Mark A. Garland - Demon Blade

Demon Blade

By Mark A. Garland

and Charles G. McGraw

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, N.Y. 10471

ISBN: 0671876104

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, July 1994

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, N.H.

Printed in the United States of America

Demon Blade

“Let me,” Rosivok said. Abruptly he bent down and took up the Blade. He stood there holding it,

examining its shimmering steel, the beads of moisture rolling off of it. After a moment he shrugged.

“Nothing,” he said.

“No,” the wizard Frost agreed. “There should not be.” He took a very deep breath—deciding he would

have to use his right hand, the left simply did not have the strength after the first disastrous try—and

reached toward the Subartan warrior. “Let me try once more.”

Rosivok held the Blade out. Briefly, Frost closed his eyes. He pushed all thoughts of the Blade's powers,

as well as his own ideas about them, out of his mind, then spoke a minor spell to himself, one to keep his

magical energies turned inward, turned off, for now. He looked at the Blade again and reached, and

touched it. This time, after a -moment, he gently smiled.

Praise for Dorella

“The magical confrontations are exciting. . . . It's an intriguing first novel, odd and interesting, with some

wonderful and weird touches, a mix of fairy tale and sordid reality. . . .”

—Carolyn Cushman, Locus

“Nice touches throughout; I particularly enjoyed the indignant demon the protagonist persecutes briefly.”

—Don D'Amassa, Science Fiction Chronicle

Prologue

Ergris stood close to the trunk of the massive old oak that marked the north edge of the clearing,

watching. For many days there had been no sound or movement at the human's hut. No smoke rose from

the earthen chimney despite the morning's chill. The Old One could have been out in the wood gathering

herbs or getting his walk, but the hut itself had a slightly tattered look; a scattering of branches from the

roof lay at the base of the walls, and bits of wall lay with them. Most of all, the aura of the man was gone.

The Old One had always kept a tidy clearing. Now small seedlings grew everywhere about the yard and

weeds choked the gardens. In all his years coming to visit here, with his elders or friends or even, in

recent years, alone, Ergris had never seen this so.

He felt a pang of sorrow as his thoughts came round. The Old One had made the forest bloom where

fires had touched it, had saved the dying bog during the dry years tenfold and tenfold years ago. And he

told the most wonderful stories!

Too aged and frail to do any but the slightest physical tasks, it was the Old One's spellweavings that had

kept his home and land from the steady press of the living forest, and kept him hidden from the eyes of

hunters and fools who wandered near these past few decades. Indeed, it was this talent with spells that

had brought about the deaths of the first leshy to approach the hut, so many years ago. . . .

Ergris could not call out, leshy having neither the voice nor the disposition to allow such a thing in the

quiet of the woods. He waited until the morning was nearly gone, eyeing every corner of the clearing,

even circling it several times as he had done the day before, to be certain of things. Finally he made his

way to the front door. He found it closed and boarded from the inside.

As he stood scratching his belly, dragging long sharp nails through the thin fur there, he decided that a

simple favor was needed. He twitched his short muzzle, thinking his plan out exactly, then he cleared his

throat, closed his eyes, and felt for the presence of the stout oak board on the other side of the door. He

remembered the piece well; he had even placed it in the wooden brackets himself more than once, during

evenings when he and the Old One would speak of man and leshy, of worlds long past and others to

come—together alone, the two of them.

The oaken board was there, and Ergris began to woo it aside. Yet even as he did, the possibilities made

him uneasy—magical traps, hidden deaths—humans had been known to lose their minds, or simply

change them. Most of them were horrible creatures. He pressed on, caressing the wood with his mind.

Ergris knew no fear in his own forest, unlike human kings, who feared to go beyond their own

bedchambers without armor and weapons. And Ergris considered himself the wisest, strongest leshy king

of all. The Old One—Ramins, as he called himself—was wise in many ways, and he had taught Ergris

such things as no leshy king before him had been taught. But Ergris had initiated the talks knowing the

risks were great. He still recalled the first two leshy who had tried to climb one on the other into the hut's

only window, their petrified bodies lying piled up next to the wall for weeks, until Ergris had come with a

party in the deepest depths of night to take them away.

