Chapter Four

A low, chattering sound stirred through his mind, half rousing him. He listened, uncaring, then sank away from the noise.

Something nudged him, blowing hard and nervously on the bare skin of his back. It tickled, this warm breath. Caelan came awake reluctantly. He was nudged again, and something twitched through his hair, brushing over the back of his skull.

Swearing in alarm, he rolled over and sat up.

The horse snorted and whirled away from him, then stopped at the edge of the water, pawing and tossing its head.

Elandra, like a ghost figure, remained on its back.

Breathing hard, Caelan blinked himself fully awake and sat up. The strange, pale light continued to fill the cavern area next to the river. It was white and silvery, almost like moonlight, yet unnatural. The shapes of the horse, the walls, the scattered stones all seemed flattened, without dimension, and without color. It made everything feel like a dream, yet would he smell the pungent river in his dream? Would he feel this cold and stiff in his dream? Caelan rubbed his face and shoved back his hair, then climbed to his feet.

He untied his sword and breastplate from the saddle, letting them crash onto the ground, then took down his bundle of clothing eagerly. He was freezing, as cold as when he’d first climbed out of the icy water. Rubbing his bare arms briskly in hopes of warming up, he found his clothing slightly damp around the edges but mostly dry. He dressed quickly, leaving off his armor for the moment, and wrapped himself tightly in his cloak.

His teeth started to chatter, and he felt no warmer than before. He needed a fire to thaw himself out.

But first he checked Elandra. She must be cold and wet too.

He was sure she was very uncomfortable up there in the saddle, trapped with no one to take care of her needs while he slept.

When he touched the empress’s cloak, however, he found it dry. The hem of her gown was dry. It was as though she had never crossed the river.

He frowned. Had he slept that long?

Yet his own clothing was still damp in places where the water had splashed it. Why had it failed to dry when her clothing had?

Or had she gotten wet at all?

No matter where he touched Elandra, her clothing was dry. She seemed warm and comfortable. Amazed, Caelan withdrew his hand. Even from this, the spell had protected her.

Ruefully, he told himself it was too late to regret not drinking from the cup while he had the chance. He could be standing here warm and dry ... and with his wits frozen in limbo. Caelan shook his head. He would rather have the physical misery than surrender to whatever had been in that cup.

A sound caught his attention. Glancing around, he saw a row of eyes, glowing red, feral, and unearthly. They watched him from the boulders piled along one side of the cavern.

Caelan froze. For an endless moment he could do nothing but stare back. He barely dared to breathe. His sword was an eternity away, at least four strides. If the watchers chose to attack, he might not reach it in time.

He swore harshly and silently in his mind.

Slowly, taking care to make no sudden moves that might precipitate attack, he drew his dagger and very cautiously slipped into sevaisin, reaching out with the lightest of all possible senses to find out more about what was lurking just out of sight.

He felt the creatures shift and stir uneasily, sensed something coming to life, sipped of the foul force that sustained them, and felt it reach out to him in response.

Shuddering, Caelan pulled back. He was all too aware of the temptation to strengthen the link, to join and share himself with the demons.

They moved closer, edging away from the rocks and moving between him and the mouth of the passageway.

He resisted the urge to step back. The river of black water ran behind him, cutting him off. There was no escape, no retreat. He would have to fight, and suddenly his heart beat too fast and his throat burned.

But he refused to panic. He gripped his dagger more tightly, then took a cautious step toward his sword. It stood propped up against his breastplate. His best protection, useless. He took another step.

The demons moved closer. He could almost see them now, crouched there in the shadows, waiting, watching. When would they attack?

His heart pounded like a drum. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples and throat. Subconsciously he assumed a fighter’s stance, feet well braced, standing lightly on his toes, shifting his weight slightly from side to side, ready to explode into action.

I have fought demon-spawn before and lived, he tried to reassure himself.

Caelan’s knuckles ached from gripping his dagger so hard. After a moment he realized he was throttling the weapon as he might an enemy’s throat. Easing out a breath, he forced his fingers to loosen.

Caelan took one more step toward his sword. Still too far, although now he thought he could fling himself bodily at it and perhaps reach the tip of the scabbard. Not good, but better than before.

