While the most competent of my opponents warp their minds attempting to think two or three moves ahead, I focus on sets of games. Long before you made your first move, you were already dead.” Tay hadn’t meant to say quite so much. The contract between True Demons and noble fey proved aggravating at times.
“You’re threatening me? You can’t touch me.”
“True, I can’t harm you.” Tharkal Tay’s chest split apart, a grotesque fissure opening like a sidewise mouth. Dozens of parasitic worms, the size and shape of leeches, spilled onto the ground. “Not until after you’ve been completely exsanguinated.”
They stupid fey finally grasped the danger he was in, as Tharkal Tay’s horde of common demons closed in. The True Demon couldn’t order his minions to attack, but he was under no compulsion to rein them in, either.
Heralkyth tried to teleport to safety, but his magic predictably failed. Once again, Tharkal Tay couldn’t intentionally block the spell. But he had no obligation to mention the artifacts previously buried at this location, artifacts that scrambled all magical fields into useless discharges of heat and light.
Heralkyth had come to Tay thinking himself safe, had come with a plot to betray his own kind for personal advancement. He wanted Cablin’s plan to fail miserably, forcing his own method to be employed by the council instead. So he told the True Demon about the two half elves being tested, and the groups coalescing around them. He even told where to find and ambush one of those groups, allowing Tay to gain agents still believed to be serving the fey.
What Heralkyth didn’t realize, was that Tharkal Tay’s boast was in no way hyperbolic. The inbred nobleman was as good as dead long before he decided to contact an enemy of his people. Tharkal Tay and his worms had infected one of the ruling fey centuries ago, and through those dimming eyes, teeming with parasites, the demon saw everything.
“Leave the talking to me. And expect to become disoriented. The room assaults the senses. Don’t try to understand it. The more you struggle to figure it out, the worse you’ll feel. Just keep your eyes in front of you as much as possible.”
Meth listened silently, absorbing Eltore’s advice, but knowing he’d ignore it once he saw whatever optical illusions the necromancer found so confusing. Meth had glimpsed a few examples of Count Montby’s showmanship, enough to see that image was everything to the man. He expected more of the same, cheap tricks meant to fool common minds.
After convincing Vetch to accompany him back to Eltore and the soldiers, he found the return trip rather uneventful. The girl kept her distance but didn’t attempt to escape again. No monster out of legend appeared to wreck havoc on the group. Meth recounted to the necromancer what Vetch had said, that the Houndmaster was dead beyond any doubt, but that statement was dismissed. Even as the days passed with no sign of it, Eltore continued to insist that it would catch up to them any day now.
Meth continued practicing his cantrips and listening to any tutelage the more experienced mage was willing to give, but he felt his relationship shifting. He had no true loyalty to Eltore, and only intended to side with him in the upcoming coup for pragmatic reasons. If the odds changed to the other side, so would he. If Eltore sensed this change, he gave no indication.
Once back in Tralgar, the guards had dispersed. Vetch had been handed off to the familiar face of Mathus, and the two magic users were ordered to report for debriefing. There was no indication where this would be, but Eltore obviously knew, and he led the way.
Meth had a good head for mapping spaces, but he was still hopelessly confused after the first few minutes. He knew they were underground, but that was about all. The tunnels twisted and branched in a display of pure chaos.
When they finally reached the debriefing room, Meth knew by the doorway. The tunnel walls had been wooden until now. But the door itself was metal, and it was set into a frame of stone. Showmanship, just as expected.
The door wasn’t locked, but when Eltore shoved, it was slow to open. It wasn’t friction so much as the resistance of inertia. The doorway was cut and shaped with perfect precision, but the metal barrier was insanely massive. Meth felt the first scratchings of doubt, that just maybe there was a kernel of realness to this show.
A single swordsman guarded the Count, a man Meth recognized but had never gathered a name for. That man kept stood smartly at attention, but he was sweating from some unusual difficulty. He kept his eyes on the pair of newcomers, but Meth had the feeling he wanted desperately to squeeze them closed.