But it was not curiosity, posturing, or even lack of good sense that finally brought Ergris out of the forest

to confront old Ramins at the stream one day. In part the attraction was the wizard's own potent aura,

but more, Ergris was drawn to the other aura that came from within the human's dwelling, that of

something made by the gods themselves—a blade of some kind, Ergris was certain. He had sensed it

with his leshy spirit the way one might smell ripe cherries on the midsummer winds, incredibly sweet,

alluring. He could not help his fascination any more than the leaves of plants could resist the sunlight.

None of the leshy could, until two of them had been turned to stone.

The Old One had finally shown Ergris the Blade, even let him touch it several times—out of respect for

Ergris' bravery, his wisdom, and, Ramins explained, out of gratitude for his good company. The sword's

short blade shined with a glow that persisted, if faintly, even in darkness, at least to Ergris' leshy eyes. Its

hilt was thick and black and smooth, too thick in fact for a leshy's tiny hands to properly wrap around.

Ergris had never known or imagined the like of that magical blade, or the Old One, or the visits they had

had together.

The brothers of the council had deemed the whole relationship utterly foolish and worthless—no good

could ever come from contact with man, even this wizardman. And the wizard had raised a dampening

spell outside his house soon enough, which kept even leshy from sensing the Blade beyond the four walls

that kept it. Without that subtle lure many others had begun to question Ergris's strange conduct as well.

But Ergris was King, and Ergris had proven them wrong.

He cleared the past from his mind and focussed on the present as he leaned against the center of the

cabin door. He smoothed his voice, adjusted his tone, caressing each band of the board's raw grain until

it rose just high enough. Then he pushed the door open as the board dropped away; he picked it up,

touching it gently with his hands now, then set the piece against the wall just -inside the door.

Ergris stood still a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit interior of the hut. The Old One was seated

in his chair at his table, head slumped forward onto the pages of an open book, a quill clutched in his

bony fingers. His short staff of birchwood lay on the floor beside him. The aura of power that had been

Ramins' was gone, Ergris sensed, completely and forever.

I have lost a great companion, he thought, forcing himself to think it, since thinking such things of

creatures like men was strange and difficult even now. But the Old One had come to treat the forest and

its rightful occupants with the favor and regard they deserved, and was the only human any leshy now

living had ever shared thoughts and fruit with, so far as Ergris knew. . . .

Ergris began to lose his thoughts, his nature overruling his mind as the sweetness of a very different aura,

of something terrible and wonderful and potent, began pulling at him, growing stronger the longer he

remained inside the hut. As he hurried to begin his search, his hide prickled with anticipation. I have

come in time, he thought, following his senses, finding it at last. The Demon Blade is still here!

Chapter I

Brittle shrieks broke the silence, filling the still night air from the high rock walls to the moonlit mountain

slopes beyond. Voices echoed down the pass in a cold and grating chorus, building, burrowing into the

brain until the mind could no longer endure the agony: the cry of the banshee was the sound of death.

Frost looked to his three Subartan warriors. In the deep shadows of the cliffs even the moon did not light

their faces, but there was no doubt they understood. He watched their vague silhouettes move about him,

forming a defensive triangle, leaving Frost at its center. This was the only arrangement possible; a big man

by any measure, padded with far too much extra body fat and busy with his spells, he would make an

easy target. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and drew on the strength of his body and his mind.

With that, the death wails seemed to grow more distant and less numerous. The light from the moon

seemed to find its way a little farther into the depths of the rocky pass.

“Banshees can take no physical form,” Rosivok, the oldest, largest Subartan said. “But they can use

others. It is said they can control any creature at hand.”

“Only those whose lives they have already stolen,” Sharryl said, adjusting her stance just a bit, though she

did not turn around. “Unless. . . . ”

“The wolves,” Jaffic, the youngest Subartan said for her. “I saw some yesterday, trailing us.”

“It is true,” Rosivok told Frost. “We all saw them. And they might make fine allies for a nest of

banshees.”

