Rides a Dread Legion Read online

  “I think it’s annoyed,” Brandos said dryly.

  “What was the first thing that made you notice?” asked the Warlock.

  Brandos swung again as the creature advanced, giving Amirantha a moment longer to begin the complex spell of banishment. As a safeguard, he quickly placed another set of wards behind the first, as an emergency measure. Over the years enough mishaps with summoned creatures had given him reason to establish a series of increasingly powerful magical barriers at need.

  The demon recoiled from the blow, but Brandos wasn’t trying to attack it, only slow it down. “Back!” commanded Amirantha, and the old fighter was back across the next invisible threshold.

  The Warlock uttered an invoking word and a wall of pulsing violet-colored energy sprang up from floor to ceiling, encircling the demon in the tunnel. It was a sizzling cylinder of light shot through with rose and golden colors, and the demon struck and recoiled, as if he had hit a wall of stone. Smoke coiled from his flesh and he exhibited charred wounds.

  Brandos had fought enough demons to know that they expended energy to heal themselves; they were weakened each time they were injured. Demons had an exasperating ability to feed off other sources of energy, given the chance, so it was better to weaken them as fast as possible so the summoner could banish them back to the demonic realm. “Do I need to hit him a few more times?”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad notion,” said the Warlock as he readied another set of wards.

  Brandos feigned high and outside, causing the demon to raise his hands above his head; then the fighter crouched and thrust, taking the creature’s left leg out from under him again. With another stone rattling bellow, the huge monster fell back, crashing onto the floor with almost black blood spurting into the air. It smoked and emitted a foul stench of burning sulfur when it splashed onto the stones, and Brandos pulled back.

  “That was a good strike,” observed the Warlock.

  “I try for the greatest result from the least effort; I’m getting old, you know,” said the fighter as he retreated back to where Amirantha had erected the next confounding wards. Taking a deep breath, as perspiration flowed down his face, he added, “One of these days you’re going to get one of us killed.”

  “More than likely,” agreed the Warlock.

  “Or both of us,” added Brandos, raising his buckler and holding his sword ready against any new, unexpected problem.

  The demon healed the latest wound, slowly, and both men took that as a good sign. Healing required time without distractions, and the more he needed to heal, the more time he required. Lacking time, he devoured his own magic essence to heal injury, leaving less magic to use against Amirantha and Brandos.

  “We’re wearing him down,” observed Brandos.

  “Good,” said Amirantha, “because he’s wearing us down, too.”

  “Can you banish him?”

  “A minute more, perhaps two.”

  “Very well,” said Brandos, and he stepped forward, reading the boundary of the ward, striking hard at the demon. It was an easily anticipated blow, and the creature raised his hand to sweep Brandos’s blade aside. Brandos had expected such a move. Demons were, if anything, predictable when it came to non-magical combat. In their realm, the bigger, stronger demon almost always won combat by simply overpowering the smaller, weaker opponent. Rarely did demons of the same stature confront one another. In this realm, their physical strength and savage nature gave them a decided advantage against any but the most powerful creatures. A greater dragon would make short work of such a foe, but anything smaller would be in for a severe test. For a single human swordsman, intelligence would have to overcome brute power. Brandos turned his wrist at the last instant as the demon tried to brush aside the blow, and let his blade slide along the upraised left arm of the demon, inflicting a scraping series of cuts that caused the demon to retreat a half-step. Then he lashed out with his uninjured right arm, almost dislocating Brandos’s shoulder from the blow taken on his buckler.

  Brandos retreated across the threshold of the wards again and braced for an onslaught. The demon hesitated only a moment, then charged Brandos. As he crossed the barrier of the ward, he shrieked in agony, but still came toward Brandos and Amirantha. It was three strides to where the fighter stood ready, and the demon paused to gather magic. Amirantha felt a spell of some consequence begin to manifest.

  “Damn,” said the old fighter. “More magic.” He lowered his shoulder and charged.

