Black Magic (18 page)

Face flickering with surprise, Sorin said, "Yes, actually. Koray learned from some ghosts that the demons are all scared of something. It's making them more rash, more brutal—desperate, I would say."

"We found a demon that had been fed upon by another demon," Cerant said. "Only minutes later, the village where I lived was attacked by a demon the likes of which I have never seen. It was gray with green eyes and four wings, yellow horns. It was powerful—no demon I have ever encountered could match it, not even the one that crippled my father."

Sorin's mouth tightened and his eyes flashed violet. "I see."

"Not long after we were attacked, Navathian soldiers sought out Neikirk for help because their own alchemists were depleted. They were attacked by strange demons as well, white rather than gray—I think a more fully realized version of the gray demon Neikirk and I encountered."

"They're sacrificing their life energies," Koray said quietly, causing everyone to look at him. "They're losing too much of their stolen spiritual energies and drawing upon their actual life energies instead. They've probably done it for so long that they can't stop, and humans are no longer sufficient. They must feed upon each other not just for power, but to live. That is why they're skin is turning gray and white—it's a side effect of leeching their own life force. It can be renewed, under ordinary circumstances, but demons are hardly ordinary."

Sorin scowled at him. "Is that why your hair acquires those strips of gray and white?"

"All of us who serve the Goddess endure some pain," Koray replied, shrugging. "When I overexert myself, death lashes back and I lose a bit of color. So what?"

"Stop overexerting yourself," Sorin snapped.

Koray smiled in a way that made Cerant nervous. "I'm sorry, My Lord High Paladin. Who passed out after overextending himself in battle three days ago?"

"That is not—"

"If you try to tell me it is not the same thing, I will see to it you get such a thrashing it turns your hair bone-white," Koray snarled. "Honestly, paladin, you should not be allowed to speak." Sorin rolled his eyes, but obediently kept quiet.

Cerant chuckled and sipped his wine, setting it aside as he said, "We should see who else has seen the white demons." He winced as his head abruptly started hurting.

"Something is wrong," Sorin said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Wait here. That means you, too," added when Koray tried to stand. He left the room, calling to his men before the door had closed behind him. Koray rolled his eyes and rose, flicking his hair impatiently out of his way as he followed after Sorin.

"How is your head, Master?" Neikirk asked quietly.

Cerant shrugged. "Killing me. How did you know I had a headache?"

"You always get them before something goes wrong," Neikirk said. "I do not know how you have never made the connection."

"I—" Cerant stopped when he realized Neikirk was correct. "I don't understand why I would. I'm no magic user. Royalty has always been quite ordinary as regards such powers. Ours is to rule, not to wield the Goddess' power."

A pounding at the door stopped the conversation short and it opened before Cerant could bid the knocker enter. "Majesty!" A soldier said frantically. "White demons are attacking the castle! The High Paladin says come at once."

Cerant rose and sprinted across the room, down the stairs, and through the great hall, Neikirk right behind him as they burst out into the ward—and barely dodged out of the way as an enormous white demon swooped low and caught a less fortunate soldier, throwing the man across the ward to slam against the inner curtain.

The demon landed, eyes glowing a sickly yellow-green as it snarled at them—and screamed as, in the next moment, it was engulfed in green fire. Cerant ignored his sword in favor of taking a glaive from a fallen knight.

His skills had rusted, but combined with Neikirk, it made for a better option than the sword. It still took them too long—and too much alchemy—to kill just one demon. When it finally fell, they ran to the drawbridge and the gate towers, where most of the chaos seemed to be centralized. The gate of the inner curtain was ruined beyond repair, the area surrounding it littered with bodies. Cerant bit back curses and forged out, fighting his way through the chaos of the outer ward headed for the outer gate.

It was in even worse shape than the inner gate, and it looked as though the gate towers had been set on fire from within. "You men! Tend those fires!" He didn't wait for their reply, just pushed on, waylaid by another white demon.

The damn thing snatched the glaive from his hands—and screamed as a shower of sparks erupted on his face. Blood poured from its eyes and Cerant wasted no time. Drawing his sword, he drove it into the demon's gut. Leaving the sword, he drew his dagger and cut the demons throat, shoving it to the ground. He yanked his sword out while the demon writhed in agony and after several hacking swings managed to behead it.

