The Pleasure of Memory (17 page)

“No, I would say most assuredly not. Very well, perhaps this will help.” The man slipped the cloak back from his head.

The same seamless metal that covered his body helmed the stranger’s head. It looked like a metal cowl, with no spaces for eyes, ears, or a mouth. He recognized it immediately. It was mudsteel, a type of armor not seen in this world for centuries.

The soldier flicked his head, and as he did, the helm melted away from his face like water running off a pumpkin. The odor of hot tar spoiled the air. The creature’s skin beneath the metal was black and oily, with a mouth like a gash and only the vaguest suggestion of a nose. The only breaks in the tarry sheen were the penetrating lights emanating from the burning yellow gems embedded where eyes would be on a mortal. The face beneath the helm was the very image of the badge worn at its neck.

Chance felt the ground open beneath him. His gravest fear had finally drawn breath. It was worse than he’d imagined. Much, much worse. He closed his eyes and pushed a psychic pulse toward his staff. When he failed to make contact, he again probed for it, but still couldn’t make contact. It was as if an ethereal wall separated them.

“Why, sire,” the man said, “I swear you look like someone has just walked over your grave.”

Chance opened his eyes and looked up at the monstrosity. “A wyrlaerd,” he whispered.

“Wyrlaerd,” the creature repeated, “Such a vile term. I’d never have taken the famous Chance Gnoman for a bigot.”

“I can think of a few other ways to describe you.”

“But wyrlaerd is so common. You may call me Wonugh, Second Priest of Yuseg’s Gate of the Sixth Empyrean Realm of the Wyr.” With that, the demon belched an obnoxious noise that Chance guessed was intended as a laugh.

“Gatekeeper to the Sixth Hell,” Chance said. He felt sick. There was no worse revelation he could imagine than the sight of a wyrlaerd standing before him in the mortal plane. It meant the apocalypse was at hand.

The demon’s features twisted into a scowl. “Gatekeeper,” it repeated, “Another base description. Your lack of reverence is beginning to insult me. I’m a Divinic Demon, and I’m due a certain level of respect, even from one of the more sophisticated meat bags such as you.”

Chance spit a bloody wad into the grass, and then looked defiantly up into those foul yellow eyes. “Divinic,” he said with a forced laugh, “There’s nothing divinic about your kind.”

“Your
kind
? By the Lords below, your prejudice is simply unrelenting.”

“Go to hell.”

The demon leaned into Chance’s staff as its tarry face twisted into something akin to a grin. “You really must be more specific, sire,” it said, “Go to hell? Which one?” Again, the perverse laugh.

“Are they teaching humor in the Wyr now?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve no intention of going back anytime soon.”

“You sabotaged my sentries.”

“You’re very perceptive. I’ll give you a point for that.”

“I should’ve expected this,” Chance said, “I should’ve known that lunatic Prae couldn’t have pulled this off by himself.”

“Well, I loathe agreeing with you, but I suppose you’re right. He could never achieve his goals without our assistance.”

“
Our
assistance?” Chance felt hope slip.

“You’re surprised?” the wyrlaerd said, “If you were a Fire Caeyl Mage, would you summon only one of us? It’d be such an unforgivable waste of your dwindling caeyl energy, wouldn’t you say? There’s better economy in numbers. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

Chance looked at the warrior standing directly beside the demon. “Why are you doing this?” he asked him in Vaemysh, “Allying with Prae will bring your house to ruin, surely you understand this.”

The warrior flinched at that. He began to say something, but a gesture from the wyrlaerd sent him back into silence.

“You’ll end up slaves,” Chance pressed him, “Or worse. And trust me, he can make it much, much worse. You need to end this before it’s too late. You need to help me so I can help you.”

The demon laughed at that. “A fairly arrogant statement coming from someone squatting in the dirt, wouldn’t you say?”

