Black Magic (14 page)

"Yes and no, actually," Cerant said with a long sigh. "I—" He broke off with a cry when one of his damned headaches abruptly struck him, the world fading as it was drowned out by pain and the impression that someone was screaming in his ears.

"Master?"

"I'm fine," Cerant bit out, though he was not so certain. He was starting to feel sick and dizzy and the impression of screaming just would not ease up. "These damn headaches will be the death of me."

Neikirk reached into the small pouch he always wore at his left hip and withdrew a small amethyst bead. His violet eye shimmered as woke the spell sleeping within the jewel. A moment later, it trickled out like a whisper of silver smoke, curling around Cerant's head and easing the worst of his pain. "Master, just tell me what is slowly destroying you from the inside out."

Cerant swallowed. "I hate your stubborn persistence."

A small, fond smile curved Neikirk's mouth. "Yes, Master."

"Stop calling me that," Cerant groused.

The smile tipped into a smirk. Cerant wanted badly to kiss Neikirk, turn that smirk into a needy moan. He reached out and slid his fingers through Neikirk's soft, fine hair, then cupped the back of his head and tugged him close—

The sudden pounding on the kitchen door made them both jump, and Cerant almost laughed at the look of absolute hostility that flickered across Neikirk's face. Moving to the door, he pulled it open and stared in dismay at the terrified looking boy on his back steps. "What's wrong?"

"There's a dead demon in the graveyard," the boy said. "Mistress Wess said to get you and the alchemist."

Annoyance flickered at the way the boy said 'the alchemist', a small display of the Navathian practice of treating their alchemists like property rather than people. But he shoved it away for the moment, as there were more urgent matters to address. "We'll come at once." The boy nodded and ran off; Cerant strode into his bedroom and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. Stripping off the clothes he favored for lazing around his house, he quickly dressed for battle in a heavy tunic and light armor, shoving away thoughts of days when he had dressed in Goddess Violet and fought alongside the paladins.

He finished buckling his sword belt into place as he returned to the kitchen. Neikirk too had changed, his work clothes traded out for sturdy breeches and boots and the stiff, waist-length jacket of deep blue that marked those alchemists trained for battle. There were special pouches at his hips, buckled to his thighs, and a last at the small of his back. Jewels gleamed in his ears, and there were rings on his fingers, a strand of jewel beads around his neck—and every single glittering precious stone was a weapon.

They left without a word, walking quickly through the village to where the graveyard was located at the eastern edge of it. A cluster of people stood in front of the high, iron gates, arguing loudly, their fear palpable. They fell silent as they saw Cerant and Neikirk, and an old woman pushed through the group to greet them. "Thank you for coming."

"I am always willing to help however I may," Cerant replied. "Where is the demon?"

"Behind the Mother Statue," Mistress Wess replied.

Cerant nodded and resumed walking, Neikirk a comforting presence at his side. He headed straight for the statue of the Goddess in the middle of the graveyard, faintly and fondly amused, as ever, by the way Navathians called her 'Mother' without ever seeming to realize she was the Goddess.

Moving around the statue, he stopped short in disbelief. "A demon lord." One of its horns had been broken and the wings were torn beyond all repair. The demon must have died in unbelievable agony. Sympathy and pity rose up in Cerant, and the screaming in his head eased a bit.

No one, not even a demon, should die in such misery.

"Why did it die here?" he asked. "The poor bastard obviously lost a nasty fight. Where is the other demon? Why was the body left here?"

"It's been drained, Master."

"What?" Cerant asked, looking up at Neikirk in surprise.

Neikirk's violet eye glowed as he studied the demon. "It is devoid of energies; someone drained the demon, much like demons drain people."

Cerant felt sick and afraid. What in the name of the Goddess required so much power that it fed upon demons? He reached out to touch the demon, wincing at the terrible cuts and gashes covering its body. The damn thing would have bled out even if it hadn't been sucked dry. "No one deserves to be treated this way."

He rested his hand on the back of the demon's head and quietly recited a prayer for peaceful passage. Behind him, Neikirk said nothing, long use to Cerant's eccentricities. When he finished the prayer, Cerant stood up. "How do you think he got here?"