Montby himself was unaffected, sitting behind a messy desk overflowing with paperwork.
Meth couldn’t help glancing around, seeking the mysterious source of discomfort that he’d been warned about. The room was octagonal, which was a little unusual, but nothing to become worked up over. On second count, it was actually heptagonal. Meth’s stomach twisted, and he counted the walls again. There were eight, no doubt.
But something was wrong. He counted again, still eight. Then he realized what he subconscious had noticed, and counted the corners between the walls. Seven. It was impossible. Both numbers had to match, due to the rules of math and geometry. But they didn’t. He tried again, counting both simultaneously. One. One. Two. Two. Three…
And there was the eight wall, bringing him to the eight and final corner. Except it was corner number seven. Meth stumbled and vomited, providing immense entertainment to the Count, judging by the volume of his laughter.
“You warned him, didn’t you Eltore? And you know enough of human nature to know that warning would only make it worse? Of course you do! It’s only funny because neither of us is going to clean up the mess, you know!”
Montby abruptly sobered. “I’m been dying from impatience ever since my spies first spotted you approaching the city. What was so special about this girl, that the skeletons would waste my debt on her?”
“She’s not special at all,” Eltore snorted. “She lived underground, and that triggered the geas that pervades that desert, so the skeleton warriors felt compelled to protect her.”
“What changed,” Montby asked. “Why send her to me now?”
“Because her father was special. He was digging around, looking for a way to break past the Net and Well, and reestablish a method of interplanar travel for those of us without godlike power. His tinkering caught the attention of a Houndmaster.”
Montby turned his gaze towards Meth, who had finally recovered most of his composure. “Anything you wish to add or clarify?”
“The Houndmaster’s dead. Vetch killed it. She’s sure of it.”
“Vetch is the girl I assume. Well, she’s a fool, but most people are. The skeletons are ancient, and their memories aren’t malleable like those belonging to the living. They’re the one race that would actually recognize a Houndmaster, and believe me when I say they would have killed it if they could have. No, the girl is mistaken, and we have to assume it’s already here.”
“There was no sign of it, the entire walk back,” Meth replied.
“Irrelevant. Perhaps the two of you would like to hear the report I received just minutes before your arrival.”
Cirgal hung the scent bomb from what looked like an innocent clothesline, and tied it to the cord that ran back to a simple concealed water clock. In half an hour, more or less, a weight would descend. This cord would pull, releasing the scent bomb and sending it crashing below. The odds that Suljai would be near enough to matter at the precise moment were one in a hundred at best. But that was why Cirgal had repeated this little setup hundreds of times.
The rogue was supposedly patrolling the city for any criminal behavior that could be used as blackmail material. He was being paid to acquire such evidence in order to force more thugs into lifetimes of service to Count Montby, a more efficient tactic in the long run than simply paying them.
And he really was doing his job, walking the streets he knew were his best prospects and keeping all his senses open. But he was also playing a cat and mouse game with Suljai, the insane cat warrior, and it wasn’t yet clear which of the pair he was.
The bounty hunter would never forgive Cirgal for stealing his payday. That much was a given. He was focused, stronger, carrying better sensory equipment, and possibly quicker. Suljai’s only weakness, apart from his obvious insanity, was his emotional nature. Vengeance currently drove him, while Cirgal, by contrast, treated this as a game. The scent bombs wouldn’t harm the feline creature stalking him, but they would irritate it. And any time he broke the catman’s composure, Cirgal planned to reward himself a point.
Cirgal continued his meandering walk, choosing to turn into a section of town known to harbor rival gangs. If he were lucky, he’d spot them battling each other yet again, flouting the laws just like usual. It wasn’t that they had no fear of the law exactly. It was more that they didn’t believe they’d be caught. They were young, and full of a youthful sense of immortality. If the city guard came charging in at the wrong moment, they’d realize their errors. None of them would exactly learn any lessons though, as they’d all be hung.