Chance glanced back over his shoulder at the warriors surrounding him. Each bore Prae’s token pierced through the oteuryns curling up from behind their right earlobes, and with that revelation, he understood. These were each potentially hacks, shells of men under the control of the demons themselves. Only the warrior standing directly beside the demon was free of Prae’s sign.

His desperation surged. He tried again to form a link with the caeyl in his staff, but the demon’s Fire Caeyls were interfering, creating a mystical sludge in the immediate caeylsphere. Unable to connect, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. The warrior without the token moved in to steady him.

“Ah,” the demon said, “I’m pleased to see your strength returning.”

“Your concern flatters me,” Chance responded. He looked up at the head of the staff, at the simmering blue light in the caeyl. He needed to reach it. He had to regain control over it or die in the process.

He again willed his mind through the interference and this time found success. The usual rush of dizziness seized him as his mind formed a link with the Water Caeyl. The blue stone flamed to life. The demon’s arm jerked forward in reaction to the staff’s urge to return to its master, but the beast didn’t release it and the staff didn’t break free. Instead, the creature pulled it in tighter. The yellow Fire Caeyls that were its eyes flamed blindingly. They were once again confounding Chance’s link with his caeyl. It was like a metaphysical game of tug of war.

“I know it may seem like a mortal weakness,” the demon said as it struggled with the staff, “But I believe I’ll keep your stick as a trophy.”

The warriors behind Chance snickered at that. Only the untagged Vaemyn, the one who’d helped Chance up, did not.

Chance doubled his efforts. He commanded his essence back at his caeyl. The great blue stone flamed brilliantly, casting a heat that forced the warrior beside the demon to back away with hands raised. The staff began vibrating more convincingly. Chance closed his eyes and summoned the caeyl energy up from the earth around him. The air felt as sharp as a lightning strike. The staff began shaking hard enough that the demon needed both hands to retain possession of it.

Just when it seemed he might wrestle back control of his caeyl, one of the Vaemyn standing behind him drove a foot into the back of his leg. Chance collapsed to his knees. The same warrior then kicked him into the grass.

The blow nearly knocked the wind out of Chance. Still, he refused to submit. He shook his head and slowly pushed himself up to his knees. Then he looked back over his shoulder at the warrior who’d kicked him and said in Vaemysh, “Do that again and I’ll boil you where you stand.”

The demon grabbed the untainted warrior by the back of his neck and shoved him roughly toward Chance. “You see the mighty mage you’ve come to slay, Vaemyn? His slave boy put up more of a fight.”

“Ay’a, Lord Wonugh
,”
the warrior replied, though he was clearly getting no pleasure from the interaction. He seemed uneasy, even scared.

 “Such a pity,” the demon said, “This is more of a mercy killing than a hunt. What do you think? Shall we hang him now? Or spare the rope and cut his throat?”

The uneasy warrior didn’t reply. He was staring hard at Chance, looking at him as if he knew this was wrong, as if he were more afraid of Chance than the demon. Chance knew he damned well should be.

“Well?” the wyrlaerd snapped at the warrior, who nearly jumped out of his skin, “What’s your feeling on this, my friend? Rope or blade?”

“Leave him be,” Chance ordered the demon, “Why don’t you ask one of your hacks, instead?”

The nervous warrior bristled at the word, and with that, Chance immediately knew he was right about this one. He wasn’t a hack. He didn’t even know his comrades were hacks. He was simply a misguided Vaemysh loyalist who was finding himself increasingly uncomfortable with his people’s recent alliances.

“There are no hacks among the Vaemysh,” the demon said, grinding out another uncomfortable laugh, “All these dedicated warriors are here of their own accord. They’re here out of loyalty to Lord Prae and to their people.”

“What is it you want?” Chance asked.

“What is it I want?” The creature’s glowing eyes drifted over toward the blue Water Caeyl glowing softly atop the staff. “Where do I start? The list is so long.”

“What do you want from me?” Chance demanded, “What does that madman hope to accomplish here?”

