Demon Lord 3: Blue Star Priestess (26 page)

I met his sapphire gaze.

He frowned at my lack of fear, and pointed at my clothes with a whirling finger.  “And just what are you supposed to be?”

I decided to give his fair warning, and at the same time announce a skill-set that might make me some hard cash.  “Combat wizard.  Why, need one?”

“I have the best already in my employ.  I run these docks,” he said.

I smiled a challenge at him.  “You can’t have the best.  I don’t work for you.”

He grunted, then gave me an evil smile.  I knew trouble was coming before he turned and beckoned a companion over from their table.  The newcomer was over six feet, just like his boss, but his bare arms were thickly covered in burn marks and tattoos.  He had the stink of dark magic about him. 
A demon sorcerer
.

I stood, not liking to be at a disadvantage should violence erupt.  I rolled my sleeves up so my own tattoos could be seen, proof of my claim.  The sorcerer grinned like I was a new toy, until he got a good look at my skin art.  His smile died.  “A magician perhaps, but not of any school I know.”

The bar owner came by, a bar towel over one shoulder.  “Could you take your business outside?” he asked.  “I don’t need my customers chased off, or my furniture broken.”

“Burned, not broken.”  I pointed at the dragon-lotus tattoo on my arm.  “If I use my dragon magic, nothing here will be left standing.”

“Dragon magic!”  The harbor boss’s eyes lit up like Christmas.  “You’re dragon-born!  There’s a reward for your kind.  A very large reward.”

Suddenly, half the bar was looking at me like a payday from the gods.  Several humans and d
emons climbed to their feet, drawing swords and daggers.  The light of avarice shimmered in their eyes.  As the crowd pressed in, the harbor boss hissed in displeasure.  “Hey, we saw him first!”

Always nice to be wanted.  Hey, I wonder if I can turn myself in for the reward.

TWENTY-
SIX

“Guns don’t kill people, I do.”

                                       —Caine Deathwalker

My right hand came up with the Berretta Storm.  My left hand settled on the machine pistols that hung at my left side.  I thumbed off both safeties and slid my trigger fingers into place.  A small amount of pressure swiveled the machine pistol’s muzzle up from the floor so I could casually shoot from the hip. 

There were other magic-users around. The problem with magic though was that the practitioner usually needs a little time to invoke it.  I was betting bullets were faster.  I fired the machine pistol, moving it from forward to the left.  It spat fire, chattered, and spewed casings on the wooden floor.  At the same time, I fanned my Berretta from center to the right, taking headshots.

The harbor boss went down, stitched with machinegun fire across the torso. 

His pet sorcerer acquired a small hole in his forehead, and lost the back of his head which became a red frothy mist spraying back on those behind him. 

Both men went down, and a lot of others as I kept firing.

I felt stabbed through the spine, but wasn’t.  That was the cost of activating my
Demon Wings
tattoo.  My body didn’t go translucent or anything.  The magic just made it hard for people to recognize what they were seeing when looking at me. 

Bodies kept falling.  No one here could be allowed to live and give my description to the

City Guard.  Hey, I was doing these greedy—bounty-hunting—bastards a favor: dying at my hand had to be a lot better than the cataclysm in their future. 

Really, they ought to thank me
.

A few of the patrons had short swords out and were slashing blindly, making this a lot harder for me.  It was too bad this wasn’t a sword-free zone.  That would make my killing so much easier. 

Not wanting to betray my position with muzzle flashes and the crack of gunshots, I holstered my handgun and let the machine pistol swing back on its strap to my side.  I focused my will and sent out a mental shout.  My demon sword faded into my right hand, seeming to float mid-air for a second before my You-Don’t-See-Me magic made the blade as unnoticed as I was. 

The Muramasa howled in my head for the souls it craved.  I used the sword to block one guy’s wild swing, slashing his stomach as I danced past, loping off a head, and kicking a table and its chairs out of my way.  One man crawl
ed on his belly, trying to get around the bar to hide.  Smelling blood, my dragon-side woke up and roared approval inside my head.

I yelled at them:
Shut the fuck up!  I’m trying to kill here.
 

I jumped over one body and landed on the crawling guy’s head.  His face squished into the floorboards, painting them blood red.  I pulled his face up, cut his throat for good measure, and let him drop again. 