“Then beware wolves!” Frost told them. “I have the banshees to manage, and they are much stronger

than I imagined. And many, I think. Not ten or twenty, as we were led to believe, but perhaps a hundred,

and already they do not like the force of my will upon them.” He paused, eyes closed, and spoke under

his breath. Then he opened his eyes again and glanced up to the sky. Good, he thought, nodding to

himself. “I have them subdued for the moment, but they may be holding back, plotting an answer. They

have not survived death so long for lack of resource.”

The banshee's faint wailing suddenly stopped altogether. Silence grew thick in the pass, though Frost

took little comfort in it.

“What are they about?” Jaffic asked in a whisper.

“Let the master worry about that,” Rosivok told the young warrior, a strict tone in his voice. Jaffic was

not a true Subartan as Rosivok and Sharryl were—born and bred by the ancient desert tribes to be the

most proficient fighters their land had ever known. But the other two had taught an eager Jaffic well in the

use of the subarta blades, and the transformation of mind and body that was more important than mere

weapons. He had been eager to learn, much more eager than he was to talk about his past, which

remained a mystery; such mysteries, however, mattered little to Frost as long as the man performed his

duties.

“It is all right,” Frost told them. “In truth, I don't know what comes next. I have had very little experience

with these particular creatures. Still, they have done their howling, and we have not given up our souls as

yet.”

“Are you so sure you have one?” Sharryl said, turning toward Frost, tossing her hair aside just enough to

let her eyes find his in the faint light. The smile was implied; daylight would have shown nothing more.

“I do,” Frost said. “I keep it well hidden. But I know where to find it if the gods or I should have need of

it.”

“I do not plan to need mine this day,” Sharryl -remarked.

“Nor I,” Jaffic added.

“Enough,” Rosivok snapped, and the others abruptly quieted. He held no rank or privilege over the other

two, only experience and size and a proven talent for survival. Frost wasn't sure how Rosivok and

Sharryl had met, though it was an alliance that had kept them both alive through travels that had taken

years and covered half the continent. There was no lover's bond between them—between any two

Subartans, so far as Frost knew—but another bond existed, which was to them much more important.

“Now, I only have one need,” Frost said to them after a moment. Sharryl and Jaffic nodded only once,

then focussed all their attention on the matter at hand, the darkness beyond them.

No breeze touched them, no creatures made their summer noises or rustled through the shadows. Frost

heard Rosivok sniff at the cool air; he breathed in, as well, and his nose found the faint tinge of

longdecayed animal flesh nearby.

“Something approaches,” Rosivok said calmly, his voice low. “It does not smell of wolf.”

“From this way as well,” Sharryl agreed, poised in a low stance, her subarta ready, her keen senses

straining, like those of her warrior companions.

“Not the banshees,” Frost remarked, “but they are still here, I assure you.”

“What will you do with them?” Jaffic asked. A little out of line again, Frost thought, but he let it pass.

“I will ask them to leave, of course,” Frost replied curtly, answer enough for now.

The moon had finally moved far enough over the high walls of the pass to cast some of its gaunt white

light down into the narrows below. The wolves were clearly visible then, approaching slowly from both

directions. Just ahead, in the wider section of the pass, the dried bones and carcasses of men and pack

animals lay strewn about.

Abruptly the cries of the banshee colony rose anew, and kept rising to many times their former level.

Frost tried to focus a part of himself on the two wolf packs even as he sought to turn back the songs of

death that surrounded him, starting to violate his mind and body.

“These animals are not among the living,” he said in a strained voice. This was what his Subartans needed

to know: the dead were much harder to kill. The nearest wolf chose that instant to leap.

Sharryl lashed out with her subarta, the slicing blade flashed, then she turned and kicked. The first wolf's

head tumbled left, while its body fell to the right. No fluids drained from the carcass; there was no sound,

no twitching. Another animal took its place.

Sharryl dipped down, moving more quickly than eyes could follow. She gutted the beast as it lunged.

This second butchered corpse fell inside the triangle, just short of Frost—who paid it little mind.

He was aware of the battle, or as aware as he dared to be, but he had more than enough to do just at the

-moment. The banshees were rallying, pressing on him with increasing force, pulling at him with a longing

that seemed to have no hope of satisfaction other than the grave.