  The demon’s spellcasting was interrupted by Brandos’s heavy charge. He drew his buckler up against his left shoulder and rammed it into the demon’s chest. It felt like hitting a stone wall, but it threw the demon backward a few feet and allowed Brandos just enough time to pull away before a massive clawed hand would have decapitated him.

  Brandos lashed out with his sword, striking the demon’s exposed arm. As he expected, the touch of magically enchanted steel caused another smoking wound and the demon again cried out in rage. As he pulled back to stand before Amirantha, Brandos shouted, “He’s a first-time visitor to Midkemia; no protection spell in place to prevent harm from cold metal.”

  With a practiced move, fluid in its execution, Brandos let go of the hand grip on his buckler, letting it dangle off his arm. He flipped his sword from his right hand to his left, catching it with his now free hand while he drew out a dagger from his right hip. He threw the dagger with as much force as possible, impaling the demon’s right foot, pinning it to the dirt floor. Black smoke and a sulfurous stench filled the cave, and the conjured creature screamed in pain. Then it fell silent, regarding the two humans with a demonic stare of glowing red eyes, and, with a calmer tone, resumed his incantation.

  “Now would be a good time to finish,” said Brandos, flipping his sword back into his right hand as he slipped his left back into the strap on his buckler. “This fellow is bloody determined!”

  In a fraction of a moment, Amirantha had to make a choice, to continue his spell of banishment and risk Brandos being struck with a potentially lethal blast of magic, or abandon it and employ a spell prepared against such dangers.

  His affection for his friend overcame his desire to finish this business in an orderly fashion, and he ceased his conjuration of banishment, shouting, “Close your eyes!”

  Brandos did not need to be told more than once. He hunkered down as much as he could behind the small protection of his buckler, closing his eyes tightly.

  Amirantha closed his eyes as he incanted a five-syllable word that had no meaning in any language known to humanity but which unleashed a very powerful and destructive bolt of energy. The Warlock knew from painful experience that a crimson bolt now flew out of his upraised hand to strike the demon. The energy would pour into the creature through his skin, causing him to light up from within.

  A sudden flash of searing heat, lasting mere seconds but hot enough to scorch the hair on Brandos’s arm, and the stench of something foul cooking filled the tunnel. Then it was silent.

  Brandos let his arms drop to his side as he let out a long sigh. “I wish you didn’t have to do that.”

  “So do I,” returned Amirantha. “An orderly banishment is so much less taxing—”

  “—and painful—” inserted the fighter, inspecting his singed arm.

  “—and painful,” agreed Amirantha, “than destroying the demon.”

  Shaking his head and again letting out a long sigh, Brandos said, “Have you ever considered this conjuration of demons so you can banish them for a fee might not be the best use of your talents?”

  Smiling ruefully, Amirantha said, “Occasionally, but how else can I earn the coin necessary to broaden my knowledge of the demon realm? I’ve already learned as much as I could from those creatures we’re familiar with.”

  “Speaking of which, why didn’t one of them show up?”

  Amirantha shrugged. “I don’t know. I was seeking to conjure Kreegrom—he’s almost a pet now.”

  Brandos nodded. “Ugly as sin.
Have him chase you a bit back toward where the Governor’s men can see him. Let him follow you back inside, give him a treat, and send him back.” He nodded. “Good plan.” Then he fixed his friend with a scowl. “If only it had worked!”

  “I didn’t think the creature I was conjuring was going to be a battle demon.”

  “A magic-using battle demon,” corrected Brandos, as he sheathed his sword.

  “A magic-using battle demon,” echoed Amirantha. He looked into the tunnel, now filled with a noxious, oily black smoke. Remnants of charred demon flesh decorated the walls and floor of the tunnel and the stench was enough to make a battle-tested veteran vomit. Almost the entire left leg of the creature lay on the floor a few feet away. “Let us collect our fee from the Governor, remove ourselves from this quaint province, and return home.”

  “Home?” asked Brandos. “I thought we’d head north a bit, first.”