My sword was singing to itself in orgasmic pleasure:
Yes, oh, yes, oh, yes…
 

Okay,
I thought,
this is awkward
.

Some of my sword’s new vitality leaked into me, along with the terror-driven screams of the souls it had consumed.   It was a good thing I had lost my conscious years ago, or I might have felt bad about that.

I slid over the bar and ran to the door.  I found the last would-be bounty-hunter on his knees, trying to work the door.  He’d taken three slugs, but was somehow hanging on—tough bastard—crying for his mother.  “We’ll both light a candle for you,” I said.  “Give my regards to Hades.”  I stabbed him through the ribs and knelt by the corpse. 

The dead men wore stiffened leather armor with brass studs, and a kind of leather kilt.  The swords these guys liked were undersized and leaf-shaped.  The black leather scabbards were wider and shorter than I needed, but I had an idea.  The demon sword didn’t have to keep the exact shape it was forged into.  With some serious prompting, it could be made to alt
er itself.   Needing my hands free, I stuck my sword back in the body.  I stripped a sheath and belt off him and showed them to my sword.

He got the idea at once, and didn’t like it:
Oh, no, I like me the way I am.

“Don’t give me a load of crap.  I need you to go in there.”

Not going to happen,
he said.
 

“You do know I could drop you in a volcano, right?”

You wouldn’t dare!  You need me too badly.

I smiled wickedly.  “Or I can tell the Red Lady you’ve being mean to me.  I bet she can stick you between seconds in some lightless hell-dimension where you’d never be found.  How about that?”

Fine, I’ll do it.  But one day you will regret this. 

“I guess we’ll see about that.”

The sword shimmered with an ember-red light.  The blade compressed, becoming denser, thickening up, widening.  The glow faded. I pulled the short sword from the body.  The blade fit snuggly into the Atlantean sheath.  I strapped the weapon to my side, tying on the leather belt.  That chore finished, I went around and looted bags of coins to cover my expenses. Consolidating my haul, I pooled the coins into a large bag, dropping the empties.  The coins were roughly circular and silver, of varying sizes.  Many had human faces.  The reverse sides featured various animals or objects.  I saw a bee, a rose, and another featured a bull-headed man.  I closed up the bag and put it in my hoodie’s front pocket.

About to leave, I gave the dead one last look.  I shook my head in mock-sorrow. 
If only they’d have minded their own business, such tragic loss of life could have been avoided.

I released my
Demon Wings
magic and activated my
Dragon Flame
tattoo.   The cost of the awakening magic made my lungs feel like they were breathing ammonia.  I wheezed and coughed, clenching my eyes shut as a sympathetic reaction made them tear up.  The phantom sensations went away, leaving me unharmed, my arm wreathed in a fire more stubborn than napalm.

I waved, sloughing off dragon fire so that the whole room of corpses ignited.  I backed out the front door, firmly closing it behind me.  A sailor approached with every intention of going in.  “I wouldn’t,” I told him.  “There’s a bar fight going on and some idiot is actually throwing lanterns around.  You’d better go someplace else.”

“Hmmm.  Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem.  Say, you know this port?”

He nodded. 

I said, “Show me a better place and the first two drinks are on me.”

He brightened considerably, and slapped me affectionately on the back.  “Come with me, then.  I know a place quite close.”

“Great, lead the way.”

As we went, my new drinking buddy studied my clothes.  “What is that you’re wearing?” 

“It’s the latest thing.  I’m hoping it will catch on here and give me a new line of trade.”

He looked rather doubtful.  “I somehow took you more for a soldier.  Something about the way you walk and stare into shadows.”

“I’ve heard rumors of people going missing off the street.  Can’t be too careful.”

“The Knives of the Dark Queen,” he said.  “If she weren’t involved, the City Guard would try harder to stop all that.  It doesn’t pay to be human in this city.  Damn, demon-spawn.  Once my ship leaves dock, you can be sure I’m not coming back.”

“What happens to the victims?  Are their bodies ever found?”

“Never, and the Knives seem to only be taking young women.”

