Demon Blade Read online

  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.

  Copyright (c) 1994 by Mark A. Garland & Charles G. McGraw

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, N.Y. 10471

  ISBN: 0-671-87610-4

  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 spell-weavings 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 mid-summer 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 wizard-man. 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 birch-wood 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 long-decayed 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, immun
e 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."