He was supremely aware of the water at his back, aware that anything could rise up from its depths and come at his exposed back. His eyes flickered back and forth, measuring, gauging, watching. He listened to his own breathing. It sounded harsh and unsteady.

The demons came at him.

Caelan flung himself at his sword. His outstretched hand clamped onto the scabbard. He could hear them coming, claws skittering and scraping over stone. He whirled to face them, drawing the sword as he did so and flinging the scabbard aside.

Panting, he stopped only because they had. Now out in the open where he could see them clearly in the pale, ghostly light, they crouched in a semicircle and stared at him.

The demons were short, no taller than Caelan’s hipbone, and entirely hairless. Their leathery skin was black and crisscrossed with wrinkles. They had arms and legs like a man, with long, prehensile fingers and toes, all ending in long, sharp talons. Their tails were long and ratlike, and flicked back and forth nervously.

Caelan brought up his sword in smooth readiness. He thought about attacking, but some instinct bade him wait.

Just when his taut nerves could be stretched no farther, one of the creatures crept toward him. Caelan swallowed hard and let it come.

Fanged and snouted, the creature stared up at him with red eyes that were entirely too intelligent. Its long tail flicked restlessly back and forth.

When its tongue flickered out between its fangs, Caelan nearly jumped out of his skin. It was a serpent’s tongue, long and forked, quivering in the air as though measuring Caelan in some way. Then it flicked back out of sight. The creature opened its mouth in a toothy grin.

“Welcome, creature of shadow,” it said in a hoarse, gravelly whisper. “Art thou Beloth, our master?”

Astonished and horrified at being so grossly misidentified, Caelan stared back at it. “No, I am not!” he said with force.

The demon rocked back on its haunches, while the others scuttled away into the shadows, hissing with palpable disappointment.

“Servant of Beloth, our master?” the demon asked hopefully.

This time Caelan was wise enough to curb his denial. Tipping his head to one side, he asked, “Why do you ask me this?”

“Thou art aware, not asleep in the spell of protection,” the demon said.

“And that makes me a servant of—of your master?” Caelan stumbled over the words, finding himself unable to utter Beloth’s dire name aloud.

“Thou looks like man-spawn, yet cannot be,” the demon said. “Thou has no fear of the shadows, walking without spell of protection.”

If it only knew, Caelan thought wryly to himself.

“Thou has bathed in the waters of Aithe and come unto us.

We will serve thee, servant of Beloth, until our dire lord and master walks free once again.”

Caelan opened his mouth to repudiate everything, but the other demons came scuttling forward in an uneven, almost ratlike gait. They surrounded him. He tensed, wanting to back away, but their clawed fingers were already clutching at his clothing, stroking and petting him in reverence.

“Don’t worship me!” he cried in disgust. “Get back, all of you!”

They moved a short distance from him, but not far enough, and sat on their haunches with their tails coiled about their ankles. Their fangs gleamed in the strange light; their red eyes shifted to his face and down again. They smelled of death and something worse. The very sight of them turned his stomach, yet he knew he must keep his wits now, must take the advantage they had mistakenly given him and utilize it wisely.

But, Gault’s mercy, what did they mean he had bathed in the waters of Aithe? That was the mythological river of death, the black waters formed from dead men’s souls. During the most ancient and turbulent days following creation itself, when Beloth had strode the earth and destroyed all that he touched, the shadow god had killed so many men that their destroyed souls had flowed and comingled into a river that encircled the world. Later, when the top of Sidraigh-hal had been smote with the combined powers of the gods of light, allowing lava and smoke to spill forth, when on the mountain’s scarred slopes the black city of Beloth and Mael had been broken asunder and all the stones scattered and the ground itself salted and burned, then had Aithe sunk into the earth, flowing below ground.

Caelan realized he had swum through the souls of damned men. Dear Gault, small wonder the water had burned his flesh and rendered him so cold now. He felt tainted to the core. Shivering, Caelan looked down at himself, wondering if he could see any stains left by the touch of those icy waters.

“Thou art one of us. Thou art welcome in the place of shadows,” the demon said while the others chorused hisses and grunts of acclamation. “Not for a thousand years has one of warm blood come to walk among us. We give to thee all that is ours.”

Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “You lie,” he said sharply, forgetting the need for caution. “What of the riders who passed through here not long ago? What of the Vindicants, the priests who have used this passageway often?”

The demons whispered among themselves long enough for Caelan to regret his hasty questions. Then the spokesman gazed up at him and bared its fangs. “Man-spawn have no interest for us. Under the spell of protection, they pass by on the other side of the river. They are not our meat. Kostimon has gone past many times in his span of years.”

“You know Kostimon by name?” Caelan asked in fresh astonishment.

The demons’ laughter was a harsh, raspy cacophony.

“Kostimon the Doomed!” one cried.

“He is doomed!” echoed another.

“Doomed!”

They all laughed again.

The spokesman edged even closer to Caelan and tugged at the sodden hem of his cloak. “Kostimon,” it said, its tongue flickering out, “will be our meat when his time ends. Soon, he will be ours. We will be permitted to go for him. We will feed. Soon!”

“Soon! Soon! Soon!” the others echoed in chorus.

Caelan felt colder than ever. He stared at these creatures and understood how the emperor would finally die.

“When we have taken his soul from his flesh,” the demon said, rubbing its snout affectionately against Caelan’s leg, “wilt thou accept the honor of pouring his soul into Aithe’s waters of the damned?”

Caelan gazed down into the demon’s red eyes, feeling almost mesmerized. Eagerly the others crowded closer around him, and Caelan found himself without an answer.

The silence stretched out too long, and they hissed suspiciously.

“If I am here,” Caelan said quickly, “then I will accept the honor extended to me.” He met their hostile eyes and tried to show no fear. “I have many duties. My master gives me many tasks.”

“Let us help thee, favored one,” the demon said eagerly, its tongue flickering in and out. “Let us make thy work easier.”

Swallowing hard, Caelan pointed at Elandra. “I must take the woman beyond this realm of shadow, back into the world that is her own.”

The demons hissed in fury. “Not permitted!” the spokesman said. “No man-spawn goes this way. We guard the passage to the Gate of Sorrows.”

Hope quickened in Caelan. He stared at the passageway, and knew it had to be the way out. “If Kostimon has gone through here, then—”

“No! No! No!” they chorused. “No man-spawn crosses Aithe. Only thou, servant of Beloth.”

Caelan frowned. “Then let me pass,” he said carefully.

They shifted aside, red eyes glowing with new hostility. “Thou may go to the Guardian, if thou has been sent by thy master. But not her.”

“She must come with me,” Caelan said sharply.

“No!”

“You have called me master, yet now you disobey me.”

They did not seem impressed by his rebuke.

“Let us wage war for thee,” the spokesman said at last. “Let us tear souls from man-spawn and bring them for thy supper. Unleash us, and we will go swift, swift under the dark cloud that mighty Beloth brings to shroud the earth.”

Caelan hesitated, trying to be careful. “Are you leashed?”

They hissed loudly, crowding him again.

The spokesman spat eloquently, and its spittle flamed and sizzled briefly upon the stony ground. “We guard this passage, but others can guard. We can swarm,” the spokesman assured Caelan, gripping his cloak with talons that snagged the cloth. “We are many. We swarm and attack. We are good to tear out souls. We are good against man-spawn, not so good against gods of light. Protect us, favored one, and we will swarm weak man-spawn and destroy for thee.”

Caelan’s frown deepened. There had to be a way to get past these creatures. He was convinced now that before him lay their exit. He had to use whatever means of persuasion were available.

“What is your name?” he asked the demons. “What are you called, that I may know you again?”

Their eyes glowed even brighter. “He commands us,” murmured one. Others hissed eagerly. “We serve! We serve!”

“Tell me!” Caelan said sharply, letting his voice crack across theirs with authority.

The spokesman crouched low before him and placed its snout reverently on Caelan’s foot. “We are called Legion, lord. We are thine.”

“And if I release you from your captivity, you will serve me?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“You will do whatever I ask, without question?”

“Yes!”

“You will serve only me. No other?”

The demons hesitated, glancing at each other. “We serve Beloth, and no other. Thou art the servant of Beloth. If we serve thee, do we not serve our dire lord and master?”