“Virgin sacrifice?”  Some kind of necromancy fueled by dead souls.  I wonder what purpose the final spell would have.  Then it hit me.  A very big spell involving a lot of lives, could make someone a god or goddess.  I knew I couldn’t save Atlantis.  History had already declared her fate.  But maybe I could see to it that only the Old Man and I benefitted from the inevitable.

“Oh, crap!” my friend said.  “There they are.” 

Their sandals slapped the brick
s, a rhythmic cadence.  Blood-red sashes cinched their sleeveless and hooded robes.  Each of them wore at least two knives.  Their bare arms were blue, the blue of Atlantean demons, but I knew that from their towering height.  In comparison, the girl they dragged along looked like a willful child. 

I
pulled my new friend with me into the mouth of an alley.  We hugged the shadows, slinking through them as fast as possible.  I knew I’d have to deal with these guys soon, but I needed more intelligence first.  Tipping my hand early wouldn’t accomplish my mission, so the captive would just have to fend for herself.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“I
t’s a demon-eat-demon world.

No one should plan on a long life.”

                                       —Caine Deathwalker

We came out of the alley and moved a block inland toward the heart of the city.  The shops we passed were closed.  Most of them had protective sigils burned in over the doors and windows.  The brands might not stop a determined thief from getting in for a quick snatch, but they’d send up piercing shrills and strobes of light to draw the city guard.

We approached a tavern with an oval sign hanging near the door.  The sign had four feet and a tail.  It was a boar with mean eyes.  The sign was painted a bright red, seen easily in the light of lanterns that smelled of fish oil.  

“Welcome to the Crimson Boar.”  My new friend opened the door and led the way inside.  The room was packed.  Sailors and city folk mingled, but I saw no demons.  Waitresses traded drinks for coins, gathering up glints of silver.  There was a card game of some kind being played with round cards.  As we closed the door behind us, we were looked over.  Calculating eyes tried to determine if we were predators or prey. 

We made our way to the bar.  My friend nodded to the barkeep.  He nodded back.  “Luca, the usual?”

“Aye,” he nodded at me, “and a flagon for my friend as well.”

Two tin cups were deposited on the bar in front of us.  I reached into my coin purse and pulled out a few coins.  I didn’t know the denominations, but figured the relative value on the basis of the sizes.  I tossed a few of the smaller coins on the bar.  I must have done it right because the barkeeper swept them up without complaint, and Luca showed no surprise.

I tasted the brew I’d been given.  It had a spiced honey flavor with a tart apple aftertaste.  Some kind of hard cider.  “Not bad.”

“House specialty,” Luca said.  “Come on, let’s see if we can find a table.”

I’d already looked around and knew there wasn’t one, but I followed Luca over to a backroom.   We went to a red curtain where a serving wench was coming out with an empty tray.  She smiled.  “Luca, going to try your luck tonight?”

“Maybe.  Depends on who’s fighting tonight.”

Fighting?

We went on into a large space with lanterns hanging from the ceiling on hooks and chains.  There wasn’t another way in or out.  Tables and chairs were pushed back to the walls, clearing the center of the room.  I expected to see oiled, bare-chested boxers, scarred men with hands wrapped in leather, with metal studs over the knuckles.  There was no one like that.  The people were dressed commonly for this time and place.  Several had coin purses in their hands.  Voices were raised.  Odds were being given, bets taken.

Dead center in the room, two men knelt on a rug and faced each other, while guarding small cages.  The cages were made of twigs and cord, each big enough for a hamster maybe.   Not a battle of humans then.  Between the cages, the two-foot center of the rug was gold, in contrast to deep blue elsewhere.  The gold center probably defined the battleground.  In this kind of thing, the winning bug either flipped his opponent over, or forced him out of the ring.  A little noise maker was used to make the male beetles think a female was nearby.  With sex as a promised reward, males fight quite aggressively.

I’ve a lot of barroom experience that bares it out.

I remembered that ancient Chinese emperors once entertained themselves with battling crickets.  It also wasn’t unusual for spiders to be used in death matches.  And in some parts of Italy, stag beetles were once worn as magical talismans by humans.
No, it doesn’t make me proud.

“What are in the cages?” I asked.

“Beetles,” Luca sounded excited.  “I know the owners.  Their fighters come from long line of champions.  This is going to be good!”