  “No,” said Amirantha. “There’s something here that is both familiar and troubling, something I need to ponder in my own study, with my own volumes to reference. And it’s the safest place for us to be right now.”

  “Since when did you concern yourself with safety?” asked the old fighter.

  “Since I recognized that familiar…presence behind this demon.”

  Brandos closed his eyes a long moment, as if weighing what he had just heard. “I’m not going to like this next part, am I?”

  “Probably not,” said Amirantha, inspecting the contents of his belt bag, seeing what would have to be replaced. “When I let loose that final bolt of energy, and the demon exploded, a series of magic…call them signatures, hallmarks of spell craft, tumbled away. All of them were my own, the wards and spells I had fashioned, save two. One was the demon, which I expected, alien and unfamiliar, nothing out of the ordinary, but the last was another player.” He was silent a moment, then said, “A player familiar to me. A magic signature as familiar to me as my own.”

  Brandos had been with Amirantha for most of his life and had heard many stories from the Warlock. He could anticipate what was coming next. Softly, almost as if sighing, Brandos asked, “Belasco?”

  Amirantha nodded. “Belasco.”

  “Bloody hell,” said the old fighter softly. His face was a map of sun-browned leather, showing years of privation and struggle. Hair once golden blond had been grey for more than two decades, but his startling blue eyes were still youthful. Shaking his head, he said, “Still, one thing about traveling with you, Amirantha, is things are always interesting.”

  “You find the oddest things interesting,” said Amirantha.

  “Comes from the company I keep,” said Brandos.

  Amirantha could only nod slightly. He had found Brandos as a street urchin in the City of Khaipur, nearly forty-two years ago. Despite being countless years older than his companion, the Warlock looked to be twenty years his junior. Both men knew that magic-user would outlive the fighter by a generation, yet they never spoke of it, except upon occasion Brandos quipping that Amirantha’s proclivities would end up getting the old fighter killed before his time. Despite the unlikely appearance of the two men, Brandos looked upon Amirantha as a son looked upon a father.

  How a practitioner of what could only be considered a particularly dark form of magic had come to play the role of foster father to an illiterate street boy was still a bit of a mystery to Amirantha, but Brandos had somehow insinuated his way into the magic-user’s affections and they had been together since.

  Amirantha led Brandos past the charred remains of the demon to the summoning cave, and picked up two large leather bags, handing one to the fighter. Both men shouldered their burdens. Looking around the cave, the overturned ward stones, the burning pots of incense, and the other accoutrements of demon-summoning, the Warlock said, “Not that I’m criticizing, but what brought you to the cave?”

  “You were taking a bit longer than normal and the Governor was getting restless. Then all that noise erupted and I thought I’d best see what had gone awry.”

  Shaking his head slightly, the Warlock said, “Good thing you did.”

  They exited the cave, a deep recess in the hillside a few miles away from the village of Kencheta. Waiting astride his ornately saddled horse was the Governor of Lanada, who said, “Is the demon dead?”

  Raising his hand in an indifferent salute to the ruler of the region, Amirantha said, “Most efficiently dead, Your Excellency. You can find his remains somewhat scattered around the tunnel about a hundred yards within.”

  The Governor nodded once, signaled to one of his junior officers: “See that it is so.”

  Amirantha and Brandos exchanged glances. Local rulers were usually content with the promise of relief from whatever plagued their domains. On the other hand, Amirantha said to himself, they usually caught a glimpse or two of the demon, not just howls and bellowing from within a dark cave.

  A short time later, the young officer returned, his face pale and covered with perspiration. Amirantha said, “I should have mentioned that peculiar stench—”

  “You should have,” agreed Brandos.

  “—takes some getting used to.”

  “Well?” asked the Governor.

  Nodding, the officer said, “It is so, Your Excellency. Most of the creature was strewn around the tunnels, bits here and there, but one leg was intact, and it was…nothing of this world.”

  “Bring it to me,” instructed the Governor.

  Again Brandos and Amirantha exchanged questioning looks.