“For the love of Wyr,” the demon said, slowly shaking its head, “Is it possible you really don’t know? How could that be? Was the formidable Water Caeyl Mage of Na te’Yed actually taken by surprise?”

“You confuse surprise with disgust.”

“Do I? Your security is pitiful. Your intelligence is practically nonexistent. We marched fifty thousand warriors right up to the border of your little kingdom, and you’re as ignorant of it as if it’d been a mischief of shimlins. You should be ashamed, you and your pretentious friends to the north, the wondrous Baeldons.”

Chance could only look at him. What response could he possibly offer? The wyrlaerd was right.

“Not that they’ll be of any concern for a while,” the demon continued, “The Baeldons, I mean. Not while they’re fighting their dearest friends.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re pathetically out of touch, aren’t you?” The demon laughed. “You are so predictably unaware of the little war we’ve arranged between the Baeldons and the Parhronii.”

“War?”

“They’re mobilizing their troops along their mutual borders even as we speak. The Baeldons have abandoned the war in their backyard for the fistfight in the front.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? Well, as much as I would love to convince you otherwise, there are more important matters demanding my attention. Not that you should let it concern you overmuch. You won’t be in a position to worry about it much longer anyway. Your mortal time is running out, my dear friend, so allow me to summarize the situation for you. Something valuable has entered your little kingdom, something of great importance to Lord Prae.”

“What are you talking about? What’s entered the forest?”

“A Parhronii rogue has stolen something of ours. We’ve tracked him here to your forest. Give him up to us and we’ll free the boy.”

“A Parhronii?” Chance asked, “There’ve been no travelers in these parts for weeks. What Parhronii are you searching for?”

“Heroics are such a pathetic mortal weakness.”

“These aren’t heroics,” Chance demanded, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve had no visitors.”

“You put on a brave act for a dead man.”

“It isn’t bravery. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

One of the possessed warriors behind Chance kicked him to the ground, and then immediately grabbed his hair and dragged him back up to his knees. As he brutally twisted Chance’s head back to expose his neck, another warrior slid a sword blade across his shoulder so that the blade’s edge teased his throat.

The yellow fire in the wyrlaerd’s eyes flamed higher. Chance felt the icy touch of the demon’s essence probing his head. His stomach lurched at the sensation. His throat was on fire, his tongue thick and wet.

And then, as rapidly as the sensation had arrived, it was gone.

The warrior behind him released his hair. Chance spit the thick saliva into the grass and dragged his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know of any Parhronii,” he said as he struggled to breathe, “That lunatic you call a master has made a sorry mistake.”

“Yes, so it appears,” the wyrlaerd said, “Sadly, that leaves us with no option but to extricate you from Lord Prae’s plans. Still, it’s unfortunate your slave boy will be the one to pay for your incompetence. I hope you can take some assurance in the fact that Lord Prae will surely put him to good use.”

“I’ll see you dead before this is over!” Chance said to the demon.

“Really?” the wyrlaerd said, feigning surprise, “How terrifying! Why, you gave me a tremble.”

“I’ll boil the tar out of that armor and send you straight back to the pits you were puked from!” Chance shouted, “I swear it to Calina!” Then he knocked the blade from his shoulder and moved to stand, but the possessed warrior behind him clubbed him back to his knees.

Chance doubled forward onto his hands. The pain of the blow felt like a spike in his skull. The world was spinning again. He pushed himself back against his heels. He couldn’t focus properly, but didn’t dare show weakness. He looked up into the blur of the demon’s shape and locked contact with the spot where he thought its eyes should be.

“I believe the sincerity of your words, Magi Gnoman,” he heard the demon saying in the distance, “I really do. But I’m afraid you’ll find that a fairly difficult promise to keep.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Chance forced himself to say, “I will kill you! Just as Calina is my witness, I will.”

The wyrlaerd then looked over at the unaffected warrior standing beside him and said, “I’ve made the decision, mortal. The rope’s too slow, and it pains me to see him suffer so. Use your blade. Put his wretch out of his misery.”