Caelan frowned and dodged this clarification. “I swear I will not call you to attack your master. I will ask only for your attack against men.”

They laughed and grunted in glee. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” they chanted.

“But only men I specify,” he said sharply, cutting them off. “This you will swear and promise, or no freedom. Only will you attack men when I call you, and only those men I point out.”

Again they hesitated. Finally the spokesman said, “But why not let us attack all man-spawn? We can do many. We are many. We are swift.”

“No,” Caelan said, trying to keep his voice sharp and strong. Inside he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of trying to strike any kind of bargain with these creatures. They knew no mercy, understood no honor. But he had no intention of keeping his word. All he wanted was access to that passageway.

He glared at them, showing anger to impress them. “No,” he said again. “Not all men. Only those I specify. If you cannot, will not, do this, then I will not free you.”

“We hunger to kill,” the spokesman said. “Unleash us, master.”

“Let me and this woman pass, and I will agree.”

“Caelan, stop!” Elandra’s voice called out to him suddenly.

Startled, he whirled in her direction, scattering several demons who jumped back from him with hisses of alarm. He saw her leaning forward in the saddle, staring at him. Her eyes were wide and fearful. She shook her head and lifted one hand to her face.

Alarmed and dismayed at what she was doing, Caelan started to go to her, but the demons were clinging to his legs and cloak. More were coming. He was surrounded by the creatures, and he did not want them close to Elandra.

“Don’t!” he called urgently to her. “You must stay within the spell. Don’t break it.”

“I.. . must.” Her face turned pink with effort. He saw the cords in her neck strain, then she slumped and her head tipped forward so that the long sweep of her hair concealed her face.

“You are safe within the spell,” he reminded her. “Don’t leave it.”

She lifted her face, and the slackness in her features was gone. Her intelligent eyes stared at him, aware and cognizant again.

Caelan’s spirits sank. He could only stare at her, worried more than he could articulate. She was no longer safe, no longer protected. What in Gault’s name had possessed her to break free now, when they were surrounded by demons? Was she mad, or simply a fool?

Suddenly he was furious with her for risking herself this way, and for making his responsibilities that much harder.

Tightening his lips against harsh words he did not dare utter, he turned away and looked once again at the spokesman of the demons.

“Legion,” he said, “I will—”

“Stop!” Elandra cried. She kicked the horse and rode closer until the trembling animal balked. Imperiously, her eyes flashing “with anger, she glared at Caelan. “You mad fool, what are you doing? Have you lost all conscience? You cannot bargain with darkness and—”

“Silence!” he yelled back at her. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“I command you—”

“Not here!” he snapped, enraged at how every word she uttered destroyed more of the lie he had built between himself and the demons. Why couldn’t she understand the need for caution, the need for silence? Let Legion think what they wanted. Doing so was to Caelan’s—and Elandra’s—advantage.

Unwilling to let her say anything else, he severed her, wrapping her in cold isolation. He did it without thinking, pushing her partway into the void without warning or preparation. He had never done this to a person before. He had never realized he could, but it was necessary.

Elandra’s eyes widened with astonishment and her mouth opened, but she could not speak.

It was a strain to hold her so. For the first time since he’d swum the river, he felt beads of perspiration pop out across his forehead.

Feeling her mind and emotions lash out against his control, Caelan knew he could not hold her long. Fiercely he turned on Legion. “Tell me now,” he said harshly. “What is your answer? Do we have a bargain, or not?”

There were suspicious hisses and much jostling among the demons in the back. At least fifty or more were present now, red-eyed and semihostile. They kept staring at Elandra, and Caelan felt increasingly uneasy.

“Warm-blood,” the spokesman said at last. It drew back a step from Caelan and no longer looked reverent. “With other warm-blood, now not under spell of protection. No warm-bloods may cross the river. She is our meat.”

Fear stabbed through Caelan. To hide it, he raised his sword and scowled at them. “Would you rather feed on one woman instead of the many warm-bloods I will give you? Let her go, and I will free you.”

The spokesman drew back angrily and bared its fangs. “Trick!” it cried.

Just as it struck, however, Caelan brought down his sword in one clean, heavy stroke. The spokesman’s body, severed in half, went spinning in two directions.

Blood, black and foul-smelling, spilled from the two halves.

