Black Magic (4 page)

Awed. Sad. Softened in demeanor. More beautiful than ever.

Something twisted, hard and sharp, in Sorin's chest, and it was not the Goddess conveying some message. He did not know what it was, and he was not in the mood to figure it out. "Koray?"

"What?" Koray asked, eyes snapping back to Sorin, features hardening again.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," Koray said tersely.

Sorin frowned. Two marks or so he had known Koray, and he'd yet to stop feeling confused. Who was he and why was he so confounding? Sorin could only stare at him, looking for some clue that would lessen his confusion.

Koray was no polished knight, but the lack of spurs did not lessen the fact he was clearly a hardened soldier. Though his clothes and sword were worn, likely obtained second- or third-hand, they were obviously well cared for and valued. Various pouches were affixed to his belt, stuffed full of only the Goddess knew what. Even at a distance that smell of incense was apparent, intriguing. And the hair … he'd heard of necromancers countless times, the oddly streaked hair that marked them as plainly as armor marked the knights. It looked strange, but it somehow only added to Koray's beauty.

"If you're done gawking at the necromancer," Koray said, "might we move along with whatever you are about? Is this where …?"

Sorin made himself focus, furious that he'd gotten so sidetracked by staring like a halfwit. "No. That's in the keep. I am taking you to meet the high priest, and in the morning I will take you to see his Majesty."

Koray grimaced, but said nothing, finally leaving the entryway and slowly moving toward Sorin. He paused halfway there, obviously not aware he had done so, eyes on the windows.

If the keep was a masterpiece of defense, the cathedral was the heart of worship. A great deal of money had been poured into the cathedral back when it was built, and the people tithed generously to ensure it was maintained.

The floor was smooth, gray stone tile, alternately carved with the various symbols of the Goddess: the sun, moon, stars, and blossom. The same gray stone also made up the walls, columns, and arching roofs. The walls alternated between panels carved with prayers and windows of colored glass depicting images that went along with the prayers. Those who could read the panels memorized the prayers that way, and those who could not read were able to learn them by way of recitation and the pictures.

At present, the Cathedral was deserted save for a handful of priests lighting candles and tending other chores while they stood the night watch. During the day, it could be anywhere from moderately full to completely packed, with people standing in clusters or sitting on chairs and cushions brought from home. Sorin always liked the quiet moments best.

Perhaps sensing his arrival, Angelos stepped through the door at the back of the main altar. His eyes landed on Sorin, and he nodded briefly. His gaze then shifted to look past Sorin and his eyes widened when they landed upon Koray.

"High Priest," Sorin greeted, sweeping him a courteous bow. "Your prophecy has already proven true; I introduce to you the necromancer Koray, bidden by the Goddess to come and assist me."

"I see," Angelos said, eyes still on Koray. "Sent by the Goddess, you say? I have never known necromancers to do the Goddess' work."

"That is because you're an ignorant fool," Koray snapped. "We have always served the Goddess the same as any priest, any paladin. Our magic may be strange—to serve a stranger purpose—but she guides me the same as either of you."

Angelos frowned. "If you were a servant of the Goddess, I think we would know—"

"When have any of you ever done more than dismiss us?" Koray cut in. "Ignore us? Beat us? We were always there, doing the work She bid us do."

"What, precisely, is the nature of your work?" Angelos asked, stepping down from the altar and drawing closer to them. "Necromancers deal in death. You banish ghosts, though I know not the purpose that serves."

Koray's lips curled. "Even the high priest himself is ignorant of us and the work we do to keep Vindeia safe. Pathetic."

"We will hardly cease to be ignorant if you are not willing to unbend and explain to us what we need to know," Sorin replied. "If people do not speak to you, it's because you are rude and condescending every time you open your mouth. Were you one of my knights, I would give you a thrashing sound enough you'd be too sore to sit down for a week."

"Do try," Koray taunted, smirking. "I am no one to trifle with, My Lord High Paladin."