I’d come for information, not to bet on bugs, but like they say:
When in Atlantis… 
I slid through the crowd and found a place behind one of the kneeling men, the one in blue-green robes with a turban on.  My heightened sense of smell told me he needed a both, and that he’d dined recently on onions and pork.  My keen hearing picked up scratching sounds from the cages despite the crowd’s agitation. 

Luca crowded in next to me.  One of the betters slapped him on the back.   “Luca, you got here just in time.  We’re about to start.”

Luca grinned, and answered, “Where are you putting your money?”

“Here, on Alec.  His beetles on a winning streak.”

I listened to the bets.  The odds were close to even.  Both fighters had popular support, but Alec’s bug did seem to be favored by a slight margin.  I picked out a few large, oval coins with owls stamped on them, and nudged Luca.  “What are these called?”

He stared in envy, eyes shining with greed.  His voice contained reverential awe.  “Dekadrachm.  I don’t think you’re going to get anyone to match such a bet.”

A voice called across the crowd.  “I will.”

I looked to the opposite side of the rug and saw a plump man in fine silk robes.  The gold necklace he wore all but begged me take it back to my own time, to add it to my treasure vault in Malibu. 

The man saw my focus.  He smiled.  “Like this little trinket?  Want it?  That bag of yours looks quite heavy.  How about I wager my necklace against what you have in there?  He pointed at the bug owner closest to him.  I’m this man’s patron.  I say our beetle will win.”

If I lose, I can always steal more
. 

I nodded.  “Deal!”

The crowd fell silent hearing the bet, but that passed almost at once.  Getting over their shock, the betting grew more frenzied.  The barkeeper approached.  Apparently, he popped in regularly to referee.  He stopped at the edge of the rug and called out.  “Last match of the evening.  Make your final bets.”

The bets dwindled away.  The barkeeper called out, “Betting is closed.  Cages open!”

Both owners opened their cages.  The referee worked something in his hand that made a clicking noise.  The occupants of each cage crawled out, sighting each other at once.  The miniature gladiators were three inches long with nut-like bodies, glossy brown at the sides, and green on back.  Their heads were brown with black eyes and oversized mandibles that looked like the horns of deer. 

Stag beetles
.

Stalking on six spindly, black legs, each went at the other, locking horns, shoving with all their tiny might. 

The crowd yelled encouragement.  Fists were shaken in the air.  The man wearing my gold necklace shouted at his bug.  “Get in there, Sarpedon.  You want to the wench, don’t you?  Fight!  Fight!”

I laughed to myself.  If the bug knew there was no female beetle around, he’d say “fuck this!” and go home.

Alec, the owner of the other insect, shouted as well.  “Take him down, Geryon.  Kill, kill, kill, and you’re get plenty more nectar.”

Ah, sugar
.  That explained his bug’s high energy, and winning streak.  The beetle was stoked for a win.  In fact, Geryon was steadily nudging Sarpedon back.  Another few inches and...

Sarpedon saw the danger.  He lunged sideways, twisted his body, and came back in with an
enormous effort.  Geryon was flipped onto his back, his thin legs clawing the sky.  Half the room yelled in triumph.  The other have moaned in despair.  I was one of them. 

The referee called the fight.  “And Sarpedon is the winner!  Losers pay your debts.”

“Wait a minute,” I yelled.  That bug is a ringer.  A cheat.”

That got everybody’s attention.  There’s nothing like calling out a cheat after heavy wagering to pour gasoline on a fire.  The referee glared at me.  “Don’t be a sore loser.  Pay up, if you know what’s good for you.”

He was trying to shut me down. 
He’s in on it.

Ignoring the barkeeper, I pointed at Sarpedon.  The bug should have been off hunting for true love, but he was biting the overturned beetle, ripping at him for every bit of sugar he’d consumed.  There was an unnatural glow to Sarpedon’s eyes.  They’d become rusty-gold orbs.  It wasn’t just a bug.  “It’s a demon bug!” I yelled.  “It’s eating the other one.”

The man whose beetle was flipped reached out to reclaim his threatened property.  He jerked his hand back with a beetle bite that immediately turned the surrounding skin black.  Alec shrieked, grabbing his bit hand.  Foam sprayed from his mouth as me choked into silence and fell over dead. 