Panting, wiping sweat from his face, he looked to see that Neikirk was well and then finally pushed on through the outer gate. White demons were everywhere—some dead, some on the ground, and still more in the air. Where had they all come from?

"Stand back, Master," Neikirk shouted and Cerant immediately obeyed. "Can you get the others out of the way?" Neikirk asked.

"Paladins withdraw!" Cerant bellowed. Sorin heard him and repeated the order without hesitation. The paladins backed off and Neikirk stepped forward, throwing a glittering diamond into the air, his eyes flashing as he broke the seal and released the incantation—

Lightning cracked, spread out in deadly fingers, and struck all of the demons. Neikirk dropped to his knees as the lightning tapered off. "Will you be all right?" Cerant asked.

"Go," Neikirk said, nodding faintly. Mouth tight, Cerant nevertheless went, helping the paladins finish what the lightning had begun.

"Master!"

"Cerant!"

He whipped around at the sound of voices—and went down hard as a demon slammed into him, throwing Cerant atop a pile of bodies and pinning him there, nails digging deep into Cerant's shoulders, making him scream. Vile green eyes glowed and a long, wet tongue snaked out. The demon's fangs were slicked with blood and its breath smelled of rotted meat as it lowered its head to tear Cerant apart and drain him.

Then he heard a demonic roar, heard panicked shouts from the paladins—and the demon was abruptly gone, snarling in fury as something pulled it away.

Cerant sat up and watched as the white demon was thrown to the ground by a normal looking demon lord. Its skin was black, its head bare, but riddled with scars, horns gleaming like onyx where they curved out from its forehead and reached high into deadly sharp points.

The demon lord's tail lashed back and forth, and its claws dripped blood, hands covered in gore as it faced off with the white demon. Both demons hissed, and then fell into the most brutal fight Cerant had ever witnessed.

Eventually, though, the white demon began to lose. Cerant had no idea how, because it definitely seemed the white demon was the stronger. Snarling as it tore off one of the white demon's wings, the demon lord slammed a fist into its face, then launched into the sky with it, climbing high and then letting it fall again.

The white demon screamed until it struck the ground and Cerant turned away from the results of the fall.

"Goddess damn it!"

Cerant turned and saw Emel glaring furiously off into the distance. "What's wrong?"

"One of those bastards fled—with my sword still in it! The sword of the Lost Paladin! Goddess strike me down for being so stupid."

Sword of the Lost Paladin? When in the world had they found that? Where had they found it? Cerant tucked the questions away to ask later. "If we are meant to have it, then to us it will return when the Goddess says it should. The sword is where she wants it to be, I have no doubt."

"Yes, Majesty," Emel said, but sighed again before he turned away to start organizing the survivors and getting a measure of the battle and all it had cost them.

Cerant left him and Sorin to it and went to go rejoin Neikirk, who was crouched before the body of a white demon. There was a troubled frown on his face and his Alchemist Eye glowed brightly enough that violet light bathed part of his hand. "What's wrong, Neikirk?"

"Something about these demons, Master …" Neikirk hesitated a moment. "There is something familiar, and something very wrong, but I cannot think what they remind me of." His frown deepened, but after a moment he shook himself and stood. "How are you, Master? When that demon grabbed you …"

"Yes, speaking of that—was I seeing things in what I thought were my last moments alive, or was I saved by a demon?"

Neikirk nodded, shook his head, then sighed and said, "You are not imagining things, Master. A demon lord has been fighting on our side. I saw him shortly before I cast the lightning, and saw him leave off the other demon he was fighting to save you. After he killed that one, he vanished."

Cerant started to say more, but stopped as Sorin approached him. "What is the total damage?" he asked, already knowing he would hate what he was about to hear.

"A hundred dead and of the one hundred and fifty injured, another ten or so will probably not survive the night," Sorin said, eyes dark. "There were only ten of those bastards and they did this much damage. It will take us working clear through the night to get the gates into a partially-secure state, and I don't know yet how long it will take us to properly repair them."

