The fugitive could not help but think this rider’s horse was far superior to any of the other demon steeds, but that thought brought little comfort. The hunter moved through the glade, with none of the impatient rush of the rest of the pack. He dismounted his horse and bent over to examine the tracks leading to the water. Then, as the young man watched him, not daring to move, the demon raised its head, and saw the fugitive.
He leapt at the demon hunter. He hit the cloaked figure hard, bowling him over and knocking the spear from his hand. The giant horse screamed in rage.
But the young man had mistimed his attack: as the two rolled, both splashed into the lethal black water.
The terrified man lashed out, hitting the hunter in the stomach and jaw. He might as well have hit a tree; though the demon staggered back, the young man was certain he’d caused no real damage. He scrambled up to reach the spear, but he felt an iron-like hand grab him by the throat and drag him underwater. He couldn’t stop himself from groaning as the hunter grappled with him. He tried to free his neck from the demon’s grip, but immersed in the foul liquid of the lake, he couldn’t gain the leverage he needed. He twisted, trusting in the oily water to make his attacker’s grip weaken, and elbowed his assailant. He felt the hit strike home, and the grip on him released. He pushed himself up into the air, gasping.
There was movement behind him. He kicked with all his weight, but the hunter grabbed his leg. His opponent was stronger than him—stronger than four of him. The figure pushed his foot away from him, sending the hunted young man sprawling onto the tidal line between water and land. Realizing his opportunity, he scrambled up and grabbed the spear, dodging the demon horse’s flashing hooves.
His hand closed on the weapon and a surge of energy rode up his arm. He felt like he was holding a forge, an inferno, the sun itself. It was the first true warmth he could remember experiencing, yet for all that it seemed familiar.
Armed, he turned back to the demon in the water. The dark surface of the lake in front of him broke, and a being rose from the depths. He gasped and took a step back.
A dragon rose from the lake.
The beast was long and sinewy, its body made of snakelike coils that twisted and flowed back into the water. He thought the dragon’s color black, or at least a midnight blue. The silhouette of the dragon, its scales and teeth and the depths of its eyes, was outlined in a pale luminescence. The glow made it look otherworldly, ethereal—less like a dragon than the ghost of a dragon. A ghost, in a land of ghosts.
“Run!” the demon yelled to him.
Its voice was female.
The demon only had enough time to turn in the dragon’s direction before the monster struck. It snatched up the demon knight and sank razor fangs through black armor with an awful crunch. The dragon shook the demon and tossed her body to the side. She screamed, awful and high, before she was silent.
He had that much time to look at the dragon before it attacked, snapping its long neck forward to swallow him whole. The man barely readied the spear. He knew as he did it would be a gesture of defiance and no real defense. He felt two sensations, simultaneously—the flux of energy cascading over him as the spear pierced the upper roof of the dragon’s mouth and pain as the creature’s teeth crushed the skin, muscle, and bone of his right leg. The sensation added to the constant pain of his missing heart, and with it came a different pain: the return of memory.
Every memory.
Every memory of every lifetime.
He screamed—as primal and brutal as the demon’s voice—and felt himself lifted into the air by the dragon as it flipped back its head to finish the act of swallowing.
There was a short pause as the dragon realized something was wrong.
The dragon lifted its clawed hands to clear the obstruction from its mouth, but it was too late. Light, the bright yellow light of a sun that had not been seen in the living world for thousands of years—and in this place, never—glowed hot and brilliant between its teeth. Liquid star fire dissolved the surrounding flesh through gashes that opened in the dragon’s skin.
The incredible light, and the sound of the dragon’s death-cry, carried for miles in every direction. The dark lake’s waters splashed thick and viscous against the shoreline from the force of the body that crashed back down beneath its surface. The force sent out ripples that faded, and grew still.
The woods were silent, as if from shock. Finally, the man dragged himself to shore. He held the spear in one hand and dragged the demon’s body with the other, which he let drop once he’d cleared the water.
Walking was an act of will made possible only through the spear’s magic. If he had been alive, his twisted, crushed leg would surely have meant his death. The hell-horse kept trying to close with him. He had to threaten the beast with the spear to keep it at bay. He pulled the helmet from the fallen knight’s head and stared at her face.
Her skin was red and her hair was a single black red stripe across her head. If her eyes were open, he knew they would be all the colors of the forge. Here in the Afterlife, he could see her soul, see the sticky black corruption of demonic taint. But worst of all, he recognized her. He knew her, knew her even if her appearance had changed with her rebirth, even if she no longer looked like the woman who had once saved him from a fate much worse than death.
He knew in that moment what a sick joke Xaltorath had played on him.
“Elana…”
He put his head in his hands and wept.
82: A MEETING OF WIZARDS
Xaltorath was having a grand time.
He killed everyone he met, often in spectacular ways, rending limbs apart, eating children whole, and using the skulls of husbands to bash in the heads of their wives. He left a large burning path of destruction behind him, reveling in the carnage as he called his brethren from Hell so they too could play. They raped and destroyed and devoured the souls of those slain.
He loved humans. They had such a delicious heat to them. They felt such pain. He could never hurt them enough to satisfy his appetites.
Ahead of him, standing in the road, was an innocuous-looking man in a tattered patchwork sallí cloak. One might have dismissed him if it were not for the simple band around his head, the long narrow wand held in his grasp.
One would never have recognized Sandus as the Emperor, wielding two of the most powerful artifacts in the entire world, if one hadn’t known better.
Xaltorath grinned. ***I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU!***
Emperor Sandus was not amused. “Go home. Send your people home.”
Xaltorath stopped to pick bits of someone’s leg out of his teeth. ***NOT THIS TIME.***
Sandus nodded as if accepting the answer and pulled back his arm. A stream of red energy pulsed forth, not fire so much as boiling gas. At the last moment the beam deflected and landed on a series of nearby apartments, which went up in flames.
“He’s right,” Gadrith said, as Sandus looked around for the source of magical aid. “The demon and I have a bargain. He helps me and in return he burns this city to the ground. You can’t say that they don’t have it coming. This city deserves to burn.”