Someone stepped onto the rug and stomped on Sarpedon.  There was a brittle
cra-ack
under the sandal.  The foot came away.  In the ruins of Sarpedon’s broken body, a third bug was seen.  It had worn Sarpedon like an overcoat, a secret contestant in the fight.  Enraged by the abuse, it reared up on four of its feet and chittered.  It was bright red with green streaks, and it hopped like a locust toward the man who’d stepped on it. 

The man backed away hurriedly. 

The crowd followed his example.  No one wanted to be the next Alec.  Shoving through the crowd, running for the door, the rich man had had enough.  I shoved after him in pursuit.  “Get back here with my necklace you son of a bitch.”

The bartender got in my way, grabbing at my clothes.

I kneed him in the groin, pushed him down, and stomped over him as I kept going.

Someone behind me screamed a warning.  “Watch out, that damned bug’s flying.”

I ducked reflexively and looked back.  The bug whizzed past me.  Its back plates had hinged open and four veined, glass green wings were pumping furiously to propel it after its master, the rich man. 

It was a good thing I looked back when I did; my drinking buddy Luca had a knife out and was trying to carve up my back.  Without turning to face him, I pointed my toe to the ground and shoved my heel straight back into his nuts. 
Tiger-Tail kick
.  He doubled up and dropped onto his knees.  I kicked him in the head, putting him down and out.

Damn traitor. 
Yeah, that’s right, he and the bartender were friendly.  Obviously thieves of a feather.  I need to be picker where I drink.  Who am I kidding?  Like that’s going to happen.

The door was jammed.  The rich man had escaped.  I could warm a tat, throwing my awareness after him.  That would let me know where to go to recover my gold.  But with all the commotion here, and the other tavern, so close by, probably crawling with the city guard—no, it was time to go to ground, to get back on mission.

I looked back at Geryon.  He was still on his back.  He had the look of death about him.  He’d done his best for me, but it hadn’t been enough. 
And he never even got laid.
 
What a terrible way to go.

The door cleared.  I marched over, through the curtain, and the waitress hit me in the face with a serving tray.  She had a knife right behind, seeking my face.  I caught the arm holding the tray and used it to block her other arm.  A rising knee caught her knife hand in a pincher attack, making her drop the weapon.  It clattered to the floor.  I pulled her close. 

“Interesting style of foreplay you have there,” I said, “but I don’t really have time to fuck you over.  Your loss.” 

I slung her away from me.  She whirled and fell.  Her head hit a table.  She collapsed to the ground.  The demon bug flew off her neck, coming out of the shroud of her hair where it had been hiding, control the girl.

The rich bastard had sent his infernal bug back to get me. 
Fine.  Just wait until I get my hands on that demon-dealing piece of lung cheese.

A chair crashed into my back.  I stood there, letting the broken pieces cascade around me.  I turned.  It was the barkeeper.  He had a grimace of rage on his face.  “Damn, your eyes,” he snarled.  “We had such a good racket going on, but you had to interfere.  I was going to make enough to leave this cursed island far behind.  How long do you think we’ll stay free with our stupid king so besotted with his devil bride?”

“Your ineptitude is not my problem.”  I backed away toward the door, turned at the last moment, and stepped out into a flash of purple light and a deafening thunderclap.  An explosive force threw me into the night.  I landed on the brick street, my breath slammed away.  My hoodie was burned away across my chest.  If not for the Kevlar vest that was still smoked from the slagging in front, I’d have been seriously hurt.  I’d been hit by a high level spell and it hurt like hell, like the last time I’d flown straight into a truck.

As I lay groaning, waiting for the strength to get up, a group of men in black, sleeveless robes surrounded me.  The Queen’s Knives. 
No, I couldn’t have been captured by the City Guards.  I have to get taken by these jokers. 

One of them held a severed demon head by the indigo hair.  The dead head belonged to the demon wizard I’d killed at the other tavern.  His once sapphire eyes should have been dim, clouded in death, instead, they swirled with a sour green fog, a kind of ghost light.  His spirit was haunting his head.  His mouth hung open, its tongue lolling like a beast’s.  The one holding the head swung it down to see me
better.