Authors: Garon Whited
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 30
TH
S
hortly after midnight, I was in my workroom, fiddling with my spell for shifting spectrums around. It works wonderfully for seeing in other frequencies; I can watch the world in thermal, ultraviolet, even X-ray or radio ranges—not that there’s a lot to see in the ultraviolet range at night, but it’s a bit brighter outdoors that way. The radio range is pretty darn dim. However, my nighteyes work perfectly in absolute black; I don’t think physics is going to explain that anytime soon.
Thus, when the Thing slid in through the window, I had a good view of it.
If some mad sculptor were to take a man and make him rubbery, then coat him in some sort of black, viscous slime, give him a mouth that was really a flip-top head full of teeth, make his eyes solid balls of red, remove the nose entirely, inflate him to seven feet tall, change his fingers into straight razors—and his toes into fangs—then the result might be something not quite as ugly as the Thing.
It half-oozed through the window—it was a high, narrow one, not really large enough for a person to go through. It reminded me of a pseudopod, or of an octopus. When it got mostly through, it flopped to the floor, rippled into shape, and looked around.
I think my reaction is probably fairly typical: I jumped up from behind the workbench, snatched up Firebrand, whipped the blade around—slinging the scabbard off in the process—and began backing away toward the door. I felt a low pulsing inside me, in my blood. I guess both fear and rage can bring it out.
It hissed at me as it crouched. Yes, it hissed a lot better than I do. Very intimidating. It gave me a good look at its tooth-lined throat and tentacular, sucker-covered tongue. It raised both hands, bent forward like a track star coming out of the blocks, and came straight at me.
I shouted and gave it a point-attack down the throat. Well, the mouth was open and it was charging at me; it seemed the thing to do. The hands whipped forward and around, slashing me open along the chest and the abdomen; they were so sharp they were merely a cold sensation, not even painful at first.
That was the only attack that landed; it ate four feet of steel to make it. While this did not, to my surprise, kill it, my twisting with both hands and slicing out through its chest
did
. It fell heavily, nearly in two pieces; it was pretty much bisected from neck to hips. I could probably have stopped there. But, despite my being dead and therefore hard to panic, I went on and chopped through both shoulders, the neck, twice more through the torso, and then the knees.
Yes, I panicked. Once it was obvious the Thing was dead, the blood-thunder faded.
Shada knocked on the workroom door and I nearly jumped out of my shoes.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“Yes!” I replied, then unlocked and opened the door. Shada stared at the Thing on the floor and stepped back quickly. It was slumping, almost melting, into the foulest goo I have ever seen.
“It tried to kill me,” I said, poking the remains with the point of Firebrand. The blade was clean; apparently demon goo either slides off or evaporates quickly. “It came in through the window and just went for me.”
“You did not summon it?”
“Hell, no! I don’t even know what it
is!”
Shada stared at it for a while; it was a slowly spreading pool of ichor. The ichor was steaming, turning to vapor. I started a small spell to blow the vapor out the window rather than allow it to accumulate. Apparently demon goo evaporates into a noxious cloud. And it stinks horribly. I’m glad I don’t need to breathe at night.
“It was a demon,” she said, slowly. “I have never seen one like it…”
“’Like it’?” I echoed. “You’ve seen demons before? How many kinds
are
there?”
“I have. They are not common and cannot survive in the day, but Mama Ulegba once battled with a minor creature. I was but a girl…” she trailed off, still staring at the dissolving Thing. “I am not sure what kind this one is—or was. A devourer… I
think
. But I know them only from legends! I did not think they were real.”
That gave me pause. Shada lives in a world where wizards wander around, magicians go to college, a metal horse is merely cause for comment, and she does not believe in a particular type of demon?
“Why not?”
“They are legends, myths.”
“Like the nightlords?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Come out, please; I don’t want to watch it… it…”
I stepped out of the workroom and closed the door. “No problem. I don’t really want to watch it, either.”
“You’re hurt?” she asked, touching the rents in my shirt.
“Some,” I admitted. The wounds were closing, but only slowly. It was an itchy, pins-and-needles feeling in the cuts along both sides. I opened up one of the rent places in my shirt and examined one. It was taking longer than usual, but the flesh was visibly knitting back together. “I should be in good shape in an hour or two. I’m just glad this didn’t happen right before sunup.”
“Good.” She hugged me gently, careful of the wounds.
“Go on and tell me why devourers are myths and I’m not,” I suggested. I put an arm around her and kept an eye on the other windows. I didn’t put Firebrand down.
“The Church has records of the hunt for your kind,” she replied. “It happened. But the demons… demons were forbidden in the world by the Light. Legend says the Light and the Dark once had servants abroad in the world; the lights—” the word she used was
arheru,
meaning, roughly,
starborn.
Literally translated, it was more like
lightmade,
but the inflection carried meanings I didn’t know I knew
—
“and the demons. But they nearly destroyed the world; neither wanted it destroyed. So they agreed to fight through the hands and hearts of those living things upon the world. So some serve the Light, some serve the Dark, and some simply live, uncaring or unknowing.”
Aha. Creation myths versus ancient history. Makes a sort of sense. I can believe in that World War Two happened because it’s history; believing in six days of Creation is myth. Okay. Pay no mind to the fact I wasn’t there for either of them.