Now, if a servant of Montby stumbled upon them instead, that was a another manner. They could avoid the noose, and all they needed to do was fight for a different sort of gang instead.
If they had enough numbers, they’d certainly try to kill Cirgal. That would be fun actually. He could make a game of it, decide which body parts he would allow himself to hit, even before he drew his rapier. Then he would see if he could defeat them without breaking his secret rules. Such targeting games were far from pointless, even discounting the fun of the act. It was the best way to prepare for battle against armored opponents, when vulnerable spots were limited, and you never knew in advance where the weak links might be.
Cirgal smelled blood the same moment he heard the shouts. He also smelled rotting flesh, and something else that he couldn’t identify. The commotion came from just around a corner, far closer than he wanted to be when he broke into view. The building walls were brimming with irregularities that could serve as handholds, so instead of continuing forward and turning to the right to face whatever awaited, he went up.
His first thought was that some of Montby’s zombies had gotten out of Nightcross Park. Maybe Eltore had finally created something clever enough to dig its way out. Upon reaching the roof and glimpsing the scene below, his notion wasn’t exactly disabused.
Three things that might be zombie dogs were attacking a pair of teenage gang members. It had originally been even numbers, but one of the humans was already down. The beasts, normally mindless, were working together. The young men on the other hand, were fighting without any semblance of discipline or coordination.
Most men could fight off one or two zombies, be they formerly human or canine. But these creatures didn’t move with the awkwardness typical of undead. Despite their emaciated frames, twisted and disfigured by the process of decay, the hounds moved as quickly as any living dogs Cirgal had ever seen.
Cirgal leaped to the ground, realizing the remaining boys didn’t have a chance unless he intervened immediately. He landed silently just behind the trio of hounds, his rapier already stabbing outward. It caught one of the creatures in the back of the neck, penetrating deeply into the brainstem. Then he withdrew and slashed to the right to cover his strategic retreat, cutting the tendons in the hind leg of another beast.
To zombies no one body part is more vital than another. They continue fighting until there is too little tissue for their aura of negative energy to hold together. So Cirgal wasn’t surprised that his sneak attack hadn’t killed the first creature. It spun to glare at him with rotting eyes, barely inconvenienced by the tiny wound.
That first stab had been a shot in the dark, a “just in case” sort of move that he couldn’t let pass. The slash had been designed to slow one of the creatures though, and it relied upon simple physics that not even the undead were prone to break. So Cirgal was a little disconcerted when all three hounds advanced towards him with equal grace. He peered closed at the wounded leg, wondering if he’d missed his target.
It was worse than that. The cut was regenerating, but even while it repaired itself, rubber tubes and coils of wire looked to have replaced the severed tissue. Now Cirgal realized what that other, fainter scent had been. Machine oil, so different than the animal fat and plant based oils used in lamps. Something he hadn’t expected to ever smell when away from the demon controlled wasteland he’d been raised in.
The hounds were a mixture of organic tissue and machine, and perhaps they weren’t undead at all. It clicked in a flash, like lightning striking inside Cirgal’s head. He saw how the tissue constantly cannibalized itself to fuel its transformative and regenerative properties. The mechanical portions also adapted, more slowly, but no less completely. These hounds were works in progress, their malformations merely symptoms of an ongoing process that was evolving towards perfection.
The two teenagers still standing had fled, leaving their comrade to bleed to death, and leaving Cirgal to single-handedly deal with this threat. As skilled as he was, he doubted he could win this fight. The creatures would keep coming, repairing themselves over and over and reshaping to better resist his unique style of combat. Eventually, he would tire and make an error. Then they would kill him, coldly and efficiently.
Jumping into the fight without taking more time to study the situation had been a mistake. If Cirgal didn’t get a little help from the gods of luck in the coming seconds, it would be the mistake that ended him.
Cirgal threw his satchel containing the remaining scent bombs, aiming at the ground in between himself and his adversaries. His only hope was that these aberrations retained the canine olfactory sensitivity they’d begun with. The bag exploded upon impact with the cobblestones, releasing a spray of spices and aromatic oils. Just as hoped for, the creatures recoiled.