  This time the officer motioned to two of his older soldiers and said, “You heard the Governor. Go get the demon’s leg.”

  A short time later the two soldiers emerged, carrying the huge charred leg between them. The smell caused even the most seasoned veteran to go pale, and the Governor backed his mount off slightly, holding up his hand. “Stay,” he instructed.

  From his vantage point, he looked over the leg, from the top of a thigh covered in burned hair down to a foot with three massive toes ending in razor-sharp claws. Whatever it might be, it was nothing of this world, and at last the Governor nodded. “We had word from the Maharaja’s Court that charlatans promising to rid outlying villages of demons, dark spirits, and other malefactions were preying on the gullible. Had you been such, we would have hanged you from that tree,” he said, pointing to a stout elm a few yards away. “As this is certainly what can only be a demonic limb, I am convinced your arrival so soon after word of this demon’s appearance in the hills is but a lucky coincidence, and shall convey such to my lords and masters in the City of Maharta.”

  Amirantha bowed his most courtly bow, and Brandos followed suit only an instant after. “We thank His Excellency,” said the Warlock.

  As the Governor began to turn his mount, Amirantha said, “Excellency, as to the matter of payment?”

  Over his shoulder, the Governor said, “Come to my palace and see my seneschal. He will pay you.” With that, he rode off, followed closely by his men-at-arms.

  Amirantha and Brandos were left alone and the Warlock said, “Well, at least it’s on the way home.”

  Shrugging, the warrior picked up his friend’s shoulder bag and said, “There are times one must settle for small benefits. At least this time we get paid.

  “Maybe it was a good thing that demon showed up. Kreegrom is fairly hideous until you get used to how he looks, and the smell takes even longer, but for a demon he’s about as menacing as a big, stupid puppy. If that Governor caught wind that he was playing ‘chase me’ with you and not really trying to kill you, well, I don’t particularly relish ending my days hanging from an elm.” He glanced at the indicated tree as they walked past it. “Though I will confess it’s a handsome enough tree from which to be hanged.”

  “You do always see the good in a situation, don’t you?”

  “Someone around here must,” said Brandos. “Given the usual nature of our trade.”

  “There is that,” agreed Amirantha as they started down the road that wo
uld take them to the Governor’s Palace in Lanada, then on to their distant home.

  The village had been the closest thing to a home Amirantha had known in the last thirty years. His tower was atop an ancient hill, Gashen Tor, highest of the hills overlooking a village called Talumba, two days ride east of the city of Maharta. He resided there for four or five months a year. The rest of the time he and Brandos would travel.

  The farming community had come to appreciate the presence of such a powerful user of magic close at hand, even if his chosen area of mastery was one considered dark and bordering on evil by most people. The Warlock had wandered from another land, they said, and had come to this lonely hillock to avoid persecution. He had built the single tower in which he resided, using demons as labor, it had been said, and he had placed wards about the tor to prevent invaders from troubling him.

  The truth was far more prosaic, as Amirantha had used magic, but not his own, to build the simple tower. A pair of magicians, masters of geomancy, had used their arts to move rocks and place them in such a fashion that when they were done, Amirantha had only to have a local carpenter from the city install two wooden floors, hang doors inside, and build some furniture, including the large table before the magician, and the heavy chair in which he sat.

  He studied some old texts he had written nearly a century before, letting out a long sigh of regret as he pushed them aside. He looked out the window of his study, at the village below, now in the reddish glow of sunset, and considered how more or less idyllic his life had become for the last twenty years—if you didn’t put too much emphasis on the occasional mishap such as the one three days before up near Lanada.

  He remembered when he had first come here, with the young Brandos, and how he had decided, almost at whim, to take up residence. He looked above the village at the distant sunset and wondered how much of his decision came from his affection for these sunsets. It was, he thought, an odd thing to become fixated on, but then so much of his life was a series of choices that looked arbitrary, even capricious, at times. Such as giving a home to an uncouth street boy who had tried to rob him more than forty years before.