He saw Jaffic at Sharryl's side now, flaying another wolf as it tried to circle around. Ahead, Rosivok was

busy carving more of the creatures into bloodless chunks. But on the rocky ground around them, the

severed bodies of the fallen wolves stirred, anxious to rejoin the battle.

“Let the dead speak to the dead,” Frost shouted, holding out both hands, summoning all his strength. In

the ancient tongue he chanted the words that would bind the listening spell, then added further

embellishments, a part of a deflection spell, and part of a spell usually used to bind a man to secrecy.

Finally, he used a musical spell, a quaint incantation useful in helping singers reach their highest notes.

As he completed his work, the sounds of the banshees grew faint again, though they were rising in pitch

this time, higher and higher, until human ears could no longer make them out. But as the sounds

disappeared, the attacking wolves began to twitch and howl in terrible agony. Their dead eyes rolled

back into their bony skulls, then a few turned and ran out of the pass. Soon the others followed, until the

only things still moving were the twitching skulls of the beheaded.

A beginning, Frost thought, relaxing, easing the flow of energy into the spell. The immediate threat had

ended. He and his Subartans could continue now, -immune to the torturous screams of the banshees. But

that was not what he had been paid to do. Highthorn Pass was the only way trade and travelers could

pass through the Spartooth Mountains, the only path to the sea.

Shortages north of the mountains had become many, until they had lately begun to annoy even the richest

lords, and Frost as well. His commission had been worthy, and the omens had all been good. He had

every intention of completing his task in a proper fashion.

“You sing only to your own kind now,” Frost shouted to the cliffs above. “But I can do more. You will

sing only to yourselves if you do not leave this place.”

He stepped forward, slightly unsteady at first, weakened by his efforts but growing stronger rapidly. As

he moved with his Subartans into the open Frost could sense the spirits of the banshees all around them,

closer now, gathering perhaps, he thought, to listen.

Frost had never heard of a colony of banshees as large as this, though there were legends from the time

of the demons, centuries ago. He could not help but wonder why such a thing should occur now, though

one could not ask questions of creatures that did not speak. In any case, why they were here mattered

little—they had to leave.

“Go elsewhere!” he commanded. “Trouble another region. I have promised many safe passage though

these mountains, and safe they will be.”

He could sense their question, a tingle at the back of his mind: Go where?

“Go anywhere,” he told them. “These mountains are filled with ravines and gorges seldom used by men.

You will always find some, the unlucky and creatures that die from many natural causes, creatures whose

spirits you can call to yourselves before they are gone. Enough, I think, to serve your needs.”

He waited, letting his mind hear the faint reply.

“Hmmm, unfortunate,” Frost said after a time.

“What?” Rosivok asked, speaking for the others.

Frost let slip a sigh. “They like it here.” He turned to his Subartans. “Build a fire,” he said.

They quickly gathered what twigs and brush they could from the sparse, stunted crop of bushes and trees

that grew in the pass. In a moment, the smell and warmth of a small fire filled the air, and the bright light

of its flames lit the darkness. Frost concentrated again. He drew on his inner reserves, burning energy

more quickly than the fastest runner, the strongest oarsman. He focused the spell and spoke to the fires.

The flames wavered, then left the pile of twigs and weeds and raced up through the pass, climbing the

walls, leaping crevasses, crisscrossing the rocks until the entire chasm seemed to be engulfed. Even the

corpses of banshee victims were consumed by the now toobright, incredibly hot fires that changed colors

as they burned in a rainbow spectrum. Inescapable, even for banshees. Yet nothing living was so much as

singed.

After a moment Frost eased, and he began to smile. He stopped feeding energy to the flames and let

them die away, until only the small circle of the original fire still flickered at his feet. He staggered and put

one hand out to Rosivok, who quickly moved to steady the wizard.

“They did not like that at all,” Frost said, a faint chuckle in his voice. “Especially the ones that perished.”

The ones, he thought, that doubted he could threaten their existence. They had wagered far too much—

everything—on that assumption. Such fools, he insisted, were a breed that fate was seldom kind to.