Cirgal fully committed himself to the desperate half-idea, without waiting to see the effect. He jumped as high as he could, grabbing onto one of the many jutting pieces of timber and rapidly pulling himself further up. He almost expected three sets of misshapen fangs to sink into his legs and drag him back down, but when he reached the roof the hounds were still recovering their senses.
The beasts glared at Cirgal with rotting eyes, and he felt an alien intelligence in them. These were no mere animals, no matter how they appeared.
Cirgal waited, watching to see how the hounds reacted now that he was out of their reach. As he looked on, their bodies became sleeker and their limbs longer. Their claws visibly grew as well, and took on a metallic sheen. They were adapting to climb.
Cirgal backed away from the edge and ran, glad that the poorer districts always built like this, with utilitarian box-like houses squeezed against each other. He would be able to travel several blocks before he was forced to hit the ground again, and unless the creatures split up he could drop off on the opposite side, even if they managed to trail him. If this had happened in the more affluent suburbs, he’d be trapped on a small island until the creatures finally came for him.
In the last moment before he turned and ran, Cirgal saw a figure step into view, coming around the corner where the two young gangsters had fled. It was shaped like a man, but its skin was completely concealed by armor of the strangest variety. Mail, scale, plate, studded leather… all jumbled together. Even the helm was a complete covering, devoid of any holes or slits for vision. Despite the lack of eye holes, Cirgal never doubted that the man-thing saw and marked him.
“Sit down.” Mathus placed a hand on Vetch’s shoulder as he said it, pushing her back onto the stool with a controlled strength. He hadn’t lost his temper yet, but he wanted her to know that she was burning through his patience.
“But look at that thing! It’s a birdman!”
“It’s a Raptoran, one of the guardians of the Bloodtime. Don’t bother it.”
“What’s the Bloodtime? Why does it need guardians,” Vetch asked, jumping up again despite the hand still pressing on her shoulder.
“They said you sulked the whole trip back, barely said a word. Why are you so chatty now?” Mathus noted what they hadn’t mentioned to him as well, that she was far stronger than she looked. Mathus spent a lot of time and effort to maintain his strength, knowing the more obvious his capabilities the less often he’d be forced to demonstrate them. Most men would be pinned down under his grip, but that little girl jumped about like his hand wasn’t even there.
“There was nothing but sand then. Now, there are more different types of people in this room than I’ve seen in my whole life. Look, that woman has scales!”
Mathus couldn’t help wondering why Montby had dispatched Eltore and his goons to bring back this girl, considering whether her peculiar strength was the reason. He sincerely hoped that anomaly was just a coincidence and that no one had told the count yet. Life tended to be short and miserable for those who possessed any trait Montby coveted.
His worries faded away, replaced by amusement as he began to observe the feathered traveler that had captured his ward’s attention. The creature was sitting with a half-elf, and it was a fair guess which of the two was more naïve.
“Why are you laughing?”
“They think this is a tavern,” Mathus answered. “Like the ones found in the way stations along the major roads. They just ordered food from one of the prostitutes, and they’re discussing when the elfish one should start playing that harp looking instrument.”
“I heard all that,” the girl said, with a tone that suggested she found his answer completely unsatisfying. “I’ve heard everything said in here since we arrived. But why is it funny?”
“Everyone in Tralgar knows who Montby is, and what happens here. Half the people living elsewhere on this world know as well. Hardly anyone ever comes here by accident. But this is the day for it.
“Early this morning, we had two patrons with unusual accents. Off world I imagine. Probably came in through the ring portal that the Empire of Rose occasionally gets working. One was a gnomish ascetic. I’m not sure if it was an honest mistake, or a prank, but his companion convinced him that this was a temple, and that the women working here were priestesses. He spent hours talking about ‘bringing glory to the gods’ before anyone on duty realized it wasn’t just some foreign euphemism.