“So where does one find out about these things? Especially when one just tried to eat my face off?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Perhaps the Church has some sort of records. Maybe the magicians do. It is not something I know a great deal about.”
“Great. Just great,” I muttered. “I wonder if I should ask Ander about them.”
“I am certain he would take the opportunity to explain in detail, and expound upon his faith.”
Lights clicked on in my head. Typically, I am not one to be entirely happy with organized religion. When it stops being a connection between the individual and the deity and becomes more of a big business, I’m done with it. I avoid it reflexively, without thinking about it any more. I had been doing that with Ander and his Church. Maybe it was time to walk into the dragon’s mouth, so to speak, and pay him a visit.
“Good plan. I may do that. I may see if I can scare up a fire-witch while I’m at it. Maybe a priestess will have some other legends.” I didn’t feel like mentioning Tamara directly.
Shada nodded against my shirt. “Very likely; it is their myth. The Church merely appropriated it. But fire-witches are scarce; few—if any!—remain. The Hand has hunted them.”
“But they managed to kill off all the nightlords?”
She withdrew from our mutual embrace and sighed. “Nightlords are not born of mortal man and woman. A fire-witch is born, not made.”
I nodded, seeing her point. If fire-witchery is a recessive gene, then a few should show up in every generation. Nightlords need someone to
cause
them. Which made me wonder how vampires all got started in the first place.
“Thanks. Got those pearls somewhere safe?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If something does happen to me, that’s your getaway money.”
She looked puzzled. “Why did you give so much of the money back? I have meant to ask you.”
“Because Keldun, as far as I can tell, is a kind, generous, and loving husband. He worries about things most people take for granted. And he gives without stinting when he feels he is indebted. It would be a bad thing to put him in the poorhouse; every world can use more people like him.”
“You gave the money back because he is a good man?” she asked, curiously.
“Well, yes. If he were a nasty, underhanded bastard he wouldn’t have called me in to help his wife in the first place. If he was such a person and still called me for help, I doubt he’d have sent me anything; I’d have had to dun him for my compensation.”
“So he was helpful to you and you want him to remain wealthy?”
“Not exactly, no… he’s a nice guy and nice guys need all the help they can get.”
She stared at me. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She shook her head. “I will never understand you.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “I don’t.”
I went back into the workroom; the last of the puddle of demon was turning to vapor. The smell was awful, but at least most of the smell was venting out and up. I wondered if anyone would be complaining to the baron about the stink in the morning. Hopefully not.
I found a carpenter this morning; the glass would need a mounting. We talked for a while and I presented him with sketches—and a goodly amount of gold. Wonderful motivator.
Then I went to find Ander. Not that finding Ander is a difficult process; one goes to the local church and asks for him. If he isn’t in, the lay priests will know where he is. As it was, Ander was present.
“Good morning, lord wizard. And how do you fare this day?”
“Eh. I’m alive; that’s always a good sign.”
“Indeed,” he said, smiling. “How may I be of service to you today?”
“Well, actually, I was hoping to speak with you privately.”
Ander nodded and led me into a small office-like area, saying, “Many wish to speak privately; I am always willing.”
I settled into a comfortable-seeming chair; it looked more comfortable than it was. I missed my recliner.
“Ander, I have a problem.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Oh?”
“A private conversation usually means there is a problem.”
I nodded. “I suppose it would. Well, let me begin by stating I am in the dark; I have no idea where this problem came from and I am completely mystified.”
“I understand. And your problem is… ?”
“Last night a demonic entity entered my window and tried to eat me.”
Ander smiled. “And what sort of entity was it?”
“As far as I can tell, it was some thing called at devourer.” I described the creature and outlined what had happened, implying I had used spells to repair myself instead of a natural (normal? Innate?) regenerative capacity.
Ander’s expression went from tolerantly amused to uncertain, rounded the corner to surprised, and finally pulled up to park at serious.
“You truly did as you describe? There truly was such a thing?” he demanded.
“I did. There was. And I do not understand.”
“What were you doing in your workroom? May I ask?”
“I was fooling around with bits of glass and a candle, watching how reflected light changed shape and size through different kinds of glass.”
“Nothing magical?”
“I was also changing the color. That was magical.”
“That is
all?
” he demanded, sounding worried.
I stared at him. “
Yes,
that was all,” I replied. “And no, I don’t even know
how
to call up a demon. I wasn’t even aware these devourer things existed, much less that there’s apparently a process to summon one. I’d really rather not know, thank you. I just don’t want them coming in my window and trying to
eat
me!”
Ander looked relieved. He reached for a decanter and a mug, poured himself some water.
“Very well. Please, pardon me if I seem disturbed; these things are an abomination of ancient days. Their like has not been seen in the world since the Cleansing. If one has returned—however briefly—then it must be investigated. Doubtless, some magician has stumbled across a forbidden grimoire or a fire-witch has invoked the dark fire to open a gate. I will send a report to Telen and the Hand will send an investigator.”
I considered that. A professional Inquisitor, essentially, was my impression. That could prove to be a bit tricky. Then again, I wasn’t being hounded by the Hand; they must be having trouble locating me, either from my blocking spell or from a bit of divisiveness between the Hand and the magicians—kudos to the magicians with the magical chaff! Then again
again
, someone sent the Hunt after me, and now a demon; that wasn’t a coincidence, surely.