“We will make camp here,” he added, straightening his stance. He moved slowly away and sat on a

nearby rock, then took the very large drawstring pouch from his shoulders and began rummaging in it for

food and a bladder of water. Thirst and hunger drove him now, an emptiness as deep as the mountain

pass. He drank the water, then stuffed his mouth full of dried fish.

“Tomorrow, we go to Ikaydin,” he said, adding nothing, content simply to fill his mouth again, though the

thought of the journey made him smile. He had not been to that land in decades. Far too long. And he

had every reason to believe that opportunity waited for him there, and just beyond.

“Ikaydin,” Sharryl and Rosivok repeated, though Jaffic kept silent. An uneasy look seemed to cross his

features, like the look of a man before a battle, but it faded before Frost could wonder at it long. The

three Subartans gathered beside the firelight to open their own pouches. In the nearby hills, crickets

began to chirp. Frost let his sight drift upward.

High above stars gathered around the moon, though there was a slight haze, Frost noticed, now that he

looked more closely. Which was an omen not to be -ignored, if memory served him now. An omen of

stormy weather ahead. . . .

Chapter II

Madia fought to pull free of Jolann's clutches, but the woman was older, stronger and half again Madia's

weight. She had hold of a handful of Madia's dress just behind the neck and was moving swiftly enough

to keep Madia off balance, pulling her, walking her nearly backward. Jolann reached the end of the

hallway and marched into the great entry hall. The hard soles of her shoes on the flat stones of the floor

echoed off the high stone walls, a report surely heard throughout half the castle.

Lord Burtoll himself stood waiting by the open door. He seemed disinclined to look at Madia directly as

-Jolann placed her, swaying and ruffled, precisely in front of him. He was perhaps as old as Madia's

father, though not as tall a man, nor as handsome, and not so fine a dresser in his unadorned tunic and

leather bonnet. A good man who generally seemed to maintain a degree of humor under most

circumstances, though these, Madia observed, were not such.

“Bring her,” Burtoll said in a solemn mutter. He turned and the three of them went into the street, then

made their way briskly from the central keep to the manor's main gates. The king's carriage waited just

off the bridge, escorted by two mounted men at arms, one on either side. The Lady Anna Renall stood

waiting -beside the open carriage door. Usually there were halfadozen carriages and wagons waiting for

their charges, the daughters of the greatest lords of southern Ariman come to learn their lessons from

Madam Jolann. This afternoon, however, having been held back until the others were gone, Madia had

no company, or comfort.

“Why have I been forced to wait so long?” Lady Anna asked as they neared, in an aggrieved, demanding

tone.

“Dear Anna,” Lord Burtoll began, straightening his tunic with an air of purpose. “You must tell the king

that while I will uphold my oath to him with my very life, and while I consider him the most worthy

monarch in all the realm, I cannot allow his daughter to return within these walls!”

Lady Anna looked from Lord Burtoll to Madam -Jolann, all insistence gone from her face, replaced by a

painful, almost pleading expression. Jolann, for her part, was apparently in no mood to offer any help.

“She has disrupted lessons too many times to count,” Jolann said, “as you and the king are both aware.

She does poorly in her studies, much more poorly than the bright young girl that once graced these

rooms, and she encourages others to do the same. Today, during lessons in caring for battle wounds, she

explained that there would be no need for such learning if a knight inept enough to become wounded

could only have the -decency to finish the job and get himself killed! Task her on the ruling of a

household, and she will say that is what people like myself are for. She will not read aloud without

making up some of the words to suit her own humorous purposes, and she constantly conspires to mock

not only myself but every lord and lady she—”

“She stirs the other girls, my daughter as well,” Lord Burtoll said, interrupting Jolann, who was turning

red and growing quite loud. “She refuses to quit with her stories of fortune and lust and strange

adventures. She has listened well to the tales the minstrels and jongleurs tell in private company, to the

boasting of troubadours and the knights of the castle, and I care not to speculate on how this has come to

pass. I insist, however, that my daughter not be subjected to such, as do the lords who send the other

girls.”