“We see one or two cases like that a year, at most. Now, it looks like we’ve had two pairs in a day. Let’s go talk to them.”
“I thought you said not to bother the birdman.”
“Would you rather argue, or would you like to meet a creature from a different universe?” Mathus grinned as the girl struggled for an answer.
Cirgal recovered quickly, forced adaptation to his frequent childhood injuries perhaps, but this day was still wearing him down. Ever since his battle with the hounds, he’d felt a strange connection to their mysterious master. It was like it had looped an invisible thread around him, and no matter how far he ran, he would remain attached.
He was an aberration, the offspring of a supposedly sterile True Demon, who happened to take the worst traits of both parents. None of Gonzogal’s superhuman strength or invulnerability ever manifested, no matter how many times his life was threatened. Nor the sorcery that had supposedly come so naturally to his mother. It would have been simpler for many if he had ceased to exist, so they could pretend this challenge to all the known rules had never been.
There were no shortages of opportunity for just that event as he grew up. He’d survived because when it became necessary, he could grow colder and meaner than any of the demons his father commanded. No matter how broken he became, there were two things he proved over and over. He would never stop struggling to survive. And he would never stop struggling to kill. Those traits earned him the respect of the stronger demons, creatures powerful enough to shatter him with ease, and they eventually led him to this planet, this world that his father had designs on.
Compared to the hell that had shaped him, there was very little this world could throw at him. There should be nothing capable of worming into his head. And yet…
That encounter troubled him. After his debriefing with Montby, it troubled him even more. And now, waiting to be debriefed a second time? He couldn’t get the image of that faceless creature out of his mind.
The door finally opened, and Neldrum, looking almost green, gestured for him to enter.
The physical impossibility of the room didn’t bother Cirgal. There was a reason for it, an explanation for how the incompatible architecture of this room could exist. It just happened to be an explanation so complicated that it was beyond his grasp. So he simply accepted that it was there, and didn’t bother searching for it. He never counted walls and corners, trying to get them to match up.
The room was just like it had been before, except the desk looked a little neater. Montby had stacked several piles of paperwork and pushed them to the sides, to make room for a picture in the middle.
“Come here and take a look,” the count ordered, without even waiting for the heavy metal door to close.
Cirgal walked over steadily, keeping his eyes senses open but his eyes trained on the desk. “Very realistic. That’s not a painting.”
“A photograph. Gnomish technology. Very expensive, but cheaper and more reliable than magically capturing the image. But that’s not important. Look at the body and tell me what stands out to you.”
Cirgal looked again, at the photograph of a dead gnome in the street, laying in a pool of blood. It was quite neat for a murder, no sign of a struggle, suggesting the gnome’s throat had been cut while he slept. A foreigner passes out in the wrong neighborhood after drinking too much, and never wakes up. It was a common enough occurrence in Tralgar.
Then Cirgal looked closer, looking at tiny specs of lightness, glinting off irregularities in the blood that covered the victim’s neck. And he looked at the position of the neck itself. It was hard to see from the angle given, and nearly concealed by the blood that had gushed out, but it was obvious once he first saw it.
“Too much damage. That wasn’t a clean slice to the neck, not a knife or sword then. Maybe a spiked mace or club.” Cirgal pictured some barbarian staff, studded with fangs and claws… and then it came together. “That’s a bite mark. From the hounds that I fought earlier?”
Montby barely moved, barely breathed, like he lacked all the energy he’d possessed each time Cirgal previously met him. The man seemed to draw on some deep reserve of will power and recover enough to nod vigorously, but it was obvious he was troubled. “Based on what you told me earlier, on the half dozen bodies found this way in the last twelve hours, and Eltore’s debriefing, I’m forced to a single conclusion.”
Montby paused, as if debating whether Cirgal deserved to know some powerful secret. “Those are phryxian hounds, and the man you saw at the end is a Houndmaster. Its primary target is a girl from the desert, whom the skeletons have pawned off on me. If it were anything else, I could protect her. But I can’t stop this thing. If the legends are accurate, it will keep killing, and growing its army. Our only option is to lead it out of the city, slow down the rate it can spread its infection, while I search for answers.