"I would say he was dropped, Master," Neikirk replied, squinting up at the sky. "He lost the fight and was carried away. Once he was drained of all his energies, his killer dropped the body."

Cerant pursed his lips in thought. "That implies the killer had wings, which means another demon or something as yet unknown. I do not like either option."

"No, Master," Neikirk agreed quietly.

"Let's keep the details to ourselves for now. Get anything useful you can off the body, then burn it," Cerant said and left him to it, making his way back to the villagers to assure them it was just a demon that had died of his wounds while trying to make his escape.

Calmed by the news and the reassurance that they would not soon have demons on their doorstep, the villagers dispersed to get on with their day. He watched them go, waiting patiently for Neikirk to reemerge. When Neikirk finally did reappear, they headed back home, walking in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, Cerant asked, "Learn anything?"

"The wounds he suffered are consistent with a demon attack," Neikirk said. "It is safe to assume, I think, that he was killed and drained by one of his own. I am not certain what that means. I have never heard of demons behaving so."

Cerant grimaced, both at Neikirk's comments and the way his head had begun to hurt again. "Nor have I. Demons are brutal bastards, especially the more powerful ones, but I have never heard of them resorting to what seems like cannibalistic behavior. Well, I suppose since they start out human, they are already engaging in such, but—"

"Demon!" Someone shrieked, and then the scream was abruptly cut off. He and Neikirk burst into movement, sprinting through the village toward the source of the scream. They followed it to the villages square, where the demon had already caused a blood bath; at a glance Cerant could see nearly ten bodies, all of them gored open, throats torn out—in some cases the heads had been torn clean off.

All of them had likely been drained of energy, for a demon attacked so wildly for no other purpose. Cerant drew his sword, saw Neikirk in the corner of his eye. "Demon!" he roared as it stalked a helpless woman and young man.

It whipped around and Cerant recoiled as he got his first real look it. Everything about the demon was wrong. Demons had black skin, occasionally smooth but more often mottled with grays, greens, browns, and reds. The demon in front of him had pale gray skin, nearly white in patches. Rather than two wings on its back, it had four, sickly looking where the veins stood out lividly against the pale gray skin. Its horns were an ill-looking yellow. Worst were its eyes, a bright, sickly green rather than the usual red. Cerant never thought he'd live to see the day he missed the usual demons.

He barely got his sword up in time as the thing moved, snarling and hissing, swinging faster than Cerant could keep pace. Cerant had never been so bitterly aware that he was merely a knight, not a paladin. Though he was adequate in battle, he had never been of the same caliber as his friends.

The demon snarled in fury as he was struck from behind. Cerant used the opportunity to lodge a boot in the damn demon's gut, sending him stumbling back and giving Cerant a chance to breathe and figure something out. He glanced past the demon to where Neikirk stood. His eyes shimmered as he connected with all of his jewels—dozens of them arrayed in the air in front of him, each glowing a different color, ready to be used on a moment.

Even as Cerant readied himself for round two, a ruby bead shone bright and in the next breath, a brilliant burst of fire engulfed the demon. It roared and turned to go for Neikirk, who stood his ground. Cerant pulled a dagger and threw it, catching the demon in the back, piercing one wing in the process. Neikirk's flames had further damaged them, but as the flames finally faded off, the demon did not seem otherwise harmed.

Neikirk's eyes flashed like sun on water and a sharp burst of light filled the square. Cerant ran at the demon, swinging his sword, but the demon turned and caught the blade as if it was little more than a stick, yanking it out of Cerant's hands and throwing it aside. It lashed out and Cerant only just dodged enough to avoid the gashes across his chest cutting deep enough to be fatal.

The scent of fire and magic filled the air and the demon let out a scream as it was consumed in white-blue fire. It turned toward Neikirk again, tail lashing back and forth, wings moving restlessly on its back. It made a sound that reminded Cerant of laughter in a chilling, frightening way.

Grimacing at the pain in his chest, the blood that seeped into his clothes and dripped down his torso, Cerant caught Neikirk's gaze and gave the barest nod, signaling he was ready for what he knew would come next. It was a harder incantation for Neikirk to bind to his jewels, but always a reliable one when the demons were on the ground, and they had at least ensured the bastard was grounded.

