Kihrin had never paid much attention when Surdyeh had lectured him about Quuros military ranks, but the man wore armor. The shiny metal cuirass on his chest glittered and flashed in the orange light of the sun. Behind him, a veritable legion of City Guard and military soldiers hung back to let the newcomer take point.
Xaltorath snarled and whirled on the man, while Kihrin swung from his tail like a lantern in monsoon season.
***IMPUDENT MORTAL, YOU DARE TO CHALLENGE MY RIGHTS? I AM XALTORATH. I AM THE RAGE OF BATTLE, THE SIN OF LUST. I AM THE MOAN ON THE LIPS OF THE DAMNED.***
The demon’s mental “voice” raised to a cacophonous howl as he grew, literally grew, larger and more menacing.* Fresh, wet blood ran down the sides of his mouth, painting his white torso crimson.
“Go on. Keep talking.” The soldier glanced at Kihrin only long enough to frown and note his presence before he returned his attention to the demon.
Unexpectedly, the demon’s fury abated, although his grin was worse. ***I KNOW YOU.***
“Yes,” the soldier agreed. “We’ve met before. You hid behind a child then too. Will you do so now as well?”
***THIS BOY MEANS NOTHING TO YOU, BUT SHE WAS EVERYTHING.*** The demon chuckled. ***HER SCREAMS WERE SWEET TO MY EARS.***
The soldier’s knuckles whitened around the pommel of his sword, but his voice stayed even. “Why this young man? Tired of hurting little girls?”
***HIS TERROR TASTES AS SWEET AS THE HONEY FROM YOUR DAUGHTER’S THIGHS.***
A tic started up on the soldier’s face. He circled, never moving his eyes from the demon. “You weren’t freed from your prison to molest little boys. Why are you here, Xaltorath?”
The demon’s expression turned contemplative, as if he were catching up on old times with a friend he hadn’t seen in years. ***I AM HERE BECAUSE I MUST BE. I AM HERE BECAUSE THE ANCIENT BINDING STILL HOLDS ALL MY KIND. I AM HERE FOR AS LONG AS YOU FOOLS CONTINUE TO SUMMON ME, UNTIL THE DAY ALL OATHS ARE BROKEN, THE DAY ALL SOULS ARE FREED.*** He smiled. ***SOON NOW.***
“And which fool summoned you this time?”
***WHY, THE—*** The demon stopped. ***WHY DO YOU TALK, AND NOT FIGHT?***
“I’m content to let you do the talking. You enjoy it more.”
***YOU SEEK TO DISTRACT ME!***
“No, rot-breath, I seek to delay you.” With that, the soldier closed in, the sword in his hands a glowing bar of reflected sunlight.
Xaltorath grinned wide, swung his deadly clawed arms back for the attack—and screamed as Kihrin shoved his knife up to the hilt in Xaltorath’s left eye.
Kihrin missed the rest of the fight. Xaltorath’s tail flicked out and tossed him aside like a broken doll. He crashed headfirst into the whitewashed wall of a local store.
Everything was fuzzy after that.
He heard Xaltorath’s roaring bellow, the clanging clash of weapons, the screams of men, and the low chanting of a clear tenor voice. It all came from a faraway place.
Shaking, shuddering, Kihrin climbed to his feet. His eyes wouldn’t focus. His hair felt wet and sticky. The blood on his face was his own. He was burning up too—the sapphire around his neck felt scalding.
He knew (in a distracted it’s-somebody-else’s-problem kind of way) that he was injured, maybe mortally injured. Part of him wanted to sleep. Another part of him wanted to throw up. The rest of him though—the rest of him was filled with a kind of searing white-hot rage that Kihrin had only experienced once before in his life. The desire for vengeance was so strong it overrode all other instincts. That anger gave him the strength to stand and the strength to stagger back to the intersection where he had been attacked.
The soldier was still there, along with lots of guards and a newcomer: a man in a patchwork brown sallí cloak. He looked as out of place as a Shadowdancer thief at a Watchmen retirement party. Kihrin had no idea who the newcomer was, but since he wasn’t a demon and he wasn’t a guard, Kihrin decided to ignore him until he became important.
There was no sign of the demon besides the lingering traces of unnatural red light and the odor of filth.
“How did you make it here so quickly?” the large soldier with the sword asked the man with the patchwork cloak, as Kihrin staggered toward them. “I only just dispatched a man to find you.”
“Taja was smiling on us. One of my agents alerted me—dear Tya, are you all right, young man?” The newcomer turned toward Kihrin as he approached.
Kihrin ignored the question. It was a stupid question. He would never be all right again. He blinked at the fellow in the patchwork cloak. The newcomer was a plain-looking man in his twenties, although he had the chestnut skin and high cheekbones of a Marakori to provide a small amount of exotic flair. He had dark eyes and straight black hair that wanted to wander in every direction, kept in check by a plain brass circlet worn on his forehead. Kihrin wondered if he was with the Revelers Guild, and if he attracted much work with a cloak so threadbare. He seemed more like a farmer than a performer. Kihrin decided he was probably some kind of servant or valet of the soldier. “Is he dead?” Kihrin ground his teeth together to keep from listing.
“Qoran, catch him. He’ll fall,” said the smaller man.
The soldier reached for Kihrin, put a hand on his shoulder, and Kihrin jerked himself away, fighting the most awful flashbacks. “Don’t touch me!”
The soldier sheathed his sword and held up his hands in a way he no doubt meant to seem nonthreatening. “Son, you need to calm down—”
“Don’t call me son,” Kihrin hissed. “Is he dead?”
The two men blinked at him, surprised. The soldier glanced back at the gory mess that used to be one of the guards, the shattered remains of a double-strung harp wrapped around his upper torso. “Very.”
“Qoran, he means the demon,” the smaller man corrected. His gaze lingered, eyes still narrowed, on Kihrin, as if the young man reminded him of someone he couldn’t quite place. “Xaltorath isn’t dead, no. You did, however, help send him back to Hell for a while.”
The soldier stepped forward, although he didn’t make a move to touch Kihrin a second time. “We need to know what Xaltorath said to you, young man. Every detail, every word could be of vital importance. How much can you remember? What did he want from you? Why did he let you live?”
“He ruined my knife.” Kihrin saw it lying in the middle of the street, twisted and warped as if someone had returned it to the forge and left it there. Ruined my knife. Ruined my life. He laughed out loud at the rhyme, but then he quieted again. Stupidly, all he could think of was how upset Landril Attuleema would be when they didn’t show up for their scheduled performance.