“I’m going to kill at least three birds with one stone. There is a boy here named Hyacinth who may be useful to me, but only if he follows a chain of calculated dangers as proposed by the fey. Fortunately, he’s traveling with one of the birdmen, who is asking for Wardens. I want you to tell them that they’ll find those Wardens in the City of Light.
“You’ll take the girl, Vetch, along with you, as well as Eltore’s apprentice. I sense a divide growing there, which it would be useful to foster. Once you get to the city of the catmen, I want you to steal an artifact from their museum. It won’t look like much, but it will be heavily guarded. I’ll provide drawings so you’ll recognize it. You’ll make your way out, get rid of the birdman, and above all else, keep Vetch and Hyacinth alive.”
“This goes far beyond the duties of my current contract,” Cirgal replied tonelessly. “I’m not even sure it is possible. The catmen shield their entire city. Your thoughts are read as you attempt to enter. Demons have trained to conceal their motives, but it seems the more disciplined the mind, the more violently the shield reacts. I’d be turned to ash.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to show you the thing you’ve been snooping for since you got here. Mister Cirgal, I think you should see my secret armory, after we revise your contract of course.”
Raishe would have simply run. He would have gone all the way across the continent, if they’d let him. But Vardaman’s agents were pursuing him with a doggedness that gave him only one option. He would have to fight them sooner or later, so he chose sooner. He would set a trap and fight them with every possible advantage, rather than let them choose the time and place.
He’d tried every trick he knew to lose them. He’d gone into towns and cities, slipping faces off and on as he blended into the milling peasant crowds. He’d changed clothing, used scented soaps and oils to mask his scent, even changed boots and the length of his stride.
Through it all they came, leashed demons pulling men who were no mere mercenaries. No, these were fanatics, unbothered by the creatures that guided them. These were men with no concept of self, men who were nothing but extensions of Vardaman’s will, whether he be dead or alive.
These were beings of the most dangerous sort, and Raishe should know. He served his true employer, Zetamax, with a similar zeal. The difference was these were just regular humans, their minds warped through old fashioned means. Raishe was an augmented man of the Imperium, his loyalty guaranteed by circuitry implanted into his amygdala. Such measures were reserved for only the most vital men, the most dangerous.
Raishe chose his ambush away from habitation, away from any prying eyes that could later tell tales. His augmentation system was now priming his body for the maximum physical activity it could withstand, and he had no intention of dialing it back. He had created a few pills, forged counterfeits of rare gnomish stimulants, that he could attribute his speed to if necessary. In reality, they were mostly heavy metals, lethal to most humans, but harmless to a man with an augmentation system prepared to absorb them.
They ought to do the trick, but it was preferable not to rely upon them at all. Uncultured pig farmers far from the ring portal might not recognize the pills, and might not believe his explanation. So Raishe prepared for this confrontation in the wilderness.
He looked for an area full of old growth trees, repeatedly cleared out by brushfires that couldn’t harm the bases of the photosynthetic behemoths. The area was clear enough for him to run at full speed, but thick enough with trees that line of sight was quickly cut off. It would be nearly impossible to surround him, and to attack him with ranged weapons from a significant distance.
Bows or blades, the handlers would have a hard time putting their numbers to their advantage. They would also have a hard time avoiding the trip wires he strung around the area, lines of metallic thread far stronger than anything this world could produce without using magic, one of his most coveted possessions.
Raishe then walked on, climbed into the trees, and returned without touching the ground. This was a trick he expected the demons to be ready for. So he took no chances. He rubbed the sweat from his body on every limb he walked or crawled down, on every branch he passed and every trunk that supported him. Then he dropped back to the ground to wait.
The demons couldn’t fail to smell him in the trees. They’d know he had moved on and then circled back, and they’d be expecting an ambush from above. They’d move slowly, sniffing every tree and keeping an eye directed upwards. They’d never suspect the attack to come from the ground, where Raishe could move at maximum speed.