Neikirk's eyes flashed again and a small topaz dropped the ground as its incantation was released. Power rippled, shone, and the village square began to shake. Used to it, Cerant maintained his footing and ran for the demon, pulling out another dagger, throwing himself on the disoriented demon's back, and shoving the dagger into its neck all the way to the hilt.

Screaming, the demon bucked him off. It turned, green eyes glowing, and with a grin that displayed all of its sharp teeth, pulled the dagger from its neck and threw it aside. It stalked toward Cerant, who tried to scramble to his feet, pulling another dagger and bracing—only to be abruptly snatched up and thrown.

Cerant slammed into the side of a building on the far side of the square, then collapsed to the ground in a heap. He tried to move, to stand up, but could only moan and curl up in a ball of pain.

He heard the demon coming and struggled again to rise, but could only barely drag his eyes open. Then he heard a crack and a bolt of light struck the demon. Its scream ended nearly as soon as it began, and the charred remains fell to the ground mere steps from Cerant.

"Master!" Neikirk said and ran over to him. He dropped to his knees and ran his hands frantically over Cerant's body, fear in his eyes. "It will be all right, Master."

"My dear …" He tried to say more, but pain overtook him again and Cerant succumbed to the dark.

Neikirk carried his fresh cup of tea into Cerant's bedroom and resumed his seat, reaching out for the hundredth time to trace the lines of Cerant's pale, bruised face.

Thank goodness the lightning incantation had worked. His body still ached from the effort of controlling it, and using it had been a greater risk than he was comfortable admitting even to himself, but it had worked.

His elation over the victory, the result of years of work, simply was not there, however. Anything he might have felt was drowned out by the terror of seeing Cerant thrown about like a rag doll, the smack and crunch as he had slammed into that stone wall. But the lightning incantation had worked, and Neikirk had gotten to Cerant in time to save him.

Forcing himself to sit back, Neikirk sipped his tea and tried to stop worrying. Cerant was alive and healing well. There had been no more demons that day and hopefully there would not be more any time soon. He could relax slightly.

But his hand still shook as he reached out yet again to touch Cerant.

Withdrawing again, he sipped at his tea and tried to put his mind on his work, picking up the lists he had started earlier about the supplies he would need to collect to begin creating the incantations. He should get started on gathering the items, but every time he tried, he looked at Cerant and terror flooded him all over again.

Helplessly drawn, he looked at Cerant again and froze in surprise to see that his eyes were open—until he realized that Cerant was still asleep, eyes hazy and far from lucid. They also glowed brilliant violet rather than their usual ocean blue.

Neikirk had seen Cerant's eyes turn violet before, but only in moments of distress, or when he got one of his headaches. Cerant never seemed to realize that his terrible headaches always came right before something went wrong. Neikirk had quietly questioned him about them before—and traditions from Cerant's homeland—but the topic upset him so much that Neikirk had never posed his theories. It was hard enough getting Cerant to admit he saw Neikirk as more than a friend.

He scowled, reminded all over again about the kiss that had almost happened. Damn those demons. Neikirk sighed and sipped again at his tea, enjoying the fragrant, spicy scent of it. He knew he was a fool, pining for a man who seemed content to wallow in misery and regret. But when he forgot to wallow, Cerant was nothing less than magnificent. Neikirk had liked him right from the start, wanted him nearly as long, and been in love with him at least half the years they had been together.

A knock at the door drew him from his thoughts, and Neikirk set his tea aside before rising to cross the house and open the door. "Mistress Wess," he greeted, keeping his eyes respectfully down, his tone quiet and level.

"How is your master?" she asked and shoved a cloth-wrapped bundle that smelled of roasted meat and vegetables into his arms. "You are taking care of him, I hope?"

Neikirk bit back an angry retort, furious at the insinuation he would fail Cerant in any way. Keeping his tone humble, he replied, "Yes, Mistress."

"You had better, especially in light of your failure to adequately protect him in battle. After all he has done for you, given you—this is what comes of his foolish tendency to indulge you. I may yet go to the council about all of this."