Sorin started to give a cutting response—but his words were prevented when Angelos suddenly burst out laughing. "Enough, you two," Angelos said. "I will call for a late supper and you can eat it while you explain everything to me. Come." So saying, he turned and strode off, leaving them little choice but to follow.

Stifling an aggravated sigh, Sorin stalked after him, pointedly ignoring Koray as he came up on Sorin's left. He'd just put one foot in the High Priest's office when the bells began to ring with a fury, a cacophony of noise that had a single purpose: to rouse every inhabitant of the castle.

Turning sharply, Sorin ran full tilt through the cathedral, outside, and down the steps, across to the stable where his horse was already being prepared. He ordered two men to fetch his equipment, and by the time his horse was ready, they were back with his full armor and additional weapons and helping him put it on.

A familiar form caught his eyes, and he looked over and up at his already mounted second-in-command, Emel. "Where? What?"

"The village of Greymore."

"Ride out, Emel. Take what you need. We'll catch up. Watch yourself."

Nodding, Emel turned his horse about and began to issue orders. Seconds later, the ward emptied of a significant portion of the men who had been filling it.

When the last pieces of his armor were strapped and buckled into place, Sorin secured his weapons and tools to his saddle, then climbed into it and looked out over all of those assembled—and paused when he saw Koray standing off to the side. He started to say something, then realized he didn't know what to say. Leaving the matter alone, he bellowed, "Move out!" and signaled for his herald to sound the horn. Its haunting call echoed throughout the castle and the surrounding city as the knights rode out of the and headed northeast toward the village of Greymore.

By the time they arrived, everything was chaos: fire, blood, screaming, the clash of steel against claw, the sharp stench of demon magic mingling with the bittersweet traces of Goddess magic, the tang of blood.

Sorin drew his sword and flung himself into the battle with a resounding cry that echoed through the rest of his men as they fought to drive back the demons. Their skin was dark, not quite black, not precisely brown. Their eyes glowed a deep maroon color when they used their magic, mouths bared to display teeth that seemed more animal than human, like the claws which tipped their fingers.

Many said demons could only be made when humans succumbed to black magic. Still others said demons could breed and that was why their numbers had grown so great. All Sorin knew for certain was that the demons fed upon the children of the Goddess, stole their souls and power away to sustain themselves. Cursed by the Goddess, or simply reviled, demons did not naturally possess magic. All they had, they stole from the people they slew.

A deep, vicious laugh drew Sorin's attention as he cut down one demon and threw aside another one already badly injured. Movement caught his eye and he whipped around, cutting down another demon as it swung wildly at him. He started to head for another cluster of them when the laugh came again and he saw a demon lord on the far side of the field.

Swearing, he spurred his horse into action even as he pulled his crossbow from its holster and fired. The bolt lodged in the Demon Lord's back. It did little more than anger him and caused him to turn to focus on Sorin—but that was exactly what Sorin wanted.

Bellowing his battle cry again, Sorin raced at the demon lord full tilt, magic flaring as he struck hard and fast. He swore as he was unseated and thrown to the ground. The demon lord turned on the horse briefly and Sorin hid a wince as his horse screamed in its death throes. Reaffirming his grip on the sword he'd managed to keep hold of, he climbed to his feet and threw himself back into the fight.

After that, he lost track of everything; the demon lord took all of his concentration, all of his energy. No one else there would be capable of single-handedly taking down such a powerful demon.

Why were the demons so close? They never ventured drew so near the royal castle. That they were growing so bold frightened him.

With a last, desperate cry, he managed to thrust his sword into the demon lord's gut. Not wasting any time, he drew a dagger from his belt and thrust it up into the bastard's throat. Grabbing up a sword left to fall when its owner was slain, he swung down hard, decapitating the demon lord.

Chest heaving with the need to draw proper breath, Sorin stumbled back away from the corpse. Blood and sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, and he tried to wipe it away, but found that was impossible to do when the rest of him was smeared with more of the same, in addition to mud and Goddess alone knew what else.

He took one step, then immediately regretted it as the expenditure of power finally caught up with him—but before he could fall face first down upon the battlefield, an arm was around his waist, another hand dragging Sorin's arm over broad shoulders. Sorin smiled tiredly at Emel. "How?"