With nothing left to do, Raishe waited. Just as darkness began to creep over the area, the demons and their handlers arrived.
There were six of the creatures, crawling on all fours like dogs, each one twice as long as a man was tall, with elongated jaws almost crocodilian in appearance. They were brownish grey, perfectly suited to hide in the dusk, their tongues flicking out to catch both scent and feeble infrared radiation, like a snake might.
A metal collar and chain leash connected each of the beasts to its handler, a man armed only with a shocking wand. Three more men, armed with sheathed knives or short swords, followed closely behind. In total, it was fifteen against one, and the six demons weighed at least four hundred pounds each. Enough to slaughter an entire village.
But none of them had ranged weapons, and Raishe did. It was a short bow he’d acquired during his flight, sized for a Halfling or gnome, short on range and power but perfect for concealment. The demons were the only things that could outrun him, making them his priority. If he could take them out without being run down and surrounded, the humans would be easy prey.
The creatures moved cautiously, lifting their stretched faces to sniff the trees and glare upwards, just as expected. In doing so, they exposed their throats, protected only by a thin layer of scales.
Raishe bent around the tree that offered his concealment, and fired two shots before the creatures and their handlers could react. Both were directly on target, plunging deeply into revealed throats. Then he was running, putting distance between himself and the beasts while the handlers struggled to process the unfolding events.
Eventually, the men reached the correct decision to release the brutes. Four monsters, consumed by bloodlust, charged forward. Raishe turned back and began firing. At first, his arrows only bounced off. Finally, as the distance closed, one penetrated the shoulder of the nearest demon. The creature slowed, but didn’t stop, and fell slightly behind the other three.
Raishe ran again, losing ground for only a moment. Then his tripwires did their jobs, sending the three leading creatures into a jumbled pile that rolled and slashed wildly as all voiced screamed their rage in unison.
Raishe sent two more arrows into the whirling triad before running once more. The demon with the wounded shoulder regained the lead, careful to notice where Raishe jumped or stepped unusually high, clever enough to mimic his movements. That slowed it down to Raishe’s speed however, and he led it on, putting more and more distance between himself and the human handlers.
While running, Raishe returned the bow to its place, strapped over his shoulder, and drew his sword. Decided he’d put a large enough gap between the demons and humans, he suddenly turned and lunged at the pursuing beast. His attack caught it by surprise, just as it launched itself at its prey.
Raishe’s sword nearly severed the monster’s head from its body. Four hundred pounds of demon continued on its trajectory, and would have knocked Raishe to the ground if the man hadn’t slid to the side at the same moment he slashed.
The three surviving demons, two breathing heavily from arrow wounds that pierced their lungs, closed in. Too far back to see exactly where Raishe jumped to avoid hidden wires, they were forced to either move slowly, or risk further falls. Driven by pain and lust into berserker mode, they chose the latter.
The creatures had spread out as they charged onward, avoiding future entanglements, and now they continued to spread apart. It was clear they wished to surround Raishe and attack from multiple sides at once.
The spy had no intention of letting that happen however. Keeping his sword firmly gripped in his stronger arm, he began to hurl throwing knives at one of the wounded demons, aiming for the eyes and snout. He missed the angry black orbs by inches, but when his blades cut across the creature’s face, they still accomplished their intent.
The demon surged forward, breaking the symmetry of their attacking formation. Raishe rushed to meet it, dispatching it with the same maneuver that had worked just moments before. The final two demons were close on his heels, but he’d already picked a large nearby tree to shove his back against.
The final handful of seconds were a confusing blur of claws versus steel. But for all the demons’ strength and top speed, they simply weren’t as quick as Raishe. His sword cut into vital areas while he ducked and dodged away from their closing jaws. Talons still raked across him several times before the beasts died, but they left only superficial wounds. Painful though the ragged tears were, his augmentation system would staunch the bleeding in minutes and fully heal the fissures in days.