Lady Anna stood stiffly, eyes avoiding everyone in the sudden silence. Then she glanced at Madia

wearing a look less of pain and more of exhaustion, of defeat. Madia grinned in spite of herself. Lord

Burtoll had never seen the wild looks on the other girl's faces; he didn't know how popular such tales and

antics had made Madia. And probably Anna didn't, either. They never would.

“I will inform her father,” Anna said, bowing her head, then taking Madia's hand. It wasn't fair to Anna,

Madia thought, who lately had to endure such complaints on a regular basis, and who in turn had to

endure the king's requests that Anna help do something about it. She was really the best lady Madia had

had in recent memory, the only one Madia had been able to talk to since she was a child. Reform was

something Madia had certainly considered, but it just didn't seem awfully practical. Not yet, anyway.

“What have you to add to this?” Anna asked, and Madia realized the question was addressed to her.

“I am sorry,” Madia said, folding her hands in front of her, bowing her head.

“She said as much this Monday,” Lord Burtoll grumbled. “Just the same way.”

“And the week before and the week before,” Jolann added.

The knight nearest the gathering chuckled softly.

Both women and Lord Burtoll glared up at him, and he reined his mount back just a step.

“I will inform the king,” Anna said, curtseying abruptly and taking Madia by the arm. “In detail. Get in,”

she said.

As the carriage turned and headed out, not a word was said.

“I really am sorry. That I made the lord so mad, I mean,” Madia said, noting how upset Anna continued

to appear.

“Yes,” Anna said, “so am I.”

The coachman drove the carriage over the wide wooden bridge that crossed Lord Burtoll's dry moat,

then he turned and headed down the road, toward the great walled city of Kamrit, and Lord Kelren

Andarys, King of Ariman. The worst, Madia thought, was yet to come.

* * *

The city rose up over the fields before them, until its long stone walls and high towers eclipsed their view

of the sea beyond. They passed by the main gateway, which consisted of portcullises and a drawbridge

that stood between two massive towers, each with projecting becs. Instead, the carriage entered through

the southern gate, part of the double walls and gates added by Madia's father some years ago. Here,

away from the central market square and main guild halls, the streets were less busy.

Above them, on the second and third floors of houses, women with children beside them looked out to

watch the small procession as it headed toward the castle. The children called out, and their mothers

hushed them. Madia paid them little mind. She did not live among them; she lived just ahead, in the safety

and seclusion of Kamrit Castle.

The castle itself was triangular in shape, with two of its sides forming the city walls nearest the sea. Two

separate wards stood within the walls, along with accommodations in the castle's six towers and four gate

houses, and the great hall. Only once had the city come under siege, and never had the walls been

breached.

As they drew nearer, freemen and serfs alike took pause, acknowledging the presence of their princess.

Madia, for all the fuss, ignored them—all of them, that is, except a young knight on horseback, young

Calif, son of Baron Durun and heir to his fair lands, a knight who until this coming winter served in King

Andarys' army, and who was at the moment waiting just outside the castle's gate.

Sir Calif, dressed in full armor and carrying his helmet under one arm, nodded slowly from atop his

mount. “Good day, my lady,” he said, grinning too much like a boy.

Madia leaned out while the carriage waited for the gate to be drawn up. “Good day,” she said, smiling

precisely, winsomely. She had only met him two nights before, when they were introduced at the minstrel

performances, though she had seen him about, his eyes set in her direction, several times before that.

Their conversation that evening had done much to define the meaning behind his gaze.

“Have you nothing else to say to me?” she invited him.

He bowed. “You are the most magnificent woman in all Ariman,” he told her. She had heard these words

from other men many times before; still, from some men, they never seemed to grow stale. “Thank you,”

she said.

“I feared you would not speak to me,” he replied, and Madia recalled the suggestions he had made late

in the evening, both of them drunk on the king's best ale, suggestions no nobleman of any station should

have made to the daughter of the king. There had been one particularly daring, inexcusable description

involving several tender parts of her person and his deepest imaginings. But Madia could excuse a great

deal under certain circumstances, and she found daring a stimulating quality in a man.

“Then you remember?” she said.

The coachman called the horses forward again.

“Need I apologize, my lady?” Calif asked, moving with the carriage.

Mark A. Garland - Demon Blade

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