"As well as we could have dared hope," Emel said quietly. "Casualties are minimal, thanks to our swift arrival and the way you handled that demon lord. I do not know what we would have done without you here to take care of him. I'll have the final tallies for you shortly."

"Get started on the burning," Sorin said and groaned in relief as he was unceremoniously set upon a tree stump. He looked toward the battlefield, flinching at the bodies, the destruction—the way men had already been set to work finding survivors and killing those who would otherwise die a slow death.

Then something else caught his eye and he made to stand, but hissed in pain as his injuries chose that moment to fully present themselves.

Emel had seen the same, however, and bellowed out angrily, "You! What in the name of the Goddess do you think you are doing? Get away from there, you filthy necromancer!"

"Be quiet!" Koray shouted right back, and Sorin heard more than a few cries of disbelief as Koray's eyes flared with an unmistakable violet light before he turned away, resuming his walk onto the battlefield.

"His eyes are like yours," Emel said in disbelief.

Sorin jerked in surprise. "What do you mean? Anyone with the Goddess' blessing has eyes that turn violet."

"Not like that," Emel replied, eyes still wide and locked upon Koray. "They glow like yours and the High Priests'. The rest of us do not have anywhere near that power."

Unable to form a reply, Sorin instead forced himself back to his feet. Waving off Emel's fretting, he walked slowly through the carnage to where Koray stood in its center. "What is it you are doing? I only ask from curiosity."

"My duty," Koray said flatly. "Stay if you must, but keep out of my way." He turned sharply away, and pulled something from one of his various pouches.

Sorin immediately recognized the scent of incense, bitter and earthy, with the barest hint of sweet underlying it. A soft, whispered word set the resin to burning in a small metal dish which Koray then set on a small, clear bit of ground.

Rising again, he looked out over the battlefield, brow furrowed in … thought? Concentration? Sorin wasn't sure.

"What are you doing?" he asked again.

Koray sighed in annoyance, but said, "Purifying the field, banishing the ghosts of the fallen. If I do not, then more battles will come to this place, the land will suffer, people who pass through will always fall ill or find trouble, or suffer in some other manner. All things die, but not all deaths are right. Unjust deaths leave malcontent spirits, and such spirits poison the land and the people." He turned his head, scowling up at Sorin. "Can you not feel it? The sadness in the air, the wrongness? You're the High Paladin, can you not feel it?"

"Yes," Sorin said. "I can feel it. I always feel when lives are snuffed, taken away forever—when they are ripped away to feed demons."

The words seemed to soothe some of Koray's ire. "Then pay attention, High Paladin, and perhaps for once in your life you'll bother to learn something important. Generally, we can only do this after everyone else has gone. My brothers have tried before when knights remained…" His lips pulled into a grimace, and he said nothing further.

He moved forward a bit and pressed his hands together as though in prayer, murmuring softly, and Sorin's skin prickled as he felt the magic in the air, felt it twist and shift and twine around Koray—the same as the incense, which seemed as drawn to him as the magic he was summoning.

Slowly, Koray drew his hands apart, still whispering softly, until his arms were extended fully at his sides, fingers splayed. He opened his eyes, and Sorin had not even realized until then that they'd fallen shut. They glowed violet, just like when the High Priest was lost in a trance or Sorin was lost in a battle haze.

What did it mean that Koray was so much like them in terms of power?

Before he could follow the thought the wind kicked up, cold and sharp, tossing about the bitter scent of incense so strong that it mostly drowned out the stench of the bodies. The incense seemed to follow the spread of the magic, the fragrant smoke trailing out across the battlefield, covering everything, following the wind that seemed itself to be guided by Koray's whispered words.

Prayers, Sorin realized, or at least the flow and rhythm of the words reminded him of prayers.

He shivered as some strange sensation washed over him, and stared as shadows and hazy shapes appeared in the smoke. Whipping back around to ask Koray what was going on, he instead drew up short to see the brilliant violet of his eyes, the intense focus upon his face, and the way it was obviously taxing him.