Exchanging his sword for his bow once again, Raishe retraced his steps. The nine humans would be carelessly heading his way, confident that their minions had already finished the job. They wouldn’t even be actively looking for an upright human.
This advantage made it even easier than for Raishe to slip past them unseen, moving between and around trees to keep out of sight as the small horde marched right past.
Raishe stepped completely away from any concealment, lined up his first shot carefully, and let his arrow fly. He moved on from target to target, taking down another man with each arrow that left his hand. By the time the humans realized what was happening and scattered for cover, he had expended his last arrow.
Four men remained, armed only with shocking wands. At first they tried to run, but Raishe caught the first with ease, stabbing him in the back. The other three turned back as the man screamed, for Raishe had intentionally delivered a mortal wound that would take minutes to kill.
Just as planned, the trio saw how quickly Raishe could run them down, and realized escape was impossible. They clumped together in a group, instinctively seeking safety in numbers as Raishe stalked towards them. If they’d continued running, and split up, it would have taken several minutes to catch the last of them. This way, using the dying man’s screams to root them in place with fear, was vastly preferable.
One of the men swung wildly with his shocking wand, and Raishe instinctively parried. At the last moment he realized his mistake, but it was too late. His sword made contact, and a bolt of electricity surged through the metal and into his arm. The blade fell from his numbed grasp and his arm jerked uselessly at his side. His knees nearly buckled and it was all he could do to jump back and avoid the attacks that followed.
He drew his last dagger and threw it with his left hand, catching one of the men in the throat. At this range, his accuracy was nearly perfect with either arm, even suffering from the disorienting effects of the stun.
One of the remaining men had scooped up his dropped sword though, while passing the stun wand to the other. So it was one swordsman and one handler doubly wielding those long batons, while Raishe was down to nothing but his wits and a single arm. He realized that he should have retrieved a few arrows and finished these men from a distance, but he couldn’t kick himself for that mistake now. Focusing on the past error instead of the present, would be yet another mistake, one he couldn’t afford.
A mixture of tingling and burning bounced up and down Raishe’s right arm, and he knew it was only moments from obeying his commands again. As long as he didn’t trip…
Raishe jumped away, continuing to retreat from the pair of men who grew more and more confident. He allowed his breathing to become more labored than necessary, convincing them that the battle had taken its toll and he was nearing the end of his endurance. The pushed on, swinging and stabbing, even clipping his shoulder with his own sword once. All the while, they grew more careless.
Raishe jumped back to avoid another thrust, and slipped to his knees when he landed. The two men rushed forward, sensing this was their moment, and both promptly tripped over the thin metallic cord that neither had seen. One caught himself and staggered to the side, barely managing to stay upright. The other fell face first, landing flat on his stomach with his arms just in front of Raishe.
It took only a second to snap both the man’s wrists and take control of the two stun wands. The last armed handler swung with all his might, a final desperate attempt to cleave Raishe in two while his attention was diverted. He failed miserably, catching a double stun to the temple for his efforts.
Raishe regained his sword and immediately dispatched the stunned handler before his seizures could abate. Then he turned to his final adversary, a broken man with shattered wrists, sobbing helplessly on the ground.
“You won’t get away with this,” the man cried.
The pathetic tone of his voice grated on Raishe and the spy hesitated to end it quickly, contemplating meting out a more painful death.
“Gonzogal will know we failed. He’ll send another squad. More. Bigger! Twice as many demons!”
That revelation stayed Raishe’s hand. He’d thought this was Vardaman’s retribution. But Gonzogal was a True Demon, a nearly immortal creature rumored to be biding his time leading a band of orcs to the west of Tralgar. Were Vardaman and Gonzogal working together? That was the only sensible conclusion. Which meant the machinations to bring down the Empire of Rose were part of something even larger than Raishe had suspected.
Raishe put his sword away, certain now that he would drag this out. He knew quite a bit concerning the art of interrogation, and he was about to use every scrap of it.