From the pooling blood emerged tiny demons, at least a dozen, hopping and furious.

Caelan stepped back, realizing he could not fight them the usual way.

But there was another way to kill them, a way he had never used before. He had always feared the power, knowing that if he ever used it he would want it again.

But the demons were rocking back and forth on their haunches now, tongues flickering, tails lashing. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” they chanted, clearly working themselves into a frenzy while the tiny demons grew larger with every passing second.

Caelan released Elandra and entered severance himself, plunging deeply into its coldness until he hardly knew himself, hardly remembered what he was or had been. Before him crouched the demon horde, a hundred now and more coming. Their guttural shouts and hisses filled the air, but he hardly heard the sound.

Rushing past him, they surrounded Elandra. Her horse reared, but the demons pulled the animal down, ripping it apart as others swarmed Elandra. She screamed.

Caelan could see the threads of life, black and knotty, stretching to something hidden beyond the mist at the edges of his vision. He wanted to see no farther, wanted to know nothing about what the threads were connected to.

Caelan severed the threads of life, cutting off the two demons first, then slashing in a broad swathe at the others.

Terrible screams filled the air. He snapped out of severance and saw blackened, charred heaps littering the ground. Smoke rose from the corpses; the stench from them choked his nostrils.

Howling with fear, the remaining demons fled from him, vanishing into the passageway.

He let them go, running instead to Elandra. She lay unharmed on the ground, one leg pinned beneath the dead horse. Her face was bone white. Her eyes flashed with fear and something else.

He pulled her free, grateful she had suffered no hurt, and lifted her to her feet.

Fear and revulsion were mingled on her face. She stared at him as though she had never seen him before and slapped him hard across the face with her ungloved hand. His cheek stung fiercely. Taken aback, he blinked and looked down at her.

“How dare you do that to me!” she said. “I am not to be silenced with your spells and foreign magic. You should be whipped and purified.”

His own temper boiled up to meet hers. “You were putting our lives at risk—”

She swung at him again, but this time he stepped aside and she missed. “Ingrate!” she sputtered. “You dare talk back to me—”

“As long as you are being a fool, yes!” he retorted.

“It is not your place to reprimand me. I am your empress!”

Scorn curled his lips. He wanted to shake her by her beautiful neck. Instead, he cleaned his sword and sheathed it, then buckled on his armor.

“We can argue later,” he said. “Now we had better go.”

Elandra stamped her foot. “No, this will be settled now. You have much to answer for.”

“Not now.”

“When?” she demanded. “Either you recognize my authority, or there is no point in going on.”

Caelan refused to look at her. She was a stubborn fool. She understood nothing. “You put us in danger,” he said tersely, “interrupting like that. They believed me until you—”

“And what was I to do?” she retorted. “Fold my hands while you allied yourself with these—” She broke off, her throat working convulsively, and gestured at the charred remains. “Why?”

He did not intend to explain. Impatience burned hot in his throat. He wanted to get out of here.

“We must go,” he said.

“And I said we will stay until this issue is resolved.”

He sighed, curbing his own irritation with difficulty. “I will explain. Majesty, but let us go. They will come back, and when they do we should not be here.”

A flicker of unease moved beneath the stubbornness in her eyes. “Very well.”

As she spoke, she started ahead of him, but he gripped her arm and pulled her back.

She wrenched free. “How dare you!”

“Your Majesty will recall that they fled into the passageway,” he said coldly. “If they try to hold it against us, do you really want to be in front?”

Visibly fuming, she stepped aside and gestured for him to precede her. “By all means, go first, guardsman. And see that you keep your magic directed against the demons, instead of against me.”

He glared at her, then sighed. “I give you my apology, Majesty, for having severed you without your consent. Although you were not hurt, it can be an alarming experience the first time.”

She did not look appeased. “There will be no second time,” she said icily. “You overstepped your—”

“Don’t put me in my place,” he snapped, losing his temper again. He was damned if he’d bow and scrape and kiss her foot, groveling in atonement for having saved her life. “I am here to keep you alive, and that is what I did. If you cannot recognize that, then you should have chosen a different escort.”

She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again without saying anything.

He glared at her a moment longer, then turned his back and strode on. “Come.”