"Burn the dead," Cerant said. "It's too cold to bury them, and if I am not mistaken, those are storm clouds on the horizon. Pull as many as you can to get the gates tended. Tell everyone else to gather in the Cathedral."

"Yes, Majesty," Sorin replied and strode off.

Cerant looked at Neikirk and gestured with his head. "Come, my dear. I must figure out what to tell everyone. What a homecoming."

"I wonder if the demons followed us," Neikirk said. "Though I could not say why they would."

"A problem for later," Cerant said. "I am only grateful they were all killed and not able to raid the castle to absorb the energy of not just thousands of people, but all the paladins and priests. Can you imagine? Demons saturated with that much divine power? They would be like your lightning incantation multiplied a thousand fold.

Neikirk froze midstep, eyes going wide. "That's it, Master!"

"What?"

Instead of replying, Neikirk turned around sharply and bolted back the way they had come, leaping over bodies and shoving through knights. "Leave off that demon!" he ordered, and two startled paladins immediately dropped the demon corpse they'd just picked up.

Neikirk crouched down beside it and immediately began to examine it, muttering to himself, Eye glowing. Looking up at the still-gawking paladins, he ordered, "Turn it over."

"Yes, High Alchemist," one of the paladins drawled as they obeyed orders. Neikirk immediately resumed his work, fingers staining with blood as he examined every bit of the demon's skin.

Cerant shook his head when the paladins shot him silent, questioning looks. "You should see him when he's binding incantations."

"Is it true—"

"No questions right now," Cerant cut in. "I'm sure your brothers could use your help elsewhere. If not, see that people start heading for the cathedral. Your questions will be answered later, I promise."

The paladins bowed. "Yes, Majesty."

After they were gone, Cerant crouched down on the opposite side of the demon and watched his lover work, somewhat amused but mostly just worried. When Neikirk finally ceased with his examination, he looked up. Cerant had never seen Neikirk so openly furious. "My dear, what in the name of the Goddess is wrong?"

"Master … these demons are alchemical."

Cerant drew a sharp breath. "I'm not sure I really appreciate what that means, but I don't like the sound of it."

Neikirk looked close to tears—mostly of anger, but also of betrayal. "Someone turned demons into incantation vessels, master. Someone kidnapped demons and made them into alchemist jewels. Or tried to, anyway. I have only crude theories …"

"That is still more than we would have without you, Neikirk. Tell me."

"I think they tried to use the theory of incantation binding to create demons that fed off natural energies rather than the energies of humans, and then tried to also set spells to control them. Like puppet vessels, Master. Why, I could not say. Maybe to create their own versions of paladins, alchemical demons that could be controlled? We would have to return to Navath and all the way to the royal palace to know for sure, but that is my theory for the moment. Something obviously went wrong. They used a spell of binding, but at a much greater level. You can see traces of it here and here and in other places on his body where they did not so easily rub away. There is, unfortunately, not enough of it left for me to see all the ways they modified it to make a demon a vessel. I cannot imagine why they thought that would ever work. To hold energies without suffering corruption, the vessel must first be voided of energy."

Cerant blinked. "But demons are devoid of energy, my dear. That is why they drain humans."

Neikirk frowned. "That is not so. Demons have an energy aura. It's just … wrong. They drain humans and the fouled energies stabilize for a short time, but they're never truly right again." He and Cerant stared at each other. "Is that … not common knowledge, Master?"

"No, my dear," Cerant said softly. "That is most certainly not common knowledge. Do you need to examine this one any further? Then come, I need to go to the cathedral." He stood and leaned down to tug Neikirk to his feet, ignoring the blood staining their hands.

The inhabitants of the cathedral fell silent as he entered. Pain sliced through his head and Cerant faltered to a stop, hand tightening around Neikirk's. He just shook his head when Neikirk gave him a look and resumed walking. Leaving Neikirk at the bottom of the altar steps, Cerant began to climb. With every step the pain grew, until his eyes blurred from the agony and tears and he was driven to his knees. It felt as though hundreds of people screamed in his ears, clamored for his attention, each voice demanding a different thing. Cerant bit down on his lip to avoid crying out and was only distantly aware of the taste of blood in his mouth.